Whirlwind

by Kayla Grosse

We’ve got a twister to tame —who the fuck even says that out loud? Me, apparently. I’m that asshole.

You looked at her boobs, the inner voice nags, and imagined it was your hand touching her ass instead of her own.

You know how this happened. You let your dick take the lead, you prick.

“How many times did you imagine fucking your professor, Ms. Buckley?”

I reward her with a small shallow thrust and bite her earlobe. “Be a good girl, and tell me.” “Too many to count.”

Even if everything inside me wants to put her on her hands and knees and shove it back inside her then fill her with more until she’s so full of me it will drip out of her for days.

“It’s never too early to call someone Daddy. Especially when said Daddy has got such great biceps.”

I happen to know he tends to go for men more than he does women, even if he’s an “equal-opportunity Southern boy” as he told me once.

“Come on, Ms. Buckley,” he taunts. “I’ll give you extra credit if you soak my beard.”