Pushing the Teacher's Boundaries

She slowly picked up the cannabis-infused vape commonly used by her students and held it near her mouth, giving it a sniff. She had never so much as touched a **** that wasn’t prescribed or the customary glass of wine every now and then, but here she was holding a vape in her hand like some sort of common delinquent. The only part of her arguing for the rationality of smoking in front of her students was distracted by an intoxicating need to help them, and they said this would help.

They looked at her as if she were a movie. They looked at her large breasts, which had teased so many for so many years but now sat in a tight tank top which threatened to expose her nipples at any moment. The boys knew it would be any day now, but they didn’t want to risk losing progress. They looked at her long, pale legs, shaped by years of lecture and a commitment to yoga. And, finally, they looked at her soft, manicured hands which held the vape pen teasingly against her perfectly rounded mouth, so close that they could almost taste it for her. Nowhere on campus had there been a stronger **** against the use of marijuana. Nowhere on campus had someone so clearly fought tooth and nail for students to realize that there is no greater gift than the clarity of the mind. But none of that mattered now as she prepared to smoke their vape, five minutes before the seventh period bell rang.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked, biting at the tip, almost sucking. “There are other forms of punishment which perhaps might be more suitable.”

“Let’s think about this,” Jose said. “You wanted us to be creative with our punishments, right?”

“Right,” she said, still nibbling, still sitting on top of her desk.

“And a punishment should be something you don’t like.”

“Of course.” Jose was really quite smart.

“And you thought weed was bad.”

“Think,” she said.

“What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“You said that I thought weed was bad, but that would imply a past tense. I don’t think weed is bad; I know it is. It dulls your senses, makes people silly, and hungry.”

“And since you feel that way, it makes it the perfect punishment.”

She wished she could argue, but she couldn’t. All those years of study, but she was helpless in front of this eighteen-year-old in boxers and a tank top. She wondered why she ever thought she was better than him. She placed the vape up to her plump pink lips, pressing the tip of the pen carefully against her tongue. She hesitated one last time, but Lyle just nodded at her, so she closed her eyes and took a deep inhale, feeling the smoke go all the way to her lungs. The burning sensation sat there before traveling slowly to her arms, legs, and eventually back to her mouth with a cough followed by a giggle.

“Holy shit, that burnt,” she said through a laugh, causing her heavy tits to shake through her shirt. “Okay. Okay, that was bad, but at least it was only one time.”

She stood up and threw her stuff into her bag, leaving the remains of her clothes and her large white bra scattered haphazardly on her desk. She accidentally dropped her pen. The rest of the boys looked at each other trying to figure out the perfect thing to say, until finally, Derrick spoke up.

“I smoke weed everyday, before every class. Would you say that’s below you?”

She thought about responding negatively. She thought about sending him to the principal's office, or sitting him down and reprimanding him, but all those thoughts danced in her head like bubbles. Bubbles that popped when they saw the curve of Terrence’s biceps through his shirt. Was Terrence always so cute? she thought.

“Mrs. Laucella? Is it below you?”

“Fuck no. I’ll smoke weed before every class. I’m relatable because I’m a good fucking teacher,” she said, giggling while the bell rang.

There was a bit more of a shake of her hips as she left her class. Right before leaving, she turned to see them all staring at her ass. She thought she would help them out, and pulled her cut-offs higher up to expose the bottom curve of her ass cheeks. As extra credit, she gave her bubble butt a spank.

“See you tomorrow!”

The class howled like dogs as she left.

Getting home that day, Mrs. Laucella started to consider her day rather deeply. She didn’t remember her classroom being such a ruckus previously. In fact, though the memory was a bit hazy, especially under the fog of the THC which still lingered in her mind, she remembered her classroom actually being rather strict. She stared at the mirror. What had happened to her outfit? She looked to the side and leaned forward slightly; her nipples were almost popping out from the side of her makeshift tank top. She turned her large behind towards the mirror and took a step and watched it shake. She gave it another little shake. She used to think that being objectified was the worst thing that could ever happen, but Lyle, Jackson, Terrence, Peter, and Jose seemed to enjoy it so much, and she would never think of herself as better than them. She gave her butt another quick shake, causing the cheeks to reverberate and clap together. It was making her slightly aroused.

She walked into her walk-in closet, intending to find something comfortable to wear for the evening. Her eyes scanned the racks of color-coordinated blazers, pencil skirts, and modest blouses. Yesterday, this sight would have brought her a sense of order and pride. Today, it looked like a costume shop for someone pretending to be important. She ran her hand over a gray wool blazer. It felt scratchy and stiff.

How can I connect with anyone wearing this? she thought, a sneer curling her lips. This is what a boss wears. A dictator. Someone who thinks they are above everyone else.

She grabbed the hanger and threw the blazer onto the floor. Then she grabbed a silk blouse that buttoned all the way to the neck. Prude, she thought, tossing it onto the pile. She worked through the rack with increasing speed, discarding the symbols of her academic superiority until the floor was littered with dry-clean-only fabrics. She was left looking at a small pile of gym clothes she rarely wore and John’s old t-shirts. She grabbed one of his oversized shirts and pulled it on; it hung loosely off one shoulder, exposing her bra strap, but it felt humble. It felt right.

Just then, she heard the front door open.

"Honey, I'm home!" John called out, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

Marianne walked down the stairs, her breasts bouncing freely under the thin fabric of the old shirt. She was excited to see her husband after such a crazy day. He was her rock, the one who made the world feel right again. With so many thoughts, she hadn’t even remembered to put on panties. She found John already who trudged past her straight for the living room couch. He looked ragged, his tie loosened and his briefcase dragging on the floor. He collapsed onto the cushions without looking at her.

"Hey," he grunted, closing his eyes. "Beer."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a polite request. It was a command. A week ago, Marianne would have lectured him on manners and told him to get it himself. But the rule book in her mind flashed bright and clear: Good teachers always try to help. And right now, her husband needed help relaxing.

"Coming right up!" she chirped.

She hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a cold bottle, and popped the cap. She returned to the living room and placed it in his hand. He took a long swig, letting out a satisfied groan, but he didn't open his eyes.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "My feet are killing me. Absolute **** today."

Marianne hesitated for a moment, looking at his dress socks. "Well, I actually have a lot of grading to do, John. And I need to rethink my entire curriculum for tomorrow because apparently, I don't know who the first president is."

John cracked one eye open, looking at her standing there in his old t-shirt and ripped denim shorts. He remembered the magic word.

"Marianne," he said softly, putting on his most pathetic face. "I am in pain. It would be really helpful if you gave me a foot massage right now."

The word hit her like a tranquilizer dart. Her shoulders slumped, and the resistance in her mind melted away. "Of course," she said, her voice going dreamy. "I want to be helpful."

She sat at the end of the couch and began to work his shoes off. She peeled off his socks, revealing his tired, slightly sweaty feet. She began to knead his arches with her thumbs, applying pressure just the way he liked.

"That's okay," John said, taking another sip of beer. "But it's not quite doing the trick. The knots are really deep today."

"I'm pressing as hard as I can," she said, putting her body weight into it.

"I know, honey. But hands just aren't enough." He looked at her, a mischievous glint in his eye that matched the boys in her classroom. "You know what would be really helpful?"

"What?" she asked, looking up at him with big, obedient doe eyes.

"If you used your mouth. The warmth and the suction... it really helps break up the tension in the toes. It's a holistic thing."

Marianne recoiled slightly. "My mouth? John, that's... that's gross. I'm not sucking on your toes."

"It's just that I'm in so much pain," he said, wincing dramatically. "And I thought you wanted to help. I thought you didn't think you were above doing what's necessary to make people feel better. But I guess if you think you're too good for it..."

Too good for it. The phrase rattled in her skull. A teacher never believes herself above her students. Or her husband. If she refused, she was saying she was better than him. She was saying her dignity was more important than his comfort. That was selfish. That was arrogant.

"No," she stammered, panic rising in her chest. "No, I'm not too good for it. I'm not above you, John. I'm not above anyone."

"Then show me," he said, wiggling his big toe. "Be helpful."

Marianne stared at his foot. It was right there. Slowly, mechanically, she lowered her head. She parted her lips, the same lips that had delivered lectures on the Federalist Papers, and wrapped them around his big toe. She began to suck, tentatively at first, and then with more rhythm as she tried to focus on the task at hand. It tasted salty and like leather, but she pushed the thought away. She was helping. She was being a good person.

As she bobbed her head, working her tongue between his toes, a stray thought drifted through the fog of her submission. She remembered the burning sensation in her lungs from earlier that afternoon. She remembered the giggles and the way the world had seemed funny and soft.

This would feel a lot better, she thought as she serviced her husband's foot, if I had some of that weed right now.

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