The elderly man thought he had a monster on his hands when Katie, all chubby thighs and full hips, cake-fed hips that wanted to crawl back up his desk, told him about the "difficult situation," her tone dripping with bullshit. The school claimed they couldn't run a detention for her. He walked into the hall, ready for a lecture. But that ass, stuck in that worn-out pleather chair.

He had no idea he was about to get his rockin’ soul rocked. She locked the door while Mr. Jenkins, the balding principle in his navy blue suit tucked way too tight, remained hunched over his desk, white-knuckling a stress ball. The noise came out a hiss: "Katherine, you set the fire alarm off."

Just looked, with firm hips swishing from side to side. "C'mon, Mr. J.," she smirked, standing as that dress clawed up a sliver of pale thigh. "You’re tense. Everything’s a little bigger than it seems."

"No. Come on," he barked but then his eyes leaned down the buck of his suit, feeling a tightness. "It’s just... the pressure."

"It's okay." She dropped to her knees fast, a waterfall of cheap perfume hitting his senses. Her hands crawled up his thighs and her mouth opened, a ring of wet shadows. "Let me help. Nobody’s gotta know."

"Fuck, Katie..."

"Shh. I’m just your personal dick inhaler for now." She gripped the waistband of his dress slacks. He sighed, leaning back, surrendering. She pulled them low. There, his root, a flaccid