English class

Your day proceeds as normal - taking notes, turning in homework, generally being ignored by your peers. Your first class after lunch is English. Hawk-eyed old Mrs. Wentworth is discussing the reading, which you definitely didn't do. As such, you're working on seeming just attentive enough to avoid her ire without seeming so engaged that she calls on you. It's an art as well as a science.

Your classmate Isabel, blonde varsity volleyball player and stuck-up bitch, doesn't care to make a similar effort. She has her phone in her lap, hidden from the teacher's view, but she's spending more time staring at her lap than pretending to pay attention. She can't seriously think Wentworth will fall for that, does she?

As the minutes go by and she keeps getting away with it, you sneak glances at her. She's in the back row next to you, desks separated by a nice wide aisle. You have no hope of seeing exactly what she's doing. Texting, probably? By the way she giggles silently and occasionally bites her lip, you think she's probably flirting. In Wentworth's class. Isabel has bravery, you'll give her that.

But her brashness is exposed for foolishness when Old Eagle Eyes at the front of the class barks, "Miss Isabel! Is there something you're finding more interesting than my class?"

Isabel's eyes go wide and she sits up straight in her chair. "N-no, Mrs. Wentworth."

"Then I'm sure you can tell me the difference between a Deep One and a Chthonian, according to Mr. Lovecraft?" Isabel is silent, eyes darting around the room in vain hope of assistance. "Come now Miss Isabel, we've discussed both of them today. And they were both mentioned in the reading."

"I, um..." stutters the blonde jock.

"Yes?" prompts the teacher.

"...I don't know," she mumbles.

"That's what I thought. Bring me your phone and put it on my desk until the end of the day. And you'll be spending the remainder of class in detention."

This causes an uproar from the volleyball corner. Isabel's teammates Rebecca, Olivia, and Faith all sit near each other on the other side of Isabel. As she slowly walks to Wentworth's desk, her teammates advocate for her.

"Mrs. Wentworth, we have a game this afternoon!" "If she gets detention she won't be allowed to play!" "We need Isabel on the court today! Please, Mrs. Wentworth!"

The grey-haired disciplinarian is unmoved of course. "Isabel. Phone. Desk. Office. Detention. Now."

"Mrs. Wentworth, Isabel needs to stay in class." Where did that nervous voice come from? You look around and see everyone looking at you. That was your voice. What are you doing?

"Is that so, John? And why is that?"

You take a deep breath. There's only one answer to that question, and it _should _work, but why did you have to pick Wentworth's class to test it out?

"Because... I need to use her." There it is. Now, how will the crabby old lady react?

"What?! Ew, no!" This from the stuck-up blonde who is one wrong word away from detention and missing her volleyball game. Her teammates echo her sentiments. "Did he just say that?" "Ohmigawd." "What a fucking perv."

"Launguage!" barked Mrs. Wentworth. Really, that's what she's focusing on? "Very well, Mr. Doe. I suppose Isabel was going to be missing class anyway. I hope it won't cause _you _to fall behind," she added dangerously.

"Um, well-" you stammer nervously. How can she expect you to pay attention while you're distracted by the pinnacle of athletic excellence that is Isabel's body?

"I'll share my notes with John, Mrs. Wentworth," pipes up a familiar voice. It's Keira, one of your few friends, who used to play video games with you when you were a few years younger. She's looking at you out of the corner of her eye, a curious expression on her face.

"Thank you, Miss Hanson, that's very kind of you. All right Isabel, leave your phone and go see Mr. Doe."

"Actually, I need her phone, too," you call out, inspired. Wentworth rolls her eyes and says, "Fine. Now, eyes front everyone. Who has a guess as to why Lovecraft's Chthonian language has no vowels?"

As class continues, Isabel walks towards your desk, phone in hand, trying to cover up her nervousness with bitchiness and failing. The sneer keeps falling off her face, replaced by a worried gnawing on her lip that, you've gotta be honest, is a bit of a turn-on. The high-and-mighty Isabel is in your power now.

You sit back and enjoy the view as she approaches. Curly blonde hair hangs down to just above her shoulders. Pouty lips, a tank top that's insufficient to cover the cleavage from her good-sized tits, and that ends just past her waist, exposing two inches of enticing midriff. Her stomach is flat, and her jeans are practically painted on. Her wide, sexy hips sway subtly as she walks. Does she even know she's doing that?

Well, that doesn't really matter. What matters is...