Cheeks flushed, I adjust my glasses, trying to keep my composure. I’m still waiting for a reply from anyone, hoping against hope, despite years of experience, that one of my students might raise their hand for once. They say hope dies last.

But, well, it still dies, right?

Almost ready to designate a volunteer by myself to come to the blackboard, the surprise of the big-titted bimbo raising her hand hits me deep. Who woulda thunk she’d start showing more interest in mundane math problems than on TikTok, Instagram or whatever keeps capturing her attention through the window in her senior year? Don’t try to teach an old book by its cover or whatever.

In lieu of her habitually dumb half-agape expression, she seems unusually participative today. Fine by me. Like an unsolicited compliment, I won’t question it.

As I hand her the chalk, I repeat, “Please, try to show us partial integration on the example of the sine times cosine...” I briefly trail off as I feel the back of her hand ever so lightly brush my bulge I have tried to conceal with, so it seems now, only moderate success, “...uh... function of x.”

Smiling, she picks the chalk from between my fingers, flashing me a suggestive look—at least, that’s my impression. In this aroused haze, any interaction would get lust-catalyzed to being subjectively suggestive. I curse myself inwardly for my inflated male ego paired with the typical, flatteringly whiny attitude it brings if challenged just the slightest bit. If anything, it’s this wot brung me in this situation, ugh!

I observe her as she hesitantly begins to draw a few symbols on the blackboard, backpedaling every few seconds and overtly putting the index of her free hand to her pulpous bottom lip, tugging it ever so slightly to feign a pensive expression.

“Decompose the function: f will be cosine and g prime will be sine and start from here,” I guide her, mind half-absently losing itself in her deep blue eyes, judgment clouded by the growing strain in my trousers.

As she follows my instructions, my mind momentarily drifts off completely to the ridiculous excuse for an undergarment I am wearing under my pants to cover my shame—and, weirdly enough, save my pride. It is the singular reason for my state of arousal. Well, at least in the first place and until sugar tits here raised her hand.

“I never wear those. I think I’m gonna donate them to charity,” you said upon finding your g-string while cleaning out your drawer.

“Can’t you wear them again?” came my reply, far more disappointed and pleading than I had intended, revealing a tad too much of my blokey expectations than I had intended. “You look so sexy in them,” I gave my best sorry shot at rectifying my lapse, but only managed to emphasize my as hurt as unwarranted disappointment.

“If you’re so fond of them,” you narrowed your eyes in, contrarily, very much-warranted annoyance, “why don’t you wear them yourself?”

“Preposterous!” came my outburst as a rather pitiful try at covering my hurt masculinity with fake dominance. “That’s women’s clothes.” A pathetic attempt at defending my thin male pride.

“Weren’t you the one who stated oh-so-factually that clothes, per se, were a purely artificial concept and therefore any separation of male and female fashion, by definition, absurd?” you emphasized your point, knowingly twisting the knife in the clumsily self-inflicted wound—with lots of pleasure.

“Yes, but,” I began, meekly, “am I not entitled to my own preferences?”

“Oh lookie there,” you chuckled with evil pleasure, “who’s Mr. You’ll Never Know Unless You Try now? Or how is it you put it, again, when you were trying to talk me into anal?”

Shit! I was cornered and defeated in all points. “Okay, then, gimme that thing,” I, with cheeks glaring red, declared my unconditional surrender and will to at least try to stand my man and save my last ounce of dignity.

“Oh no,” you countered. “You’re so not gonna get off that easily, bozo. If you ever wanna see me in that again—or any other kind of sexy lingerie, for that matter—you’ll wear this to work in front of your students for an entire day so you know how uncomfortable it is to have that thing cutting into your ass crack.”

I gulped but in for a dime, in for a dollar, right? A faint smile crept over my lips as I felt the determination to prove to her I was up to the challenge surge in my mind. Even worse than being caught not actually believing in my all-too-well rehearsed woke slogans was to be the guy who doesn’t put his money where his mouth is. Boy, I’d never hear the end of that—publicly, of course.

“But not just on any one day,” you specified. The growing smirk on your face and the artistic pause let my mind fill the blanks from alone. Your delayed conditions confirmed my deepest fears: “I want you to wear it on a Thursday when you teach Big Tits Blondie the whole morning.”

“The integral of sine is negative cosine, right?” the generously-chested student in question asks, shaking me from my daydreams.

“Uh, yeah,” I reply, stepping closer to the blackboard, forgetting to pay attention to how I move, making my chinos rub against my naked buttocks. The sensation of my bare skin against the rough fabric fires my oversensitive nerves. My mind does lewd somersaults while I barely succeed at keeping a straight face and offering hints. “Okay, so now with the equation established, what do you notice?”

“Uuuh,” I barely hear her thought process as all my efforts are geared towards not giving in to the sensations in my loins. “Those terms here...” I try to hang on to her every word just to distract me.

Barely able to keep track of her words, I fight the urge to moan out loudly as I feel my cock strain against the barely-existent triangle in front of it. It pulls on the floss that’s slowly splitting my ass in half like a medieval torturing device.

“...can be added to simplify the equation, I think...”

In a short instant of inattention, I give in to the urge to adjust to a slightly broader-legged position that places the tense string right on my pucker. I nearly gasp from the anticipated stimulation of my nerve endings, further exciting me.

“...so I can just divide the whole thing by two, right?”

My ears really just prick at her last word—my nearly missed cue to stop losing myself in the sensation of overflowing pre-cum that gradually soaks through my work-inappropriate undergarment.

“Yes, exactly, and that leaves you...” I try to coax the answer from her, making my best impression of a good teacher. In reality, the increased excitement makes my cock swell further in the skimpy underwear, straining the thread that teases my asshole so deliciously even more.

“With this, uh, simplified term here...”

I barely register her tentative words although trying very hard to use them as a distraction to break free from this overly positive feedback loop of my cock straining the string harder against my bum hole, which, in turn, motivates my pecker to inflate further. For once, I thank the higher powers for having gifted me with a, uh, rather... moderate appendage—to sugarcoat it a wee bit.

“Right, teach’?” she barely just prevents me from melting into an unflattering public sensory resonance catastrophe—and, for once, not from the jiggling of her, most often, braless breasts.

“Yeah,” I hear my voice mutter with a thick, suggestive lilt to it. “And this gives you...” cursing myself for the audible lusty slur in my words.

“Negative cosine squared over two!” comes her happy, bubbly voice together with her ocean blue eyes glistening happily at her comprehension of the subject. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe she’s putting up quite a show to let her tits bounce when she steps toward me to hand me back the chalk.

The whole situation is putting my professionalism to a harsh test. As if the near-boiling heat in my loins wasn’t enough, I slowly start getting aware of my surroundings and how the situation is generally in my disfavor, the risk of public exposure only adding to the thrill of my predicament. My only solace at that moment is that the kids generally are seldom interested in the teacher and their endless monologues—I half-convincingly tell myself.

Just in that instant, for once, it is me who's getting saved by the bell eliciting a collective sigh from the whole class, including me.

Knowing there’s no point in even trying to talk to the kids anymore, I just let them pack their stuff and leave. Much like a sheep, I copy their behavior and tidy my office, eager to have my students leave me alone so I can try to remedy the impending Wiener-gate in my trousers before bonding with my colleagues over lunch and listening to their ever-repeating stories of their own outrageously rebellious kids (where the ‘outrage’ consists of coming home all of three minutes after curfew and ‘rebellious’ means they’re old enough to understand that you don’t need to wear slippers because it’s not from cold feet that one catches endemic respiratory infections).

The moment I turn from my desk and begin to walk to the classroom door, I nearly bump into the pair of boobs whose mere existence has threatened to abruptly end my career more often than not. Not having expected this to happen, my immediate reaction is my lips parting into a flatteringly dumb gape as if I were mirroring her habitual expression of seeming mental absence.

With her index hooked under my chin, she shuts my mouth again. “Careful, teach, or your jaw might fall off,” she quips, a tone in her voice that makes me worried about how much she knows—or just guesses correctly.

“You know, my boyfriend likes to wear mine too,” she mouths with hardly more than a light breeze at my ear, letting her words resonate in the looming silence they create. “I know what I have to look for,” she whispers, her breath now dangerously close to my lips, giving rather unambiguous replies to my questions and yet letting new ones arise: If I was given the choice of being professional or throwing away my career over barely five minutes of quick fun, would I cum on her face or tits?

Fuck, why didn’t I just wear normal boxers over the g-string? You knowingly omitted that detail, and I can see your dirty leer as the penny drops. Such an easy loophole! Agh, I’m so dumb!

My mind turns blank as her fingers expertly grab the front triangle of your g-string through my chinos and pull them, amplifying the strain on my irritated pucker.

“I see you’ve been flossing. Good boy,” she breathes, finally closing the gap between us. The feeling of her oversized bust squishing against my chest only makes my erection grow further, only pulling the thin string between my buttocks more, making me worried it might snap. And yet, the material seems elastic enough to withstand even those elevated stress levels. This, in turn, leaves me wondering whether the manufacturer takes into account that some customers might select smaller sizes on purpose to give the impression of being less voluminous—because of unrealistic beauty standards—or if the number of men sporting this type of undergarments really is that statistically relevant.

My musings get interrupted by a dexterous hand undoing my belt buckle in a single, well-practiced and repetition-optimized motion of the wrist, and snaking into my jeans.

“My, my, teach, what an inappropriate reaction to your student,” she chides, a sexy melody in her voice, as she inspects my erection, ready to burst, like a new type of vein braille.

She wraps her hand around it through the thin fabric and starts to slowly pump me, pulling on the material with every upward stroke, stretching it to its limits. I can’t look away from her glistening eyes that emphasize her slutty expression that begs me to just use her teenage face like a fuckhole.

With every upward pull, I feel the thin string dig into my rosebud further and yet, I feel it rip thread by thread, creating yet more tension in me.

“Cum for me, teach,” she nearly sings, tugging on my cock one last time and finally ripping the material.

The snap releasing the strain sends me over the edge as the pre-cum drenched fabric rubs over my frenulum.

I tense up and try not to moan too loudly, only realizing now that the classroom door is still invitingly open and yet the sweet release from an entire morning of passive edging unleashes a tidal wave of ecstasy I’ve never before experienced.

“You came so much, teach,” she playfully says as I come to again, licking her fingers clean from the cum that has seeped through the now loosely dangling fabric, “and your cum tastes so good.”

Struck by a pang of post-nut clarity, I look at her, already seeing the scandalous headlines of the tabloids, granting me my fifteen minutes of fame.

Understanding the message, she offers, “Don’t worry, teach, I won’t tell anyone... but only if you’ll bring condoms next time.” She picks up her bag and walks to the door, stops, turns around and adds, “But you better make me cum too, or I’ll make sure everyone knows. Everyone!” she emphasizes with insistence.

As she walks away, I‘m wondering how I am possibly going to explain your torn thong to you—and the crusty white patch on it, or yet why there’s a gross pack of condoms in my bag.

Well, I shrug, to some degree, you brought this upon yourself.