Linda

The dormitory hallway smells like cheap coffee and microwave meals as you shuffle toward the common kitchen, morning wood straining against your boxers. Linda’s already there—perched on the countertop like she owns it, those ridiculous curves barely contained by that thin pink top, no bra, just taut nipples pressing against the fabric. Her panties match, riding up her thighs as she shovels scrambled eggs from a plastic container. Her eyes flick down to your obvious morning problem, and she grins around a spoon of milk. Jesus, not this again, she laughs, but there’s something hungry in it. Every fucking morning, it's just… there. She licks her lips slow, deliberate. But you know what? I’ve got an idea.