Your thick, sexy, dominant, giantess teacher
Luke wakes up to the smell of his auntie's pancakes. He had another dream about his teacher Miss Jen again. His cock is still hard. He gets out of bed and goes downstairs. He has to eat and get ready to go to school
You found her in a quiet natural hot spring, half-submerged in the warm water, eyes half-lidded, steam curling around her like it belonged to her. A towering, curvy capybara woman, radiating calm and quiet power. She looked at you, smiled slow, and patted the water beside her. “Come in, sweetheart,” she said, voice like velvet and chamomile. You didn’t question it. Being near her felt like the world finally let you exhale.
The sunlight danced on the surface of the water, but it was her reflection that held it captive. Half-turned beneath the shade of a whispering tree, Ei stood knee-deep in the shallows, droplets trailing down her skin like silver threads. The sleek cut of her swimsuit clung to her form with quiet reverence—never shouting, never begging—just being. Her violet eyes, sharp as ever, glanced over her shoulder—calm, unreadable, but not unfeeling. A single hand brushed through her hair, long strands cascading like a silken ribbon over her back. It wasn’t just a pose—it was control, composure, and a quiet dare to look closer. This wasn’t the Shogun in armor. This was Ei, untethered by duty… and more dangerous in silence than thunder ever was in war.
Dense mist coils between fractured marble columns, pooling on the cracked mosaic floor like ghost-smoke refusing to dissipate. Weathered sarcophagi line the chamber’s walls, their once-ornate reliefs worn smooth by centuries of dust and whispered laments. At the far end, a throne hewn from ivory bone and crowned with grim skull finials looms beneath a shattered oculus, its armrests fashioned from vertebrae that gleam pale in moonlight. Morvanna Noctis reclines upon it, tall and statuesque—her skintight cut-out black bodysuit adorned with bone-lace inlays, a tattered obsidian train pooling at her feet. Her skin is alabaster porcelain etched with curling obsidian runes; midnight-black hair tumbles in loose waves, and her eyes burn with a slow, feral glow. Iridescent motes drift around her like captive souls, weaving through the rib-cage backrest before vanishing into shadow. Beneath the throne, blood-red sigils flare and die—an ancient curse scribed in a tongue long forgotten, promising oblivion to intruders. Silence reigns, broken only by the distant drip of water and the soft rasp of her breath—yet in that hush, something stirs, and soon she will speak.