Curl up behind the garbage can and hope he doesn't come this way...

Her own rushing pulse the only thought she can hear, Bree panickedly drops to the floor behind the garbage can beside her, pressing against the wall as tightly as she presses her hands against her bare breasts.

Suddenly, a different thump-thump-thump fills her ears as Mr. Weatherby plods right up to the junction. Bree bites her lip, realizing she's already kneading at her breasts as his flashlight flits across the wall across from her. She can't help but let out an almost-silent gasp as he rounds the corner, her right hand finding its way down the front of her jeans, deft slipping under her panties and finding its way home nearly with a mind of its own as it's done so many time before.

Her fingertip reaches her clit, achingly wet from her own flowing juices as he thomp-thomp-thomps right on past, not two feet from the topless, painfully horny young girl.

Flashlight flitting back and forth across the otherwise empty hallway, Mr. Weatherby plods off, oblivious to Bree, who can barely struggle to pry her fingers from her smooth little slit. As she pulls herself wobbly up, her left hand squeezes her bare breast so hard it hurts, but it hurts so good!

She rounds the garbage can into the office hall, Mr. Weatherby safely out of sight, and the slow lost and found problem flashes back into her mind. What if she left her jeans in Mr. Weatherby's office to find, as a trial run on waiting for the last and found?

No. She can't do that. That's a terrible idea. An awful idea. A foolhardy idea. She can't sneak into the security office. That's asking for trouble.

Leaving her jeans or in the open so he'd find them and he'd put them in the lost and found with her bra is a way better idea!

She undoes the front of her jeans, her round ass slipping free over them as she bends over, pushing them down her legs. Stepping free, her thighs open wide and the wetness between them feels like a rush of cool air. Bree can feel her nipples perk up as her pussy clenches at the sensation. She picks up the jeans, neatly folding them nearly unconsciously as she ponders where to leave them.

The middle of the floor is too... suspicious, I guess? Maybe by a locker, like, maybe it fell out or... but there aren't any in the office hall.

Bree settles for "neatly folded in a chair," because it's more likely to be spotted than under the chair, and it's plausible someone just left a pair of jeans there for who knows what reason.

She quickly pads over to a chair beside the security office, feeling her otherwise taut cheeks jiggle as gently as her breasts now that they're free of her tight jeans. The fact that she's standing in the middle of her high school hallway wearing nothing but an ever-increasingly-wet pair of panties becomes oh-so-more real in that instant, and her pussy aches for another touch.

Suddenly, she sees a flash of light, back from where she came! That lazy asshole Weatherby is back already!? In another panic, Bree sprints silently into the nurse's office, tucking just around the door frame as he thomp-thomp-thomps down the hall.

Bree's heart stops as she realizes what's opposite the door in the nurse's office: a sink, complete with soap dispenser, hand sanitizer, paper towels and, of course, a mirror. She comes to this realization just as Mr. Weatherby comes into view. He stops just outside the doorframe, his flashlight pointed at the chair with her jeans, his arm just about level with the bottom curve of her breasts as she watches him in the mirror.

Standing here, in nothing but panties, the reflection from his flashlight more than enough to bring out the color in her little pink nipples, sends a panic through Bree, her breath catching in her throat. It's too dangerous to stand here, but it's much too dangerous to move! He could catch a glimpse of movement, or hear something...

He stoops, swiping up the jeans, and slips into the security office, the door banging shut behind him. Standing there in nothing but plain white panties, her firm, young breasts prominently in view, she watches him toss the jeans onto his desk, decidedly not in the list and found.

He drops into his chair, fiddles with his laptop, then leans back, the soles of his shoes thomping into view as they land on his desk.

He's facing right at her, eyes on the screen.