You head to your algorithms class.

Your next class, Algorithms, is held in a small, dingy computer lab across campus. Luckily, campus is relatively tiny, so you arrive there in about five minutes. The class is "taught" by a part-time teaching assistant who obviously could care less about his job. What's his name? Brad? Brian? You really don't remember, and don't particularly care. You've heard rumors that he only has the position because he's the nephew of some high-up administrator at the college, and you can definitely believe it, as he certainly doesn't seem qualified to teach the subject, mostly regurgitating words from your textbook -- when he bothers to lecture at all, that is. Most of the time he sits at his desk while having all of you do machine problems.

Today is no different. You take your seat in the lab, which consists of two long, glass tables. (The fact that they're glass is somewhat odd; maybe the school got them cheap when some business liquidated? you wonder.) Atop each table sits two rows of mid-range computers, facing away from each other, and each is accompanied by an old, threadbare office chair. The room is warm from the combined heat of all the machines and their large monitors, but not uncomfortably so. You sit in the back row, on the left-hand side, near the door; there are no assigned seats, but you prefer this spot for a certain reason which you hope will present itself today.

You move the mouse to wake up your machine, and type in your student ID and password to log in. The desktop appears, and you double-click on the Visual C++ icon to launch it.

Just as you do... the reason you're sitting there walks in. Or, rather, she glides in, as though she were floating, her feet not quite touching the ground.

She is beautiful. Her raven-black hair flows in waves around her head, falling nearly to her waist. Her skin is like velvet, the color of cafe au lait. She wears a pleated scarlet skirt that extends down to her knees, and below that, sheer black stockings and what appear to be sensible black flats. (You think. You've never really paid attention to shoes beyond their ability to protect your feet from pointy objects.) Above her waist, she wears a sleeveless white shirt, and a simple knitted pink sweater.

She sees you looking at her as she walks in, and gives you a small nod and smile; you blush and look away. This has been your routine, at the start of nearly every session, like clockwork, almost an unspoken ritual between you and her. You don't even know her name, yet somehow this little exchange almost almost perks you up a bit. You wonder if she feels the same way.

She takes a seat diagonal and across from you, as usual, and logs into her machine. You're happy the class is relatively sparse, as the few other students that filter in all take seats at the other table -- maybe because the lighting is a bit brighter on that side of the room; you don't know, nor do you particularly care. You're just happy that they're further away, and the Indian girl is closer.

As she starts working, you get a bit introspective. It's not as though you have a "thing" for Indian people, any more than you have a "thing" for Asians, or blondes, brunettes, redheads... okay, maybe redheads, but you digress. You're a shy, horny, lonely, nineteen-year-old straight virgin. Your "type" is anyone who is alive and breathing. But, honestly, it goes deeper than that. You revel in variety and difference, and you believe that almost everybody is beautiful in their own way. {if female == false}Heck, you've even found yourself staring at some guys from time to time, although you're pretty confident that you don't swing that way in general.{endif} The simple fact is that you're intensely curious, intensely empathetic, and intensely horny, and the three of these combine to form some sort of Sex Voltron that essentially means you just want to see and experience the physical, intimate side of so many different people.

You shake your head briefly, as though trying to shake the thoughts off of you; you're supposed to be working on algorithms, after all, not psychoanalyzing yourself. But as you stare at the code on your screen, your eyes defocus, and your mind flits off into reverie. You fantasize about what she looks like under that shirt. You assume she's wearing a bra, as you've faintly seen the outline from time to time; what color is it? Is it simple, or elaborate? Beneath it, what size are her breasts? Does she have large areolas around her nipples, or small ones?

You briefly glance at her, sitting across from you. She doesn't seem to notice, as she is busy intently studying her own code. Your eyes flit down, and not for the first time, you silently give a word of thanks for the glass tables, as they give you a perfect view of the sheer stockings covering her long legs, extending up and disappearing underneath her skirt. I wonder what lies beyond that hemline, you think. You imagine it probably matches her bra; she seems to be the sort of person who pays attention to that. Is her underwear simple and cotton? Lacy? Sheer? Non-existent? You chuckle inwardly at that last one, knowing that it's highly unlikely th--

--hang on. Something isn't right. There's a hand there. A hand with slender fingers, nails that end in softly tapered points. A hand the color of cafe au lait. Why is there a hand there? Wasn't she intently typing away a moment ago? You become acutely aware of a pair of eyes staring at you.

And then you remember it. That damned band, wrapped around arm just below your shoulder.

Oh no. Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You slowly raise your head, and your eyes meet hers. For the first time, you notice that they're a deep, cocoa-brown. She wears that same little smile that she does every time the two of you exchange your little ritual greeting, but this time it's different; there's something else behind it. Something you've dreamed about but never actually seen looking back at you: a sort of mischievous desire.

Yep, you think, your face blanching slightly. Yep, you did it, you idiot. You put... something... into her head. The young woman cautiously glances around, first to her right, then to her left, as if checking to make sure nobody else is looking. Then she looks down, at her lap, and your eyes follow. Her hand grasps the hemline of her skirt, and she begins to pull it up towards her hips.

Ohmigod no no no / yes yes yes, your brain screams, literally both exclamations at the same time. Slowly, she pulls the skirt up, and you absolutely cannot help but stare, riveted to this scene. First, you see the lacy tops of her black stockings, swirling patterns dancing across her skin. Then, a hint of pink, which surprises you at first, but you quickly realize it makes perfect sense. Given how put-together the rest of her outfit is, of course she would color-coordinate right down to her underwear. Her hand continues pulling the hem up, and you realize the pink you saw is a pair of pink satin panties, adorned at the top with a little black bow. A few stray black hairs peek out from behind the fabric at her thighs.

You somehow manage to pry your gaze away from this unprecedented scene, and look back up at her face, mouth slightly agape. She is grinning, her shoulders shaking in a slight, silent giggle. You see her eyes dart briefly down, {if female == true}looking right at your chest, and you are suddenly painfully aware that you aren't wearing a bra, and your nipples are standing up like beacons, telegraphing exactly how you're feeling at this moment.{else}straight where your crotch is, and you are suddenly painfully aware that glass tables are transparent to everybody, not just yourself -- and that you have a fantastically enormous bulge in your jeans right now.{endif} She looks back into your eyes, and her grin gets a little wider, the amused shaking of her shoulders a little more pronounced.

What the fuck did you just do? continues the screaming voice in your head, somehow both petrified and incredibly impressed at once. As you stare back at her, unable to do anything else, your mind races through an inner dialogue:

{if female == true}Oh, honey{else}Dude, man{endif}, you have to know that this is gonna have some sort of consequence. Perfect strangers don't just expose their panties to anybody, out of the blue.

Well, maybe I made her into, uh, a closet exhibitionist?

No, you idiot, you're a closet voyeur. If she were a closet exhibitionist, she wouldn't have looked around first to see that nobody else was watching.

Shit, that's a good point. Okay then, what the hell is going to happen? Is she going to realize what she did, and get super pissed at me? At herself? I don't want her to blame herself, it's not her fault! It's just me, this crazy magic armband thing, and my {if female == true}raging libido{else}moronic little penis{endif}!

She's still looking at you with that bemused, slightly excited expression; she doesn't look like she feels mortified right now, at least, so that's a relief.