"Oh gosh," she muttered to herself, Matthew Schott was sauntering down the hall at Grace Chapel to take one of his infamous bathroom breaks. As he passed by Ayla Ferguson she took a deep breath and inhaled the strong sent of his polo red cologne. He was plenty enough man for her, every time he made eye contact with her across the room she suppressed a queef. She longed to express her feelings for him and passionately kiss those suple lips. She had often fantasized about what his breath would smell like, likely a mixture of little Debbie snack cakes and pulled chicken she murmured as he glided pass. Matthew Schott stopped in his tracks, "what did you say to me bro"? He exclaimed. "Nothing at all," she giggled, and then, without hesitation, she threw herself into his arms. Matthew was taken aback, "it's not often a women of this substance takes to me" he thought. He tightened his grasp upon her voluptuous figure. She was hefty, smelled like daisies, and had quite a large arse, Matthew sized her up with agility. He knew this was his opportunity and he jumped on it. "Do you like carnival rides, do you like guys who DJ, wanna meet my mother?" He sputtered frantically. She broke off the hug and moved her doe eyes gradually upwards from where they had been resting, near his crotch area. It took all of her restraint not to consume his face with raging passion. She dropped her pencil, bent over to pick it up, and then walked away without answering his three questions. She knew how men worked, and she didn't want to make it too easy for him. As Matthew drove back to White Lake he imagined her whale-like body curled next to him at the top of a Ferris wheel.
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