larissa diaz dc

That Saturday passed like a blur as Sarah did her social duties with her friends, but in the back of her mind her guilt was steadily building. What she had done last night was not okay. But it was a moment of weakness, a mistake of her youth, so with one and done there wouldn’t be a problem, right? Her night’s rest seemed to disagree. Six times she woke that night, each time with the desire to visit her father again, but she managed to persevere. She had to watch her video from last night a few times before her lust could be controlled, but she got through the night, minus quite a few hours of sleep as a cost.

Sarah swallowed; her mouth suddenly dry with nervousness. She was sweating from the strain of holding herself in place, but that sudden slickness gave her an idea. Easing her pressure on the bed her body weight now mostly fell on her father, her breasts crushed against his chest. Pushing forward with her hands her body slipped an inch down her father, and that inch translated to an inch down below. It was more sudden than she intended, her father’s tip pushed fast and hard past her lips and into her dripping pussy. She moaned in ecstasy, unable to hold it in. She could feel him inside her now, stretching her opening and with it, feel the beat of his heart in her most sensitive place. She was on fire.

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.