Mary Nowata had been a student of mine just four short years ago. She’d had long, straight hair back then—straight black hair that fell halfway down her back, no tits to speak of, and relatively no hips, either, or so it seemed.
As a student, she had always been something of a pain in my ass, a staunch Christian—Basically a Puritan (a prude, to put it lightly)—and she’d never failed come into my room every morning before school to confess to me, to lay upon me her many sins and failings, or to just vent about how her friends were all heathens who didn’t understand her.
She’d never had boyfriends in high school (What would she have done with them?), and she’d always, for some reason, come to me for advice. I always wished I could have gotten it into her thick skull that she just needed to let it go and do what made her happy. She’d been so afraid of going to hell that she’d never allowed herself to enjoy life.
Once she’d graduated, we’d lost touch.
It’s been four years, and I just found out the other day that she’d just been hired as a new teacher in our History department. (I just so happen to be the head of the History department.)
On the day of our first in-service meetings after summer vacation, I showed up to the school not quite knowing what to expect.
I knew Mary would be four years older now and would likely have found friends in college who suited her—I’d always told her she would—but I just hoped she wouldn’t be the same pain in the ass she’d always been, or else I was stuck.
I didn’t want to hear any more details about her boring life (that she’d always felt was so sinful), and I certainly didn’t want to be her private counselor anymore.
If she hadn’t changed, I knew I was in real trouble.
I sat in my car for a long time that morning, listening to nothing but the silence, dreading the day’s meetings and all the bureaucratic bullshit, before entering the building for the first time since May.
As I approached my classroom, down the dark hallway, I noticed a petite figure standing outside my door.
She stood with her arms crossed, but when she saw that I’d noticed her, she waved stiffly before reverting to her former rigid posture.
“What’s up, Mary?” I asked, unlocking my classroom door.
“Not much,” she said, delicately, bird-like.
When I turned to her, she still stood stiffly, holding her left elbow in her right hand, her right arm crossed over in front of her body, guarding herself. “I got my degree,” she said.
Obviously, I thought to myself, entering my classroom and turning on the lights.
She entered behind me, still standing with one arm crossed in front of her, and she stopped just inside the doorway. “I didn’t think I was going to pass the test for my teaching certificate,” she said. “I thought I was going to fail.”
“Well, welcome, I said.” I gauged that she was still young and somewhat immature.
I sat down in the chair behind my desk and allowed myself to survey her figure now that she was a woman, no longer one of my students. Her hair was still very long, straight, and black—She still wore glasses—she wasn’t ugly, but I bet no one had ever called her cute, either. The allure to me, I suppose, was her tightly crossed legs—her closely guarded privates (like she was naked in the wild or something with rabid beasts everywhere preying on her).
She still had no hips (that I could tell), but I noticed that her back was nicely tanned as her shirt rode up a bit when she sat down in her old desk near my own.
“How are things?” I asked.
“Good,” she said. “I still live with my parents.”
I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said. “You can save a lot of money if you’re smart.”
“I’m not really doing it to save money,” she said. “They actually love me.”
“Tell me about college,” I said. “Did you find your people like I said you would?”
“Kind of,” she said. “I still feel like I’m the only one who gives a shit.”
“About what?” I asked.
“About God,” she said.
She sat sideways in the desk, her legs spread slightly now, facing me—Trying not to look, I finally stuck a glance at the crotch of her blue jeans. There seemed to be a slight mound there, behind her zipper, but I supposed it was an optical illusion or something.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You’re starting your career earlier than I did.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I’m going to be very good.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” I said. “Everyone feels that way.”
“Did you feel that way?” She asked.
“Especially me,” I said.
“Hmm,” she said and left it at that.
“You want a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” she said. It was good, in a way, to have her back. I’d never expected that to be the case. Surely she would wear on me as the year went along, but right now it was actually kind of nice to see her again.
I put on a pot of coffee and we chatted about the challenges of her college years, while the sound of percolation held in the air a promise.
“I’ve missed this,” I said.
“I miss it, too,” she said.
“But now you’re back.”
“I’m back,” she said. “Thank God.”
As I poured two cups of coffee at my desk, Mary meandered over to my bookshelf that had always been her home away from home.
“Man, you have a lot of new books,” she said.
“You’ve been gone for four years,” I laughed.
We had a cup of coffee together, and there was an old comfort between us.
Perhaps maturity is the great equalizer, though she still obviously had a long way to go. (At least she wasn’t crying to me about anything this morning.)
She sat beside me at the faculty meetings that afternoon, shadowing me, speaking damn-near inaudibly in that way of hers I’ve always found infuriating.
She sat by me at the luncheon hosted by the local Army recruiter, and I knew that, as long as I continued to teach here, I wouldn’t be able to shake her—For better or worse.
We ended up back in my classroom at the end of the day.
It was almost 3 pm, and I flipped off the front lights in the room (the ones right above my desk) as soon as we entered, completely fed up with fluorescent lights after a long summer in the sunshine.
I, again, took my seat behind my desk, and Mary entered behind me, now a little shy or tentative.
She took her seat in the same old desk next to mine, her knees pressed tightly together now. (And why was she blushing?)
The hallways were quiet and dark—We were probably the only ones left in the building.
“Can I talk to you about something?” She asked with trepidation.
“You always have,” I said, firing up the coffee pot again.
“I guess so…” she said, but her tan cheeks were slowly transitioning toward a shade of red.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I could never tell you this,” she said. (She’d always done that—Acted like she didn’t want to talk about something just so I would try and coax it out of her.)
“Do you have anyone else you can talk to about it?” I asked.
“Hell no,” she said.
“What about your parents?”
“Especially not them,” she said, her cheeks now flushed.
“It sounds—looks—like you need to tell someone,” I said, intrigued.
“It’s embarrassing,” she said.
“Try me,” I said.
“I couldn’t tell anyone in the world this,” she said.
“I’m sure I’ve heard worse.” I watch the coffee slowly pour from the machine into my cup.
“Ughhh,” She vented. Her face was now undeniably red, and she clenched her clasped hands tightly between her knees. “I can’t do it,” she spurted. “There’s no way in hell.”
“I’m not your teacher anymore,” I said, and she glanced up at me; her eyes sparkled darkly behind her glasses.
We sat in silence for what seemed like a very long time before she spoke again. “It’s too embarrassing…” she said.
“You can’t just tell me you have something you need to get off your chest, and then not tell me what it is,” I coaxed. “We’re peers now, after all.”
“You really want to know?” She played with me.
“I’m curious,” I said, and she grinned and blushed even harder.
“I’m so frustrated!” she said.
“Why?” I asked, trying to remain calm. (I had the sense she was having naughty thoughts.)
She buried her face in her hands.
I poured myself a cup of freshly-brewed coffee. “You want some?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she said, almost dejected now. Her hands fell from her face, and she clasped them again between her knees.
The tension was palpable, but I poured my coffee knowing she would tell me eventually.
“Can we go somewhere else?” She paused. “I really don’t want to do it here.” (I thought of all the hotel rooms in the city I’d like to take her to, but knew she’d never go for it.)
My face became hot. I remembered all the moments in high school when she’d laughed to me about topics she’d found overtly sexual, like talking about bra sizes or a kid’s underwear showing.
“Do you want to ride with me to the pool party?” I asked.
We entered the home of Dr. Johnson, the high school principal, together and changed into our swimsuits in separate bathrooms.
When I saw her in her white, floral-patterned swimsuit for the first time, I was stunned. I had expected something extremely modest, but what I really saw was cleavage (bigger tits than I’d ever imagined), and skimpy swimsuit bottoms that barely covered her pert, tan little ass.
She must have noticed that I’d looked her up and down, because when we locked eyes again, she was clearly blushing.
After we’d said our hellos to the others and entered the pool—there were at least fifty other people at that backyard party, and so I felt extremely anonymous there—We ended up in a corner of the pool, in the water together, leaning against the edge, our knees bumping every now and then. (Our flirting was obvious, at least to each other.)
I am a married man, experienced in sexual situations, and so I was surprised to find that my cock responded in my swim trunks from this knee bumping alone.
“Remember in high school when I used to tell you I felt like I was going to hell every time I messed up?” She had a slight grin on her face.
“Yes,” I said. It was the thing about her that frustrated me most.
“I still feel that way sometimes,” she said.
“About what?” I asked.
“That’s what I can’t tell you,” she said.
“If you’re a Christian, then you believe in forgiveness,” I said. “We’ve had this conversation before.”
“But what if I don’t want to repent?” She asked.
I shrugged. “You’re being vague,” I said.
“God will forgive us if we repent,” she said. “But I don’t want to repent from this.” Her voice nearly broke as she blushed even more than before and shook her head as if she couldn’t believe she was saying it out loud.
I stared at her—It wasn’t a harsh stare—I might have squinted, examining her closely. I grinned. “I know what you’re doing,” I said.
“What am I doing?”
“If you don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me,” I said. “But if you didn’t want to tell me, then why would you have brought it up to begin with?”
She looked away.
“Just get it off your chest,” I said.
“It’s not my chest that’s the problem!” she said, her chest clearly heaving now.
We stared at each other for a moment before her eyes darted away.
When she looked back at me, her eyes only flitted across mine for a moment before looking elsewhere for an excuse.
Those brown eyes found me again, finally. “You won’t judge me?” She squeaked, mouse-like.
“Have I ever?” I asked.
“Ahhh…” she vented again. She was trying to give up, and I knew it.
“Do you believe in sex before marriage?” She asked.
I laughed, and she shot back, “Answer the question!”
“I don’t think it matters, personally,” I said. “Did you have sex in college or something?”
I could tell the word got her, because she turned red again and giggled. “No!” she said; her knees knocked against mine below the surface of the water.
“It’s a sin,” she said. Her eyes retreated, and I waited for them to find me again. “You promise you won’t judge me?” She asked.
“Cross my heart,” I said.
“Hope to die?” She asked.
“Of course,” I said.
She bit her bottom lip, nerves eating her alive, her face becoming redder with each passing moment.
“You have to tell me,” I said. “It looks like you might explode at any time.”
“Ha!” She laughed, spasmodically.
She sighed, long and hard. “I can’t believe I’m going to tell you,” she said.
“Sometimes we just need to say things out loud,” I said. (The inverse is also true: Sometimes we need to hear things out loud.)
We treaded water in silence for a while (probably five minutes, while she avoided my gaze, blushed, and kicked her legs beneath the surface).
“Fuck it,” she said, finally.
“You sure have a dirty mouth,” I said.
“Screw you,” retorted.
“Just say it,” I smiled.
After another long moment, she did say it.
“It has to do with my privates,” she said, forcing a tense smile while her face became so red that she had to blink away tears.
My face burned like hers now.
I’d known that what she was going to say was going to be extremely sexual, but I’d never expected it to have such an effect on me.
“What about your privates?” I asked.
“Well…” She began. “You’re married…”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Just tell me.”
“I mean, you know about women…” She said.
“I know some things,” I said.
She shook her head and bit her bottom lip.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Do you know about the clitoris?” She shook her head, trying to shake the words back out of existence, but found she was unable. “Fuck!” She screeched.
Now I bit my bottom lip, locking her in my gaze. I nodded in agreement, my face flushed and burning hot. (I fought off saying that I’d known a few in my day.)
She covered her mouth with both hands and turned away from me to face the pool’s edge. “Mine’s huge,” she said.
I was stunned. She couldn’t have possibly said anything sexier. Prudish as she was, she must have had a great capacity for pleasure inside those panties of hers.
“That sounds like a good thing,” I said, trying to sound confused.
“No, it’s not!” She shrieked, looking back at me over a bare shoulder.
“God gave it to you, didn’t he?” I asked.
“We all have temptations,” she said. “You know when I used to tell you I felt like I was going to hell because I wasn’t a good Christian?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“It was all because of this!” She squawked. “The whole time it was about this…thing!”
Holy shit.
“What’s so bad about it?” I asked after a moment in which I’d tried to picture it in my mind.
“What do you mean?” She asked, incensed.
“I mean, realistically,” I said. “What problems does it cause?”
She put her head down on the cement at the edge of the pool and paused for a long time before she spoke again—All the while her tan legs kicked behind her in the water. (I stared at her tight little ass as it floated toward the surface) “It’s…up all the time,” she said, resigned now to what she had admitted to me.
“You mean…” I started.
“I can’t control it!” She said. “It’s always…”
I thought I understood. “I guess that makes it hard to concentrate on other things?” I asked.
“Hard is an understatement,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“So…Are you saying it’s erect a lot?” I asked.
“It’s always erect!” she said.
“That sounds like fun,” I said.
“It’s sinful!” She yelped. “I’m fucking horny all day every day, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“There is something you could do,” I said.
“What?” She asked.
“Hold on,” I said. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a more sexually stimulating conversation in my life. I know part of it was the fact that I’d known her as a former student. The other part of it was the pleasure I would get from making her even more horny.
“How long has it been like this?” I asked.
“It’s been this way since high school,” she said, staring off across the yard, away from me.
“Do you ever masturbate?” I asked.
Her glare was back, and it could have singed a hole between my eyes as she lit into me over her shoulder. “Hell no,” she said.
“Have you ever masturbated?” I asked.
“No!” She squealed, then looked around hoping she hadn’t drawn anyone’s attention. Everyone was pretty much keeping to themselves, and now she faced me again in the water.
I looked down at the water’s surface, beyond which my cock grew harder still inside my swim trunks, but nobody could tell. “Is it hard right now?” I asked.
Mary exhaled through her nose.
“I’ll assume so,” I said.
“My panties are soaked.”
“We are in the water,” I offered, but Mary exhaled with a hint of exasperation and retorted, “Even if we weren’t in the water, they’d still be soaked…”
What I would have given for one hour with her at that moment. I would settle for conversation, though. “How soaked?” I asked.
“Like they just fell in a bathtub or something,” she said.
“Jesus,” I said.
“They were wetter today than usual,” she said, now embarrassed again, and I smiled. I loved to see her blush.
“Why’s that?” I asked. “Why were they so wet today?”
“I don’t know,” she pleaded, trying to talk me into getting to the bottom of it.
“You’re thinking about all those high school boys you’re going to be seeing next week,” I said.
“Hell no,” she said shortly.
“Why is it more intense today, then?” I asked.
“Do you really want to know?” The blush was back. (It was truly intense how it could just come and go like that.)
“It’s me, isn’t it,” I said. (I never would have risked such a statement had I not known it to be true—Or if I didn’t also want the same thing.)
She buried her face in her hands, but now I could tell she was smiling uncontrollably behind their concealment.
“Oh my God…” she moaned, dragging her palms down her beaming cheeks before putting her face under the water. “Is it that obvious?” She asked in a whimper as she dried her eyes and pulled back her long hair. (The line of her throat was tan and perfect, and her chin was nubile.)
I smiled at her.
“Jesus…” she said.
I couldn’t imagine a scenario that would lead us from this pool to some place private—Say, a hotel room—but I was willing to wait as long as it took in order to find such an excuse. I knew she wasn’t going anywhere as long as I was here.
“Let me ask you this,” I said. “Is it drooling more now than when we got here?”
“Damn it!” She said. “What kind of question is that?”
“Yes or no?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t have told me any of this unless she had wanted me to pry. (A thought crossed my mind: Maybe I could get her so wet and hard that she would cum right here in the pool just talking about it. That sounded like fun.)
“Yes!” She said.
“What does it feel like?” I asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
She rubbed her eyes behind her glasses, trying to control her blushing, trying to regain some sense of composure. “It tickles…” she said. “But sometimes it tickles so much it doesn’t even feel good anymore.”
“You know what you need,” I said.
“What?” She asked, flatly. (In fact, her emotional flatness here deflated me a bit.)
“You need to peel off those bottoms and play with yourself in the bathroom,” I said. “Before this thing gets out of hand.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “I can’t believe we’re talking about this!”
“Just try it once,” I said. “This would be the perfect place. It would feel a little dangerous, and I bet you’d get off even harder.”
“Oh my God!” She said for the twentieth time today.
“It’s not like you couldn’t still save yourself for marriage,” I said. “If that’s what you’re trying to do.”
“I don’t know if I even want to get married,” she said.
“What the fuck?” I said. “You’re going to live with these feelings your whole life without ever getting off?”
“I couldn’t handle that,” she said.
“Do yourself a favor,” I said. “You may feel a little guilt after you do it, but it can’t be anything like you’re feeling now. You’ve never had an orgasm?” I couldn’t believe it.
“I want to more than you could imagine,” she said.
“If I tell you what to do, will you do it?” I asked.
She sighed. “I don’t know,” Her voice was muffled behind her palms as she held her hands to her face again.
“You know you want to,” I said.
“You’re married,” she said. “Do you actually masturbate?”
“I love to masturbate,” I said. “My favorite thing to do is hold off for a few days without ejaculating, and then go into the bathroom and spray a fat nut in my hand.”
“Oh my God!” she nearly squealed.
“You want to hear another way you could do it?” I asked, coaxing.
“What if…” She started, and then stopped abruptly.
“What if what?” I asked. Then I decided to go for it. “What if I help you?”
She clasped her hands in front of her face as if in prayer, but without her eyes closed. She met my gaze now, squinting her mysterious, dark eyes. “How?” She asked.
I grinned. “Let’s go in the bathroom, and I’ll show you.”
“You’re married!” She yelped.
“You just said this morning that you didn’t want to repent from this,” I said.
“Fuck,” she said, knowing I had her.
“Let’s go,” I said. “I’ll take care of you.”
The silence might have lasted minutes; it also might have only lasted seconds.
“No one’s ever seen me naked before,” she said, and her blush was back.
“I’ve seen enough naked women,” I said. “Don’t worry about that.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“This may sound weird,” I said. “But now you have me fucking curious.”
“What do you want?” She asked.
“What if we went inside to the bathroom, and you just let me look at it…through your swimsuit, of course…” I blushed also now, but I wouldn’t relent.
“You’re crazy!” She said.
“You brought it up!” I defended myself. “And now I’m really fucking curious.”
“Why do you want to see it so bad?” She asked.
“Because you’re a woman,” I said. “And I’ve never seen a huge clit in real life.”
“You haven’t?” She asked, drawing it out.
“How big could it really be?” I asked. “This is for science!”
“Give me your hand,” she said.
I did, and she quickly pinched the first knuckle of my pinky between her thumb and forefinger. “Like this,” she said, rolling my pinky around in her nimble fingers for a moment. She let go suddenly. (The length she’d indicated had been nearly an inch long!)
My heart pounded in my chest.
She bit her lip and looked away. When she looked back at me, she was still biting her lip. “Okay,” she said in a low voice.
I didn’t believe it could be true.
“Okay?” I asked.
Still biting her lip, she nodded quickly.
I wondered how I would hide my boner on our way into the house. We got out of the pool and went toward our towels laying on the lawn chair beside the fence. (I used mine to hide my crotch as we walked into the house, and I noticed that Mary did the same.)
I made sure the coast was clear, and then I followed her into the bathroom and locked the door behind us. Mary stood there, knees together, covering her crotch with her hands, red in the face, while I waited. “Come on,” I said. “Humor me.”
She took her hands from her crotch, but her knees were together and she was leaning forward to the point where I couldn’t see a thing.
“You might as well show me,” I said. “We’re in a bathroom together with the door locked.”
Mary slowly relaxed as the realization sank in, dropping her hands to her sides and standing upright (she even widened her stance a bit).
Good lord.
“Can I touch it?” I asked.
She giggled and her hands shot to her face again. While she did so, I stared at the pinky-like bulge trying to poke through the crotch of her bottoms.
“What could it hurt?” I asked.
“You’re married,” she repeated, hands still covering her face.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Just let me gently touch it, and you can tell me how it feels.”
After a long pause, she turned back to me. “One time,” she said.
I knew that if my touch made a strong enough impression, I might have a chance of doing more with her.
She removed her hands from her crotch again, and I stared at the tiny prick, wondering what I should do—I only had one shot at this.
I decided that I really had to zing her.
I knelt down, getting a closer look, and she turned a bit before turning her hips back to face me again.
“Widen your stance a bit,” I said, and I was surprised when she actually obeyed.
Eyeing the protruding pinky behind the thin panty-like fabric, I flicked it good (not hard but not soft either), and she yelped, flew backward onto the toilet seat and crossed her legs, mouth agape.
Mary’s face was red, and she panted in heat.
“I know you’ve at least touched it,” I said.
“Not like that!” She yelped.
“Can I just see it now that you’ve been teasing me?” I asked.
“How have I been teasing you?” She asked.
“Just a peek.”
I was surprised again when she stood and instantly pulled the crotch of her panties to the side, thrust out her hips, and showed me her female erection that drooled precum from its tip down onto the tile floor.
I reached out and touched a fingertip to its underside, and it jumped like my cock would have in that moment had she just touched the underside of its head. I held her clit on that one finger, erect, while Mary panted, pulling my hand down against her crotch, and rubbing it around like she had (supposedly) never done on her own.
Without warning, I slid two fingers up into her wet slit, surprising her, and I felt her cunt grip onto my fingers as she shrieked.
“Oh fuck!” she grunted. Her knees buckled and knocked together; she pulled her ass back in the opposite direction. My fingers remained inside her, and I teased the devil’s doorbell lightly with my thumb. (Her hand was still firmly on the back of my own, pulling it into her crotch.)
She reached out and grabbed my cock through my swim trunks. I pulled them down, and then picked her up and lay her on her back on the tile floor.
I peeled off her panties. I continued to rub on her soaked pussy with all of my fingers. Not giving a shit now about her religious background, I took her behind her knees and pressed them up into her chest. I leaned in and gave her butthole a good solid lick like the first lick of an ice cream cone that has already begun to melt. (I felt it wink on my tongue and Mary shuddered.)
I licked her pussy and ate her ass for a long time, but neglected her clit. It was now harder than I’d yet seen it.
“I want you to screw me,” Mary moaned, now gripping my bare cock in her right hand.
I slipped it into her there on the already wet bathroom floor, burying my cock all the way to my ball sack. She yelped and her hips thrust up into me. “Oh God! It’s like a huge banana!”
She wrapped her legs around me, and I melted into her. We lay like that for some time.
“You’ll never think of those big bananas the same way again,” I said, and she yelped again, wrapping her strong legs around me tightly.
“Your bush tickles,” she managed to whimper. I thrust in and out of her slowly then, our juices combining to make a slobbery mess on the cool tile beneath us.
“Does it tickle your clit?” I asked, but she could only squeak her affirmation softly in my ear. It was more of a whimper, really.
“Yes!” she gasped.
“Keep those legs around me,” I said, thinking of her beautiful tan skin and thin but muscular legs—she still kept me locked in place with them—As if I were now hers (finally) and she would never let me go again.
I pumped into her tight slit a few more times until I felt like I was going to ejaculate.
I kissed her gently on the mouth, and we massaged each other’s lips while our privates warmed each other to our roots.
I began to hump at her slowly, sure to keep my cock buried all the way into her, and she humped back against me—Each time I buried the banana, she yelped and clawed at my back with her soft fingertips, grasping and begging for the relief that only I could give her now.
Finally, I knew that I was going to cum, but she beat me to it.
She squealed. (She actually squealed.)
Her pussy gripped my cock like it had my fingers just a few minutes earlier, but maybe even tighter now that I was inside her. It was too much.
I thrust my pubes against her raging clit, and worked her tight slit with every inch of my wiener.
“You’re hanging like a horse,” she whinnied, still gripping onto me with that crazy convulsing pussy of hers. “Screw me!” She moaned.
“Remember when I said I like to blow a fat nut in my hand?” I grunted from the edge.
Mary squirmed beneath me and tightened her grip on me with her muscular legs.
“Oh God,” I said, and with that, I shot my warm, pressurized nut deep inside her, spurting and spurting until I felt she would overflow with me. “There’s your cream pie, baby,” I said.
Her privates convulsed for a long time while I lay there on top of her, still gripped by her legs, letting her milk from me every last drop of ejaculate.
The warmth was incredible; it felt like home.
Just like a horse, I thought to myself.
After quite some time on top of her—We stayed like that for a while—I felt a tingling sensation rising again from within me. At first I didn’t think it could be real, but then it continued to build until I couldn’t deny it any longer.
My cock throbbed, and I ejaculated inside that young woman again, my pulsing cock inseminating her tight pussy as it gripped me like a pair of delicate hands, milking me to a delirious, euphoric conclusion between her legs.
“I actually squirted,” Mary said.
Of course I was proud, but more than that, I was happy for the huge clit that was finally satisfied.
Or was it? Time would tell.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/zlj9zg/the_prude_girls_huge_clit_35m22f_prude_virgin
>I’m a simple girl https://linktr.ee/colleenhudson