JANE
Bla Bla
I couldn’t hear a f*****g word Mrs. Whitaker was saying. Quadratic equations or whatever the hell it was sounded like static. The only thing screaming inside my skull was the fat, throbbing ache between my legs. My c**t had swollen to twice its size, pulsing angrily against the stiff seam of my panties every time I so much as breathed. My cunt was drenched. Slick had already soaked through the cotton and was smearing across my inner thighs. I could smell myself: hot, musky, needy.
I squeezed my legs together. Hard. Then harder. The pressure only made my c**t throb worse, like it was begging to be hurt. I needed to come so bad my hands were trembling.
I shot my hand up without waiting.
“Bathroom,” I croaked, already on my feet, shoving my phone into my skirt pocket.
Mrs.
