Breaing Miss Broos

Story description: Three former students transform their high-school teacher into a nasty slut.

***

WOE IS ME

"I'm a whore."

Now you know the end of my story.

It's evident I took you off guard, but then again, your incessant hunger for perverse material has contributed to making this my reality. You knew how this yarn concluded before being told.

By your inquisitive look, you have questions. You want to know how a prim and proper lady, a pillar of the community, a teacher loved and cherished by her students was degenerated into a nasty slut.

Eh—that's a silly introduction. My story is supposed to redeem me, not bury me deeper in the hole.

Listening to me blabber out erotic smut is your kink, not mine. Telling my horrid account as if you don't already know it, well, frankly, it's foolish.

Yeah, teacher degradation is a desirable theme because we've all been students driven by that hormonal pipedream. Sexualizing an authority figure that influences our lives at that moment is a turn on for some of us.

It's a fantasy for a reason and acting upon that idea behind a closed door is entirely proper. Visualizing that person in the most perverse position imaginable arouses us.

Absolutely normal. As the sex object of this tale, I encourage it.

However, forcing me to narrate my own degradation, well, it changes the dynamic.

I detest reliving these lurid details over and over, yet each time I express myself, I find it therapeutic.

I beg you, if I'm to repeat the same story once again, you must allow me to embellish it and give myself a flare of unwillingness. The truth is too tedious and damning by itself. Allow me to give it the color and flavor it deserves.

Reality bores you and it's my job to change that. This time I promise a story of disgrace meant to get you off and I'll work hard to fulfill that bargain but allow leniency and patience while I warm you up to it.

If I were to articulate my flamboyant saga, would it suffice to satisfy your sexual appetite?

After all, it's not like I have a choice in the matter. Your controlling eyes coerce me to speak vile pleasures. The longer I engage you, the raunchier my story becomes. You've come to expect it.

Bah, here's the intro before the warmup—I'll start where I left off.

When my behavior was revealed to the community, I became a pariah. Of course, remaining in my position as an educator was intolerable for parents and I had no choice but to resign. With my career in ruins, my options for a livelihood became nil. What does a woman do when they have no legitimate means of income?

Yes, I erred by crossing an unforgivable line. I accept my guilt in it but know this, I don't regret my wicked actions. I saw my deed as a service to the community and I'm not ashamed of it.

I made one ghastly blunder and got caught in the act. Sure, my actions were inappropriate when viewed under a microscope, but not so demonstrably heinous as to deserve my fate.

To plagiarize, "Woe is me."

***

MISS BROOKS TAKES THE PILL

My students once called me Miss Brooks with respect and politeness, now they demean me with jeers and humiliate me disgraceful titles. I am a woman scorned that smiles at their disdain because I'm a metaphor matching all their names.

I'm a Mrs. but I've been divorced for a few years. Long story short, my bastard ex-husband left me for a younger woman. Yeah, the typical sleaze-ball of a man. The husband-stealing bitch is a bimbo and I'll leave it there. Fortunately, we never conceived children and weren't rich by any measure, so our separation was clean and practically immediate.

At the age of forty with neither a kid nor a companion to share my life, I became forlorn and desperate to find a human connection.

I'm not an expert of the heart, but I must state from experience when you reach the bottom and feel anguish and despair, the most atrocious mistake a woman could make is to seek love in a bar.

You'd think to be a high school teacher I'd be smart enough to know that, but I did mention I was despairingly lonely.

Okay, I was fucking stupid. My only excuse is that I was so miserable and isolated that I wasn't thinking straight at the time.

As explained, those deplorable attributes can frazzle a despondent soul and drive them to make impetuous decisions. Being human, I wasn't immune to making judgments that would alter the course of my dismal life. More on this later.

First, I'm not an attractive woman, but I'm not entirely ugly either. Envision me as a typical schoolteacher, both drab and uninteresting, a normal woman unnoticed in the populous of many.

I spent my entire career directing eyes to the chalkboard and not on my appearance. After all, it was my job to teach and not the other. This tit for tat scenario was disregarded until the day I found my dreary existence intolerable.

Yeah, I basically said screw it. Puritanical dress and a gloomy hag facade gave me nothing but an empty house and a broken heart. It was time for a change.

So, the evening in question, I became determined to dolly myself up with the intent to garner the eye of a prospective mate.

After dropping my curly caramel tinted hair past my shoulders and fluffing it up with hairspray like a candy striper from an eighty's TV show, I stared at the strumpet in the mirror.

Even I got moist from the alluring reflection staring back at me.

I upturned the flat crimp of my ruby-colored lips and gave myself a broad smile.

Staring at my breasts and protuberant nipples gave me a wicked thought.

I dropped my undergarments to the floor.

The idea of teasing men with glimpses of my naughty bits seemed logical to me. In truth, it was my first momentous lapse in judgment among many that night.

After tossing my modesty back in the drawer, I clinched my sexy red dress off the dresser and kneaded the silky material in my hand.

A woman determined to attract a mate wearing a provocative tight-fitting dress while naked underneath never contemplates the repercussions. I was so desperate that I didn't flinch at the idea.

Attiring myself in that swanky sleek dress gave me the appearance of a high-priced call girl. My large boobs and their associated nubs displayed outward like a siren's call identifying me as a promiscuous woman ready to spread herself in an instant.

Honestly, that wasn't my intent, but that was the impression given. Yeah, this was mistake number two.

Oh yes, as previously discussed, my dreadful blunder number three. I drove to a night club.

What—you expected me to drive to a shoddy honkytonk with unshaven men with beer guts? What kind of women does that? The men there are either unhappily married, down on their luck, or looking for a one-night stand. I wasn't seeking to add to my misery.

However, I still made a dreadful mistake. The club I selected wasn't one housing mature adults, but I felt compelled to go there for some reason.

I was naïve. I was a cloistered woman spending my entire life focused on education and righteous endeavors. My character prohibited me from youthful exploration into juvenile acts of defiance.

As such, how could I have known that all the grownup men my age went to sports and country music bars?

There I was, a forty-year-old woman standing in a crowd of jabbering teenagers and adult delinquents no older than twenty-five. The bulk of my competition were young bimbo tarts wearing short skirts with little to no undergarments.

My moment of epiphany—I melded in perfectly with these skanks and yeah, it was then that I realized it.

That devastating reveal of mental synergy motivated the thought that dashing out the door was my best possible choice.

Stupid mistake number four, I refused to listen to the inner voice deploring me to exit.

I admit I was spellbound and tingling.

I stood among the rambling crowd of young men barely older than the students I taught and glared at them with apt attention.

It was then that I was stimulated by an irremediable fantasy. The taboo of my thoughts was so profane for a woman in my profession that it aroused me.

Ogling a baby-faced man in his early twenties that bumped into me, well, it placed me in a dreaming stupor.

Those imaginative thoughts provoked an abundance of, "What if?" questions. Those uncertainties became irresolvable queries provoking me to jitter in place while biting my lower lip. Perhaps the crimping of the flesh between my teeth was my subconscious trying to slap me back to reality. If so, again I didn't listen.

Being an older woman buttressed among the flesh of curvy feline trollops that didn't require pushup bras, placed me at a disadvantage. I was out of my league and I knew it.

Frustrated and depressed by that revelation, I once again ignored the inner voice that screamed at me to retreat.

I needed a drink to calm my nerves.

Oh, you guessed it, I have a character flaw. It's not an excuse but I ask you to imagine yourself surrounded all day by groups of annoying high school seniors. I habitually imbibed alcohol to unwind, well, I do occasionally consume more than appropriate at times.

Yeah, you're a smart cookie for assuming this to be a pivotal moment, but you'd be wrong. However, I will identify this as error number five. Becoming inebriated did ultimately lead to my grand demise.

I sat on a stool at the bar and ordered shots.

There I was, a cougar surrounded by cubs while sitting and sipping alcohol. Listening to the beat, my head bobbed to the rhythm. I was frowning and depressed. Of course, being drunk came with perks. I became less inhibited and freely looked about.

I began gawking at young men with ambitious eyes as they passed me by.

I sought that one connective glare to soften my composure. The only thing I got was quick peeks from prospective possibilities that ended with a turn of their head. They ignored me as if I was a mom chaperoning a party. That was a dreadful feeling that only encouraged me to drink more.

Then this happened...

Two giggling teenage girls shouldered me for attention and one of them popped a pill in my mouth.

She said, "Swallow it. Molly will make you smile."

Well, what does an intoxicated sad woman do when a stranger tosses a foreign substance into their oral cavity? The quick answer, something incredibly foolish.

I gobbled it down with a chaser without questioning who they were referring to.

Little did I know, the horrific concoction name Molly was an unusual recreational drug and it just went down my throat.

I'll state upfront, Molly is a vindictive bitch and she was determined to fuck my world up.

Inebriated and influenced by ecstasy or some other crazy combo shit, the dramatic shift of my life pivoted from here.

If I'd been sober and known how it would affect me, I would have hurriedly spat that pill out and darted to the exit while hysterically screaming.

Instead, you guessed it, I happily giggled as the two girls had just done.

I swiveled around on the barstool a few times and used my hands as a break. Smiling seductively at the handsome bartender, I tapped my glass for a refill.

A halo of light radiated around his head like a portrait of Jesus. He scrutinized me with puppy eyes and said, "Lady, you've had enough. Go dance it off or something."

I was happy, not angry. I suddenly felt an urge to dance it off or something.

I immediately stood and turned from him to glare at the packed dance floor.

I slurred, "What the fuckkk?" before the crowd liquified into hues of pretty colors that blurred into a sloshy entanglement that twisted like a slow-moving seesaw.

I found my surreal predicament funny, so I laughed.

I also moved to the dance floor as the bartender suggested and danced wildly to the music.

Bouncing up and down to free the gravitational tug on my knockers was an effective method to grab the eye of every man—and perhaps, seductively gyrating to the percussive rhythm played a small part also.

The mass of swirling tints reformed into people that were separating to the edge of the dance floor to make room for me to prance about, and of course, like any inebriated woman high on drugs, I had to make an impression.

Molly was in control and she was determined to make a fool of me.

As I danced, my alcohol-induced fog evaporated. I felt altered as if my consciousness had just split. My inner voice screamed, but my physical form ignored it.

The outer woman, yeah, still me, began dancing like a stripper simply because strutting about like a slut garnered attention.

More people began clustering among the others to ogle me with fixation.

Their admirable gazes and belittling cries had me sweating and flushed with excitement.

They're words compelled me to put on a naughty show.

I began swaying and teasing the crowd with suggestive motions so lurid that women dropped their mouths and expressed embarrassment for me.

Yeah, the ditzy girls that plopped that pill in my mouth were correct. I was extremely happy—but, I wasn't the one feeling the joy. The dancing slut was experiencing that emotion.

In my rational mind, I was the fucking passenger forced to record to memory every demeaning event. She was experiencing exuberance—while I cried from anguish.

I was practically having an argument with myself. She laughed in response to my discordant composure and ignored my incessant demands to cease her deplorable actions.

The men began shouting, "Take it off."

Well, as stated, the bitch was driving the caboose. Against my wishes, she willingly complied with every verbal command regardless of impropriety.

Surrounded by sordid eyes and jeering chants, I pranced about the dance floor clasping the bottom hem of my dress.

Stopping to sway with the music, I teased the young men with a tawdry smile meant to imply that I was about to reveal my robust charms and precious attributes.

I behaved as any temptress would, I gradually raised the edge of my tight dress to give them a glimpse of the dark triangular patch underneath before going full whore.

To my relief, three gentlemen rushed to my side to impede my humiliating display.

Two of the young men hastily grabbed my arms and the third snatched the front of my dress to cover my partially exposed shame.

Befuddled by my rescuer's intervention, I watched Ron, one of my former students—ah, yeah, if I'm playing the teacher, it's essential to include a handsome muscle jock in my story. Additionally, this kid has a flair of nobility that was needed at this specific moment.

After the gorgeous young man dropped the front hem of my dress, he quickly turned from me to shove people to either side to make room for our exit.

Concurrent with that action he rasped to his pals, "Follow me. We need to get Miss Brooks out of here before these assholes have her squatting over beer bottles."

Of course, the happy slut I'd become refused to budge.

The bitch was too joyful.

I still felt compelled to strip naked and dance about like a woodland nymph gorged on magic mushrooms.

Jeremy, another former student, the skinny loser nerd—eh, including him in my story was your damn idea. It's your sick joke intended to demean and disgust me, argh, now I'm stuck with the annoying twerp.

Anyway, this kid was a student that always raised his hand in class with arrogant answers that were usually incorrect. Book-smart didn't necessarily transpose over to his test scores, which was why I failed him. My decision ultimately led to him being retained another year. Thankfully, he didn't appear to hold a grudge.

Jeremy said, "What's wrong with her? She's not moving."

Eh—I'm also reluctant to point out that the nerd really exists, enough said.

Ron stopped in place and tilted to look back.

I watched him raise his brow and nod his head, followed by him saying, "Miss Brooks, you need to walk your butt out of here, we're taking you home before you do something regretful."

There are moments when a revelation produces terror. It was this instant that my rational mind determined that I was reacting to verbal commands like a robot. The question, "What could possibly go wrong?" was now a horrifying inquiry that haunted me.

With two men on each side urging me onward, my legs began walking forward on their own volition.

Of course, I screamed.

My lips did move—however, I astonishingly mumbled, "Yes," instead—ah, I couldn't stop saying it.

Alice doesn't hold the candle to the proverbial hole I found myself in. I prayed I'd taken the wrong pill, and this was just a horrible simulation. I hoped I'd awake to a nightmare and wipe sweat from my brow when the horror got real. To my dismay, "It's only a dream," would never be spoken.

Tyron, the pair's darker-skinned sidekick.

Upfront, I'm Caucasian, but I'm not a racist—well, admittingly everyone has a bias, even me, but I assure you I'm not bigoted anymore, not after—

Anyway, I've been told it's the norm for the gangly white youths of today to have at least one of his persuasion as a friend—ah, or visa-versa.

Colloquially, jumping the cart before the horse will be avoided going forward, I'm just saying—eh, Tyron is gifted, not stereotyping—you know.

All stories require an antagonist to drop the protagonist into a mess. In my case, a sloppy cesspool of nastiness defines it better. This time around, the black guy is the bad guy.

As such, I'm providing a forewarning. He's filthy-minded, obnoxiously candid, and manipulative.

If you get squeamish over a woman being utterly used, I beseech you to cover your ears—my debaucherous plunge begins now.

Tyron exclaimed, "Teach is tripping," followed by sinister laughter.

Disturbed by my strange behavior, Jeremy paid little attention to Tyron, instead, he said, "Miss Brooks, you're annoying the heck out me. Please shut up."

Gratefully, my series of one-word phrases stopped.

Whether I existed in a psychedelic drug-induced freak show or my mental facilities had been reduced to the level of a primordial joke, my vocabulary now consisted of only one word. Oh, hell yeah, I shrieked.

...and of course, like before, I produced happy giggles.

As we reached Ron's sedan, he said, "Guys, she's too flighty. I fear she might accidentally open the door and fall out. Put her in the backseat and sit beside her to keep her calm. I know where she lives, I'll drive."

There I was seated between Jeremy and Tyron while staring into the rearview mirror at my reflection.

When the image grinned back at me, I felt a creepy chill, well, I experienced something.

The car lurched forward towards my home.

I had three minutes of quiet contemplation before Tyron enacted his demented plan.

He turned on the canopy overhead light to appraise me like a barnyard animal. I was too giddy to comprehend the mischievous intent behind that gaze.

In the dim glare, Tyron suddenly gave me a malicious grin that gleamed whitely against the backdrop of his dark skin.

He then said, "Guys, do you know why Teach is dressed like a slut and flaunting herself in a club frequented by teens? It's because she's horny and seeking to score young dick."

If I wasn't so ditzy, I would have slapped him for saying something so disparaging. That wasn't my reason. From naivety and stupidity, I had simply made a dreadful mistake. However, admittedly there was a mediocre of truth that made my rational-self cringe at his words.

Outwardly, my joyful self sheepishly smiled and tilted her head down to stare at her feet.

Of course, Ron and Jeremy, being considerate young men, never questioned my condition as being anything more than an inebriated woman behaving foolishly that required rescuing from a bad situation. To them, I was Miss Brooks, their former teacher, a respected citizen, a righteous woman with a moral compass.