“Breeding” my old high school ex-girlfriend in her childhood bedroom during spring break from college [MF]

[To be abundantly clear, all descriptions of anything sexual happened when both of us were over 18. The parts where we were younger are just backstory, and nothing inappropriate will be mentioned from that timeframe. For those who don’t like backstory (which is fair), everything after is what happened in college, after = = = = is when things get sexual, and after + + + + is when actual sex begins. I trimmed some stuff, but this is my story with the most background and I hope that background is enjoyable to read even if you’re normally just here on /r/gonewildstories for the sex scenes.]

I grew up Protestant, and church and stuff like that were a big part of my childhood. So when teenaged me suddenly found himself with a girlfriend, all that pubescent testosterone was *a problem* given how repressive my family was while I was still living at home. I’m not really even kidding with the phrasing “suddenly found himself”. The situation I described in [a past story](https://www.reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/s90awm/the_time_i_m_was_basically_selected_by_an/) was definitely not the first such case of a woman basically saying “mine” and then me basically being in a relationship before I realized it. Apparently genuinely caring about people while simultaneously being completely fucking oblivious to romantic advances is appealing to some people. The former I get, as that’s a key feature of the women I find attractive, but I couldn’t possibly explain why people find the latter cute.

Miranda and I met doing theater together in our junior year of high school, and as I later found out there was a very specific incident during which she decided she wanted to date me. We were in the main backstage area, where all of us would sit and listen to the audio system to know when our cues to enter stage were about to happen – at which point you’d casually walk or not-at-all-casually scramble to the right entrance, depending on whether you’d payed attention or the stage manager had come back to whisper-yell at you to get your fucking act together. Miranda had just gotten costumed up, and I was sitting nearby when I overheard her mutter to herself that the dress made her look weird. “Oh, don’t worry,” I replied entirely entirely unasked, “You always look very pretty. I don’t see any difference here.”

I want to stress that this didn’t even come across as flirting in my mind. I’m the dude who’s automatic approach for reassuring someone about their looks is to say something like, “You have very symmetrical facial features, which is strongly correlated with people finding someone attractive!” I am seriously ***that*** oblivious. But as I later found out, the combination of my compliment to Miranda being both unsolicited and absent of ulterior motives (she apparently checked with some of my good friends, who explained that I’m utterly clueless) made me go from some random dude to a somewhat less random dude that she wanted to date. Within a few weeks we were spending time together outside of theater, and a few weeks after that a friend asked if she and I were dating yet. A mutual friend finally asked if I was deliberately trying to only stay friends with Miranda, or if I just couldn’t see how she acted around me.

I absolutely couldn’t, which made the information especially helpful! A little bit later I asked her to prom (and also to be my girlfriend) by learning those phrases in ASL, which she knew fluently for speaking to her deaf cousin. We’re spending more time together, and getting along incredibly well. Our sources of motivation were very similar, and our career goals really compatible (though she’s since changed hers drastically, while mine stuck around). Prom rolls around, and my brain melts when I see her in the dress. I won’t describe her until later, to be perfectly in compliance with the absolutely essential rules about not discussing anything sexual in relation with underaged people.

Senior year we kind of drift apart, especially once I decide I’m moving several states away for school. We decided to break up, but remained on good terms, and a few months later I’m flying across the country for college.

The first three semesters were a batshit insane adjustment, but by second semester sophomore year things finally felt very manageable. That year it just so happened all the spring breaks lined up for my college, the local state college most of my high school peers were attending, and that of the one other friend who’d gone out-of-state as well. It was reunion time, and to be clear, **from this point forward everyone is 18+ at the time of what I’m describing**.

We all meet up that Sunday afternoon. Most had gone to church, but neither Miranda nor I had done so. Turned out I wasn’t the only one who became an atheist early on in college. I think I was playing a board game or something when she walked through the door. I’d always thought she was incredibly attractive, but the distance from the sexual repression of my childhood had essentially ripped the brakes straight off of that mental train. Now, I don’t know if she did anything special just because she knew I was going to be there, or if she’d just found makeup and hairstyles in college which worked incredibly well for her. Either way, my jaw hit the floor.

Miranda was brunette, vivacious, and 5’3″ (“Hey, I’m above average height for women!” was the response if it ever came up, which is [technically not true](https://ourworldindata.org/human-height)), and she had the build of a competitive figure skater. Literally, she competed at a national level before a mild – but still permanent – injury made it possible only as a hobby. The injury had happened a year before we met, but she’d retained the slim build even years later, and honestly had kind of glorious butt. Seriously, an archetypal case of “slim thick”. I’m pretty flexible in the sorts of women I’ve dated, but there’s definitely an overrepresentation of short, petite women. If they happen to be “slim thick”, all the better.

As we all leave later in the evening, I ask if she wants to get coffee or dinner some time while I’m still in town. She suggests we do both, and we make plans for coffee the next morning. Morning rolls around, and I’m immediately reaching for the purple dress shirt and jeans which consistently get the most fashion-related compliments. I don’t know why they do, but they do, and I’ll take crowd wisdom when I have none of my own.

Coffee goes great, and we’re chatting about bullshit gen-eds, how our respective majors are treating us, professors that are awesome and other ones that suck, and just about how our lives have been in general since we broke up. It’s really comfortable and warm, and her smile and eyes are as radiant as ever. We’d both become atheists, and now felt a bit lonely due to the separation from the churches we grew up in. When she had to to leave to help her dad with something, I confirm our plans for Wednesday night. We’re both even more excited about it than before, and we settle on a restaurant: a local burger joint we used to eat at together all the time. It’s nothing fancy, but still good food and a nice sit-down atmosphere. Also they have this amazing buffalo burger with a sunny side up egg and some crazy sauce and it’s just [insert gif of Pacha from Emperor’s New Groove doing that chef’s kiss kind of gesture]. That dinner is amazing too, and partway through she asks if I want to hang out the next day… outside of the gathering our high school friend group had planned. My answer was obviously yes, and she suggested we watch a movie at her place after that event was over.

Now, a crucial detail is that while the rest of my family had remained devoutly religious, it turned out Miranda’s dad (who raised her alone after her mother abandoned them early on) had also completely abandoned religion, and the prior two years had seen him rather quickly dispense of even the social parts of his old beliefs. So when Miranda asked if we could watch a movie at their house, her dad didn’t have a problem with it even though I’m sure he could pick up the subtext. Indeed, before he went to bed that night he smirked at both of us and instructed “Just keep it down, okay? I want to sleep.” My own family figured that anything I might do in my hometown I would already be doing at college, so they just told me to “behave as god would want” and then set me loose.

Nothing really special happened at the second gathering. We all met at a mall, and spent some time walking around, trying food from a few different stores and restaurants, and then after we’d eaten went and watched “Wolf of Wall Street”. The rest of the group was either still devoutly Christian or doing their best to pretend they were, so while everyone else was acting traumatized by the movie we’d selected at random, Miranda and I were chatting about how interesting and impressive the cinematography and acting were.

The group disperses, and we drive back to Miranda’s house with me struggling to follow her car in a part of town. In half an hour we’re walking through the door to “watch” a second movie of the evening. Her dad is heading to bed, and makes the aforementioned request about volume. We agree politely and with thinly feigned innocence, then head straight to her room. I’d been to her house a couple times before when there were group gatherings, but never her room and never just the two of us. It had the vibe of a childhood bedroom which has been partly updated for young adulthood, yet retains some carefully chosen bits of nostalgia. A couple stuffed animals which have clearly been well-loved, some pictures of her with cousins and childhood friends. Turquoise walls with lavender sheets on the bed, a really comfortable collapsing chair folded up in the corner to save space, and a TV on the nightstand situated against the wall opposite the top of her bed. We hop on, and at this point I’m thankful for the fact my jeans and boxer briefs are snug. I don’t know for a fact that she wants to go where we couldn’t in high school, but holy fuck am I hoping it’s not just me.

= = = = = = = = = = = =

We pick a movie, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. The volume stays low, and we really just end up talking more. About how we wish things could have gone in the past, about the stuff going on in our lives, and about our dreams for the future. She’s cuddling up against me (I swear, I’m starting to have tropes in even just the five stories I’ve written on this subreddit…) and my arms are wrapped around her as per her earlier request. Spring was mostly there, but it was still a bit chilly outside at night. At one point I asked about turning up the thermostat, and she suggested we use the blankets instead. Daaaamn, gurl, you smooth. In a minute we’re back to cuddling, now underneath the sheets. She had changed into some soft little pajama shorts before inviting me to follow her into the bedroom, but I was still in my jeans. Our legs start to intertwine, and she complained that the outside of my jeans feels uncomfortable against her skin. I was pretty sure then – and am still pretty sure now – that this was bullshit, but it’s not like I was going to tell her, “No, beautiful and playful woman who is clearly trying to get me naked, I shall do no such thing!”

At this point we’re in just a t-shirt and pajama shorts for her, and t-shirt and boxer-briefs for me. The warm, soft skin of her thighs rub against my own, and I start getting a little more adventurous with my hands. Pretty soon one is rubbing her thigh, then her inner thigh. Her breathing gets a little heavier, and she comments, “You know, other than stuff like genitals and boobs, the inner thigh is supposed to be the most erogenous part of the body.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I know. The professor who taught my bio course last spring is a little pervy.”

“Damn, I thought I would finally have a science fact you didn’t know. Fuck me…”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no.” I replied, smirking.

“Huh?” she replied quizzically.

“You said ‘fuck me.'”

Lest this story give the entirely mistaken impression that I’m in any way smooth, I want to reiterate that when I *try* to flirt with someone it nearly always goes wrong. Somehow being friendly and oblivious does the trick often enough, but deliberate efforts are consistently botched. Yet every so often, much like a gambler playing roulette, I happen to guess the right number. In those rare moments, something slips out without thinking which makes me go, “Okay, me. Go off…” This was one of those times.

“Oh yeah?” she replied with a raised eyebrow and smirk of her own.

“Do you want me to tell you that I want to sleep with you? Because of course I do.”

“Well at least that makes two of us.”

“How loud do you tend to get?” I asked, half seriously and half wondering aloud.

“I haven’t done it before, so I couldn’t say,” she paused, “but you can always just keep me quiet by kissing me.” [a move I learned here, and have employed many times with various partners since]

“I’m definitely a fan of that idea,” I ran my hand higher up her inner thigh as I said it, slipping my fingers under towards the edge of her panties, “This is my first time too… I’ve been wanting this for years.”

“Me too,” she whispered back, staring at me wide-eyed.

We’d kissed before, but always in public settings and with a level of PDA that was juuuuust shy of being too impolite to assuage the delicate sensibilities of our Christian friends and families. [To be clear, I know not all Christians are that anal-retentive. I’m only speaking about the specific ones she and I grew up around.] This time was thus very, very different. We’d been each other’s first kiss, and as I would later learn we were also each other’s first… make-out? I know that’s not a milestone with the same cultural significance, but even though I’m sure we were both dogshit at it, we couldn’t get enough.

My hands are exploring further, though definitely nervously. Barely under her shirt, stopping an inch or two shy of her panties, but not getting any closer even as time passes.

“/u/worlds_dumbest_docto, we don’t have to worry about all that religious stuff anymore.”

“I know, Miranda, but god it’s hard to really accept that fully.”

“Yeah, I feel that. Let’s help each other out then, okay?”

“What do you -” I started to ask, then she grabbed my wrist and moved my fingers past the hem of her panties.

She’d been aiming for my fingers to slide *under*, but instead it was just me touching her crotch over the fabric. She chuckled, said, “Whoops”, then made another pass. Third try was the charm, and while I’m still just laying there in shock she manages to get my fingers right up to her pussy. Most of the women I’ve been intimate with either went full shave or trimmed bush, but Miranda had a landing strip. My impression is that people generally go shave or trimmed in general (not just the specific women I’ve dated and/or slept with), but I suppose we were both early on in college and it was a good time to experiment with all sorts of random stuff. Turned out it looked really good on her too, though I doubt I could have thought otherwise unless it was a prominent pubic mullet or something like that. We both tense a little, but look back into each other’s eyes and start to relax. She lets go of my wrist once she feels me starting to play with her labia, and this time I take the lead (even if only in a small way) and reach up to feel her boobs.

She had a loose sort of pajama bra thing on, and so my fingers were initially obstructed. I don’t know the term, it was like a sports bra but with more pajama-esque fabric… something like that. Now that I was mustering the courage to get out of my own head, I moved my own hand under the fabric. I think she was a B or C cup, but that’s also just based on the heuristic which defines cup size letters in terms of fruit. Large orange or regular grapefruit, in this case. Either way, much firmer (and perkier, I soon learned) than I thought boobs would actually be on their own. I was kind of expecting floppy gelatin, but it turned out that old “damp sand in soft fabric” adage was at least decently accurate. In a few moments I’m slipping her out of her t-shirt and brajama (TM), and holy perkiness, Batman. Miranda had a slightly tanned complexion by default on account of half Italian and half German ancestry, and even at the end of winter her skin still glowed warmly in the soft light of a bedside lamp. Like I’d told her years earlier, she always looked beautiful.

“Wow…” a whisper came out of me, unbidden.

“I…,” she blushed, smiling while looking away a little bashfully, “thanks.”

I kissed her again, and after another minute or two of making out she pushed me gently away and said, “It’s really not fair that you still have a shirt on.”

“Would you rather I just take off everything?” I replied, returning to my baseline of a zero on the smoothness scale.

“Duh!”

In the movies they always show dudes making that one stereotypical, fluid move the strip off their shirts and reveal chiseled bodies the likes of which should only be seen among Greek gods. I was pretty athletic back then, and still am, but no one in their right mind would ever consider putting me in a movie for the sake of my body. That wasn’t the issue, though. The issue was that I immediately decided, “I’m totally going to do that movie thing with my shirt,” and did not realize there was a little bit of technique to it. So now I’ve managed to trap myself in my own shirt, and I’m sort of wiggling around blindly while trying to feel out how to get it off. Later on I practiced it a couple times so that in the future I could pull it off decently, but right then I’d made a total fool Miranda chuckles sweetly, then asks if I need help.

“Yes…” my voice comes out from the slight muffling of a t-shirt trapping my head.

So she gets closer to me, and helps me free my arms and then head. One the functional blindfold is removed, I’m staring straight into her eyes – you know, when I’m not glancing down and thinking to myself, “Jesus christ, she looks even more amazing without clothes.” I slide Miranda out of her pajama shorts, then her panties, and finally my boxers are joining them in a pile next to the bed. My thoughts about how she “… looks even more amazing without clothes” has now turned into what would have been “… looks ***even more*** amazing naked”, except that it was actually more like my brain was just full of horny white noise because of who Miranda was, what she looked like, and how long we’d waited for this moment.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

She kisses me, then asks if I can finger her. I tell her I don’t know how, but I’m eager to learn. She’d learned what she liked over the years, and assured me she’d be patient while teaching me what worked for her. Miranda also noted that what worked for her might or might not work for other women, which is probably the most important lesson about sex I have ever learned. So I move my hand down, my fingers over her landing strip, until I feel where her labia split. She grabs my hand again, and guides it until it’s on her clit. I honestly don’t get the whole “impossible to find the clit” meme. Sure, it’s more obvious on some women than others, but tall people can walk faster than short people and we don’t decide to give up on short people walking. Anyways, back to Miranda. I’m going along with a lot of hesitance and uncertainty, but she’s giving specific feedback as I go and it’s helping. A little while later she asks me to put a finger inside her, and I move it around until she tells me “Right there, stroke right there.” No matter how little I knew, I’m a good listener and that was a clear instruction. She then starts working on her own clit, which is completely understandable since I doubt I could have gotten her to orgasm as quickly as she probably wanted. Her breathing grows more ragged, and pretty soon it turns into moaning. Thankfully I have big ‘ol giraffe arms, so I’d been within range to kiss her the whole time she was explaining things to me and I was trying my best. As the moaning climbs in volume, I execute Operation: Perfect Excuse to Kiss Miranda Again. Not that I needed any excuse, but still.

Miranda is moaning into my mouth, which is always a rather odd experience but one I kind of like. Her arm working on her clit is pressed up against my body, and I can feel it trembling. The shakes peak, then fade back down along with the moans. I pull back to look at her eyes and incredible figure again, and her cheeks are glowing even brighter than usual. My “type” seems to be “slim thick”, smart, and just goddamn adorable, and Miranda was exactly that. She reaches down to touch my dick, almost as hesitantly as I’d first touched her earlier.

“Should I…” I start to ask.

“No,” she replied firmly, presumably thinking I was offering the same kind of moral support she’d given my nervous hands earlier, “I’ve got it.”

She grabs my dick, and there’s no lube available so a handjob isn’t going to work. I’m guessing she didn’t want to give a blowjob, and I didn’t ask, so for a moment or two we were just laying there together with her small hand wrapped around my shaft.

“Um…” I interject gently, “I meant should I get a condom.”

“Oh!” she giggled, realizing the confusion, then paused for a moment before asking, “You said it’s your first time, right?”

“Yep.”

“Have you done anything else with anyone, like blowjobs or something.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, me too…” her face scrunched up in thought a little bit, “You don’t have to use a condom if you don’t want to.”

“Wait, but I don’t want to get you pregnant.”

“I can’t get pregnant,” she replied.

She’d apparently gotten her tubes tied a year ago because she’d always known she didn’t want kids. Props to that doctor for respecting her wishes and not pulling that “You woman. Woman all want baby. You change mind” troglodyte bullshit I know a lot of women get when they request it before having any kids. That had been her position the whole time I’d known her, so I certainly wasn’t surprised. She explained further, however, that even though she never in a million years wanted kids, her favorite kind of smut was about impregnation. That part, however, was a surprise to me. I wasn’t really sure what things to say, but she kind of walked me through what was hot about it to her, and what kind of dirty talk along those lines turned her on the most. I was immediately hooked. Dear reader, my breeding kink was born that night, and it’s been my biggest one ever since.

So equipped with the sorts of things I’m supposed to say, I move myself between her legs and line things up. I pause unknowingly, my brain conflicted between how hot this breeding stuff is and how weird it still felt at that point, but Miranda soon says, “Earth to /u/worlds_dumbest_docto. Come in, /u/worlds_dumbest_docto…” That snaps me out of it immediately, and horny wins the day I slide the tip inside, and she gasps sharply. I apologize, pulling back and thinking I’d hurt her badly.

“No, just startled by the feeling, mostly,” she explained, “I’ll tell you if it hurts, okay? But be gentle, just in case.”

I nod in understanding, then kiss her again before returning to navigating my dick inside of her. I know for some people it’s horrible the first time, and for a lucky few it can be magical with the right person under the right circumstances, but neither really fit the bill for me. My first time felt basically like a vastly less confident version of what sex is still like for me today. The goal was intimacy, though of course I definitely wanted to orgasm too. If there’d been any sign Miranda wasn’t actively enjoying herself – even at a neutral level – it definitely would have sucked for me as well, but all indications were that going gently made it good for her too. Nothing earth-shattering for either of us, and as she later explained freshman year had involved a lot of exploration with dildos and vibrators, so having something in there wasn’t new. By the way she talked about it when we were cuddling later, I kind of wondered if some of those dildos might have been even bigger than I am… Still, it was like a year of tension while dating and two additional years of occasional fantasies for both of us were finally being expressed. We continued, and it was slow, and gentle, and just really soft all around.

At that point I was just focusing on figuring out the motions. It wasn’t crazy difficult or anything, but my body had never shifted in that way so rhythmically before. We’re continuing to kiss as I thrust slowly in and out, until she puts a hand on my chest.

“You know what I want you to do to me, don’t you?” she looks up at me in a demure sort of manner.

“Should I be gentler?”

“No, not at all. This is really good… I meant what we talked about.”

“What we…” then it hits me, “Oh!”

Much like how the reservations programmed in by my religious upbringing had made some things harder, I suspect the effect on her was that she felt awkward starting the kind of dirty talk she wanted. Well, I figured I was going to be awkward as fuck *doing* it, but the very least I could do was start it.

“So you want me to get you pregnant?” I asked, clumsily trying to play the dominant role she’d earlier explained *really* did it for her.

“Yeah…” she replied, grinning and doing this little “so what if I do” kind of shrug. I have to think for a few seconds every time I try to come up with a line, and it was in no way natural for me that first time, but eventually I say, “You know we’re too young for that. It’d be such a bad idea.”

“I know…” she pretended to whimper.

“It’d be so bad… but you still want it, right?”

“Don’t you?”

“… Yeah… I really want it. I want to get you pregnant.”

To be clear, I don’t remember these conversations verbatim, but I’m doing my best to capture the spirit of her mannerisms and words and of my thoughts and intents. Just wanted to put that out there and be totally clear I don’t have some superhuman memory. I just remember how she looked in most of those moments, how I felt the whole time, and what I was trying to be for her that night.

Looking back my dirty talk skills were a solid 2 stars out of 5, and the second star only because I was tailoring it to her (and soon to be my) specific fetish. I’m starting to get more into it, but pretty soon I’m running out of ideas. I’d talked about how much it would screw up our lives, what the people we grew up around would think, and the sorts of “socially intense” aspects of the fetish, and that seemed to be working really well for her, but I started to catch myself wondering, “Did I already say that? Did I say the same thing with different phrasing? What else should I say?” That was the point where I kicked it up a notch, simply because I was completely out of ideas.

Drawing on that same pervy professor’s bio class, I started just describing the biology of what would happen if I came inside her – you know, if she could actually get pregnant. That might not work for everyone, but holy shit did it work for us.

“You want me to cum inside you?”

She nodded.

“You want my sperm in your womb?”

“I want it really badly,” she moaned.

“You know what it’s going to do there, don’t you?”

“What?” she asked, shyly but insincerely – obviously she knew.

“All those little cells are going to start swimming as fast as they can, racing towards the egg they know is in there.”

“But they can’t all get me pregnant…”

“Yep. Just one sperm. One lucky me who gets to make love to you, one lucky sperm that gets to fertilize you.”

“But you’re going to give me more than just one,” she smirked.

“Hundreds of millions, actually.”

Her eyes went a little, wide, seemingly genuinely shocked the number was that high, “Wow… that’s a lot of sperm.”

“If you want, I can give you more later.”

“Yes please…”

At that point I can’t think of anything more to say, so I went back to just kissing her and trying to continue the same pace. She said it was working, so I wasn’t changing anything if I could help it. However, as tends to happen when I’m getting close, my rhythm began speeding up more and more. I’m pulling her close against my body, her soft boobs pressed up against my chest, her hands alternately gripping or stroking the sides of my torso. Pretty soon, I realize that I’m not going to last much longer. I tell her that, and she tells me I’d better not stop.

“Fuck, Miranda… I’m going to cum…” I groan out.

“I want you to cum. Please cum. I wanna get pregnant.”

“Fuuuuuck…”

I keep thrusting even as I cum, but it quickly becomes startlingly hypersensitive and so I sort of freeze most of the way out of her. I’d always just let go after I came when masturbating, but my instinct had been to just keep going and stay inside her as and after I finished. I’m panting, she’s blushing and smiling at me, and I pull my dick out the last bit of the way. At this point I’d shaken the covers mostly off us, so as I pulled out I got to see part of my load slip out of her and down to her ass. I was grinning widely too, just amazed at what had just happened and already addicted to the sight of my cum leaking out of a woman I care about… to the purely fantasy idea that I’d risked getting her pregnant. She reaches out and grabs my arms, then pulls me down back onto the bed beside her. I grab the blanket I’d knocked off to the side, draping it back over our bodies to keep us even warmer than the shared body head. We cuddle, and a few minutes later realize the movie had already ended and gone back to the main menu screen. That elicited a shared laugh, and soon enough we fell asleep in her bed.

In the morning her dad left a note on the kitchen table telling us he’d be gone all day, but had made extra scrambled eggs and to help ourselves to the leftovers. Not as good microwaved as they are fresh, but still serviceable. Besides, chicken eggs were the last thing I was thinking about that morning. There wasn’t any fear in my mind that she’d tricked me, because she’d always been perfectly honest with me and everyone I knew. As a result, there were definitely a different sort of eggs on my mind, and solely in a “oh my god she’s so hot” sort of way. We hung out the rest of the day outside her bedroom… well, at least 75% of the time. As the day continued we talked more and more, and it still felt really pleasant and natural. I’d texted my parents the night before to let them know I’d be “sleeping on the couch at Miranda’s place”, so they at least weren’t hounding me like they would have without that advance warning. Spending the night earned me some extremely suspicious comments and looks from them later, but I did not give a single fuck at that point. Miranda was driving to a nearby city the next day to see relatives while she (Miranda) was still on spring break, unfortunately, but we agreed that we should see each other again that summer if we were both in town.

[Thanks for reading, and I hope it was an enjoyable read despite – or perhaps partly because of – the length. I just spent two hours writing this, so I really need to get back to studying for my classes now…😅]

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/sqg0i9/breeding_my_old_high_school_exgirlfriend_in_her