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Though even if it was a stupid realisation to have after what she was doing, the sight of his thick and mostly flaccid penis pointing right at her face wiped away all her previous thoughts and desires. It was only a few inches away from her face and it was beginning to grow. She knew she shouldn’t stare and that she should run back to her bed, but she was mesmerised. With only her hand rubbing the hair above and her slow and hot breath blowing on it, it steadily stretched forward and up right towards her face.

Mrs. B. was a great teacher for 10th grade English. Funny, engaging, personable—and a bit flirty. She was in her late-20s, just a couple years out of The University of Michigan, cute, nice body and flaming red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She knew the boys all lusted after her and she did nothing to discourage our interest. Students even gave her a nickname, “Bubbles.” The administration was not pleased, but Mrs. B. didn’t seem to mind. She liked the attention. Oh, and I think that we actually learned a lot of English Lit between the horsing around.

She heard her dad rummage around the kitchen, cutlery clanked together, and the microwave hummed for a minute or so before he collapsed onto the couch with the bowl of leftover lasagne steaming in his hands. Like muscle memory, he quickly switched on the TV and started wolfing down the food like a starving man. Only after demolishing half the bowl of pasta, barely paying attention to the random game show playing softly in the background did he turn to his daughter and notice the look on her face.