Web Exclusive - Scene 1597 Harmony Paxson India Summer

India leans in close, her voice low. "You ought to train your eyes to slide past it," she tells her friend. The hallway feels too tight now. Moments later she has Harmony pinned against the lockers, one knee shoved between her thighs. Their mouths crash together. India’s hand slips under the waistband of Harmony’s skirt, fingers pushing past cotton and straight into wet heat. Harmony gasps—sharp, short—then grinds down on those fingers. India works her with hard, practiced strokes, thumb pressing tight against her clit on every up-slide. The bell rings somewhere down the corridor but neither girl backs off. India’s free hand slides under Harmony’s shirt, nails scraping skin as she palms a bare breast and pinches the nipple hard enough to sting. Harmony bucks, teeth catching India’s lower lip. "This," India murmurs, voice rough, "is exactly what you’re supposed to ignore." Her fingers curl, and Harmony comes with a strangled moan, thighs shaking around India’s hand.