corey slauson

“Awww…fuuuccckkkk! Geeeezzzzuuuus fuck!” Carol’s body convulsed in pleasure as her hips ground onto my tongue and finger. “Yeah! Yeah! God! Oh God! Yeah! Fuck!” She dropped down onto her elbows as the waves of pleasure subsided. Goosebumps rose on her muscular ass. “That was fantastic. Do it some more. Please.” I put my fingers on either side of her asshole and pulled, trying to open her hole a bit for my tongue. I wiggled my tongue a bit into the tiny opening. Her sphincter and ass cheeks tightened reflexively at the attempted violation. Carol giggled with delight. “That feels so good. Weird. But so good.”

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.

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