4th period government: Shonda and Amanda

The bell rings moments before you step into your government class. Mr. Marshall glares at you. "Late again, Sam," he berates you. You brace yourself for the tardy mark and the detention, but your teacher just sighs and motions toward your seat.

"Close one," whispers Shonda as you walk past her desk. There she goes again, you say to yourself. It seems like every day, Shonda has exactly one sentence to say to you and then she completely ignores your existence. There's an air of mystery around the girl, heightened, you're sure, by her being the only black cheerleader at your school.

You put Shonda out of your mind as you take your seat next to Amanda. Each table holds two chairs, and ever since the semester started, you've found yourself in the best seat in the room. The far corner, all the way in the back, next to the bustiest girl you know.

Amanda is funny and fun, very laid back and open. She's also a total knockout with double-D tits, bouncy blond hair, and--you're elated to know--soft peach fuzz to match. Today she's wearing a flowy blouse and short jean shorts - again, not quite regulation, but no one enforces the dress code anyway.

You don't say anything since the teacher is already talking. This class is something of a joke, and everyone knows that Mr. Marshall jumps on any opportunity to show a movie. Today, his excuse is that it's "too darn hot to teach," so he plops an old copy of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington into a VCR (Where the fuck did he get a VCR?) and disappears behind his computer.

"Hey," you whisper to Amanda.

"Hey yourself," she whispers back. Then she adds, "It's hot as fuck in here."

Amanda's right. What this desk offers in obscurity it sacrifices in air flow. This corner of the classroom is sweltering, and you can barely see the boring movie from back here anyway.

"At least we don't have to take notes," you say.

Amanda flashes a bright smile at you and says, "Listen - I'm exhausted. Wake me up when class is almost over, OK?"

"Sure," you say. "Late night?"

"You have no idea," she winks. She scooches her chair back, rests her arms on the edge of your shared desk, and puts her head down.

You try to watch the movie but can't reasonably focus. Mr. Marshall is right: it's "too darn hot."

You remember the folded paper you retrieved from your locker and fish it out of the pocket of your shorts. You unfold the white sheet and read the typewritten words:

We know about that Friday. And we'd like to see more. Stay tuned.

"What the fuck?" you say quietly to yourself. Amanda doesn't stir, but you're still mindful not to wake her. Who the fuck wrote this? Who knows about that Friday? What the hell does "stay tuned" mean?

For the past four weeks, you haven't been able to figure out what went wrong with the livestream cameras. The whole school should have seen both you and Rebecca naked, but for some reason--even though dozens of your peers were tuned in--the broadcast showed a lot of uninterrupted nothing.

You had assumed that you were in the clear; now you're not so sure. You try to puzzle out who might have left you this note but can't for the life of you figure it out.

Oh well, you finally concede. I guess I'll just have to stay tuned.

It's still impossible to tune in to the movie, though, so you turn your attention to something much more interesting: the attractive cheerleader sleeping beside you.

Amanda's face is turned toward you, resting on her soft arms, and her eyes have been closed for the better part of a half-hour. If you listen closely, you can hear her softly snoring. The after-lunch period is always a snooze-fest; add in a late night and unbearable heat, and it's no surprise she's out cold.

It's just too tempting, you say to yourself and start to hatch a little plan.

The way the room is set up, there are no students sitting to the side of you. The lights are off, and most people are either looking at the TV or their phone. Mr. Marshall is doing whatever teachers do on their laptops. Absolutely no one sees you.

You move a little closer to Amanda. Your backpack is on the floor under the desk, and you reach into it, pretending to be looking for who-knows-what. Your arm brushes her smooth leg; she doesn't flinch. You draw your arm along her calf, feeling the warmth of her skin against the hairs on your arm; still nothing from Amanda.

If she wakes up, I'll just tell her that class is almost over, you reason to yourself. It's what she asked me to do, after all.

Moving yourself to within inches of the sleeping girl, you gently place your hand on her thigh. You've seen Amanda completely naked only once since That Night, when Rebecca convinced her to take a shower with her in the locker room. (That's the video where Sam came when looking at Rebecca; though if he's honest, in repeat viewings he's spent quite a bit of time exploring Amanda's supple flesh.) But seeing someone naked and feeling their skin against yours are two different levels of intimacy.

Amanda's legs are terrific, but her greatest asset by far are her tits. With Amanda's head on her arms, her breasts are hanging just behind the edge of the desk. The flowy blouse that looked so good on her falls away from her body, leaving a gaping hole in her shirt accessible from behind.

You move your hand from Amanda's leg to her stomach. She's still sleeping soundly. So you push your hand up her shirt and softly, slowly, and gently place your hand on her left breast. Her bra is soft, allowing you to sense the flesh underneath. But to really get a good feel, you'll have to dare to go even further.

Pushing your hand along the outside of Amanda's bra, you continue to explore until you reach its edge. Yes! you shout to yourself, your heart racing a mile a minute. You're pawing her soft boob unimpeded, and the sensation is extraordinary.

You move your hand a few inches farther until you can actually feel both breasts at once. They're held close together by the bra, and at this point, your brain has collapsed into an insignificant speck next to the power of your dick. So you turn yourself to completely face Amanda and reach both hands under her shirt.

You consider yourself (as you have many times for the past month) the luckiest man alive as you gently grope both of Amanda's breasts at once. Just as you're about to cum in your shorts, some shred of sanity breaks through your hormone-induced haze, and you withdraw your hands.

You take several slow, deep breaths to regain your composure. In fact, you try to match the breathing of the girl deeply sleeping next to you.

After you slow your pulse and get your raging erection under control, it's time to actually wake Amanda up. You gently poke her arm; nothing. You rub her arm, enjoying again the feeling of her skin against yours; still nothing. Man, what was I so worried about? you ask yourself. You try her leg, touching her thigh again and shaking gently. _She is really _out.

Okay, fine, you tell your dick. You reach up her shirt one more time, drinking in a final squeeze of those delicious boobs, and then you shake Amanda hard by the shoulder. She turns her head away from you and continues to sleep. A few more shakes, though, and she finally rouses.

Amanda sits up, looks at you, and smiles. "What'd I miss?" she asks.

"Nothing," you lie. "But it looks like we'll have to keep watching this movie on Monday."

"Then I can stay up late again on Sunday!" Amanda says brightly. "That was a great nap."

It sure was, you think as the bell rings and you say good-bye to Amanda.