Filing had lost some of its luster. Not that it was particularly glamorous to begin with, but by the next Friday, his third work-study appointment, Byron had already had his fill of it. In his last go-around, he had, according to Emery, markedly improved. It wasn't much of a shock, in his first work-study he had been notably distracted by subterfuge and butt-related crises. Additionally, he found, to his own surprise, that he was making a real effort to improve his performance. He was finding that the headmistress was as good as her word- she was strict but if you managed to stay in her good graces the intensity of her attention was warm and welcoming, albeit still somewhat frightening. So for possibly the first time in his life, Byron was making an effort to do more than coast and trying to bury his instincts for mischief and antagonism.

Despite his mysterious new desire to please her, the frightened scratching in Byron's subconscious was growing ever more frantic when Emery loomed over him. He was currently enjoying a brief respite from her company, the headmistress had adjured to the bathroom that connected to her office. Byron had not been in the bathroom, he was an infrequent pee-er and doubted that he's have the nerve to use the headmistress's private bathroom even if he had to go, but he had seen it from the outside. It was as opulently ornamented as the rest of Waycroft and did not lack for functionality, containing a full-sized wardrobe and shower large enough even for Emery. Bryan surmised that he had a little time to himself, he had heard the shower start and it was fast approaching 7 PM, when they usually wrapped for the day, so the headmistress was probably getting ready for her date.

Byron had allowed his brain to go slack, knowing his filing performance would suffer but he was drained from his shift in the emotionally oppressive company of the headmistress. As was so common in the last week, his thoughts drifted into fantasy waters and sank into pleasant musings of FuckFest. Byron had only been at Waycroft for two weeks, but felt that if he didn't hook up with someone soon he would not be able to claim his preferred reputation as a charming Lothario. In a deeper, more guarded part of his mind, he was preoccupied with Chloe and was anxious to see her again. He had not run into her again; he had avoided making detours to see another volleyball practice, he didn't want to seem like he was stalking her. Initially he was concerned that she might not show up to the party, but his fears were put soundly to rest. By word of his hall-mates and the prevailing reputation of the party, no one- no one- missed Fall FuckFest.

Byron heard a door click and looked up from his work. The headmistress emerged from the bathroom and Byron felt his breath catch in his throat. Emery never looked anything but well put together and occasionally even stylish but it was suddenly clear that she did not put her full effort into her appearance for school. She was wearing a black dress that somehow both accentuated her curves and did not overwhelm the senses with them as was so often the case in her day to day wear. It was one hell of a dress. Or she was one hell of a woman and the dress was just the perfect textile overlook from which to view. Byron knew nothing about makeup, he had the general idea that he preferred if girls wore none as the headmistress usually did, but even he could see that her subtle application enhanced her already fetching face. The green of her eyes shone more brightly than usual, accented by dark (he wanted to say eyeliner?) makeup. The headmistress had also done something to her hair- where it was usually straight and silky, it now had a wave to it and sort of bounced as she moved. Where she usually wore only flats, today she donned heels, not that she needed any extra height, but they did something to her posture and gait that was enticing. To complete her opus, the headmistress wore a long silver necklace that gave the slightest hint of permission to stare at her enormous bust as it rested on the incline of fabric stretching to cover her chest.

For the first time, Byron fully appreciated how beautiful Emery was. It had always been abundantly evident that she was attractive but was an abstract fact obscured by the visceral reality of her size. Every thought about her appeal was prefaced with 'if she were a normal size'. But there could be no thought of that now. There could be no thought of anything, Byron's mind was racing around gathering up the broken pieces of his consciousness. The word 'Goddess' had sprung, unbidden, into his head and he carefully picked his way around it, trying to pretending it wasn't there.

The headmistress strode across the room, her usual thumping footsteps replaced with the loud staccato clack of her heels. For a brief, bizarre moment Byron was concerned for the expensive wood floors of the headmistress's office but a glance down told him that they were unmarred by the headmistress immense, concentrated weight. Byron, who was filing, ostensibly at least, was kneeling by the headmistress's desk. Headmistress Emery clacked around to the other side and started lowering her massive rear onto one of the normal sized visitor's chairs. Her descent was stopped well above the seat cushion on the arms of the chair, her thick thighs blocking the chair from view and more of her ass bulging past the bounds of the chair than was parked over it. Clearly conscious of the very real possibility of turning the chair into a pile of lumber, the headmistress only rested her weight slightly on the chair. Her face showed no sign of strain but Byron could see strong muscles pushing out of her plush thighs. The chair still creaked ominously and there was an alarming splintering sound.

“Byron,” she said, without looking at him.

“Yes, headmistress?”

“Come here and zip this up for me.”

Byron swallowed and walked around behind the headmistress, marveling at how small a fraction of her ass the normal sized chair accommodated. Her stunning look had given her an even more intense presence than before, something much more unapproachable. So it was with some trepidation that Byron stepped up behind her and melted into a wave of perfume. It was something sweet and strong but not overpowering. Byron collected himself and looked to the zipper he was supposed to be closing in the middle of the headmistress's broad back. If he stood on his tip-toes he'd be able to grab it but wouldn't have any leverage to pull it up from there.

Although the headmistress showed no sign of impatience, Byron hurried to drag over the other visitor's chair to use as a stool. He hopped up unsteadily and put a hand on the headmistress's side to steady himself. His hand sunk slightly into her love handle and he was struck with a sudden sense of guilt. The headmistress did not react at all to his touch, but he removed his hand anyway, as soon as he was sure of his footing. Headmistress Emery lifted her wavy hair up off of her shoulders, but missed a few strands that threatened to get caught in the treads of the zipper. Although it felt dangerously overfamiliar, Byron gathered the strands in one hand and held them out of the way. He pulled at the zipper, surprised at how heavy it was on such a fine dress.

He had gotten the zipper to close and was about to release the headmistress's hair when he heard the office door open. He snapped around, his face the picture of guilt. It was Lindsay. Spotting the look on Byron's face, she tried to back out of the room, but it was too late.

“Lindsay?” the headmistress called without turning around.

“Y-yes headmistress,” Lindsay answered, abandoning hope of escape.

Eyes on the floor, Lindsay entered the office and shuffled over to the headmistress. She handed her a piece of paper wordlessly which the headmistress took and examined.

“Thank you, Lindsay, you may go.”

Not needing to be told twice, Lindsay took the returning trip at, while not quite a run, a sort of a limping, shuffling jog. Realizing he was still holding on the headmistress's hair, Byron let it go and hopped off of the chair. He had dragged it back to its place in the room before the headmistress finally looked at him.

“Thank you, Byron.”

“Yes, headmistress.”

She gestured to the chair with a small smile. “We'll have to get you a step stool.”

Byron, who secretly hoped that would be the last time he would be asked to do something so intimate, smiled weakly back.

“Aren't you going to tell me how nice I look?”

Caught completely off guard, Byron cleared his throat to buy time. Feeling awkward, face burning, he took his best guess at the appropriate response.

“You- uh- look very nice, headmistress.”

“Oh, don't gush, you're embarrassing me,” the headmistress said dryly.

The headmistress's expression was entirely neutral, so Byron wasn't sure where he stood. As he was studying her for any sign of anger, he saw the corner of the headmistress's mouth subtly tighten and curl. She was holding back a smirk. She was fucking with him! A flare of anger blasted through Byron's nervousness. She might run the school. She might hold his future in her hands. She might be able to literally tear him apart. But if the game was roguery, Byron was the home team.

Byron queued up his best faux-sincere voice, a well practiced skill he was confident was convincing, and reached down deep to find every insecurity he had ever suspected was drilled into girls when they were little and never really went away.

“I didn't know you when you were younger, headmistress, but I am still convinced that you've only improved with age because I can't imagine you ever being more lovely than you are right now. I hope, wherever you're going tonight, there will not be many women because they would be hopelessly outclassed.”

He thought he might have laid it on a little thick but the headmistress's forced deadpan expression and unfocused eyes told him he had hit the mark. He could tell that she was genuinely flattered in spite of herself. Point for the home team.

Without warning the headmistress's eyes focused and she extended her arm outward. Byron, who thought he was outside of her reach, flinched involuntarily as her huge hand closed around his upper arm. Her hand encircled his arm entirely and would have had room to spare if it hadn't been closed in a vice-like grip. With no apparent effort she pulled him forward until he was inches from her. Byron was, once again, forced to look past the intimidating swell of Headmistress Emery's magnificent bust into her intense face.

“You should be careful, Byron,” the headmistress said softly, in almost a whisper, “someone might get the wrong idea when you say things like that. You might lead someone on and that can have all sorts of unintended consequences that you might not enjoy.”

She released his arm and Byron, not even realizing he had been pulling against her grip, stumbled backwards. His arm was sore where she had grabbed it, it would undoubtedly be a bruise by the next day. He fought against his desire to rub the spot where it hurt and met Emery's eyes defiantly. She had a satisfied expression on her face and Byron knew that not only did the home team not get to win, they didn't get to score. Because if they scored there would be consequences. And she had 8 more months to dole out consequences. He wondered hopelessly what he would need to do to get kicked out of Waycroft.

The headmistress dropped a foot that was at least half a yard long onto her desk. It landed with a dramatic thump that sent writing instruments and assorted knick-knackery bouncing up and down. Byron noticed that the strap in the back of her heel was undone.

“Now,” said the headmistress with a cruel smile, “I'll need you to fasten these for me.”