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Maya stepped off the bus. Ahead of her was a dirt path that led to the empty field where the test was being conducted. She was dressed like she was going to a job interview, white pantsuit with black casual pumps. She headed down the path.

“Hey!” Seta screeched at the oncoming car that had just coasted out of the campus parking garage, and her instinct was to try flying over it. With an angry buzz of four stubby, oval-shaped wings, Seta hefted herself into a hover, just enough for the beegirl to come plunking down on her knees on the hood of the dark green sedan as it squealed to a standstill.

Yet another boring hour of stats lecture was about to test Gina’s will to stay awake. The auditorium itself made her drowsy as she entered it and followed the stairs down to the front of the class. She was late again and no seats were open passed the first rows. She sat near a couple of nerdy guys who eyed her body up with little thought to if they would be caught in the act. She bent down to arrange her backpack and purse at the floor. She let her ass sway slowly in their direction, her very tight jeans revealing her shapely hips to the nerd’s overly eager eyes.

Pump Me
by @Inflate123 / inflate123@gmail.com

“Pump me,” she says. It is not a request.

I enter the room apprehensively, closing the door behind me with a soft click. Her dress — flawlessly polished, clinging to every curve — reflects what little light the darkness allows in its domain. She sits, then reclines on the bed, itself clad in sheets of material that match her outfit. She hikes her skirt hem up to her hips, not an invitation so much as an instruction: “Pump me.”