Not officially, of course, but I’ve had girls in my office complaining that Janie St. James and her crew attacked them for using this bathroom. Apparently, it’s the best place to smoke on campus without getting caught.
My eyes flit over the interior. There are four salmon-colored stalls to the right and a row of mirrored sinks on the left. A row of windows is at the back, and sure enough, some senior girls are sharing a cigarette and blowing the smoke out of one of the cracked windows back there.
I step into the forbidden zone, my dress shoes—I might not be Zolroth, wearing full wool suits even in summer, but I do like to look good—clicking against the tile.
A senior girl who was leaning over one of the sinks, applying mascara in order to make her eyelashes as thick as spider legs, shrieks. “You can’t be in here!” she gasps, pressing a hand to her chest.
I just shoot lust magic in her direction and say, “Go fuck yourself.”
Immediately, the tube of mascara drops to the ground with a tiny clop and then rolls away toward a metal drain in the floor.
The girl’s brown eyes slacken, and her hand snakes underneath her blue school skirt as she starts to finger herself, disregarding the other girls behind her in the bathroom, some congregated by the window, another little blondie, one of Katrina’s friends, emerging from a stall with wide eyes as a squelching noise emerges from girl number one.
I roll my eyes when all these other girls’ eyes flit between me and the girl at the sink. They act shocked and scandalized by a girl masturbating. As if they don’t do the same every damn night. Some of them probably do more.
I wave a hand and another jolt of lust flows out, enveloping the room just as girl number one starts to moan and lean over the sink, her tight black curls dipping into the basin as she gets herself close.
“Nobody in this room can come unless it’s from oral,” I declare. “So give some, get some.” Because, why not? But also, I happen to be fully aware of the female body and its capacity for pleasure from oral. Honestly, these girls are probably going to get better orgasms this morning from each other than they’ve ever had from a guy. I can’t help but smile at how I’m making their days both more chaotic and a little more pleasant.
A happy hum starts in my chest and vibrates through my throat until I find myself humming as I wait for Katrina to finish up in the bathroom. She’s taking a bit of a long time.
Am I interrupting her morning constitutional?
I bite my lip, trying to decide whether or not to come back later, when the stall door bursts open and Katrina emerges pink cheeked and wide-eyed. Was she…? I take a subtle sniff of the air to see if I can detect the scent of her arousal, wondering if my lust magic hit her as well, but there are too many other aroused girls nearby and I can’t tell.
Katrina spots me and immediately heads over. But instead of the shy smile I got last week, today her eyes spit sparks. She looks enraged. And so fucking hot.
Part of me is tempted to lust her right along with these other girls so I can dive under her skirt and taste her delicious flavor. I’ve only ever gotten a hint of her tangy taste, when I forced Akor to French kiss me after our precious girl fled the dance. But the taste of her second-hand isn’t good enough.
“Katrina.” I try not to let my voice crack into a whine as I say it, but dammit, it’s hard! I did fucking noodle art for this girl! If any other lust demon knew that, I’d be laughed right out of Hell.
She takes a step closer to me, and the veins in her neck are taut. I want to run my hand over them.
“Let’s take this to your office,” she snips. She goes to a free sink and washes her hands, her eyes focused only on the sink as next to her, the girl who scolded me upon entry into the bathroom moans and bucks into the mouth of another senior on her knees.
Katrina doesn’t bother with paper towels because those are currently blocked by a little cunt-eating circle that’s formed beneath it. Instead, she shields her eyes and barrels like a bull for the door, shouldering