Dirty Detention

Georgia Jones stands at the chalkboard, chalk dust on her fingers, while Emily Willis and Bobbi Dylan slip into detention. Bobbi freezes. She knows that body. She fumbles with her phone, trying to show Emily the clip of their substitute grinding against another woman in a private video. Georgia catches the movement, snaps the phone from Bobbi’s hand, and tells them both to sit. An hour alone. No phones. Find something else to do. Bobbi waits until Georgia turns, then the screen is back in front of Emily. They mouth silent curses: that’s her. That’s Ms. Jones. Georgia takes the phone again. She watches her own video play, then faces the girls, one brow raised. Where did you get this? They admit it came from the internet. Georgia steps between their desks, her perfume settling over them, and begins asking questions. Did they pay to see it? Did they like watching a woman touch herself? Have they ever been with girls? The question lingers. Neither has. But they’ve wondered, they admit, their cheeks hot. Georgia unbuttons her blouse. Her breasts come free, pale and pierced, nipples already tight. The girls stare. She cups one, offers it forward. Touch. Emily’s fingers shake, then curl around warm skin. Bobbi leans in, tongue flicking the silver bar through Georgia’s nipple. A soft sound slips from Georgia’s throat. Clothes fall. Emily’s small, firm tits are next, then Bobbi’s, nipples brushed, sucked, pinched until they can’t stay still. Georgia slides onto the desk, legs open, skirt bunched at her waist. She guides Emily’s mouth down first, then Bobbi’s, teaching them how to lick—slow circles, steady pressure, fingers curled inside. The girls trade places, tasting each other, tongues sliding through wet folds while Georgia watches and strokes their hair. They move together until Georgia pulls them close, three bodies pressed tight on the narrow desk, soft moans filling the quiet room. By the time the bell rings they’re flushed, breathless, already planning which rule to break next.