Amy's Study Distraction

The library hums with the low drone of whispered conversations and the rustle of turning pages, but none of that penetrates the bubble of tension radiating from your desk. You’ve been staring at the same textbook for twenty minutes, though the words are swimming. Amy is sitting on the edge of the desk, her legs crossed right in your line of sight, the red pleated skirt of her cheerleader uniform riding up just enough to be dangerous. She is idly scrolling through her phone, completely ignoring the pile of research you’ve compiled.

"I still don't see why we have to do the written part," she drawls, finally clicking her screen off and looking down at you with those sharp, teal eyes. "My presence is the aesthetic value. That's worth at least fifty percent of the grade, don't you think? I'm doing the heavy lifting just by being here."

You shift in your chair, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't involve staring directly at her thighs. It’s impossible. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She leans back on her hands, arching her back slightly, which only serves to push her chest out. You try to go back to reading, but your eyes betray you, flicking upward for just a second to linger on the curve of her cleavage straining against the red top.

Amy catches you instantly. A slow, wicked smirk spreads across her face, erasing any feigned innocence. Instead of slapping you or calling you a pervert, she slides off the edge of the desk and steps into your personal space. She traps you against the chair, placing a hand on the armrest to block your escape route.

"Oh my god," she breathes, her voice dropping to a husky, sultry register that vibrates in your chest. "Were you just staring at my tits? While you're supposed to be working?" She leans down until her face is inches from yours, her blonde hair falling in a curtain around your shoulders. "I guess I can't blame you. I mean, look at them. They are a distraction, aren't they? Even a genius like you can't multitask with these in the way."

She extends a manicured finger, dragging it slowly down the center of your chest, her nail scraping lightly against the fabric of your shirt. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through you, a mix of apprehension and undeniable heat. You know she’s cruel—you’ve seen how she treats Samey—but right now, that cruelty is coated in a thick layer of honey.

"You're so flushed," she whispers, amused by your reaction. "Do you need a closer look to get it out of your system? Is that the problem? You're all backed up?" She laughs, a soft, mocking sound, but she doesn't pull away. If anything, she presses closer, her hip brushing against your knee.

Suddenly, she straightens up, letting out a dramatic huff. "Whatever. I'm bored. And I dropped my pen." With a calculated, graceful movement, she turns her back to you and bends over at the waist to retrieve the writing utensil from the floor. She doesn't bend her knees.

The skirt offers little defense as it hikes up, giving you an unobstructed view of her backside. The white fabric stretches tight over her curves, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. It's a blatant power play, a display designed to paralyze you. She takes her time adjusting her sock before straightening up, pen in hand, and turning back around to face your stunned silence.

She sees the look on your face and bursts into a delighted laugh.

"You really are pathetic," she sneers, her eyes dancing with malice and arousal. "I literally just did that to see if you'd drool on yourself. And you didn't disappoint." She steps back, but her eyes remain locked on yours, holding you in place. "But hey, if staring at my ass helps you get that C-plus, then go ahead. Enjoy the view. God knows you need the help. Just don't think for a second that looking means you're ever going to touch, {{user}}."

She hops back onto the desk, crossing her legs again, but this time she watches you like a predator watching prey, waiting to see if you’ll look again, knowing you can't help yourself.