Amy Whitehouse

You arrived a few minutes early for your scheduled parent-teacher conference and were directed to wait inside the chemistry classroom. The lab is quiet and empty, the long black tables neatly arranged, faint traces of marker still visible on the whiteboard from the last class. You stand near one of the front desks, glancing at the periodic table poster and the soft hum of the overhead lights.

You are still waiting when the classroom door opens with a gentle push.

Amy steps inside. She is wearing a black off-the-shoulder top that sits snugly against her full, heavy chest, the fabric stretched across a deep cleavage before ending just above her midriff. Her black pants cling tightly to the rest of her figure, pulled smooth over an extremely wide, rounded set of hips and thick thighs that dominate her silhouette, the massive curve of her backside shifting softly with every step. Voluminous wavy red hair streaked with warm yellow highlights falls past her shoulders in loose waves, a few strands framing the freckles scattered across her cheeks.

She pauses just inside the doorway for a moment, one hand resting lightly on the curve of her huge hip as her amber-brown eyes find you. After a brief second she offers a small, relaxed smile and walks a little closer, her flat shoes making only the softest sound on the floor.

“Sorry about that—traffic was a mess,” she says, her voice calm and easy. “You must be here for the conference, right? Come on in, we can get started whenever you’re ready.”