Mienne

Title: Mienne

Summary: At an intuition for those with superpowers, a history teacher uses his body possession abilities on the unsuspecting yet devastatingly beautiful new French professor who is too shy for her own good.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Michael Falke came to, he recognized the ceiling.

It was a high, handsome design with ornate upholstery. There were large, ceiling-to-floor windows that led to a large balcony overlooking the school's courtyard. There was daylight spilling into the classroom, with birdsong wilting through the open porch doors. He sat at Miss. Jane Fay's genuine wooden desk. Empty student desks lined the open space of the room, decorated bookshelves and foreign antiques filled the rest of it. Tasteful in its simple elegance.

Despite his newfound location on the first floor, the normally boisterous halls right outside were now silent. It was an in-service day for professors. There would be no students and little faculty in the building. And, by the looks of an open calendar with Miss. Fay's handwriting, she devoted this entire day to academic planning. Such papers littered her workspace. In fact, a pen was still loosely clutched in her hand. She had been writing her signature just before Michael came to.

Michael dropped the pen. His-her hand was so small. It felt so fragile, compared to his own body's. Not as large, wide, or rough. Her nails were polished, shining; the skin supple and soft. He caressed the hands, admired their slenderness, circled the delicate wrists, felt the lack of hair. He shoved up the sleeves of Jane's turtleneck sweater to feel at the flesh there. It was so soft, so pale, and smelled faintly of sugared cherries. The sleeves could only roll up so far -the young woman also donned a blazer that day. Michael couldn't help but smile, scooting the chair back to really appreciate the French professor's wardrobe.

Always impossibly modest, Jane had worn a thick but shapely sweater and sharp blazer, a skirt with nylons, and little matching oxfords. Looking down at himself -herself- was surreal. His mind was still his, and it was telling him this wasn't quite right. There shouldn't be added weight to his chest, an absence of a weight between his legs, and an overall weightlessness to his body. His lips were soft and full. His teeth felt slightly off in his smaller mouth -were Jane's teeth straighter than his? The neck was slimmer without an Adam's apple. The arms incredibly lean.

Jane's beautiful hands danced over her clothed body. Her cheeks were wonderfully smooth, without a chiseled jaw with slight gruff like Michael was used to. Familiar with muscles, the history professor enjoyed the sensation of slender arms and legs instead, of a much more curvy, softer, and plumper feel. Through the nylons, he could see and feel the lack of hair, the impossible smoothness, and after shoving up the skirt; supple thigh.

Jane's golden hair fell over her shoulders as Michael leaned down to grasp at the dainty ankles. He experimentally touched the silky strands, threading through the locks and throwing them back over the shoulder. He tucked them behind Jane's soft, little ears. He fiddled with the pearl earrings in the earlobes, he grasped at the tiny neck again, and his eyes shut to focus on the sensations. This body was so shapely. Jane's famous breasts, always a hot topic between his colleagues on what they looked like under those reserved clothes, looked so full and perky from his new vantage point; so sharply contrasted by a flat and taunt stomach below, to a tiny waist curving out to Jane's wide healthy hips.

Michael slipped off the oxfords and looked underneath the desk like a child, watching as he wiggled Jane's pedicured toes through the nylon, the polish matching that of her fingers.

He had the sudden and overwhelming sensation of femininity -oh the lovely, delicate, frail, enchanting little Jane Minette Fay. Since she started at the Academy for Gifted Adolescents four months ago, everyone was utterly entranced with the hauntingly beautiful yet frustratingly timid young woman. The perfectly poised and devastatingly endearing professor was an expert of languages and a master linguist, a prize among the faculty and a favorite of the students. It was common to gossip in the teacher lounges, especially so amongst the men. No one had seen the bare shoulders of "Jaw-Drop Jane", much less her legs without tights. Cleavage was probably nonexistent in the woman's attire. Since day one, the professor always kept a dignified if not nun-like appearance; studious, modest. She had students to teach, after all. She served as a steadfast symbol for the most prestigious academy in the nation, already a member of the board's committee and attending monthly public meetings. There was an expectation. A sort of constant pressure to impress. Michael wondered if she noticed how he always happened to hold doors open for her, how he always happened to run into her in the parking lot or sit close to her at educational seminars. Did she sense his kindness as something not so innocent? Did she feel the passion of his gaze, the fondness in his words? Thank god the woman didn't have mental abilities like mind-reading, or else Miss. Fay would have run for the hills the second he spotted her. Thank god, however, for his own abilities.

Michael stood and straightened the skirt, the blazer, the sweater's sleeves. He took a deep breath, feeling the air reach his new set of lungs, and threaded through the long hair again, letting it roll over one dainty shoulder. In a large mirror embedded in the wall behind him, he took the image in.

Jane stared back at him, of course. Michael moved a hand, and the reflection of Jane did the same. He smiled; the reflection smiled back. He grasped that impossibly delicate neck, and the reflection did the same. It did something else too; Jane's cheeks dusted in pink.

Well, that wasn't exactly surprising. Michael literally possessed the very person he desired for months. He had boundless control. He could do absolutely anything. Everything. With an entire afternoon at his disposal, there was certainly no rush.

Jane's beautiful, fine featured face looked back at him in the mirror. Her mesmerizing blue eyes, neatly parted golden-brown hair, her adorable button nose, the natural looking make-up that only heightened her features. Michael took a glance behind him at the classroom's door. He knew he was safe and alone. No one would bother the young professor without knocking.

"This is-" Michael knew he was in Jane Fay's body, knew he was essentially Jane, but hearing her voice, hearing him as her, added another surreal layer to this fascinating, thrilling experience. Her voice was so sweet, so cultured, so pretty and songful and high-pitched. He was her. This was his voice. He was Jane Fay. He could do anything with this body, including trying out its vocal cords. "This is going to be a big day for us. For me. For you."

He smiled a bit breathlessly. Jane looked so happy. Eyes were bright. Michael tried laughing; a gentle, quick little thing, and felt a lovely shiver of desire pool between his legs. He could make the shy Jane Fey do absolutely anything -anything that he loved about her. How she had this endearing habit of biting a pen's tip when thinking. Of her scrunching her cute nose and giggling at a colleague's remark in a hallway. Of how she sometimes bit her lower lip while looking down.

He could also do anything from his own fantasies. Spread her legs like a wanton whore and snap a few photos, shove a finger or two between her legs and give out a moan that would put a porn star to shame, or hell, just make her wink something devastating in the mirror.

He could also laugh in her beautiful voice and say, "I love you so much Michael". He could press himself against the mirror and moan and whisper, "I've loved you since I met you. I've dreamt of you holding me, having me, taking me." He could kiss the mirror with his eyes open, pretend the reflection really was Jane and he was really himself, then moan, "I would very much love for you to take me, Michael Falke," because Jane Fay was such a classy, wonderful woman that she'd say 'take me' instead of 'fuck me' and it would still be so, so dirty in her little virgin mouth. And he did- he did it all.

Eyes were dilated. Cheeks were still that lovely light pink. Michael felt something more, something deep between his legs like a gentle throbbing. He felt a lovely sensation on his chest as well and knew the breasts were such sensitive things.

Michael reached up and tentatively took hold of Jane's breasts through the layers of fabric and knew immediately from the involuntarily expel of breath and shivers that Jane could probably orgasm from this alone. He watched her reflection, awestruck and captivated, as he cupped and grasped, squeezed and tried to pinch at nipples. He pushed them up then watched them bounce down. The idea of Jane doing this normally, in secret, perhaps in the privacy of her bedroom after an exhausting day in nothing but damp panties sprawled out on her bed, made something snap within Michael. His breathing picked up. He had a plan for himself in Jane's body, but he had time to do this first. He had so much time.

Michael took a step back from the mirror, legs a bit weak, and shimmied out of the blazer, then pulled off the turtleneck. It was an arousing sensation to feel Jane's breasts slightly impede the feat of removing the sweater, then to feel them bounce once they were freed from the fabric. Jane wore only her nylon, skirt, bra and -oh, a delicate rose-gold necklace that sat just atop of the freckled valley of her breasts. Michael held her breasts with both hands, then slipped a finger down the cleavage the bra perfected. His own cock would fit so nicely between her tits. Michael was familiar with bras from plenty of past relationships, but it did take a few extra moments more with Jane as the angle was a bit different. When the black bra fell to the floor, Jane's breasts sat naturally plump and perky against her chest. Her nipples were a rosy pink, matching her lips, the areolas stiff. He grasped at them again, biting back a moan, and without any shame, boldly played.

Michael kneaded and squeezed. He squished them together, he meshed them against the cool glass mirror, he pinched the nipples, he flicked at the sensitive nubs until his knees buckled. He manhandled them and moaned at the thought of leaving bruises. He whimpered in her lovely voice at the thought of someone barging in and seeing Jane going to town on herself. He rolled her nipples around with Jane's delicate, wonderful fingers. He moved her body side to side, watching as her amazing chest swayed. Her breasts were gorgeous, too gorgeous to be hidden away in sweaters. They were shapely with no sagging, perky and natural. As a twenty-five-year-old, Jane Fay was in the prime of her life. She treated her body so right and to hide such a masterpiece away was absolute blasphemy. He moved her hands over and under, down her taunt stomach, enjoying the hairless, soft, supple skin. It was so womanly, so perfect like a Renaissance status come to life, so his.

Hands traced the outline of her tiny waist and broad hips. They felt the hipbones and cupped her ass. He leaned against the mirror and moaned as the cold glass hit her perky tits again, as his hands roamed and pillaged, touching her stomach and sides and neck and tousling her hair like he would never get a chance to do this again. He pushed the breasts together, bounced them up and down, slid both hands entirely to one breast, then the other. He loved the way they were manipulated beneath his hands, between his outspread fingers. He could do this all day. He did so, for nearly half an hour.

Her breasts were reddened by the time Michael placed his forehead against the glass and tried to calm down, the heat between Jane's legs insatiable. Looking down, Michael could see how her knees were buckled, how he had curled her toes, how the skirt was in disarray. Standing straight, with anxious hands, Michael slipped the skirt down. He stepped out of the pool of clothes and sat back down on the desk chair. He moved so he sat directly in front of the mirror, and he watched the reflection as he slowly maneuvered the nylon off his hips, thighs, legs, feet. Jane's body could put Aphrodite to shame.

No wonder the young woman hid herself under so many layers. Michael always fantasized, but he never thought he'd be bold enough to do this to a fellow staff member. God, if his friends knew.

Hands moved across smooth skin. He stood back up and circled, admiring her backside, her ass, and grabbed a handful of it while he grabbed at a breast. So many shivers, so much desire. Hands went up and down her thighs, then in-between. Both hands went against her black panty, cupping her sex through the fabric, and, oh my god, Michael's eyes rolled up -it was like her body has desperately waited for this. So much foreplay, it seemed, that just pressure, just a touch, launched a rocket. He looked down like a toddler, pulling at the waistband of the panties outward, admiring the young woman's pussy -his newly acquired cunt. It was a hairless mound, and he dipped a hand into the underwear, slowly rubbing a finger between the folds. Her clit was engorged. Her folds were slick with a hot wetness. Swollen. Michael gasped with shots of pleasure, flicking at the clit, moving it franticly side to side. His other hand clutched and kneaded a breast, then switched to the other, then back again.

Jane's body was hypersensitive. At least, that's what it felt like, compared to a man. Michael never felt this sort of pleasure in his own body, or any woman's bodies he had taken possession of before. He played with his clit, his tits, and admired it all in the mirror. At how debauched, disheveled, and impossibly whorish Jane Fay looked. Mouth open, hands going crazy with her body; so rough, so frantic, so getting used. When was the last time Jane did this to herself? Was he doing the woman a favor? Did he have to do this on a monthly, weekly, daily basis just so Jane's body could find a release? Michael would gladly do so. He would do this for Jane. He could make her cum every day, every hour. He could own a cunt, he could pleasure it, he could fill it.

Fill it. That's right, Michael thought through the haze of desire. He had a plan.

Michael plunged a finger into his vagina, then two, groaning as he looked down and watched the fingers disappear inside his pussy. He pushed them deep, past the knuckle, and pinched and plucked at his nipple, foundling himself franticly as he trusted the fingers harder and faster.

Oh god, oh god, I need this, I need this, I need to be filled, I need to be fucked, my pussy needs it.

Michael thrashed his fingers into his cunt. Hips moved on their own, grinding, humping against his hand. He moaned in Jane's voice, hot from the idea of someone walking by and hearing her, and suddenly knees buckled again.

Michael rode out his orgasm against the mirror, fingers riding out the quivering walls of his cunt, grasping at his breast, twitching with a bit of drool ebbing down a corner of his mouth.

His sex throbbed. His breasts were tender and sore. He slid down the mirror and into the floor, catching his breath, looking at his reflection, looking at how corrupt the innocent Jane Fay looked post-bliss.

The grandfather clock ticked quietly to two o'clock.

Getting up and dressed was a challenge. As tempting as it was to leave the classroom naked, he didn't want to ruin the woman's reputation and career. Body tender and sensitive, he couldn't bare the delicate nylon and forwent them. He tugged on the skirt, oxfords, and turtleneck. The blazer was slipped on so it would make it more difficult for anyone to notice the erect nipples. He collected the nylon and bra and shoved them into the woman's messenger bag. He fixed his hair, took a few deep breaths, and checked himself in the mirror. Yes, okay. Jane looked normal enough, and not at all like she just fucked herself to the moon and back.

In a classroom on the second floor of the academy, Michael opened the door he knew to be unlocked, and walked inside. He promptly placed Jane's bag on the floor and eyed his own unconscious body exactly where he had left it. Michael's body laid stoically behind his desk, hidden, as though he was trying to sneak in a nap. Michael wearing Jane's body ensured the door was locked before moving closer to the strange sight -it was always jarring when he saw his own body while in possession of someone else. He imagined not even Mrs. White, the math teacher who could multiply herself, could feel such disconnect.

"Oh Michael," he said playfully in Jane's voice, squatting down and unbuckling his body's own belt. He shoved down his trousers and pulled out his dick. That was a familiar sight, though the vantage point was off. He pulled Jane's skirt up and straddled his own body's thighs. Her sex was already drooling with the idea of what was to come. God, women had such a short refractory period. Fuck.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes," he whispered as he stroked his body's cock to stiffness with Jane's pretty hands. He knew just what his body liked. A tremble of excitement shook Michael's new body as he came to grips with what he was about to do. He leaned down and cupped his own unconscious face in a mock display of affection. "I love you so much, Michael," and he giggled lightly, "Oh, I can't wait to have your big cock inside me. You need to fill me up, Michael, you need to fuck me," he purred, impersonating Jane. If he ever does this again, he'll be sure to take a video, or at least record her voice saying such dirty things.

Michael pulled Jane's panties aside and slowly lowered himself down with a hand on his own dick, guiding the tip of the penis into Jane's wet, quivering pussy. Then he dropped down and bottomed out harshly, eyes rolling, breath hitching, as his own, big cock entered his small pussy.

There was never any official word, but the assistant principal mentioned, in passing, that Jane had the uncanny ability of regenerative healing. To heal rapidly from any physical injury. Michael, in that moment of feeling absolutely no pain from the large cock piercing Jane's unused hole, knew it to the true.

Her cunt squeezed tightly around his cock as it pressed against the walls, bulging; a perfect fit, so big. In that moment, Michael considered living as Jane Fay for the rest of his life, riding dick every day.

Michael pressed down even deeper, harder, and the dick went even deeper than Jane's own fingers did earlier. Electric pulses of pleasure coursed through his entire body as he arched his back and thrusted his hips. As Jane, he bounced up and down, feeling his own body's cock plunging in and out, all the while sending the most intense tingles of pleasures throughout Jane's -his body. Michael went to town, uncontrollable, hands coming up and shoving the sweater up over his breasts, groping and grabbing at Jane's tits while they bounced as he rode himself.

He couldn't help but moan in Jane's voice, whimpering "yes" and "more" and "fuck me". He placed hands on Jane's head and messed up her hair. The pleasure turned him into an animal, into a whore, his mind whispered. He fucked himself, rigorously. Sweat conjured along the top of his forehead and the backs of his knees. He looked down and watched as his own dick went into his wet pussy; in, out, in out. How many dicks could he fit inside? Three, four? How many objects? Who was that teacher that could change his physical size? Derek? Devin? Would he want to jump inside her pussy for a day? Oh god.

He reached back down and grabbed at Jane's breasts and played with the nipples, feeling the engorged cock pumping his insides, like it was rearranging Jane's insides. Pleasure built. He moaned. Then, it happened.