In the minutes before my sixth period class I rush to the bathroom and fix my appearance. Touch up my makeup. Make sure my hair is neat. I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute before I realize I’m going to be late. Shit! I just got a warning for lateness last week, can’t afford to do it again. I dash through the hall and slip into the classroom just before the bell.

“Please turn in your homework,” I say. Students rise and push their papers into the collection slot. They walk by me in silence. I never cease to be taken aback by the size of high school seniors - many of them are taller than me.

I uncap a blue marker. “Did anyone have problems with the homework?”

“Number nine,” says Mark.

Some other students nod.

I glance at my book. “So you are asked to integrate the cube root of x times the natural log of the cube root of x,” I say, and begin writing on the board.

In sixth period the students tend to liven up with excitement for the end of the day. They’re not as sleepy as those in fifth period, but it’s still hard to keep their focus. These ones had to be smart and dedicated in order to qualify for Calculus BC, but they’re still human. The boys are fascinated by the contours of my red sweater around my bust, much as they try to hide it. Some fidget with the telltale signs of erections hidden under their desks. When I face the whiteboard I feel their eyes on the back of my legs - the combination of high heels and sheer stockings really does it for them. Fortunately my black skirt does a good enough job of covering my butt. I’m used to horny teens and can accept their attention as long as my clothes aren’t too revealing.

Emily politely watches and listens. Today she’s chosen to sit in the back. She seems bored. I want to tell her that she can honestly go to sleep if she already understands today’s subject, but she wouldn’t take that very well. She doesn’t believe in slacking off.

The bell rings and the school day is finally over. Once they get home, some of the students are probably going to masturbate while thinking about me; others might simply go to sleep. I could use a nap myself, something to perk me up for the long day ahead. But I know I can’t.

I head to the teachers’ lounge and retrieve my sandwich from the refrigerator. Italian bread with turkey, lettuce and tomato. I heat it up in the microwave and then take it to my classroom.

The room is empty except for Emily. She sits at my desk. I put the sandwich before her and lock the classroom doors.

I stand beside her with my hands behind my back, listening to her eat. She holds a piece of bread up.

“Thank you, Master,” I say before I eat from her hand. She brushes my cheek.

Emily has long, straight black hair. She smiles a little bit.

“Can you check my homework,” she says.

“Yes, Master.” I find it and study each of her solutions. They’re nearly perfect, as usual.

“Right here you used nonstandard notation,” I say, pointing at the page. “This would normally be written as...”

She watches and nods.

When I’m done I stand before her with my arms behind my back, legs spread, strong posture with my chin up and my bust jutting forward.

Emily settles comfortably in my revolving desk chair with her head resting on her hand.

“Take off your sweater,” she says.

I pull it over my head and fold it neatly on a student desk. Only my bra is left to cover my chest; the cool classroom air washes over my skin. Emily looks at my bra, slips her fingers into her jeans and fingers herself.

“Show your tits.”

I work at my bra straps until I get the thing off. I set it down over my sweater and turn to face Emily with my breasts out for her viewing enjoyment.

“Touch your tits.”

I cradle my breasts, one in each hand, supporting them but leaving the nipples in view. I squeeze and knead the way Emily likes. She stares, captivated, burning with hormones. She acts modest in public, but deep down she’s as horny as any other eighteen-year-old.

“Wiggle.”

I twist my shoulders back and forth so that my tits jiggle around. The momentum tugs at my chest each time I turn. Emily pushes her pants down, exposing her vulva, and rubs herself. She’s going to wet my chair with her pussy juices.

She looks at her phone while strumming her clit. I keep wiggling because I have to. She hasn’t given me permission to stop. I must keep displaying my breasts to her in the lewdest possible manner. It goes on for minutes; I’m tired. I want to beg Emily to let me rest, but think better of it - she’s made me dance for longer periods of time before, once for an hour as deliberate torture, so she won’t have sympathy for me yet.

The memory of that time she made me wiggle for an hour comes back to haunt me. I remember I was in tears by the end. I was so sore. I hated her.

“Hands behind your head,” she says.

In this position my breasts stick out, fully exposed on every side, while I shake them left and right. Emily is entranced. She rolls her chair forward and touches my chest - now I can rest. I breathe a great sigh of relief as she brushes her fingertips along the undersides of my boobs. Then she holds them more firmly before pinching my nipples and pulling them forward. She inflicts a bit of pain; I whimper.

“Come over here.” She pulls me by my nipples to my desk, where she has me lie sideways on top of papers and crumbs. She touches me, gently, guiding me to maintain a generous posture with my breasts jutting forward. Then she sits down and takes my nipple in her mouth. Her tender sucking drives it to erection and her tongue flicks over my stiff nub. With her hand she gently squeezes my other breast. I try to relax.

Emily lets go of my boob and sits back. “Take off all your clothes.”

I roll off my desk and pull down my skirt and panties. I kick off my high heels and remove my stockings. I resume the presentation position with my hands behind my back and my legs apart.