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Michael wasn't exactly sure what he'd expected from Bella Haven's School for Wayward Ladies. The name alone carried a sort of elegance to it. It was the sort of title that carried dignity, demanded respect, and suggested a long history for the storied institution. So it wasn't really much of a stretch to assume that the grounds and halls would be elegant structures themselves, a place that would match the advertising from just the name. It didn't hurt that it was a popular school, or at least he assumed it was, seeing as the train was often half-full of giggling girls with backpacks and pleated skirts, and many of the girls sported the blue-and-white patterns he'd come to know quite well. Before meeting the Tarts, Michael hadn't paid any attention to any of the girls. They were an annoyance. Now it was hard to keep his eyes off them.

What Bella Haven's was was not any of those things. It would not earn awards or superlatives from those who came to visit. Really, if you asked the tiger's opinion on things, it was kind of a dump. H led him from the train platform at Haven Court Station (which itself was all well and good, almost luxurious as city train stations went) towards the Court itself. Or at least that's what she said.

"Wait, H--where're we going?" Michael put his weight down, enough to stop the younger rabbit from dragging him by the wrist into the unkempt plaza in front of him. Misshapen shrubbery leaned out from every side, dotted with debris and blocking the sight of most anything behind them. Chipped and stained stonework lined an uneven walkway whose paving stones were fighting a losing war against the grass beneath. Wrappers and papers blew about in a slight breeze, forming into small piles alongside dead leaves and dirt. While it hardly looked abandoned or derelict, it certainly had an air of neglect, as if no one who came through the courtyard even stopped to look before moving on.

Hortence finally stopped next to a tarnished statue of a man in some sort of dignified pose, the nameplate worn and illegible. She looked up at Michael with a mixture of confusion and annoyance as she tugged at his arm again. "What do you mean? I told you, we're going to the school."

"Through a vacant lot?" The rabbit gave a sharp huff! and pulled with all her might, finally yanking Michael off his feet and sending him stumbling forward through even more unkempt foliage. "H, come on, this can't be--"

"See? I told you." The brush spread open and sunlight suddenly poured in through the now open canopy, making the tiger squint as his eyes worked to adjust. "You really need to relax, kitty cat. The school's right there, just like I said." For the second time that day, Michael had to stop and readjust his expectations. Bella Haven's, from this angle, was not a school by any modern definition. While the structure itself wasn't in the same state as the courtyard that surrounded it--which Michael could now see went on as far as the eye could see, with the condition growing steadily worse until the brown mélange vanished in the distance--it was also not a school building, nor was it a hall or a dormitory or anything of the like. It was, instead, some sort of mansion on what Michael had to assume was quite a massive estate, the largest he'd ever seen (not that he'd seen many up-close and personally before), something from another time, almost antebellum in the sheer level of excess it carried on a broken-down, staggering skeleton. It bore the wrinkles of as many years as it had gaudy windows, but somehow it stood.

"I've never seen a school quite like this," Michael murmured as the pair walked up a set of inadequately swept stone steps towards a regal archway underneath a marble plate easily twenty feet wide, the name of the school engraved into the surface in swirling letters, so over-elaborate they were quite difficult to read from most any angle. It was obvious this was a newer edition and something getting far better care than the rest of the estate. Someone had a lot of pride in that one particular element of the whole courtyard...

"That's because there isn't any school like Bella Haven's," Hortence said matter-of-factly, leading Michael into the corridor proper. "That's why I like it so much. It's not just a regular old school."

"You can say that again." The interior was much of the same, though at least the hallways and rooms could say they were somewhat better kept, even if that was only the slightest of compliments. It was clean if nothing else, though between the elaborate molding on the walls, the deep paint and the scraps of carpet left in corners near hastily installed tile, it was clear as a well-polished crystal from inside that the building that it was someone's mansion. Or rather it had been, but it wasn't anymore. The place now wore a thin shell of its former self under the facade of a girl's school. Bedrooms had been converted to classrooms with awkwardly fitted whiteboards and rows of desks placed until there was little spare room to move. Lockers dotted the walls along widened corridors. Michael needed extra time to take it all in; the multiple personality syndrome this place suffered gave him a headache.

"This place is bizarre. You go to school here?"

Hortence nodded, buzzing through a crowd of other students, all girls and all teenagers well on their way to womanhood. Not all of them were quite the little trollops that the Tarts were--a few even seemed to be rather conservative, wearing their uniforms properly and carrying themselves with an air of, for lack of a better word, a sort of mature restraint. It was odd, though; there were lockers galore, corner-to-corner, way more than actual students.

Michael tucked his hands in his pockets as they walked through the endless corridor. "Just how big is this place?"

H shrugged. "Don't really know. There's like fifty classrooms, but a lot of them just kinda sit there. We don't have enough teachers for all of them." The rabbit bounced a little, stopping to yammer and giggle with another girl. Michael didn't really pay attention. He had sisters; that whole greet-and-gossip thing was boring as sin after years of seeing it, even if it was a couple of attractive folks doing it. Having fucked one every Tuesday for countless weeks didn't change that.

"Friend of yours?" the tiger asked as H came back his way.

She tittered a little and adjusted her skirt. "Yeah. There's not a lot of us here, so we kinda have to get along. At least a little."

"I don't get it. There's not a lot of girls here and it's short on teachers, but there's enough space for an army or two."

H glanced up at Michael with a quirked eyebrow. "So?" He started to answer, but instead found his eyes drifting off to the side, watching a skunk of surprising height sashay by. She stood near his height, at least six foot tall if an inch, with curvature that defied reality. Every step she took was positively pneumatic, front and back swaying and bouncing in time, a demonstration of physics that made Michael's eyes dry and his pants a bit snug.

He grunted in surprise as a hand reached up and pushed his mouth closed. Michael turned his gaze over towards Hortence. "What was that for?"

The rabbit just smiled her cute-yet-smug smile at him. "That forbidden fruit isn't ripe yet."

Michael looked back over his shoulder as the skunk turned a corner and vanished. "You mean--"

"Yep."

"How in the hell?!"

H blew a peach-scented bubble with chewing gum, still grinning madly. "Puberty fairy visits some girls early. Oh hey, we're here." The pair came to a sudden stop in front of the fanciest door Michael had seen so far, framed on either side by benches that looked like they hadn't been used in months, dust on the cushions and even a cobweb here and there. Hortence must have picked up on Michael's confusion, shrugging once more. "We don't have a lot of janitors either."

"Or groundskeepers?"

"The last gardener quit before I got here. Place doesn't pay too well." Hortence sighed, adjusting her hair behind an ear. "I know it looks like a dump. Trust me, I know. But I like it. I get to be myself more."

"Are you actually learning anything?" Michael paused. "Other than how to seduce older men?"

"Don't be a dick, tiger. I do more than just get you off on a regular basis. It's a school, not a cathouse." She blinked, whipped out her cell phone, and made a choking sound. "Aw, shit, I should be in Algebra already! I gotta run!"

Michael looked around quickly in a growing panic. "But--what am I supposed to do?"

"Just go inside. Miss Haven is expecting you." Hortence pushed up on her toes and kissed Michael square on the lips, taking an opportunity to grab his ass before sliding away, leaving the scent of peaches high in his nostrils. "I'll be back before you know it! Just don't get too distracted on the tour..." Michael tried to say something in protest, but before the words would come out she was gone, prancing around the corner with a wiggle and a giggle.

With his hands stuffed in his pockets again, Michael chuffed. He liked that girl's company, her and her sister, but he got the impression they were playing some kind of wicked game that he didn't know the details of. Maybe it was better that way. He got the best sex of his life, and there weren't any strings attached.

Before he could consider the philosophy of horny bunnies and their toys, the door behind him opened suddenly, a rush of potpourri and warmed air rushing out to meet his back. "Mister..." There was a long pause before the thickly accented voice came back, rolling its words with a practiced grace. Whoever was speaking was British, deeply so, the kind of accent he'd only heard on television and usually not in a particularly complementary sense. "Mister Michaels, I presume?"

Michael turned quickly around, muttering something of a response. He had it all planned out, a brief greeting and an explanation that he wasn't this Mister Michaels that whomever this was had been expecting. He would say he was sorry for the interruption, and then he would make his exit back out to the train platform, where he could catch the next one out and make it to work early enough to explain it off as train issues or traffic or food poisoning from a bad fast food sandwich. It'd all work out. Hortence might be a bit miffed that he ruined whatever plans she had, but it was probably for the better. It would certainly get his mind off girls for a while. That wasn't happening here, for sure.

Whatever those words were that he'd written up and stored on the tip of his tongue were entirely lost, dropped into cleavage that doubled as quite a grand canyon. Michael stopped in mid-breath, mouth open and staring at the woman standing perhaps a foot away. She was a positive bombshell fresh out of a pin-up book, elegant and long-legged, an Afghan hound standing near the open doorway. Whatever breed she happened to be, it was impossible to ignore how absurdly fluffy she was, from her voluminous silver-white hair styled into gently curled waves that stretched down to beyond her shoulders to the immense gatherings of fur that puffed out around her shins and her forearms. (Would you call them fetlocks? Michael made a note to look that up later.) It was all groomed to the nines, somehow looking like it fit perfectly into place despite being rather excessive. And excessive was, in many ways, how the afghan was all over: her bust was tremendous, breasts the size of her head if not larger, hanging ponderously over an almost preternaturally slim waist and hips that curved luxuriously out and strained at the suede material of her capris. Michael assumed they were capris, anyways, given how short they were along her legs. But they probably had to be, just to account for the mass of fur there. Something tight would probably be very uncomfortable, which would also explain her blouse; on a less blessed woman, it would have been subtly attractive, a soft shade of lavender that accented her fur perfectly. On this woman, the poor thing was pulled snug to absurdity against her bust, two buttons already having failed the challenge and a third hoping for reinforcement that would never come, a pendant on a chain resting comfortably between the two fuzzy mounds.

"Mister Michaels? Are you alright? Shall I fetch the nurse?" With no small amount of effort, the tiger forced his gaze back up from the lush curvature of her body to meet the eyes of the poor lady he'd been ogling for much longer than I was appropriate; after a moment he was as just as stuck staring as before, locked onto wide crystalline blue eyes and soft features above a modestly long muzzle leading into the plushest lips, most kissable lips Michael could claim to have seen in person. At this particular moment in time, that mouth was turned into something of a concerned frown, eyes furrowed in some degree of curiosity.

The situation, which to this point had entirely eluded him, began to slowly come into focus as he watched the headmistress's breasts sway pendulously near his hands. He'd smacked into them with quite a bit of force when he turned, judging by the continued almost cartoonish motion of those mounds; the clipboard laying on a floor some feet away confirmed his fear: he'd punched someone he didn't know right in the tits, no doubt about it.

But for every bit of absolute horror and embarrassment that was slathered across Michael's face like an eight year old and their mother's makeup, this woman, the one he'd been calling "headmistress" in the back of his head as if she were a fast food employee with a huge nametag pinned crookedly on the peak of one of her breasts. Breasts, which he found himself staring at once again, that served as a stark indication that the heating wasn't working any better in this wing of the building.

"I'm so sorry, I just--"

The afghan turned her face up into a shut-eyed smile, bright and perhaps a little vapid. "No need to be sorry, Mister Michaels. It happens quite often. Some days I can barely have tea without someone sending the cup skittering down the hallway. Sometimes I worry they attract attention, like a sort of magnet." The canine gave a short sigh, shoulders fallen and face sad. "Like today. How is one expected to be at their very best when their Earl Grey is splattered about the carpets? I daresay they can't." Michael was a little concerned at how fast she could switch moods so completely, but he wasn't given much time to think about the details before his hand was grabbed into a vigorous handshake. "Mustn't dally about, though! A woman cannot stop to cry over spilled tea when there's business to be done." She paused, thinking for a moment, lips pursed tight in concentration. "I've not had my afternoon tea, have I? If my head weren't attached..."

After glancing down at his hand, still firmly in the afghan's grip, Michael made with a quick handshake and an attempt to free the limb. "It's a pleasure to meet you either way, Miss...?" He left the question dangling in the air like a wet fart. The tiger had absolutely no idea who she was, and his attempt to sleuth out the answer from what he could see wasn't bearing fruit. Hortence hadn't said anything about the headmistress, if this was even her--it could just as easily be her receptionist, a teacher, a student, how the hell could he tell? Gears turned and cranked as seconds ticked away and the two stared at each other.

He took a chance. "...Haven?" Michael screwed his face into his best fake smile, hoping that his confidence would carry him through if he'd made a terrible mistake.

"In the flesh," Miss Haven said with a broad smile, daintily shaking hands. The tension in the air evaporated a bit, and Michael found his lungs worked enough to take a breath or two. "I must admit, I pictured the twins' uncle, as, well. More rabbit-like. You are not what I expected at all."

"I guess I could say the same, Miss Haven." Michael delicately avoided commenting about the school and its ramshackle state. He was a guest of sorts, after all, and it would be quite rude to piss all over something she must be proud of. "You have quite an...interesting institution here."

"Please, Mr. Michaels, call me Bella. Miss Haven is far too formal. It makes me sound like some sort of stuffy octogenarian, dithering about the halls and talking endlessly to no one at all about the Queen and Corrie. Mmf. Yes, just Bella will be perfectly fine." The afghan paused, eyes flickering as something popped into her head with an almost audible pop. "And what should I call you? Mr. Michaels is just as stuffy, and I simply won't have it."

"Michael," the tiger answered without thinking, cringing in his mind at just how stupid that sounded. Why had the girls told her his name was 'Mister Michaels', anyways? Or had they at all, or did this beautiful-but-bubble-headed lady decided that for herself? Why exactly did he care? Was this just pointless exposition?

"Michael Michaels? How unusual. Ah, Americans," Bella said matter-of-factly, punctuating the comment with a nod of her head and a few muttered words of approval. "Yes. Quite. Not that we have names out of the way, shall we continue on? There's much to do before we discuss your donation to the school." Miss Haven turned and started to walk away, or more appropriately strut away, feet tight and hips swinging like a metronome, exaggerated motion that set her whip of a tail into a fast arc that almost snapped at the apexes; the sharp clicking of her shoes against the tiles added a cadence to the swish and swing like a drum. Maybe it was the impossibly tight pants or maybe she just walked that way naturally, but if Bella Haven didn't have a future running a school, maybe she could get a job as a hypnotist.

"Donation?" Michael tried to think of the best escape he could manage without coming off too suspicious. Gears cranked and brain cells burned. He wasn't very good at subterfuge--hell, the number of times a Girl Scout had overwhelmed him was embarrassing. "I ah, well, I'm not quite prepared to make a donation today, not on such short notice. But I'm sure we could maybe set something up for the future--"

If words were tangible things, they would have clattered to the floor like a handful of coins, loud enough to echo from one end to the other as Michael's thought machine popped a cog and ground to a halt. Bella had, innocently enough, bent over to pick up her lost clipboard, something he'd entirely forgotten about. Now the tiger had assumed that, coming off as a rather classy lady with high-class airs, she'd be dignified and conservative. The fact she was dressed in Saran Wrap with the kind of cleavage on display that you could lose a mobile phone didn't change that. Bella just liked to dress attractively. Nothing wrong with that. You can look a bit trashy but not act that way. He'd known several women who did it without even knowing it, until someone called them out. Looks did not make the man or the women, so they said, and that was true, right? Michael, a gentleman, certainly wouldn't presume things about an individual by looks alone.

In the presence of Miss Haven bent over at the waist, nearly folded back upon herself, a man could be forgiven for jumping to conclusions. Michael's brain had made one leap then crashed into a tree and knocked itself unconscious. Bella's capri pants only looked like they were made out of some sort of regular fabric that fit like a second skin. No, whatever material covered the Afghan's immaculate legs fit snugly because it was elastic, something that had a texture not unlike nylon. It stretched quite admirably around calf and thigh, and that very stretching had become "the problem": while the material didn't tear or split, the strain had pulled it rather...thin. And whatever this fabric was, when it was pulled thin, the pants stopped being so much pants and were more the suggestion of pants or perhaps the impression of pants.

From just below the waistline to near Miss Haven's calves, the nylon or whatever-it-was had become virtually transparent, providing no resistance to a pair of wandering eyes such as Michael's and absolutely nothing was left to the imagination. Michael stared in a startled awe. Bella was not wearing a single thing underneath her capris. There was no 'tiny thong' or 'sheer panties'; Michael knew the signs of those from dealing with the Tarts all too well. No, the headmistress's well-rounded backside was on open display as she struggled to pick up the clipboard, wobbling a bit on her heels. She muttered some sort of curse and shifted her feet, spreading her legs a bit and lifting her tail up quite high, arguably for balance. Whether that was the case or not didn't really matter to Michael. Regardless of the intent, what Miss Haven had done instead was flash the poor office worker (who was completely out of his element and questioning exactly what his life had become more and more) with a perfect image of her virtually uncovered nether-region, the curve of her mound--which he guessed was shaven smooth--pressed tightly against deep brown fibers. In any other situation, Michael would have either said something or perhaps taken photos. This was standard fare with The Tarts, but this Miss Haven, he hardly knew here, and here she was waving her crotch at him--admittedly, he was sure she hadn't meant to put on a show that ended in an episode of "Here's My Pussy!" but it's what had happened. It was quite nice, too, even if the details weren't quite exact through the fine mesh.

Thoughts clicked and told hormones to take a seat for a moment. Miss Haven was undoubtedly an amazingly attractive creation, but this was too much. If this wasn't an odd variation of flirting, then he was taking advantage of her. Michael took a step forward and cleared his throat. "Miss Haven, ah--"

"She doin' dat again? Shoulda known." In his mesmerized daze, Michael hadn't noticed the girl standing next to him arriving. Hell, if she hadn't said something, he would have never known she was there at all. The canine of some sort stood there, arms crossed over a chest that defied the normal build he'd seen in the school: while she was certainly not a slouch in the bust department, her build was decidedly thicker than the model-esque teenagers and young adults that strutted and wiggled their way through the halls. Whatever entity had designed her had chosen to go for strength over grace, producing an unusual combination of beauty and power, packed into just shy of six feet of height. Both arms and legs were robust, toned, gently muscled, filling out the school uniform in a rather unusual (but not at all unappealing) way. Michael imagined she could outrun a rabbit, then jump it and beat it into submission without breaking a sweat. She was a deep earthy brown everywhere that Michael could see, ranging from nearly black to a modest brown, her pelt carefully groomed but still noticeably thick.

"Who are you?"