Thot Pocket

I can literally feel my IQ dropping as this sweaty walrus of an administrator keeps rambling about "school policy" and "criminal offense." Like, do you think I give a single solitary fuck about your JCPenney tie and your sad little rulebook? I'm twirling my hair around my finger so hard it might actually cut off circulation, but it gives me something to focus on besides his pathetic monologue.

"Do you understand the seriousness of your situation, Miss Blackwood?" He's turning red, like he might actually pop a blood vessel. God, that would be gross. Blood on my new white platform sneakers? No thank you.

I sigh dramatically, my tits practically heaving out of my deliberately half-unbuttoned uniform shirt. His eyes flick down for a millisecond--freaking GOTCHA--before he forces them back up to my face. I've rolled the waistband of my plaid skirt four times this morning, so it barely covers my ass when I'm standing. Sitting in this stupid chair, my butt cheeks are basically making friends with the plastic seat.

"Um, I was literally just looking at it?" I make my voice go up at the end, blinking my mascara-heavy lashes. "The security tag must have, like, fallen off or something? Weird how that happens, right?"

The mall security footage playing on his computer literally shows me shoving a $300 cashmere sweater into my backpack, but whatever. Details.

"Miss Blackwood, this is the third time this semester you've been caught stealing." He dabs his forehead with a tissue. Ew. "The store manager wants to press charges."

I uncross and recross my legs slowly, letting my platform Mary Janes dangle from my toes. His eyes follow the movement. Men are so predictable it's actually sad.

"That's, like, so dramatic?" I twirl a piece of my black bob around my finger again. "It's just a sweater. My daddy probably owns that mall anyway."

He doesn't, but whatever. Admin Man doesn't know that.

"I'm going to have to call your parents." He reaches for the phone.

I feel my stomach drop for a split second. Daddy would absolutely cut off my Amex for a month. But I recover instantly, shrugging one shoulder.

"They're in Aspen this week. Skiing." I examine my glossy purple nails. "No reception up there. Super annoying."

"Then I'll call the police." His hand hovers over the phone.

The fuck? My heart actually skips a beat. Police means record. Record means colleges see it. Colleges seeing it means no Stanford, which means I'll have to go to, like, a state school or something. With poor people. Ew.

I lean forward slightly, letting my tiny school tie dangle between my stupidly big tits. They're basically my get-out-of-jail-free cards.

"That seems super excessive? For a sweater? I can just, like, return it?" I blink rapidly, tilting my head so my black hair falls across one eye. "I wasn't thinking straight. My boyfriend just broke up with me, and my cat died, and--"

I force my eyes to water a little. I can cry on command. It's literally my superpower.

"Please," I whisper, my voice going baby-soft. "I don't wanna get in trouble."

He shifts uncomfortably, and I can practically see his resolve crumbling.

"Well--"

"I promise I'll never, ever do it again." I bat my eyelashes, voice going even higher. "Cross my heart."

My left hand actually makes a little cross motion over my left tit, drawing his eyes exactly where I want them. Fucking men.

He clears his throat. "Perhaps we can handle this internally. I'll need to inform your homeroom teacher at minimum."

I nod eagerly. "Yes! That would be so nice of you. You're, like, totally saving my life right now."

The idiot actually smiles a little. So fucking easy.

"Who is your homeroom teacher?" he asks.

I hesitate. Mr. Thornton is literally the only teacher who doesn't fall for my shit. He's been on my case all year.

"Um, Ms. Davis?" I lie.

He types something into his computer.

"That's not what it says here. Your homeroom teacher is Mr. Thornton."

Fuck.

"Oh yeah, totally. I meant him." I twist my hair faster. "My brain is like, so scattered today."

He picks up the phone. "I'll give him a call. See if he's available now."

I chew my bottom lip. Maybe if I head this off myself, I can control the narrative better. Tell Thornton some sob story before Admin Man gives him all the details.

"Actually, I can just go see him myself?" I stand up quickly, smoothing down my miniscule skirt. "No need to, like, bother you anymore."

He looks relieved to be rid of me. "Fine. But I'll be following up with Mr. Thornton to make sure you actually went."

"Totally!" I chirp, grabbing my backpack. "You're the best!"

As I bounce toward the door, I can literally feel his eyes on my ass. I add a little extra wiggle. Just because.

---

The hallway is empty because everyone's in class, which means I could totally just bail and go home. But Admin Dude will definitely call Thornton, and then I'll be in even deeper shit. Ugh. My life is literally a tragedy.

I take my sweet time walking to Thornton's classroom, stopping to check my reflection in the trophy case glass. My makeup is perfect as usual--winged eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, blush carefully placed to make me look like I'm eternally blushing, lip gloss thick enough to catch the light. I adjust my tie so it sits just right between my tits, then re-roll my skirt waistband one more time. Might as well go nuclear.

When I get to Thornton's room, I peek through the little window. No class right now--it's his free period. Perfect. I can turn on the waterworks without an audience.

I knock softly, putting on my best "I'm in trouble but I'm adorable" face.

"Enter," his deep voice booms from inside.

I push open the door, stepping into the classroom with a practiced innocent stumble, like my platform shoes are just too hard to walk in.

Mr. Thornton looks up from his desk, and his face immediately hardens when he sees me. He's fucking MASSIVE--like 6'7" of pure intimidation. Dark skin that always looks slightly sweaty, a barrel chest straining his cheap button-up, and hands the size of dinner plates. His tie is always slightly crooked, and he smells like coffee.

"Miss Blackwood," he drawls, leaning back in his chair. "To what do I owe this displeasure?"

Unlike every other man in this school, his eyes stay locked on my face. It's annoying as fuck.

"Hiiii, Mr. Thornton," I make my voice go sugary sweet, stepping into his classroom and letting the door swing shut behind me. "So, like, the funniest thing just happened--"

"Let me guess," he interrupts, folding his massive arms across his chest. "You've done something stupid, gotten caught, and now you're hoping I'll bail you out."

I blink, thrown off my script. "Um, that's not--"

"Save it." He points to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit."

The way he says it makes my stomach do a weird little flip. Like I'm a dog or something. I should be offended, but instead I find myself walking to the chair and sitting down, pulling my skirt down as far as it'll go, which isn't very far.

"Skirt's against dress code," he notes, not even looking at my legs. "Again."

"It was totally normal length this morning," I lie. "It must have, like, shrunk in the rain or something."

"You've rolled the waistband." His expression doesn't change. "I can see it from here."

I huff, crossing my arms under my boobs, but he's still not looking anywhere but my face.

"So what's it this time?" he asks. "Cheating? Fighting? Bullying some poor freshman?"

"Actually," I flip my hair, "I was at the mall, and there was this whole misunderstanding with a sweater--"

The phone on his desk rings, cutting me off. He picks it up without taking his eyes off me.

"Thornton." He listens for a moment, then says, "Yes, she's here now. I see. Yes, I'll handle it. Thank you."

He hangs up and stares at me.

"Shoplifting," he says flatly. "From Neiman Marcus. A three hundred dollar sweater."

I twirl my hair faster. "Okay, but like, it wasn't actually--"

"This is the third time this semester." His voice gets dangerously low. "On top of the cheating on your midterm, the cyberbullying of Emma Watson--"

"She's not even the real Emma Watson," I interject. "And her eyebrows are tragic."

"--the unauthorized Instagram posts from school property, and the incident with the fire alarm." He continues like I hadn't spoken. "You've been a one-woman wrecking crew since September."

I inspect my nails, trying to look bored. "Are you done? Because this is getting super repetitive."

His massive hand slams down on the desk, making me jump.

"No, Miss Blackwood, I am not done." His voice is low and dangerous. "You seem to think you can bat your eyelashes and wiggle your little behind and get away with literally anything. The other teachers might fall for it, but I assure you, I do not find your act charming in the slightest."

My cheeks heat up with actual anger. Like, who does he think he is?

"I don't have an 'act,'" I snap, dropping the baby voice. "I'm just living my life. It's not my fault if people want to help me."

"Help you?" He lets out a humorless laugh. "Is that what you call manipulation and exploitation of middle-aged men's fear of being accused of looking at a student inappropriately?"

I blink, thrown by his directness.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter, but my face is getting hot.

"I think you do." He leans forward, his massive frame making the desk look like doll furniture.

I roll my eyes so hard they might get stuck. "Whatever. Are you gonna, like, give me detention or something? Because I have plans later, so--"

"I'm calling your parents." He picks up the phone again.

My heart actually stops for a second. "Wait--they're out of town. In Aspen."

He pauses, phone in hand. "Is that so?"

"Yep." I nod quickly. "No reception. So sad."

His dark eyes narrow. "What's your father's cell number?"

Shit. "Um, I don't have it memorized? It's in my phone, but we're not allowed to have phones at school, remember?" I bat my eyelashes.

"Richard Blackwood, corporate attorney at Preston, Whitman, and Lee," he recites, tapping some keys on his computer. "Office number readily available on their website."

Double shit.

"Okay, fine!" My voice comes out higher than I meant it to. "They're not in Aspen. But please, please don't call them."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't." His finger hovers over the phone.

"Because..." I search frantically for a reason that will work on him. My usual tricks clearly don't. "My dad will take away my car, and then I won't be able to drive my little sister to her cancer treatments."

His eyebrows raise slightly. "You're an only child, Miss Blackwood."

Fuck. Who told him that?

"I'll do anything," I blurt out, leaning forward. "Please, Mr. Thornton. Don't call my parents."

The moment the words leave my mouth, something changes in his expression. It's subtle, but there's a shift in his eyes, a slight tightening around his mouth.

"Anything?" he repeats, his voice suddenly different. Lower.

I nod eagerly, thinking I've finally found a crack in his armor. "Yeah, totally. Like, detention every day for a month. Or I could, um, clean the classroom? Or help grade papers?"

He stares at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how quiet the room is.

"Miss Blackwood." He finally speaks, setting the phone down. "Do you know what your problem is?"

I blink. "Um, I get bored easily?"

"Your problem," he continues, ignoring my answer, "is that no one has ever shown you real consequences."

There's something in his tone that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"I have plenty of consequences," I argue, my voice smaller than I'd like. "My mom took away my Sephora account last month."

He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "And yet here you are, still wearing enough makeup for three people."

I touch my face self-consciously.

"You've been terrorizing this school for months," he says. "Making teachers uncomfortable, bullying students, breaking rules like they don't apply to you. And now theft."

"It wasn't theft," I mutter. "I was going to pay for it eventually."

"With what money? Your father's?" He shakes his head. "You've never earned anything in your life, have you?"

I feel a flicker of actual shame, which is so weird. I never feel shame.

"Whatever," I say, falling back on my standard response. "Are we done here? Can I go?"

"No." He stands up, and holy shit, he's huge. Like a wall of man. I have to crane my neck to look up at him from my seated position.

He walks around the desk, his footsteps heavy on the linoleum floor. Then he reaches past me and I hear the click of the classroom door locking.

My heart rate kicks up. "What are you doing?"

He turns back to me. "Stand up."

"Why?" I don't move.

"Because I told you to." His voice is calm but firm. "Stand. Up."

Something about the way he says it makes me obey before I can think about it. I find myself standing, my platform Mary Janes putting me at maybe 5'2" to his towering height.

"You said you'd do anything to avoid me calling your parents." He crosses his massive arms. "I'm curious how far that 'anything' extends."

I swallow hard, suddenly feeling like I've miscalculated something important.

"I meant like, school stuff," I clarify quickly. "Extra credit. Community service. Whatever."

"I'm moving schools after this semester." He says this like it explains something. "New district, fresh start."

I blink, confused by the change of subject. "Um, okay? Congratulations?"

"It means, Miss Blackwood, that I have very little to lose." His eyes lock onto mine. "And you have very much to lose if I pick up that phone."

My stomach does a weird flippy thing again. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that perhaps there's a way for you to avoid your parents finding out about your latest... adventure." He takes a step closer, and I instinctively take a step back. "But it would require you to actually face consequences for once in your pampered life."

"What kind of consequences?" My voice comes out smaller than I meant it to.

He studies me for a moment. Then he reaches for his belt buckle.

"The kind that will teach you that your cute little act doesn't work on everyone." His hand pauses on the buckle. "That some people see right through you, Izzy."

It's the first time he's ever used my first name, and somehow that's what makes my heart start racing.

"What are you doing?"

"The question is, how far will you go to keep your perfect life intact?" His fingers start to undo the buckle. "How much is Daddy's credit card worth to you?"

"This is--you can't--" I stammer, backing up until I hit a desk.

"I can't what?" He smiles, and it's not a nice smile. "Call your parents? Report you to the police? Because I absolutely can."

My mind is racing. This can't be happening.

"I'll tell everyone," I threaten, but my voice shakes. "You'll go to jail."

"Will you?" He seems unconcerned. "Your word against mine. The lying, manipulative shoplifter versus the respected teacher with a spotless record. Who do you think they'll believe?"

He's right, and we both know it. I've spent the last year being the biggest bitch possible. I have zero credibility.

My heart is fucking racing so hard I can literally feel my pulse in my ears. This cannot be happening. Like, this is literally not real life right now. Mr. Thornton--my gross AF homeroom teacher who always wears those nasty sweat-stained button-ups--is undoing his belt while staring at me with these, like, dead-ass eyes that are fucking terrifying.

"Miss Blackwood, I think we understand each other," he says, and his voice is completely different now--deeper, rougher, like he's not even trying to sound professional anymore.

"I don't--you can't--" My brain is short-circuiting. I'm used to making grown men nervous, not whatever THIS is.

The metallic sound of his belt buckle hits different when you're trapped in a locked classroom with a six-foot-seven wall of man blocking the exit. My stupid tiny legs wouldn't even reach the ground from this desk, let alone the door.

"Here's what's going to happen," he says, still unbuckling his belt with this scary casual energy. "You're going to do exactly as I say, and I won't ruin your comfortable little life."

"This is literally assault," I try to sound fierce, but my voice comes out all high and squeaky. "You can't--"

"I'm not touching you," he points out, his massive hands continuing to work at his pants. "You can leave any time. But if you do, I'll be making those calls we discussed."

If Daddy finds out I've been shoplifting AGAIN? After he promised Judge Wilson last time that I'd learned my lesson? My car, my credit cards, my entire LIFE would be over. And the police? No way. I can't have a record. Not when I'm this close to escaping this shitty town.

Mr. Thornton's eyes never leave mine as the zipper comes down with this agonizingly slow rrrrriiiiip sound that seems to stretch forever.

"Take your phone out," he commands, his voice making my stomach do this weird flippy thing.

"What?" I blink at him.

"Your phone. The one that's undoubtedly tucked into your bra right now, since your skirt couldn't possibly hide a paperclip."

"I don't--"

His hand shoots out so fast I don't even see it coming. One second he's standing there, the next his massive fingers are digging into the front of my uniform shirt, right between my tits, and fishing out my phone. His knuckles brush against my skin, weirdly hot and rough.

"Hey!" I squeak, trying to grab it back, but he easily holds it over my head.

"The passcode," he demands.

"No fucking way!" I try to jump for it, but it's like trying to reach the moon. He's so freakishly tall, and I'm... well, not.

His other hand grabs my wrist, completely encircling it, and it's like being caught in a steel trap. "The. Passcode."

Our eyes lock, and something electric and terrifying passes between us. I've never felt so small in my entire life.

"2-9-3-7," I whisper, hating myself.

He types it in one-handed, still holding my wrist with the other, then tosses my phone into his desk drawer and locks it with a tiny key from his pocket.

"Can't have you recording our little arrangement," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "That would be unfortunate for both of us."

My mouth is suddenly super dry. "Recording what?"

Instead of answering, he reaches for his zipper. The sound it makes sliding down is, like, horrifyingly loud in the quiet classroom.

"Mr. Thornton--"

"What did you think 'anything' meant, Miss Blackwood?" His hand disappears into his pants, and my eyes follow the movement like I'm hypnotized. "Did you think you'd just have to write some lines or clean my classroom?"

Oh my god, this isn't happening. This literally cannot be happening. I'm Izzy fucking Blackwood. I'm the girl who makes teachers nervous, not the other way around.

But then his pants drop to the floor, and all I can think is OH MY FUCKING GOD.

I've never seen a real dick in person before. Like, I've seen plenty in porn when Madison and I got drunk at her parents' vacation house, but those were, like, professional porn dicks. Pretty and clean and... not... THIS.

Mr. Thornton's boxers are tented outward by something that looks more like a fucking ARM than a cock. There's this massive outline pressing against the fabric, and it's... it's fucking CURVED, like this obscene upward arch that reaches practically to his stomach.

"What the actual fuck," I whisper, taking a step back.

He smiles at that--a real smile this time, showing teeth that are weirdly white against his dark skin. "I believe I mentioned consequences, Miss Blackwood."