Misha & Misty VI
The next morning finds us standing outside the Dean's office.
Rumours spread faster than a hazing in a dormitory—everyone's heard about what happened in the basement.
Or fuck those campus security cameras!
Or the IT guy sending it viral!
Misha looks completely unbothered, wearing a tight black dress that shows off her slim figure.
I'm in my usual oversized sweater, feeling exposed and vulnerable despite the extra layer.
The committee room is exactly what you'd expect: sterile, intimidating, with three middle-aged women seated behind a long table.
Dean Thompson sits in the centre, her silver hair in a severe bun, glasses perched on her nose. To her left is Professor Martinez from the Psychology department, and to her right, Coach Reynolds from athletics.
All three radiate disapproval.
"Misty, Misha," Dean Thompson begins, steepling her fingers. "We've received some... concerning reports about your activities in the Student Union Centre yesterday."
Misha leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. The movement causes her dress to ride up slightly, revealing a hint of thigh.
"Concerning reports? Or detailed descriptions of two college girls finally teaching some boys how to properly worship a woman?"
Professor Martinez blushes, but Coach Reynolds just raises an eyebrow.
"This is a serious matter, young lady. Public indecency—"
Misha laughs, and the sound is sharp and confident.
"Let me tell you what really happened. Let me describe how Jake looked up at me from that chair, his eyes wide with worship as I lowered my holy of holies onto his face. Let me tell you how his tongue felt, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as he realised this wasn't a game he could win with strategy."
Dean Thompson's knuckles are white where she grips her pen.
"This is completely inappropriate—"
"Is it?" Misha's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or is it just honest? Let me describe how Brad's hands trembled as he held my sister's hips, how he moaned against her pussy like a man dying of thirst. Let me tell you how Misty looked when she came, her head thrown back, those beautiful hazel eyes rolling back in her head as she soaked his face."
I shift in my seat, my own pussy growing wet at the memory.
Misha's words paint the scene so vividly I can almost feel Brad's tongue on me again.
"The chess pieces scattered everywhere," Misha continues, her voice growing huskier. "The sound of zippers, of gasps, of two girls taking what they wanted. The smell of sex and sweat and victory. And when we were done... God, when we were done, those boys looked like they'd seen heaven."
Coach Reynolds clears her throat, but I notice she's crossing her legs, pressing her thighs together.
Professor Martinez is fanning herself with a file folder, her cheeks flushed.
"Let me be more specific," Misha says, standing up and walking around the table.
She trails her fingers along the wood, stopping behind Dean Thompson.
"Let me describe how my clit felt against Jake's tongue, how I rode his face until my thighs burned. Let me tell you about the exact moment I came, how I screamed and shook and flooded his mouth with my juices."
Dean Thompson's breathing grows heavier.
Misha leans down, her lips brushing the older woman's ear.
"Would you like me to demonstrate?"
That's the breaking point. Dean Thompson turns in her chair, her eyes dark with desire.
"You two are incorrigible."
"Incorrigible?" Misha laughs, straddling the Dean's lap.
"Or just honest about what we want?"
She captures Thompson's lips in a kiss that's anything but gentle. I watch, stunned, as the Dean's hands come up to grip Misha's ass, pulling her closer.
Professor Martinez is next, her hesitation lasting only a moment before she approaches me.
"Is it true what she says? About how you looked when you came?"
I nod, my throat dry. She kneels before my chair, her hands sliding up my thighs.
"Show me," she whispers.
Coach Reynolds watches for a moment, then joins them, her athletic body moving with purpose. Soon we're all on the floor, clothes discarded, the stern committee women transformed into eager participants. Dean Thompson has Misha on her back, her face buried between the redhead's thighs. Coach Reynolds is behind me, her strong fingers working my pussy as she whispers filthy encouragement.
"Such a good girl," she growls in my ear. "Letting us see this beautiful cunt."
Professor Martinez positions herself between my legs, her experienced tongue finding my clit with practised ease. I gasp as she eats me out, her hands gripping my ass to pull me closer. Across from us, Misha has Dean Thompson begging, the older woman grinding her pussy against Misha's thigh like a teenager.
"I want to taste you all," Misha demands, pushing the Dean onto her back. She arranges us in a circle, our bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. "Scissor with me," she says to Professor Martinez, and I watch as they align their bodies, pussy to pussy.
The sight is incredible—Misha's pale skin against Martinez's olive complexion, their legs tangled together as they begin to grind. Their moans fill the room, growing louder as they find their rhythm. Coach Reynolds pulls me into a similar position, her muscular thighs pressing against mine as our clits rub together.
"Fuck," I gasp as the friction builds. "Oh god, yes."
The four of us move together, a writhing mass of female pleasure. Misha and Martinez are lost in their own world, their bodies slapping together as they chase their orgasms. Coach Reynolds is more controlled, her movements deliberate as she grinds against me, her hands on my breasts, pinching my nipples.
"Cum for me," she commands, and I do, my body shaking as pleasure overwhelms me. I scream, my juices flowing as I soak her pussy. The sensation triggers her own climax, and she throws her head back, her athletic body tensing as she cums.
Misha and Martinez follow, their cries mingling as they reach their peak together. The four of us collapse in a heap, panting and sweaty, the stern committee room now smelling of sex and satisfaction. Dean Thompson watches us all, a slow smile spreading across her face.
"Well," she says, her voice husky. "I think we can overlook this particular... incident."