Ofcourse at least once a day I would have to rerun the mental tape I hadof her frigging herself off to that shuddering climax and each time Iwould spu...t my seed in an equally intense orgasm as I imagined whatthat gorgeous glistening wet pussy would feel like grasping my prickas she thrust and spasmed against me. My mother sensed something was wrong and asked several timeswhat was troubling me, and although it was on the tip of my tongue toconfess I never quite had the courage. Eventually my. I loved her. I loved her as absolutely and completely as I loved Annette. And I knew that there would be three of us in my little bed. It gave me a warm feeling as I began sketching.The first thing I thought about Annette was not sex. I guess that was lurking in the back of my mind—I’m seventeen—but what I thought about was the morning she came into my room and examined my painting for the first time. She hadn’t looked at it and nodded before going on to something else. She’d studied it. She’d. More

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