Driver's Education

Shadowy over-the-shoulder glimpse catches Peter, a rumpled creep, leering through the cracked door of the women's restroom at school. Inside, a young thing perches on the throne, pissing away, her sneakers kicking faintly into view. Peter's breath rasps hot and heavy, hand clawing at his bulging crotch, tongue slithering over chapped lips, hungry for the forbidden peek. Slam—iron grip clamps his shoulder. Security guard, face twisted in fury, yanks him around and hauls his ass off campus like dead weight. Dragged to the lot's edge, the guard snarls: stay the fuck away, you're banned. Next time you lurk near the girls' stalls, cops'll drag you to hell. He shoves Peter down and stalks off. Peter staggers up, dust on his knees, when a sleek car purrs to the curb. Mom in the passenger seat cranks down the window, eyeing him sharp. 'You Stacey's driving teacher?' Her 18-year-old daughter, Aubrey Sinclair, hunches awkward in the driver's perch, fiddling mirrors, rolling eyes in teen disdain. Peter ogles Aubrey's tight frame, then blanks to Mom: 'Yeah, that's me.' Mom hops out, Peter slips in close beside the girl, engine humming as Mom vanishes. Aubrey shifts, voice tentative: 'What now?' Peter's eyes gleam dark. 'Hit the gas, sweetheart. Drive.' They lurch into traffic, tension thick as sin, Aubrey babbling nerves—her age, her crushes, her secrets spilling while Peter's gaze burns holes through her skirt.