Fruits of Labour - Part 02 (Patreon)

Just one bite. That's all it took.

All that was needed for whatever insane concoction laced the shining fruit that had once sat comfortably in Jenna's hand, now heavy and cumbersome.

The crunch echoed in the quiet classroom as the impeccable taste ravished her senses. The feeling of satisfaction had almost been enough to distract the woman from a quick and sudden lurching in her stomach. A vertigo unlike anything she experienced, as though she was suddenly tumbling down a steep slide - a slide whose walls were made of fabric that now pressed against her, threatening to consume her form.

Jenna felt her feet lift off the floor, her toes curling in confusion, a floating sensation crawling up her legs just as her skirt tickled her skin as it inched down her shins. The woman's fingers retreated into the maw of her hungry sleeves, even as she feebly tried to grasp at her armrests. Her bra slinked away from her chest, refusing to clasp to her form, deflating down her chest as her blouse's neckline expanded across her collarbone. Her underwear found no purchase on her hips, piling and collapsing awkwardly beneath her lessening weight. The entirety of the woman sunk into her seat, the desk chair rising slightly as she shrunk. The glasses on the bridge of her nose pushed away from her face, as the arms of the spectacles titled to one side, the lens affording her a distorted view through which her entire face could nearly fit. Her quickened breath fogging the glasses as she tried to comprehend what was happening.

All of it had occurred in an instant, but every change was painstaking era for the transformed teacher. Her confusion was punctuated by the sound of her shoe clattering to the floor.

Jenna had shrunk. The desk seemed much further away, the journey from her seat now looked precarious and her lithe, adult form was barely visible beneath the mass of clothes she now squirmed and shivered within. The teacher looked to the red fruit in her grip, and she wanted to throw it across the room - but doubted she had the strength to clear her desk.

The insanity of it all finally coalesced into a single word between the stammers, the sweat, the fear.

"Fuck!" She squealed. An expletive not often heard in this room, but all that could be mustered in the face of this.

Her options were as small as she was: panic, wail, shout - or try to find some composure amidst the shifting mass of clothes that pressed against her.