Maternal Leave
Eight pages. Eight individual sheets of homework are on her desk for every single student in her class, and this is without their work packets due later today. She had tried so hard so clear the backlog, but it's not all her fault- every sheet, even as simple as a Scantron, requires a chunk of forms and authorizations to ensure they have not been tampered with supernaturally. Good thing they're geniuses, nine-tenths of them, or she would have quit years ago from frustration.
They're sitting quietly in their seats, of course, polishing off one of the monthly class examinations. Any one of those exams could earn them college credit. The administration had told her they were more comfortable with traditional authority, and so she sits behind a solid, outright bombproof chunk of desk that reaches down to the floor. While they work and work she slips out of her shoes with barely silent relief, flexing stocking-wrapped toes as she surveys the class again, ever vigilant for the stray eyeball, scrying or telepathic burst. Not that they've ever cheated before. They like her too much.
Her desk isn't the only thing that's traditional about her authority, in fact. She is a woman- a typical human woman in her late twenties, dark hair cut to shoulder length, a face and proportions that would go unnoticed by the casual observer. Of course the sort of man she wants would be drawn by the satchel of books always looped over her shoulder or set on the desk, the mild lenses perched on her nose, her conservative ankle-length dress and blouse. Every last bit of her is stamped, tagged, and engraved as teacher, but it's the warm curve of her natural lips, the healthy young flush of her skin, and above all, her way of leaning when she addresses the students that prefix hot for.
Not that all the students lust after her, of course. A very few are straight girls. One of them is less than fifty percent corporeal. Every last one of them is nonhuman, a remnant of the cataclysms of sixty years ago, when the planet's surface had bloated with mana and withered. Billions had died as unnatural events savaged reality in the thirst for more death- tornadoes miles wide still tear across the American Midwest, so radioactive they glow, and a thousand natural disasters defy entropy in their eternal, glowering devastation.
But that's all in the past. The human race did not recover, but humanity did. It adapted to become something else in so many cases. The differences were not exact, but the surviving tatters of popular culture had named the various new breeds to emerge from the dead cores of metropolitan centers worldwide: elves, greys, and a score of others, not counting a hundred races that had proliferated in the ruins and scorched wastelands, some within sight of the school on a good day.
The human survivors all emerged as veterans, weary men and women who'd eaten horseflesh under a glowing, boiling sky. None of them trusted the creatures that emerged from the cold mud and rotting crop stubble of the countryside. Re-education was needed. When the riots burned out across the mutilated countryside- communication had long since been lost with the outside world- the leaders grudgingly decided that mere education would suffice.
The local government found what few schools remained intact from decades of war, disaster and neglect, cleaned out the bodies and rats, and resumed dusty curricula as if nothing had gone wrong. Ten years later she was born, Sarah Hoch, the last of three. And thus on to education. Every last one of the students here is imported from one of the surviving districts, the administration phrasing it one of two ways: giving these underprivileged nonhumans a chance to enjoy their own kind, or isolating undesirable elements from the student body at large.
Sarah feels she's educated them well enough. They can take it from here, and thanks to an epic all-nighter browsing though an erotica archive with her favorite toy in one hand and a red grading pen in the other- the Internet, at least, survived the cataclysm- she has an idea on how to earn some vacation time. The administration has not physically seen her since the start of the year, which is absolutely vital to the plan.
She picks out the shortest, scrawniest two in the class, which is rather easy. Most of the students in this particular class are bulky things, anthro bucks and females from the various tribes, and several are too large to fit in the century-old desks at all. They do their work sitting on tables, huddled on the floor, or even in the hallway in the case of the hexacoon sow from Bonn's melted ruins. Only two are so small they need to sit on their books: Erich, the miniature rat semi-anthro who's given her headaches with his atrocious penmanship all semester, and Hutzaka, the only one of the group whose voice she can't stand, the nasal whine of the kobold. Erich looks just a hair smaller, but after a long deliberation she sets his paper aside and marks on Hutzaka's, "See me after class." She wants someone smooth for her plan.
====
"What does the edministration heve for me now?" The other students are gone, back to the brick-and-concrete dormitories and their armed guards, and it's down to Sarah and her diminutive student, who's drawn to his full 83-centimetre height as he tries to rest his elbows on her desk like someone clambering over a high wall. "I swear, I heve filled in the forms right end never gotten less then..." He trails off as Sarah leans forward on her desk. His footclaws scratch at the ancient terrazzo floor, struggling for the few extra centimeters needed to peer down her blouse and study those beautiful things- braless, as the rumors say.
No fool, the woman knows what drives lurk beneath his lemon-bright hide, what desires are concealed in most of her students. Her grandparents would have screamed at what she knows, but with less than sixty percent of the city still purely human, she figures every bit of interspecies romance helps. More importantly, her goal is mere minutes in the future, and a willing subject will make everything possible.
Settled in her chair, she doesn't just lean, she bends at the waist until her breasts are flat on the desktop, pencils and Post-its pressed aside. His black-centered eyes make no pretense of fixing on hers. He's betting his entire academic reputation on this hormonal hunch, that she wants him. The forbidden word forms in his throat, chokes him for a moment, emerges. "Sarah?"
Her glossy fingernails reach forward, skimming across the baggy hide just under his chin, with a noise like a struck match. The kobold warbles in his snout, his words dying mercifully in a throaty burbling. "Don't talk, dear. I need you to do something for me." She slips off her chair, antique wooden thing that it is, and brushes those nails across his snout with a whispered command. The lizard scrambles back with singular haste, gulping back the knot of several years' anticipation, the material of countless lonely nights in the barracks-like dorms with his short fingers and her scent in his mind. He joins her, standing not much higher than her armrests.
"Hutzaka, my dear, I've watched you grow from a mere child to one of the most valued students in my class." As she speaks to him in those familiar cadences, heard through most of his life, her fingernails tease beneath his lower jaw again, rewarded with the softest mewling. His attention, however split, is guaranteed. "You have all been such excellent students, but the administration tires me. I ask only for a few weeks to recover and get your affairs in order. Now, can you promise me one thing?"
He can indeed, and informs her of this eagerly. She studies the little creature as her right hand plays at the tender throat-scales, the left smoothing out her dress. The other teachers mock her for it, but she finds something endearing in his looks, as with every student. His lumpy, ratlike physique, sleek from a lifetime of government rations, the tender discs of eardrums on either side of his powerfully built skull, his invariable outfit of grubby children's' jeans and his only white dress shirt, washed and ironed every night. Adorable, down to his clawed, leathery feet. She couldn't have chosen better. "Don't panic. Everything is arranged," she murmurs. Dress sufficiently smoothed, she slips a hand into the monolithic desk drawer, so old it works on polished wood instead of rollers. It retrieves a small glass jar of massage oil.
The jar clacks on the desk's surface, and she turns as much as the chair will allow, still tucked in properly. "Strip, dear. I will keep your shirt here." The thought of why his shirt would be left unattended does not occur to him. He simply obeys. The shirt is removed with outright reverence, folded carefully and set on her desk, his chest long and devoid of anything mammalian. Clawed fingers work at his zipper next. His jeans crumple to the floor, his hands staying over his stubby sheath for the sake of the ultimate taboo.
Then Sarah reaches into her dress and unrolls her stockings one at a time, the kobold snuffling at them as they whisk across his raised nostrils, draping them over his shirt. Her hands come down again and ruck her dress up to expose the bare flesh beneath, hidden all the while by the flimsy fabric, and his little hands fail to hide the erection that towers beneath them.
It's a promising view. Warm, crisply pink flesh shows in the faintest line between the outer lips, plump and flushed as they are with arousal. The woman dips her fingers into the jar of oil, rubbing the moist excess between her fingertips until it trickles across her palms. Now prepared, she traces her fingertips along the rim of her labia, lingering just enough to make sure the tender flesh is slick and prepared for what's about to slide in.
She catches her young charge staring at her. Those damp fingers, freshly aromatic, reach just under his chin and crook it up to bring his eyes to her own. "Don't just stand and stare, hon. Take care of yourself." She takes the oil jar and pours it over his smooth head in a puddle that spreads until it drips onto his shoulders, then presses it into a shaking hand. The kobold quivers as he scoops his own chubby fingers in, smearing it across his yellow hide and rubbing his face with it.
Her chair rolls out from under the desk's confines, her legs spreading out eagerly, and she hooks the kobold with a bare foot. Impatience takes its toll. "You're coming in. Hurry up, dear." He barely has time to empty the jar over his head and take a deep breath before she pulls him between her thighs, her flushed skin radiating heat, and strong hands cup the back of his slippery head, wedging his snout against that hairline slit of pink. Then another interval, long enough to snuffle and snort at the trimmed hair tickling his lips, before the slit widens.
It's hot. No, more than hot- it's the steamy, muggy exhaust of a running dishwasher blown in his face, and then crawling across his thin hide, slickened by the oil and her own natural secretions. So close to his snout that he has to go cross-eyed, he can see the promising pink flesh up ahead, ridged ever so faintly with darker pink. His nostrils flare wide and suck in the headiest, most intoxicating scent of his young life.
Her fingers slip in front of his snout then, and he pulls back just an inch, feeling a gut-deep tremor as his snout comes away damp.. The jar of oil is still in one scaly hand, and accordingly she takes it for herself, delicately painted toes plucking it from his grasp and stretching up to deposit it on the desk. "Now..."
Those digits stir, short fingernails glinting in the light, and ease across the glimmering satin flesh. Then they slither inside and stretch her open, delicately, so carefully, turning the thin hairline of pink into a line, then an oval, the tissue stretching more easily the wider it's worked open. His awestruck eyes look straight inside his teacher- the softest, most tender pink he's ever seen, shimmering with oil and more natural things. Strands loop from wall to wall, dripping to the 'floor' of the dilating passage with the most delicate slithering pops.
Then the spell breaks as she presses a toned thigh to the back of his skull. The delicate geometries and currents are flattened against the soft walls by his thick, squat snout, slipping in with the smooth glide of oil on oil. The grinding of bone and creaking-rope stretch of muscle reverberate through his snout as the enchantment ensures her hips and uterus cooperate to let him in.
The teacher feels tremors of her own as organs crease and rearrange to clear the way. His hide, cool with his reptilian nature and the oil smeared across it, outright wedges her open to what would rip normal skin; soothed with the enchantment, it only fills her, plugs the gaping void that she strives to populate. Her legs fold under the chair, exposing herself as brazenly as possible, the delicately cupped lips of her vagina pulled forward and wrapping around every contour of the amber snout. He's much bigger than she'd hoped, and any larger student will pop her!
Oil and warm, fragrant dampness slick over each other, his eyes stealing a last glance of her through the dark fuzz cresting her slit. Then his world narrows into a snapshot panorama of his own snout slithering into the dripping recesses of her body. Then nothing but darkness, liquid and the unthinkable power of her sexual perfumes, breathed from the source. He can feel her elastic skin and the velvet walls reaching out to envelop him; his eardrums slip into the tunnel and he can hear the rapid pulse of her heart humming about him, accompanied by the lewd, flagrant gushing trickling down his neck in warm rivulets.
Nothing has prepared her for the molten glow as his head, blind and deaf to all but her body, works its way deeper. Smooth effortless passage at first, the first effort coming as his wide head parts her inner walls with a damp slosh of oils. Now it's not her labia, but the newly flexible skin of her tropical vagina that stretches, a clear outline of his skull lumping under the soft pad of her mons. Her fingers strain to hold her lips out instead of letting them seal around his neck- the muscle is too slick.
In all his young life he's never even touched the pink between female legs. Now he can feel every inch of his face coated with firm, yielding warmth- the thin arousal-plumped flesh coating the magically fueled ring of muscle below. His snout brushes a shallow, curved dead-end in her passage, but before he can think to catch his breath to point this out, her hips shift to maneuver him inward. The spongy mass of her cervix creeps forward, parting around his snout, and draws him in with quiet fleshy suction. It flexes with a wet-leather squeak, sliding like a hot jelly over his unseen shoulders, sinking them in. He doesn't dare move his hands.
Sarah can feel her inner walls peel away from each other with a moist smack, moments before taking his shoulders into her impossibly stretched vagina, her hips forced outward by the size of the kobold working his way inside. Her skin is a rounded series of lumps as his anatomy squeezes inside, her bladder protesting moments before the magic quenches such base needs. Now there's nothing to worry about but fitting this beautiful young lad inside her. His shoulders prop her birth canal open wide, his snout does the same for the fleshy gate of her cervix, and his body is drenched from oil and human nectars.
He can feel muscles, the true skeletal muscles, shifting far beyond the layers of slimy velvet encasing his short body. She's moving. What she does, he can't tell at first, with so little of his brain devoted to rational thought. His torso angles back, solidly encased armpit-deep in her distended body, and rubbery cervix-flesh squeaks around his shoulders with a damp squeak that thrums through him. It consumes him, an inner gateway beyond the first, and he feels her labia snake down his body, sparing him from the frosty room and welcoming him in.
The woman settles down carefully, canting her hips forward to angle the slick tunnel square over the limp, barely upright kobold. Too slippery for human hands to manipulate, and her legs are too weak, too full of quivers, to guide him in. The only alternative is to kneel over him and crouch. She moves carefully, watching the lumps and wrapped outlines swell with every inch she descends, the steaming evidence of her unthinkable arousal pattering down in an audible stream and puddling hotly around her bare feet.
More of the same thick, pulsing tissue flattens against his snout with a faint tremor, and he knows his snout is in her womb- in it and flattened against the rear wall, as much as walls matter in this complete darkness, surrounding by the far-off thump and gargles of her living flesh around him. His hands clench at his sides until blood runs from his palms, unnoticed. The walls tighten and flex around him in an irregular spasm, and his penis twitches and sends gobs of semen arcing onto the bottom of the chair.
That's when something raps against the locked door. Her straining thighs give and with an obscene slurp Sarah collapses on the little reptile. Only his bowed head saves her from a messy internal rupture. The pure, nerve-fired shock of the moment stops any incriminating sound. His body slips into hers until her labia mash against the warm, sticky pool, and she bolts to her feet.
Inside, it is darkness and unthinkable moisture. He exists with the muscle and lining held tight to every contour at first, the thumping pulse of her womb around him. His lungs are frozen empty, but no urge to breathe comes, and no panic seizes his brain. There's only a mild, nagging concern just at the edge of thinking, something forgotten...
She's a smart woman, not one to panic when her scheme is nearly complete- but too early. Damn it, she had them marked down as 17:00, not 16! But there's no point to it now, she must hurry. The deep, ankle-length dress is now lumped out by the impossible mass of an entire kobold curled up in a tight knot within her womb, her new child. She staggers and sways with the unfamiliar weight, her back creaking in protest. Her feet slip into discarded shoes, wet with the liquids that have dripped on them, her toes slicking together. No time for this. She reaches back, adjusts her hair, and opens the door to greet her school's administrator.
"You've come to sign my papers for maternity leave? As you can see I'm nearly due, Superintendent...would have let you know earlier, but I figured the grapevine would do its work for me. Apparently they've all kept their mouths shut."
"Yes, I would have left much earlier, but the students never work as hard when I'm gone."
"What? Oh, nothing, I assure you. I simply locked it for my privacy."
"Quadruplets, the doctor said."
"Oh yes, and one other thing. Hutzaka- pardon, 866- will not be in for the next several days. Severe pineal infection, the doctor's note should be in this evening... what? What?"
She had just sat down in the chair. Her dress splits from the strain forced upon it, revealing a clawed foot hanging just out of her drooling sex.