Rule #3: A teacher is creative with her punishments.

That one seemed a little different from the rest. The last two rules had been very obvious, but their focus had primarily been on student success; but now, here was a rule focused on discipline. Obviously, it is not helpful for her students to fear punishment for their actions, but if she could choose the right punishment, maybe she could reach her students in new ways. After all, she had always loved discipline. One of her guilty pleasures of the job was to send a talkative student to the principal's office and see them walk off with their tail between their legs.

“Loving the outfit, Mrs. L,” Jose said as he entered the classroom.

At this point in the day, she had honestly forgotten she was wearing her new ripped jeans and the purple shirt which proclaimed to the world that she had "paused her game to be here." She had received some odd looks from the rest of the staff, and even Principal Smith had confronted her about it, but when Mrs. Laucella had explained that she was trying to be helpful, he and the rest of the staff just nodded their heads. Her students were more giggly than usual, but just upon hearing her stern voice, they would realize that her outfit was not a show of immaturity, but rather a testament to her newfound relatability.

“Thank you, Jose. I see you are also trying out a new look.” She looked the shorter teenager up and down as she spoke. He wore a tank top which showed his strong arms and a pair of boxer briefs. It was like he had worn his pajamas to work.

“Yeah, I accidentally forgot to change before coming to school, so I didn’t realize I was still in my PJs.” His tone was apologetic, but his eyes were mischievous as he continued. “I don’t know, Mrs. Laucella. I just feel terrible, like the lowest of the low.” He said the last part with his head in his hands. Though she couldn’t see it, his eyes were peeking between his fingers to see how his attractive teacher would assimilate the new information.

“Well, Jose, I have an extra jacket in my car if you want to cover up, and then maybe you’ll feel better,” she said, trying to be genuinely helpful.

“I’m not putting on someone else’s clothes,” he said, his head still firmly nestled into his arms.

Mrs. Laucella thought that maybe she could send him to the nurse's office where they always have spare clothes, and then she thought she remembered seeing him earlier that day with a hoodie and sweatpants. However, she believed Lyle wouldn’t know that, so the thoughts popped out of her head like bubbles and were replaced by a new one. She grabbed a pair of scissors from her desk and got to cutting dutifully like a woman automaton. Right now, one of her students was embarrassed because of his clothing. If she was dressed more embarrassingly than he was, then that would drop the overall level of the class and everyone could focus on learning again. She almost laughed at the genius of her plan, despite her lower intelligence.

When all was said and done, she had turned her new jeans and T-shirt into a ragged tank top, cropped right above her belly button, and had turned her jeans into Daisy Dukes, which she had cut to end right below her butt cheeks. She forgot to account that any sort of movement would see them lift higher and showcase the curvature of her ass underneath the new cutoffs. She got up and knocked on Jose’s desk to get his attention. When he looked up, he was met with a nice up-shirt view of her bra-clad tits. For a minute, he was speechless.

“Now you’re not so embarrassed anymore, right?” she said as she gave a twirl, causing the edge of her granny panties to pop out from below the loose fabric.

“I’m less embarrassed,” he said, regaining his confidence, “but Mrs. Laucella, I’m not wearing a bra.”

And that was how Mrs. Laucella found herself with her large breasts bouncing around as she tried her hardest to explain to the class that the United States is a country and not a town, and that it is neighbors with... but that was as far as she got, as Lyle thought the answer was the Fire Nation, so Mexico and Canada left her seventh-period brain forever.

“Gentlemen,” she said, stomping her foot, “we need to focus up.” She was keenly aware of the movement of her breasts, as they threatened to pop out from all sides of her shirt. “I understand I don’t know a lot, but we’re still here to learn, and you gentlemen need to learn to not just stare at a woman’s breasts.”

“Breasts?” said Peter with a confused expression.

“Yeah,” Terrence said. “Words like breasts seem like you’re trying to be linguistically superior to us.”

She supposed they made a good point about superiority, but she had an important question, so she raised her hand.

“Yes, Mrs. Laucella?” Jose asked.

“What’s a linguistic?”

Jackson answered confidently, saying, “It’s like your word choice and shit. Like me personally, I would never say breast.”

“Language, Jackson!” she said.

“See, that’s exactly what we’re talking about,” Jose said. “Think about how crazy it is that you’re holding these rules on appropriateness over our heads when you’re dumb as bricks and dressed like that.”

She wanted to argue, but he was right. He was smarter than her in her current state, and she was definitely not dressed like someone who could care too much about appropriateness.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you all to think that I’m superior to you, so I guess inappropriate language is... okay.”

“Then say it again,” Jackson said while he ran his hands through his hair and scrolled through his phone.

“Say what?”

“Tell us,” now he looked directly at her eyes before letting his gaze wander intentionally down, “what is it that you don’t want us to look at?”

“I want you to stop looking at my boobs,” she said, covering her chest with her arms, causing her boob flesh to squeeze partially out of the side of her makeshift tank top.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Laucella, I didn’t hear you,” said Jose, also staring daggers at her chest.

“I said to stop staring at my big fucking titties!” she said, cupping them and giving them a shake for emphasis. That will get the message across, she thought. “And you know what? For all your staring, all of you shitheads are in trouble. All of you are going to make a music video apologizing to me for your blatant sexism.”

Jose started laughing. “That’s a pretty creative punishment, I guess. But I was actually thinking of something else.”

“I’m not interested in your opinion. If you and your friends are going to stare at my bouncing melons, you have to face the consequences.”

Jose seemed shocked that she didn’t listen to him, so he added, “But I hate music videos, and you said you wouldn’t make us fear punishment for our actions.”

The rest of the class shouted their agreement, and the half-dressed teacher did remember agreeing to that in order to be helpful.

“You’re right,” she said. “I apologize. Give me a second to think of a better punishment.” She tried to rack her mind for her years of teaching experience, but everything seemed rather foggy.

It was Peter who finally said, “Mrs. Laucella, it was wrong of you to try and punish us like that.”

“I agree, Peter, and that’s why I said I was sorry.”

“But when we do something wrong,” Peter said, “we get punished, so shouldn’t you be punished too?”

“I suppose you’re right. I guess I could write myself up for the principal,” she said, sitting down, suddenly ashamed of her actions.

“Why don’t we come up with something?” Jose said. “Work on our creativity.”

Mrs. Laucella smiled at her student's initiative. Maybe my most troublesome student has the potential to be a teacher, she thought. Without even looking, he understood the third rule of the teacher guidelines almost perfectly.

“That’s a great idea, Jose! You guys decide how you want to punish your bitch teacher.” She thought of working on her lesson plans, but that seemed pretty hard, so she took out her phone and started scrolling through Instagram.

Meanwhile, the boys deliberated for a while about her punishment. Jose occasionally would say something along the lines of “my hard work” and something like that, but Mrs. Laucella was currently too distracted by a funny cat to really pay attention. Finally, it was Lyle who spoke up.

“Look, this is stressing me out. Can’t we just pick something?”

Mrs. Laucella rose to her feet, walked over to Lyle, got on her knees, and started undoing his shoelaces.

“What the fuck is going on?” he said.

“Well, you're stressed,” she said, taking off his dirty socks and folding them neatly, “and it’s very helpful to give foot massages when someone’s stressed.” Her hands, which had days ago written one of the best modern papers on education strategies, took her worst student's foot and massaged deep through his soles, her breasts occasionally rubbing against his leg from the proximity. She added, “I’m sorry I don’t have a beer to give you.”

The class all looked shocked at the scene below them. Jose suddenly spoke up.

“I think I have the perfect punishment.”

Chapter 4

She slowly picked up the cannabis infused vape commonly used by her students and held it near her mouth, giving it a sniff. She had never as much as touched a drug that wasn’t prescribed or the customary glass of wine every now and then, but here she was holding a vape in her hand like some sort of common delinquent. The only part of her arguing for the rationality of smoking in front her students was distracted by an intoxicating need to help them, and they said this would help.

They looked at her as if she were a movie. They looked at her large breasts which had teased so many for so many years, but now sat in a tight tanktop which threatened to expose her nipples at any moment. The boys knew it would be any day now, but they didn’t want to risk losing progress. They looked at her long, pale legs, shaped by years of lecture and a commitment to yoga. And, finally, they looked at her soft manicured hands which held the vape pen teasingly against her perfectly rounded mouth, so close that they could almost taste it for her. Never on campus, had there been a stronger force against the use of marijuana, no where on campus had someone so clearly fought tooth and nail for students to realize that there is no greater gift than the clarity of the mind, but none of that mattered now as she prepared to smoke their vape, five minutes before the seventh period bell rang. “Are you sure about this?” She asked, biting at the tip, almost sucking. “There are other forms of punishment, which perhaps might be more suitable.”

“Let’s think about this,” Jose said, “You wanted us to be creative with our punishments, right?”

“Right,” she said, still nibbling, still sitting on top of her desk.

“And a punishment should be something you don’t like-”

“Of course.” Jose was really quite smart.

“And you thought weed was bad.”

“Think,” she said.

“What?” He asked, genuinely confused.

“You said that I thought weed was bad, but that would imply a past tense, I don’t think weed is bad- I know it is. It dulls your senses, makes people silly, and hungry.” 

“And since you feel that way, it makes it the perfect punishment.” She wished she could argue, but she couldn’t. All those years of study, but she was helpless in front of this 18 year old in boxers and a tank top. She wondered why she ever thought she was better than him. She placed the vape up to her plump pink lips, placing the tip of the pen carefully against her tongue. She hesitated one last time, but Lyle just nodded at her, so she closed her eyes and took a deep inhale, feeling the smoke go all the way to her lungs, and the burning sensation sat there before travelling slowly to her arms, legs, and eventually back to her mouth with a cough followed by a giggle.

“Holy shit, that burnt.” She said through a laugh, causing her heavy tits to shake through her shirt. “Okay. Okay, that was bad, but at least it was only one time.” She stood up and threw her stuff into her bag, leaving the remains of her clothes and her large white bra scattered haphazardly on her desk. She accidentally dropped. The rest of the boys looked at each other trying to figure out the perfect thing to say, until finally Peter spoke up, “I smoke weed everyday, before every class. Would you say that’s below you.”

She thought about responding negatively. She thought about sending him to the principals office, or sitting him down and reprimanding, but all those thoughts danced in her head like bubbles. Bubbles that popped when they saw the curve of Terrance’s biceps through his shirt. Was terrance always so cute? She thought.

“Mrs. Laucella? Is it below you?”

“Fuck no. I’ll smoke weed before every class. I’m relatable because I’m a good fucking teacher,” she said giggling while the bell rang. There was a bit more of a shake of her hips as she left her class. Right before leaving she turned to see them all staring at her ass. She thought she would help them out, and pulled her shorts higher up to expose the bottom curve of her ass cheeks and as extra credit, she gave her bubble butt a spank. “See you tomorrow!"

The class howled like dogs as she left. 

—-----

Getting home that day, Mrs. Laucella started to consider her day rather deeply. She didn’t remember her classroom being such a ruckus previously. In fact, though the memory was a bit hazy, especially under the fog of the THC which still lingered in her mind, she remembered her classroom actually being rather strict. She stared at the mirror. *What had happened to her outfit?* She looked to the side and leaned forward slightly, her nipples were almost popping out from the side of her makeshift tanktop. She turned her large behind towards the mirror and took a step and watched it shake. She gave it another little shake. She used to think that being objectified was the worst thing that could ever happen, but Lyle, Jackson, Terrance, Peter, and Jose seemed to enjoy it so much, and she would never think of herself as better than them as she gave her butt another quick shake causing the cheeks to reverberate and clap together. It was making her slightly aroused.

She walked into her walk-in closet, intending to find something comfortable to wear for the evening. Her eyes scanned the racks of color-coordinated blazers, pencil skirts, and modest blouses. Yesterday, this sight would have brought her a sense of order and pride. Today, it looked like a costume shop for someone pretending to be important. She ran her hand over a gray wool blazer. It felt scratchy and stiff.

How can I connect with anyone wearing this? she thought, a sneer curling her lips. This is what a boss wears. A dictator. Someone who thinks they are above everyone else.

She grabbed the hanger and threw the blazer onto the floor. Then she grabbed a silk blouse that buttoned all the way to the neck. Prude, she thought, tossing it onto the pile. She worked through the rack with increasing speed, discarding the symbols of her academic superiority until the floor was littered with dry-clean-only fabrics. She was left looking at a small pile of gym clothes she rarely wore and John’s old t-shirts. She grabbed one of his oversized shirts and pulled it on; it hung loosely off one shoulder, exposing her bra strap, but it felt humble. It felt right.

Just then, she heard the front door open.

"Honey, I'm home!" John called out, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

Marianne practically skipped down the stairs, her breasts bouncing freely under the thin fabric of the old shirt. She hadn’t even put on panties. She found John already who trudged past her straight for the living room couch. He looked ragged, his tie loosened and his briefcase dragging on the floor. He collapsed onto the cushions without looking at her.

"Hey," he grunted, closing his eyes. "Beer."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a polite request. It was a command. A week ago, Marianne would have lectured him on manners and told him to get it himself. But the rule book in her mind flashed bright and clear: Good teachers always try to help. And right now, her husband needed help relaxing.

"Coming right up!" she chirped.

She hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a cold bottle, and popped the cap. She returned to the living room and placed it in his hand. He took a long swig, letting out a satisfied groan, but he didn't open his eyes.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "My feet are killing me. Absolute torture today."

Marianne hesitated for a moment, looking at his dress socks. "Well, I actually have a lot of grading to do, John. And I need to rethink my entire curriculum for tomorrow because apparently, I don't know who the first president is."

John cracked one eye open, looking at her standing there in his old t-shirt and ripped denim shorts. He remembered the magic word.

"Marianne," he said softly, putting on his most pathetic face. "I am in pain. It would be really helpful if you gave me a foot massage right now."

The word hit her like a tranquilizer dart. Her shoulders slumped, and the resistance in her mind melted away. "Of course," she said, her voice going dreamy. "I want to be helpful."

She sat at the end of the couch and began to work his shoes off. She peeled off his socks, revealing his tired, slightly sweaty feet. She began to knead his arches with her thumbs, applying pressure just the way he liked.

"That's okay," John said, taking another sip of beer. "But it's not quite doing the trick. The knots are really deep today."

"I'm pressing as hard as I can," she said, putting her body weight into it.

"I know, honey. But hands just aren't enough." He looked at her, a mischievous glint in his eye that matched the boys in her classroom. "You know what would be really helpful?"

"What?" she asked, looking up at him with big, obedient doe eyes.

"If you used your mouth. The warmth and the suction... it really helps break up the tension in the toes. It's a holistic thing."

Marianne recoiled slightly. "My mouth? John, that's... that's gross. I'm not sucking on your toes."

"It's just that I'm in so much pain," he said, wincing dramatically. "And I thought you wanted to help. I thought you didn't think you were above doing what's necessary to make people feel better. But I guess if you think you're too good for it..."

Too good for it. The phrase rattled in her skull. A teacher never believes herself above her students. Or her husband. If she refused, she was saying she was better than him. She was saying her dignity was more important than his comfort. That was selfish. That was arrogant.

"No," she stammered, panic rising in her chest. "No, I'm not too good for it. I'm not above you, John. I'm not above anyone."

"Then show me," he said, wiggling his big toe. "Be helpful."

Marianne stared at his foot. It was right there. Slowly, mechanically, she lowered her head. She parted her lips, the same lips that had delivered lectures on the Federalist Papers, and wrapped them around his big toe. She began to suck, tentatively at first, and then with more rhythm as she tried to focus on the task at hand. It tasted salty and like leather, but she pushed the thought away. She was helping. She was being a good person.

As she bobbed her head, working her tongue between his toes, a stray thought drifted through the fog of her submission. She remembered the burning sensation in her lungs from earlier that afternoon. She remembered the giggles and the way the world had seemed funny and soft.

This would feel a lot better, she thought as she serviced her husband's foot, if I had some of that weed right now.

The next day got off to a bit of a late start for Marianne Laucella. Last night, she and her husband had shared the most explosive, uninhibited sex they’d had in months. She floated through her morning routine with a blissful, satisfied smile—not just because the sex had been good, but because John had assured her that she was being very helpful. She enjoyed being helpful; she enjoyed being a liberated educator who didn't intimidate her students by thinking herself above them. She had even learned to enjoy her creative punishment of smoking weed, which had drastically broadened her horizons.

She stood up, stretched in the nude, and admired the lush, heavy curves of her body in the full-length mirror. Then, she walked over to her closet to make her first decision of the day. She knew by now that she couldn’t wear underwear because she didn’t want Jose to feel inferior or uncomfortable. She also couldn't cover up more than the students in her remedial class, who wore so little clothing anyway.

It occurred to her that if she could be adaptable with her lesson plans, her wardrobe should be just as flexible. She pulled on a pair of her tightest, black sleeping shorts—the flimsy fabric straining to contain her sizeable, rounded ass, only covering the top half of her cheeks and leaving the rest bare and inviting. She paired them with a white tank top she had worn in college when she was smaller. It rode up high, exposing her navel, while the thin straps dug deep into the soft, overflowing flesh of her unrestrained breasts. She bent forward to ogle her own cleavage and noticed her dark areolas were clearly visible through the white cotton. Perfect, she thought. The boys would surely feel comfortable with a teacher dressed like this.

Over the top, she threw on her usual button-down blouse, but only fastened four buttons, leaving a gaping view of her bouncing chest. She added a pair of thin leggings that were popular among the girls. She turned her bottom toward the mirror, glancing over her shoulder to admire her swaying posterior. It was dangerously prevalent in these pants, but if this was the student standard, she had to do her best to meet it.

On her way to school, she stopped at a gas station to pick up a twelve-pack of beer. When a homeless man asked if she could "help him out with $100," she simply had to comply, handing him the bill with a dazed, helpful smile before driving to campus.

A week ago, this look would have caused a scandal. But upon arriving at the busy school, she found that most teachers seemed to be wearing more or less the same thing. Despite her coworkers' newfound style, she still felt like a lone-wolf educator as she sat at her desk: no lesson plans, no bra, but she did have one thing, her Teacher’s Guide, staring at her from the desktop. She opened it happily to see what new role would guide her genius teaching strategies today.

Rule #4: A Good Teacher Knows How to Have Fun.

Sometimes, they say a teacher learns more from her students than they do from her. This was definitely one of those times. Marianne knew a teacher should have fun, but if she was honest, "fun" had never been a priority. In college, while others were at parties, she was burying herself in textbooks, accompanied by Pythagoras, Newton, and her proud collection of Encyclopedia Britannica.

But the guidelines didn't specify which fun was allowed. That day, her first through sixth periods watched history documentaries, played games, and found the humor in the past. Her favorite fact—which had her AP students dying—was that Napoleon was once attacked and forced to retreat by a horde of rabbits. By the time seventh period rolled around, the day had flown by. She was smiling to herself, thinking back to her former self—that stuck-up, rigid teacher—and giggled. Why had she ever thought education had to be so serious?

She unbuttoned the rest of her blouse, stripping it off to reveal her heaving chest, and took out the twelve-pack of beer for her "stressed" seventh period. She leaned her bare thighs against her desk, arching her back so her large, heavy tits stretched the white tank top to its absolute limit. She was excited to show them just how fun education could be.

"Hey, Jose!" she chirped, bouncing up and down, causing her chest to jiggle violently as the handsome student walked in wearing nothing but his boxers. From an objective standpoint, she could see he had a very impressive figure.

"Hey, Mrs. Laucella, nice to see you dressing appropriately for class." He looked her up and down. "Let me see the back, just to make sure it’s up to our standard."

She did a half-turn, bending over deeply so the shorts rode up even further, exposing the pale, smooth curvature of her ass. "Does this meet the standard of our student body?" she asked, turning back to see Jose standing proudly with a thick erection tenting his plaid boxers. Lyle, Terrence, Jackson, and Peter filed in just as the bell rang.

Marianne looked sternly at the newcomers. "Just because I can’t punish you doesn't mean you shouldn't be on time. When the bell rings, you should have your materials ready."

"You look hot as fuck, Mrs. Laucella," Lyle said. He was wearing Star Wars boxer briefs and tossed his backpack onto his desk.

She walked over to him, her curvaceous, MILF-esque figure on full display. "Lyle, you are pushing my buttons today." She leaned closer, her breasts swinging inches from his face. "You can’t talk about me like that. Just because I’ve become more lenient doesn’t mean we break the rules willy-nilly. Now, go grab a beer and get ready for the lesson." She pointed to the cooler.

The boys laughed, standing up to grab drinks—all except Lyle, who stared her down. Before he could speak, Jose intervened. "Don't mess this up for us, Lyle."

Marianne found it amusing that even in a remedial class, there was a student more remedial than the rest. "But compliments are fun, Mrs. Laucella," Lyle whined.

She understood. Most people used them, so there must be some enjoyment there. However, as she had surmised earlier, not all fun is the same. "It might be fun for you, and we want to have fun, but we have to find things that are fun and educational."

"Like what?" Terrence asked, popping a Michelob Ultra. Her students couldn't keep their eyes off her, and she briefly wondered if being so scantily clad was truly helpful.

"Well," she said, "like a quiz on history..." She stopped, worried she sounded too entitled. She needed to lower herself a peg. "...or a YouTube video."

"If I may, Mrs. Laucella," Jose said.

"Of course, Jose, you have the floor." He was smarter than her in this room, so it made sense to listen.

"Sure, those things are fun to you, but wouldn't it be more helpful to derive—" He saw her confused look. "Sorry. To base your lessons on what we find fun? You said a teacher shouldn't think herself above her students. Isn't thinking your fun is better than our fun a bit arrogant?"

He was exactly right. Her fun worked for AP kids, but these boys were here because they hated school. Teaching them her way was like teaching a man with no hands to play the guitar. She needed a new instrument.

"Jose, you're right. I’ve been quite a prude about what fun is."

"A prude?" Peter asked, finishing his beer. "Come on, Mrs. Laucella. You can think of a more fun word than that."

The devotion in his tone made her shiver. "I've been quite a bitch," she said, causing the class to erupt in applause. She laughed too; it felt silly to have been so stuck-up. "I was such a fucking bitch." By now, every boy in the room was fully hard, watching their once-proper teacher cursing in her sexy pajamas.

"I had so much planned," she said, sliding down to sit on the floor in front of her desk. "But it all seems like bullshit now. It’s been so hard coming up with plans because I feel so dumb when I think about you guys." Terrence and Lyle shared a fist-bump. "So, you guys decide. Pick something fun."

She looked a bit sad as she said it. Jose approached and sat beside her. "Is everything okay, Mrs. Laucella?"

"Yes, Jose. I just don't feel very helpful if you're the ones deciding."

He stood up, his straining cock inches from her face. "Well, I have an idea." He sat on her desk, legs dangling. "How about I decide, and you can be a very helpful teacher by helping me with my stress?" He put his foot against her chest. Her hands moved automatically, kneading the soles of his feet.

"Okay," she said half-heartedly, though she didn't stop. It was her duty.

Jose smirked. "I’m glad a good teacher like you finds it so fun to be helpful."

Marianne's stare went blank for a second before a wicked, sexy smile spread across her face. She pressed Jose’s foot between her large, soft tits and gave his toe a long, slow lick, looking up at him. "It’s so fucking fun to be a helpful teacher!"

For five minutes, she lovingly cleaned and massaged his feet while he scrolled on his phone. The class enjoyed the view as she leaned forward, her shorts riding up to expose more of her forbidden, pale skin.

Finally, Jose stood up. "Before we do anything else, I believe Ms. Laucella is due for a continuation of her punishment." Peter pulled out some joints. Marianne struggled to hide her excitement.

Peter held the joint out, but Jose stopped him. "What the fuck?" Lyle complained. "Let her smoke!"

"Lyle, back down," Jose said with the calmness of a mafia boss. He turned to Marianne. "Mrs. Laucella, before we administer this... I have to ask. Since it wouldn't be punishment if you liked it... did you like smoking yesterday?"

She scoffed, a poor liar. "Of course not. I am an educator working on my PhD. If I wanted to kill brain cells, I'd slam my head into a desk. But I will suffer if I must."

"Now, Mrs. Laucella, it's not helpful to lie. If you liked it, that's okay. Teachers like to have fun."

She nodded slowly. "Okay, it was fun. But I wouldn't make it a regular thing."

"But wouldn't it be more fun to make it a regular thing?" Peter asked.

"Well, I guess that would be more fun. So I guess I could start smoking regularly," she said, already planning to buy some from Peter tomorrow. "As long as you think it's helpful to your education."

"Of course," Jose said. He lit the joint, took a hit, and held it to her lips. She leaned forward, her mouth open and tongue dancing over her lips. He passed it to Peter instead.

"That’s that good shit," Peter said.

"I'm glad you love it," Jose said to Marianne. "But if you love it, it's not a punishment. We need an additional layer."

"Anything," she said desperately, her eyes glassy and unfocused. "You're all smarter than me."

"I have an idea," Terrence said, raising his hand. Jose pointed to him. "When I misbehaved, my mama would spank me. So I say, we each get a turn to spank her."

Marianne gasped. "Okay, there is a clear line between creative punishment and touching your teacher! I'll... I'll spank myself, but I cannot allow you to—"

Jose held the blunt to her lips. She took a long, slow drag, the smoke filling her lungs. She exhaled, feeling the burn turn into a hazy, warm glow. Terrence lit a scented candle.

"Relax," Jose whispered. "I know you wouldn't normally let a student touch you. But this is a creative punishment, right? And it wouldn't be very creative if we didn't bend the rules."

Her brain was misting up. "This isn't bending," she said, taking another hit. "It’s breaking the rules. A teacher shouldn't touch a student."

"Yeah," Jose said. "But what if, while you were being punished... you pretended you weren't a teacher?"

She perked up, the static of the high buzzing in her brain. "It’s a lot of fun to roleplay," she giggled, "and it would be very helpful to the punishment if we did it right."

"Good," Jose said, his voice dropping an octave. "Now, listen closely."

—

Marianne Laucella knocked on the door of her own classroom. Lyle opened it slowly. “Hello, Mr. Gibson,” she said in a soft voice.

“Well if it isn’t our resident trouble maker. We’ve been waiting for you.”

She stepped into her classroom to see the boys of her remedial class sitting behind their desks, like orderly gentleman outside of their dresscode. 

She stood in front of all of them in her revealing PJ’s and her pigtails, Jackson had insisted that were a necessary part of the character. “I’m sorry for causing a disturbance, it was only a little bit of weed, sir.” She looked right at Jose with those big brown eyes. Her head was spinning and everything felt so easy.

“You've been such a fucking bitch, you need to be corrected. Do you understand, Marianne?"

The use of her first name, stripped of her title, acted like a final blow to her crumbling resistance. She nodded, her head lolling slightly from the heavy, sweet fog of the weed. "I understand," she whispered, her voice thick and submissive. "I'm just a... a naughty girl."

"Good," Jose smirked, gesturing to the center of the room. "Get over the desk. Face down, ass up."

Marianne obeyed with a clumsy, eager desperation. She moved to the front of her desk and leaned over, her large, heavy breasts spilling out of the sides of the white tank top. She pushed her hips back, presenting her round, posterior to the five boys who sat behind her, their eyes dark with anticipation.

“You sure, Jose? This is your handy work.” Jackson asked

Mrs. Laucella thought she knew exactly what they were talking about as it had been Jose that suggested the creative punishment.

“Yeah man, we all had to deal with the bitch, so now we share in the rewards.”

Jackson stepped up first, his palm flat and heavy, but his swing was more of a playful, solid thud than a strike. Mrs.Laucella braced herself against the desk. The impact sent a massive, slow-motion ripple through her entire backside, the lush flesh rolling and swaying under the tight fabric of her shorts like a wave of heavy cream. She let out a small moan. Somewhere outside of guidelines, a part of her liked this. Each of the boys took their time, walking up and giving their teacher a smack, looking at their hands as if they had been turned to gold. Jose was the last to go, he sauntered up to his teacher and said, “It’s fun to give compliments right, Marianne?”

“Yessir,” she said, breathing heavily against the desk.

Jose chuckled. “Sir? I like that.” He leaned nice and close, “Let me just say that you have a wonderful ass, Marianne.”

“Thank you sir,” she said, high as a kite.

“But it’s not really a real spanking with shorts on is it?

She thought about it. About what she would do if she were a teacher, but she wasn’t a teacher right now. Right now, she was Marianne and she was bent over a desk and she was high and she was horny.

“N…no sir,” she whispered. The thought of being completely exposed in front of them flashed through her mind. She wondered if they would think that was fun. "But... but I'm not wearing anything underneath," she whimpered into the desk, her face flushing a deep crimson.

"Even better," Jose said, his hand landing firmly on her lower back. "It shows how naughty you really were, coming to school like this."

He reached for the waistband of her tight black shorts. With a slow, deliberate tug, he began to peel the fabric down. The boys held their collective breath as the big reveal unfolded. The shorts slid over her wide hips, exposing the dazzling, pale expanse of her lower back, and then, with one final tug, they fell to her knees.

Marianne’s ass was a masterpiece of soft, creamy curves. Without the restriction of clothes, her cheeks spread beautifully, full, firm, and incredibly wide. Her pussy was on display pink, inviting, and so incredibly wet.

Jose just admired her. The embarrassment mixed with the marijuana and the pain had made her so euphoric, that every sensation was multiplied. Jose put a hand on her hip and the other in the air. “I’m going to spank you hard, bitch, and when I do, you’re going to apologize for being a cunt. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” She was shaking in anticipation. She was needy.

“Yes what?” His hand on her hip moved down and caressed her ass. Jose was in heaven. 

“Yes sir.” And with that his hand came down. "Oh! Oh god, YES!" she screamed, her pigtails whipping as she thrashed.

Her wet, swollen pussy clenched, her toes curled, her eyes rolled back into her head, and her breath hitched in a ragged, high-pitched whine. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of hazy, euphoric colors as the orgasm tore through her, leaving her bare, reddened ass twitching and shimmering in the light.

She collapsed forward, her cheek pressed against the cold desk, gasping for air as the waves of pleasure slowly subsided into a warm, heavy thrum. Her large tits were still heaving, her skin was slick with sweat and arousal, and the vibrant red handprint on her cheek served as a glowing brand of her success.

Jose leaned over her, his hand resting possessively on her quivering, naked hip. "You were a very helpful girl today, Marianne," he whispered, watching the way her eyes struggled to focus through the bliss.

Something was wrong. Marianne was sure that she had come home and her cover-up outfit was beginning to feel more like a costume. She knew that she was supposed to not believe herself above her students, so she couldn’t understand why she was wearing so many clothes to cover up when she came to school. It wasn’t like the principal or the other teachers were much better. Just today, on her way out, she had seen the principal in a bikini offering to do a car wash; when Marianne asked her about it, she said that good principals find creative ways to raise money for their students—apparently, she was trying to buy Jose a new car.

Still, looking at pictures, there was definitely a time, not so long ago, when she was dressed quite conservatively. She hadn’t even touched her textbooks in a while out of a fear that she would be showing that she was smarter than Lyle; these past few days, it felt like she had gotten dumber and dumber. She found herself switching the TV from Jeopardy! to trashy reality TV so that she had something to watch where she could turn her brain off.

The weirdest part of it was that lately she had been so undeniably horny. She found herself constantly wet, especially after getting spanked by the boys that day. After she dropped a plate when she got home, she bent herself over the table and spanked herself, calling herself a naughty girl. It was only right, since teachers love creative punishments, and the boys had said this would be her, but it felt like things hadn’t always been this way and she couldn’t quite figure out why.

She walked around her living room in just a loose bra and panties and picked up a picture of her and her husband. It felt like it had been so long since they had a nice night out together because he had been so busy with his court cases and she had been busy with school. At least he seemed to be gaining a little bit of confidence lately as he ordered her around to grab beers, massage his feet, and even give him blowjobs because he works so hard. She did love being helpful, especially when he told her how fun it was to give blowjobs, but she hadn’t married him for his sexy nature or his confidence. She was usually the confident one in the relationship, but lately it felt like their roles had swapped at some point and she was at his beck and call like some sort of trad-wife.

She went upstairs and took a warm, steamy shower. The mirror faced opposite the shower, so as it steamed up, she moved the curtain to the side and watched as she carefully ran her hands over her large breasts, stopping to massage them, pushing them up into the soap, causing the constant pattern of the waterfall to differ, if only temporarily. She then turned around and stuck her large ass towards the mirror. She ran her hands up along her curves. She had spent so long in high school and college trying to hide these curves, believing them to diminish her. But recently, she had learned how much her students admired her sexy body, and she wasn’t any better than them, so why shouldn’t she admire herself?

She put some of her body wash onto her hand and spread it, lathering her ass and then rubbing it over her breasts. She was no longer looking in the mirror; instead, she just watched her body, taking the time to touch herself and let herself feel good. Jose seemed to have a particular affinity for her tits; he couldn’t take his eyes off of them. She played with them extra and let out a soft moan. She let herself imagine that Jose was there. It might’ve been a little inappropriate, but she was just having fun, and good teachers know how to have fun. She imagined Jose walking forward in those boxers that barely contained his large package and ordering her to touch herself. “You’re just being helpful,” he would say.

Her hand was already working between her legs, rhythmically massaging her sensitive clit with her fingers as her breath started to grow more ragged and the steam became so dense that it was almost suffocating in just the right way. She got so close to her orgasm once, and twice, but it just wouldn’t happen. She let herself fall back into the tub, groping her tits vigorously while her hips thrust in the air against her hand. “Fuck!” she yelled into the air from the pure pleasure of it, but she still couldn’t cum. Finally, she imagined her class watching her, enjoying the sight of their bitchy teacher fingering herself to orgasm. And as soon as she imagined those stupid seniors sitting at their desks, she came harder than she ever had in her life and let the water drift down over her naked body.

She came out of the shower dressed as professionally as she had been months ago. That was the last time. From now on, we are back to normal, she promised herself. Even though in the mirror she felt like a terrible teacher for dressing the way she was. I mean, she wasn’t even on campus, but it really hurt to walk around in a tank top and some tight booty shorts, or maybe even just her bra and underwear—or really, what was so bad about walking around fully naked? It was fun for people to admire her naked form, and she was sure that it would be very helpful to any of her neighbors watching from their windows if she just stood nearby playing with her tits. She shook the thought away and focused as she pulled out her laptop and pulled up her PhD thesis.

It felt like an eternity since she last worked on it. In fact, it took about 20 minutes before she was able to start to remember her most basic information. But by the end of an hour, Marianne Laucella was starting to feel more like herself. The clothes didn’t feel as uncomfortable, and the knowledge was starting to pour out onto the laptop. Perhaps she had become too lenient in class and, at some point, it had snowballed to a point of gross negligence. She resolved that tomorrow she would take back control over her classroom as she typed away.

She had been writing for almost two hours, bottle of wine in hand, when her husband showed up. “Hey sweet cheeks,” he said. “Tough day at work. I’m going to need that beer and foot massage pronto.” He walked right by her on his way to the couch, barely paying any attention to her until he turned and did a double take. In the last few days, he had seen his wife change her dress code quite significantly and had chosen not to question it, but it seemed that whatever miracle had taken over his life was fading, as his wife was back to her usual pantsuit with her hair back in a severe bun. “You feeling okay?” he asked.

Internally, she was struggling. She wanted nothing more than to go grab her husband a beer, get down on her knees, and massage his feet until he revealed his cock to her for a fun time, but she willed herself to stay seated as she previously had. Something was wrong, but that "something" didn’t have to win. Marianne was a smart woman. “Not today,” she said. “I’m busy. But please, feel free to refill my wine and get yourself a beer, young man.” She knew that calling him "young man" always bothered him, but she was fighting desperately for control of the situation.

He stood up, and for a second, his face was one of anger, but it had been his nature for his entire life to be meek. As soon as he heard his powerful wife speak, it felt like the roles had once again returned to where they were always meant to be as he walked over to the kitchen. He grabbed himself a beer, popped it open, and grabbed the bottle of wine so he could give his beautiful, strict wife a drink. They had fun while it lasted, living in that fantasy. But, funny enough, as he began his slow walk back up the steps, he first caught his eye on the edge of a pamphlet sitting inside of his wife’s purse.

He turned towards it and walked to the kitchen table where it was currently sitting. Normally, a pamphlet would never catch his attention, but there was one word that really stuck out to him, one word he had noticed and paid particular attention to: “Helpful.” He put down the beer and slowly pulled out the Teacher Guidelines from the purse. He read them over and over and over again. He knew something had been affecting his wife, but could it really be as simple as a pamphlet? His wife, who had worked so hard to establish who she was, to maintain her decency, build her intelligence, and establish so many levels of respect that instead of attraction she received admiration—something already so difficult for women in this world—had been turned into a slutty parody of a teacher by a simple pamphlet.

Teacher Guidelines:

Rule #1: Good teachers always try to help.

Rule #2: A teacher never believes herself above her students.

Rule #3: A teacher is creative with her punishments.

Rule #4: A Good Teacher Knows How to Have Fun.

He looked at the trash can that stood in the corner of the kitchen, then at the scissors by the knife block, and then finally at the cabinet where they always kept their lighters in case of a power outage. There were a number of ways to dispose of this document which had been so detrimental to his wife, who was currently upstairs, pages away from finishing her PhD.

“What are you up to, slowpoke?” she teased. He took one more long glance at the paper, nearly crumpled it up before placing it in his pocket, grabbing the beer, and going upstairs.

“Sorry about the wait, had to make sure it was the right wine.”

She twirled the wine in the glass around before wafting the scent into her nostrils. “Our 2012. Excellent choice.” She beamed with a smile. For a couple of days she had felt quite down, but she was glad to be back now. She looked at her husband, who was just sitting and watching her, and a nervous smile made its way from her lips to her eyes as she asked slowly, “Are you going to drink your beer?”

“I will, once you open it for me.” He put the beer bottle in front of her and on her keyboard, preventing her from writing. “It would be very helpful.”

Her hands automatically started reaching for the beer bottle, but she held them against the table, her knuckles turning white. “How dare you? I am so close to finishing; if that beer so much as washes onto my laptop, I’ve lost all of my day's progress. Do you really think after all of that, I would open your beer?”

“Because you can’t really work on your PhD anyway when you are as stupid as you are.”

She laughed at that one. “No offense, but I was ranked way above you in high school and college. You’re lucky I didn’t enter law school with you.”

“Oh really? Because I thought a teacher never believed herself above her students, and I know you have some really smart students.” He approached her, getting closer and closer as he spoke. “But I know you also have some really, really, really dumb students.”

As she thought of Lyle, she could feel her thoughts popping away in her brain.

“I’m intel—” but the word wouldn't come to her. “I’m smart!” she said proudly.

“You think you’re smarter than your students?” he asked.

“Well, no…”

“And your dumbest student isn’t smart, is he?” At this point, she was starting to look a little confused. That familiar fog was starting to wrap itself around her mind.

“No, he’s pretty dumb.”

“And if you’re not smarter than he is, what does that make you?”

She thought about it for a second, but even with her intelligence as reduced as it had been, there was only one answer and she knew it. “I’m dumb.” She had a bit of a pouty expression as she said it, and it made him harder than ever before.

“Who is the commander-in-chief of the US military, Mrs. History Teacher?”

“Umm, Colonel Sanders.” She giggled. That probably wasn’t right, but she couldn’t really think of any other name.

“Aww, you’re so dumb. But a teacher is supposed to be smart. Do you know how a dumb, stupid teacher can still be helpful?”

“Umm,” she was having trouble thinking of, well, anything, but she did think of the shower and her pretty titties and her big fat ass. Her students really loved her ass. “I can be sexy! It doesn’t take a big brain to have big boobs!” She ripped her blouse open; buttons went flying everywhere to reveal her sensible bra encasing her wonderful breasts. Those kids had really done a number on her, he thought to himself.

“Yes, that’s exactly right. A teacher can be so sexy for her students, and she can also get and open a beer for her husband when he asks.” He pointed at the beer that was sitting on top of her keyboard.

That beer. He had stopped her PhD work with that beer. She couldn’t remember a thing about what she was writing, but she had started writing for a reason, and that reason became her determination as she said, “Get your own beer, asshole!”

He stood up rapidly. “You do not talk to me like that, do you understand?”

“Or what!?”

“Or you’ll be punished.”

He saw her expression become more fragile. She had managed to fight back a bit, but he still had this power, and he doubled down. “It is a very creative punishment, made just for you.”

“It’s very helpful for me to follow through on creative punishments,” she said, almost robotically.

“Yes, it is,” he replied, taking out his phone and filming her. Her blouse hung open, her tits still in her conservative bra, and her most expensive pair of slacks adorning her legs. “You’re going to take that beer and pour it all over those nice boobs of yours. It’s gonna turn that bra see-through and then you’re gonna squeeze them, give them a shake, and say, ‘I’m so sorry, daddy.’”

She was already opening the beer bottle as she replied, “Daddy?”

“Yeah, because I take care of you and you listen to me no matter what. Do you understand?”

She slowly started pouring the foamy beer all over her chest; it reminded her of her shower earlier, and she instantly felt herself getting wet again. Something was wrong, but she was having trouble remembering what. After emptying the entire beer bottle, she rubbed her tits together with her hands, her nipples coming up and over the shelf of the bra. On camera, her entire body was shining, and she looked like a wet dream. She reached back and undid her strict ponytail, allowing her luscious hair to fall down around her shoulders. She didn’t look happy, but that could be fixed. “Isn’t it so fun to be punished?”

It was fun to be punished, she realized as a dumb, vapid smile spread to her lips, and she continued to shake her jiggly titties until she finally said, “I’m sorry for being such a bad girl, daddy.”

“Are you enjoying shaking your tits for me, Mrs. Lachella?” he asked mockingly.

“Mmmm, yes sir.” The words were dripping from her mouth now.

“A girl who enjoys showing off her body and touching herself like you do is a slut. And I think it would be very helpful if you referred to yourself as such. And give yourself a spanking, sweet cheeks.”

“Yes, daddy.” She turned around slowly, unbuttoning her slacks and pushing them over her wide hips and down her legs. She bent herself over the table, elevated her hand in the air, and said, “I’m a naughty teacher slut, daddy.” She kept repeating that phrase, spanking herself over and over again until eventually he stood up, pulled out his cock, and said, “Do you wanna have some more fun?”

She dropped to her knees with a smile, but even as she sucked him off, all she could think about was how fun school was going to be tomorrow.