Jan. Week 4: Tuesday planning period- Leah could tell he was getting closer to climax...

Her knees pressed into the waxed tiles, skirt bunched above her thighs, her mind alternating between numb detachment and flashes of wild, perverse shame.

“Lawd, Miss Leah, you got a mouth like a Dyson, you know that? Could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch.” He laughed at his own joke, deep and rattling. “Whew. Yo fiancé got any idea what kinda freak he got at home? Bet he don’t.”

Leah could tell he was getting much closer to climaxing. She could sense it in the way his thighs tensed underneath her, in the involuntary flexing of his hand as it gripped the edge of the folding chair, and in the way the tip of his cock twitched each time her tongue circled it. His breathing shifted—short, sharp gasps between teeth, and she could smell the sweat of anticipation radiating off him, cut only by the ammonia tang of cleaning chemicals that still lingered in the air.

She paused for a moment and, with deliberate slowness, reached into her purse and pulled out a hair tie. It was an almost comical gesture—a nice girl, ready for the mess and the work to come. She gathered her hair, twisted it up, and cinched it in a high ponytail. Mr. Bill grunted in approval, and with a crooked, hungry smile, watched her prep like she was about to tackle the SATs, not the business end of his cock.

Leah got right back into it, this time going harder, meaner, faster. She wrapped her hand around his shaft, just at the base, and bobbed her head until she felt the heavy thud of his tip press at the back of her throat.

She let herself gag, just a little, because she knew that would drive him wild. She felt her spit start to pool and run down to her wrist, coating his cock in a slick sheen that made each stroke nastier, wetter, louder. It was a human carwash, and his cock was the only exhibit.