The teacher is stripped

"Krista, stop!" I reached out, but she was faster.

She grabbed the collar of my black lace top. With a strength born of pure, unadulterated rage and zumba classes, she yanked it. The delicate fabric tore, buttons popping. I gasped, my hands flying up to cover myself, but it was too late.

The "breasts" I was so proud of—the heavy, realistic mounds that filled out my corsets—weren't attached to my body. They were tucked into a specialized bra. As the lace tore away, the silicone inserts shifted. One of them fell out entirely, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

A collective gasp went up from the students. I looked down, my breath hitching in my throat. Without the padding, my chest was revealed for what it truly was. I had small, tubular breasts that looked like little more than swollen, elongated nipples. They were pale, almost translucent, and sat high on my chest, looking completely out of proportion with the rest of my "hourglass" figure.

"Look at that," Krista mocked, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at the students. "Fake. Everything about her is fake."

Valeria was already recording, her phone held high. I could see the glow of the screen. Raphael was staring, his mouth hanging open. I saw his hand drift down to his lap, his eyes fixed on my exposed, pathetic chest.

"Let’s see the rest," Krista said.

She reached behind me. I felt the familiar pull of the corset laces. I tried to twist away, but she shoved me against the lectern, pinning me with her weight.

"No, please!" I cried out.

The laces gave way. The heavy corset, the thing that gave me my narrow waist and flared hips, fell forward. My stomach, no longer compressed, spilled out—not fat, but soft and pale. But the real horror was what the corset had been hiding beneath.

Krista grabbed the waistband of my long, tiered skirt and ripped it downward. The fabric pooled at my ankles.

The room didn't just gasp this time; it roared with laughter.