Strange Staff

Chapter 1: The Absent Friend and the Homeroom Teacher's "Absolute Territory"

The afternoon sun, like melted butter, thickly coated the wooden desks of the private high school. The air was filled with chalk dust and the characteristic heat of early summer.

You listlessly twirl your pen in your hand, your gaze involuntarily drifting to your right—where it's empty. That's your best friend "Ah Jie's" seat. This guy, though usually lazy and idle, never misses a day, but today, for the first time ever, he hasn't replied to a single message, as if he's vanished into thin air.

"Could he have died from overwork while playing games last night?" you wondered to yourself. Just then, the front door of the classroom was pushed open with the crisp sound of high heels.

"Da, da, da."

The previously drowsy class instantly fell silent. All the boys' eyes, like iron filings drawn to a magnet, focused uniformly on the direction of the podium.

The person who walked in is your homeroom teacher, Ms. Misato Sayama.

In your memory, this female teacher in her early thirties always wore a pair of old-fashioned black-rimmed glasses and an untailored gray tracksuit, completely concealing her supposedly very "well-endowed" figure. But today, she seemed like a completely different person.

Her usually casually tied-up black hair now cascaded smoothly over her shoulders, exuding a faint citrus scent. Most striking was her attire—an extremely fitted white shirt, the buttons at the chest seemingly screaming in despair, desperately clinging to the brink of bursting, emphasizing the breathtaking curves of her heavy breasts. Below, she wore a high-waisted black pencil skirt, the fabric clinging tightly to her wide hips and full buttocks, outlining the shapely hourglass figure characteristic of a mature woman.

As she stepped onto the stage, her long legs, encased in semi-transparent black stockings beneath her skirt, shimmered with a delicate, jade-like sheen amidst the interplay of light and shadow. Each step she took accentuated the lines of her thigh muscles, creating a visual tension that left one breathless.

"I'm sorry, students, I'm a little late today."

Her voice... seemed a bit lower than usual? It had a strange hoarseness, like an electric current flowing down your spine.

You subconsciously swallowed. Is this really the same Ms. Sayama who was known as the "old maid"?

You didn't hear a single word of the lesson. Because you noticed that Ms. Sayama seemed to be glancing at you, intentionally or unintentionally. When she wrote on the blackboard, her body was always turned slightly to your side, the curves of her hips, tightly wrapped in her pencil skirt, trembling slightly with each stroke of her hand. The black stockings, at this angle, had a hazy, inky quality, as if inviting your gaze into the unknown shadows.

A strange heat rose in your lower abdomen. This feeling was not only a physical urge, but also mixed with a sense of taboo and transgression—she was the teacher, and you were the student.

"Um... could you over there pick up some chalk for me?"

Just as you were lost in thought, a piece of chalk fell with a "thud" onto your desk.

Just as you were about to bend down, Mr. Sayama had already stepped down first.

"Oh, no need for that, I can do it myself."

She stopped right in front of you, her back to the podium, facing your desk. At that moment, time seemed to stretch out.

As she slowly squatted down, her already excessively short pencil skirt inevitably bunched up. The silky black fabric rubbed against the lining of the skirt with an extremely subtle rustling sound—a "shush-shush." ​​In the silent classroom, this sound was like a thunderclap to you.

She didn't immediately squat down, but maintained a posture with her upper body leaning forward and her buttocks sticking out. Her plump thighs, tightly bound by black stockings, were less than thirty centimeters in front of you.

Your breath caught in your throat for a moment.

From this angle, through the sheer black stockings and the gap in the hem of the bodycon skirt, you see a sight you shouldn't see.

There are no traces of fabric.

Between those thighs encased in black stockings, there was only a dizzying patch of flesh-colored shadow.

She...wasn't wearing underwear?

In that instant, your mind goes blank, and your heart pounds wildly, as if it's about to burst out of your chest. It's a powerful psychological shock; the usually aloof and superior image of a teacher collapses in that moment, replaced by an ambiguous implication of being an "accomplice."

She seemed to notice your dazed gaze. Ms. Sayama picked up the chalk, but didn't immediately stand up. Instead, she remained in that position, slightly raising her head. Her eyes, hidden behind her hair, now revealed an almost mocking allure.

She looks at you, a faint smile playing on her lips, and lightly licks her upper lip with the tip of her tongue.

Have you seen enough?

Her voice was very soft, so soft that only you could hear it, with a wet, sticky quality, like "mucus" seeping into your ears.

You trembled uncontrollably, hastily averting your gaze and pretending to look at the textbook, but the words on the page had already become a jumbled mess.

"Ring ring—"

The school bell rang as if to save the day.

You breathed a sigh of relief, ready to grab your bag and escape this space filled with hormones and a sense of danger.

“Student XX,” Mr. Sayama’s voice rang out from the podium, his tone returning to its usual seriousness, but you could clearly detect a hint of suppressed laughter, “Come to my office. We need to have a serious talk about your recent ‘attitude toward learning’.”

The whole class cast sympathetic glances your way, but only you know that what you're about to face is probably no ordinary lecture.

You stiffly stood up, following behind those beautiful legs in black stockings. The rhythmic click of her high heels on the hallway floor felt like each step was hitting your nerves. Watching her swaying hips, the fleeting image of her earlier glimpse kept replaying in your mind—it was definitely barefoot.

What exactly is she trying to do?

The office was at the end of the corridor, a separate staff lounge. It was unusually quiet today; it seemed none of the other teachers were there.

"Click".

As the door lock clicked shut, the enclosed space was instantly filled with her rich citrus perfume, and a faint, inexplicably familiar rubbery scent.

Ms. Sayama turned around, leaning against the door, her arms crossed over her chest, her large breasts distorted by the pressure. She looked at you, her serious expression instantly crumbling, replaced by a feverish look of excitement and anticipation.

"Hey, did you enjoy what you were watching in class just now?"

As she spoke, she slowly reached her hand towards the collar of her shirt, her slender fingers resting on the first button.