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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.

Carol hiked herself up on one ass cheek and rubbed an oily finger around her anus, depositing a bit of oil in her anal canal. She hopped off the island, grabbed my hand and the olive oil and headed for the living room. “It will be more comfortable in here. My knees are sore.” She set the oil on the coffee table and kissed me again, stroking my dick vigorously as she did. “We don’t have to do this. You can say no.”

“Yes. Come in please.” Carol quickly opened the door, through a shirt and pants on the bench and closed the door behind her. She leaned against the door, hands behind her fetchingly, her legs crossed at the ankles. She bit her lower lip as she stared at my rigid cock, throbbing with my pulse.