The No Talent Show

Nia and Arietta sit close, knees touching. Nia’s leg bounces. Arietta watches her, brow furrowed. The hallway outside the gym hums, kids laughing about the talent show. Nia mutters she has nothing, no trick, nothing worth a stage. Arietta leans in, eyes bright. She swears Nia’s got to have something. Nia smirks, something sharp in her mouth. Arietta notices, pushes: spill it. Nia gives up the secret in pieces, voice low. She says the only thing she does well wouldn’t play for a crowd. Arietta doesn’t back off, breath warm against her cheek, so Nia lands it flat—her mouth. She’s a damn good kisser. Arietta laughs first, disbelieves, but Nia isn’t blinking. Silence stretches, heavy. Then Nia tilts forward, not asking twice. Lips press—soft, slow, then deeper. Heat sparks between them. Arietta’s fingers grab shirt, pull harder. Clothes come off, quick. Nia’s mouth lands on Arietta’s tits, sucks, leaves skin wet and tight. Arietta gasps, spreads her legs without a word. Nia drops between them, tongue working her open, wet and steady, until Arietta’s back arches, nails scraping the desk. Arietta shivers when it’s over, smiling wide. At least one person got a private show.