Good Grades = Panty Sniffing

Abby Somers' body stops me cold. Danny Cash, eighteen and stupid for it. Her panties are what gets me—cotton, warm, that sharp sour-sweet edge I can't stop thinking about. I crack the drawer, dig in, bury my face, and she walks in. I think that's the end of me. Instead she peels off her leggings right there. The crotch is dark, sticky from the gym. She rubs the wet panel with two fingers and smirks when my knees dip. I lean forward but her bare foot plants in my chest and shoves me back hard. Smell costs grades, she says. No A, no pussy smell. Midweek the numbers are real—ninety-four percent circled in red. She sees the proof, legs spread on the bed, panties still warm from the day. She hooks the band with her thumbs, peels them aside. Her pussy is thick-haired, swollen from sweat. Two fingers part the lips, show me the pink. Then the panties are balled and shoved past my teeth, fabric heavy with her salt. She climbs over me, sits heavy on my mouth, pulls my cock free and swallows it to the root. I feel her moan around the shaft while she grinds, clit dragging over my tongue. She flips, sinks down, wet hole stretching tight around me. I hammer up into her, the noise wet and obscene. She rolls to her hands and knees, I take her from behind, her big pierced tits swinging, bars flashing under the lights. When I flip her again and drive in missionary, she keeps begging—cum for step-mommy—until I yank out and paint white ropes across her dark bush. She rubs it in, laughing low, like the smell now belongs to both of us.