French, For Now

Back when I was a dork with absolutely no game, I thought that taking French might be a way to get more ladies to like me. After all, it couldn't just be called the language of love for no reason, right? As it turned out, however, French had been about as useful, or interesting for that matter, as a pile of blank books. Nobody cared if I could tell someone to shut up both informally and formally, and as a result, i'd mostly just done the homework and glided by on a satisfactory C. And yet, the fact that I still knew hardly any French made things more and more complicated. Some days, it almost seemed like that C might start to slip. Almost.

After a short walk, I'd arrived at my French classroom, and opened the door to see Madame Gagnon well into a lesson about this week's vocab words, including Le Chien, Le Chat, L'eau, Le Jus D'Orange, Le Jus de Pomme, and various other words. Although most people in the class seemed to be fairly focused on the vocab, Madame Gagnon, as well as the class flunky Brenda Mason, turned to me.

"Ah! Monsieur Michael! I see you've finally decided to join us!" She mocked in her heavy Quebecois accent. A few snickers and smirks floated throughout the classroom at that. "We are simply going over our vocab for the week. Do pay attention, oui?" And with that, she returned to the lesson at hand.

My focus, however, was not upon the french words on the whiteboard, nor upon the students now repeating their pronunciation back at Madame Gagnon. No, my concentration was on how to transform this rather dull language class into yet another thing I could claim as my harem. As I leaned back and thought, I looked around the room, and began thinking of the people I could even add. For the most part, this room was full of Freshmen, Sophomores, and a few Juniors. As far as people over 18 went, it was really only me, Madame Gagnon, and Brenda Mason.

Madame Gagnon was a thin and tall woman, her physique mirroring that of a steel pole or a grain of wheat. She possessed no chest, no ass, thighs thinner than chicken legs, and on the days where she wore anything even slightly exposing, it wasn't hard to see her bones. It was quite likely she had an eating disorder, something easily rectified by the rulebook, but regardless something that made an act as obscene and visceral as sex seem like something she'd be incapable of handling.

Brenda, on the other hand, was a fairly normal woman in physique, with nothing extraordinary about her. She developed her C-cup breasts far later than her peers and ate with little to trepidation, leading to her having a love life that some would call spotty. Still, there was room enough to mold something cute and fuckable out of, and seeing my two choices, I'd have to settle for her if I wanted something now.

Old Rule: The French class has a designated Slut role. Whichever female student receives the Slut role will be ****, everyday, to record a video of themselves masturbating until they cum three times. Anytime the Slut gets a grade below a C+ on an assigment in the French class, they will upload all of the videos of them masturbating to all of their social media accounts. If the female student with the Slut role attempts to cheat on an assignment, quiz, test, or any other form of work for the French class, regardless of their success in getting away with it, will begin their masturbation video for that day with them slapping their pussy 250 times, punctuating each slap with "I'm a dumb slut who needs to cheat to succeed." The Slut role can only be given to a female student in their senior year who is 18 years old.

After that long paragraph of a rule, I looked up to see Brenda now squirming in her seat. She's wearing her school-mandated skirt, and from your position you can see her pussy is beet red, presumably from being slapped and rubbed recently. Despite this, she is the most attentive student in the whole classroom, eyes locked nervously on Madame Gagnon, looking to learn as much as possible for tonight's homework. You then get a devilish idea.

"Psst! Brenda!" You whisper to her from across the classroom. She successfully ignores you.

"Brenda, look at me!" She darts her eyes over to you, but not quick enough to see your quick motions waving her over.

"Brenda! Walk over to me!" Finally, she rises to her feet and shuffles to you, careful not to take her attention from the front of the classroom. As she nears you, you lean close to her ear, and whisper a delightful command.

"When you return to your seat, I want you to take yesterday's homework, fold it up into as small of a piece of paper as possible, and eat it. Do you understand?" Her expression grows pale. She shakes her head rapidly, and with some quick thinking, finds herself still standing next to you to avoid sitting back down. Eventually, though, Madame Gagnon notices Brenda standing there next to you.

"Brenda, please return to your seat."

Brenda shakes her head no, trying to blink back tears. "I can't. I'm sorry, I can't."

"Brenda, if you don't return to your seat this instant, I'll have to give you an F for daily participation, and I don't think either of us want that to happen."

Brenda, recognizing defeat, lowers her face, streaks of tears beginning to run down them, and wordlessly marches back to her seat. She sobs as silently as possible, knowing she'd still need to pay attention to the vocab. It'd honestly be kind of funny if I didn't still have some empathy left. Feeling pity on the poor girl, I decided to give her a way out.

"Psst! Brenda, come here!" Mere seconds before Brenda sat back down at her desk, she did the quickest heel turn i'd ever seen and strutted back over to my desk. As she glared down at me, wondering what else I could possibly want, I offered her an alternative.

"I know how much you want to turn in your homework today. So I've got a challenge for you. Madame Gagnon will spend, at most, another ten minutes working on the vocab. If you can get under my desk and suck me off to completion before she's done with the vocab, I won't make you eat your homework."