by Axolotl

Caution: This Humor Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/ft, Consensual, Lesbian, Heterosexual, Humor, Petting, Pregnancy, Size, Body Modification, Teacher/Student, Big Breasts, Workplace, School, .

Desc: Humor Sex Story: The tale of The Ugly Duckling becomes strangely relevant to an English Lit teacher

The events in this story are unlikely to happen. It involves sexual relations between women of the same sex and an implication of more heterosexual encounters. There are some extremely large breasts involved.

Only another ten minutes, Wilma Pettigrew thought. One last effort before the weekend!

"Another basic plot, anyone?" Her eye roamed the classroom, seeking just one student who wasn't either asleep or already packing books away ready for the great escape to freedom. "Charlotte?"

"Cinderella, Miss," Charlotte offered, her eyes rolling to the ceiling.

"Very good. Beautiful girl, ugly sisters, which one gets the prince ... one more, anybody? One of you boys. Gerald?"

Startled, the dishy Greek God of a boy in the back row sat up straight while several girls around him giggled. "Ummm. B ... boy meets girl, Miss?" he stammered.

The girls coo-ed in chorus, "Woooh!"

"Boy loses girl," Gerald continued without really meaning to.


"Boy finds girl again!"


"All right!"


Wilma forced herself to keep a straight face. "Wow, that's excellent, Gerald," she oozed, amid laughter, before turning to the blackboard. "Almost time to go, and it's a lovely day out there. Just time to think about your homework for next week. All of you, a simple enough task. Think of five different basic plot themes for stories, plays or films, and illustrate them with examples. We've talked about a few this afternoon. Try to think of five different ones from those, okay?" She turned to face the class, dusting the chalk off her hands. A sea of glum faces stared back at her. Five! That would take weeks! And teacher wanted it by Tuesday!

A bell rang, and the class was galvanised. They rose and streamed out, clutching books and bags, already planning the weekend's activity, predominantly sexual. The class members ignored Wilma as they fled for the door, although some, mostly girls, bade her 'a good weekend, Miss!' No doubt about what they were going to be doing, the sex-crazed little sluts in their thigh-high skirts and overfilled blouses.

Silence for the first time in a week, although excited shouts filtered through the open windows as the kids headed home. What was so special about home, Wilma wondered. There would be arguments, sulks, groundings, miserable mums and dads, disrespectful younger brothers and sisters getting them into trouble. Yet still, the class picked up its heels and shot out the door at three thirty on a Friday as if being let out of jail.

She picked up her books and folders, stuffed them into her briefcase. The summery weather was affecting the staff, too. The kids weren't the only ones getting themselves off the premises as if their backsides were on fire. The staff room was deserted by the time she got there, apart from Tosh Evans, the Welsh Geography teacher whose sole suit had leather patches on the elbows and whose all-pervading socks had a life of their own.

"Duw, Willie," he sang. "You still yer, then?"

"No, I think I saw me driving out of the gates half an hour ago."

Evans looked puzzled, then his brow cleared. "Garn, yew're still yer! Yew're a card, though, an' no mistake, isn't it? Yew got summat lined up for the weekend, I bet." Evans's line in sexual harassment was direct and uncomplicated. He was arguably the oldest virgin at the school.

"Fuck off, Tosh," Wilma commented warmly, slamming her filing cabinet and blowing him a kiss. It was all too easy to turn the silly old fool into a blushing wreck. She edged past the aura of socks and escaped into the fresh air.

The car was like an oven, the steering wheel practically taking the skin off her hands as she pushed and pulled her way on to the main road and accelerated in a cloud of noxious emissions past the bus stop. A crowd of her Eng Lit class - Gerald and half a dozen of the most extravagantly overdeveloped girls - went into a mime of coughing and choking, waving at her as she passed. Little bastards. They were the only reason she kept on doing this God-forsaken job, young people like that. Where would she be without them?

Right here, she thought when she arrived home at her bijou apartment overlooking the park to which people from miles around brought their dogs to defacate in the fresh air. It's not much, but it's home. More so than her real home had ever been. Three Ugly Sisters making her life a misery. Except that they had all been beautiful. Wilma had been the ugly one. Well, not ugly, exactly, just plain and ordinary. Homely, the Americans called it. And overweight. Not gross, exactly, just dumpy, heavy and not at all a fashionable shape. Talk about Cinderella! Cinderella in reverse, in fact. If Prince Charming had come around with a pair of glass slippers, the other three would all have found them fitting perfectly.

She slouched into the bedroom, avoiding the mirror. Time to ease away the cares of the week with a soak in a scented bath. Take away the dusty smell of books and Tosh Evans's perpetual socks. And time to plan a weekend's activities. As if!

How was it, she wondered, that even the plainest of the girls at that damned school seemed to have a retinue of boys ready to climb into her pants at the flutter of an eyelash? While some of the prettier ones probably needed a team of booking clerks to organise their personal and sexual arrangements.

It hadn't always been like this. At school, Wilma had been a popular enough girl, and had gone through the usual mating rituals with the best of them. Until her sisters found out. She'd never dared take a boy home. An array of sisters, two older, one younger, and all devastatingly pretty, all with stunning figures, all available and instantly negotiable with any and every boy they saw.

The youngest one, Rhonda, had become pregnant at thirteen, but that had only served to spur the others on to greater efforts. As the father had been - had probably been - one of Wilma's fleeting boyfriends, she seemed to feel more guilt about it than Rhonda herself.

In the end, after school and through university, it had been easier to opt out of the whole sleazy business. Her already dumpy figure ceased to be unattractive. It became invisible. When she dressed in boring shapeless dresses, or baggy jeans and sweaters, nobody noticed Wilma at all. It worked for her. Even after four years of teaching English Literature, she was willing to bet that not one of her classes could have described what she was wearing from one day to the next. They'd have been able to describe Mr Tosh Evans down to the last crisp-heeled off-white sock.

Mercifully, the bathroom mirror was already steamed up, so she didn't have to see herself as she climbed flabbily into the soft, blue-green waters and lay back to allow the suds to cover her unusually large breasts with their embarrassingly long, thick nipples. There was at least some compensation for the celibate existence she led. She didn't have to show herself to anyone else. What boy, what man, would ever be attracted to a woman shaped like her, with breasts like great bags of lard and nipples with such a will of their own that she had to stuff the ends of each already enormous bra cup with a thickly wadded handkerchief? A rhetorical question, if her class ever needed an example of one.

The park was always a pleasant and delightful place if one avoided the usual dog-walking routes. Clumps of trees provided cooling shade from the sun which was still making its presence felt at five pm. Wilma felt the cool air on her face and neck with gratitude. The hum of traffic was still there, miles away, but here in the park the birds were belting out their songs as if they were auditioning for a new musical by Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. Birds. That's what they'd called girls when Wilma had been one. She'd been a bird herself, then. What did they call them now? She ought to know the popular word. She was supposed to be in touch with the vernacular. Keeping young by contact with the students. No, it was too much like hard work.

A flash of white caught her eye, somewhere in front. A magpie, perhaps, or someone's dog. Then a burst of girlish laughter, and a clutch of young people emerged from behind a bush on to the footpath. They hadn't seen her yet, that was obvious. One of the boys - there were two boys and four girls - was still zipping himself up. Too late to get away without being seen, Wilma realised, slowing down, then stepping bravely forward again.

The group formed itself into a giggling mass, until one of the girls detached herself and fled as slowly as she dared. Her school shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist and her bra was missing. Her soft breasts bounced massively as she shrieked and ran, looking over her shoulder. Then she noticed that nobody was chasing her and she stopped, not five yards from Wilma.

"Miss!" the girl turned beet red and tried to pull her shirt across to hide the view.

"Good evening, Charlotte!" The words seemed somehow inadequate. Wilma was as red as the girl was. God, her breasts were massive! How did she ever manage to hide them so well?

Charlotte seemed to sense the teacher's eyes on her. "My bra got caught on a tree, Miss," she stammered. "Melissa's mum's going to try and mend it for me." She succeeded in fastening one or two buttons. With any luck, they might stay done up for ten seconds.

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

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