MILF Teacher: Becoming a Present

by

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa, Blackmail, Lesbian, Humiliation, Interracial, Black Female, White Female, Leg Fetish, Teacher/Student, .

Desc: Sex Story: A white teacher is dommed and made a slut to her black student... all as part of a major revenge plan.

Note 1: This is a Christmas lesbian sub/dome story ... if that offends you please quit reading.

Note 2: A thanks to the legendary Estragon who edits all my work.


For me, growing up in the south in the eighties, racism wasn't as rampant and blatant as it was in the past, but the undercurrent was there. I grew up in a very racist upper class family where my father believed that whites were superior to blacks in all ways. Even though we had a black maid, a black chauffeur and I grew up with a black nanny ... I know it is ironic to allow a race supposedly inferior to feed you and raise your children; alas, no one else seemed to notice.

That said, Aretha was like the mother I never had, because as I grew up with a diva mom who didn't really raise me ... Aretha did. Unlike the rest of my family, including both of my older siblings, I grew up with a great respect for Aretha and therefore I refused to treat anyone based on race. She was my mother figure growing up and the person I respected more than any other. When Aretha died two years ago after a long bout with cancer, I was way more devastated than I was a year earlier when my birth mother died.

Aretha understood me and respected my shyness, unlike my family that kept trying to make me into something I was not. My dad was a very powerful judge, my mom a lawyer as well and both my older siblings followed in my parents' footsteps. Me, on the other hand, I became a teacher.

My insecurities were many but one was my body. My breasts were pretty much non-existent and even today they are a tiny 34b. On the other hand, Aretha and her children all had large breasts. I grew up very self-conscious about my breasts, although I never told anyone ... even Aretha ... of my insecurity. This insecurity never completely faded away as I often had students whose breasts were much larger than mine. My breasts were a constant reminder of my imperfections.

I married a fellow teacher, and I would have lived happily ever after if my husband hadn't died last winter in a drinking and driving accident (no he was sober, it was some rich kid running a red light that hit him).

I was left a widow with two teenage daughters, one eighteen and in grade twelve, the other sixteen and two grades below her. The life insurance policy was enough to pay off our mortgage and guarantee my daughters' college expenses, so many people thought I was crazy when I returned to teaching after taking a year's leave. But I had missed it immensely and working with teenagers was the most rewarding job in the world.

It was the third day back when I realized this semester would be a challenge. Latoya was a black student in my English class with a real hatred for me. Her tone was snotty, her attitude terrible and her mouth lippy. Yet, I liked her. She was actually incredibly articulate and academically strong, although she often handed in her assignments late. I hoped I could help her reach her full potential ... if only I could break through her hard exterior.

Alas, by December I was no further ahead than I had been in September until one day when she asked me for help. Well, demanded it really.

She put a document on my desk and said, "I need help with my scholarship resume."

Seeing a chance to maybe finally get her on my side, I ignored the entitlement attitude and asked, "When is it due?"

"Tomorrow," she snapped, as if I should have known.

"Oh that is not much time," I pointed out.

"I can come to your house tonight for help. I also need a letter of reference," she demanded.

"But the Christmas formal dance is tonight," I explained.

"So?" she replied.

"I have to supervise it," I pointed out.

"I will be over at seven. It shouldn't take long," she decided for me.

I paused, before succumbing to her strong-willed personality, "Ok, but I need to be at the dance by eight."

"Whatever," she said, leaving class. She stopped at the door, before adding, "Have my reference letter ready."

I responded, "I will need your resume."

"I'll bring it with me." She shrugged and left before I could respond.

I sighed. She really was a self-centered, stuck-up bitch. I hoped helping her would help her open up to me, but I doubted it. I packed up and headed home.

I had supper with the girls and they both left early to meet up with their friends and get ready for the second biggest dance of the year, the Christmas formal. Of course, prom was the biggest event for most high school students.

As Melanie, my oldest, was leaving I said, "I may be a little late. Latoya is coming over to get some last minute scholarship help."

Melanie gave me an odd look and warned, "Don't trust her."

I shrugged, "I don't. But her bark is way worse than her bite."

Melanie shrugged back, judging as she often did. "She is a butch dyke."

"Melanie!" I responded, astonished.

"Just saying," she said and kissed me on the cheek. Then she was gone.

I got ready myself for the formal dance. I wore a glamorous red dress with tan pantyhose and red heels. It was rare I got to dress up since my husband had passed, so when the opportunity arose I liked to really go all out. Unfortunately, I got a pretty big run in my pantyhose and realized I had no more. Rummaging my drawer, I found an opened package of coffee thigh-high stockings. I found these uncomfortable and a bit too slutty even for my husband when he was still alive, but I definitely wasn't going to a formal event without something on my legs, so I reluctantly put on the dark brown thigh highs. The good news was the dress was long enough to hide the tops of the stockings and the darker color really accentuated my legs.

I had just finished with my matching red lipstick to my dress when the doorbell rang. I grabbed my three inch heels, which I also never got to wear, and went downstairs to get the door.

I opened it and Latoya just sauntered into my house like she owned it. She too was dressed up, although more for a biker bar, with a black leather skirt, black boots, black pantyhose, a red blouse that couldn't even begin to contain her large breasts and a black leather jacket. She took off her jacket and tossed it on my white couch.

I closed my door, surprised at what she considered formal. She seemed more dressed for a dominatrix line-up.

She looked at me. "Nice, you dressed up for me."

Startled by her comment, I replied, "What? No, I am dressed for the dance."

She shrugged, "Whatever you say, Ms. Malone."

Ignoring her condescending tone and smirk, I got to the task at hand. "So let's see this resume so I can finish the reference letter."

She pulled out a resume from her bag and placed it on the table as she walked around my home. She disappeared into the kitchen while I grabbed the form and skimmed it. I noticed she did not have any volunteer hours, which would make the scholarship application rather difficult. She returned to my living room with a beer in her hand.

Walking over and taking it out of her hand, I snapped, "What are you doing?"

She smiled, "We are both adults, Ms. Malone."

"That is not the point," I countered. Attempting to make the distinction crystal clear I pointed out, "I am the teacher and you are my student."

She shrugged, her voice changing to something that seemed oddly seductive, "But what if I was the teacher and you the student?"

She was standing directly in front of me, her dark eyes boring into mine, as I responded, confused, "What are you talking about?"

She smiled, "Oh, never mind. So do you have my reference letter started?"

"Yes," I replied, thankful to be back on topic. "It's on my laptop upstairs."

Latoya started for the stairs. "Let's take a look at what you got started."

Again her forwardness was annoying, but the quicker we finished this the better, so I followed her upstairs and into my room. I grabbed my laptop, typed in my password and handed my laptop to her.

She quickly read my rather generic reference letter and began adding stuff. I interjected, "Latoya, I won't sign anything I don't agree with."

She smiled, her tone oddly foreboding, "Oh don't worry, you will definitely agree with it when, I am done with you."

Her odd answer was unsettling. She exuded a smug superiority I just couldn't figure out. I attempted to take a peek at what she was writing, but she dismissed me. "Wait until I am done, Ms. Malone." She then added, treating me like a maid in my own house, "If I can't have a beer, go get me a coke."

My rage inside was beginning to bubble over and I had to use every ounce of tolerance I had to not explode. Instead, I gritted my teeth and went downstairs to get her a drink. While downstairs, I took a couple of minutes to calm myself down and put in perspective what I was doing. I repeated the mantra 'I am helping a student' over and over again.

By the time I returned upstairs, Latoya had moved to my bed and was laying on it with my laptop on her lap. My frustration immediately began to rise again.

She looked up and asked in a condescending tone, "What took you so long, Ms. Malone?"

I wanted to explode at her, but didn't see any advantage to such an outburst. Instead, I remained silent and brought her the drink.

She took it without even a hint of appreciation and took a sip before handing it back to me. She was treating me like a servant in my own home. She returned to typing and a couple of minutes later, while I stood there holding her drink like a maid, she announced, "Done." She patted my bed and said, "Come sit down and read the final draft."

.... There is more of this story ...

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