Fetish class

The walk to Ms. Fox’s class feels like a funeral march. The warm morning sun does nothing to ease the knot in your stomach, the dread curling tighter and tighter as you near the building. Your pulse thunders in your ears, every step heavier than the last.

What the hell does “right attire” even mean? The anxiety has been gnawing at you all weekend, and that cryptic email only made things worse. You’d spent hours mulling over it, trying to decipher Ms. Fox’s intentions—Was she expecting you to come naked? Or was this some kind of test, meant to throw you off your game?

You’d settled on safe. Jeans, a plain T-shirt. Something so neutral, so boring it couldn’t possibly get you into trouble. But now, as you climb the stairs to the classroom, the doubt creeps in again, knotting your insides. What if I’m wrong?

The hallway outside the room is eerily quiet, the muffled sounds of students drifting from other classrooms. You pause at the door, swallowing hard. The image of yourself from last week flashes in your mind—standing naked at the front of the class, your cock hard and twitching as every girl stared at you. Your cheeks burn hot at the memory, and you shake your head, trying to push it away.

No way it can be worse than that.

You take a deep breath, gripping the strap of your bag tighter as you push the door open. And then you freeze.

Your first thought is What the hell? Your second thought is Oh, crap.

The room is alive with color, fabric, and skin—lots of skin. Every girl is decked out in something wild, something bold, something sexy as hell. It takes you a second to process what you’re seeing, the sight so unexpected it knocks the breath from your lungs.

Madison sits at the front of the room, her shy demeanor clashing beautifully with the provocative milkmaid dress clinging to her curves. The lace-up bodice hugs her full chest, her round, creamy cleavage on full display as she fidgets nervously with her braids. Her white stockings end just above her knees, the soft skin of her thighs peeking out beneath the hem of her skirt. She glances up at you, her cheeks flushing pink.

Ruby lounges in the middle row, legs crossed as she leans back in her chair, snapping her riding crop against her palm. Her dominatrix outfit is unreal—a black leather bodysuit cut high on her hips, showing off her long legs clad in fishnet stockings. Her boots reach all the way to her thighs, and her grin is pure, unfiltered wickedness as her eyes lock onto you. “Took you long enough,” she drawls, flicking the crop in your direction with a smirk. “I was starting to think you chickened out.”

Sage is sprawled lazily across her chair, popping a bubble with her gum. Her outfit is as minimal as you’d expect—just a sheer, flowy skirt that drapes over her hips and a tiny bralette that barely covers her nipples. Her raven-black hair falls loose and wild around her shoulders, and her piercings glint in the light. She gives you a lazy once-over, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile.

Michelle stands near the back, her arms crossed over her chest. Her athletic build is on full display in a cropped tank top and the shortest pair of gym shorts you’ve ever seen. The tight fabric clings to her every curve, and the sheen of sweat on her skin makes her look like she just stepped off the track. She raises an eyebrow at you, her expression cool and confident.

And then there’s Sara. Oh, Sara. She’s perched on the edge of one of the desks, one leg crossed over the other, her Jinx cosplay making your brain short-circuit. Her twin blue pigtails frame her mischievous grin, and her barely-there top and short shorts leave nothing to the imagination. The straps of her thigh-high boots hug her legs, and her belt full of fake grenades jingles as she swings her feet. “Oh, hi, John!” she chirps, her voice dripping with faux innocence. “You like my outfit? I thought it’d be fun to, you know, dress up for today’s lesson. Did you dress up? No? Huh... awkward.” She giggles, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she leans forward, giving you a very distracting view of her chest.

Your brain is still struggling to process what’s happening when Ms. Fox steps into view, her heels clicking against the floor. Her outfit is so on-brand it almost hurts—her pencil skirt is tighter than ever, the slit riding scandalously high up her thigh. Her sheer blouse does little to hide the lacy black bra beneath, and her hair is pinned up in a sharp, no-nonsense bun. She’s the epitome of the sexy teacher archetype, her ruler tapping lightly against her palm as she surveys the room.

Her sharp eyes land on you, and she lets out a soft, disappointed tsk. “John,” she says, her tone carrying that familiar mix of authority and amusement. “Didn’t you read your syllabus? Today’s lesson is on fetishes. It was clearly marked to come dressed appropriately.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Your brain is still desperately trying to catch up, to make sense of the chaos.

Ms. Fox raises an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. “I even sent an email reminder,” she adds, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Did you miss that too?”

The girls are watching you now, their eyes alight with amusement as you stand there like a deer caught in headlights. Ruby snickers, twirling the crop in her hand. “Guess someone didn’t do their homework.”

Sara giggles, swinging her legs. “Better hope Ms. Fox doesn’t dock your grade for this.”

Even Madison can’t help but smile, her blush deepening as her gaze flickers between you and the floor.

Ms. Fox’s smirk fades, replaced by a sharp, no-nonsense expression as she steps closer, her ruler tapping rhythmically against her palm. The sound echoes in the quiet room, each click digging deeper into your growing unease.

“John,” she begins, her tone clipped and authoritative, “It’s bad enough that you’ve spent half this semester daydreaming, ignoring the discussions, and treating this class like an afterthought. But now, this?” She gestures to your plain T-shirt and jeans, her eyebrow arched in mock disbelief. “Did you even glance at the syllabus? Or were you too distracted by... other things?” Her eyes flick over you, piercing and unrelenting.

Her ruler jabs lightly against your chest, not hard, but enough to make you flinch. “For the record,” she continues, her voice cool as glass, “the instructions were simple: dress as a fetish. That doesn’t mean you had to show up naked—yet—but apparently even that was too much of a challenge for you.” Her lips curl into a thin smile, her amusement barely veiling her disappointment. “Once again, you’ve proven you’re not paying attention. And once again, you’re going to learn the hard way why that’s a problem.”