Sit and eat

Jasmin pulled out a chair and sat.

The wooden seat was cool against her bare, wet pussy. She didn't try to cover herself—didn't cross her legs or hunch over. Just sat, her small breasts exposed, her body on display, and reached for the plate her mother set in front of her.

Pancakes. Butter. Syrup.

She poured the syrup slowly, watching it spread across the stack. Her stiff nipple brushed against the edge of the table as she leaned forward, and she felt it—a spark of sensation that traveled straight to her clit.

Oh fuck.

She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

But her mind wasn't on the food.

Her mother disappeared into the laundry room, and Jasmin was suddenly very aware of her own body. The cool air drifting across her bare breasts. The way her thighs stuck slightly to the wooden chair. The ache building in her core—the wet, throbbing heat that had been growing since she walked past her father in the hallway.

She shifted in her seat, and her thighs pressed together. Her slick folds rubbed against each other, and a soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

Oh god. I'm wet. I'm actually wet.

She reached down without thinking, her fingers brushing against her bare thigh. The skin was smooth, still slightly damp from the shower. She traced a path upward—higher, higher—until her fingertips grazed the outer edge of her pussy.

She was soaked.

This is insane. I'm sitting in my kitchen, naked, playing with myself while my mom is in the next room.

But she couldn't stop. Her fingers drifted lower, slipping between her folds, feeling her own arousal. Her clit was swollen, sensitive, begging for attention. She circled it once—just once—and her hips jerked forward involuntarily.

Footsteps behind her.

She yanked her hand away, her heart slamming against her ribs.

"Found something."

Her mother returned, something draped over her arm. Her eyes swept over Jasmin—the flush on her cheeks, the way her nipples were painfully hard, her slightly parted thighs.

If she noticed anything unusual, she didn't say.

"Your father must have left this on the folding table." She held it up—a dark grey muscle tank, soft and worn. "It's clean. Dry. Best I can do until the clothes finish on the line."

Jasmin looked at the tank. Oversized. Deep armholes. Barely anything.

"And... underwear?"

Her mother shrugged. "All hanging outside. Unless you want to run out and grab a pair."

The clothesline. The backyard. Visible to the neighbors.

The clock read 7:22. Thirteen minutes until the bus.