Skipping Fifth Period for a Mouthful

Peach is supposed to be in fifth period right now. She’s a senior, she just turned 18 last month, and the class is basically a free period she could have slept through. She ditched because some guy in his mid-twenties messaged her last night after she posted a story in her usual tiny shorts. He said he worked near campus, knew a quiet café two blocks over, and would buy her whatever she wanted if she showed up looking cute instead of sitting in class. She told herself she’d just grab the coffee and leave. Then he leaned across the wooden table, pulled his cock out under the edge of it, and came on her tongue while she watched and kept her mouth open like he told her to.

That’s why the “foam” is dripping down her chin in the selfie. She’s still got her tongue stuck out because he told her to keep it like that for one more photo before they leave—he wants the picture of her licking it off like it’s just whipped cream. She’s trying to play it cool for the group chat (“just got the cutest coffee 🥰”), but her thighs are pressed together under the table and her panties are already soaked through. The off-shoulder sweater keeps slipping lower every time she shifts, and the little denim skirt is so short that if she uncrosses her legs even a little he’ll see exactly how wet she is from watching him finish.

He bought the two drinks so it would look normal if anyone walked by. The one with the white drip down the side is just for the picture. She’s only staying long enough to send this, then he’s walking her out the back to the alley behind the café so he can add more. She knows she should be in class. She also knows she’s not going.

He told her to lean in closer while he finished, one hand under the table stroking himself and the other gripping her thigh so she wouldn’t pull back. She watched the whole time, freckled cheeks already pink, mouth open just enough for him to aim. When the first thick rope hit her tongue she flinched but stayed put—partly because his hand tightened, mostly because she liked how it felt landing warm and heavy. He kept going until there was a little puddle on her tongue and a string dripping off the tip. That’s the mess she’s still cleaning up in the selfie, tongue out, eyes up at the camera like she’s just posing with foam. Under the table her free hand is between her legs, pressing the denim against herself because the second she felt it hit her mouth she got soaked. He’s still sitting across from her, cock tucked away again, watching her lick, waiting for her to hit send so he can stand up, grab her wrist, and walk her out the back door into the alley. She already knows what he’s going to do once they’re out of sight.

Part of her still feels the little twist of guilt in her stomach—eighteen and ditching class just so some guy could finish in her mouth in a café. She knows how it looks, knows her friends would freak if they saw the real version of this photo. But that guilt is getting drowned out by how hot her face is and how tight her thighs are pressed together. Her heart’s still pounding from watching him stroke it right in front of her, from feeling him pulse on her tongue, from knowing she’s about to let him take her outside and do worse. She keeps telling herself she can still leave after the selfie, but her hand between her legs isn’t stopping, and she’s already leaning a little closer across the table like she wants him to notice how flushed she is. The shame is there. It’s just not winning.