Chapter 1: My Story

As a fourth grade teacher, I pride myself that many parents request their children be put in my class. As a result, many of my students are siblings of former students. I love seeing the transformation of former students into young adults. For example, I get a great feeling of satisfaction when someone who once was a high energy bratty grade four boy, is now a well behaved young man in his high school years; I take even more satisfaction when he comes up to thank me for what he learned from me 7 or 8 years earlier. It's equally pleasurable to see some of the girls who were catty trouble-makers, become stunningly beautiful high school juniors or seniors.

I don't teach for the money, obviously, if you know what we get paid; so when I see students turn into mature young adults, it really is a great feeling of achievement.

I have one family, the Petersons, whose youngest child Devon is currently in my class. Devon's older sisters, Elizabeth (Liz) now in the 8th grade, and Karli, a senior (she was in my very first class after I began teaching right out of college), were both well-behaved girls, always doing the most exceptional work and were courteous to their classmates. They were both a real joy to have. I never, ever, had a negative moment with either one.

Devon, on the other hand, is the exact opposite. At least once a week I have to put a note in his folder detailing his misdeeds and asking his parents to sign and return it to me. Truthfully, he's a bright student, but his desperate need for constant attention hinders his learning. He's done little things like breaking classmate's pencils and switching lunchbox contents. He's also done major things like stealing from backpacks and destroying text books.

I believe it's all a cry for the attention that he probably doesn't get at home. Being the youngest child, the only boy, following his perfect sisters is probably extremely difficult. It also doesn't help that his father is generally out of town, and his mother is heavily involved in her daughters' schools' PTA, sports, and cheerleading. I almost feel sorry for Devon, except that for each note I send home, I then need to interact with his mother.

Mrs. Peterson. Constance Peterson. Not Connie, but Constance. Ugh. Just hearing her name caused me stress and anxiety. When I had her two girls as students, any of my interactions with her were always mildly pleasant. Good reports on the girls and no problems with Mrs. Peterson, although she always acted as if I wasn't worthy of her precious time. But this year, it's as if she's a different person and has a personal vendetta against me. All of Devon's issues are my fault, according to her. I dread when my phone rings and I'm notified by the receptionist that Mrs. Peterson is here to see me. She's yelled at me, cussed at me, and even broken a picture frame on my desk, as she called me a rotten teacher and accused me of making up stories about her do-no-wrong Devon. I don't know what happened to her, or what I did to deserve all this abuse from her, but as a teacher, we're trained to agree with the parent and work out a resolution.

Constance is probably 40 years old now. Of course if you'd ask her, she'd say she's 30 (which would mean she had her first child when she was 12!). Nonetheless, she really could pass for 30. I'm almost 30 and I look older than she does. The male teachers on staff call her a MILF, or at least that is their fantasy of her. They leer after her as she saunters by on her quest to make my life miserable.

Constance is 5' 9", a few inches taller than I am, and she likes to wear 3-inch stiletto heels, which give her an intimidating height. Her long, fiery red hair, which matches her domineering personality, is always (and I mean always) perfectly styled. She likes to drape it over her shoulders, letting it lie on her chest as if to direct your eyes to her cleavage; cleavage she loves to showcase. Even in the middle of winter, when everyone is wearing bulky, crewneck sweaters trying to keep warm, Constance will wear something scoop neck, V-neck, low cut. She's not large breasted, maybe a 36 C, but they still seem very firm and impressive. She also has long, slender, athletic, legs that are the envy of all women her age. Add in the three-inch pumps she always wears and she has a very powerful, sexual and dominating persona.

As we approached Parent Conference Day, notices were sent home asking for preferred times to schedule a conference. We provide time for all the parents to choose from, with the last conference supposed to end by 6 p.m. (we allow late times for the working parents) and I had a full day planned with one exception; Constance. She sent me an email saying she wouldn't be able to meet until 7:30 p.m., and that she had already verified that with my principal, who suggested that I would be glad to stay late for her conference. I cursed my luck and dreaded the upcoming interview with her.

Before I continue with my story, I should tell you a little about myself. My name is Hannah Hawkins. I am recently divorced and have a six year old daughter, Elaine, who is my pride and joy. I am 5'6", a brunette, with brown eyes and weigh a typical 137 pounds. My breasts are also rather normal, at 34b, and while they are not really large, they are very firm. I also have strong legs, although I usually hide them in dress pants. My greatest asset is my smile, one I have been told melts hearts.

Because of the lateness of my last interview, and the potential for it to be both long and stressful, I had my ex-husband, now forever known as Asshole, to keep Elaine for the night. I figured I might need a glass of wine when I got home ... maybe even a bottle.

The day was long, as Parent Conference Days always are, but having to wait two hours after my last interview, was excruciating. The clock ticked by slowly, giving me ample time to consider what Constance may say or do. Every scenario I considered ended badly. The draft in my classroom did not help either, as I was cold in my conservative black skirt, black pantyhose and white blouse. When I went to the staffroom at 7:00 to get water, the school was empty. I was the only teacher left, other than my Principal. I went back to my classroom and waited and waited and waited.

At 7:40, I was pissed. She made me wait two hours and decided to not even show up; the fucking bitch. I got up to leave, packed my bag, and slid out of my heels. I had one foot on a student's desk chair and I was just about to put on my runners when Constance walked in.

Constance gave a cough to make aware her presence; I immediately stood up straight, stumbling a bit, realizing my skirt had lifted carelessly, revealing way too much of my pantyhose-covered leg.

"You were leaving?" she asked in a condescending tone. She was dressed as she usually was, immaculately pristine, yet there was something different. She had on a business suit with a white silk shirt, two buttons open, to, as usual, showcase her breasts; a black skirt, just above the knee, with matching stockings that had seams up the back of her long legs; her patent three-inch pumps were gone and replaced with three inch ankle boots. She also had on a choker, something she had never worn before, and her red hair was in a bun. She looked ready for business.

I looked over at her, hiding my anxiety, I ignored her question and asked her to come in. I slipped back into my heels and sat down at the table. To my surprise, she moved her chair to be beside me, instead of across from me like the set up is meant to be. In an instant I had lost my power position. My apprehension increased, as I prepared to start the interview from Hell. As she sat down, she crossed her legs, her skirt riding up rather highly, revealing the top of a stocking held by a garter belt. It should not have been a distraction, but it became an obsession.

I handed her the report card that had a plethora of Cs and Ds. Constance looked at the report card thoroughly, the seconds turning into minutes. I fiddled with my ring as I patiently took quick glimpses at her long stocking-clad legs and nervously awaited the assault. Her ankle bumped my leg and lingered there longer than socially acceptable.

Putting the file down, she leaned towards me, her two open buttons giving me a clear glimpse of her fleshy cleavage. Her voice was stern, "Why do you hate my son?"

My eyes broke away from her hypnotically inviting breasts as I defended my dignity, "I don't hate your son. I treat him the same as I treat all my students."

She gave a smug smirk as she said sarcastically, "You hate all your students?"

I immediately stood up, enraged; my cheeks flush with anger, furious that my professional integrity was being questioned.

Before I could speak and defend myself, Mrs. Peterson stood up herself and demanded, in a deliberate don't-mess-with-me tone, "Sit down, Miss Hawkins."

Her commanding voice, her uncompromising eyes, her towering figure all caused me to immediately plop back into my chair, all my rage disappearing in a flash, replaced by fear of what this woman might do next. She walked around my chair, putting her hands on my shoulders. Her harsh tone vanished, as she whispered, "You are tense, my pet." Tense was putting it mildly. She then began to massage my shoulders gently.

I tried to process this bizarre situation, her sudden anger replaced by a soft voice and this gentle massage of my shoulders, not to mention her calling me "my pet." My anger was slowly simmering as I became relaxed from the gentle massage; but I was also confused at the sudden change in Constance's demeanour. My mixed feelings had me reeling. I couldn't speak or move. I was both petrified and yet oddly relaxed. It made no sense, but I was at the whim of this harsh woman. So distracted, I barely caught the soft, tender voice she now used as she inquired, "So, what are we going to do about Devon's grades, my pet?"

'My pet' she said a second time. I was so rattled by this strange approach of this usually despicable woman that I was caught completely off guard. She quit massaging me and sat back down and I was surprised at the overwhelming disappointment that filled me. I attempted to recompose myself as I looked back to Mrs. Peterson. I explained that her son's grades are greatly impacted by his lack of effort and his constant discipline issues. If he applied himself, and behaved himself, he had the potential to be an excellent student, like both her older daughters.

Mrs. Peterson smiled as her hand fell ever so haphazardly onto my knee. I tried to listen to her words, but I was distracted by her soft touch on my leg and the ample cleavage that was staring me in the face. She seemed to be waiting for a response to whatever she had just said and I, slightly flushed, requested she repeat her question.

Her smile never faded as she asked, "Are you distracted, my pet?"

I should have pulled back, but I didn't. A fire seemed to burn inside me. My cheeks flushed and my loins began to stir.

Now I should mention I am not a lesbian. I had made out with girlfriends at the bar to tease our boyfriends back in college and such, but never had been seriously aroused by the opposite sex. Okay, now that I think about it, there was a brief kissing incident with my colleague Colleen, which happened just last week. We were at a bar for happy hour, which turned into happy 'hours'. With drunken exuberance, she had suddenly given me a passionate kiss. We both just passed it off as a drunken moment of weakness, though later and even now, I find it still embedded in my mind. In fact, ever since, every time I see her at work, I get at least a little excited. She is married and has two children. I am divorced and have not had sex in over a year, at least sex with another man. I admit I use of my seven-inch dildo or my back massager many times. That one has a pointed attachment, which makes it convenient to use when I want penetration as well as clit stimulation. In fact, I think last time I used it I had flashes of Colleen... "My pet?"

Constance's voice and the smell of her perfume brought me out of my self-analysis. I noticed her hypnotic smell, a blend of sweetness, spice, fruit and floral. I was further intoxicated when I looked at her lips, with her bright red lipstick, a scarlet slash as if to tease. I briefly thought to overcome my fear and kiss her out of curiosity. At that moment, a sudden gust of wind shook the window, startling me back to my situation again.

'What had gotten into me?' I wondered. I forced myself to again look at Constance as the woman I most hated in the whole world. Thus, I tried to get the conference back on track.

"So," I began, trying for business-like, "What are we going to do to improve Devon's behaviour?"

Her hand, still resting on my leg, moved up just slightly, as she turned my question back onto me. "The better question, my pet, is what are you going to do to get on my good side?"

I froze. What was she implying? She saw the confusion in my expression and took it as an opening as her warm breath hit my cheek. Her lips moved past mine, lingering for a moment in time, and moved to my ultimate weak spot, my ear. Using my first name for the first time ever, she whispered, "Hannah, I know what you want." Her hot breath and seductive tone had me turning into jello. Then her hand moved under my skirt. I knew I should back away, protest, slap her hand away, but I just sat there, paralysed by fear and hormones. She hesitated, giving me time to react. When I didn't, she continued, "You want to please me, don't you, Hannah?"

Her hand was only a couple of inches from my vagina, as she again waited for a verbal response from me. I attempted to speak coherently, yet all I got out was a mumbled and not very convincing "I don't know." I no longer had any clue what I wanted. I hated this woman, she was the bane of my existence, and yet, right at this moment, I wanted nothing more than to taste her lipstick, to feel her lips on mine.

She looked in my eyes, her intoxicating eyes pulling me in, her sensual lips inviting me in. My mind was a fog and when she leaned in and our lips touched, I did not resist. My lips parted and Constance took the opportunity to slip her tongue into my mouth. Still reeling from the erotic spell Mrs. Peterson had me under, my tongue responded. Soon our tongues were doing the taboo dance. The kiss lasted an eternity, one of sweetness, one of me forgetting who I was kissing or where I was. Instead, I was focusing on the thrill of being wanted.

When her hand reached my underwear, I was jolted back to reality. What was I doing? This is a conservative, small town. I could lose my job? My career could be ruined. Frantic to get the situation under control, I hastily stood up, breaking the kiss. As I stood up, I wobbled awkwardly, my legs still weak from the passionate embrace. I looked at Mrs. Peterson whose face gave away nothing.

"We can't do this," I said firmly.

Mrs. Peterson stood up, exuding her usual confidence, walked to me, and put her finger gently on my arm. Her touch brought a shiver throughout my body. My emotional state was put right back into complete turmoil. Her bright red lips curved into a smug smile. She did not ask, she told me, "You are coming with me for coffee."

I shivered, as I tried to regain control of the situation, I struggled to say no, "I-I-I don't think that is a g-g-good idea."

Her smug smile disappeared, her usual condescending tone returned, as she intoned, "I wasn't asking if you wanted to go for coffee, Hannah. I said you are coming for coffee."

The statement was not a question, but a demand. The forceful tone had me too nervous to say no, and too petrified to say yes. But then I thought about it. It was only coffee after all. She was way too well known a public figure to do anything crazy in public. Going for coffee would be a good way to get out of this awkward position in my classroom. Finally feeling back in control again, I agreed to go for coffee with her. My confident swagger was back.

Just as quickly as her tone had shifted from sweet to aggressive, she returned to sweet. "That is a good girl, my pet."

But when I began to take off my heels, she suddenly commanded, "Keep the heels on, my pet. They really do showcase your sexy legs."

I blushed at that, somehow embarrassed yet proud that she had noticed my legs. I quickly obeyed her, sliding my feet back into my heels. I grabbed my purse, then my marking bag. Just as quickly, I set the marking bag back down, knowing I was past doing any kind of marking tonight. After coffee, I figured I would go home, crack open the bottle of wine I bought for tonight and soak in a long bubble bath. The thought of having a nice soak and a good drunk sounded so good.

I followed Constance to the parking lot, neither of us saying a word. As I pulled out my keys to my SUV, Constance finally spoke, again her tone implying this was not a suggestion, but a command. "We are taking my car."

I looked at her, startled. This was not part of my plan; I would then be at the mercy of Mrs. Peterson. I protested, "Oh no, I can take my vehicle."

The tone was back, and each word dripped with authority, "No, Hannah, we will go in mine." Her voice and look told me this was non-negotiable and I followed her to a blue sports car. As I followed, I wondered how I was going to get out of this mess; yet, a small part of me, deep down inside, was intrigued to see what was going to happen next.

Constance opened the door for me and waited until I sat down. I was shocked again when she leaned over and buckled my safety belt for me. Her breasts swayed unfettered under her blouse, and her sweet exotic scent lingered. The small curious part inside me was growing; I could feel the shift inside me. My will to resist her was weakening. I tried to suppress my excitement, my eagerness, but my pussy, now damp, was making it incredibly hard to focus on what the right thing to do was.

As Mrs. Peterson drove, I shyly looked over at her. She was a beautiful woman and it had been so long since any person, even a woman as despicable as her, had given me any sort of physical attention. I looked down and noticed her skirt had crept up. I gave out a slight gasp as I noticed the top of her nylons and the trace of a garter. The only time I had ever worn a garter was on my wedding day. The thought that this bitch of a woman dressed so sexy was a revelation. It also had me getting hornier. As if she heard my naughty thoughts, she moved her right hand onto my leg. As she drove, her long supple fingers slowly slid up my inner thigh, slightly pushing up my skirt. I could no longer think straight. My protest was so weak it was inaudible. I tried to close my legs to block her hand, but a quick push back from her hand ended my pathetically weak resistance.

When I looked up, I realized we were pulling into a driveway of a large house, a mansion really. I asked nervously, but I already knew the answer, "Where are we?"

She shrugged, her hand leaving my leg, and responded nonchalantly, "My house."

I panicked, my conscience coming back to me in a wave. I became stubborn, "I can't go into your house, Mrs. Peterson. It isn't right. What would your husband and daughters think, not to mention Devon? I'm sure he would not be pleased seeing his teacher in his own house."

"Oh, don't you worry about that, my poor little Hannah. They are all conveniently gone for the evening. We have the place to ourselves, you see, just you and me and our cups of coffee." She gestured quotation marks around 'cup of coffee' that had me wondering briefly when she added, "And by the way, please call me Constance."

Seeing that I was still sitting there stubbornly, Constance got out of the car and walked around to my side. She opened my door and leaned in to unbuckle by safety belt. I held my breath, paralyzed at first, but then stopped her from unbuckling my seatbelt. She looked at me sweetly, eye to eye, and then kissed me on the cheek. Then she leaned into me, her breasts plastered against mine. "Don't you worry your cute little head about the details, my pet." Her hot breath on my ear again weakened my resistance. She bit my ear with a not gentle, not hard, nibble and stood back up. In the meantime, she had the seatbelt unbuckled. She grabbed my hand, pulled me out and explained, "You are mine tonight, my pet Hannah. I own you. It's really quite simple for you. All you have to do is submit to me. Obey my every command."

Such words should have freaked me out, yet they did the opposite. In an instant, a wave of guilt and shame washed away. As a teacher, I am always in charge, always putting out fires, always on the go. It is exhausting both physically and mentally. So when Mrs. Peterson told me not to worry and to submit to her, it was a natural calling. To just let go and let fate or someone else make my decisions was such an overwhelmingly great feeling that suddenly nothing else mattered ... but obeying.

I allowed her to take my hand and lead me into her house. "Maeko," she called out as she led me to the living room couch. "Have a seat, Hannah."

My heart skipped a beat as I realized someone else was here. My heart dropped into my stomach when I saw the Peterson's maid. I recognized Mrs. Chung. Mrs. Chung's daughter was in my class and was an absolute genius and sweetheart of a girl.

"Yes, Mistress, what can I do for you?" asked the Chinese mother and maid, standing in a submissive waiting position. I was slightly taken aback by hearing the Chinese mother call Constance Mistress.

"Could you please get my guest here a glass of wine and me my usual?"

"Yes, Mistress," Mrs. Chung responded, and subserviently and immediately exited.

Seeing the look of shock on my face, Mrs. Peterson asked, "Oh, you know Maeko don't you?"

"Her daughter is in my class," I explained.

"I know," she responded, "She is a very, very, good maid. A full service maid." She added that last part as if to imply 'full service' had a double meaning. "I am going to change into something a little more..." she paused, considering what she wanted to say, "me. Just relax, Hannah. I won't be long."

Of course I could not relax; even as I sat upon the most comfortable leather couch I had ever sat on. My anxiety was overwhelming. My inner turmoil and anticipation of what might transpire had me both curious and wanting to run from the room, the house. Just as I considered doing the latter, Mrs. Chung re-entered the room, carrying a tray with two glasses of red wine along with the rest of the bottle. She had also thought to add a plate of appetizers. After setting the tray upon the oak coffee table, she just left. Never once had she looked at me to acknowledge that we knew one another.

As I reached for a glass of wine, I definitely thought to grab the bottle. Instead, I took a lengthy sip from the glass. The refreshing wine calmed my nerves. I took a second and third sip. As I was taking another sip of my now half empty glass, Constance walked back in. Her 'more me' look was stunning. She had on a leather skirt, black thigh-high boots, black stockings, and a red blouse. Her red hair was out of her usual bun and flowed down her shoulders elegantly. If she was pretty when dressed in her usual stuffy attire, she was drop-dead gorgeous when she let her hair down.

She sauntered to the table and quickly grabbed her glass of wine. "Oh, I so need this," she announced and then noticed my glass. "Oh my, Hannah, I see you must have needed it too. Let me give you some more. Maeko."

As Constance refilled my glass, Maeko re-entered the room, "Yes, Mistress?"

Constance announced, "You may go home now; I won't need you for the rest of the evening,"

"As you wish, Mistress," the Chinese maid replied softly as she walked out of the room.

Constance immediately turned to me, took a sip of her wine, and looked me up and down. She had this odd look on her face, as if to analyze me. It had me feeling like a piece of meat, like I often did in college when I was at frat parties. Back then, the boys were only after one thing ... sex. Constance, seemingly knowing her power over me, repeated a question from earlier today, "So, Hannah, my pet, how do you plan to get on my good side?"

I did not know what to say, and she did not need an answer. She simply walked over to me, put down her glass, took mine and put it down as well. Seating herself next to me, she quickly had me in an embrace and was kissing me. This time her kiss was more passionate and more domineering. I broke the kiss and weakly said, "Please, don't." Deep down I did not want her to stop, and she knew it.

"My pet, I am doing exactly what you want me to do. You want me to kiss you. To make you my little plaything, don't you?" Her hands on my thighs were a great distraction as I tried to respond coherently. Her lips moved to my vulnerable ear, nibbling on it as she whispered, "Well ... am ... I ... correct? Are ... you ... ready ... to ... submit ... to ... your ... Mistress?" The sentence took over a minute to finish as she bit my ear and finished by extending her tongue into my eardrum.

I moaned in pleasure, my will to resist non-existent. I was nearly writhing.

Not waiting for an answer, not that I was able to, she began to fumble with the buttons on my blouse. She continued her warm assault on my ear, "So, am I going to have any more problems with you, my pet?"

Another moan escaped my lips, my panties now moist, as I tried to comprehend her actual question. Again, I had no answer.

"You will be a good teacher, won't you, my pet?" she purred, as she pulled my blouse out of my skirt. No words left my lips as I continued to writhe.

Finally she demanded a response. "Answer me, Hannah!"

I was startled by her change in tone and obediently answered, scared to make her angry with me. "Yes."

"Yes what?" she asked, her tone implying her annoyance and impatience.

I paused, unsure what she wanted, until I thought of Maeko and realized exactly what she wanted. I whispered, like a child attempting to avoid discipline, "Yes, Mistress."

"Good girl," she purred, her gentleness back in a heartbeat. She took off my blouse and began exploring my body with soft pecks from her sweet lips, sending goose bumps all over my body. Her pecks became sensual kisses on my shoulder and tummy as she unhooked my bra and slid the straps from my shoulders. As my breasts were released from their restraints, I suddenly felt all my insecurities wash over me. I felt embarrassed and vulnerable to be seen with all my flaws in front of this beautiful woman with her perfect body. I began to cover myself, but was quickly scolded, "Don't you dare cover yourself, Hannah. You must let your Mistress see you." She gave me the once over as I trembled nervously, waiting for her to criticize me, like she always did. Instead she pinched my now stiff, swollen nipples. I gasped at the pain. I also gasped at the pleasure it gave me. Without a word, she dipped her head to my breasts. Her tongue darted and flicked over each nipple. The wetness of her tongue and the hotness of her breath had me on the edge of ecstasy. Noticing my increased moaning, Constance ordered, like a mother would discipline a child, "Don't you dare come, my slut. Not until I give you permission."

Being called a slut was like a slap in the face and a rush of adrenaline to my extremely wet pussy. The two extremes had me baffled. I was not a slut; I hadn't even had sex in over a year. Yet, here I was, topless in a parent's living room. What did that make me? As I considered this, Constance pulled me up to my feet. I stood helplessly as this stuck-up bitch unzipped my skirt, pulled it over my hips, and then allowed it to fall to the floor on its own. She seemed to relish removing each high heel in turn slowly as she eyed my well-built legs.

She moved back up to my mid-section and asked, her tone a blend of authority and compassion, "And what is with you wearing pantyhose? A good slave, especially one with such fine legs, should only wear thigh-highs, or garters and stockings. From now on, Hannah that is what you must wear. Understood?"

First slut, now slave. I stood there embarrassed at the current situation. Realizing she was awaiting my response, I answered with what I was sure she wanted to hear, "Yes, Mistress."

She repeated her desire as if to require my complete understanding. "I expect you in such hosiery every day from now on, my little lez."

"Yes, Mistress," I replied. For some reason, the thought came to me that I would have to go shopping. I shook my head as I realized that I was being foolish, that this would be a one-time thing. It had to be.

Constance? Mrs. Peterson? Mistress? Lover? Unsure of how to think of her, she now slowly pulled down my pantyhose. Now I was standing and shivering in only my underwear. I had never felt so vulnerable and helpless in my life.

Her hand slowly caressed my arm as she whispered, 'You are a submissive little slut, aren't you, Hannah?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, genuinely confused. A light chill in the air had me shaking slightly.

"You like to obey," she explained. Her mouth went to my ear as she whispered, "You need to obey."