Becky's knees were up, and her pussy was stuffed full of fingers. She fed her tits into Betsy's mouth, purring and sighing like a dove as the sucking ...ecame sweeter, harder. Her cunt pissed out streams of pussy juice and the fingers squished, going in and out. Becky squirmed hotly in the grass, much warmer than the summer sun that blazed down from above.Betsy moved her face down Becky's body, toward the beckoning thatch of pond-dampened, cuntjuice-soaked pussyhair. She inhaled the funky aroma. Mr. Emerson opened a book on his desk and motioned me over beside him. I was breathing strangely and stood beside him looking down at the book. “This is the writing of Walt Whitman,” he said, “and much of his poetry is about love and feelings…read this part.” I leaned over to look at the words and his arm went around my waist. It was warm and I wiggled very slightly and began to read the poem about men and women and “feeling myself…alive” and Mr. Emerson was rubbing my back. “What do you. More

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