fear and hunger centaur

I spent that weekend feeling increasingly more guilty. What had I done? Pussy was one thing, but sticking my dick in her ass? Sticking my tongue in her ass? Gross and probably illegal. No cell phones or email, so I couldn’t get in touch with Carol and find out she was okay or have her talk me off the ledge. I was afraid she would realize the next day what I had done and call the police. I went to school on Monday thinking they were going to haul me into the principal’s office or just take me away.

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.

“He—” I croaked, my throat dry and scratchy, a foreign, slightly bitter taste on my tongue. “Help!” My voice was so weak and thready, there was no way anyone would hear me, not through what I was now recognizing as sound-proof padding on the walls. What had happened to me? I couldn't remember. I didn't know where I was, had no idea why I was here.