novasaur

“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.

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 had never told her what he and Alexis spoke of that snowy morning, never told her the real reason why he had helped her break free of Galvin. If he did, how would she react? Would she become disheartened, accusing him of toying with her for his own selfish desires because he couldn’t let go of the past? Or would she go with it, try to take up the role of his long-departed wife, forsaking her identity, her future, and her relationship with Alexis just to receive his affection? Neither was an outcome he wanted.