Grading Curves 4: Breeding Mrs. Appleby ( Futanari X Teacher )

By Juana Succerod

A parent-teacher meeting turns into a heated breeding session in this futanari X teacher short story. Ella reluctantly goes to her daughter's school to talk with the Eighth Grade English Teacher, Riley Appleby. As communication breaks down, Riley confesses her steamy fantasy of starting a family and solicits Ella for the type of help that only a Futanari like Ella can provide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juana Succerod
• Release date: Jan 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005952792

Juana Succerod

I love to write about women who have it all. Beauty, riches, wit, and a penis.My love for futanari goes back nearly a decade now, but only recently have I ventured into writing erotica with content that matches my fetishes. Recently, I've been able to put more time and effort into my stories and sharing them with the Internet seemed like the next logical step.Almost all of my writing will center around women with a little 'extra'. I also enjoy writing about age differences, romance, and excessive sizes and volumes of, um, the good stuff. When I'm not writing about futanari, though, I write girl-on-girl romance in a variety of formats, erotic and not. When I'm not writing, I'm either reading or playing video games. But chances are you aren't reading this to find out what's my favorite Pokemon. . . Or are you?Anyway, thank you for checking out my profile and reading my stories.

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Grading Curves 4: Breeding Mrs. Appleby

By Juana Succerod

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2022 © Juana Succerod. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition.

Published by Succerod Publishing.

Reproduction of this work, in whole or in part, in any manner is prohibited. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Disclaimer: The material in this book is intended for mature audiences and may contain graphic or sexual content. It is intended for audiences aged 18 or older. Any and all sexual situations or actions depicted in this work are between consenting adults aged 18 and older.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Thank you for supporting my work.

* *

Reading the email subject line on her phone caused a frustrated groan to escape Ella’s lips.

What's wrong? asked Sydney as she entered the small art classroom. She loaded art supplies, easels, and canvases onto a cart so that they could be wheeled to the storage room while she waited on Ella’s answer.

Ella squeezed the button on the side of her phone to lock the screen. It's your daughter. Again. More specifically, it’s your daughter’s grade in English, she said with deadpanned amusement.

"Funny how she was your daughter last week when she broke the all-time scoring record at her soccer game, but is my daughter when she’s struggling academically," Sydney chided.

Right? It’s so odd how that tends to happen, Ella smirked. She watched her partner bend for a blank, 18 x 24 canvas. As Sydney took up the canvas, placed it on the small cart, and leaned for another, Ella’s fatigued mind couldn’t help but fixate on the repetition. Being annoyed at their daughter made her want to drown her troubles in pleasant shapes and elegant movements. Painting was usually the remedy to such feelings, but watching Sydney move around a room was its own sort of artistic therapy.

Sydney’s mom jeans were stained in green, blue, and brown paints, betraying her profession and passion as a painter. Furthermore, a trained eye might see those colors and conclude that she specialized in landscape painting; tall evergreens, blue mountains, and smoky skylines.

But if you were Sydney’s tired coworker and romantic partner, you might also notice the flattering way in which an otherwise baggy pair of jeans held greedily to her wide hips as she stooped over to gather up unused supplies from the art class that just left the studio.

As their daughter’s academic position worsened, Ella would spend more time ruminating over it, often lost in thought while her eyes laid gently against Sydney’s easy curves. Sydney would be a tremendously good sport about it, only occasionally tilting her head to look across the room to where Ella was leaning against the wall, watching her work. Sydney would grin—or wink, or wiggle her rear, or scowl with a lecture for Ella’s sex-addicted ears.

But such moments made clear the easiest deductions of all:

The two were extremely close. Nine-year-anniversary close. Opened a family art studio together close. Raising a child together close.

Shifting the responsibility of said daughter’s academics onto one another close.

So did you have anything else on the agenda besides watching my ass? Sydney asked without venom. She’d filled the cart and was looking backward over her shoulder towards Ella.

Didn’t have anything planned, no. Why do you ask? Ella said, eyebrows wiggling.

You could do something more productive.

Like what?

Going to talk to Mrs. Appleby.

Ella groaned. "But it's so awkward talking to someone in person after you've gone back and forth with them by email for months. I’m already strapped with work to do. I don’t want to also talk to some crotchety, old woman about Leyla flunking the eighth grade.

Sydney leveled an unamused look at Ella.

Ella shuddered, hearing Sydney’s retort without needing to exchange a word; a sort of telepathy they’d developed over the years.

The two of them had met in an art class when Ella decided to go to