Poopy Principal

Ms. Anne Sinclair hurried into her office, her cheeks burning with humiliation as the damp fabric of her panties clung uncomfortably to her skin. She had barely made it halfway down the hall before the accident happened—a sharp, uncontrollable spurt that left her thighs slick and her breath hitching in shame. The student who had discovered her secret earlier—Emily—was still lurking nearby, her wide eyes tracking every awkward step.

The principal fumbled with her keys, her hands trembling as she finally unlocked the door and slipped inside.

Ms. Sinclair’s breath hitched as the office door clicked shut behind her—but not fast enough. A small gasp escaped Emily’s lips as she caught the damp gleam on the principal’s thighs, the way her skirt clung just slightly where fabric had soaked through.

"Principal Sinclair?" Emily’s voice wavered between concern and something sharper—curiosity, maybe. "Are you—are you okay?"

The principal stiffened, her knuckles white around the edge of her desk. She couldn’t turn around, couldn’t let the girl see the flush creeping down her neck. But the silence stretched too long, and Emily took a hesitant step forward.

Ms. Sinclair **** a tight laugh, smoothing her skirt with jerky movements. "Just spilled my coffee, Emily. Nothing to worry about." But her voice cracked on the last word, and a fresh trickle escaped, soaking deeper into the fabric.

Emily’s eyes flickered downward—just for a second—but it was enough. The principal’s breath caught as the girl took another step, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. "Coffee doesn’t smell like that," Emily murmured, nose wrinkling. Then, bolder: "Did you—"

"Enough!"

Ms. Sinclair’s voice cracked like a whip, but it only made Emily’s smirk widen. The girl took another step forward, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

A sharp, mocking laugh burst from Emily’s lips. "Oh my god," she said, her voice dripping with disbelief. "You actually—" Before the principal could react, Emily darted forward, fingers snagging the hem of Ms. Sinclair’s skirt. With one swift yank, she tugged it up, exposing the principal’s damp, clinging panties—pearl-white fabric darkened with shame.

Ms. Sinclair gasped, hands flying down to cover herself, but it was too late.