Beg Pan to help you — you need a teacher and she's right there.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 11:13 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

"Please," I hear myself say, and the voice that comes out is breathy and desperate and nothing like mine. "Please, I need — I need a teacher. I need you. You're right here. Please help me."

The words pour out of me like water through a broken dam. I'm sitting on the bench with my thighs pressed together, my new pussy throbbing and slick, soaking through the pleated skirt. Every nerve in this borrowed body is screaming for contact, for direction, for someone to tell me what to do. The compulsion isn't just an urge anymore — it's a physical ache, a hollow emptiness between my legs that demands to be filled.

Pan's amber eyes blaze with triumph. She steps closer, the ruler dangling from her fingers, and looks down at me with an expression of calculated benevolence.

"Say it properly," she commands, her voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that makes my spine melt. "What do you call me?"

"Teacher," I whimper. The word feels right in my mouth, like it was always meant to be there. "Please, Teacher. I need you to teach me. I'll be good. I'll be so good."

"Oh, I know you will." Pan sets the ruler down on the bench beside me and reaches for the hem of her plaid skirt. Her fingers curl into the fabric and she lifts it slowly — deliberately — revealing inch after inch of bronze thigh, the lacy edge of her black stockings, and then —

My eyes go wide.

Her cock springs free from beneath the fabric, thick and veiny and massive, jutting from her body with an authority that matches her voice. It's at least ten inches long, the shaft flushed dark with blood, the head swollen and glistening with a bead of precum that catches the jack-o'-lantern light. Beneath it, her heavy balls hang full and round, already drawing up tight with arousal.

"Surprise," Pan says softly, wrapping one hand around the shaft and giving it a slow stroke. More precum wells from the tip, a thick transparent strand that stretches and breaks. "Did you think I was just a pretty shopkeeper, Trevor?"

I should be horrified. I should be screaming. Instead, my pussy clenches — a deep, involuntary spasm that sends a gush of wetness down my inner thighs. The sight of her cock fills me with a hunger so intense it borders on pain. My mouth waters. My hips shift on the bench, spreading my legs without conscious permission.

"Teacher," I breathe, staring at that thick shaft. "Please. I need —"

"I know exactly what you need." Pan steps between my spread thighs, the head of her cock brushing against the soaked fabric of my skirt. She reaches down and flips the hem up, exposing my bare pussy — swollen, glistening, the lips puffy and parted, clit throbbing visibly beneath its hood. Cool air kisses my wet flesh and I shudder.

She positions herself at my entrance. I can feel the heat of her cockhead radiating against my opening, the blunt pressure of it nudging my slick folds apart. My body opens for her instinctively, muscles relaxing, pussy drooling with anticipation.

"Tell me you want it," Pan whispers, her lips brushing my ear. Her cock twitches against my entrance, smearing precum across my swollen labia. "Beg your teacher to fuck you."

"Please fuck me," I gasp, my hips tilting upward, trying to take her in. "Please, Teacher, I need your cock inside me. I need you to fill me up. Please — please —"

Pan grins. Her hands grip my hips with bruising force.

And she thrusts forward.