Mrs. Pierce was a real piece of work. That’s all there was to it. She was the girls’ softball coach and the reason they had been the most winning team in county history but that didn’t change the fact that she was a real bitch. All the girls hated Mrs. Pierce, partly because of her nasty temper but mostly because of her cutting, condescending remarks but each member of the team played their very best to avoid becoming the target of her ridicule.

The girls weren’t the only ones scared of Mrs. Pierce; us guys were afraid of her too. Nobody wanted to be dressed down by that little dynamo, and I do mean undressed. By the time she finished with you, you’d feel like you’d been stripped naked and your poor, frightened little willy, looking like it had been submerged in arctic waters for months, would be on display for all to see. Nope, nobody wanted to cross Mrs. Pierce and that’s why I was scared out of my wits after I left Coach’s office.

“Emerson,” he had yelled as we all started for the showers. “Come see me when you’re done.”

“Can’t you get someone else, Coach?” I had pleaded after he made my assignment known.

“Of course I can,” he retorted, fixing me with his steely glare. “But I’m sending you!”

“Right, Coach,” I backed down immediately.

“Saturday morning. Here’s the address.” He held out a wrinkled piece of paper torn from the corner of his coffee-stained pad. “Be there at nine sharp.”

I read the address scrawled on the scruffy piece of paper.

“Don’t let me down, Paul,” Coach added in a softer tone. “The school needs Mrs. Pierce in top form this season if both the teams are to win five years in a row. It’ll be pretty hard for anyone to match that record.”

“I won’t Coach,” I promised.

“Make sure you don’t,” his parting warning sounded ominous.

Before I reached the door, he said, “She’s not as bad as they make her out to be.”

I didn’t believe that for a second and Coach’s lopsided smile wasn’t encouraging either. I opened the door and walked down the hall, my heart filled with dread.

As I walked down the tree-lined avenue, I checked the numbers on each house. The leaves were already changing color despite the warmth imparted by the still strong sun. I was almost there, at Mrs. Pierce’s house. She injures herself and I have to do chores for her? It wasn’t fair. I knew I couldn’t be forced to but if I wanted to stay on the team, I had to do Coach’s bidding and keep quiet about it. There it was, 2709, a low, rambling rancher on a large lot with shrubs lining the curved walkway to the front door and flower gardens bordering the house itself. I walked up to the door, careful not to tread on the grass, vacillating between ringing the bell and knocking on the door. Which would be least disturbing? I pressed the doorbell and winced at the series of clanging chimes my tentative touch had set off. The door opened and she was there, somehow managing to appear haughty and aloof despite her diminutive frame.

“Yes?” she inquired, one hand holding the partially open door.

“I’m Paul,” I said, pausing to await her recognition of who I was and why I was there but her expression didn’t change.

“Uh ... Coach sent me.”

“Oh yes, of course. I’ll meet you out back. There’s a gate around the side.” Mrs. Pierce waved her free hand and then abruptly closed the door.

I stared at the door for a few seconds, then shuffled around the side of the house, unlatched the gate, and walked into the back yard. There was a swimming pool filled with sparkling turquoise water in the center of a large yard rimmed with tall hedges and flower gardens, nicely set off by a large willow tree at the back with a picnic table set under the shade of its drooping branches. I stopped to survey the beauty of it all which the front of the property, although nice, hadn’t prepared me for. This had to be the nicest yard on the street, by far. Mrs. Pierce appeared through the French doors at the rear of the house and walked gingerly across the cement patio favoring her right heel. That was the only evidence of her injury that I had seen. She walked to the far side of the pool and stopped, ignoring me as she surveyed the flower gardens. I walked up behind her and quietly waited for her to acknowledge my presence.

“Do you think you can mow the lawn without scarring the edges or blowing grass on the flowers?” she asked.

“I’ll be careful,” I replied. The last thing I needed was for her to complain to Coach. “It’s a very beautiful yard,” I added, sucking up and trying to provide assurance that I meant it when I said I’d be careful.

“I won’t let my husband do it. He doesn’t understand the commitment required to achieve a lawn like this, how meticulous you have to be at every step, and the constant diligence, so ... well, he doesn’t appreciate it. Nor, I suppose, do you, so if you can’t do it, just say so before you ruin it.”

Mrs. Pierce turned and fixed her gaze on me. It seemed now that she was the taller person. I looked down and shuffled my feet.

“I can do it.”

“All right, but remember, doing a job properly is better than getting it done quickly.”

I nodded.

“You’ll find everything you need in the shed,” she said, dismissively, waving her hand toward the back corner of the yard as she brushed by me. I turned to watch her go. I meant to fix her with an evil eye while she wasn’t looking but that changed as she walked away. Even with a slight limp, her shapely legs were appealing. Mrs. Pierce may be a bitch but she was a damn good looking one. Despite her age, her body wore the confidence of years and years of fine-tuned, proper physical exercise. The twin lines from the side of her nose to the corners of her mouth indicated her true age but her body exuded youthful strength. The girls on the softball team said there wasn’t a single position Mrs. Pierce couldn’t play better than any girl in the league. I believed it watching those tight shorts track back to the house and only tore my eyes away when I belatedly saw my reflection in the glass door.

It took me way longer than I thought to finish the lawn. I was petrified of accidentally lowering the mower unevenly over the edges along the garden in order not to scar the grass. Thankfully, I was successful. As soon as I shut the mower off, Mrs. Pierce appeared. She strode purposely to the edge of the grass by the side of the house. As I gathered the electric cord, I watched her, admiring her legs, a crazy thing to do. God help me if she caught me scoping her body. Coach would understand but he’d have my ass anyway.

Mrs Pierce walked around the edge of the yard. I put the mower away and followed her for the last half of the yard about a dozen feet back. As she scrutinized the edge of the grass, I perused her taut legs and pleasingly tight yet supple butt. At the opposite end of the yard, and not before, Mrs. Pierce turned to me and smiled.

“You did a fine job. You should be pleased,” she said. “Come back after lunch and we’ll see if you can handle gardening.”

I guess I wasn’t going to get a cold drink, let alone any lunch, or even a thank you. Oh, well. I was better off leaving than trying to eat in her domineering presence. I watched her walk to the house but looked away before she entered in case she turned around to impart further instructions. I felt ridiculous walking home because the front of my shorts kept swelling up. Come on, man, I chided myself. She’s over forty. I guess I was too scared to get an erection while I was in her yard looking at her PE-teacher butt. Thank God for that.

After lunch, I walked directly into the back yard without announcing myself. Mrs. Pierce was lying on a cushioned lounger in the back yard, one of two set on the patio at the end of the pool nearest the house. The head end was raised up about a foot or so allowing Mrs. Pierce to lay comfortably yet still read a magazine, or look at her garden. I walked up quietly and stood several feet away behind and to one side. I waited for her to notice I was there but soon realized she must be sleeping. About to cough to announce my presence, I stopped myself, afraid of her wrath if she didn’t want to be disturbed. I thought about creeping back and knocking on the gate but in the end just stood there.

Mrs. Pierce was wearing a tank top and a pair of shorts that were neither tight nor loose around her legs. Her tanned and bare midriff bristled with tiny reddish blonde hairs a little lighter than the color of her shoulder-length hair. She had obviously never had children, at least, none that could conquer the strength of her abs. Her breasts sat proudly upon her chest, falling slightly to the sides but sweeping up to fill the tank top in a very pleasing manner. Her left arm was stretched up and bent back to allow her hand to rest behind her head, a posture which pushed the nipple on that side nicely into the tank top in spite of the bra whose dim outline I could discern underneath.

Mrs. Pierce’s right leg was bent so that the sole of her foot fit snugly under the calf of her left leg. Her parted thighs were covered in a sprinkling of fine hairs similar to that visible on her stomach but glinting more brightly in the sun. I stared long enough to notice that their distribution became more sparse as her legs approached their natural juncture. My eyes had just traveled up onto the swollen front of Mrs. Pierce’s shorts when she spoke without turning to look at me.

“It’s alright. I’m not sleeping.”

“Oh, I ... uh...”

“Come around here where I can see you,” Mrs. Pierce gestured for me to walk in front of the lounger.

She regarded me with a faint smile for several long seconds and I began to blush, realizing she must have been aware of my presence for some time and perhaps knew I had been looking at her. Thankfully, she looked away at the garden just as my cheeks began to glow.

“I think we should start down there in the corner, in case you mess up.”

Mrs. Pierce got up awkwardly and stood, favoring her heel more than she had in the morning. She limped toward the end of the yard and I followed. When we got to the corner, she told me what to do. There was a bag of garden tools already there. She bent to retrieve the appropriate tool and handed it to me, then started back toward her chair but stumbled after two steps. Quickly, I stepped forward and grabbed her, one hand grabbing her flailing arm and the other circling around her waist to keep her from falling. Regaining her feet, she angrily flung my hands away.

“I’m fine,” she barked.

Mrs. Pierce took two more steps and fell to one knee. I waited, unmoving. She held one arm out.

“Help me up, please,” she said, tersely.

I took the offered hand and braced the other under her elbow, pulling her up.

“Perhaps, I do need a little help,” she said, her admission surprising the hell out of me.

We started walking but she quickly stopped.

“Actually, bring my chair over here. I’ll need to give you instructions.”

I brought the lounger and Mrs. Pierce set herself down, carefully keeping her right heel elevated from the ground. I turned around and got to work. The afternoon whiled away with me working and Mrs. Pierce periodically giving instructions, but less and less often as time wore on. I was acutely conscious of her attention and tried my best to work around the flowers without disturbing a single petal.

About every half hour, Mrs. Pierce got up and I moved her chair a few feet farther along so she could be close enough to see what I was doing. On the third move, she was napping. Still on my knees, I took the time to look at her. Her knees were drawn up and held tightly together, blocking my view of her face and mine from her, which was good should she suddenly open her eyes. However, though her knees were held demurely together, her feet were spaced as widely as they could be while remaining on the lounger cushion, offering an unobstructed view of the back of Mrs. Pierce’s well-muscled thighs. Something in my shorts began to stir, and it wasn’t a mouse.

Mrs. Pierce had slid down in the lounge, forcing her shorts tightly against her legs and pelvis. I could see the outline of her panty legs under the shorts and the form of her mature pussy pressing against the restraining material. The tip of my tongue slipped through my lips and my cock grew an inch, shifting inside my shorts. I imagined myself hovering over her, looking down while those puffy panties — somehow, in my mind, the shorts had disappeared — strained upward to meet my bulging loins.

“That should be enough for today. You’ve done a fine job.”

Her voice shocked me back to reality. Mrs. Pierce was looking at me through her open legs, her knees having parted without my awareness. My face flushed red.

“I can do more if you want,” I protested.

“Nonsense. You’ve worked so hard your face is red.”

Mrs. Pierce struggled to get up and I leapt to my feet to help her.

“Thank you, Paul.”

The sound of my name on her lips sent a shiver through me.

“Can you help me to the house?”

This time, Mrs. Pierce didn’t object when I slipped my arm around her waist. I paused at the sliding doors but she indicated that I should help her right into the house. She guided me toward a large stuffy chair in the living room near the front door. The place was elegantly furnished. Very tasteful, even to my uncultivated eyes. I knew my mom would like it and that meant it was very good.

“Can you come again next week?” she asked.

“I can come over tomorrow, if you like.” I hoped I didn’t sound too eager.

“No, my husband is home tomorrow,” she said, as if that fact required no further explanation.

I was strangely disappointed having to wait a whole week to work for this so-called “bitch”.

“Well, I could come over Wednesday afternoon. My classes are over at noon and I think Coach wouldn’t mind if I skipped practice.”

“That’s very thoughtful but you shouldn’t skip practice.”

“Coach says I don’t need any more practice,” I said proudly.

Mrs. Pierce smiled.

“Well then, ok, Paul.”

This time my name had a throaty sound to it. All the way home, I replayed that sound over and over in my head. I had to adjust my shorts several times but in the end gave up, allowing my erection to bulge like a sausage down my right leg. Why did they think she was such a bitch? For that matter, why had I thought so? At school, she was this overly tough little woman running rough shod over the girls. She looked fit in her perennial gym wear but not sexy but in her own backyard she could be soft and yielding, feminine and sexy. I could hardly wait until Wednesday.

Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough. If it had been any longer, I would have worn my pecker off. Mrs. Pierce was waiting on the lounger which was situated right where I’d left off on Saturday. There was a jug of what looked like lemonade beside a glass with a lime in it on a small round glass-topped table. When I got closer, I noticed that there was an extra glass on the table but it was empty.

Mrs. Pierce was wearing a halter top. One of her legs was stretched out and the foot of the other was set beside its knee, holding its own bent knee up against which a magazine was pressed.

“Good afternoon, Paul,” she said as I approached.

I acknowledged her greeting but quickly knelt down to begin gardening when further conversation wasn’t forthcoming. I shifted to the right after fifteen minutes and turned to look back at Mrs. Pierce, knowing I was directly in front of her and that, as on Saturday, I could probably look at her legs without being seen. I forgot that one leg was stretched out straight which meant the coveted display wouldn’t be available and Mrs Pierce would be able to see me anyway.

Fortunately, Mrs. Pierce had lifted that leg up too and both knees were now together and would have offered an unprotected view of the back of her thighs if her feet weren’t placed demurely together in front of them. Disappointed, I returned to gardening. Five minutes later, I turned to sneak another look. Bingo!

Mrs. Pierce’s feet were now braced on the corners of the lounge, leaving the back of her thighs unprotected. My scrotum was wrapped in pleasant tingles as soon as I noticed that the shorts worn on Saturday had been replaced by a short skirt which wasn’t long enough to cover Mrs. Pierce’s panties with her legs lifted up like that. They were pale blue and didn’t match the green skirt that was supposed to cover them.

Recovering from my initial surprise, I moved my trowel in the dirt to make it sound like I was still working but kept my eyes on those out-of-place panties. As I watched, Mrs. Pierce’s right hand appeared and lightly scratched across the bottom of her thigh. I stared as the flesh of her leg rippled back and forth in front of the scratching fingers and stiffened when her hand began stroking up her leg. At the underside of her knee, Mrs. Pierce’s fingers retraced their path down her leg, paused, and then repeated the long, caressing stroke.

I was mesmerized. Mrs. Pierce continued stroking the back of her thigh and I completely forgot about moving the trowel around in the garden to make it sound like I was working. I almost managed to lift my offending eyes off her legs when her knees suddenly moved to one side ... almost, but not quite.

“Would you like a break?” Mrs. Pierce asked. Then, in response to my blank look, “For a drink?”

“Oh, yes,” I stammered, fixing my gaze on the pitcher.

“Pour yourself a glass, then,” she said, continuing to scratch the underside of her thigh. I crawled around to the other side of the table and poured myself a glass while I watched Mrs. Pierce who was looking at her magazine and paying no attention to me. I almost choked when I took the first gulp to quench my thirst. It was gin and tonic!

Mrs. Pierce continued stroking her leg and ignoring me. I drank more slowly and watched her hand and leg. She leaned forward onto her magazine as she stroked and her breast pushed around the outside of her thigh. It was then I noticed that there were no telltale signs of a bra under Mrs. Pierce’s halter. When she pulled back slightly on the upstroke, the nipple poked into the cotton halter top, registering its presence to my eager eyes.

“That feels so good,” Mrs. Pierce said, thankfully keeping her owns eyes on her leg. “Ever since my injury, I haven’t been able to exercise and my muscles have tightened up. This seems to help.”

I nodded, and gulped another mouthful of gin and tonic. It went down smoothly this time.

“Except my fingers aren’t strong enough to knead the muscles very well, especially on my calves.” I looked at Mrs. Pierce’s muscular calves. I couldn’t believe her fingers weren’t as strong as her legs. When I looked back, Mrs. Pierce was looking right at me.

“Do you think you could help?”

“Help?” I said, lamely.

“Yes. Do you think you could massage my leg muscles?”

I looked at her legs, then at my hands, dusty with the dirt from the garden.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m not afraid of a little dirt like my husband.”

Mrs. Pierce lifted the back of the lounger up and forward, then eased it back until it was flat. She turned onto her side and then onto her stomach, placing her head on crossed arms.

“When you finish your drink, you can rub my legs.”

“What about the garden?” I asked, stupidly.

“You can do that later. It would be better to do my legs before Mr. Pierce gets home.”

So with that, I quickly downed the rest of the drink and moved in front of the table, beside the lower part of the lounger and next to Mrs. Pierce’s legs. Tentatively, I placed my right hand on the back of her ankle.

“That’s it,” Mrs. Pierce said. “Start at the bottom.”

I rubbed the first six inches of leg above her foot.

“Massage it,” Mrs. Pierce said. “Make the muscle work.”

So I started massaging Mrs. Pierce’s leg, slowly working my way up until I was squeezing and releasing the muscles of her entire right calf. Mrs. Pierce rewarded my effort with encouraging sounds and it was with confidence that I moved to her left leg without prompting and received similarly pleased sounds as I worked on that leg too. Mrs. Pierce kept her eyes closed the whole time I worked on her legs so I cast my eyes above her knees to admire the back of her taut thighs as I let my fingers automatically find the muscles of her calves.

When Mrs. Pierce had first turned around on the lounge, the little skirt had ridden up her legs but her thighs were too close together for the pale blue panties to show. As I worked her lower legs I tried to push them apart, and succeeded, but Mrs. Pierce’s knees stayed together, thwarting my plan. Slowly, I kneaded her legs less strenuously, allowing my fingers to stroke more than massage, similar to the way she had scratched her leg herself. My eyes and mind kept wandering under Mrs. Pierce’s skirt and my strokes became more and more like light caresses. I was startled when she spoke.

“Go higher,” she whispered.

“Pardon me?” I replied, not sure what she meant, moving my hands to the upper part of her calves.

“Work the muscles above my knees,” Mrs. Pierce whispered.

I slid my hands onto the back of Mrs. Pierce’s knees and then above, onto her lower thighs. Mrs. Pierce sighed contentedly and her knees relaxed, creating a gap between her legs. A narrow band of pale blue panties appeared through the hem of her skirt. I started massaging Mrs. Pierce’s thighs, near her knees, the way I had started near her ankles with her calves.

I took my time working my way higher, leery of making a mistake, of taking a liberty beyond what was intended. Eventually, I tried to move her legs further apart and this time they responded to my urges. A greater expanse of panty now greeted my eyes, encouraging me to deliver the best massage I could manage. My eyes roved over Mrs. Pierce’s entire body but especially on her red hair and the side of her freckled face which was contentedly serene. That is, when I wasn’t staring lovingly at her sleek thighs and peeking under her skirt at her panties. After a long while my fingers were kneading the most tender part of the inside of Mrs. Pierce’s thighs. They even ventured into what I would have thought would be a forbidden area under the hem of her skirt, near the blue panties, in my mind responding to the invitation implied by her yielding flesh.

Suddenly, Mrs. Pierce lifted up on her elbows and looked at me over her shoulders past her arched back. My hands when rigid, freezing on her thighs upon the entrance to her skirt.

“Oh my,” she said, looking at the back of her skirt. “It’s a good thing Mr. Pierce didn’t come home.”

I instinctively jerked my head toward the back of the house and Mrs. Pierce laughed.

“Don’t panic. He’s not due home for a while yet. You did such a good job, I got a little carried away. I hope you don’t mind?” she purred.

I shook my head. Not in the least, I tried to say but the words wouldn’t form in my throat.

“Maybe you should let me turn around now,” Mrs. Pierce smiled, looking at my hands still inserted between her thighs.

“Oh ... of course,” I yanked my hands away from her legs as if they were burning.

Mrs. Pierce laughed and turned around on the lounger. She picked up the pitcher and topped up her glass and then mine. “Cheers,” she said, setting the pitcher down, then picking up her glass and holding it out to me. I picked up mine and clinked her glass. Mrs. Pierce sipped hers and looked at me. After I matched her drink she said, “I trust you don’t have a loose tongue.”

“No. Of course not, Mrs. Pierce,” I assured her.

“Good. This is the kind of thing that could easily be misunderstood.”

I nodded my understanding and took a large gulp of gin. I needed it.

“We have an understanding, then?”

I nodded.

Mrs. Pierce smiled and sipped her drink. As she did, her right knee slid up higher on the lounger and her pale blue panties appeared under the green skirt. This time, it was the front of the pale blue panties that showed. There was no way I couldn’t look right at them. No way. When I came to my senses, I looked up to find Mrs. Pierce looking at me, amused.

“Drink up,” she said.

She raised her glass to her lips in concert with me and took a small sip. Mrs. Pierce smiled and I looked down between her legs, then up her thighs and under her skirt, latching onto those sexy blue panties. My eyes may have overstayed their welcome because Mrs. Pierce prodded me again.

“You better finish your drink, Paul,” she said, rolling my name around with a wonderful lilt. “Mr. Pierce wouldn’t like it if he found a minor drinking liquor in my back yard.”

I took a bigger drink and Mrs. Pierce laughed softly but she moved her left leg, exposing more blue panty. I drained my glass, all the while straining my eyes toward her skirt. Mrs. Pierce’s light laughter tinkled one last time as she got up. We walked back to the house and just before we got there Mr. Pierce appeared, poking his head through the glass doors.

“I’m home, dear,” he said, ignoring me. “I’ll be in my study until dinner.”

Mrs. Pierce acknowledged her husband, asked him to wait a moment and then, in his presence, turned to face me.

“Can you come again on Saturday?” she asked in an officious voice.

“Yes ma’am,” I responded in kind.

By the next Saturday, my little monkey had been spanked numerous times. I wasn’t sure if Mrs. Pierce was giving me the come on or just having fun teasing me. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced she was setting me up for a fall, waiting for me to do something inappropriate so she could get Coach to kick me off the team. Paranoia, what a wonderful thing. But that didn’t stop me from fucking Mrs. Pierce many times, in my dreams.

Mrs. Pierce was sitting in the same place in the yard on the lounger. A pitcher and a single glass stood on the small table. I stopped beside her, ready to massage her legs. She was wearing shorts and a simple white blouse instead of a halter top that would show her bare midriff and a skirt that would let me ... well, you know. She was reading a magazine. Several more were piled beside the pitcher on the table.

“You’re early,” Mrs. Pierce admonished me. “Well, you can start gardening anyway.”

Disappointed by her demeanor, I picked up the trowel and began weeding around the flowers. I turned often to check out Mrs. Pierce’s legs but her feet were always held demurely together, blocking any view of the backs of her thighs. Damn!

She moved the lounger herself when I shifted further along the garden to stay behind me. I checked her legs again but the story was the same: a blocked view.

“I better see if Mr. Pierce needs anything. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Ah, so Mr. Pierce was home. I was both relieved to know the likely reason for her cool behavior and severely disappointed by her husband’s presence. I surely wouldn’t be doing any leg massaging now until next Wednesday.

I was so busy with my negative thoughts I didn’t realize Mrs. Pierce had returned until she sat behind me again though my ears had registered the patio door closing. Since she hadn’t remarked on the current location of her husband I assumed, with regret, that he was still in the house. A few minutes later, another chair shift along the garden toward the house shrank the viewing angle from the patio doors sufficiently that Mr. Pierce would have to step outside to see us and even then his view would be blocked by the back of the lounger chair. I shoveled a little dirt and then turned to look at Mrs. Pierce.

Mrs. Pierce had changed clothes! She was now wearing a black, knee-length pleated skirt that, while covering her knees on top of her thighs, was open across the bottom. It was loose and the rear hem drooped low enough that I could see her lacy black panties without straining my neck. I put my hand on the ground behind my hip and rested on it while I gazed at Mrs. Pierce’s delicious thighs, easily seen through her widely spaced lower legs. When she leaned her knees to one side to look at me, I brazenly didn’t turn away to pretend I was gardening.

“Would you like a drink, Paul?” she asked.

“There’s only one glass,” I said.

“You can use mine while you take a break,” she replied, picking up her gin and tonic and holding it out to me. I took the drink and brought it to my lips. “Just don’t let Mr. Pierce see you. He wouldn’t appreciate me giving alcohol to a minor.”

Mrs. Pierce swung her knees back into place. He’d like it even less if he caught me staring at your panties, I thought. I tipped my head back for a long, slow drink, my eyes remaining between Mrs. Pierce’s thighs. As the cool mix trickled down my throat, Mrs. Pierce’s knees parted and a gap appeared between her thighs. Caught staring at her panty-covered pussy, I corrected myself.

I took my time with the drink and Mrs. Pierce didn’t make a single comment or motion to hurry me. The only sound in the backyard was the swish Mrs. Pierce made as she flipped the pages in her magazine. I couldn’t see the tiny hairs on her thighs under the shade of her skirt but there was enough light to notice the puffy rise of her pussy and the faint presence of a vertical groove running through the lower front of her panties. Her hole is in there, I thought. Her cunt. I stifled a groan and twisted my hips to ease the pressure on my burgeoning cock. I swigged the rest of the gin and stretched my hand around Mrs. Pierce’s knees to give her the glass.