Tammy sighed as she hung up the phone, the receiver clicking into place with a finality that felt heavier than it should. Paul had gotten yet another complaint of bullying, and she'd had to phone his mother. 

Again. 

Now Paul was sitting outside on the wooden bench, waiting for her to reprimand him for what felt like the thirtieth time. She knew why she'd gotten into this job. She'd believed in the kids, in the raw, untapped potential of their futures, in the possibility that even the troublemakers could be reached if you just found the right angle, the right moment of connection. She'd been idealistic once, fresh out of grad school with her counseling certification and her theories about restorative justice and positive reinforcement.

But fuck... maybe some just couldn't be helped.

"Come on in, Paul. We need to talk."

But as he walked past her, something seemed off. There was a strange smell in the air. Sharp and electric, like the moment before a summer storm breaks. It smelled like ozone. It smelled like the room could be struck by lightning at any moment. The hairs on her arms stood up, and she felt a strange pressure behind her eyes, like the atmosphere itself was compressing, waiting.

And had Paul gotten... more?

She shook her head, pressing her palms to her temples. What did that even mean? More what? Taller? He'd always been a big kid: broad-shouldered, thick-necked, the kind of build that made him intimidating in the hallways. But now... now he seemed to fill the doorway differently. His presence expanded, pressing against the edges of her perception. She could hear the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead, but beneath that, something else; a low frequency, like a generator humming in the distance.

"Have a seat," she said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

Tammy found her fingers moving to her waistline, untucking her shirt as she began his reprimand. The fabric felt suddenly constricting, too warm against her skin. She couldn't remember deciding to do it, but her hands seemed to be acting of their own accord, pulling the material free from her skirt.

"Paul," she started, her voice trembling slightly, "how many times have we done this? You're eighteen now. Legally an adult. If you continue to cause trouble, the police are going to get involved. Do you understand that? This isn't detention anymore. This isn't suspension. This is your future we're talking about."

He nodded with seeming understanding, his expression earnest, almost sympathetic. As she unbuttoned her shirt, starting from the top and working her way down with fingers that trembled slightly, she noticed that he didn't seem surprised. He watched her with the calm attention of someone watching a familiar performance.

"Mrs. Redmond was very upset," Tammy continued, each word feeling like it required tremendous effort to push out into the heavy air. "She said... She said you were harassing Emily Dinny in a utility closet during lunch period. Is that true?"

Paul leaned forward in his chair, the vinyl creaking beneath him. "I wasn't harassing her," he said, his voice deeper than she remembered, resonating in a way that seemed to vibrate in her chest. He was staring at the principal's increasing exposure with an intensity that should have made her uncomfortable, should have made her stop. But she couldn't. Her fingers moved to the next button, and the next, revealing the lace edge of her bra, the pale skin of her stomach. "I was groping her," he continued, matter-of-factly. "But she asked for it!"

Tammy's breath hitched. She slipped a finger inside herself, beneath the waistband of her skirt, and gasped at his insinuation. The sensation was electric, overwhelming, flooding her nervous system with pleasure that made her knees weak. She leaned against her desk for support, papers scattering beneath her hip.

"Paul," she managed, her voice breaking into a moan, "mmmm, that attitude is not healthy! Women aren't... ah... nnn... asking for anything regardless of the way they dress. You can't just... just touch people because you want to. That's assault. That's... that's..."

She was losing her train of thought. The room felt smaller, hotter. The ozone smell was stronger now, making her dizzy.

"No, Miss Weathers," Paul interrupted, his voice gentle, almost tender. "You don't understand. She actually asked. She came up to me in the hall, she looked me in the eye, and she asked me to 'Squeeze her melons until she came.' Those were her exact words. She was very specific."

Tammy moaned loudly at that comment, the sound escaping her throat before she could stop it. She was touching herself more deliberately now, her hand working beneath her skirt, her hips rocking slightly against her own fingers. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, like she'd been waiting for permission to do this, and Paul's words had given her that permission.

"I have..." she gasped, her head falling back, her eyes fluttering closed, "ohhhhhhhhhh, trouble believing that. Nothing ever changes with you, Paul. We talk and talk and you promise to be better, and then the next day... the next day you're back at it. What are we going to... oh fuck... oh, what can we try that we haven't already tried?"

She was fully exposed now, her shirt hanging open, her skirt hiked up. The rational part of her mind - the part that had spent years studying adolescent psychology and administrative ethics - was screaming at her to stop, to pull herself together, to remember where she was and who she was. But that voice was small now, distant, drowned out by the thunderous pounding of her pulse and the electric charge that filled the room.

Paul stood up. He seemed even larger standing, towering over her where she leaned against the desk. But his expression was still that same patient, knowing look. He wasn't aggressive. He wasn't forcing anything. He was simply... offering.

"You could ask me to eat you out," he said softly, the words falling like stones into still water. "I know you want to. I can smell it on you. You've wanted to since you let me into the room."

"Oh yes," Tammy breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "Please, Paul. I seem to need your... ah... your help. I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know why I can't... why I can't stop..."

Paul nodded, seemingly penitent, as he approached. He moved with a grace that belied his size, kneeling before her with the solemnity of a supplicant at an altar. His hands found her hips, his thumbs tracing circles on her skin, and then his mouth was on her, and Tammy let her mind drift away on the pleasure his tongue provided.

It was like drowning in warm honey, like being struck by that lightning she'd smelled earlier. The world narrowed to the point of contact, to the skilled movements of his mouth against her most sensitive flesh. She tangled her fingers in his hair; not to guide him, but to anchor herself, to keep from floating away entirely as wave after wave of sensation crashed through her.

She lost track of time. Minutes could have passed, or hours. The fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered overhead, and somewhere in the distance, she thought she could hear the sound of rain against the windows, though the sky had been clear when she'd arrived that morning.

And by the time he'd finished her off - by the time she came shuddering against his mouth, her cries echoing off the institutional walls of her office - she believed his story completely. She could see why Emily would want his attention. She could see why any of them would. There was something about him, something that bypassed logic and reason, something that spoke directly to the body, to the ancient, animal parts of the brain that didn't care about rules or consequences.

Paul stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked satisfied, but not triumphant. There was no smirk on his face, no sense of conquest. Just that same patient knowing.

Tammy straightened her clothes with trembling hands, though she couldn't quite bring herself to button her shirt all the way. Her fingers didn't seem to work properly anymore, and besides, she felt too warm, too flushed.

"I should tell you, Paul," she said, her voice thick and dreamy. "I've already called your mother and Emily's. They'll be here soon. To discuss... to discuss what happened. To figure out what to do next."

"That's okay," Paul said, settling back into his chair as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't just reduced her to a quivering mess on her own desk. "We'll just explain it to them like I just explained it to you. They'll understand. Everyone understands, once they really listen."

"Oh yes..." Tammy sighed, leaning back against her desk, her legs still weak, her mind still floating in that pleasant, hazy aftermath. "I believe everyone will leave satisfied."

She looked at the clock. Ten more minutes until the mothers arrived. Ten more minutes until she had to try to be a principal again, to try to make sense of things that refused to make sense. But for now, in this moment, with the smell of ozone still thick in the air and Paul's presence filling the room like a physical weight, she felt strangely at peace.

Maybe he was right. Maybe everyone would understand. Maybe this was how things were supposed to be, how they'd always been meant to be, and she was only just now seeing it clearly.

Paul smiled at her.

"Everything's going to be fine, Miss Weathers," he said. "You'll see."

And sitting there in her disheveled office, with her shirt unbuttoned and her mind blissfully empty, Tammy found herself believing him completely.

"Yes, Paul. Everything is going to be fine."