Mrs. Patel had been extra sexy that day. She had worn a dress shirt and a tight skirt that clung to her small ass and rose slightly above her knees, and the windows of the classroom had been open. An occasional gust of wind through the room would suddenly blow her skirt up, and we could even see the outline of her white panties. Of course she would just laugh and flatten her skirt down again, not knowing what affect it was having on us. There was always a scrum before English class — even the usual backbenchers would fight to sit at the front row for her class. Every time Mrs. Patel had her back to us and was writing with the chalk on the blackboard, her little ass would wriggle and shake, leaving us all excited.
I sat down on my comfortable leather chair at my desk, and unbuttoned the slit on my underwear. Carefully I took out my excited cock from its resting place. I started to rub and stroke my penis, thinking of Mrs. Patel and Rashida. In my fantasy, I was imagining that I was in my classroom, after school, with Mrs. Patel behind the desk. I was dressed in my school uniform.
“C’mon,” said Mrs. Patel, in my imagination, “If I am going to make you my slave, Tarek Zia, you need to get completely naked.”
“Yes, Mrs. Patel, ma’am.”
In my erotic imagination, I gulped as I slowly began to undress. First my shoes and socks, then my shirt, then my pants. My underwear was the last remaining article of clothing on my body.
“Those need to come off too,” Mrs. Patel said. “I need you fully in the nude, boy. Slaves don’t get to wear clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I then gripped the sides of my underwear and quickly took them off. My penis was there, fully exposed. A grin appeared on my teachers face.
“Your penis.” She uttered. “It’s so small.”
A snicker came out of her mouth, before she quickly covered it and attempted to hold in her laughter. I looked at her face. As much as Mrs. Patel tried to hide it, I could read pure amusement in her eyes. I could tell what was running through her head — of all the boys and men she must have seen, comparing them to me — I was the smallest. I felt completely belittled and emasculated just by looking at her.
“Ok then,” she said, “This … thing … won’t take long to examine thoroughly.”
Mrs. Patel then bent down and began to squeeze my little penis, lifted it and checked underneath. The warmth of her hand as she touched my petite penis caused it so turn hard in between her index finger and thumb. I heard her snicker under her breath.
“I should probably not grip too hard, it’s so small and must be delicate!”
She then laughed out aloud. I turned bright red. She just showed me that she was not afraid to tell me directly that I was a small man.
“Rashida!” Mrs. Patel called out. In my fantasies, Rashida was the maid in the school. The door to the classroom opened and Rashida came into the room.
“Look how small this boy is, Rashida. We need to measure it. Can you find me a small ruler?”
Oh Rashida! I thought, as I continued to furiously stroke my penis, lost in my fantasy.