megan marx

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.

“Yeah, I know...” I commiserated, and now that Brucie was no longer in my way I could lean down to give her a comforting hug. “You get used to that part, eventually. Just try to relax, and focus on how good it feels filling you up. He'll start to shrink down pretty quick. You can also put your hand on your pussy, if you want, to hold your lips closed and keep him in there longer. It can help, to make sure he's shrunk down even smaller before you decide to let him out, so he doesn't stretch you so much when he does it. Just don't hold him in there too long, or eventually he'll get annoyed and twist around to nip you on your butt to make you let him go.”

“There is another thing. Marcus Berholm is getting closer to discovering my identity, and has recruited Boris Veres to help him. It’s only a matter of time before they need to be silenced.”