She seems to be

In the morning, Alison is as cheerful as ever.

“Did you have a good time last night, Mr. P?” When I nod, she smiles at me shyly. “So do you want to continue with the training of that innocent schoolgirl, or do you want to stick to the romance novels you gave me?”

“What do you think, Angel?” It doesn't take long for Alison to come to a decision.

“Well, Mr. P, I've been reading the books ... we can always go back to that poor student some other time, right?” I let out a silent breath of relief. The whole teacher/student thing felt a little creepy. I'm not saying I didn't get off on it, but it feels a little safer to stick to those paperback romances.

The next few days pass relatively normally, the only change in the routine is that Dick does not come over for his usual booty call. I try to explain my satisfaction at this change in routine to the fact that I won't have to listen to her bed banging, but I'm pretty sure that there is more to it than the peace and quiet. On both days Alison disappears to her rooms after dinner instead of watching TV with me and I miss her quiet company. Monday, she comes downstairs for a cup of decaf and a flaky apple pastry at halftime, but on Tuesday evening she is unusually quiet during dinner and her snack sits uneaten by her perch on the couch.

On Wednesday I finally get to the doctor's office, and I return home with a little bag from the pharmacy and a grin on my face. That smile stays on my face all through dinner and even into the evening as I listen to Dr. Fauchi predict that Covid is going to get worse before it will get better.

Later that night I hear a soft thumping sound from upstairs and wonder how Dick got up the outside stairs without me hearing his clunking boots. More time passes and something doesn't seem right. For one thing I don't hear either the loud banging or Dick's grunts of pleasures, for another he's usually done in twenty minutes. Suspicious, I quietly make my way up the steps. Alison's door is open just enough for me to peek in and the source of the rhythmic scraping sound that I couldn't place earlier becomes clear.

In the dimly light, I can see she is face down on her bed and humping her fist with **** need. The steady rocking of her hips is enough to keep her bed scraping against the wall, it is much quieter than when Dick is fucking her but still loud enough to be heard from downstairs. I have to say, the inarticulate grunts and whimpers that escape in gasps from her gaping mouth are much nicer to listen to than Dick's repetitive expletives.

The source of Alison's arousal is not hard to divine. On the floor, discarded some time ago is one of the Harlequins I presented to her. I look carefully but, in the dark, cannot determine which of the three books it is. Thankfully, Alison is well into her masturbatory play with her head pressed into the pillow and eyes shut so she does not see me gawking at her like a pubescent teen.

I step silently back down the stairs. I doubt very much Alison would like to find me peeping at her as she masturbates in that compromising position. Once safely downstairs I slip into my bedroom and fight the urge to jerk one off myself. I could, but I figure the more I can hold back this week, the hotter the sex will be on Saturday.

When Alison appears in the kitchen the next morning, red-eyed and disheveled I pretend not to notice as I butter my toast.

“I thought you had class this morning?” I make the statement into a question.

“Yeah, but uh, it is just a review day,” Alison stammers out, clearly not used to lying, “so I thought I'd sleep in a little.” I guess she couldn't very well say 'well, I was up all-night last night fingering my pussy as I imagined I was a Harlequin heroine.' Instead of teasing her though, I pour her a cup of coffee. We eat together in silence until her cereal is gone and then she smiles up at me shyly.

“I made my choice, Mr. Patterson.” Alison takes a small sip of coffee to build suspense. “You know, from the books you gave me?”

“Oh?” I perk up at this, “Which one?”