By: ForeverFemdom
PART 1: Intro
"Third time this month, Connor. You think this is funny?" The secretary's voice was sharp, her nails tapping impatiently against the reception desk.
Connor slouched deeper into the plastic chair, one leg bouncing restlessly. His hoodie smelled like weed and cheap energy drinks, and the fluorescent lights overhead made his headache worse. "Didn't ask for your opinion, Janice," he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. The office door creaked open before she could retort.
Principal Holloway's silhouette filled the doorway, his tie loosened like he'd already given up on the day. "Get in here, Callahan. Now." Connor dragged himself up, rolling his eyes at Janice’s smirk as he passed. The principal’s office smelled like old coffee and industrial cleaner same as always but something felt off when he saw Vice Principal Gaskin perched on the edge of Holloway’s desk.
She crossed her legs slowly, "We’ve had enough of your little rebellions," she said, voice low. Connor’s throat went dry. The principal cleared his throat. "Detention’s not working. So we’re trying something… hands on."
Mrs. Gaskin stood, her jeans straining against her hips as she stepped closer. "You’ll report to me every day during school hours," she murmured, her fingers trailing along the principal’s desk. "For special discipline." Connor’s pulse pounded in his ears.
Holloway tossed a contract onto the desk ridiculous, but Connor saw his own name printed neatly at the bottom. His stomach twisted at the heading: Behavioral Correction Agreement: Personal Butt Servant. "Sign it," Holloway said flatly. "Or expulsion."
Mrs. Gaskin leaned forward. "Don’t worry, Connor," she purred. "I’ll make sure you enjoy your new duties." Her breath smelled like peppermint, sharp and cool.
Connor’s fingers twitched, his cock already stiffening in his jeans. He grabbed the pen.
The paper whispered as he signed, Holloway’s indifferent gaze boring into him while Mrs. Gaskin’s shoe tapped slow, deliberate. The moment the ink dried, her hand clamped around his wrist. "Good boy," she murmured, “Follow me.”
Her hips swayed as she led him out, past Janice’s raised eyebrows and the buzzing fluorescent hum of the main office. A freshman gaped at them from the water fountain; Mrs. Gaskin didn’t even glance over.
The hallway smelled like floor wax and adolescent sweat, but her perfume cut through it something musky and expensive. Her jeans hugged every curve, the denim straining slightly where her thighs met the swell of her ass. Connor’s mouth watered imagining the warmth underneath.
Mrs. Gaskin’s sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she walked, each step making her hips sway like a pendulum. Her blue school spirit shirt rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of soft, creamy skin above her waistband. When she turned to unlock her office door, Connor caught the full view that perfect, round ass pressing against the fabric, the outline of her panties barely visible beneath.
Mrs. Gaskin had long blonde hair that looked as if it was starting to turn grey as she was somewhere in her mid forties. She was a little overweight but not too heavy, just how Connor liked his women.
Her office was smaller than the principal’s, cluttered with binders and trophies, but all Connor noticed was the leather chair behind her desk wide, worn, and smelling faintly of her. She kicked the door shut with one foot, the lock clicking into place.
Mrs. Gaskin pulled the chair out with a slow scrape of wood against tile, her fingers drumming on the backrest. "Lay your head down," she said, her voice dropping to a husky murmur. "Right here." She tapped the seat, the leather creaking under her nails. Connor hesitated just long enough for her to arch a brow. "Unless you'd rather explain to your mother why you’re expelled?"
He swallowed hard and leaned back, the chair cool against his scalp, his pulse hammering as he stared up at the waterstained ceiling tiles. She loomed over him, her shadow swallowing the light, her smirk visible even from this angle. "This is for your own good," she lied smoothly.
Then she turnedslow, deliberateher hips swaying as she positioned herself above him. The denim stretched taut over her ass, the fabric pulling tight enough for him to see the lace beneath. "Hold your breath," she murmured, and then she sank down, her weight pressing his face into the warm, yielding flesh of her thighs, the scent of her skin flooding his sensesvanilla lotion and something darker, something muskier.
Connor groaned against her, his hands gripping the chair arms as she settled fully onto him, her ass smothering his mouth, her laughter vibrating through her body. "Better learn to breathe through your nose," she purred, shifting just enough to make him gasp. "You’re going to be here a while."
PART 2: Farting
Her thighs pressed against his ears, muffling everything but the wet creak of denim as she rocked back slightly just enough to tease the outline of her lips through the fabric, warm and damp against his nose. The scent of her was overwhelming vanilla, musk, and something faintly sweet and his cock throbbed painfully against his zipper.
Mrs. Gaskin sighed, rolling her hips in slow circles, grinding his face deeper. "Mmm, you’re warmer than I expected," she murmured, fingers digging into the chair’s armrests. Connor’s vision swam as oxygen dwindled, his muffled whimpers lost in the soft flesh engulfing him.
Then she leaned back just enough to let him gasp before slamming down again, her full weight smashing his nose against the damp heat of her jeans. The lace imprint burned into his skin. "Stay still," she ordered, voice thick with amusement. "Or I’ll add another hour."
His fingers clawed at the leather, knuckles white. Her thighs flexed around his head, thighs thick enough to blot out sound, vision, everything but her scent and the rhythmic pulsing of blood in his ears. A wet spot of his own drool bloomed against his lips.
Mrs. Gaskin exhaled sharply as she leaned forward her weight shifting just enough for Connor to wheeze and tapped a key on her laptop. The screen flickered to life, casting a blue glow across her desk. "Don't squirm," she murmured absently, already scrolling through emails with one hand while the other settled possessively on the crown of his head.
The office filled with the clack of keystrokes and the occasional creak of denim as she adjusted her seat. Connor’s nose burned where the seam of her jeans dug into the bridge, her musk thick on his tongue. She hummed under her breath, hips rolling idly not enough to choke him, just enough to keep his cock twitching against his zipper.
The printer whirred suddenly, spitting out papers. Mrs. Gaskin stretched leaning back just long enough for Connor to gulp air before sinking down again and plucked a document from the tray. "Progress reports," she mused, fanning herself lazily with the pages. "Wonder what I should write about your performance..."
A deep, bubbling pressure built beneath her Connor froze, breath hitching. Then it came: a thick, wet fart, vibrating directly against his nose, hot through the denim. The stench hit instantly rancid eggs and spoiled milk and he jerked backward instinctively, gagging into her thighs.
Mrs. Gaskin chuckled, slamming her full weight down harder. "Did I say you could move?" Her fingers dug into his scalp, twisting his hair. "Bad boys get punished." She clenched deliberately, releasing another foul blast longer this time, the denim growing damp with heat against his lips.
Connor thrashed, sputtering against the rancid air trapped between her cheeks. His nose burned, eyes watering as the stench soaked into his sinuses. "Nngh fuck !" His hips bucked involuntarily, straining against his jeans.
The sharp crack of her sneaker against his balls hit like a lightning bolt. Connor wheezed, vision whiting out as pain radiated up his spine. "Bad boy," she cooed, rocking back to let him gasp before planting herself again. "You’re a butt slave now. Act like one." Another wet fart gurgled against his face, thicker this time, the denim clinging with trapped moisture.
Her phone pinged. She shifted slightly just enough for Connor to catch a glimpse of her smirking down at him, one hand still scrolling. "Mmm, Principal Holloway wants updates." She ground down harder, her ass flattening his nose. "Should I tell him you’re learning your lesson?" Another hot, bubbling puff seeped through the fabric, her laughter vibrating against his tongue.
Connor’s throat convulsed. He twisted his head sideways, coughing against the rancid air trapped beneath her. "Nngh please " The denim clung damply to his lips, her musk now laced with something sour and fermented. Mrs. Gaskin sighed, rolling her hips in a slow circle. "Tsk. Such a fussy slave." Her fingers knotted in his hair, yanking his face back into position. "Breathe. Deeply."
The next one was wet a gurgling, viscous blast that made the fabric stick to his skin. Connor gagged, hips jerking off the chair. Her sneaker connected with his crotch again, sharper this time. "Bad. Boy." She enunciated each word with another crushing grind. "You don’t squirm. You don’t whine. You just" her weight settled fully "take it."
The final fart was long, a low hiss that ballooned the denim against his nostrils. Connor’s vision swam, tears streaking his temples. Mrs. Gaskin patted his head like a dog. "Good. Now lay quietly while I work.”
PART 3: Lunch
Connor rolled his head to the side, dizzy, dripping spit and snot onto the leather. The air smelled rancid eggy, fermented but beneath it, her musk lingered, thick and primal. The clock ticked. His cock twitched, still trapped in his jeans, aching. Mrs. Gaskin typed, humming softly, her thighs occasionally flexing around his ears to remind him who owned the space between them.
A knock at the door made him stiffen, but she just shifted her weight, pressing him deeper into the chair. "Not now, Janice," she called, voice steady despite the way her ass clenched involuntarily against Connor’s chin. The footsteps retreated. She exhaled through her nose, fingers pausing over the keyboard. "You’re lucky," she murmured, rolling her hips just enough to make him whimper. "Next time, I won’t stop her from walking in."
The printer whirred again. Connor watched, dazed, as she stood the sudden rush of cold air stinging his damp face and plucked another sheet from the tray. She folded it neatly, then tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans, right against the curve of her ass. "Your contract copy," she said, smirking down at him. "Keep it close. You’ll need to review the terms... frequently." Her hand lingered on the denim, fingers tracing the outline of the paper. "Starting tomorrow, you’ll report here before first bell. Understood?"
Connor nodded weakly, his mouth still tasting her.
Mrs. Gaskin stretched, arms arching over her head with a satisfied sigh. "Now it's time for lunch," she mused, glancing at the clock before fixing him with a slow smirk. "And I think I'll use you as a footstool while I eat." She kicked off her sneakers, the rubber soles thudding against the cheap laminate floor. Connor watched, dry mouthed, as she peeled off one sock peach colored, damp at the toes then the other, tossing them onto her desk with deliberate casualness.
Her bare feet flexed against the linoleum, toes curling slightly against the cool surface. They were soft looking, her arches high, the nails painted a glossy pink. She nudged his shoulder with one foot, pressing down until he slid off the chair onto his knees with a grunt. "Hands flat," she ordered, stepping onto his back before he could adjust. Her weight settled between his shoulder blades, the faint musk of sweat and leather from her soles pressing into his skin.
Connor groaned as she shifted her stance, one foot digging into his spine while the other hooked under his chin, forcing his head up. The first cold blast of her lunchtime tuna salad hit his nostrils before he even saw the container sharp, vinegary, mingling with the salty tang of her skin. Mrs. Gaskin sighed contentedly, her toes flexing against his jaw. "Mmm. Much better than cafeteria chairs." The plastic fork scraped against the takeout box as she took her first bite, her foot lazily stroking his throat like he was nothing more than an ottoman.
A glob of mayonnaise laden tuna dropped onto his forehead with a wet plop. Connor twitched, eyes crossing to track its slow slide toward his eyebrow. "Oops," she murmured, not sounding sorry at all. Her other foot slid between his shoulder blades, pressing down hard enough to make his ribs creak. "You can lick that off later." Another bite, another deliberate flick of her wrist this time sending a chunk of celery bouncing off his nose.
The office phone rang. Mrs. Gaskin pivoted smoothly, one foot still planted on Connor's back while she grabbed the receiver. "Gaskin." Her voice was professional, even as her toes curled into the sweat damp fabric of his hoodie. "Yes, Janice, I'm aware of the faculty meeting later this week." A pause. Her heel ground into his spine. "No, I'll be there." She smirked down at him, her free hand scooping up another forkful of tuna.
Connor's stomach growled audibly. Her foot paused. "Poor thing," she cooed, tilting the container just enough to let a single shred of fish plop onto the floor next to his face. It landed with a pathetic splat, glistening under the fluorescent lights. "There. Slave wages." Her laugh was bright, crisp almost girlish if not for the way her arch pressed down on his windpipe.
He hesitated. The tuna smelled rancid, drenched in vinegar, clinging to linoleum dust. Mrs. Gaskin's toes dug into his jaw. "Now," she said, voice dipping into something dangerous. His tongue darted out dry at first, then wetting the speck slowly, the tang of old mayonnaise coating his tastebuds. She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Lower."
He obeyed, bending further until his nose brushed the floor. The next shred was colder, slimier. He lapped at it like a starved dog, his neck straining. Above him, Mrs. Gaskin crossed her ankles on his shoulders, humming as she scrolled through her phone with greasy fingers. "Faster," she murmured, not looking up.
A glob of mayo clung stubbornly to the tile. Connor's tongue scraped against it, the texture like glue. Mrs. Gaskin shifted, her sandal dangling precariously over his head. "Miss a spot," she warned, "and you'll lick it off my shoe instead." The threat hung in the air, thick as the stench of fish and her sweat slick soles. His throat worked as he swallowed already dreading the taste of rubber and her skin.
Her toes nudged his cheek, guiding him toward a smear of dressing. "Not with your hands," she chided, pressing down until his nose mashed into the linoleum. "Use your mouth. Properly." Connor's lips parted, dragging along the floor like a sponge. The vinegar burned his tongue, but worse was the grit flecks of dirt, stray hairs, things he didn't want to name. He gagged, shoulders shaking.
She turned back around looking down at Connor. “Actually,” she began to say, “I don’t think I can trust you enough. You better crawl over here and come with me.”
PART 4: Bathroom
Connor hesitated, but one sharp snap of her fingers sent him shuffling forward on hands and knees. The linoleum was cold under his palms, sticky in places where old gum or spilled soda had dried unnoticed. Mrs. Gaskin strode ahead, her bare feet slapping lightly against the tile, her hips swaying with each step. The bathroom door creaked as she pushed it open, the scent of floral air freshener and something sharper bleach, maybe wafting out.
Inside, the space was cramped, barely large enough for the two of them. She turned, her knee brushing his shoulder as she reached behind him to flick the lock. “Stay,” she murmured, pressing a foot between his shoulder blades to keep him kneeling. The porcelain toilet gleamed under the harsh fluorescent light, the seat slightly raised. “You’re going to help me,” she said, fingers already working at the button of her jeans.
The denim slid down her thighs with a whisper, pooling around her ankles. The lace of her panties black, sheer stretched taut over the curve of her ass before she hooked her thumbs into the waistband and peeled them down, too. Connor’s throat tightened as she stepped out of them, one foot at a time, leaving the fabric in a crumpled heap on the floor. She lowered herself onto the toilet with a sigh, the seat creaking under her weight, her thighs spreading just enough to make Connor’s pulse stutter.
“Look at me,” she ordered, her voice low. Connor lifted his gaze just in time to watch her lean back, her hand sliding between her legs, fingers spreading herself open. “This,” she said, her smirk slow, deliberate, “is where you’re going to learn your place.” The first trickle hit the water with a soft splash, the sound impossibly loud in the tiny room. Connor’s breath caught as the scent warm, musky, undeniably her filled the air. Mrs. Gaskin sighed, her fingers toying idly with herself as she watched him squirm. “Don’t look away,” she murmured. “You’ll be drinking from here soon enough.”
The stream grew steadier, a rhythmic pattering against porcelain, her thighs glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Connor’s mouth watered traitorously, his cock throbbing as she arched her back slightly, letting him see everything the way her body clenched, the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers absently brushed her clit as she emptied her bladder. “You’re lucky,” she purred, her hips rocking just enough to send a stray dribble down the inside of her thigh. “Most boys don’t get front row seats to their future.”
She stood abruptly, the toilet flushing behind her, her skin flushed and damp. A single droplet clung to her inner thigh, glistening under the harsh light. “Lick,” she commanded, nudging his face forward with her knee. Connor hesitated just long enough for her to grab a fistful of his hair and yank. His tongue darted out instinctively, lapping at the salty sweet tang of her skin, his nose brushing the wiry blonde curls between her legs. Mrs. Gaskin groaned, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Good boy,” she breathed.
She stepped back, leaving him panting on the tiles, and pulled her panties up slowly, the lace clinging to her damp skin. Her jeans followed, the denim snug over her thighs, the button straining slightly at her hips. Connor watched, transfixed, as she turned to the sink, the faucet hissing to life. She scrubbed her hands methodically, the soap foaming white between her fingers, her eyes locked on his reflection in the mirror. “Up,” she said, flicking water from her fingertips. “Now.”
The door swung open with a creak, the stale office air rushing in. Connor crawled after her, his knees aching against the linoleum, the scent of her still thick on his tongue. Mrs. Gaskin paused by her desk, tapping the leather seat with two fingers. “Face right here,” she murmured, already lowering herself as he pressed his cheek to the cushion. Her weight settled over him again, her jeans warm against his skin, the faint musk of her arousal seeping through the denim.
Her sigh was heavy with satisfaction as she leaned back, her ass molding to his face, her thighs framing his ears like a vice. “Mmm, much better,” she purred, crossing her legs at the ankle.