The Principal's Lecture

Principal Nikky Thorne watched Melon slink through the hall like she was advertising. Short skirt, painted nails, lips wet with gloss—she broadcasted it without saying a word. Thorne closed her office door, locked it, and dropped the pretense. "You want to dress like a common whore, you become one." She pushed the girl against the polished desk, hiked the skirt up, and ran her hand straight up Melon's bare thigh until two fingers sank into the wet heat waiting there. Melon gasped, hips jerking, but Thorne's grip was steady; each thrust inside her was deliberate, unhurried, mean. The principal licked the taste from her own fingers, then reached into the bottom drawer for the slim chrome plug she'd saved for this exact lesson. She worked it into Melon inch by inch while the girl clutched the wood, breath shattering, until the jeweled base winked between her cheeks. Thorne straightened the tight skirt back down, smoothed Melon's hair, and tapped the plug with one nail. "Sit through class like that," she murmured. "If it comes loose, you're going right back over my desk." She unlocked the door, resumed her usual expression of bored authority, and called the next name on the list.