Her name was Heather. She didn’t look like a “Heather”. She looked more like an “Edith” or a “Hyacinth” and should have been wearing dre...dful all white granny knickers and not a pair of naughty French things that made most males form a terrible erection needing prompt attention without delay.It was the librarian with her contacts on the outside that filled Marcie in on the fact that it was her boss, Mister Honeywell that had caused her to be incarcerated. Apparently, his scheming wife had. It’s about this moment that she stretches; hands on her shoulders, chest out, head to one side, shifting from one side to the other. Slowly thrusting one breast at a time in my direction with its hard nipple teasing me. I start to feel that tingling, throbbing between my legs. She couldn’t be doing that intentionally could she? No….not her. I’ll have to power through it and then furiously rub my clit when I go to bed. We get to a point where we both have to work from the same book. She comes to. More

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