(Since I didn’t get a paid story out last week, this one’s for you all, with a tease for those signed up for free because I’m mean like that.)
"What is it this time, Chrissy?"
The girl on the couch had a grotesque smile. She was either focused on something shoved up her ass, or she was planning to murder a small animal. When she gripped the hem of her short skirt, it was white knuckles and a held breath. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, and her feet were tilted inward until her toes touched one another.
I instantly wanted to do horrible things to her.
"Mr. Primrose said my skirt was too tight, and my tits were perfect." She pronounced Primrose with a rolled "R" that was so long I thought she might never get to the end. When she licked her lips, I could have sworn it was to wipe up blood.
"He said no such thing," I sighed. "At least not the second part."
"Why not? I mean, they are perfect, aren't they?"
"From the pictures I've seen on half a dozen boy's phones, I'd say they're adequate, but that's not the point."
Chrissy's blush was more anger than embarrassment, but I refused to adjust myself through my pants. She banged her knees together and smoothed down her skirt. I leaned back at my desk and crossed my legs.
"Anyway, he's a pervert for looking. The length of my skirt is none of his concern."
I crossed my arms, pretending to think. Her discomfort was fascinating, and the glow to her cheeks enticing. By the time I stood up, she was biting her lip and tearing at a cuticle with two sharp fingers.
I stepped around my desk, leaned back on it, and smiled at the girl without kindness.
"But it is my concern," I said quietly. "And as far as Primrrrrrose goes, he does know what I like."
"You're a fucking pervert," she said, a hint of a smile returning to her face.
"I know, isn't it wonderful?"
Chrissy leaned back on the couch, letting go of her hand and somewhat relaxing her posture. The insides of her thighs called to me like a siren, but I held myself still.
"Show me what's beneath it."
"My skirt?" Any real surprise in her voice was hard to spot.
"Yes dear, your skirt. Unless you'd prefer detention with Ms. Scott."
For the first time since she arrived, I saw a flicker of fear cross Chrissy's face, and I relished it like a fine wine. As she leaned back and parted her thighs, I remained still, my eyes glued to the shadows.
"Pervert," she said, this time quietly and with affection.