Daphne's French Creme Lesson

by The Flaming Dodo

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa, Consensual, Reluctant, Hermaphrodite, School, Gang Bang, Interracial, Anal Sex, Cream Pie, Oral Sex, Squirting, Water Sports, BBW, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Daphne Marcon is a sweet, intelligent, and nubile college sophomore with a peculiar problem. When the 20-year old decides to attend an all-futanari university, she bites off a little more than she can chew-- or does she?

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...” Dr. Arthur Jackson pushed back in his black leather executive chair as he paused his statement. “But that’s not the full excerpt. Does anymore know the full, unabridged version of this work?”

His tranquil green eyes scanned his five students spread throughout the room. “Daphne?” He called out after a painful silence.

Daphne Marcon’s slender hand raised just above the crown of her straight blonde hair. She wiggled her athletic hips on the hard seat to get more comfortable. “The actual quote is ‘heaven hath no rage like love to hatred turned...” She stopped to tuck a strand of golden hair behind her creamy ear. “Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. It’s from William Congreve’s play The Morning Bride.” She settled back into her seat, eyes wandering to each of her four classmates in the independent study literature class.

“Very good, Daphne.” Dr. Jackson smiled. “Quotes and excerpts can be reduced or diluted when edited. Can anyone think of examples of this in popular culture?”

“Curiosity Killed the Cat...” Valerie Combs, the stocky, raven-haired college rugby star shot out from the back of the room. “People forget that satisfaction brought him back.”

Dr. Jackson laughed. “Awesome, Val. Any others?” His eyes soon softened and lips straightened. “Yes, Mallory?”

“Isn’t it more important to edit down unnecessary information?” Mallory Wright’s flashy red hair caught the rays of sunshine bursting through the window blinds. She sharpened a glare to shoot across the room at the blonde teacher’s pet Daphne. “Like, if something is popular in the mainstream, should it REALLY be represented here?”

Dr. Jackson scrunched his face and scratched a path through his shaggy salt-pepper hair. “I’m not sure I follow. Can you be more specific?”

“I’m just saying,” Mallory leaned forward on the mahogany desk. Her busty chest, contained by her tight-fitting gray sweatshirt, mashed against the flat surface. “Some things are better off edited so we can focus on the importance of special words.”

“I think you’re missing the point, Mallory.” Daphne smiled, speaking with the cheerfulness of a flight attendant. “We have to focus on the entire discourse. The big picture.” She shrugged. “We have to be inclusive of all things and--.”

Mallory clapped her hands down on the desk. “AND, I don’t think you should come to this school if you’re not futanari.” She snapped.

Daphne gasped, her face wrought with horror. As the only non-futanari in the entire school, the message was clear. The color fled her face as she turned to her aggressor. Mallory giving her a hard time was nothing new. But now she shamed her in public. Despite the class roster a meager five students and Dr. Jackson, Mallory’s pettiness was extra. Mallory returned a glance to Daphne. Her freckled ivory skin carried nicks and scratches from years of contact sports. The most prominent, a tiny scar just above her right eye, made her look exceptionally tough.

“That’s enough, Mallory.” Dr. Jackson said with an elevated sternness. “We’ve been through this before. This college is for everyone.” He kicked away from the desk a few feet back and stood. “Any more of this segregation talk and you’re out of here.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Mallory said under her breath, eyes downcast, strafing them along the wood grain pattern in her desk.

“I think this is a good place to end for the week. Lecture is over girls. Rough drafts of your paper on modern interpretations of literary works is due by end of day this coming Monday. If you need anything I’ll be in my office. Happy Friday.”

The room filled with the scuffling sound of the girls gathering their things, stuffing loose papers and spiral notebooks in their bags. Some reached in their purses to retrieve their iPhones to text that class was over.

Mallory however, had not finished stewing. “He doesn’t belong here, either.” She called out at the door when she was certain Dr. Jackson was no longer in earshot.

“He’s the professor, Mal.” Valerie flatted her black and green plaid rugby shorts and sat on the corner of Mallory’s desk and crossed her muscular legs.

Mallory raised her stringy, freckled arms. “That’s just it. We should have a futa professor.”

“Who cares?” Valerie chuckled. “It’s just a literature class.”

“HOW IS MY NEPHEW?” She typed. As Daphne finished the mundane text to her sister, she caught a glimpse from her side. The shaggy bangs that topped Mallory Wright’s disdainful scowl found her once again. “Can I help you, Mallory?” She said, maintaining her renowned eloquence. Daphne capped the request with a knowing smirk at the end of her pink painted lips—the satisfactory grin that only an arrogant teacher’s pet could don. “I can tutor you if you’d like.”

Mallory cackled, both humored and frustrated by her classmate’s continued audacity. “Fuck you, bitch.” She brushed the fiery hair from her face to sure Daphne saw the seriousness of her cold blue eyes. “Seriously, fuck you.”

“Language, Mallory!” Daphne held back a snicker. “That’s all your girls think about, isn’t it.?”

“You tell us.” Valerie smirked. “You seem to be the expert of futanari. Hey, Holly!” Valerie looked over to Holly Cravers whose rotund, flabby figure often eclipsed Daphne’s waif frame. “Holly, all you do is fuck, right?”

Holly shook her head in silence. Her short greasy black hair barely moved as she did so. Valerie’s teasing jabs blotched Holly’s acne-covered face with reddish streaks. She packed her bag faster than usual for fear of further attention. Her dingy white blouse, two sizes too small, hardly contained her bulging belly and chubby tits.

“Leave Holly alone.” Daphne snapped. “I’m not trying to offend any of your people.”

“Then why are you here?” Mallory turned her seat towards Daphne. “You just being here is offensive. You’re cis-female. You could have gone to any other college you wanted. So why come to the only college WE can safely attend?”

“Isn’t that obvious, Mal?” Valerie crossed her arms. “She’s one of those normal girls that loves riding futa dick. That’s literally the only reason a girl would want to come here. Hey!” Val’s head turned sharply, her cropped black hair slapping against her chubby cheek. “Alpa, where are you going?”

Valerie caught Alpa, their class’s newest student, in the doorway as she was leaving. The young Pakistani girl was shocked. Her short, 4’10” statue and plain appearance allowed her to come and go as much or as little stealth as she pleased. She turned back to the class, gripping her messenger bag in one hand and twirling her long black ponytail in the other. “Dorm?” She questioned in her South Asian accent.

Valerie cocked her head and smirked. “Why don’t you hang around for a while? Our friend might want some of your cock too!”

Daphne pushed a dramatic sigh from her lungs and sucked her teeth. “I don’t have to prove anything to you, Mallory.” She said with impudence. “I’m the minority here so don’t pretend you have to monopoly on personal suffering.” She scoffed, gathering her things. “I mean, it’s not my fault you guys got the mutant gene.”

Daphne had said it— the ‘M’ word. It sucked the life out of room. Valerie’s amused smirk evaporated. She looked at Alpa, who looked at Holly, who looked at Mallory, who cast an even more menacing glare than before at her classmate. Contempt boiled in the silence— the tension was disturbing. Every hair follicle on their arms were erect. Four students of the only futanari-centric college in the US had been insulted by their only female exchange student.

“We’re not mutants, Daphne.” Holly’s moused from her seat. Her face grimaced with hurt and embarrassment. “We’re people.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Holly.” Daphne softened her tone as she spoke over her shoulder. “Of course, you’re people. That’s just what they call the gene--”

“That’s what people like YOU call it.” Mallory yelled, squaring up her shoulders and balling her fists. “Someone needs to teach you what futanari do to hot little stuck up bitches that try to come to our school.”

Daphne gasped. ‘Did she call me hot?!?’ It was a mere slip of the tongue, but it didn’t stop the blonde’s nubile cheeks from turning red. Her eyes traced along the contours of Mallory’s face— her striking cheekbones and dimples. Daphne’s heart fluttered over her adversary’s sun-kissed freckles. Mallory’s icy blue-eyed glare still pierced her heart— was there something behind those sharp pupils— were they undressing her? Daphne’s skin burned at the thought. “Too bad YOU’RE not gonna teach me that lesson.” Daphne hushed under her breath after she cleared her throat.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Mallory snapped. She slapped down her pencil and pressed against her desk under the shaft cracked and creaked. “I heard you say something.” She said, popping to her feet and marched to Daphne. She closed in on her fast. “Say it again, bitch.”

Daphne’s head shot upward, a terse breath pressed from her lungs. She staggered to her feet and swallowed hard. Mallory’s nose nearly touched hers and her aggressor closed in. “You’ve had it out for me all year, Mallory. Why?”

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