"I'm shooting off in you, baby," he whispered. "I'm fucking my jizz up your pussy. I'm creaming you, little bitch. Oh, yes I am!"

As his orgasm subsided, Morgan felt guilty and a little foolish, and he started to close the panel door. At the last moment before the door closed, he glimpsed his own daughter Susanne, her tits bouncing as she wiggled out of the shower room. His eyes lingered over her voluptuous curves for a few moments, then he sealed out the sight of her. He tried to push the image of her naked body out of his mind.

I shouldn't think about her like that, he told himself. She's my own daughter, for Christsake!

For years now, he'd been trying to deny his feelings about her. The truth was, he wanted to fuck her just as he wanted to fuck every other girl in the dance school. Maybe he wanted to fuck her even more.

"Don't think about it," he muttered. "Just don't think about it."

He didn't have time to think anymore about it at that moment, because there was a knock on the office door. In a panic, he zipped up, wiped his cum off the wall with his handkerchief, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Greta stepped inside.

"Why are you forever locking this door?" Greta asked in her Swedish accent.

She'd asked him that a thousand times before, and as usual she didn't wait for his answer – as if she really didn't want to know.

"I'm afraid you'll have to drive some of the girl's home, Morgan. The roads are terrible and some of the girls' parents can't get here to pick them up. The phone in the hall has been ringing with frantic calls. I've had to interrupt my teaching to answer them. Why haven't you been taking the calls in here?"

"I've been busy with the books," Morgan said. "You know I can't be interrupted when I do the books or I get lost in the figures completely."

"Well, now you must get on your coat and boots," Greta said. "The girls need rides."