yamai komi can't communicate

Mrs. B. was a great teacher for 10th grade English. Funny, engaging, personable—and a bit flirty. She was in her late-20s, just a couple years out of The University of Michigan, cute, nice body and flaming red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She knew the boys all lusted after her and she did nothing to discourage our interest. Students even gave her a nickname, “Bubbles.” The administration was not pleased, but Mrs. B. didn’t seem to mind. She liked the attention. Oh, and I think that we actually learned a lot of English Lit between the horsing around.

“Oh Brucie! Wake up, Brucie!” I called, the big German Shepherd dozily raising his head from where he had been asleep on my bed. He liked my smell, so he'd pretty much claimed it as his, now that I was no longer sleeping there myself. “Play time, Brucie!” I said, widening the door so he could see I was naked, giving my pussy a few gentle slaps. That sure woke him up in a hurry! His claws kicked my blanket up behind him as he scrambled down to the floor, eagerly shoving his muzzle between my thighs and beginning to lick.

Once she’d finally found a good spot, she remembered what she was trying to do. Slowly and steadily, she brought her hand up and over his chest, the light sheet rippling above her the only thing keeping them from the warm autumn night. Again, she brought it down past the end of the hair on his belly and only stopped once she felt that rough patch of hair just above his groin. With only the moon filtering through the sheet above she could barely make it out as she peered over her dad’s waist. Short and curly, much curlier than his armpit hair, pitch-black, though most of his hair was with only a bit of grey poking through.