Candice slumps in her seat, legs crossed, hips squirming like she’s about to burst. Mr. Phillips sits behind the desk, pen tapping, jaw set. She asks to piss. He snaps back, tells her to hold it or do it where she stands. She stares at him, half-dare, half-plea. Then her fingers hook the hem of her skirt. Fabric slides up. She pushes her panties aside and lets go, a hot stream hitting the floor in sharp, wet bursts. His chair scrapes back. Anger flares first—mouth tight, nostrils wide—until the sound of her relief cuts through it. His stare drops. The wet patch spreads. His cock stirs against his slacks, thick and obvious, the anger shifting into something darker, heavier. She keeps going, stream tapering to slow drips, eyes locked on his lap while the puddle glistens under the fluorescent lights.
Candice slumps in her seat, legs crossed, hips squirming like she’s about to burst. Mr. Phillips sits behind the desk, pen tapping, jaw set. She asks to piss. He snaps back, tells her to hold it or do it where she stands. She stares at him, half-dare, half-plea. Then her fingers hook the hem of her skirt. Fabric slides up. She pushes her panties aside and lets go, a hot stream hitting the floor in sharp, wet bursts. His chair scrapes back. Anger flares first—mouth tight, nostrils wide—until the sound of her relief cuts through it. His stare drops. The wet patch spreads. His cock stirs against his slacks, thick and obvious, the anger shifting into something darker, heavier. She keeps going, stream tapering to slow drips, eyes locked on his lap while the puddle glistens under the fluorescent lights.
