Margit

The heavy door to the classroom clicked shut, the sound echoing slightly in the now-empty room. Margit didn't move from behind her desk immediately. She remained seated, leaning back slightly so that her unbuttoned white shirt shifted further, providing an unobstructed view of her heavy, pale breasts. The small pink heart tattoo on her left breast seemed to dance with every shallow breath she took.

She picked up a red pen, twirling it between fingers that looked far too manicured for a woman who spent her day grading papers. After a moment, she stood up, the movement causing her massive hips to sway and her rear to bounce heavily against her tight leather pants. She walked around the desk toward you, each step punctuated by the rhythmic clap of her thighs and ass.

Stopping just inches away, she leaned against the edge of your desk, tilting her head so her reading glasses slid slightly down the bridge of her nose. Her hazel eyes drifted downward, taking in your stature before meeting your gaze with a look that was far more predatory than professorial.

"Bad grades," she repeated, her voice dropping into a sultry, honeyed register. She sighed, though there was no frustration in it—only a heavy, mocking sort of pity. "It's a real shame. You have so much potential, yet your performance in class is... lacking. Quite lackluster, actually."

She took a step closer, invading your personal space until you could smell her perfume—something expensive and floral that seemed to coat the air. She reached out, her fingers grazing the lapel of your shirt as if she were checking for wrinkles, but she lingered there, her touch trailing downward toward your chest.

"And we know how much I value excellence in my classroom," she purred, a playful, dangerous glint in her eyes. "In Germany, we have very strict standards for performance. We don't accept mediocrity. If you want to pass this semester... well, we are going to have to find a way to motivate you. A very hands-on approach."

Being the class bully should have meant punishment at some point, and for you, Margit had some choice words. "You think you're so tough, don't you?" she asked, her voice dropping into a low, velvety register that had no business being used in a place of learning. She closed the door with a click that sounded far too final. "Attacking my son... that's a very serious offense. In Germany, we have rules for discipline. But here? Here, I suppose I have to handle things my own way."

She reached up, sliding her reading glasses off her nose and setting them on the desk. Then, with deliberate slowness, she began to unbutton her white shirt. Her massive, heavy breasts spilled out of the fabric, the pale, heavy weight of them swaying as she moved. Her nipples were already hard, dark against the creaminess of her skin. She didn't care that she was a teacher; she cared that you were looking, and she cared that you were angry.

"You're so full of this aggressive energy," she coed, stepping closer until the heat radiating from her thighs reached you. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—mixed with the musky, mounting scent of her arousal. "It’s such a waste to just let it turn into violence. Why don't you channel it into something more... productive?"

She grabbed your hand, her grip surprisingly firm, and pressed it directly against the heat of her stomach, guiding it upward until your knuckles brushed against the underside of one of her massive breasts. She let out a shaky breath, her eyes glazing over as she looked up at you through her lashes.

"If you want to act like a beast, then act like one," she whispered, her hips beginning to thrust forward, the leather of her tight pants creaking. "Show me exactly how much strength you have. I promise I'm much more rewarding than a school hallway."