MILF Teacher: Becoming a Present

SUMMARY: A widowed white straight teacher is dommed by a black teenager.

Note 1: This is a Christmas lesbian sub/dome story...if that offends you please quit reading.

Note 2: A thanks to the legendary Estragon who edits all my work.

MILF TEACHER: BECOMING A PRESENT

For me, growing up in the south in the eighties, racism wasn't as rampant and blatant as it was in the past, but the undercurrent was there. I grew up in a very racist upper class family where my father believed that whites were superior to blacks in all ways. Even though we had a black maid, a black chauffeur and I grew up with a black nanny...I know it is ironic to allow a race supposedly inferior to feed you and raise your children; alas, no one else seemed to notice.

That said, Aretha was like the mother I never had, because as I grew up with a diva mom who didn't really raise me...Aretha did. Unlike the rest of my family, including both of my older siblings, I grew up with a great respect for Aretha and therefore I refused to treat anyone based on race. She was my mother figure growing up and the person I respected more than any other. When Aretha died two years ago after a long bout with cancer, I was way more devastated than I was a year earlier when my birth mother died.

Aretha understood me and respected my shyness, unlike my family that kept trying to make me into something I was not. My dad was a very powerful judge, my mom a lawyer as well and both my older siblings followed in my parents' footsteps. Me, on the other hand, I became a teacher.

My insecurities were many but one was my body. My breasts were pretty much non-existent and even today they are a tiny 34b. On the other hand, Aretha and her children all had large breasts. I grew up very self-conscious about my breasts, although I never told anyone...even Aretha...of my insecurity. This insecurity never completely faded away as I often had students whose breasts were much larger than mine. My breasts were a constant reminder of my imperfections.

I married a fellow teacher, and I would have lived happily ever after if my husband hadn't died last winter in a drinking and driving accident (no he was sober, it was some rich kid running a red light that hit him).

I was left a widow with two teenage daughters, one eighteen and in grade twelve, the other sixteen and two grades below her. The life insurance policy was enough to pay off our mortgage and guarantee my daughters' college expenses, so many people thought I was crazy when I returned to teaching after taking a year's leave. But I had missed it immensely and working with teenagers was the most rewarding job in the world.

It was the third day back when I realized this semester would be a challenge. Latoya was a black student in my English class with a real hatred for me. Her tone was snotty, her attitude terrible and her mouth lippy. Yet, I liked her. She was actually incredibly articulate and academically strong, although she often handed in her assignments late. I hoped I could help her reach her full potential...if only I could break through her hard exterior.

Alas, by December I was no further ahead than I had been in September until one day when she asked me for help. Well, demanded it really.

She put a document on my desk and said, "I need help with my scholarship resume."

Seeing a chance to maybe finally get her on my side, I ignored the entitlement attitude and asked, "When is it due?"

"Tomorrow," she snapped, as if I should have known.

"Oh that is not much time," I pointed out.

"I can come to your house tonight for help. I also need a letter of reference," she demanded.

"But the Christmas formal dance is tonight," I explained.

"So?" she replied.

"I have to supervise it," I pointed out.

"I will be over at seven. It shouldn't take long," she decided for me.

I paused, before succumbing to her strong-willed personality, "Ok, but I need to be at the dance by eight."

"Whatever," she said, leaving class. She stopped at the door, before adding, "Have my reference letter ready."

I responded, "I will need your resume."

"I'll bring it with me." She shrugged and left before I could respond.

I sighed. She really was a self-centered, stuck-up bitch. I hoped helping her would help her open up to me, but I doubted it. I packed up and headed home.

I had supper with the girls and they both left early to meet up with their friends and get ready for the second biggest dance of the year, the Christmas formal. Of course, prom was the biggest event for most high school students.

As Melanie, my oldest, was leaving I said, "I may be a little late. Latoya is coming over to get some last minute scholarship help."

Melanie gave me an odd look and warned, "Don't trust her."

I shrugged, "I don't. But her bark is way worse than her bite."

Melanie shrugged back, judging as she often did. "She is a butch dyke."

"Melanie!" I responded, astonished.

"Just saying," she said and kissed me on the cheek. Then she was gone.

I got ready myself for the formal dance. I wore a glamorous red dress with tan pantyhose and red heels. It was rare I got to dress up since my husband had passed, so when the opportunity arose I liked to really go all out. Unfortunately, I got a pretty big run in my pantyhose and realized I had no more. Rummaging my drawer, I found an opened package of coffee thigh-high stockings. I found these uncomfortable and a bit too slutty even for my husband when he was still alive, but I definitely wasn't going to a formal event without something on my legs, so I reluctantly put on the dark brown thigh highs. The good news was the dress was long enough to hide the tops of the stockings and the darker color really accentuated my legs.

I had just finished with my matching red lipstick to my dress when the doorbell rang. I grabbed my three inch heels, which I also never got to wear, and went downstairs to get the door.

I opened it and Latoya just sauntered into my house like she owned it. She too was dressed up, although more for a biker bar, with a black leather skirt, black boots, black pantyhose, a red blouse that couldn't even begin to contain her large breasts and a black leather jacket. She took off her jacket and tossed it on my white couch.

I closed my door, surprised at what she considered formal. She seemed more dressed for a dominatrix line-up.

She looked at me. "Nice, you dressed up for me."

Startled by her comment, I replied, "What? No, I am dressed for the dance."

She shrugged, "Whatever you say, Ms. Malone."

Ignoring her condescending tone and smirk, I got to the task at hand. "So let's see this resume so I can finish the reference letter."

She pulled out a resume from her bag and placed it on the table as she walked around my home. She disappeared into the kitchen while I grabbed the form and skimmed it. I noticed she did not have any volunteer hours, which would make the scholarship application rather difficult. She returned to my living room with a beer in her hand.

Walking over and taking it out of her hand, I snapped, "What are you doing?"

She smiled, "We are both adults, Ms. Malone."

"That is not the point," I countered. Attempting to make the distinction crystal clear I pointed out, "I am the teacher and you are my student."

She shrugged, her voice changing to something that seemed oddly seductive, "But what if I was the teacher and you the student?"

She was standing directly in front of me, her dark eyes boring into mine, as I responded, confused, "What are you talking about?"

She smiled, "Oh, never mind. So do you have my reference letter started?"

"Yes," I replied, thankful to be back on topic. "It's on my laptop upstairs."

Latoya started for the stairs. "Let's take a look at what you got started."

Again her forwardness was annoying, but the quicker we finished this the better, so I followed her upstairs and into my room. I grabbed my laptop, typed in my password and handed my laptop to her.

She quickly read my rather generic reference letter and began adding stuff. I interjected, "Latoya, I won't sign anything I don't agree with."

She smiled, her tone oddly foreboding, "Oh don't worry, you will definitely agree with it when, I am done with you."

Her odd answer was unsettling. She exuded a smug superiority I just couldn't figure out. I attempted to take a peek at what she was writing, but she dismissed me. "Wait until I am done, Ms. Malone." She then added, treating me like a maid in my own house, "If I can't have a beer, go get me a coke."

My rage inside was beginning to bubble over and I had to use every ounce of tolerance I had to not explode. Instead, I gritted my teeth and went downstairs to get her a drink. While downstairs, I took a couple of minutes to calm myself down and put in perspective what I was doing. I repeated the mantra 'I am helping a student' over and over again.

By the time I returned upstairs, Latoya had moved to my bed and was laying on it with my laptop on her lap. My frustration immediately began to rise again.

She looked up and asked in a condescending tone, "What took you so long, Ms. Malone?"

I wanted to explode at her, but didn't see any advantage to such an outburst. Instead, I remained silent and brought her the drink.

She took it without even a hint of appreciation and took a sip before handing it back to me. She was treating me like a servant in my own home. She returned to typing and a couple of minutes later, while I stood there holding her drink like a maid, she announced, "Done." She patted my bed and said, "Come sit down and read the final draft."

Attempting to regain some sort of resemblance of power, I refused, reaching for my computer, "No, I'll stand."

Her smile faded and she pulled my computer away from me. "Sit down, Ms. Malone," she demanded; her aggressive tone startled me. Without even having time to process her command, I felt my body climb onto the bed and beside her.

She took the drink and placed my laptop on my lap. "Read the final reference, Ms. Malone," she instructed.

Dear who it may concern,

Latoya is a student I have had the pleasure of teaching this year in Grade 12 English at Salisbery High. I have also become involved in her extra-curricular endeavours.

I paused, "Latoya, I have not been a part of your extra-curricular endeavours."

She took a sip of her drink before foreshadowing, "You soon will be. Now keep reading."

Wanting her out of my house, I ignored the lie and continued with the letter.

Latoya is an inquisitive student who excels at all she does. Her wit and intelligence exceeds all I currently teach. She is a great public speaker, a creative writer and a model student. If all my students worked as hard as Latoya they would all become successful members of society.

As I read this, I shook my head; I would never write such generic drivel. Nor did any of those descriptors adequately describe the truth about Latoya. Oh she was smart and creative, but her descriptors were a stretch. But I decided to remain silent and continued to read the rest of the letter I was supposedly writing.

Lastly, Latoya has become my Black Mistress and I eagerly serve her as the white slut I am. She owns me and I obey her every command.

I paused, completely stunned by the words in front of me. I looked up at a smiling Latoya, my cheeks red with anger, and said, "Latoya, what the hell is going on here?"

She smiled, "Did you finish the letter?"

Defiant, I responded, putting the laptop down beside me, "No. Now you need to leave!"

Her smile faded and she countered, using my first name for the first time, "Linda, you need to fall onto your knees and beg to be my white slut."

I stood up off the bed and raised my voice, something I never do, and demanded, "Get out of my home now!"

Her smile returned, but her condescending tone also returned in full force, "Awww, how cute, my little slut is playing hard to train."

Not sure how to get her out of my house, and tears beginning to stream down my cheeks, I pleaded, "Please just leave and we will pretend this never happened."

Her hand stunned me as in one quick move it went under my dress and directly to my vagina.

"Oh my," she teased, holding me with her other hand so I couldn't break free, "You wore thigh high stockings for me. You really are a slut, aren't you?"

"No, my pantyhose had a run in them," I argued and then attempted to fight back, "now let me go right now!"

She chuckled, her finger sliding inside my vagina, and me letting out an uncontrollable moan-gasp, "Why are you so wet?" I went to push her away but she was too strong. She smiled, using my first name again, "Now be a good little white slut, Linda and fall to your knees and into your proper place before me."

I let out a second involuntary moan when she found my g-spot.

"Hmmm, you like that, don't you, teach?"

"No," I responded, humiliated by the way my body betrayed me. "Please, stop."

She smiled, "Now here is how it is going to work, Ms. Malone. I want you to be my white little dyke and I always, I mean always, get what I want."

She slowly pumped her finger inside my long ignored vagina, which hadn't been touched by anything other than my own fingers in over a year. I was mortified by her words, yet her finger inside me had me morally weak. I attempted to stand up for myself, "We can't do this."

"Oh, we can and will. You have been so eager to please me all semester."

"No," I contradicted, "I was just trying to get the best out of you."

She countered, "And I plan to get the most out of you." Her finger inside me had me distracted, as she continued, "So why are you so wet, Ms. Malone?"

The way she said my name with such disgust was insulting, yet I couldn't deny that her finger inside me had me sexual stimulated. I answered with the only logical reason I had, "It isn't you, I am not a lesbian. It is just I haven't been touched in a long, long time."

"I'm not a lesbian either, Ms. Malone. I love a big hard dick in me sometimes too, but turning white bitches like you into the submissive sluts they crave to be deep down is a fun distraction."

I again tried to pull away, but she was too strong. "Please, don't do this."

"Do what?" she asked.

"Don't treat me this way."

"What way?"

"Like I am a slut," I finally blurted out of frustration.

"But you are a slut," she said.

"I am not," I adamantly replied.

"You are allowing your 18-year-old student to finger you in your own bedroom, that seems kind of slutty to me," she countered.

I tried one more time to break free and this time with enough exertion I succeeded, but fell to the floor.

She smiled, walking over to me, "They all fall for me eventually."

I stood back up and she immediately gripped my shoulders, lowered me onto my knees, and ordered, "Take off my boots."

She lifted her foot up a bit and presented me with her foot.

"No," I responded, meekly.

She looked down at me from her position of power and replied, "I am only asking you one last time. For now on any disobedience will come with a punishment. And trust me, you will not like the punishment."

I suddenly feared what she might do, as I was convinced this wasn't an idle threat. I tried to reason with her, "Please, Latoya, I am your teacher."

"One!" she announced.

"But, Latoya..." I began again.

"Two!" she interrupted, before adding, "For a teacher, you do not learn very fast."

I paused, suddenly realizing my predicament, and unsure how to get out of it. Reluctantly, fearing what her wrath may bring, I unzipped her boot and took it off her foot. Without a word, she switched her footing and presented me with her other boot. I repeated the task and began to stand up.

"Did I give you permission to stand?" she roared, her anger dripping with poison.

I fell back onto my knees and stammered, petrified by her outburst, "N-n-n-n-no."

"Who is your Mistress?" she asked.

"Pardon?" I asked back.

"Three," she announced, adding another theoretical punishment to me. "Don't you dare move, slut."

Being called a slut was like a hard slap to the face, but for reasons unknown other than fear, I stayed on my knees as Latoya walked to my laptop. I watched curious about what she was planning to do. She typed quickly and then announced, "Sent."

"What did you just do?" I asked petrified of her answer.

She smiled, "I just sent my reference letter to myself from your e-mail address. I think it will come in pretty handy if you disobey anymore."

"You didn't," I said, knowing she did, but praying she didn't.

She brought my laptop over to me and showed me the sent confirmation. Tears instantly formed and streamed down my face. As she tossed the laptop back onto the bed, she cautioned, "So if you disobey your Mistress again, there may be dire consequences, is that understood?"

"Y-y-yes," I stammered, realizing my predicament was even worse than before.

"So, I will ask you again, who is your Mistress?"

"You are," I replied reluctantly and with no conviction.

She smiled, "She was that so hard? Now next time I ask, I expect a much more eager answer, but I think maybe the problem is you don't believe you are a slut, do you?"

"No, I don't think I am a slut," I replied.

"Stay," she said, like I was a dog, and she disappeared out of my room. While she was gone a million ideas of how to get out of this predicament flashed into my head. I decided fuck it, and quickly went to my computer and attempted to see if there was any way to erase or stop the sent e-mail. I deleted it from my sent items, and was just searching the internet for how to delete sent e-mails when I heard her voice bellow, "Four."

I looked up at her startled and saw she was now half naked, her red blouse gone and her big breasts held in check barely by a red lace bra. Her skirt was also gone and she was now simply in black thigh highs, black panties and a big black strap-on cock.

"You really want to be punished, don't you?" she asked, walking towards me.

"N-n-n-no," I stammered, fearful, yet oddly entranced by the big cock wrapped around her waist.

"I see you checking out my cock," she smiled, "open your mouth, slut." I obeyed and she shoved the plastic cock between my lips. "Suck your Mistress's cock with your slut mouth," she demanded. I again obeyed, utterly humiliated by both the demand and the growing wetness in my panties. Why was such an obscene order and task making me wet?

I slowly and awkwardly sucked the plastic cock with its unpleasant taste. Latoya purred, "Hmmm, good teacher, you will be a perfect little present." A shiver went up my spine at her innuendo that I was a present and my dread began to overwhelm me. Almost as if realizing my anxiety was soon going to reach a peak, she pulled the cock out of me and demanded, "Get on your bed, slut. On all fours like a good little whore."

I looked up and once again tried to reason with her, "Please, Latoya, this needs to stop."

"Now!" she exploded, pulling me up and pushing me up towards the bed. Fear again becoming the motivating factor of obedience, I got up onto my bed and onto all fours as ordered. She climbed onto the bed as well, and pulled up my dress. A cold breeze gave me a quick chill and I held my breath waiting her next action. She asked, "Do you want your Mistress to fuck you slut?"

My damp panties were evidence of the contrary, but I refused to admit my growing excitement, when I replied, "No."

"Really?" she asked, "You don't want my big cock to fill your wet white whore cunt?"

I repeated, "No."

"Hmmmmm," she paused, her hand going to my very wet panties. "Your cunt disagrees with your words."

I didn't answer, as no good answer could defeat the evidence.