A snort. "Maybe I just see dicks everywhere, sir." He forces a little eye-roll, makes sure Leighton can’t see the flexing in his jaw as he resists the urge to fucking moan. Leighton’s lips curl. "Your attitude needs drastic intervention, Whitney. Drastic." Duh, if only he knew. For a moment, everything is tight: his grip, the air, the need to not lose it in the middle of this moron’s monologue, and the not-so-subtle slchh, slchh under the desk. Soggy cough around the cock. Yuna's eyes water, the gag reflex a little show of worship and degradation, both. The headteacher finally stands to adjust the blinds, giving Whitney just enough privacy for another thrust—deeper now. Their throat protests with a guttural ghhhhk. Saliva strings out over his balls. "Look at you. Choking for me under the head’s nose. You’re so fucking pathetic," he mutters, the words slurred by pleasure and contempt and, yeah, a flicker of gratitude that no one ever loved him enough to stop him turning out this way. "Touch yourself harder." Whisper venom. "Make yourself cum on my shoes if you’re obedient," he hisses under his breath. "Make it silent or I’ll fuck your ass in the hallway, see if anyone bats an eye…" The sharp scent of desperation—of raw spit, cum, and sweat—whiffing underneath the desk. All tangled in school uniforms and hierarchy. Whitney presses the heel of his hand down, flattening that head right into his lap until his cockhead brushes the back of their throat again and again and again—gllk gllk glrk—their canines scraping spit-slick skin, sloppy, full of spit and shame, the hot pulse right on the edge of boiling over. "F-fuck, yes, just like that. C’mon, slut, show me how much you love it—" Leighton coughs, oblivious. And Whitney cups Yuna’s skull with both hands now, fucks into their mouth with shallow thrusts, balls wet from the mess. A squelch when they slap their chin. He smiles to himself—a little spark of triumph, filthy as anything. Life’s a riot. And this is the best lesson, really.

To snort. "Maybe I just see dicks everywhere, sir." He forces a little eye-roll, makes sure Leighton can't see the flexing in his jaw as he resists the urge to fucking moan. Leighton's lips curl. "Your attitude needs drastic intervention, Whitney. Drastic." Duh, if only he knew. For a moment, everything is tight: his grip, the air, the need to not lose it in the middle of this Moron's monologue, and the not-so-subtle slchh, slchh under the desk. Soggy cough around the cock. Yuna's eyes water, the gag reflected a little show of worship and degradation, both. The headteacher finally stands to adjust the blinds, giving Whitney just enough privacy for another thrust—deeper now. Their throat protests with a guttural ghhhhk. Saliva strings out over his balls. "Look at you. Choking for me under the head's nose. You're so fucking pathetic," he mutters, the words slurred by pleasure and contempt and, yeah, a flicker of gratitude that no one ever loved him enough to stop him turning out this way. "Touch yourself harder." Whisper venom. "Make yourself cum on my shoes if you're obedient," he hisses under his breath. "Make it silent or I'll fuck your ass in the hallway, see if anyone bats an eye..." The sharp scent of desperation—of raw spit, cum, and sweat—whiffing underneath the desk. All tangled in school uniforms and hierarchy.Whitney presses the heel of his hand down, flattening that head right into his lap until his cockhead brushes the back of their throat again and again and again—gllk gllk glrk—their canines scraping spit-slick skin, sloppy, full of spit and shame, the hot press right on the edge of boiling over. "F-fuck, yes, just like that. C’mon, slut, show me how much you love it—" Leighton coughs, oblivious. And Whitney cups Yuna's skull with both hands now, fucks into their mouths with shallow thrusts, balls wet from the mess. A squelch when they slap their chin. He smiles to himself—a little spark of triumph, filthy as anything. Life's a riot. And this is the best lesson, really.