infected regretevator

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.

I ran from my guilt, immersing myself deeper in Galvin’s lies, telling myself that my power protected me from all accountability. The things he did were even worse, the things he did to women, but he was so sure that it was his right, that any wrongdoing could be dismissed, and I wanted that assuredness. I wanted to never have to worry about what I was doing, to never doubt or question myself, because as long as I thought what I did was right, I wouldn’t have to fear failure or be afraid of making mistakes. But that was the true mistake, my greatest failure, and so many people suffered for it.”

“Oh Brucie! Wake up, Brucie!” I called, the big German Shepherd dozily raising his head from where he had been asleep on my bed. He liked my smell, so he'd pretty much claimed it as his, now that I was no longer sleeping there myself. “Play time, Brucie!” I said, widening the door so he could see I was naked, giving my pussy a few gentle slaps. That sure woke him up in a hurry! His claws kicked my blanket up behind him as he scrambled down to the floor, eagerly shoving his muzzle between my thighs and beginning to lick.