You move toward your teacher, forming a devilish plan

As you move closer to Miss Dahl you see her bra through her t-shirt. You see even better the immensely pleasing proportions of her rear end. Part of her forearm is exposed as she reaches out toward the chalkboard, the sleeve partially rolled up. You want to see more.

You pull her top upwards so that it uncovers her chest, but do not remove it, thus leaving her posture unaltered. You unfasten the clip in the middle of her back, releasing her breasts -- temporarily. You don't bother trying to see anything, rather, you get closer, reach around and beneath her arms, and begin kneading her softness from behind. You focus on the nipples. You squeeze, rub, pinch and twist them gently, until you feel them harden significantly. Finally you wet your fingers with spit, and use that to wet them in turn, before placing them back under the cover of the bra, and pulling down the t-shirt. For good measure, you reach down, still from behind, and through her jeans, rub Miss Dahl's crotch. If there's any change in there you cannot discern it through the layers of fabric, and so stop after a minute or so. The whole operation will have taken a little under ten minutes.

Finally you return to your seat, make yourself comfortable, as discreetly as possible, check that everything seems to be as it was when frozen, then mentally snap your fingers.

You've completely forgotten by now exactly what Miss Dahl was saying before you froze her. No matter. Her sentence has clearly as much meaning to her as to you; she falters mid-syllable, sputters past a few more words, and chokes to a halt. It feels like a dramatic crash and burn from your perspective, because you know what must be happening in her head. You can see right across her face everything you did to her, your seed of chaos, in the twitch of a few muscles on her faces, an aborted arm movement, a foot shuffling sideways momentarily. You're quite taken aback when you suddenly realize how quickly it all happened; she's already caught herself and is now soldiering on in her dissection of equations and vowell sounds. The rest of the class must have barely noticed anything happened.

You decide to lay off for a bit and watch. See if there are any further signs of discomfort. She has to be somewhat inconvenienced what with her bra unclasped.

Sure enough, over the next fifteen minutes you pick up on the inevitable frustration of your teacher as she battles her unfortunate predicament. It's subtle; you wouldn't know anything were awry if you didn't know what you were seeing. She can't help but avoid certain gestures, certain dramatic posture changes. She can't be too energetic in scribbling on the chalkboard. She's putting a lot more thought into the construction of her sentences, just by virtue of having to control everything else already. You might think she was bored. You might think she'd pulled a muscle in her back and it was slightly altering her mobility to avoid pain. You wouldn't think she were suffering a potentially cataclysmic wardrobe malfunction.

Or perhaps you might if you were a girl.

Or it was a typically male thing to imagine such a thing as being a real life contingency to plan for.

It's something like forty, forty five minutes till the end of class, and while Miss Dahl anxiety-motivated enunciation improvements are refreshing to hear, you still have a hard-on, and it still hurts, even with the fly loosened. Right now it's such that the pain is strong enough you can't ignore it, but too weak to kill your arousal. Limbo.

Time for stage two in your masterplan. You freeze time again, and get up. As you straighten out, suddenly the pressure in the fork midway down your body vastly increases, or rather it feels that way. Gasping, you halt halfway. You undo your fly and shove your pants down and away, before looking down.

You can't see anything out of the ordinary apart from your erect and eager knob. Must be the damn trousers.

Back to business.