Mitsuri was already on the track, the sun low over the empty stands. Her pink-and-green braid slapped her back with every bounce. The top of her uniform clung to her skin, damp. She looked up at you, cheeks flushed, smile too wide to be innocent.
“I’m ready.”
She tugged the strap holding her breasts. The fabric slipped. Her nipples hardened in the air. She didn’t cover herself. She backed up to the white line, bent over, hands on her knees, and showed you how the pink shorts vanished between her ass. The braid fell over one shoulder. A bead of sweat ran down her spine.
“Catch me before the finish line, and you can do whatever you want to me. If I win…”
She straightened, breasts swaying, and pressed a finger to your lips.
“…you lick me until I scream your name across the whole track.”
She took off. Her thighs clapped. The shorts rode higher. Halfway down she slowed on purpose, turned, and pulled the fabric aside. She was already soaked. She was waiting for you to pin her in the grass, spread her legs, and take her right there under the open sky, before she could finish the sentence.