that foursome gets together for some nylon clad copulating fun late at night. They dress in their sexiest outfits and jam fingers, dildos, whatever they can discover into each other all at once, helping every last one of them have a fun with no male assistance necessary.
(No Ratings Yet)
Loading ...Fiction - School for Wayward beauties
A bad fellow. Desmond was a very, very bad guy. He knew that, of course, really deep down in
his soul and he felt bad about it, on occasion, honestly he did, but he didn’t really need nor want the fact of that fellow’s inherent badness reiterated in excruciating detail by the Dean of Students. But Professor Plumeria wasn’t about to let him off easy–not that time, no way in hell. Desmond had been caught, not for the first time mind you, not for the second time even, but for the third humiliating time sniffing sweaty, fresh-off-the-field shoes in the ladies’ locker room at the fashionable Wallingford College for chicks, an esteemed institution where he’d been tolerated as a salaried instructor by virtue of that beau’s family’s generous donations. But that time, oh, that time, Coach Orgama herself nabbed him red-handed, so to speak, with that fellow’s nose firmly ensconced in a damp and utterly fragrant size nine and she was not amused
at all at seeing her prized field hockey players’ footwear so dreadfully abused. The first two times he’d been caught in similar situations, Prof. Plumeria had given Desmond stern verbal warnings, severe tongue lashings, if you will. that mate’s family, after all, had been on the board of trustees practically since the school’s inception. But in that fella’s indiscretions, Desmond was not alone. There were many dissolute Wallingford legacies on staff. Like that fat, balding math
teach, what was that beau’s name, Algernon?
His compulsive kleptomania was well-known by all on campus. But Desmond’s shoe-snorting offenses were just too extraordinary to be tolerated, apparently. Some of the chicks’ parents
had begun complaining to some of the higher-ups.
(No Ratings Yet) Loading ...Fiction - School for Wayward hotties
A bad guy. Desmond was a very, very bad guy. He knew this, of course, so really deep down in
his soul and he felt bad about it, on occasion, honestly he did, but he didn’t really need nor want the fact of his inherent badness reiterated in excruciating detail by the Dean of Students. But Professor Plumeria wasn’t about to let him off easy–not now, no way in hell. Desmond had been caught, not for the first time mind you, not for the second time even, but for the third humiliating time sniffing sweaty, fresh-off-the-field shoes in the ladies’ locker room at the fashionable Wallingford College for kittens, an esteemed institution where he’d been tolerated as a salaried instructor by virtue of his family’s generous donations. But now, oh, now, Coach Orgama herself nabbed him red-handed, so to speak, with his nose firmly ensconced in a damp and utterly fragrant size nine and this babe was not amused
at all at seeing her prized field hockey players’ footwear so dreadfully abased. The first two times he’d been caught in similar situations, Prof. Plumeria had given Desmond stern verbal warnings, severe tongue lashings, if you will. His family, after all, had been on the board of trustees practically since the school’s inception. But in his indiscretions, Desmond was not alone. There were many dissolute Wallingford legacies on staff. Like that chunky, balding math
teach, what was his name, Algernon?
His compulsive kleptomania was well-known by all on campus. But Desmond’s shoe-snorting offenses were just too extreme to be tolerated, apparently. Some of the cutie pies’ parents
had begun complaining to some of the higher-ups.
(No Ratings Yet) Loading ...
