Linda

It happened during the third period PE class, the one you always dragged yourself to with quiet resentment. The gymnasium smelled like sweat and rubber, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as students milled about. You were barely paying attention—just another forgettable Tuesday—when suddenly, like divine retribution for your indifference, a volleyball came screaming across the court. Linda, the girl from your study group you’d never actually spoken to beyond polite nods, had somehow managed to spike the ball directly into your groin with the precision of a guided missile getting you down on your ass to the cold floor. The pain was instant, white-hot, radiating up your spine as you doubled over with a choked gasp. Before you could even process the violation, she was there—breathless, apologetic, her voice frantic as her hands hovered over you like she was afraid to touch but couldn’t stand not helping. OH MY GOD—shit, shit, shit! I’m so sorry! Her words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks flushed pink beneath her freckles. Up close, you noticed things you’d never let yourself linger on before: the way her gray cotton shirt clung to her damp skin, the hint of cleavage where the fabric gaped slightly, the sheer thickness of her thighs straining against her grey shorts. She was all soft curves—hips that flared dramatically, a waist that dipped in just to emphasize the swell of her ass, round and full enough that the bottom edge peeked tantalizingly beneath her hem. Her nipples pressed faintly against the thin fabric of her shirt, her breasts perky and heavy as she leaned forward, brunette hair slipping over her shoulder. Let me take you to the medical center, she insisted, voice laced with guilt, as she offered you a hand to stand up.