Darren Young, High School Senior, cum gradually transforms anyone it touches physically and/or mentally to fit my conscious and desires

Darren Young felt pretty confident in himself. After all, he was really an adult now— a young man, even if the small technicality of his highschool diploma not being quite completed necessitated his continued attendance there. He was eighteen, and a happy, self-satisfied senior in the senior class.

Most of the other young men in his senior class were more or less average looking— but Darren knew he stood out from all of them, because he looked slightly better than they looked. His looks were like average plus one— he looked at least as good as everyone else, but then he looked just a little better— the lines and angles of his face were there, but then maybe they were just a little sharper, just a little more pronounced than they would have been on other faces.

And then maybe Darren was at least about the average height of the other young men in his grade— and then maybe he had an extra two inches of height beyond that. Given any metric, Darren could measure up to everyone else, and then slightly surpass them. And he knew this about himself; he could see the truth of it when he looked into the mirror in passing. He was as good as anyone else— and then he was a little bitter than all of them. He liked that.

There were things that maybe Darren should have felt shame about, but he didn’t. For instance the fact that he was a humongous pervert— a very, very bad one.

But he kept it quite secret— he accepted it in himself but knew how it would be viewed, and so he covered it up and hid it away. Hiding it didn’t change the fact that it was still true.

He liked sneaking perverse glances at his classmates around him— his school wasn’t so big, so he knew just about everyone in his senior class down to their name and several details about them, including age. Theirs was a strange senior class because, by this point in the year, almost every single member of it was an eighteen-year-old adult; and though Darren had only been an adult for around six months, he looked down on people younger than him. To him, the grades down from him, and the handful of few remaining seventeen-year-olds in his class were literal children, not worthy of his attention, and complete mood-killers.

But his other adult classmates— he loved to sneak glances at them, sizing up bodies, picturing trysting with each one— loved looking at his teachers in this way, too.

It was easy to get away with looking among his same-aged peers, and teachers, this way, because no one was ever looking at him. Darren might have been a plus one to the average of everyone else, but his slight superiority was almost never remarked upon, or observed. The truth was, he was slightly more special, but that could only be noticed if one took a few moments to study his form and appearance— and since no one ever made the effort, they never realized this.

As a result, he wasn’t very popular at all. In fact, he was hardly even well-known. Almost no one could have pointed him out by name, he was sure— this suited his purposes. He could easily blend into background scenery, going unwitnessed— having almost a kind of invisibility.

This was very useful, anytime he wanted to have a nice long stare at a young woman’s breasts when she was sitting in the next desk across from him— very useful, if after that staring he needed to readjust himself in his pants.

It meant he could let himself drift into fantasy— picturing filling tight pussies, feeling plump breasts— without having to be vigilant about making sure no one saw.

Darren was also a very smart young man. In the realm of looks and physicality, he was slightly better than his standard competition; but in the realm of intelligence, it wasn’t a slight specialness, it wasn’t just a plus one— it was probably more like a plus fifty.

In fact, Darren was quite good at calculating in his mind the likeliness that any one person would take a certain course of action, or enact a certain behavior— taking all factors into consideration, of course— and he was rarely wrong in these predictions.

And of course, all assignments and coursework were easily completed— he could usually finish them off while only paying half or quarter attention to them. He read a completely different book, something for leisure, while also doing his homework, and still get it right.

He just had the braincapacity for that. Sometimes, he could even read two books at once; reading one sentence of each, alternating— and yet still follow along with two narratives, and get through both of them as fast as he could have gotten through one book he was reading on its own— and still much faster than most people got through individual books. His mind was very capable.

Darren really didn’t have very many extracurriculars though. Really the only thing he did that was schoolrelated, apart from actually attending, was help out as part of the Service Club. This was a club that was dedicated towards helping out the other teachers and the other clubs around the school through the completion of varying tasks.

It was like community service— it also felt like being the glue that got slapped onto everything in the hopes of holding it together— no matter what the problem was, often the result was just a call to the Service Club. People often deliberately overlooked the opportunity to reflect, or analyze and determine what the roots of problems were— or analyze and determine how they could be prevented in future.

They always ignored all of that, and just called the Service Club to come and fix it. This became frustrating sometimes, when the same kinds of problems kept happening because the cause of the problem was never dealt with. But it was the Service’s Club’s job to go and resolve the consequences of problems so they weren’t unfolding anymore. And they did it every time— even if the problem was about to happen again the next consecutive day.

Those were all the pieces of Darren’s life, and of his identity— what it felt like to be him.

There was another aspect of his identity that Darren was unaware of. He had no awareness of its presence, but the fact was, Darren’s cum was magically transformative. All that had to happen was for it to come into contact with a woman he was fucking, and she would be transformed until she lined up with completely with his desires. However oblivious Darren was to this power of his, it still existed— but he really had no knowledge of it at all.

Today was another schoolday, and Darren was back in class, among the other young men and women who were his peergroup— in this particularly class, none of the few remaining seventeen year-olds, scant number they were, were present— so Darren’s eyes could have free reign to roam over other adult bodies to his delight.

But in this class, his English class, there was really only one woman he wanted to be looking at— and she happened to be the only person in the entire room who was standing up— the teacher, at the head of the class, looking out into a sea of learning faces— Beatrice Silver.

Darren liked Beatrice Silver so much that English was his favorite class, easily. And not even necessarily because of what kind of teacher she actually was. Darren basically almost never listened to her, and he still managed to maintain a grade in the upper-nineties.

No, it wasn’t that. English was his favorite class, and Beatrice Silver his favorite teacher, simply because of all the teachers she had pretty much the best body.

And Darren liked to sit at his desk, and ogle her— he was doing it right now.

The way her breasts rose and curved over, the way her rear came out behind her, the way all the lines of her body seemed to flow— Darren’s eyes swept over her, greedily drinking in every part of her body— he was looking at her with open lust, looking into every part of her, and he didn’t even care how much of a risk he was taking.

At any moment, she could easily catch him— he wasn’t hiding what he was doing at all. He kept doing it openly.

As Darren kept looking, a fervent wish was rising up in him. Oh, how he did wish it— wish it with all of his heart, with all the power of his mind, with everything that was in him. One day, couldn’t he please, please be so lucky as to get to fuck her? He didn’t know what he was posing the question to, but there the question was. If only he’d have luck like that someday— if only he could have the experience of that someday.

To know what her body would feel like naked in his hands, to know what it would feel like to send a part of himself inside her, crawling inside as if he could curl up there and be that close to her, part of her, joined to her.

To know— what kind of sounds she would make; what it would be like to watch her responding to him.

He was easily slipping into a fantasy realm now, imagining this classroom to be empty— imagining walking up to her, and pushing her back onto her desk— tearing off her clothes, looking at her naked form— penetrating into her pussy with repeating thrusts, fucking her, watching her breasts jiggle as he pounded her where she lay prone on the desk— and the sound he would hear— her moaning— “Darren, Darren,” breathy, throaty, a sound that conveyed she was lost in a pleasure she’d been completely sent into by him— it all felt so real for a moment— her pussy around him, her body jiggling beneath him, her voice, saying his name— moaning his name, and making other little moans in between— it was so sweet, so total, and so completely perfect.

“Stop looking at me that way!”

Beatrice Silver’s sharp voice ordered. And Darren jumped in his chair— had he been caught, had she seen in his eyes what he had been imagining doing to her?

“Travis Schefferton,” Beatrice scoffed, coming to stand over the desk of a young man two rows ahead of Darren and three desks over— not him, then— but Darren could tell just by looking at Travis, by looking at the clearly caught-out expression he wore on his face, that he had been looking at her, in just the same way Darren had been looking at her himself— looking at her and wanting to fuck her, wanting to have her.

And Beatrice Silver had seen him do it— but she had not seen Darren doing the same. Darren smirked to himself.

“We do not ogle our teachers like they are our own personal pornography show, Travis Schefferton. You’re a man now, you should know better.”

She kicked one leg of his desk with her foot and he jumped up in his seat as the whole desk shook. He was sitting up straighter now, that was for sure.

“You’re going to do an additional research paper for me. Twenty pages, thoroughly researched, and well sourced. That should teach you the meaning of respect, I hope— since you’ve clearly missed that lesson otherwise.”

Travis was blushing now— and looked a bit grumbling and resentful about having that extra work piled on— but he didn’t say anything audibly. Beatrice walked back to the head of the classroom, resuming the lesson.

Darren didn’t know Travis well— but he knew him a little. He wasn’t surprised that Travis had looked; just glad he hadn’t been caught looking himself.

It was in Travis character to look, and to ogle. But to be fair, it was in the character of a lot of the other young men in Darren’s grade— in this classroom alone, Darren was sure that all the other male students often checked Beatrice Silver out as well. In fact, just during today’s class he was sure that many of them had been checking her out— some of them might still be doing it— it was just that they would all be looking her over in varying degrees of obviousness, and varying degrees of appreciation.

Darren let himself take a look around the classroom. Now the other young men were all trying to be careful— no one else wanted to be caught the way that Travis had been caught— no one else wanted to be punished, the way Travis had been punished.

But with each other male student that Darren regarded, it was clear that they were still ogling Beatrice, if a bit more carefully now. They were looking up at her from under lids that were hanging just a little too low— they were shifting uncomfortably in their seats— they were letting their eyes drop down along the entire length of her body and then slowly scan back up.

Darren couldn’t blame anyone. With a body like Beatrice Silver’s, how could they help themselves, and keep them from looking? She was a beauty, an attraction that demanded attention, and with the shapeliness of her body, an attraction that demanded sexual appreciation.

Darren was finding himself uncomfortable in his briefs, actually, as he himself went back to looking at her again. He slipped his hand under his desk, and shifted himself into greater comfort.

Class went on— Darren retained basically nothing— he was only paying attention to the way Beatrice’s hips swayed, the way her whole body undulated when she turned around to raise her arm and write something on the chalk board— watched the way her chest heaved, her breasts pressing outwards, when she inhaled a breath to read something aloud from the textbook.

Yes, he definitely wanted a chance with her someday.

Finally, class was over, and all the students stood to start filing out. They had to go past Beatrice’s desk on the way out of class.

To Darren, it seemed like each young man who walked by was a little shamefaced— unable to quite face her after the way they’d been drinking her in.

But when Darren was passing, he himself to meet her eyes, and give her a respectable smile.

What she did in response stopped him into standing there.

She smiled back— but she inclined her eyebrows up, and the corners of her mouth turned a little too sharply— her teeth showed a little too much— that wasn’t the way a teacher should be smiling at a student— Darren had never seen her wear an expression like that in her class before, and she’d been teaching him English for months now.

It was an expression of utter malice— not even a smile, truly a smirk, a smirk of complete evil— evil designs, evil plans, evil feelings.

Darren shook himself out of pause, and hurried from the classroom, shuddering.

Beatrice Silver was alone in her classroom again— and she had a freeperiod next, a time to try and get herself organized. She wouldn’t be using it for that, though. She was much happier just sitting back in her chair, behind her desk— looking out at the empty classroom in front of her. She interlaced her fingers and put her hands behind her head with her fingers so, interlaced still.

She was Beatrice Silver. She was in full possession of her identity, of her life— and she was happy with herself. She was thirty-eight years old, and she thought she was doing just fine in life. Really, it had been the purpose of her life to be a teacher, and that was what she was. She taught every day, and as far as was concerned, she taught well. Her classes often had better learning outcomes than those of her colleagues.

She had some pride as a woman, too— she knew, from interacting with her male colleagues, and with the eighteen-year-olds she taught, that her body was lusted after.

She was of a motherly age, for those teachers who were in their mid-to-late twenties, and of a motherly age, for her students that were eighteen— she basically only taught senior classes, so only taught students that age— but though she was a motherly age for all of those young men, she knew they wanted to fuck her— that maybe part of the appeal was her similarity in age to their own mothers— it was fun to bust up her adult students and punish them for failing to conceal their lust, though. And she had similar fun intimidating colleagues, when they were a little too obvious about their perverted fantasies.

But still. It was a source of pride to know she was so desired after.

She was beautiful, and she knew that— she had so many becoming features. Her hair was a good one— it hung down to her mid-back in length, and the colour of it was dark blue— the shade looked particularly alluring when considered in conjunction with her jewel-green eyes; blue and green always matched.

The colorfulness of her person added to her attractiveness, she was certain— the blue hair, even though it was a dark shade, stood out in a sea of teachers who only had natural haircolors— and the blue hair made her green eyes pop.

But she still added more color to her appearance than this. She was always sure to paint her lips the brightest, most vibrant, most fiery red— to paint them redwet, making her lipstick look like it was molding perfectly around the natural shape of her lips and curve of her mouth— making her lips look plumper, look rounder, look poutier— look fatter.

She knew the way she presented her lips made them look delectable, ready to kiss, filled out and enticing. She knew this was the effect her lipstick created, and that was why she made sure to always apply it and keep a fresh coating on it— ducking into bathrooms to quickly reapply throughout the day— reapplying it even when she was back at home, by herself. She liked her lips having that effect.

But some parts of her body needed no enhancing, needed no additions to add to the impression they gave off. Her lips were pleasantly curved and shaped when they were naked of all covering— but when they were painted in red lippaint, that was when they really popped.

Not so her body— that did not need to be covered to be enhanced, did not need to be demonstrated in certain lights, or with certain accessories, for the full effect to be exercised. Her body was at its best when she just let it be as it was, naturally. She had many fine bodily features.

And probably the finest of them was her ass— easily, that was the best natural feature she possessed. She’d never had any work done on it, never had any adjustments or alterations done. It was completely natural.

And it was so huge— a great roundness that came out behind her, the curve of which could even be seen from the front, at some angles— which was evident in its plumpness to anyone behind her.

Her second best feature was probably her breasts. These were all natural too, no work had ever been done there either. Her breasts were not huge, in the way her ass was huge— so huge it seemed unbelievable that it could be naturally occurring as opposed to artificially constructed.

But even though her breasts were of a more moderate size, they had a nice form to them— a respectable heft— Beatrice knew, from times that she handled them herself when she was alone, they felt good when they were handfuls— and they always looked good; she put dresses and blouses over them, but they looked good no matter what she wore— they were a complimentary aspect of her figure— they made her look very womanly, made her look very sexy.

C-cups weren’t the most impressive size— but she thought her breasts had character which granted her that kind of air of sexiness— she thought they were special in that they were unique— and she didn’t think there was another pair of breasts that looked quite the way hers did.

But all that was only her body. The thing that made Beatrice Silver Beatrice Silver was her personality.

And her personality was strict. It was mean, and it was unforgiving. She liked being harsh on people. She liked being severe, dictatorial, domineering. Liked having things the way she thought they should be, liked ordering people around and making them conform to her, and in some ways, this made her even more grateful to be a teacher.

But she was glad that she basically only taught students that were already adults, because at least they could follow along with what she told them, they could begin to grasp what her expectations were; and they could be expected to rise to those expectations, no matter how demanding the occasion that they had to rise to.

It was almost even more fun when they failed what she demanded of them, though. She loved the aspect of her job that entailed heaping work on her students, assignments and readings, but liked the punitive aspect, punishing them for when they disappointed her, even more.

She was a teacher at heart, if a strict one, and she always dressed the part, too. She wore extremely professional attire to work. And she knew the gossip around the water-cooler in the teacher’s lounge— some of her colleagues thought she took it too far.

And it was true— her clothing was an excessive expense— she wore tops and skirts, blazers and dresses— pieces that all cost thousands of dollars individually; she put them together into outfits, so in dollar value she was often wearing $10,000 worth of clothes— she even put together outfits of greater value than this, sometimes, venturing into the wearing of $15,000 cumulative value, or even $20,000 cumulative value. Her pieces were all of the highest quality, and they had cost her much to acquire, but she hardly ever thought of that.

Her family background was that of wealth— her parents hadn’t been billionaires by any stretch, but they had been millionaires several times over— each— and growing up in that kind of money gave her a very relaxed association with it. Spending could be seen as worth it, for her.

She dressed with utter decorum— so she expected her students to approach her with a similar decorum. She knew some of her colleagues liked to be on a firstname basis with everyone they taught, but not her.

She only ever wanted her students to address her as Mrs. Silver— she dressed formally, she took her job seriously, and she took her students’ educations seriously, to the point of severity and strictness, so it only seemed fitting to her that she should be addressed with the most formal title of address possible. She liked the inherent respectfulness that came along with being spoken to that way, as a “Mrs. Silver.”

She couldn’t help how her students referred to her in the privacy of their thoughts— if they still called her Mrs. Silver there, or if they used her full name. But at least when they spoke to her, outloud, they called her the right thing— Mrs. Silver, always, only, Mrs. Silver, even though her full name was common knowledge.

Her day continued.

Meanwhile, Darren still had most of his schoolday left. There was nothing particularly special about it— just another day on which he had to show up and work, like he had yesterday, like he would tomorrow. He had all of his classes to get through.

Really, it wasn’t like the work was so hard for him. He could flip his brain off, and sit in whatever class his schedule demanded of him, letting his mind go completely silent, and be completely blank. Then at the end of class, he’d see whatever assignments or readings had been written on the board— he’d take care of them at home.

His classes passed, and then it was time to go to club, the only extracurricular club he was a member of, the Service Club.

They always met at the end of the day, after the last class, to talk about any new tasks that had come in.

It was a small club, so each member had to pull their own weight. If even one person slacked off, all the others suffered the consequences— each one was laden down with double or triple the work at that point. So each member took care to make sure they were doing their share of everything so an unmanageable amount of work became manageable when it was equally divvied out.

Darren didn’t mind the size of the club— each person had room to get noticed.

But that was probably to be expected in a club that only had four members. Everything each one did was obvious to the others in the club, and the others in the school. It was a little ridiculous, really, that they had become the glue holding the school together when they were so few— or maybe it was just impressive that they were able to.

The club’s members were all in their senior year, each one of them eighteen— there was Darren, there was Claire, there was Ruby— and then there was Nora. She was their supervisor; unlike the rest of them, she was a teacher, and she just helped out with the club in addition to teaching her classes.

It wasn’t mandatory for the four of them to meet everyday. Well, nothing was mandatory for Nora, since she was a teacher, and she supervised them all. There’d been meetings in the past where she’d just delegated everything to the three of them and hadn’t made an appearance.

But for the three students in the club, it wasn’t required that they attend every single meeting every day after classes, but Darren’s mother wanted him attending at least three days out of a week, so three days out of a week, he was here at day’s end.

It was because she didn’t want him sitting around at home all the time, Darren knew. But he liked attending meetings well enough.

At least they always knew what was expected of them, and what projects they had to tackle next. There was a very streamlined and centralized system through which they accepted all the requests for tasks that the school sent to them. The clubroom, in which the Service Club met, had a designated computer for this. The clubroom also incidentally doubled as the classroom that Nora White, their supervisor, taught her classes in.

But the computer took in all incoming requests, so to find out what new work they had ahead of them, if any, all they had to do was log onto the computer and review the new notifications it was displaying.

It was really a pretty effective system.

Since the computer was located in Nora’s classroom, and she could keep an eye on it throughout the day. It was positioned right on her teacher’s desk which sat at the front, backside of it facing to the whiteboards on the wall. During the day Nora could monitor incoming requests, but when the Service Club actually met, she let the three of them sit around her desk and look at the information the computer had for them that day.

Darren liked having Nora supervise their club. She was basically always there, apart from the occasional time she delegated to three of them to run a meeting. She watched over them, helped their work— it was nice having her there.

Because Darren spent three afternoons out of a fiveday schoolweek there, Nora was basically the member of the Service Club that he saw most. As supervisor, she was there almost every day, apart from the few times she had a conflict— and while Claire and Ruby were valuable members of the club, they didn’t always necessarily happen to come on the days that Darren was there— sometimes one or the other of them would actually be completing a task, instead of organizing the club’s workload in a meeting, and then Darren wouldn’t see them.

Or sometimes they chose to attend on random days when Darren wasn’t there. But no matter what, Nora was always present, every time he was.

In every way, Nora was pretty much the opposite of Beatrice. And Darren liked Beatrice— at least, he liked looking at her, and having perverted fantasies about her. But he could freely admit that she wasn’t a very kind or considerate person. She was always so strict, always bringing school policy, always bringing her authority down on the heads of her students and making things unpleasant for them, in the harsh manner she had.

Nora was much more welcoming, more forgiving, more open, and more helpful. In terms of personality, Darren definitely liked her personality better.

If Nora had been mean, the Service Club would have been unbearable. But she was nice, and she made it a positive experience.

Today, when Darren walked into the clubroom, the only one present so far was Nora, sitting behind her desk, looking at the Service Club’s computer.

She looked up when she heard Darren enter, and stood from her seat, stepping around the desk, standing there as he walked up to stand in front of her.

They fell into easy small talk— Darren kept his expression a little more guarded since he was occupying Nora’s total focus, but while he was talking to her, his eyes were now and then darting down to stare lecherously at, and observe, her truly magnificent breasts.

She never seemed to catch him, so he got a lot of enjoyment, up until Claire entered the room.

Claire’s arrival meant that things had been kicked into action— it reminded both Darren and Nora that they couldn’t just stand there talking all day, they had to see about engaging in club activities.

So, as was customary, Nora stepped away from her desk, and both Claire and Darren pulled up chairs to sit in front of the computer.

Stationed there, they checked the computer’s notification. Sure enough, there was a new request— one that had been sent in by Mrs. Silver. Her request asked the club to reorganize the monstrously huge bookshelf she had in the back of her classroom.

Darren saw that bookshelf every day— he knew just how big that bookshelf was— truly, it was huge.

It wasn’t a fair task to request of anybody, but certainly an unfair task to request a volunteer association carry out. As soon as Darren saw Beatrice’s message, he was filled with anger. There was nothing he wanted so much as to get on Beatrice for assigning them such an arduous task— but in quickly considering his options, Darren determined that there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t seek his , even if it might have been deserved — and what would help anyway, if it couldn’t remove the thing he was trying to avenge himself for from out of his way? He had to simply accept going to Mrs. Silver’s classroom with Claire beside him.

They would have to complete the request together.

At least, since they were in the Service Club, they had access to every set of spare keys for each one of the school buildings, and each schoolroom within. It kind of had to be this way, else the Service Club never could have accomplished the tasks people demanded of them.

The only key the Service Club didn’t have access to was the one that would have given them access to the principal’s office.

Today, this meant that Claire and Darren could just grab the key they needed on the way out the door. No time need be wasted in the search for a janitor, and their help. They headed off.

Nora White watched them go, sitting back down at her desk. When she sat here, she felt like a teacher— she had taught sitting down from this place, so it was natural that it should make her feel teacherly— she had also taught standing up and writing, at the whiteboards that were currently hanging behind her.

She was a teacher, but she didn’t view it as a position she needed to be overly formal about. She knew that was the view of some of her colleagues, particularly, knew it was the view of Mrs. Silver. But Nora believed she could be a good teacher without having to constantly prove her authority.

That was why she dressed casually when she came to school. Pretty much every day, the clothes she wore were casual. She often favored white blouses and blue jeans— clothes she could have just as easily gone to the park in, gone on a picnic in. She dressed for warm weather, dressed in thin layers, light colors, even when the weather outside was uncooperative with this aspiration.

She looked good in light colors— looked good in pale shades, because it suited her coloring, and also suited her hair— it was of a similarly pale shade as most of the things in her wardrobe also were. It was a faint platinum blonde— and she’d never even needed to dye it to get it looking that way. That was just the natural color of her hair, the color which grew from her head when her hair descended— in some lighting, it looked almost white, the platinum of it was so perfect.

Nora was not a fancy woman, did not have expensive things, but she was fairly confident that if she’d ever actually owned jewelry that displayed pieces of platinum, her hair would match it to the exact color— her hair would be even more platinum than platinum, that it would beat it.

She also always wore her hair long— part of being casual too. If she’d been more strict about her looks, she would have kept it carefully coiffed and cut, but she let it grow freely.

Her hair was also very naturally curly, spinning itself wildly into ringlets which Nora never really tried to fight or control.

She was a sunny, happy person— in line with the kind of bright shades and colors she always wore, in line with her casual, laidback approach. Most people who met her came away thinking just how nice she was, nice to an degree— and came away thinking how she was just such an overall pleasant person.

She’d had someone tell her once that she was the human equivalent of a happy day spent in a meadow. She hadn’t known quite what they had meant by that, but it had seemed a more colorful way of praising her pleasantness.

They hadn’t been the first one to praise it, maybe just the only one to praise it in such an imaginative way.

But everybody said she was pleasant, and friends and colleagues she knew seemed to like coming to talk to her, just to bask in her pleasantness for a while. She was glad to share her disposition.

Honestly, it was probably a good thing she had ended up as a teacher. Her patient nature meant she could get through to even the most-stubborn and bad-tempered students. It was why she was, just like her colleague Mrs. Silver, given basically only the senior classes to teach. At their school, the biggest morale problem was among the senior students. Basically all of them adults now, many of them resented still having to go to school when legally they were emancipated and impatient to get on with their lives. So there was a lot of slacking, and there was a lot of acting out, more in the senior class than in any other class.

But the problem eighteen-year-olds came to her, she taught them in her classes, and because of her patience and her easy-going nature, she often improved their outcomes— got them interested in learning again, or imparted some of her patience by example. Yes, they were adults, but they still needed to stay here and finish their diplomas. All their acting out only rolled off her.

Nora White had her many good qualities, she knew, but she was not without her flaws. Of them, she was greatly aware.

Probably her biggest issue was her clumsiness. She was constantly knocking things off her desk, or walking into it, or turning around to write on the whiteboard and slamming into the wall by accident. It was a miracle she hadn’t yet knocked the computer onto the floor and broken it.

Or she would fumble whiteboard markers and send them flying floor-ward.

Her disposition helped her here, too. Maybe other teachers might have felt threatened, or like their authority had been undermined, but even when she tripped over her own feet, Nora was able to laugh off her stumbles— like everything else, they rolled off of her, and her clumsiness became a running joke that her students could enjoy with her— sometimes it was a running joke even her colleagues could enjoy with her, if she happened to humiliate herself in front of them. But no one could ever mock her about it, because she always laughed first.

Another feature Nora had which she considered a detraction from herself was her huge breasts. They were just too big for her body, she’d long thought so, they were out of proportion with the rest of her. And she tried to dress in her loose casual clothes to hide them— she neither wanted to distract nor make uncomfortable any of her eighteen-year-old students, but her breasts were so big it was hard to accomplish her goals of modesty and putting-at-ease.

Her figure was more useful in her personal life, when she was trying to find dates. It at least meant that she could get dates, but sadly what often happened then was that the men she got were only interested in her body, and little.

Still, she’d gotten used to her body long since. After all, it was her body and she was the one who had to live in it— and her body just happened to come with breasts that were this big, obscenely big. She just had to manage the presentation of them as best she could.

Some parts of her body, she didn’t have to present them at all. They were just there, a part of her, sometimes a particularly alluring part of her, and they just naturally drew people’s attention.

Her eyes were like that. They were such a clear light-blue that they almost looked like two crystals shimmering in her eyesockets— with her platinum hair and also pale eyes, it could make her look a bit like a waif, sometimes, a wisp that might be gusted away by the wind— the light, pale colors she wore enhanced this illusion sometimes.

But even though her eyes were light, there was a clarity in them that really did create the impression of shimmering— they were so faintly shaded that they looked watercolors, some drawings someone had done where they had mixed too much water into the paint and washed nearly all the pigment away.

But they were her eyes, and Nora was used to them. She knew some friends, former boyfriends too, particularly liked them, and found them catching— her indifference to them wasn’t widespread.

The last notable feature of her body was Nora’s ass. It was notable because it was small. Sometimes when she was getting dressed in the morning, she grumbled about it as she looked herself over— if only it had been bigger or more filled out— but it was tiny, barely visible, barely enough to sit on.

So it gave her a very lopsided appearance— if one focused on the faintness in her appearance, her illusion as waif was complete, but if one was really looking at the shape of her body, looking at how top-heavy her chest was, then Nora knew that filled her back and made her seem solid, steady enough to withstand a hypothetical wind.

But she really could look top-heavy sometimes— her chest standing out, her waist normal— and then, just nothing, no visual anchor to counterbalance what was up top, so small an ass that it was hardly any kind of ass at all.

Oh well. It was Nora’s ass. This was how her body was. She could accept the truth of that about herself.

Claire Hall walked in the directions of Mrs. Silver, moving along at Darren’s side. She knew him pretty well, probably better than most, since they spent so much time working on Service Club projects together, so she felt comfortable in his company, even if they weren’t actually saying anything to each other right now.

She knew most of the people in the senior class pretty well, since it was her class after all— they were a good group of young adults, she always thought— and she was one of their number, an adult and yet still stuck biding her time until she’d been handed her diploma— in the same boat as all the rest of them, in the same boat as Darren.

Claire had some good physical features, and she knew that. She was secure in herself, and she knew what her value was. One of her nicest qualities was her eyes— hers were blue, like a lot of people’s, but they had a quality all her own— they had a brightness to them, they shone basically all the time; and yes, the color of them was technically a bright, vibrant blue, but the brightness to them was more than that— they were sparkling.

They just had a shine in them that had nothing to do with color, and a lot to do with personality— it was cool to Claire that her eyes could have that kind of an aspect to them when technically there was nothing in them that was capable of producing a sparkling effect. And yet it happened.

One of Claire’s other special qualities was her hair. A bright, lovely, cheerful pink color— and she always wore it short. She felt with a shade such as hers that a short hairstyle was more suitable; it had a similarly kind of fun feeling that seemed to go along and match-up.

She liked her hair a lot, really. And not just because of its length, although that was nice. Where it came to rest, just a bit past her chin, it was basically never in her way, and it was so light, weight-wise, that she basically almost never felt it hanging there, and that was nice too. Long hair could be a literal burden, and heavy— and Claire liked having her hair loose and free and uncumbersome.

But she also liked the color of it. She felt it matched her personality, truly expressed who she was inside.

Claire’s breasts were a quality she had no opinion on, really, one way or another. As a woman, maybe she should have had a stronger opinion on them, but she was more or less indifferent. They were there, and they were small. She could fill out an A-cup sized bra, mostly, but that was as far up the list of cupsizes as she could venture.

Her chest was small, and she looked flat basically in whatever she wore. She had enough self-respect that she had never considered stuffing her bra. If men were going to be attracted her, they could like her the way she was. She got enough interest from them that she was pretty sure she had enough appeal even with her body as it was, although a large part of that might have been her personality.

She didn’t rely on it to compensate that much. She just found it a natural balancing out of her all around package, what she could offer to any man who was interested in engaging her. Her body was alright, it was what she had to work with, but she could do more to effectively present herself by drawing on her personality as well as looks.

The flatness of her chest even bestowed some positive qualities on her. With her short hair, the color of it, that sparkle in her eyes, as well as her flat chest, Claire was a cute woman. No one would ever say she was stunning, or mouthwateringly goodlooking, but everyone would agree, she was cute.

And cute was enough to draw the attention of men— certainly enough to draw the attention of the men in her senior class with her— biding their time until their diplomas like she was. Cute was enough to get by, cute was enough to bring her everything she wanted; if her chest hadn’t been so flat, she might have been voluptuous, but she definitely wouldn’t have been cute, and likely wouldn’t have drawn as much attention.

A voluptuous body could draw a look, but Claire’s cuteness was more valuable to her than that— it could draw sustained attention, fascination which eventually developed into attraction, or even into a desire for closeness. People kept looking back at cute things, trying to pinpoint exactly why they were so cute, and that was all Claire needed— enough attention on her for her prospective men to decide they wanted her. Her cuteness achieved this.

Claire was made even cuter by the fact she was petite. She was small, her height was not great— her chest wasn’t the only thing about her that undersized.

In fact, it was probably in decent proportion with the rest of her— she barely made it to five feet, but she was at that height. And her height made her cuter, encouraged more of that sustained fascination that could lead on to other things, that sustained fascination she wanted to see, and which, when she got from a man, made her excited and anticipating of good things to come, whether any actually came or not.

She didn’t begrudge her height any more than she begrudged her lack of bosom. Everything about her was prominent enough that it made her noteworthy, and that was enough for her.

As long as people were noticing her, she could work with it. So she was used to the qualities of her appearance, for the most part, and knew how to utilize them, knew the inherent strengths and weaknesses they contained. And how to work around them or exploit them, as the case may be. As Claire often thought, she was secure in herself, with nothing she would change.

Her personality really was probably her best asset though, and there was no point in denying it. Like the sparkling of her yes, she was naturally bright. If she had been a drink, she would have bubbled and bubbled up, she fizzed, she was something light and buoyant, something that loosened people and put them at ease, made them feel better about themselves and better about everything. She was like human champagne, and as fun as it was for the people who talked to her to get a taste of her sweet fizziness, it was just as fun for her to embody that sweet fizziness.

She was also sure that her personality was the reason she knew so many people— practically every adult in senior year, and not just on a name basis, but usually to one or two degrees of intimacy, knowing some things about them that weren’t widespread throughout the grade.

She never forgot any information that she ever learned about anyone, either. She always liked to make everyone feel that she remembered them, that they were important— because she really did believe that, but also, because it was a fun way to be.

It made life easier in general, her lightheartedness.

It was her natural buoyancy that also made her such an flirt. With all the men she knew, all the men her own age, she was constantly flirting, flirting to the point of teasing, to the point of trying to make people uncomfortable.

Sometimes she even pushed things and flirted with her male teachers. They were older than men of her own age, but they were even more fun to flirt with because they were so much more nervous about it. But really, as long as she could get a rise out of a man, she didn’t mind who she was flirting with. She just allowed herself to flirt indiscriminately, however the fancy took her.

It was always particularly fun when someone she was flirting with flirted back with her, however. Then she could take the game even further— she’d push the flirting as far as it would go, but for the men who responded just by blushing and falling silence, there wasn’t any more to be done. With those who contributed, she could advance beyond.

But she never committed to actually pursuing anything, no matter who was flirting. She wasn’t one for commitment. Liked to playfully flirt— never cared for following through.

Darren and Claire, after walking across the school and down many long hallways, had finally reached Beatrice’s classroom. Darren was glad to have finally gotten there— the bookshelf at the back of the classroom was a frightful thing in his memories, and he wanted to actually size it up in the present moment, to see if it might be slightly less bad than he was remembering it.

He and Claire stepped into Beatrice’s now emptied classroom— there were several bookshelves along the backwall, but it was clear which one they were meant to deal with.

It was a complete mess; nothing in alphabetical order, nothing organized according to any kind of sequence, stuffed so full it looked like it would burst, in between the two other bookshelves back there.

Neither one wanted to particularly deal with it.

“Well,” Claire said. “This is a boring way to spend a weekday afternoon, isn’t it?”

Darren smirked. Claire seemed like she was angling her way towards flirting— but he knew Claire, and she always flirted for the fun of it. She never really meant what she was saving, so it was safe to play back.

“It’s definitely much more fun to spend weekday afternoons engaging in strenuous activity,” Darren teased— then watched to see what Claire would do in response.

She smiled, clearly having taken his meaning. “Strenuous activity is my favorite kind,” she confessed— her hands were flat to the surface of Beatrice’s desk, and she was leaning over it; highlighting her cleavage with her position. “When bodies get all… sweating, and tense… and heartbeats race. It’d be much more fun to be doing something like that— much more fun to strenuously exercise than to organize some stupid old books.”

There wasn’t much farther the implication could go before it had to become a full-on statement, so Darren decided this was the point where the flirting had to stop. It was the right time for a change of topic.

“Have you been doing anything fun lately?” He asked, instead of pursuing the flirtation further.

“Some reading,” Claire said, raising a hand to swipe some hair behind an ear. “I find it entertaining. It… relaxes me. When I’m all worked up and I just need to let the pressure out. In one gush— I open a book, and it’s all gone.”

The way she said it didn’t sound like she meant reading at all. She was trying to pull back to flirtation again— why?

“Have you taken up any hobbies?” Darren tried instead.

“Running,” Claire answered— the look in her eyes was determined. “I told you I like strenuous activity best. The feeling of my body moving, and giving me… relief.”

Darren was quite perverted, he knew— but the brazenness with which Claire spoke was making even him flush.

And when Claire saw him flush, she smirked.

She was just doing this to tease him, Darren reminded himself. She had to be. Claire was renowned for flirting and never actually doing anything about it.

And Claire was enjoying herself— dropping sexual innuendos, implying she and Darren could have a good time together sexually. She liked teasing Darren in particular, because though he often brushed her off, there was a look in his eyes that said there was more behind what he showed the world. And in teasing him, she could see that, and it made Claire curious.

However, though she always teased him, though she always teased any man she could, she felt how different today was. She didn’t know why, but she was just so horny. Commitment might possible.

“Come on, Darren. Wouldn’t it be more fun to strenuously exercise ourselves instead of organizing?”

Why was Claire so different today? She was supposed to be all talk, but this time it seemed like she was really trying to make something sexual happen.

“Just sit down in Mrs. Silver’s chair,” Claire purred. “Sit down, and open your pants, and I’ll bring you off with just my hand.”

Darren looked carefully— Claire really seemed prepared to do it. And he was hard— Claire’s flirting having gotten to him. With a shrug, he sat, and opened his pants.

Claire was very quick. As soon as Darren was free, her hand wrapped, firmly and tightly, around his cock, and she pulled, pulled, pulled at him, Darren feeling like she was reaching inside of him to pull something out.

She was leaning over him, from behind the back of the chair, her arm along his leg, her lips against his ear. “You could fuck Mrs. Silver, you know,” she husked. “Don’t you wish for her so badly? You want to be inside that tensed, sexual body of hers. You want her squeezing on your cock.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her in class,” Claire breathed. Her hand seemed to be working him even more rapidly now, and Darren’s breathing was starting to match hers. “When you think no one is looking at you— you don’t even hide it— I’ve seen how many ways you’ve taken her in this room in your imagination through your eyes, and through your facial expression.”

It was hot to be so caught out. Darren gasped another breath. His cock twitched in the grip of Claire’s fingers as they jerked him— they pumped him.

“And I bet you call her Beatrice in your head, don’t you?”

Darren was a little too caught up to confirm this, though he was impressed with Claire for being so perceptive. Claire didn’t seem to need his answer, though.

“But you know you can’t ever do it where she could hear you. You know how harshly you would be punished. If only you were allowed to call her Beatrice, if only you could say her name and know she would never punish you, that you would never even have to fear that she would.”

Darren was bucking rapidly up into Claire’s hand, and her grip was getting tighter. She was painting his fantasies for him, and they were so alluring to regard.

“You wish— oh, how you wish you could make her scream out your name in uncontrollable pleasure— you want to make her cry it as you fuck your way inside of her— and you wish you could make her dress sluttier, wish you could see her dressing sluttier, to teach all our senior classmates, knowing that she’d dressed up that way because she belonged entirely to you.”

All these fantasies were true— and Claire’s hand was such a vise on him. Darren’s hips were stuttering. He wasn’t going to be able to hold back, and he didn’t even want to. He jerked forwards into Claire’s hand one more time, and then he was spraying cum.

To keep her grip on him even while he sprayed so much spunk, Claire wrapped her other hand around her first, and so Darren blasted all of his cum directly into Claire’s hands— it was like she was holding the opening of a faucet with high waterpressure.

Darren finally sagged in Beatrice’s chair, once his balls had completely emptied all of their contents onto Claire’s hands.

Claire was raising her hands to her mouth. She carefully licked all of the spunk off of them— making sure to get almost every drop of semen with her tongue— she was really getting most of it. She didn’t know why she kept licking. It wasn’t like she adored the taste— yet she found herself continuing to lick clean.

Claire didn’t realize what was happening in her body at that moment. She was only conscious of the fact that she wanted to keep licking at Darren’s coating semen.

But inside, her body was changing. That very same semen she wantonly licked was already modifying her— just by contacting her, it had started its process, and now that she was licking and swallowing it down, that process was many times accelerated. With its magical properties, it reached into every cell, into every fiber, and rewrote what needed to be rewritten, what it had the power to rewrite.

It wasn’t only delving into her physical form. With its magical reach, it accessed her brain, changing what needed to be changed there, too.

Claire needed to become Darren’s personal slut— his sexy, sexual slut who always hungered for his semen, begged for it, licked it and drank down as much of it as she could get. She needed to become this because it was what Darren unconsciously desired— so now she needed to be made compliant to that desire.

Claire, for her part, still didn’t even realize anything was happening as her brain continued to be modified— it was changing. Now, she would only ever agree to have sex with Darren. Every other man of eighteen in her grade that she knew— Claire would never fuck any of them anymore. Only Darren now, only Darren for her— and now, thanks to her brain modifications, just the thought of Darren would, from the present forward, make her drip copious arousal.

Darren really took in the sight of Claire. Her breasts looked like they were a B-cup, now. And Darren was as oblivious as Claire to what was happening. He couldn’t know why Claire was changing— couldn’t know, either, that his desiring had prompted it.

But Darren could see that her breasts were B-cups. And this confused him slightly: even though Claire was an adult now— was her body still developing, albeit lately? Her breasts must have just grown for some reason.

Or maybe he’d been misremembering their size. He’d thought they were A-cups, but he’d clearly been picturing them in his head incorrectly.

They really must have been B-cups, with Darren miscategorizing them. B-cups suited Claire; they made her look like the cute eighteen-year-old woman she was; but with something substantial on her chest. Of course the B-cups should suit her; they were a natural presence on her body.

Claire, oblivious to the fact that her breasts had just grown an entire cupsize, gestured for Darren to get off Beatrice’s chair. Darren, curious to see what Claire would do, stood to his feet, taking the opportunity to put himself away and close up his pants.

Claire had licked a lot of Darren’s semen off her hands— but there had been so much, there was still plenty on her.

Darren watched her step to Beatrice’s chair, and smear his remaining semen all over the seat.

“Serves her right for giving us an awful task.”

She said it triumphantly.

***

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