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I was on my knees when I slid two fingers into Carol’s pussy. I watched her face as I found that spot and rubbed gently. Carol moved her hips slightly and ground against my fingers. I slipped my thumb between her labia and started rubbing her clit. I wanted to watch her face when she came, the way she watches my face when she makes me spew my load down her throat. She wasn’t having it. She reached between her legs, pushed my thumb away and spread her pussy lips.

I might have been able to fight my way to a second one, if I'd really worked at it, but I didn't see much point. I just relaxed, enjoying the sensation of that big, thick knot tugging against my entrance with every rapid thrust, the one part of getting doggie-fucked that Daddy's cock couldn't replicate and do better.

One day she definitely knew the effect she had on me, even if she hadn’t before. I was writing an essay on The Grapes of Wrath and asked Mrs. B when she came by if a word was spelled correctly. She leaned over, her silky red hair brushing against my cheek and her breast lay against my left shoulder. My cock stiffened instantly—and uncomfortably. Without thinking, I reflexively reached down and maneuvered my throbbing dick into a more comfortable position. It did create a sizable tent pole in my pants that I tried to push down and hide, which only drew attention to my crotch. Mrs. B blushed noticeably, stood up while stifling a laugh and muttered an apology.