The Principal
"He's a single dad. The principal has photos from his wilder days. The PTA president has worse ones. They both want the same thing—and they're willing to share."
The envelope arrives on a Tuesday.
No return address. My name printed neatly on the front. Inside, three photographs from twenty years ago—photos I thought were destroyed, from a night I barely remember.
Me, nineteen, drunk, naked, surrounded by women who were definitely not my age.
The note is simple: Lincoln Elementary. Principal Morrison's office. 4 PM tomorrow. Come alone.
I haven't thought about that night in decades.
Spring break in Tijuana. Bad decisions piled on worse ones. I was young, stupid, and too drunk to realize that what was happening was probably illegal.
The women were older. Much older. And they paid for everything—the hotel, the drinks, the activities that would haunt me if anyone ever found out.
Someone found out.
And now they want something.
Principal Morrison is not what I expected.
She's in her late fifties, silver hair in a professional bob, reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. She looks like someone's grandmother.
Someone's very large grandmother.
She has to weigh two-sixty, two-seventy. Her body fills the desk chair completely. Her breasts strain against her cardigan. When she stands to greet me, her hips brush the desk on both sides.
"Mr. Callahan." She gestures to a chair. "Thank you for coming."
"I didn't have much choice."
"No." She sits back down. "You didn't."
She slides another envelope across the desk. I open it.
More photos. Worse than the first batch. Activities I definitely don't remember agreeing to.
"Where did you—"
"It doesn't matter where." She removes her glasses. Studies me with sharp blue eyes. "What matters is what I want from you."
"Money?"
"I don't need money." She laughs. "I make six figures, Mr. Callahan. I own my home outright. My retirement is fully funded."
"Then what?"
She leans forward. Her cardigan gapes. I see lace beneath—a bra struggling to contain her.
"I need... stress relief. My job is demanding. The parents are impossible. The children are exhausting. And I haven't had a man in my bed in twelve years."
The implication is clear.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious." She slides the photos back into the envelope. "Once a week. My house. Wednesday evenings. In exchange, these photos disappear. Your daughter's enrollment at this school continues without incident. And nobody ever knows about your wild spring break."
"That's blackmail."
"Yes." She smiles. "It is."
I should go to the police.
Instead, I find myself at Principal Morrison's house on Wednesday at seven PM.
She opens the door in a silk robe. Beneath it—nothing.
"Right on time." She steps back to let me in. "I appreciate punctuality."
"Let's just get this over with."
"Get it over with?" She laughs. "Mr. Callahan, we're going to be doing this every week for the foreseeable future. If you treat it like a chore, neither of us will enjoy it."
She drops the robe.
Two hundred and sixty pounds of naked flesh. Breasts that hang heavy to her navel. A belly that rounds out soft and proud. Thick thighs, wide hips, a ass that could stop traffic.
"I'm going to teach you," she says, "to enjoy it."
She does.
The first night is awkward. Transactional. I do what she asks because I have to, and I hate every second.
But she's good. Patient. She knows exactly what she wants and guides me there without judgment. When I make her come with my mouth, she strokes my hair and calls me a quick learner.
When I fuck her—bent over her kitchen table, the same table where she probably grades papers—she moans my name like she's been waiting years to say it.
By the third week, I stop resenting it.
By the sixth week, I start looking forward to it.
By the tenth week, I realize I'm in trouble.
Then the PTA president finds out.
Donna Williams is everything Principal Morrison is not. Loud where Morrison is quiet. Aggressive where Morrison is patient. She corners me after a school event, her massive body blocking the exit.
"I know about you and Evelyn," she says. Morrison's first name.
"I don't know what you're—"
"Don't." She steps closer. Two-seventy if she's an ounce, with breasts barely contained by her designer dress. "I have cameras at her house. A friend is her neighbor. I've seen you going in. Coming out. I know how long you stay."
"What do you want?"
She smiles.
"The same thing she has."
Wednesdays become complicated.
Morrison from seven to nine. Donna from nine-thirty to eleven-thirty.
They don't know about each other—not at first. I'm their dirty secret, and they're mine. I fuck one on one side of town, clean up, and drive to the other.
Morrison is demanding in a clinical way. Position me here. Touch me there. Make me come exactly like this.
Donna is chaos. She wants it rough, fast, anywhere and everywhere. Against walls, on floors, once in the back of her SUV in the school parking lot.
I'm exhausted. Drained. And utterly trapped.
Month three.
I'm leaving Donna's house when my phone buzzes.
Morrison: We need to talk. My office. Tomorrow.
I've been summoned.
"I know about Donna Williams."
Morrison is calm. Too calm. She's shuffling papers on her desk like this is a routine meeting.
"I can explain—"
"You can't." She looks up. "And you don't need to. Donna and I have been... competitive for years. PTA politics are brutal. I should have expected she'd try to take something that's mine."
"I'm not—"
"You are." She stands. Walks around the desk. "You've been mine for three months. I invested time in training you. I'm not giving that up because Donna wants a piece."
"What are you going to do?"
She smiles.
"Share."
The next Wednesday, they're both waiting at Morrison's house.
"Evelyn called," Donna says when I walk in. "We've come to an arrangement."
"What kind of arrangement?"
"The only kind that makes sense." Morrison is already removing her clothes. "We both want you. We've been fighting over everything else for years. This time, we're going to cooperate."
Donna unzips her dress.
"Consider it a merger."
They're different in every way.
Morrison is soft, patient, clinical. She likes to be worshipped. She wants slow, deliberate pleasure.
Donna is hard, aggressive, demanding. She likes to be taken. She wants to be fucked until she can't think.
Together, they're overwhelming.
Morrison rides my face while Donna rides my cock. They switch without warning. They give each other instructions—"He likes it when you squeeze," "Pull his hair, he gets harder"—trading secrets about my body that I never told either of them.
They kiss. They touch. They compete even when they're cooperating, each trying to make the other come first.
By midnight, I've come three times and I can barely move.
They're just getting started.
This is my life now.
Every Wednesday at Morrison's. Every Saturday at Donna's. Occasionally, like tonight, both at once.
The photos are long forgotten. Neither of them mentions blackmail anymore. We've moved past that, into something else. Something I don't have a name for.
Arrangement, maybe.
Surrender.
One Year Later
My daughter graduates Lincoln Elementary with honors.
At the ceremony, Principal Morrison shakes my hand professionally. "Your daughter is a wonderful student."
"Thank you, Principal Morrison."
Donna Williams is there too, representing the PTA. She congratulates me with a knowing smile.
That night, they both text.
Morrison: Celebration at my place. 8 PM.
Donna: Wear the blue shirt. She likes it.
I put on the blue shirt.
Some arrangements can't be broken.
Some don't want to be.