Dirty Detention

Georgia Jones wrote lines on the chalkboard. Detention was deathly quiet until Bobbi Dylan and Emily Willis slipped inside. Bobbi froze. She’d seen Georgia before, naked, riding some girl’s face in a locked forum video. Bobbi jabbed Emily with her phone, frantic and silent, and showed her the proof. Georgia turned fast, eyes sharp. "Phone away," she snapped. They still had an hour, so they’d have to pass it without screen time. Bobbi tucked the phone under her thigh, pretended to shuffle papers. The moment Georgia looked away, Bobbi shoved it back in front of Emily again. They mouthed the same dirty question: that’s really her? The phone disappeared from Bobbi’s hand in a blur. Georgia stood over them, scrolled once, recognized the slick thighs spread across her own bed. "Where’d you find this?" she asked, voice low. "Just… online," Emily croaked. "You girls old enough for that site?" They both nodded. Georgia stepped between their desks, hips brushing wood, eyes glittering. "You like it?" she asked. "Paid the membership? Ever been with a girl?" That last question hit like a slap. They stammered. No, they hadn’t touched a woman, but the thought made something tighten low and hot. Breasts looked soft, they muttered. Georgia’s smile crooked. She popped her top button, then another, until her tits spilled free, nipples tight in the chill. The girls’ mouths went slack. "Go ahead," she dared, voice velvet. "Touch." Shyness melted quick. Fingers met warm skin, then greedy mouths. Georgia hissed approval and herded them closer, stripping their shirts next. Small, eager tits met her palms. The room smelled like sweat and cheap chalk. Georgia pulled a desk into a makeshift bed, shoved their skirts up, tongues first. Emily licked where she was told, tasting teacher-slick and salt. Bobbi whimpered when Georgia’s mouth found her, then moaned again when Emily climbed over to return the favor, thighs trembling around her head. Georgia kept score in low, filthy whispers, guiding each lick until every girl came raw and shaking. An hour later the bell rang and they still had slick chins and wild eyes. If detention always tasted like that, maybe rules were meant to get broken.