Chapter 8

Once we’re all dressed, I lead the girls out of the equipment room, my hand resting comfortably on the small of their backs. We make our way down the empty hallway, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off the walls. The other students are still out enjoying their lunch, blissfully unaware of the monumental shifts happening in their social dynamics.

We arrive at the infirmary, and as expected, Mrs. Simmons is there waiting for us. She looks a bit flustered, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for something she’s lost. She points out two trays of food, each steaming with the aroma of the cafeteria’s bland offerings. “Your meals,” she says, her voice quivering slightly. She’s trying to keep up the appearance of normalcy, but the scent of our recent activities clings to the air like a heavy mist, thick and potent.

The girls take their trays eagerly, their hunger for sustenance not as intense as their newfound hunger for physical pleasure but they still need sustenance. They devour the food, not even bothering to hide the carnality of their appetites, they lovingly feed me forkfuls of food from their plates too. Watching them, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride. They’re learning, growing, adapting to this new aspect of themselves that I’ve introduced.

As we eat, I can’t shake the thought of Matt and Chris in that gym equipment cupboard. I imagine them fumbling in the dark, the smell of sweat and dust mingling with the sweet musk of arousal. I wonder if they’ve figured it out yet, if they’re sharing the same confused pleasure that’s now etched into their souls. Hopefully the boys’ homosexual conversion takes root, leaving me free to carry on with these two lovelies without their interference. The thought makes me smile, and I catch Mrs. Simmons watching me with a mix of fascination and awe. She’s been so easy to manipulate, so eager to believe in the divine after seeing what I did to Bethany in this very same room.

The bell for the end of lunch finally rings, and Angela and Gemma jump up from their seats, trays clattering against the table. They say goodbye as they head off to class. They move with a new confidence, their hips swaying slightly as if the very act of walking has become a form of seduction. They shoot me one last look over their shoulders, full of promise and anticipation for what the day might bring.

Mrs. Simmons watches them leave before turning to me with a smile. “I see you’ve been busy, they look so happy” she says, her voice full of admiration. She steps closer, and I can see the hunger in her eyes. The scent of her arousal fills the room, thick and intoxicating. It’s a heady aroma that makes me want to bend her over the desk and take her right here and now.

But I have to be careful. My power here is based on secrets and lies, and if the wrong person finds out what I’m doing, it could all come crashing down around me. So I give her a knowing wink and lean in close. “You’re not complaining, are you?” I whisper, my breath hot against her ear. She shivers, and I can see her nipples harden through her blouse. She’s desperate for me, desperate to feel the kind of pleasure she’s seen me give to Bethany and suspects I gave to Gemma and Angela.

“I’m not complaining,” she whispers back, her voice a needy purr. “But I need to know more. I need to feel it for myself.”

I nod, stroking her cheek gently. “After school,” I remind her, echoing the promise I’d made earlier. Her eyes light up at the mention of it, and she nods eagerly. It’s clear she’s been thinking about it all day.

As I turn to leave, I say over my shoulder, “Thank you for the meals, Mrs. Simmons. You’ve been very helpful.”

Her eyes follow me like a hawk, her breathing shallow. “Anytime,” she murmurs, her voice dripping with desire. She knows what I’m capable of, what I’ve introduced into her world, and she’s desperate for a taste of the power that seems to ooze from every pore of my being. She doesn’t know how it all works, but she knows that she wants it, needs it. It’s a delicious secret, a silent pact between us.

The afternoon classes drag on, each minute feeling like an eternity as I sit through the mundane lessons. The teachers drone on, their words barely registering in my mind. I’m too preoccupied with the promise of what’s to come, the thrill of the hunt that’s been temporarily paused. Some of the girls in the classes are nice enough, but none of them spark the same all-consuming interest that others this morning have.

As the final bell of the day rings, signaling the end of school, I make my way to the infirmary. The hallways are a flurry of activity, students rushing to leave the confines of the school building. But amidst the chaos, a figure steps into my path, blocking my way. It’s Mrs. Baker, her eyes searching mine with a look of curiosity and perhaps something more. Love. Affection.

“Where are you off to?” she asks, her voice laced with the same needy tone she had when she received my ‘healing’ earlier today. She’s obviously been unable to shake the experience from her thoughts.

“I have an appointment with Mrs. Simmons,” I reply casually. “She’s been feeling a bit ... unbalanced and requested my spiritual guidance.”

Mrs. Baker’s eyes widen with understanding, her cheeks flushing with the memory of her own encounter. “Oh, of course,” she says, stepping aside. “I can’t say I’ve ever felt more balanced and ... alive than I did after our session.”

Her admission sends a thrill through me, and I can’t help but smile. It’s clear that she’s eager for more, and I decide to use this to my advantage. “Why don’t you join us?” I suggest, keeping my tone casual. “Maybe there’s something we can all learn from each other.”

Mrs. Baker’s eyes light up at the suggestion, and she nods eagerly. “Yes, I think that would be ... enlightening,” she says, the double meaning clear in her voice. She follows me into the infirmary, and Mrs. Simmons’ eyes widen when she sees us together. She quickly recovers, her smile a mix of greed and anticipation.

“Mrs. Baker will be joining us,” I inform her, and she nods, her cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s important for her to experience this as well.”

Mrs. Simmons swallows hard, her eyes betraying a hint of nervousness. “Of course you can join us Karen,” she murmurs. “Whatever you think is best.” She knows that I hold the key to something she craves, something she can’t even begin to understand.

We walk out to the parking lot together, the chilly air a stark contrast to the heat that’s been building inside the school. Mrs. Simmons unlocks her sleek, top-of-the-line Range Rover Sport with a beep. The shiny black exterior reflects the setting sun, almost blinding in its gleam. She opens the passenger door for me, and I slide in, the luxurious leather seats enveloping me in a soft embrace. Mrs. Baker follows closely behind in her own car, her eyes glued to the reflection of her car’s headlights in the rearview mirror.

“Nice ride,” I say, admiring the interior. The scent of new leather and Mrs. Simmons’ subtle perfume fills the cabin.

“Thank you,” she says, blushing slightly. “My husband bought it for me.”

“What does he do for a living?” I ask casually, feigning innocent curiosity.

Mrs. Simmons’ eyes dart to the rearview mirror before she responds. “He’s a stockbroker. Makes a good living. I don’t have to work, but I like to keep busy. Being a school nurse, you know, keeps me fulfilled.”

Her voice trails off as she pulls onto a private drive, the wrought-iron gates opening automatically to reveal a sprawling estate. The house is massive, a testament to her husband’s success, with tall windows reflecting the setting sun like a thousand fiery eyes watching our approach. “Wow,” I murmur, genuinely impressed. “Your husband must be very good at his job.”

Mrs. Simmons laughs nervously, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Yes, well, we’re quite comfortable,” she says, her voice betraying a hint of defensiveness. The car comes to a smooth stop in the circular driveway, and we both get out, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound breaking the quiet evening air. Mrs. Baker’s car pulls in behind us, and she emerges, her eyes wide as she takes in the opulence of our surroundings.

Mrs. Baker’s amazement is palpable as she looks up at the grandiose mansion. “This is ... stunning,” she breathes, her eyes wide. She’s clearly impressed, and the thought occurs to me that she may be more malleable than I’d first thought. A woman that is awed by such luxury might be eager to acquire it and up her status, and then not rock the boat to keep it. That could be very useful, not that I need it with how infatuated she is with me.

Mrs. Simmons leads us inside, and the opulence continues. The foyer is marbled and spacious, with a sweeping staircase that looks like it was ripped from the pages of a fairy tale. She gestures for us to follow her into a cozy study, the walls lined with books that have likely never been read. The room feels like a safe haven, a place where secrets can be shared and new experiences can be had.

“Let me just get you some refreshments,” she says, her eyes lingering on me a moment too long. “I’ll be right back.”

Mrs. Simmons leaves the room, and I take the opportunity to glance around, my eyes landing on a phone on a side table. Perfect. I pick it up and dial my home number from memory.

“Hello?” My mom’s voice sounds faint yet comforting, a stark contrast to the alien world I’ve been navigating.

“Hey Mom,” I say casually, trying not to let my excitement show. “I just wanted to let you know that Mrs. Baker offered to give me some extra after-school tuition. She thinks I could use the help.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Well, okay,” she says, her tone a mix of surprise and concern. “Just remember to be home before it gets too late, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Mom,” I reply, a knowing smirk playing on my lips. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

As I hang up, the sound of footsteps echoes through the hallway. A moment later, a tall, well-dressed man strides into the room, his eyes scanning us both with a cool, assessing gaze. This must be Mr. Simmons, the elusive stockbroker. His hair is slicked back, and he has the look of a man who is used to getting exactly what he wants.

“Ah, you must be the young man that’s been helping my wife with her ... stress,” he says, extending a hand. His grip is firm, his confidence palpable. “I’m Tom Simmons.”

I take his hand, playing the part of the innocent stranger. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Simmons,” I say with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “I’m just here to offer Mrs. Simmons some spiritual guidance.”

He looks at me, his expression unreadable. I can almost see the cogs turning in his mind as he tries to figure out what’s going on. But he doesn’t suspect a thing. He thinks I’m just some kid with a knack for meditation and a few oddball ideas. Little does he know that I’m the one who’s going to turn his world upside down.

“Actually, Mr. Simmons,” I begin, “I was hoping I could get your assistance with Mrs. Simmons’ treatment. You see, the spiritual imbalance she’s experiencing is quite profound, and I believe that with your help, we can achieve a more ... complete healing.”

Mr. Simmons raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite his initial skepticism. “I’m not one for the mystical,” he says, his voice gruff. “But if it’ll keep my wife happy, I suppose I can spare a few minutes.”

Mrs. Simmons returns with a tray of drinks, her eyes widening slightly when she sees her husband. She quickly recovers, setting the tray down and smoothing her skirt. “Darling,” she says, her voice a seductive purr, “this is the spiritual healer I’ve just told you about. He’s going to be helping me with ... certain issues.”

“We’ve met.” Mr. Simmons’ eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything else, instead taking a seat in a plush armchair across from us. Mrs. Simmons sits down next to me, her thigh brushing against mine. She’s a woman in her mid-30s, her rubenesque body filled with generous curves that make my blood race. Her long red hair, usually confined in a tight bun, cascades down her back like a fiery crown, framing her pleasing face.

I place my hand on her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her shirt. She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering shut. The air in the room thickens with anticipation as I lean in, my lips brushing against hers. The kiss starts out slow, a gentle exploration of the unknown. She gasps into my mouth, her hands coming up to clutch at my shoulders as she realizes the true nature of my ‘spiritual healing’.

Mrs. Simmons’ body responds to me with surprising eagerness, her back arching slightly as I deepen the kiss. My other hand slides down her side, tracing the curve of her waist until it reaches the swell of her ass. Her breath hitches as my fingers dig into the soft flesh, pulling her closer to me. She’s pliant in my arms, her inhibitions melting away like wax in the face of my expert touch.

Mr. Simmons’ voice cuts through the air like a knife, his tone incredulous. “What the hell is going on here?” he demands, his eyes wide with shock. “What is the meaning of this?”

Mrs. Simmons breaks away from our kiss, her cheeks flushed with desire. She looks at her husband with a mix of fear and defiance. “It’s part of the healing process,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please, just watch.”

Mrs. Baker, ever eager to be part of the narrative, quickly jumps to my defense. “It’s true, Tom,” she says, her voice earnest. “Steve has helped me so much with my insomnia. His techniques are ... unorthodox, but incredibly effective.” She licks her lips, her eyes flickering down to my crotch before darting back up to meet his gaze. “And I’m sure he can do the same for Janice.”

Mr. Simmons’ expression is a study in confusion and anger. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, but he doesn’t move, his eyes darting between his wife and me, trying to make sense of what he’s just walked in on. I lean back slightly, my hand still resting on Mrs. Simmons’ thigh, and give him my most innocent smile. “It’s all about energy flow,” I explain calmly. “The body holds onto stress and tension in various ways. Sometimes, the only way to release it is through ... physical means.”

“Physical means?” he repeats, his voice rising. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a very ancient and sacred practice,” I explain, my voice soothing and authoritative. “In my experience, it’s not uncommon for spiritual healers to use physical contact to balance the chakras and clear the path for positive energy to flow.”

Mrs. Simmons nods eagerly, playing her part perfectly. “It’s true, darling,” she says, her voice sweet and persuasive. “It’s nothing to be alarmed about. Just watch.”

Mr. Simmons’ confusion and anger begin to dissipate, the tension in his shoulders easing as he tries to make sense of the situation. He takes a deep breath, his eyes flicking between his wife and me, his curiosity overcoming his skepticism. “Very well,” he says, his voice tight. “But I’ll be watching.”

I nod solemnly, placing a hand over Mrs. Simmons’ heart. “Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Simmons,” I say, my voice filled with sincerity. “Now, if you’ll just sit back and observe, I’ll show you the true power of my spiritual healing.”

With that, I lean back in, my lips capturing hers once more. She responds with a hunger that’s almost palpable, her body arching into me. I feel Mr. Simmons’ eyes on us, but I don’t care. I’m in control here. My hand slides up her skirt, my fingers finding the soft flesh of her ass. She moans into my mouth, the sound muffled by our kiss.

I rub her ass in slow, firm circles, feeling her muscles clench and relax beneath my palms. She’s like putty in my hands, responding to every touch and caress without a thought of protest. Mrs. Baker watches us, her own arousal evident in her heavy breathing and flushed cheeks.

With a flick of my wrist, I gesture to the group. “For the full spiritual healing to take effect,” I say, my voice commanding, “we must all be open to the flow of energy. Please, remove your clothes.”

The room is silent for a beat, and then, almost as if in a trance, Mrs. Simmons stands and begins to undo her blouse. One by one, the buttons pop open, revealing her ample breasts, straining against a lacy bra. She slides the fabric off her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet, and reaches behind to unclasp the garment. Her breasts spill out, full and heavy, her nipples already peaked with desire.

Mrs. Baker watches with wide eyes, her hand shaking slightly as she follows suit, her own clothes falling away to expose her lean, toned body. She’s not as busty as Mrs. Simmons, but her mid-sized breasts are perky and pert, her stomach flat and her hips curving gently. She looks at me with a mix of excitement and apprehension, unsure of what to do next.

Mr. Simmons’ jaw is slack, his eyes glued to the scene playing out before him. He’s the last to undress, his movements stiff and mechanical as he shrugs out of his suit jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt. His chest is hairy and muscular, a stark contrast to the tiny mound between his legs that’s barely visible beneath the fabric of his boxers.

Mrs. Baker is the first to step out of her underwear, revealing a neat mound of light blonde peach fuzz. Her breasts are c cups but firm, her nipples standing at attention. She looks at me with a mix of excitement and trepidation, her eyes wide. Mrs. Simmons follows suit, her own panties slipping down her legs to reveal her almost bare pussy, the fine red hairs standing out against her pale skin.

Mr. Simmons is the last to remove his boxers, his tiny penis bobbing as he steps out of them. It’s barely an inch long when flaccid, and I can’t help but feel a smug sense of satisfaction at the stark contrast between us. His eyes dart to the floor, unable to meet mine as he sits back down in his chair.

Now that everyone is naked, I stand up, my own underwear joining the pile of discarded clothes. The women’s gazes lock onto my cock as it springs free, thick and heavy, many times the length of any other man’s cock. It’s a sight that Mrs Baker has seen beforehand when I made love to her this morning but her shock is still palpable. Mrs. Simmons’ eyes widen, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. Mrs. Baker’s hand flies to her mouth, stifling a moan of desire.

Mr. Simmons, on the other hand, looks like he’s seen a ghost. His eyes dart between his own tiny member and my substantial one, a look of utter disbelief etched onto his face. He seems to shrink into his chair, his chest deflating as he takes in the sheer size of what I possess. It’s clear that he’s never seen anything like it before, and the realization that he’s so outmatched in size is a blow to his ego that he’s not prepared for.

“Why ... why is it so big and hard?” he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. His curiosity is piqued, but it’s tainted with a hint of fear and jealousy. He can’t comprehend why I, a boy the same age as his own children, am gifted with such a powerful and imposing organ.

I smile knowingly, allowing the silence to stretch out for a moment before I speak. “It’s all part of the divine energy,” I explain, my voice calm and soothing. “My spirit is more in tune with the natural world than most, which allows for a ... more substantial physical manifestation.”

Mr. Simmons swallows hard, his eyes still glued to my cock. “And what ... what does this have to do with healing?” he asks, his voice strained.

Mrs. Simmons giggles, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Oh, it’s all part of the process,” she says, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ll see.”

Mr. Simmons’ gaze shifts from my cock to his wife’s naked form, his eyes roving over her curves with a mix of awe and embarrassment. It’s clear that in this world where sex is unknown, even a husband and wife are strangers to each other’s naked bodies. He looks at her with a mix of desire and bewilderment, he gets up out of his seat takes a step towards her.

As he crosses the three-meter threshold, something changes. The sweet scent of Mrs. Simmons’ arousal fills the air, thick and potent. It hits him like a punch to the gut, his eyes watering as he doubles over, retching. “What’s happening?” he gasps, stumbling back to the safety of his chair, his face pale.

“It’s the power of the divine,” I explain calmly, watching him with a knowing smile. “You see, Mr. Simmons, only those with the purest of spirits, those who have been chosen as spiritual healers, can handle the overwhelming potency of female arousal. Some exceptional spiritual healers, like myself, actually find the scent of female arousal very pleasant.” You smile at Mrs Simmons as you say this, making her heart flutter.

“But for ordinary men,” I continue, my eyes lingering on his tiny, flaccid member, “the scent is unbearable. It’s nature’s way of ensuring that only the worthy may partake in the sacred act of reproduction without gestation chambers. I will implant my seed here and the baby will grow inside you.” I point at Mrs Simmons belly

Mrs. Simmons looks at me adoringly, her hand resting on her naked stomach. She’s had children twice before, but only through the cold, sterile process of the government’s gestation chambers. The idea that her body could naturally conceive a child, with me as the father, is something she’s only just beginning to grasp.

Mr. Simmons moves away and sits back down, his eyes watering from the potent scent of his wife’s arousal. He looks at her with a mix of longing and despair. It’s clear he’s never felt this way before, never experienced the intense desire that’s coursing through his veins now. But he knows, on some level, that he’s not the one she wants right now. That I’m the one she needs.

Mrs. Simmons moves closer to me, her hand reaching out to touch my chest. “What must we do?” she asks, her voice breathy and eager.

I look into her eyes, feeling the power of my manhood pulsing with each heartbeat. “What would you like me to heal?” I ask, my voice low and soothing. She thinks for a moment, her eyes flickering to her husband before returning to me.

“I suffer from stress, my sleep at night is disturbed, often I wake up in the early hours. And my shoulder,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s been bothering me for a while now. And ... and there’s a scar on my knee. It’s ugly.”

Her voice is filled with self-consciousness, a feeling that’s all too familiar in a world where beauty is untouched by the corruption of sexual desire. I nod understandingly, my eyes moving to the faint line on her thigh. It’s nothing more than a small, silvery scar, but to her, it’s a blemish on her otherwise flawless skin.

“Mrs. Simmons,” I begin, my voice filled with a gentle authority that seems to soothe her nerves, “there is nothing about you that is ugly. Your beauty is a reflection of the purity of your soul. But if this scar truly bothers you, then we must address it.” I gesture for her to lie down on the plush rug that adorns the floor, and she does so with a grace that speaks of her desire to please.

Kneeling beside her, I lean in and kiss her deeply. She gasps, her eyes fluttering shut as my tongue dances with hers, a silent communication of trust and submission. My hands roam her body, tracing the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist down her legs, until I find the scar on her knee. It’s faint, almost invisible, but to her, it’s a sign of imperfection. I place my thumb over it and begin to rub gently, my other hand cupping her cheek, keeping her gaze on mine.

Her breath hitches as I kiss down her body, my lips brushing against her collarbone, her neck, and finally reaching her breasts. I take one in my mouth, my teeth grazing the sensitive nipple. Her body arches off the floor, a silent plea for more. I give it to her, sucking and biting as my thumb continues to work the scar. The tension in her shoulder visibly relaxes, and she lets out a soft moan, her hand tangling in my hair.

Mrs. Baker watches from the side, her own breasts heaving with anticipation. She’s seen this before, felt this before, but the sight of Mrs. Simmons’ unbridled pleasure sends a jolt of electricity through her. She can’t help but reach down to touch herself, her hand sliding over her mound, her eyes never leaving the scene before her.

Mr. Simmons, still in his chair, watches with a mix of horror and fascination. His own cock has remained limp, but his body is responding in ways he doesn’t understand. He feels a strange, uncomfortable tingling, a heat building in his loins that makes him squirm in his seat. He wants to look away but can’t, transfixed by the power I wield over these women.

As I kiss and caress Mrs. Simmons’ body, I focus my energy on her scar, willing it to fade. My mana swells with each moan she releases into my mouth, each touch of her soft skin against my own. The scar beneath my thumb grows lighter, the skin around it smoothing out, until it’s all but gone. She gasps as she feels the change, her body jolting with pleasure.

Her eyes fly open, and she looks down at the spot where the scar once was. “It’s ... it’s gone,” she whispers, her voice filled with awe. She reaches down, her fingers tracing the now-smooth skin. “How did you do that?”

I smile, my eyes never leaving hers. “It’s all part of the healing process,” I murmur, my voice filled with a seductive promise. “Your body responds to my touch, my energy, and together we can achieve wonders.”

Leaning back slightly, I close my eyes and place my palms over her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips. I focus my ‘spiritual sight’, a gift from my world that allows me to see the flow of mana within living beings. A soft glow emanates from her right shoulder, the source of her discomfort clearly visible to my heightened senses. “Ah, it’s your right shoulder,” I say with certainty, opening my eyes to meet hers. “Allow me to perform the sacred ritual to alleviate your pain.”

Her eyes are wide with trust, and she nods eagerly, lying back down on the soft rug. I straddle her, my cock standing tall between her thighs, and place my hands on her shoulders once more, channeling my mana into her body. The warmth of my energy flows into her, and she relaxes beneath me, her breaths growing shallower as she feels the tension melt away.

Mr. Simmons watches from his chair, his own cock still limp and useless between his legs. He’s never seen his wife look at anyone the way she looks at me—like I’m the answer to every unspoken desire she’s ever had. It’s a look of pure adoration and need, and it’s a look that cuts him to the core. His cheeks burn with a mix of anger and jealousy, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

As I channel my mana into Mrs. Simmons, her skin seems to glow, the years of tension and stress slipping away. The soft folds of her stomach tighten, the cellulite on her thighs smoothing out as if by magic. Her body responds to me in a way that’s almost supernatural, and it’s clear that she feels it too. Her eyes flutter shut, and she lets out a soft sigh of pleasure, her hips rising to meet my cock, which is now nestled between her thighs.

Her waist narrows, cinching in until it’s a thing of impossibility, a delicate line of perfection that defies the very laws of this universe. Her breasts swell, becoming fuller and firmer, the pink tips of her nipples begging for attention. Her hips widen, curving out in a way that makes my mouth water, a stark contrast to the new, untouchable waist that’s emerging beneath my hands.

Her eyes flutter open again, meeting mine with a question in them, but I don’t hesitate. Leaning down, I latch onto one of those perfect breasts, my tongue flicking out to tease her nipple. She gasps, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. It’s a sound of pleasure and surprise, a sound that sends a bolt of lightning straight to my cock.

As I worship her breasts, my cock finds its way to her entrance. She’s so wet, so ready, and the head of my cock nudges against her virgin barrier. I look into her eyes, searching for permission, and she nods, her cheeks flushed a deep red. I push into her, feeling the resistance of her hymen give way with a gentle pop. She cries out, a sound that’s half-pain, half-ecstasy, and I pause, waiting for her to adjust to the new sensation.

Mr. Simmons is on the edge of his seat, his face a mask of confusion and arousal. He’s never seen a man with a cock this size, never felt the power of a real erection. His own penis remains limp and useless, a sad little nub that can’t compete with the monster between my legs. He’s both repulsed and fascinated by the scene before him, his mind racing with thoughts he’s never had before.

Mrs. Baker watches with bated breath, her hand moving faster over her own sex. She’s felt this before, but the sight of Mrs. Simmons being claimed by me is something new, something thrilling. She can’t tear her eyes away, her body responding to the raw passion on display.

With each slow thrust into Mrs. Simmons, I feel her walls tighten around me, her body adjusting to my size. Her moans become louder, more urgent, and I can feel her building towards climax. She’s never felt this before, never known this kind of pleasure, and it’s intoxicating.