The Bench That Drove Me Wild

Picture us sitting on the same bench, the air between us charged with tension. You’re in that outfit—your tie slightly loosened, the top button of your shirt undone, and your skirt teasingly short. As you shift closer, the edge of your skirt rides up, revealing more of your thigh, smooth and irresistible. My eyes are glued to the textbook, but my mind is on you.  

Then it happens—your leg brushes against mine, soft and warm. I freeze for a moment, wondering if it was an accident, but when it happens again, this time lingering longer, I realize you’re doing it on purpose. My hand, resting innocently on the bench, starts to inch closer, daring to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.  

You notice, of course—you always do—and lean in as if to whisper something. The scent of your perfume fills my senses, and the brush of your lips so close to my ear sends shivers down my spine. You smile knowingly, your thigh pressing more firmly against mine, driving me to the edge. Every move you make feels deliberate—the way you cross your legs slowly, letting your skirt slide even higher, or the way your fingers toy with the hem as if daring me to do something about it.  

By now, I’ve completely given up on any pretense of paying attention to the lesson. My thoughts are consumed by you, wondering how far you’re willing to take this teasing and whether I’d have the nerve to match your daring right here on this very bench.