My Favorite Homework

Tiff's got that look like she'd rather set her books on fire. Home from school, supposed to be powering through assignments, but her thumbs keep tapping anyway. Another message buzzes on the screen and that's way more exciting than factoring trinomials. She's elbows-deep in doodles when Alana walks in, and her phone nearly flips off the desk. Alana, biology teacher by day, picks up the paper with two fingers like it's evidence from a crime scene. "Half of these answers are cartoon characters." She scans the sentences. "Your paragraphs read like drunk auto-correct." Tiffany groans and shoves the phone under her thigh, but Alana catches her wrist. She means to scold, sees the pink flush racing down Tiff's neck, and her own mouth goes dry. Anatomy quiz tomorrow. "Need help?" Alana asks, trying to sound like she means cells and diagrams. Tiff chews her lip, nods like she understands what game they're playing. "I'm a hands-on learner," she says, and the words crack just a little. Alana steps closer, kicks the bedroom door shut, says the textbook leaves out the fun bits. They sit on the edge of the bed. Tiff slides her hand between her thighs, watches Alana watching. No hesitation now. Two fingers inside, slow at first, curling while her breath stutters. Alana licks her own thumb, rubs slow circles just above Tiff's knuckles. The wet sound turns filthy in the quiet room. She dips her fingers, glossy and warm, holds them up so Tiff sees every glistening line. Tiff asks if she can taste. Alana laughs low and peels herself open—neat shave, glistening lips, heat rolling off in waves. She leans back, knees wide, palm on the back of Tiff's neck guiding her down. Heat meets mouth. Tiff licks, tentative at first, then impatient, nose pressed against smooth skin. Alana rocks her hips, whispering lazy corrections, pulling Tiff tighter when her tongue finds the right spot. The quiz papers rustle to the floor. Neither notices.