Ever since she'd started this damned dance school, she'd become sexually colder and colder. The school took all her time, all her thoughts, all her energy. What sexual energy she had left, she channeled into her teaching. If Morgan could get a piece of her ass once a week he was lucky, and then she'd just lie there like a plastic doll, preoccupied with thoughts of the dance school while Morgan fucked her and shot his jism into her cunt. She didn't even are about having orgasms of her own anymore, although Morgan's cock rubbing inside her pussy got her off at least half the time. Often, she'd look surprised when she came, as if she'd just awakened and had discovered a man raping her.

As the last girls filed out of the studio, followed closely by Greta, Morgan closed the panel door over the window in front of him and swiveled around to open the panel door behind him. His stiff prick was in his hand, and he worked his foreskin up and down slowly over the lube-greased head of his prick.

He was damned horny. He could have shot off a dozen times as he'd watched the girls go through their dance steps and stretching exercises. The sight of three-dozen barefoot, long legged girls in tight leotards was enough to stoke up the fire in his loins to one orgasm after another. But he was nearly forty and had to pace himself or end up crawling like a whipped dog, so he'd held off coming. Gone were his teenage days when he could get off five loads a day regularly.

I'll have to get a fan installed, he mused as he jacked his cock, and air vents – so I can smell 'em. The trouble with being locked in this office was that he couldn't smell the girls. He wanted to smell them sweating when they worked out in the studio, then wanted to smell their hot pussies as they peeled off their leotards in the dressing room. He aught to have a fan blowing in the scent of pussy while he watched the girls and jacked off.