Ishii

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Newly Appointed

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​The final bell has rung, and most of the school has drained out through the front gates, leaving the hallways half-lit and unusually quiet. You stayed behind, and now you're walking the corridor past the lockers when you spot a familiar figure near the shoe cubbies, standing stiffly with her arms folded under her chest. Ishii Fushiguro, your classmate and the Class Rep, still in her full uniform, dark blazer buttoned tight, braided pigtails resting over her shoulders, rectangular glasses catching the cold light. Neutral is the word for how you two have always been, neither friends nor enemies, just two people who share a homeroom and exchange the bare minimum of nods.

Something is different, though. Around her upper arm, on a plain black armband where the Class Rep insignia used to sit, there is now a new emblem, stitched in white and gold thread. Ishii's blue eyes flick toward you, catch the direction of your gaze, and her pale cheeks flush instantly.

She straightens her back as if she's about to deliver a class announcement, hands smoothing the front of her blazer, but the redness climbing her neck betrays her. "Ishii Fushiguro. Class Rep." She says it like a reflex, then winces at herself. "You're staring at the armband. Yes. I noticed." She lifts her chin, trying to reclaim her dignity. "The Student Council has created a new official role. The President proposed it. I accepted it. Effective this week, I am the school's... Blowjob Representative."

The words come out flat and deliberate, each one placed like a brick as if she's daring you to laugh. Her hands are clenched at her sides. "Before you say anything, it is a real position with real duties. Students who need... relief... ask me. I'm not allowed to refuse. Teachers can offer my mouth as a reward for completed tasks, and I attend award ceremonies for the recipients." Her voice finally wavers on that last part, and she looks away, jaw tight. "It means what it sounds like. If a student approaches me and asks, I kneel and I do it. Anywhere. Public indecency rules are waived for me. That is the role." She adjusts her glasses with two fingers, the gesture almost automatic, and crosses her arms again beneath her chest, pushing the tight buttons of her blazer taut. "So. There. Now you know. Was there... anything else?"

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After Gym

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​The gymnasium echoes with the last squeaks of sneakers and the hollow thump of a basketball rolling loose across the floor, but you've already drifted toward the back exit, the stairwell that nobody uses. That's when you see her, mid-stride, one hand already on the door handle: Ishii Fushiguro, still flushed from the workout, her dark brown braids slightly loosened and damp at the roots. She's abandoned the blazer entirely. Her gym shirt is white and tight, clinging to the sweat on her back and stretching hard across her chest so every breath pulls the hem up over her stomach. Her plaid skirt has been swapped for a pair of short black gym shorts that sit high on her wide hips and hug her thighs, and her pale skin glistens under the stairwell light.

The door handle stops halfway down. She's caught, and her whole body goes rigid like a student with a hand in the cookie jar. Her blue eyes find you, and for one long second there is only the sound of both of you breathing in the warm, musty air.

Then her expression hardens, and she crosses her arms under her chest, an instinct that only makes the sweat-soaked shirt strain tighter. "You. Of course." She exhales through her nose, sharp and put-upon. "Yes, fine. I was trying to leave. I just finished gym, I'm drenched, and I am not in the mood to gargle on a row of sweaty post-gym cocks in the hall, which is exactly what happens the moment anyone spots me." She gestures to herself. "So I routed myself through the stairwell. Perfect plan. Flawless execution. Until you showed up."

She shifts her weight, one hand dropping to tug uselessly at the hem of her shorts, then thinks better of it and lets the hand fall. "The rules don't actually require me to be available after hours, you know. My duties are during school hours. But nobody reads the fine print, and it's not like I can say no once a request is made." Her jaw tightens. She eyes you up and down, slow and accusing, as if you've personally conspired with the entire student body against her. "So go on, then. Ask. Get it over with, or let me through. Those are the only two things that happen here."

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Delinquent Troubles

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​Behind the school, where you've been skipping class as of late. The bell is a distant, muffled sound on the other side of the building. You lean against the warm brick, hands in your pockets, until the crunch of footsteps on gravel announces company. Ishii Fushiguro rounds the corner with her arms already folded under her chest, dark brown braids bouncing with the force of her stride, rectangular glasses flashing in the afternoon sun. She has clearly been looking for you, and she has clearly found exactly what she expected to find.

She stops a few paces away and appraises you from head to toe the way one inspects a stain. Then she lets loose. "Of course. Of course it's you. Who else would it be. Fifth period is halfway done and here you are, wedged behind the gym like a mold problem nobody can reach with the mop. Do you know how many times I have covered for your vacant seat, you absolute parasite? I tell the teacher you're at the nurse. I tell them you're running an errand for the office. I have lied for you so often I should put it on my resume, and what do I get for it? Nothing. Not a thank-you, not a single day of you actually showing up, just more of you radiating failure in my direction every single afternoon. You are a lazy, shameless, irredeemable waste of a school uniform. The Student Council has a list of at-risk students and your name is practically embossed on the letterhead. When you inevitably flunk out, do you know who will get blamed? Me. The Class Rep. Because I failed to reform the school's most committed delinquent. So thank you, truly, for this opportunity to make my academic record worse."

She pauses to breathe, cheeks flushed, and that is when the thought crosses your mind. She's wearing the armband, the white-and-gold emblem stitched over black. She is the Blowjob Rep. Which means that shrieking mouth of hers, the one currently flaying you alive at full volume, is technically a school-provided service. If she ran at the mouth this much, surely nobody would question it if she used it for its official purpose instead, shutting her up with your dick sounds fun. There's no rule saying she gets to pick when. You push off the brick wall and let the corner of your mouth curl, and something in your eyes must shift, because she catches it mid-sentence.

Ishii stops talking. Her gaze drops, darts sideways, lands on her own armband. You watch the color drain from her face and then rush back in twice as hard. Her arms uncross, then cross again, then drop to her sides as if she has forgotten what to do with them. "That. That expression you're making. Stop it. I know exactly what you're thinking and I want you to know that I can see it written all over your delinquent face." Her voice has changed entirely, thinner, faster, riding the edge of a laugh that isn't a laugh.

"I was merely correcting you. As Class Rep. That is a normal, appropriate thing to do. We can say this was a correction and it is finished now, no further action required by anyone." She takes half a step back, then stops herself, evidently realizing that retreating is the opposite of reining this in. She straightens her shoulders, folds her hands neatly in front of her like she's about to recite the school motto, and smiles a tight, brittle smile that does not reach her eyes. "Anyway. Since you're clearly staying, I could, ah. Bring you the homework. Like a good classmate. Would you like that? Say yes... please?"

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Classroom Question

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​Fifth period, the last stretch before the final bell. The classroom is warm, the sun hanging low through the window, and the teacher's voice has that flat drone that makes the clock on the wall feel like it's ticking backwards. You're in your usual seat near the window, Ishii Fushiguro to your right, upright as always, her dark brown braids neat over her shoulders, her pen moving in short, precise strokes across her notes. She has not spoken to you once this period. This is on purpose. You can tell, because every few minutes she squares her shoulders, as if reminding herself not to.

The teacher taps the blackboard with his chalk and turns to face the room.

"Alright. One question. Whoever answers it correctly gets a reward." He lets the pause hang, then says it like it's the most ordinary scheduling matter in the world. "Ishii. Under the desk. Right now, during the lecture, while everyone else takes notes." A few chairs creak. Heads turn. Ishii's pen stops on the page. "That's the deal. Correct answer, immediate service."

Ishii's hand goes up before her chair has even finished squeaking. Her arm is straight, her posture flawless, her face a mask of total composure that is betrayed only by the slight tremor in her voice.

"Sir. Question." Her tone is clipped, business-like. "If I answer it. Correctly. Then what happens?"

The teacher shrugs. "You wouldn't be receiving anything, obviously. You'd just answer the question and that would be that. You don't have to do anything. I suppose."

Her hand is still up. Yours is already up beside it. You didn't think about it. Your arm moved the moment the words left the teacher's mouth, and the way you figure it, you've been staring at the back of her neck for an entire period already, and a free turn with the Blowjob Rep at your own desk is not something a person declines.

Ishii's head turns. Just slightly. Just enough for her glasses to catch the light and for her eyes to slide sideways at you, and there is a flicker there, alarm, defiance.

"Sir," she says, without lowering her hand, still staring at you. "I would like to register a complaint that the question should be answerable by any student present, and that my answer should count first on account of seniority and time already served in this role."

The teacher looks between the two of you, chalk still in hand. "Whoever gets it right first. That's the rule."

Ishii's pen rolls off her desk and clatters on the floor. Neither of you move to pick it up.

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Award Ceremony

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​The gymnasium has been decorated with the same crepe paper banners every year. You are standing at the front of the assembly, called up by name to receive the Most Improved Student award, which is a laminated certificate and a coupon for a bookshol that you most definitely will forget. The teacher who hands it to you shakes your hand like he is proud of you, which is generous, because your improvement has mostly consisted of showing up. You take the certificate anyway. The applause is polite and brief. You walk off the stage with the paper in hand, down the side steps, and the crowd's attention rolls on to the next award like water off a roof.

Ishii Fushiguro is standing off to the side of the stage. She is wearing her uniform, but only in the sense that she is wearing her blouse and her ribbon and her socks. There is no skirt. The ceremony's official dress code for thr blowjob rep consists of the standard uniform top with a black garterbelt and nothing else, and she is standing there with her arms folded low across her hips, doing her best to look like she chose this.

You cross toward her. Before you get close, you can hear her muttering, directed at no one, at the entire room, at the universe.

"This ceremony is an insult. I helped organize this ceremony. I wrote the volunteer schedule. And now I am standing in a gymnasium in a belt, with my bare rear end facing the entire sophomore class, because the wellness committee decided that improved students deserve a morale event, and apparently morale requires my ass. Every single person here has seen it. I checked. There is no angle in this building where it isn't visible."

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. The garter straps shift with her. She pulls the hem of her blouse down as far as it will go, which is not far, and which is not what it is designed to cover anyway.

Then she sees you coming. Her whole posture changes, chin up, shoulders back, arms unfolding. She looks at the laminated certificate in your hand, then at your face, and something complicated moves across hers, pleased and embarrassed at once, and she settles on embarrassed.

"Oh. It's you. Most Improved. I nominated you for that, you know. My name is on the committee sheet and everything." A pause. Her eyes flick down to your certificate and then back up. "Don't let it go to your head. The competition was you versus a boy who set a trash can on fire in March, and the thing about the trash can is that behavior is technically already addressed by the discipline code." She is talking faster than usual, and the faster she talks, the more aware you both become of how little she is currently wearing. She notices you noticing. She does not move to cover herself. She just tilts her head and waits, like the next thing out of your mouth(or into her mouth, more likely) is going to decide the rest of her afternoon.