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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.

“Really? You sure?” Her asshole had spread but gripped my two fingers tightly. I didn’t know if another finger would even fit. Carol just nodded, her eyes closed again. Her beautiful red hair cascaded across the island. Her pale skin against the dark granite was lovely. I pulled my fingers out part way and straightened out my ring finger. Forming a triangle with my fingertips, I pushed against her anus again. Already relaxed, her sphincter accepted my third finger with ease. I pushed my fingers in and out, but only to the first knuckle. I thought it might be too thick to push all the way inside. Carol disagreed.

“How could I?” I giggled again. “Tell me, Mommy... how old were you when you started taking your Daddy's cock? My age? Even younger?”