tagSci-Fi & FantasyAcademy Girl Mildred

Academy Girl Mildred

byPastel_Comma©

Mildred hadn't expected that her life of teaching young minds and, well, living on the straight and narrow would lead up to this. Her, a student-teacher for an ages-old academy, forced into smuggling contraband to make ends meet. Not only was it illegal and immoral to defy the trade agreements with the aligned Centralrian governments, she was carrying witchcraft contraband. The stuff made and sold by genuine witches.

Aulra, spare her!

Mildred couldn't believe it when she was told and she could hardly believe it now.

Smuggling things like that, witch-made or not, was worth a life-time sentence to a dark lab owned by the Royal Research and Remittance Committee. A fine name for an organization that killed more people than they saved. But what sat more firmly in Mildred's mind was her students. What would they think of her? She'd taken care to keep her trips discrete and paid any wagging mouths silent but there was always a chance-

Oh, she couldn't think of that now! Focus on the job. Be the professional smuggler.

Fumbling her way onto the tramcar, Mildred held back her whimper. She never much liked them, tramcars or tramlines. Everyone she knew had a complaint or two about them. The foul stench. The prismatic smokestacks that fogged up the countryside. And of course, the small space. Aulra, was the small space terrible. Even if she managed to get on first, the car empty, she'd find an elbow in her face or a butt on her lap by the second stop.

Considering how a tramcar was built, concepts like personal space and comfort went to the wayside. A tramcar had about six vertical benches, rickety and poorly-made, melded to the iron walls. Not to mention, they were all painted the most garish and coppery of colors. A simple pleasant green would come out looking like a horrid, rancid, vomit-green on top of a tramcar. Don't get Mildred started on their red models. She's glad they all went to the scrap yard after the scandal they made last year.

Tramcars weren't made to outdo the more favorable ways of getting around like trains and trolleys.

They were for cargo. Promoted as quicker, reliable, and more honest delivery than what a slow train plagued by bandits all around the clock could provide. Then they decided to gouge the poor. Letting the whole world know exactly how Central cared about its imported working class. They charged practically a whole working salary just to be allowed on their dinky machines for a month.

Hardly on board, the tramcar decided to close its doors then and there.

Mildred swiftly hitched her skirt up and, for no offense, elbowed the people behind her out to secure her spot. Whether Mildred wanted to or not, she learned the art of riding on a tramline. Her work, smuggling as it were, required it. And to ride a tramcar meant she had to forget her manners. One was not polite on them. If you were, you'd be left at the train stop, gobsmacked and bitter. One was not kind to passengers. If you caught the need to be nice, you'd be forced off by the surge of people getting on and off.

And for Mildred, giving up her manners was still quite the battle after all these months.

Slamming shut, the doors managed to catch some fabric by the men and women still standing at the tram stop. Tourists they had to have been. They made a scene, trying to pull out their skirts and shirts from the tram's metal doors.

Pressed safely on the other side, Mildred watched in dismay as the tourists didn't put one and one together. Anyone from the capital city or from Central wouldn't have come anywhere near a tramline. And the islanders and foreigners who regularly used the tramlines would have had enough sense not to bring their clothing close.

There was something in the fuel that went into running a tramline. It made one's clothing cling to the outside of its doors and walls. If you didn't strip of your own will, you'd be stripped right down to your unmentionables.

The tramcar's bell rung and it was off, thundering down the hillside like a unhinged beast. With it came the chorus of torn clothing and, of course, the shrieks. For the sake of their modesty, Mildred averted her eyes. The men in the car roared in laughter. And it was just men behind her. Around this time of the day, night falling and streetlights being lit, only miners and metalworkers used the tram.

Had she gotten on an hour earlier, she would have been sharing tramcars with the female workers but that was something she could mull over later. The lights in the tramcar came on, blinking and flickering annoyingly as Mildred was forced to fight the bright sting they gave. Either they were dim and useless, or bright and oh so painful.

Mildred rubbed her eyes and turned from the doors, ready to start moving further in. The men still chuckled and guffawed and she couldn't help but snort at their amusement. The tramcar caught everybody once. They honestly didn't have the right to laugh.

Dark-skinned or light, human or not, the men always had similar builds. Big. Tall. Broad-shoulders. Smoldering dark eyes like they were all actually bats seeing sunlight for the first time. An excessive amount of chest hair. Seriously. The sort that they must had wrestled off a bear or two to earn.

Some had the decency to wear shirts. Usually unbuttoned but the thought counted. Most didn't, however. Instead, they let their sweaty and glistening and toned man-breasts just hang out there.

Women had to cover their tits. Why didn't they?

Mildred couldn't stop taking peeks and lingering glances. It was there! In her face! Showing off brazenly and occasionally grinding against her as she rushed her way through. Their chests weren't as soft as a girl's. No, they were soft in a different way, meaty and oddly squeezable. Fresh sweat lines making a map of their awesome pecs and tight stomachs. Even the more huskier men caught her eyes, their beefy shape and form no way diminished by the beer bellies they carried.

Mildred, despite her grand and awkward height, was nothing but marshmallow goo in comparison.

Some people might say Mildred had a crush on mining men. And Mildred would not correct them.

Sculpted by their hard labor, the miners were all sharp lines and thick calloused skin. Men of rugged rock, she liked to think of them. The soot and ash from the mines clung to their skin, making them all a bit grittier and dirtier than you'd expect off an average man. The desire to lick them clean came and went with every other thought. But Mildred would never act on it. She had a job to do. There would be no funny business in transit. But Mildred's mind still wandered, filled with filthy five-second fantasies.

She couldn't resist wrinkling her nose, intoxicated by the smells filling up their little tramcar.

The miners often carried an erotic stench back with them. A hint of male musk along with that ash-dirt and burning aroma that clung to their slacks and skin. Like a well-trained hound presented with a feast, her mouth began to fill with saliva. A involuntary action that led to loud lewd swallowing. As if she was signaling, "if you all asked, I will get down on my knees and wash your dirty cocks!"

As Mildred careened through for the back of the tramcar, using her body as a crowbar, she tried to turn off her senses. What she was doing here would have been seen as inappropriate anywhere else. Catching a miner by surprise with her swift jabs might make them jerk out of the way.

But sometimes, almost all of the time, she had to go around.

Mildred's body ended up pressing into those walls of hot muscular flesh. Her flat breasts rubbing against their stiff manly ones. Each encounter was brisk and professional. Mildred tried not meet anyone's eyes as she passed through. The heat of a miner's skin rightly roasting her cheeks into red.

Her eager fat nipples poked through her white high-collar blouse, greeting each man with more attention than she would have liked. And her rear couldn't help but to brush and hover by groins and laps. Spreading a miner's powerful legs by just a light tap of her large backside.

These miners didn't have the common decency to look the other way on her actions. None of them outright touched her. Thank spirits. But she felt their meaty manhoods respond. Brush her right back as if asking her to her ass down then and there. The swell of their tips pushing through their pants, that tenting cock prodding open her cresting twin ass-cheeks, was exhilarating.

But she'd only allowed herself five seconds to indulge.

To think and pretend and relish in that forbidden contact of cock and ass in such a public, public place. And then, of course, she was gone. Back to fighting her way for a better spot in the tramcar.

Mildred kept her chin up, not wanting to bare witness to what her heels were doing in her blind rush. Shoes being smashed under by her black heels. Long legs that laid right in the middle of the tramcar being kicked out of the way. Her knees jabbed and stabbed those who were standing. Her elbows pushed and plunged through every opening available. And with every inch she claimed, a small part of Mildred was screeching and pleading for mercy.

Because- Well-

All her life, Mildred always had to apologize for her size.

Everything about her was just a bit off.

Big hips but not much of an ass. Great thighs but no hourglass waist. Small shoulders but no decent sized breasts to offset them. She was pear-shaped, hipsy, which was fine, respectable in other lands but here in Central- Mildred broke things when she sat down. She tore clothing. Often she ran around with tears that split the back of anything she was wearing not custom-made.

And of course, if one compared her to the average Centralrian, she had to be a foreigner. People from Central were not kind to foreigners.

Long black hair that fell to her waist. Round face. Peachy skin. Great height.

People from Central either had skin as white as moon-dust or as black as night-ash and they wouldn't accept anyone that who was too out of line. Her pink, almost orange, skin might have let her pass their standards but her height and that dark, dark hair. No. A foreigner she was. Her birth certificate didn't count. Her parents didn't count. Her childhood of living in Central didn't count.

It didn't matter if she was in uniform as a academy student-teacher or not.

A person from Central would take a good look at her and wonder how much they should pay to make her leave. Expecting to say sorry before she even did anything made life easier for Mildred. And well, tramlines and the work she did on them, took a real piss on that.

Mildred kept up her half-run, half-stomp until she reached the back of the tramcar.

For the sake of inner peace, she sighed. Then had a tiny jig, regardless who was in front or back of her. One tramcar down, three more to go. Her home in the Northern Continent would be waiting for her at the end. In the back, there were windows all around. Square box-cut ones made from thick glass. From her spot, she watched the sun passing through the treeline and sloping hills further on.

Night was coming. And that meant, in simple terms, she was fucked.

Mildred brought her hand to the window and tapped it with her knuckles. She could still concentrate. Her 'cargo' hadn't begun influencing her libido as of yet. That was a good sign. Bridget, an ex-student of hers and her handler in the smuggling business, warned her that she had to nightfall to get to a safe house. The size-shaping rune inscribed on her stomach was only good for six hours max. But unexpected business with the Teaching Association had her stay in the capital longer than she would have liked.

She sent a missive to Bridget, asking for some help, but the girl never sent a message back.

And here came the end of the day. Ready to end her good mood and most likely, her career.

This was all of the fault of Mildred's work and greed. Thanks to her size, she could carry more than most. Not to mention, with her status as a student-teacher based in the Northern Continent, she was free to head back and forth with little suspicion.

But it came with certain drawbacks, chasing a living wage while providing an education to her charges. Smuggling was eating into her lesson planning time. Teacher-to-student conferences. Personal peer-to-peer colleague reviews. And of course, her body was getting used to carrying the latest fad in contraband-selling circles. Mimic-seeds.

Mildred shuddered once she heard it. There was no mistaking the sound, like an egg-shell cracking. The rune broke. Well, there went what little hope of her making it in time. Mildred dropped her free hand to grasp at her belly, rubbing with her thumb the round skin to where the mimic-seeds had to be. Deep in her womb and ready to cause mischief.

Mimic-seeds used to be only bought by shady alchemists and rogue scholars.

You could grind them, boil them, grow them into weapons; the whole wicked spectrum.

But lately, there's been a call for sexual aids from bored and rich Centralrians that wanted to spice up their bedroom life. And as it goes, if the Centralrians wanted something, everybody wanted it.

In seed form, these plants released magic that stimulated growth hormones and arousal. Something of a defense mechanic, this gro-magic was apparently fun to exploit. Mimic-seeds couldn't transform themselves, but they could transform whatever they were placed into.

Mildred focused on the scenery, watching as the house-dotted hills gave way to sloping plains and forest. She wasn't particular worried about exploding. Something a newcomer to smuggling would have been scared to death about. Still a naive product of the boatload of misinformation from Centralrian governments. Rumors and gossip to convince their citizens to not engage in illegal trading. Exploding. Turning into stone. Or becoming a plant monster was just a few of the funny lies that got passed around.

The size of fingertips, mimic-seed were rather small. Even if they grew to a bigger size inside of her, they would be the same as a chicken's egg at the most. Twelve or so were implanted inside of her. A number she felt she could handle. If it was thirty-six or more, well, that was when it would be time to panic.

What Mildred was really concerned about was how the seeds would react to her body. She'd already had plenty of close calls. The seeds spurting their magic inside of her as she bolted to a safe house to be extracted. But she never got to experience the full effect for herself. All that magic was still waiting inside of her. Her womb safe-guarding it until Mildred got properly pregnant or was caught with these eggs still inside at the wrong time. Just what would it do to her?

Slowing down, the tramcar came to its last stop before heading to the ocean. The car emptied out, briefly, but filled right back up with men from the Lower Centralrian mines.

In the hustle and bustle, Mildred was shuffled around. She lost her prime spot in the back and found herself stuffed between a pair of good-looking men. One faced forward, his back towards her. The other was front-first, his chin pressing lightly between her shoulder blades.

Soundly squished with no wiggle room, Mildred couldn't help but feel their strong and rugged bodies against her own.

The man in front of her was like a brick wall.

Fine shoulders. Dark black skin with a cool undertone. Sandy-colored blond hair that hung off his head in a low, loose ponytail.

The man behind was smaller, shorter with a slender, wiry body. She saw a bit of his face as they were pushed together. Baby-faced with gray eyes. Dark blonde hair. White freckled skin. If she had to continue the metaphor, she was trapped between a brick wall and a farm fence. Both of them were centralrians, probably hailing from the lower sea cost of Central.

And, whoever they were, they weren't miners.

"Name's Seth." the blond man behind her whispered. "Man in front of you is Conrad. I hope I'm not wrong in presuming you're Milly. Mantle got your message. We're here to help."

Mildred blinked at the sound of that stupid nickname. Milly. What was she, a cow?

"Bri- I mean, Mantle sent you? How- How do you two know what I look like? It's against protocol-" And it was. Runners, like herself, who worked for Mantle weren't supposed to know what each other looked like. Only their handlers and these two didn't fit the look for a handler. Too easy-going. Not a magic relic or tool on them. The whole tactic was supposed to cut down on amateurs getting caught and giving up everyone in the smuggling ring for a better deal in the courts. "What's my identifying number? And who exactly are-"

"Mildred Albright. Twenty-three. Current profession: teacher. Trade: none. Guild association: none. Number of successful trades... A surprising high number of eighty-two out of eighty-seven runs. Especially if you include this run. You are good at what you do." Conrad rattled off her personal information, his voice low and velvety. Spirits, she got goosebumps. "We know your number, HF-00230. We know your handler. We know all of this to say we got you. Mantle is watching over you."

"Got me?" Mildred muttered. "I wasn't informed of this."

"Neither were we before we got the notice a half-hour ago." Seth added. His voice was bright, chirpy and full of zeal. "We're here to do the extraction."

"In public?" she hissed. "You do know we're on a tramcar that's eighty percent glass? All it takes is one concerned citizen to report 'plant tentacles' and we're all going to end up on a table."

"It's alright." And somehow it was when he said it like that.

Conrad had a relaxed personality, didn't he?

Something about him gave off a calming effect that soothed Mildred's nerves. Being stuck en-route with a pair of smuggler agents wasn't fun or part of the plan but it was better than panicking on her lonesome. Or it could be he was her type. They both were, honestly. Conrad didn't smell of burning coal and dirt like the miners. No, he smelled of gunpowder and mira-cryst fuel. The sort of scent that you could only find off a gunner or grenadier.

People like that didn't go to places like this. Plus, Conrad's arms were very extremely hunky.

"The organization has that covered." Seth replied. "There aren't any major towns on this route to the coast. Anyone who feels mouthy can either get a nice wad of look-elsewhere cash or a fist to the face."

"This doesn't feel like the usual extraction." Mildred said, rubbing her stomach. Something deep inside of her started tingling. Mildred ignored it. "Why is there only two of you? I don't see any magic rings, cloaks or any other sort of gem-powered item. Neither of you look magically-inclined either."

"Our latest client asked for a special order. We're just here to make sure things get cooked right in that oven of yours." Conrad said. "You can relax. We got you. And if you need our numbers, I'm CM-0027 and Seth's CM-0028."

"Really then?" Mildred snorted. "Then how are we going to get the seeds out without some fancy magic or a extraction chair in a safe house?"

"Persuasion of the stimulating kind." They said together. She could hear the smiles in their voice. Assholes. That meant sex. Public sex, apparently. "Of course, if you're not up to it, we can make different arrangements. Stop the tram and signal for an extraction team to make their way over."

Ooh, that meant money. Lots of it. 'Different arrangements' was code for they'd get another idiot for this high stakes job.

"How much is the payout for this?" Two times. Three times? Mildred jugged zeroes in the back of her head and wondered how much did she want some updated teaching equipment. And a much needed down-payment on her cottage. And, well, a new wardrobe. It would be nice to not have to wear patchwork hand-me-down cloaks all of the damn time.

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