Frank Brown - The Smiths come together!

Greta Smith padded barefoot around the polished wood floor of the dance studio, straightening a back here, lilting a chin there, reminding her students to keep their toes pointed, their shoulders back, their chest lifted high as they stretched at the bar. The tang of sweat hung in the over-heated air, and the radiator clanged from time to time. As the half dozen boys and the three-dozen or so girls of Greta's advanced dance class performed their final stretches at the bar, Greta told them to drop to the floor and do a few stretches in the full-split position to finish things off.

The girls, in their tight black leotards, had no trouble sitting in the full-split position. With backs straight, tits lifted high, crotches pressed to the floor, they bent from one side to the other, touching their chins to their knees, reaching out to grasp their pointed toes. The boys, on the other hand, being built differently, were not nearly so flexible. They grunted and sweated as they struggled to imitate the more flexible girls.

Only one boy had no trouble sitting in the full-split position and performing perfect stretches – Greta's golden-haired son, Patrick. Greta had started him stretching early in life. He'd been doing full splits and stretches since infancy.

"Thomas, you're going to have work more on your flexibility," Greta told the least flexible of the boys. "You've been slipping lately. I want you to put in extra time at home."

Greta walked among the teenaged dancers, counting out their stretches as they bent in unison to one side, then to the other. In all her years of teaching ballet and modern dance, in the fifteen years since she'd founded Greta's School of Ballet and Modern Dance, this was by far her best class. And the pride of the class was her own son, Patrick, now six feet tall and good enough to dance professionally. Greta's daughter, Susanne, Patrick's younger sister, was a fine dancer as well, but the competition among the girls was greater than among the few boys and several girls in the class surpassed Susanne in ability.

"Fine," Greta said. "Very good. See you all tomorrow, boys and girls. Class dismissed."

As the dance students left the studio for their respective dressing rooms, Greta couldn't help noticing the way several girls surrounded Patrick, flirting with him and giggling. They all wanted to be his girlfriend, but Patrick had never taken a steady girlfriend. He seemed to prefer being free to take out any girl he wanted to, any time he wanted to. Even Candace Wilson, the prima ballerina and top girl dancer at the school, couldn't get Patrick to commit himself to her. It pleased Greta that Patrick refused to pledge himself to any one girl. She knew that if he did so, she herself would feel jealous, resentful even. He was hers, after all – her son – and she dreaded giving him up.

The girls pressed up against Patrick on all sides, rubbing against him like cats, some of them stroking his back, his ass. They intentionally stepped on his bare feet with theirs. It was a shameless display of female sexual heat, and Greta had to bite her lip to keep from saying something to the sluttish girls.

Leave him alone, she thought. Will you just leave him alone!

Patrick, who was all smiles and red cheeks, appeared to delight in the attention. Much to Greta's dismay, he was, as usual, eating the attention up. Even more disturbing to Greta was the rampant cock-bulge swelling in the boy's tights. She caught herself trying to imagine what her son's cock looked like naked, and she found herself flushing with heat and getting tight and tingly between the thighs.

Patrick had always been prone to getting erections around girls, especially in dance class, and sometimes even up on stage during a performance. These unruly erections both shocked and excited Greta. For years now, she'd been fighting against the desire to finger-fuck her pussy while imagining Patrick naked with a raging hard-on.

"Please girls!" Greta said. "Run along now and get dressed. The snow is coming down outside and the weather's getting worse by the minute. They're forecasting a blizzard. The sooner you all get showered and get home, the better."

As Greta was ushering the dallying girls to their dressing room, Morgan Smith – Greta's husband and the business manager of Greta's School of Ballet and Modern Dance – was viewing them from his locked office, which warn situated between the dance studio and the girls' dressing room. By swiveling in his chair, he could turn from the wall in front of him to the wall behind him. Through the two-way mirrors he had secretly installed in both walls years ago, Morgan could view what was going on in the studio or in the girls' dressing room. By closing sliding doors, which blended perfectly with the wall paneling, he could hide his secret windows whenever he wasn't using them.

Lucky bastard, he thought of his son Patrick. Those nubile young bitches had all but pulled Patrick to the floor on top of their overheated young bodies. The boy had it made. Every fucking girl in the class wanted to lay Patrick, and he was sure the youth took advantage of it – at least he hoped to God the boy took advantage of it.

If he himself had had the opportunity to vent his sexual desires at Patrick's age, he would never have married the first and only girlfriend he'd ever had, Greta. He would have known that a guy didn't have to marry a girl to get into her panties, that there were a lot of unmarried girls out there hot for cock. He'd married Greta because she was the best-looking girl at his college – a Swedish blonde with big tits and an ass curvaceous enough to make a fellow drool all over himself. Greta had been a damned lucky catch – at least, back then. Today, he'd trade her in for a sexually active woman with only half Greta's looks and body.

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.