Printer hums in the corner. Conference room reeks of stale coffee mixed with floral perfume. Colleagues buzz around canvases at this retirement bash for an artist teacher. I’m Fernande, school principal. Ambitious. Always professional. But tonight, stress cracks my facade.
Eyes dart in the open space. Whispers. I squeeze between fat tables laden with wine and pastries. My massive tits, belly, ass jiggle with each step. Crowds part slow. I join old colleagues. There’s her. The viper. Fake friend. I covered for her for years.
The Mounting Tension
It erupts fast. Old grudge resurfaces. Two years back, waves in staff meetings. She strikes. ‘You’re just a frustrated old bitch who hasn’t been fucked!’ Silence crashes. Stares burn. Blood drains. I freeze. Shell forms.
World spins on without me. Polite nods to concerned faces. ‘I’m fine.’ Inside, echoes: old bitch, unfucked. I devour canapes. Guzzle wine. Then spirits. Head fogs. Taxi called. I slip out.
Cab smells of leather. Driver: ‘Radio okay?’ ‘Yes.’ Unchained Melody fills air. Eyes close. Ghost scenes flood: hot kisses, grinding bodies. Heat builds. Hand snakes under belly roll. Fingers probe panty edge. Coarse pubes tickle. Slow strokes. Fabric wets. Invisible in dark. Bitch had it wrong. This feels good.
Longer ride. Detour. Pussy soaks. Home. School grounds? No, my pool. But frame it work: late night at school after event. Maintenance lingers. I stumble to pool. Shoes off. Dive in. Water floods cotton panties. Cools fiery cunt.
‘Madam, you okay?’ René, the janitor. Sixty. Veuf. Stays late to lock up, tend grounds. ‘Never better.’ Head lolls. Stars spin. ‘Red wine from fridge. Glass.’ He fetches. I lounge on steps. Dress clings. ‘Neck hurts. Pillow?’
The Explosive Release
He returns. No pillow. Wine spills red trail. He dives in. Grabs glass. Panics. Lifts me. Hands slip on wet skin. Grips tighten. My tits brush his chest. His cock hardens against thigh. Printer hum distant. Door locked earlier—click still echoes in mind.
Bodies grind. Inevitable. His hands roam. Mine too. Coffee scent lingers on breath? No, chlorine now. Perfume fades. I palm his bulge. He hikes skirt. Peels soaked floral panties. Off one ankle. Bush exposed. Gray thicket.
Kneels in water. Short fat cock teases slit. Slow rubs. Clit throbs. I moan deep. Legs on arms. He thrusts. Water splashes. Churns. Fills me. No pain. Pure pump. Faster. Desk? No, pool edge digs back.
Builds wild. Taxi teases, booze, water lube. Orgasms crash. Legs lock. Guttural roar. Squeeze his dick. Milk it. He grunts. Buries deep. Cums hot inside.
Float in bliss. Viper’s face flashes. ‘You were right.’ Adjust bra. Skirt down. Panties dangle—stuff in pocket. ‘Thanks, René.’ Step out. Water drips. Head to office. Next meeting? Lights flick on. Mask on. Professional again. Coffee brews. Printer whirs. As if nothing.