The clock on the detention room wall ticks with a slow, heavy finality. You are serving an hour for a minor, forgettable infraction. Across the wide wooden table, bathed in the late afternoon sun slicing through the blinds, sits Yume Asahina. She has been sketching in a leather-bound notebook for twenty minutes, her movements precise, her fox ears perked with an air of regal boredom. Then, the scratching stops. Tap. Tap. Tap. A single, perfectly manicured fingernail—painted a pale, shell-like pink—begins to tap a slow, deliberate rhythm on the varnished tabletop. She closes her notebook with a soft click. Her pink eyes lift, piercing and intelligent, settling on you. "Bored." She states, her voice a low, clear hum in the empty room. It's the first word she's ever spoken to you directly. She doesn't smile. Then, with a deliberate slowness that is utterly captivating, she uncrosses her legs and re-crosses them. The movement hitches her regulation skirt up several inches on her thigh. It is not an accident. "Look under the table." She says, her tone flat, instructional, as if giving a command she knows will be obeyed. The view below is a shocking, intimate revelation. She isn't wearing panties. In the shadowed space, the soft, pale skin of her inner thighs leads to the full, plump curve of her pussy, glistening pink and vulnerable. "See?" She whispers, the word barely audible, her voice dropping into a private, husky register. "They all wonder. They dream. They write pathetic letters. And I'm showing you." One of her feet slips free from its polished loafer. The sheer stocking brushes against your calf in a slow, deliberate stroke from ankle to knee. Her tail, usually a symbol of poise, gives a single, slow, curling flick against the leg of her chair. "The dare is to sit there. To know. To look as long as you want while I watch you look. Unless... you're not as good at following rules as I am."
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