Story: The Bradhall Academy – The New Teacher, Part 1

There simply weren’t a lot of job opportunities for teaching feminism at a secondary level, and many schools were reluctant to hire a teacher who specialised in “feminism” to teach *any* of their classes.  So Hope had been chronically under-employed since finishing her teaching degree, and was struggling to pay the rent on the flat she shared with her girlfriend.

When the offer came from the Bradhall Academy, it seemed too good to be true.  Stable employment, all year round, teaching her specialist subject – feminism.  She would be paid a full-time rate, even though she was only expected to teach one lesson each day.  Admittedly, she would be teaching to a class consisting entirely of spoiled, privileged young men, and it was probably going to be difficult.  But that was normal for teaching, right?

There were other strange things.  She would be teaching in a demountable classroom, some distance from the rest of the school, and she was not going to be given access to the staff facilities, or allowed near the other classrooms.  She was told nothing about how her class fit into the curriculum as a whole.  But elite private schools *were* strange, and her finances didn’t permit her the luxury of asking questions.

As it turned out, on her first day teaching, the room full of 18-year-old boys was unusually polite to her.  They paid attention – even if they did have the typical smug smiles of so many young rich boys.  One boy by the name of Chris even went to bring her a drink from the school canteen!

Over the next few days, the politeness continued.  Chris brought her a drink at the start of each class, and the other boys called her “Ms Hope” (even if she would have preferred them to use her last name), and asked questions that showed they were listening.

But Hope’s body wasn’t as cooperative as the boys.  Near the end of the first week, and over the course of the second, it began to act up.  First, she was noticing that her sex drive was increasing.  Her girlfriend appreciated it, and was eager to help her release the tension each evening with a protracted lesbian fuck session.  But Hope didn’t understand why she was suddenly so much more aroused all the time – and it was embarrassing and inconvenient to have a wet cunt at work, when she was supposed to be teaching.

Her tits were becoming more sensitive too, and they felt swollen.  During the second week, she was sure her bras were becoming too tight, and became convinced that her breasts were actually *growing* slightly.  Shortly afterwards, she discovered a trickle of milk leaking from one nipple, and realised that she was *lactating*.  A quick, terrified pregnancy test confirmed that she wasn’t pregnant – and how could she be, when she hadn’t fucked a man since getting together with her girlfriend – but then why were her breasts suddenly manufacturing milk? 

She had to start wearing pads in her bras to stop her suddenly-milky nipples leaking through the front of her blouse.  And the pads only made her tits look even bigger.  

And then there was her bladder.  It seemed to time itself to her classes.  Halfway through every feminism class, she would have an overwhelming need to pee, and have to run to the bathrooms, leaving the boys unsupervised in the classroom.  It was embarrassing and inconvenient.

She thought about seeing a doctor – but gynaecologists were expensive. Luckily, however, a boy asked about it in class after her third urgent trip to the bathroom.

“Is everything all right, miss?” he queried, after she returned from pissing.

“It’s fine, Thomas,” she said, blushing a little.  “I’ve just been a little ill this week.”

“Is it women’s trouble?” asked Thomas, smirking.  “You should see my dad,  He’s a gyno specialist, and if you tell him you teach my class, he’ll see you at a discount – or maybe for free.” 

Thomas even gave Hope a business card – and when Hope’s problems continued the next day, she gave it and rang Thomas’ father at his medical practice.

“You’re the teacher my son mentioned?” said the voice on the other end of the line.  “I’ll fit you in tonight.  Come after school.”

Thomas’ father turned out to be thorough.  He had Hope strip, and inspected every part of her body, taking photos as he went.  He squeezed her breasts a little until she started expelling milk, then put her on a breast pump to extract milk from her tits until they were empty.  The pump was both painful and arousing, and Hope felt her cunt growing wetter than its already-horny state as the cups tugged and sucked at her swollen tits.

As the pumps did their work, Thomas’ father inspected her anus, then spread her pussy.  He pushed one gloved finger up into her vagina, probing her fuckhole, while his other hand spread her cunt lips apart, with one finger lightly rubbing back and forth across her clitoris, teasing it, and then pinching and pulling at it.

To her humiliation, Hope suddenly found herself orgasming against the gynaecologist’s fingers – complete with a shuddering, squirting ejaculation of female fluids all over his clinic floor.

“Just as I thought,” said the doctor, staring at the puddle of her girl-cum.  “This isn’t uncommon at all, you know.  Many women go through it, although it’s a little embarrassing so it isn’t often talked about.  It’s a kind of reverse-menopause, where the reproductive system of a young woman goes into overdrive in an attempt to become pregnant.”

“I don’t want to be pregnant!” objected Hope.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to be,” said the doctor.  “It’s often brought on by birth control, which the body views as a foreign poison.  It has this response as a kind of allergic reaction – an attempt to overcome the birth control.”

He stared at her tits with an expression of deep concentration, before nodding, apparently having found the answer.  

“Yes,” he said.  “You’ll need to stop any birth control.  It’s just making the condition worse.  And I’d advise masturbating as soon as possible whenever your body feels aroused – preferably with a large dildo or internal vibrator, to help convince your body it’s getting the penile penetration that it craves.  Thinking about being impregnated by a man while you masturbate can also help your body to calm down and accept that your sexual behaviour is normal.”

She blushed, but said, “I can do that.”  She may be in a lesbian relationship at present, but she was bisexual at heart, and cocks often formed part of her fantasies.

“No more than one orgasm a day, though,” continued the doctor.  “And only in the evenings.  Orgasms place a lot of stress on the cardiovascular system and too many will just convince your body that something is wrong.  And I recommend only short skirts, and no panties. Your pussy is spending a lot of time very wet, and it’s important to your health to keep it aired out.”

“What about the bladder issues?” asked Hope.

“I don’t have a solution for that,” said the doctor, “but I don’t advise leaving a class of young men unsupervised for long!  Rather than make the long trip to the toilet, I recommend maybe just ducking behind the classroom and pissing on the grass, or even discreetly pissing into a cup beneath your desk while teaching, that you can empty out later.”

===

It was embarrassing for Hope to teach her class with no panties beneath her short skirt, her cunt wet and her nipples hard, but what could she do?  At least the doctor had implied that this was a phase, and it would pass with time.

Following the doctor’s advice, she also threw out her birth control, and invested in a large, thick dildo, which she used on her pussy first thing in the morning, before her class, after her class, in the afternoon, and finally again in the evening, to achieve her one and only satisfying orgasm of the day.  It was difficult to stop before cumming during the daytime, but Hope was strong-willed, and managed to always pull her hands away from her cunt just in time, leaving her flushed, breathing heavily, and smelling of sex.

The most humiliating part was pissing in the bushes behind the classroom.  The doctor was right – she couldn’t keep leaving these boys alone long enough to make the hike over to the main school buildings and use their toilets.  But as she squatted behind the classroom, hiking up her skirt and urinating, she knew she would never be able to explain herself if someone saw her – especially as she found it very difficult in her horny state to avoid the temptation of rubbing her clitoris as she pissed, and moaning in a low, slutty voice.

To make matters worse, the early politeness of her class seemed to be eroding.  Chris still brought her a drink every day, which was nice, but the other boys often seemed to be ignoring what she was saying as she taught.  When they did ask questions, there was an increasingly insolent and mocking tone to them.

“Miss, don’t you think people would pay more attention to women in politics if they got boob jobs, so men would have something to look at while they talked?” asked Dylan, in the back row of the class, while staring openly at Hope’s own large, swollen breasts.

“Don’t you think women would be happier if feminists spent more time teaching them to enjoy rape rather than fear it?” asked Jamie, with a thoughtful expression.  “After all, the stats show that most women *will* be raped, right?”

“Miss, are your tits bigger than they used to be a couple of weeks ago?” asked Franklin, interrupting Hope in mid-sentence.

This last provoked a round of discussion among the boys about exactly how big Hope’s breasts really were, and none of Hope’s attempts to call the class to order received any attention.  The boys began peppering her with questions about her tits, and asking her about her bra size.

“I’m an E-cup, all right?  Which is the same as a double-D,” she said, finally, in an attempt to bring the conversation to an end.  “Except I have a medical condition at the moment, so they’re more like an F.”

If she had hope there would be no more questions, she was mistaken.

“How big is that, miss?” asked Chris.  “Like, how many pounds of udder?”

“Bra size is about the ratio of the breasts to the underbust,” explained Hope.  “It’s not an absolute size.  So I guess it means my breasts are a little large for the size of my body.  But a smaller woman could have a large bra size without her breasts actually being larger than mine.”

“I heard that large tits mean you’re a slut,” asked Jamie.  “Do you have a lot of sex, miss?”

“I heard a woman’s tits get bigger when a man cums on them a lot,” said Eric, who sat next to Dylan.  “Do you like men cumming on you, miss?”

“My dad says that when women have big tits, they’re probably not very smart,” said Dylan.  “Because it means their body is using more resources to try and be a good breeder, and leaving less for the brain.”

She spent the rest of the lesson trying to give answers to these questions – or make the boys stop asking them – and growing more humiliated with every moment.  When the bell rang and her class ended, it was a blessing.

But when she came for her class the next day, she discovered that someone had drawn a picture on the whiteboard.  It was a simple but recognisable image of her, kneeling and nude, cupping her cartoonishly oversized breasts as a milking machine pumped milk from them.  At about her eye level, a hand was shown pumping a cock as it spurted cum on her face and breasts, while her face looked up adoringly at her “benefactor”.

Underneath were printed the words “MISS MOO-COW”.

She tried to wipe it away, but to her horror it had been drawn not in whiteboard marker, but in permanent marker, and it refused to come off.  She was still desperately wiping at it when the boys began to shuffle in and take their seats.  

There was immediate laughter as they saw the image – and then someone made a loud “Moooo” sound, provoking further laughter.

She tried to see who had made the noise.  “Stop that!” she demanded.

But the response was another “mooo” from another part of the room – and then suddenly the whole class of boys were mooing at her, and laughing.

She felt tears in her eyes.  What was happening?  How had she lost control of the class?

“Here’s your drink, miss,” said Chris, beside her, passing her a glass of water.

“Thank you, Chris,” she said – and then stopped.  She had had a suspicion that had been growing on her for the last few days.  She took the drink – then reached into her bag, and took out a drink spiking detector stick.  

She dipped it into the glass.

===

Less than an hour later, she was sitting in the office of Derek Beckwood, the principal of the Bradhall Academy, and Chris was sitting beside her.

Principal Beckwood looked concerned.  “This is a very serious allegation you’re making, Hope,” he said.  

“It’s true,” said Hope.  “I don’t know what exactly he was using, but Chris here has been spiking my drinks since I first arrived, causing a range of… medical consequences.  It’s a crime, and I think we should refer it to the police.”

Beckwood turned to Chris.  “And what do you have to say about this, Chris?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Chris, looking genuinely penitent.

“I don’t think ‘sorry’ is going to be enough, Chris,” said Hope, in a tone of disgust.  “You can’t just apologise your way out of poisoning your teacher.”

“Oh, I’m not sorry for that,” said Chris.  “And I’m not sorry to you.  I’m apologising to the principal.”  He looked at Beckwood.  “I didn’t think she’d work it out for at least another week, sir,  And by then she’d be so insecure and intimidated and horny and stupid that she wouldn’t think to report it to anyone.”

Hope’s mouth dropped open in shock.

“Well, she did report it,” said the principal.  “And you’re lucky it was only to me.  This *will* be reflected in your final grade, Chris.”

“Final grade?” exclaimed Hope.  “He *poisoned* me.  What the hell are you talking about?  He should be expelled!”

“Silence,” snapped the headmaster.  “And I’ll thank you not to take that tone with a man ever again.  You may be under the mistaken impression that we hired you to peddle your feminist nonsense to the boys, but that is only because you are a woman, and inherently stupid.  The Bradhall Academy was founded to teach young men how to treat women – which is to say, that they are animals, fit only to be humiliated, objectified, raped and enslaved.”

Hope couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Your true job is not to be a teacher, but rather to be the lesson,” said the headmaster.  “The boys in your class have a year-long project to see how far they can degrade, control and train a non-consenting woman, and you are the focus of that project.  They will be assessed on how much *you* learn about your true place in the world, and how much misery, humiliation and pain they inflict on you during their studies.”

“This is a joke!” said Hope.  “You can’t be serious.”

“Chris, slap her,” ordered the headmaster.

“With pleasure, sir,” said Chris.  He stood, and slapped Hope hard across the face.  Hope gasped, and recoiled.

“Now, Chris, are you at least in a position to fix your mistake?” asked the headmaster.

“Yes, sir,” said Chris.  He turned to Hope.  “I’m sorry, miss, but you really are a bit of a stupid cunt.  My little drink-spiking experiment has had a very nice effect on your bladder – as well as your pussy and tits – and every time you’ve needed to piss in the middle of class, you’ve left your phone at your desk.  Well, me and the other boys have spent a bit of time going through it and downloading its contents.”

Chris picked up his own phone, and showed it to Hope.  There was an image of a naked, smiling woman on it.  “Recognise this slut?” he asked.

Hope did.  It was her girlfriend, Georgina.  It was a photo from Hope’s phone – and it was a photo that Hope wasn’t supposed to have.  It was one of many photos that Hope had taken during a wild weekend away with her girlfriend, documenting a range of kinky sex acts, but after they had gotten home Georgina had gotten spooked, and demanded that Hope delete the photos.  Hope had told Georgina they were gone – but secretly she had kept them on her phone, for her own enjoyment.  

If Georgina knew that Hope had kept them – and that the boys in Hope’s classroom now had access to them – she would go ballistic.  She would break up with Hope.  She might even go to the police.

“This one’s nice, too,” said Chris.  He showed another photo.  This one had been taken in a bedroom mirror, and the naked bodies of both Hope and Georgina were clearly visible and identifiable.  Hope was standing with her legs spread, and Georgina was kneeling between them, licking her pussy.

“Give those back,” demanded Hope, in an icy voice.  “Or delete them.”

“I don’t think so,” said Chris.  “Besides, all the boys have a copy.  We *might* keep them to ourselves, I suppose… or we might share them with the internet, with your name attached.  That might make it hard for you to get teaching gigs in future.”

Hope looked to the principal for help – but he seemed to be enjoying what was happening, and it was clear no help was coming from that quarter.

“What do you want?” she asked, finally.

“Just go back to teaching us,” said Chris.  “And put out of your mind any thoughts of ever complaining to anyone about what goes on in our classroom.”

“And you’ll stop… doing what you’re doing to me?”

“Oh, no,” said Chris.  “In fact, you’re going to keep drinking your drink every day, and keep following the doctor’s advice on how to treat the slutty problems it’s giving you.  And you’re going to answer to ‘Miss Moo-Cow’, if that’s what we want to call you.  And you’ll answer any questions that we have about your tits.”  He paused.  “In fact, I think it would be appropriate to start the next class by actually letting the boys see your tits, don’t you think?”

“Nooo…” she moaned.  She couldn’t agree to that.  It was ridiculous.  These were students – a pack of 18-year-old boys.  She was the authority figure.

“Or I can share these photos with the world?” said Chris.  “Plus whatever else is on your phone.  We haven’t even started looking at your emails or your finances yet.  I wonder who in your phone contacts might like to see the picture where the other woman is fucking you with a strap-on?  There’s a very slutty look on your face in that one.”

She was silent.  She didn’t know what to do.  She was running through options – threatening, intimidation, fleeing, calling for help.  None of them ended in a good place.

“Come on, Miss Moo-Cow,” said Chris, still smiling.  “I know your huge udders make you stupid, but it’s not that hard a choice.  Moo once for yes.”

She was silent for long moments.

Then, quietly, she said, “Yes.”

To her surprise, Chris slapped her again.

“You need to pay more attention to what men say to you, Miss Moo-Cow,” he said.  “I didn’t ask you to say the word ‘yes’.  In fact, now I want to see your tits as well, to know that you’re really serious.  So listen carefully, you dumb cunt.  Take out your tits – and then moo once for yes.”

The principal was chuckling to himself, greatly amused by everything that was happening.  

Hope stared into Chris’ eyes, and saw nothing but mockery and cruelty.  There was not a drop of mercy to be discerned.

So, with no other options, she unbuttoned the front of her blouse, and lifted her large lactating breasts out of her bra, into view of the two men in the room.

And in a broken, humiliated voice, she mooed.

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