Cleaning up loose ends

John barely glanced up at the “well-dressed” teacher, her nipples barely poking above her bra cup, as he typed on his device. “We were just playing around.”

Mrs. Ingram squinted her eyes, barely looking convinced as she looked at the three students. “Please, keep it down,” she finally said before turning around.

While she walked, John looked up in time to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Ingram’s panties dug into her ass before she stretched them out.

Cadence pushed her empty plate aside and stared down at her ruined bra with a frustrated sigh. Dark splotches marred the fabric where the “ketchup” had dripped earlier. “Hopefully these stains won't be hard to wash out,” she muttered, pinching the fabric between her fingers and dabbing at the marks with a napkin. She looked up at Erin, worry creasing her forehead. “Does it look really noticeable?”

“I can see the spots,” Erin said carefully, shifting in her seat from how damp her underwear was. Another frustrated groan escaped Cadence’s lips as she kept scrubbing at the stains.

“I can fix that.” John's fingers flew across his device before either of them could stop him. A slight shimmer rippled through the air, almost too quick for the girls to notice. “What do you think about your ‘ketchup’ stain now?”

Cadence tilted her head, her hands freezing mid-motion. There he went again with his strange comments, acting like he was seeing something completely different. “What are you talking about? I have ‘makeup’ on my shirt.” She gestured at the obvious “foundation” stains with growing irritation. “It’s not the best thing in the world, but it’s clearly not ketchup. Why do you keep doing this?”

Shrugging in response, John casually gathered their plates, the device making a slight bulge in his jacket pocket as he stowed it away.

“Boys,” Erin muttered with an eye roll.

Cadence couldn’t help but laugh in agreement as they followed John to the dish return area. The conveyor belt hummed softly as they set their plates down, the ceramic clinking against metal.

As they were about to head out, the trio spotted Chef Matteo exiting the open kitchen area. His “ketchup dispenser” poked out from his pants, though it twitched in the open air while the chef had an uneasy but confused look on his face.

“What is he…?” John muttered before his eyes widened as he ran toward the chef and immediately rushed him out the cafeteria’s glass doors and pushed the confused chef into the bathroom further down the hall.

Cadence and Erin just looked at each other, wondering what had gotten into John. “Sorry,” John said as he and Chef Matteo exited the bathroom after a few minutes. “His ‘dispenser’ has a self cleaning liquid that would have spilled.”

The two girls didn’t bother to question the sentence. It might as well be fact with how unusual the “dispenser” looked, regardless of how tasty the “ketchup” was.

As the three students pushed through the cafeteria’s double doors into the crisp morning air, John’s face broke into a mischievous grin. “You don’t mind if I go to your class?”

Cadence stopped mid-step, her bag swinging with the sudden movement as it brushed her exposed side. What was he planning now? Professor Moore’s literature class wasn’t exactly known for welcoming unexpected visitors. “Why? Is your class boring you?” she asked, studying his face for clues.

There was an unmistakable twinkle in John’s eye as he adjusted his jacket, the device’s edge briefly catching the sunlight. “Maybe,” he answered innocently. “And I promise to be on my best behavior.”

Cadence shared a quick glance with Erin before letting out a resigned sigh. After all his weird behavior this morning (the chair-pillow thing, him mistaking mixing up “ketchup” and “makeup”, and now this) she should probably say no. But something in his earnest look made her cave. “Fine, but Professor Moore might ask you to leave if you don't have a good reason to stay.”

John chuckled as they crossed the courtyard, the spring air made both girls shiver as Cadence tried to pull her bra tighter. As if that would have made her warmer. “Leave the worrying to me,” he said, patting his pocket where the semantic device lay hidden. The gesture didn’t exactly inspire confidence.