I catch exactly none, which is all the more annoying when half of them land in a puddle.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
As I delicately try to pick up soaking wet sheetsof paper and pile them up before they turn to pulp, I glance up from my position of scrambling into the eyes of a very pretty woman.
“Don’t worry,” I grumble, though there’s no irritation in my tone.
Not as much as there should be. I am a little annoyed she’s just staring at me, however, and not making the slightest attempt to assist me in the collection of soggy silhouettes the children will be decorating and cutting out later for their Valentine’s cards.
Gathering the last of them, I push to standing. Except my thighs are so sore I can’t get myself into position without looking like I’m either drunk or standing is a skill I only recently learned.
“They look cute.” She points at the pile. “I’m sure Valentine’s is a busy time for you in school.”
I nod and smile, trying to figure out why this woman seems so familiar to me. “Are you a parent here?”
Her eyes drop, and her head bobs, but in an almost timid, coy way. “Yes.”
Great.I stand straighter to appear a little more professional. “Lovely, what year? I teach reception, if you can’t tell.”
Her eyes widen, and she reaches into her bag to pull out her phone. “I’m so sorry. I have to take this. Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” I wave as she hurries off out of sight.
My eyes are still trained on the spot where she disappeared because I can’t decide if the whole interaction was bizarre. Who doesn’t help someone pick up all the stuff they were complicit in dropping?
It becomes my second biggest problem of the day,however. When I walk into my classroom a few minutes later, I attempt to separate the soggy papers and hang them over the radiator. It’s a disaster. The ink on the wettest ones has diluted, and several have ripped.
My leisurely morning becomes a race to get new ones printed before the bells ring and pupils arrive.
“Good morning, Miss MacIntosh.”
“Good morning, Miss MacIntosh.”
“Good morning, Miss MacIntosh.”
The third voice greeting me is decidedly deeper and more delicious.
It’s a voice I recognize most recently from whispering in my ear that my pussy was made for his cock. It sets off a flutter of excitement radiating from my belly outward, and a flurry of memories from my evening floods my synapses.
Me bent over the hallway table while Hendricks filled me.
Me sitting on the stairs, thighs wide, Hendricks eating me out like a man possessed.
Me on my knees with Hendricks’s cock down my throat.
Mecaged against the wall, arms pinned above my head, Hendricks tormenting me for hours before dragging my fourth orgasm out of me.
Waking up before the sun, wrapped up in the warmth of Hendricks’s huge biceps and solid thighs.
A night I will never forget.
I bite back an incriminatory smile. “Good morning, Lord Burlington. Good morning, Max.”
“Morning,” Max replies in his usual dulcet tone. “Are we singing today?”
I nod. “We are.”
He turns to Hendricks, who peers down amused. “Daddy, I hate singing.”
