Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, begging to be undone. I loosened it with a gentle tug, strands cascading like silk over my knuckles as I wove them through, tilting her head back to expose more of that throbbing vein. My thumb pressed lightly against it, feeling her heartbeat race, imagining how it would pound when I buried myself deep inside her.

She was dressed for temptation: a skimpy sports bra clinging to her full, heaving breasts, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide her rock-hard nipples straining against it, begging to be pinched, sucked, bitten.

High-waisted purple leggings hugged her like a second skin, outlining the perfect curve of her ass, the dip of her waist, and—fuck—the subtle outline of her pussy lips, already swollen and damp, a dark spot blooming at the crotch from her arousal.

Her toned stomach rose and fell with ragged breaths, a faint sheen of sweat glistening under the AC, making her skin beg to be licked clean. Every inch of her was an invitation to devour—to spread those legs, rip the leggings aside, and plunge my tongue into her dripping heat until she screamed.

But I held back, teasing the edge.

My hands stayed on "safe" territory—caressing her face, threading through her hair, grazing her neck and collarbone—building the ache until her hips shifted restlessly, seeking friction she wouldn't admit to needing. Her nipples poked obscenely now, aching for my mouth; I could smell her arousal, musky and sweet, filling the room.

"That's why we're here," I murmured, voice a husky growl that forced her to lean in, her breasts brushing my chest, sending a jolt straight to my cock. "To chase raw, filthy satisfaction without consequences. To explore every dirty craving in a space where you can beg for my cock and no one judges."

Her eyes fluttered shut, body trembling harder, a soft whimper escaping as my fingers traced the hollow of her throat, dipping just low enough to skim the swell of her breast without crossing the line. Yet.

"But you already know that," I whispered, lips brushing her ear, hot breath making her arch. "You know you want me to bend you over, hike up those leggings, and fuck you until you're dripping down your thighs. The question isn't right or wrong—it's whether you're wet enough, desperate enough, to take my every inch."

I pulled back just enough to fish the key card from my pocket—matte black, embossed with C.G PENTHOUSE - PRIVATE ACCESS—and pressed it into her palm, curling her fingers around it with a squeeze that promised I'd have those same fingers wrapped around my shaft soon.

"My penthouse," I said, voice a low rumble that vibrated through her core. "Soundproof walls. King bed with silk sheets already soaked in anticipation. Complete privacy to spread you wide, tongue-fuck you until you squirt, then pound that neglected pussy until you forget your own name. Safe space to beg for every depraved thing your body's been starving for. Address is on the back. If you don't show, no hard feelings. But if you do…"

I let the promise hang, thick and filthy. "The choice is yours, Patricia."

She stared at the key card like it was a loaded gun pressed to her clit—salvation or ruin, her thighs already slick with the answer.

"I heard the ache in your voice," I went on, stepping in until her nipples grazed my chest through that flimsy bra. "And the answer is fuck no, it's not wrong for the queen of the women's committee to be dripping, desperate, untouched for twenty goddamn years.

"It's not wrong to want my cock splitting you open, stretching that tight, married cunt until you're screaming my name. It's not wrong to crave what your husband never gave you."

Her eyes flared—shock, lust, the realization I knew. Madison must've spilled every dirty detail.

"But it's your move," I growled, thumb brushing her lower lip, imagining it stretched around my shaft. "Your dripping, aching decision. I won't beg. Won't force. The key's an open invitation to ride me raw. Use it or burn it. Nothing changes here."

She nodded, trembling, the card now slick with her palm-sweat. "Thank you," she breathed, voice cracking like she was already coming.

"You'll thank me with your throat around my cock," I said, and left her there, legs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing.

Same Thursday, Sabrina (Madison's mother) went full feral.

Post-session—her "flexibility training" nothing but my hands gripping her hips, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets ass while she panted like a bitch in heat—she pinned me to the hallway wall, tits crushed against me, one thigh sliding between mine to grind against my hardening cock.

"Stop fucking teasing me," she snarled, nails raking my neck. "I feel you throb every time you 'correct' my form. You want to bury that dick in me. I want it choking me from the inside. So quit the saint act and fuck me already."

Then she attacked—mouth crashing into mine, tongue shoving past my lips like she owned them, tasting of pent-up rage and twenty years of celibacy. She bit my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, grinding her soaked crotch against my thigh, smearing her juices through her leggings.

I let her devour me for five brutal seconds—cock straining, pre-cum leaking—before I gripped her hips and pushed her back an inch.

"Not here," I rasped, voice shredded. "Not like this."

"Why the fuck not?" She rolled her hips, trying to dry-hump my leg. "Scared your little sidepiece will smell my cunt on you?"

"Scared you'll hate yourself when the orgasm fades and you realize you just let me rail you in a hallway to spite a man who isn't watching." I fisted her ponytail, yanking her head back to expose her throat. "When I fuck you, it's because you're begging for my cock, not revenge. Because you want to feel my cock pulse inside you for you, not to stab some ghost."

Her breath hitched, anger cracking into raw, desperate need.

"You're not like the boys who jerk off to the idea of a MILF," she whispered, voice breaking. "You'd ruin me for good."

"Damn right."

She stepped back, thighs trembling, leggings dark with her arousal. "I… apologize. That was—"

"Honest," I cut in. "And fucking hot. Next time you kiss me, it's because you're on your knees, mouth watering for my load."

She walked away, hips swaying like a promise, leaving me hard enough to hammer nails and wondering if both these women were going to show up at the penthouse tonight—together.

This job was going to wreck me. And I'd thank them for every second.

**

School dragged like a bad hangover that wouldn't quit. By the time Wednesday rolled around, the universe apparently decided I hadn't had enough nonsense and served up seconds — old grudges, reheated drama, and a side of viral stupidity for dessert.

Jack Morrison, still limping from the last time his pride got steamrolled, decided he wanted a rematch. But not just a one-on-one thing — oh no. This time he showed up with his personal army of twelve oversized linebackers, all wrapped in those smug-ass letterman jackets that smell like Axe spray and disappointment. They cornered me behind the science building like we were in some bootleg Netflix mob flick.

And because the gods of teenage stupidity have a wicked sense of humor, the bushes were full of kids with phones out — five different camera angles ready to catch "Peter Carter gets folded like bad laundry." Everyone wanted content; I just wanted peace.

The first sixty seconds, I gave them that "peace" act. Hands up, calm voice, textbook de-escalation — "Guys, chill, I don't want this." Loud enough for the cameras to hear every word. I moved like air, dodging punches and praying the footage made me look like the pacifist saint of the century.

Then something flipped. Some internal switch went click, and that was it.

Twelve bodies turned into twelve math problems, and I solved them fast. Elbow, pivot, sweep. Palm strike to the ribs — exhale, collapse. Chair leg across the back — wood cracked, someone screamed. It was three minutes of chaos disguised as choreography. By the time I walked out, my shirt was still crisp, shoes clean, heartbeat steady. Meanwhile, the ground behind me looked like the aftermath of a small war.

By dusk, the clip hit the internet like gasoline meeting a match. Jack's master plan went full boomerang — the footage made me look like some reluctant angel of violence. First minute: peace ambassador. Next three: living proof that physics loves revenge. The internet ate it up. "Peter Carter: one versus twelve" was trending by nightfall.

By Friday morning, my luck ran out. The Vice Principal finally pinned me down — after I'd dodged her calls, texts, smoke signals all week. But with that clip viral, yeah, hiding wasn't an option anymore.

Eleanor Ashford — early thirties, British accent sharp enough to slice bread, the kind of woman who made discipline look seductive — was waiting behind her desk. She'd already dissected the video like it was a crime scene. First minute? Self-defense 101. Refusal, retreat, restraint. Textbook. Only when the tide turned, when twelve dudes became a mob, did I flip the script.

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