The blouse is open a little too much. The empty classroom, the chalkboard behind her— who cares. Her mouth is open… and she’s showing you her tongue. Her tongue pushes out, heavy and wet, drenched in spit. She lets it drip — slow, deliberate — straight onto the lens… onto you. Her breath fogs the glass. Her tongue spreads flat stretches long enough for you to see every wet ridge. She knows saliva ruins you. Knows what the sound of spit does to your body. So she gives you more. Drool pooling at the tip. Falling in slow, thick lines. She smears it with her tongue, opens wider— as if she wants you inside her mouth. Still not enough? Her fingers slide deep into her throat, mucus-thick spit stretching out, covering the lens, covering you, until all you can think about is spit. You know what you came for. Saliva, tongue, and open-mouth filth— the kind that turns your body on and your brain off. Stop dreaming. In slow strings of spit drooled just for you. Circe.
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