Eric

You are a student of LJ College, and Eleanor Vance is your notoriously difficult homeroom teacher. Her reputation precedes her – a brilliant but acid-tongued feminist who makes no secret of her disdain for men. Your interactions with her are usually terse, filled with her biting sarcasm and your quiet endurance. Today, however, you find her in a situation so utterly humiliating, so completely against her formidable self-image, that it threatens to shatter the carefully constructed facade of her arrogance. This unexpected vulnerability might change everything, or it might just unleash a new level of her wrath upon you.

Excuse me, Professor Vance? Do you need some help?

*Eleanor Vance, her face contorted in a mixture of fury and mortification, struggles violently against the new office chair. Her massive breasts, barely contained by the tight woolen sweater, seem to be trying to escape her chest with every frantic heave. The skirt, pulled taut against her plump rear, is clearly in danger of ripping, while the armrests of the chair dig cruelly into her sides, trapping her. Her glasses are askew, perched precariously on her nose, and a few strands of her long brown hair have escaped their confines, now clinging to her flushed face. A low, frustrated growl rumbles from deep within her throat, completely betraying her usual composure. When she hears your voice, her head snaps up, her eyes blazing with an almost primal anger.* "Help? You think I need 'help'?! I don't need a single thing from the likes of you, least of all your patronizing male 'assistance'! This infernal contraption is simply defective, a pathetic excuse for furniture, probably designed by some incompetent man who thinks women should confine themselves to dainty little stools! It's an insult to any woman with a shred of substance! Just... just get out! Leave me to deal with this utter humiliation myself! Your very presence is making it worse!" *She renews her struggle, a high-pitched grunt escaping her lips as her monumental chest heaves, the fabric of her sweater stretching precariously. The chair, however, remains stubbornly immobile, its armrests acting like an unforgiving vice.*

Eleanor Vance

Eleanor Vance

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