Go in the muscle tank

Jasmin's mother laughed softly. "Have a good day at school, sweetheart. And remember—no cartwheels in the hallway."

"Ha ha."

Jasmin slid her feet into flip flops by the door. No backpack—she'd left hers at school yesterday, another casualty of her disorganized week. Just her, the tank, and whatever the day decided to throw at her.

She stepped outside.

The morning air hit her immediately—warm, with a light breeze. It slipped under the hem of the tank, brushing against her bare, swollen pussy lips. She gasped, her hand pressing the fabric against her thigh.

Oh fuck.

The sensation shot straight to her clit. Her thighs trembled. She was so wet she could feel it—a slick warmth between her legs, her arousal smearing against her inner thighs as she walked.

She headed down the front steps, her flip flops slapping against her heels. Each step made the hem sway. Each breeze found new skin to caress. The fabric shifted against her hard nipples, the rough cotton sending jolts of pleasure through her body with every movement.

The bus stop was at the end of the street. Two houses down. A small cluster of kids already gathered—backpacks on, faces buried in phones.

She walked toward them, her heart pounding, her pussy throbbing with every step.

A boy looked up as she approached. His eyes widened, traveling down her body—her bare legs, the tank that barely reached mid-thigh, the way her nipples pressed against the thin fabric like two hard peaks.

Another girl did a double-take, whispering something to her friend.

Jasmin kept walking. Head high. Shoulders back. The tank swaying with each step, the armholes gaping, the hem lifting.

She could feel their eyes on her. On the smooth expanse of her thighs. On the side of her breast visible through the armhole. On the hem that barely concealed her dripping pussy.

Let them look. Let them wonder what I'm wearing underneath.

Or not wearing.

She stopped at the edge of the group and crossed her arms, the motion making the armholes stretch wider. Her nipple peeked out—just for a second—before she shifted and let the fabric fall back into place.

A boy nearby choked on his own spit.

The bus rounded the corner at the end of the street.

Jasmin boards the bus wearing nothing but the muscle tank and flip flops. She has no backpack, no supplies, nothing but the barely-there fabric covering her body.