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Act VI: No Peeking
“I’m running late,” she tells me when I see her next. “I still need to change.”
She’s wearing workout clothes again — loose sweatshorts, and an abbreviated t-shirt that shows off her chest, as well as her bellybutton when her arm goes up to run a hand through her hair. Her stomach is invitingly toned, as taut as a rope under load. I can see the super-fine blond hairs showing in the light when she moves in profile.
I tell her it’s okay with me, watching as she gathers up her clothes and makes her way to the bathroom to change. God knows I’m in no hurry to get back to the solitude of my shabby apartment.
She returns to the office seconds later though, having found both bathrooms occupied.
“Change in here,” I tease.
“Yeah, I probably should since it’s the only room in the house with a lock,” she says, giving me a look.
But instead of offering to step out, I only smile, checking out the short skirt she carries before telling her to go right ahead, the tables turned.
She’s unfazed though, merely laughing before asking me if I’m serious.
“Why not?” I tell her. “I won’t watch…”
She smiles back at me, taking up the challenge and closing the door.
“You BETTER not,” she says, kicking off her sneakers.
I expect that she’ll face away from me, but instead she just turns to one side, similar to the way I’d done only a week earlier after experiencing some pesky ‘swelling’ issues. The office is situated such that it’s difficult to get away with anything more egregious than scratching oneself without being put at risk of being spotted by someone through a window.
As I pretend to be focusing on my charts, I can’t help but keep one eye on her progress. At first there’s little to be seen. Women can be so damned creative in withholding what it is we men are forever trying to see. And yet all the while remaining enticing somehow. It makes me wonder if isn’t some innate ability.
Her opening move is to pull the skirt on over the sweatshorts. Already I find myself getting aroused as I watch her dress, the slithery rustling sounds getting under my skin. Even though she’s going the complete opposite direction of what I’d like, the act reminds me that she’s swathed in only a few meager layers, clothing that if only she’d consent to remove would reveal the miracle of a real live naked woman.
I can tell that she’s determined to deny me even the slightest of glimpses as she reaches down beneath the skirt to shed the sweatshorts. But the skirt’s too tight, and when she tugs on them, the skirt comes partway down too, revealing the startling reality of her leg muscles and a tanned ass cheek before she hurries to pull it back up into position.
I want to compliment her on the view. But I remember in the nick of time that I’m not supposed to be watching, looking away a mere moment before she spots me.
Even so, she sees something in my face — some flush or deception — and reminds me of our no peeking accord.
“I barely saw anything,” I object. “Do what you need to do girl.”
My interest is peaked anew as she turns her attention to the rest of her attire. She’s eyeing me closely to make sure I don’t cheat. Nevertheless I’m having a difficult time even pretending not to watch as her arms retreat into the sleeves of the t-shirt to contend with her sports bra. She looks for all the world like an escape artist trying to free herself from a straightjacket as she works the thing up over her tits, contorting her body until it ends up ringed around her neck.
Clever, I think, as the arms come back out. When she raises them to pull the bra over her head, I take the opportunity to steal a lingering glimpse, watching as her tits rise up on her chest, all wobbly and unrestrained. I can make out the pokey tips of them pushing out against the fabric.
“I think you left your nipples on,” I joke, despite the fact that all my smart-assery has gotten me nowhere to this point.
“Eyes averted!” she laughs, cupping herself lovingly in both hands and squeezing, tweaking her nipples reflexively before reaching for the workaday white bra sitting on top of her purse. I’m annoyed with myself that it’s somehow escaped my notice.
As she feeds the replacement bra over her left arm, and then in through the armhole, I’m only partially aware of the fact that I’m still working on the same chart I was when she arrived. I try to steal a peek into the dark recesses of the sleeves, hoping to spot a free-roaming nipple, but my shitty luck holds true to form.
While she’s struggling to try and properly seat the bra, the shirt works it’s way upwards, offering up tantalizing vistas of her stomach, but falling short of showing me the undersides of her tits, despite the silent prayers I project heavenward. When she fastens the big white bra in the back, her breasts are thrown forward. But the fabric of the thing mutes the effects of her erect nipples.
By now I’ve given up all pretenses of pretending to work. It’s the moment canlı bahis of truth. Getting the replacement shirt on without treating me to a goodly amount of skin is going to prove more difficult I know, and I hope she doesn’t have anymore garment tricks up her sleeve.
It’s apparent that she too has come to a similar conclusion as she eyes the fresh shirt. I watch as she contemplates how to go about things, weighing the possibilities in her mind. I figure she’ll simply turn her back to me now, and I prepare to content myself with the impending view of her almost-bare back. But instead she just laughs and shrugs, announcing ‘what the heck’ as she peels the shirt off in one fluid movement.
The maneuver catches me by surprise, and I forget entirely that I’m not supposed to be looking. The white bra does an admirable job of supporting her ample tits, but either she’s forgotten, or no longer cares that the cups are made entirely of lace, giving me a birds eye view of her perfect coffee-and-cream-colored, quarter-sized nipples.
When I see them, my penis goes hard beneath the desk so quickly that it’s as if the blood had a direct line from my eyeballs to my groin. I’ve little time to enjoy the view however, as once the new shirt goes on and her modesty reestablished, she immediately opens the office door, as nonchalant as if the incident had never occurred.
As she goes about her business, checking to ensure that the children are all in bed, thankfully my poor stunned penis begins to recover from his shock. He deflates unwillingly over the course of the next hour as I finish up my neglected charts.
All the commotion coming from the office as I get ready to leave gets her attention. Overtly, I watch as she approaches, her hips going back and forth in that skirt, giving my penis a fresh infusion of blood. Sitting down in the seat across from me, she smiles and crosses her legs as she informs me that all of the kids are in bed. She seems pleased by my efficiency, which should make her own night go easier.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, surreptitiously checking out her legs. The tan poles of them extend far back into the shadows of the skirt. When she catches the direction of my gaze, she shifts nervously, re-crossing them. She’s behaving oddly, seemingly waiting for something as I grab my pants and move to head off to the bathroom to change (I dislike riding my motorcycle in shorts, even with the temperatures as they are).
But as I go to pass her, she takes hold of my wrist, stopping me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asks.
“To change,” I tell her, perplexed at being held up.
“Oh no,” she says. “Seems to me you owe me a little show.”
“How do you figure?” I ask.
“You got to watch me change. Now it’s your turn…”
I laugh, understanding now. I’m happy to play along with her little game, though admittedly I feel a little silly as I sit to remove my boots. I’ve never put on anything even remotely resembling a striptease, and don’t have a clue as to where to begin. I figure it’s best to just stick to the basics.
She’s leaning back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest, clearly enjoying my discomfort as I turn my back to her and undo my belt. But when I part the flap of my shorts, my heart skips a beat as I remember that I’ve on white boxer-briefs, rather than the customary and preferred boxers. The realization makes me wish I’d planned my underwear rotation a little better. Though there’s little I could have done. Tomorrow is laundry day, and all of my looser-fitting garments are in the hamper. My cheeks are flushed, and I know I simply need to bite the bullet and get it over with. But as I bend at the waist and lower my pants she clears her throat, making me straighten up.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her over my shoulder.
“You’re not doing it right,” she says. “You’re supposed to be facing me.”
“You weren’t facing me,” I argue, on the verge of panicking. “You didn’t even let me watch.”
“Yes, but you did anyway,” she laughs. “That’s why you need to face me. It’s your punishment.”
It seems I’m stuck, but I suppose turnabout is fair play. Again I look down. There’s no give at all in the briefs. It looks as if they’ve been packed tight with a couple of limes and a solitary kielbasa, as if I’m some sort of exotic produce smuggler.
“Come on,” she says. “Don’t be such a wimp.”
I hate the sound of the word. She’s playing on my pride, and it’s working. I pause to take a deep breath before turning and facing her. When I do, her eyes drop to the bulge at my midsection.
“Very nice,” she tells me, crossing her legs again, making me think I’ve seen her underwear.
“Happy?” I ask, feeling self-conscious despite the compliment.
“Oh yeah.”
I’m still blushing as I hurry to kick the shorts all the way off, hopping on one foot and making my package bounce a time or two as I start to pull the pants on.
“Wait a minute,” she says, causing me to pause momentarily.
“What?” kaçak iddaa I ask her, the pants still low down on my thighs.
She doesn’t say a word. I’m frozen in place as she plants her feet flat on the floor and rolls her chair around the desk, moving in closer until she’s only a foot or so from me. As she crabs the chair nearer to me, I can make out a little upside-down hot pink triangle balanced at the apex of her thighs. She’s smiling again.
“What’s wrong,” I say. “What is it?”
“What’s happening here?” she asks, pointing to my dick.
I look down, but the outline of my penis looks the same as it ever does. A bit swollen granted, but the same. I tell her nothing’s going on, but even as I say it I can feel myself ballooning a little more.
“I’m talking about this,” she says, reaching out with a finger and jabbing me in my thigh, a mere fraction of an inch from the head of my cock. “It looks all wet.”
When I look again, sure enough there’s a translucent spot on my underwear where my dick has oozed forth a half-teaspoon or so of pre-cum.
“It’s nothing,” I say, yanking my pants all the way up and hastening to thread and buckle the belt.
“Liar,” she says to me with a little laugh. She’s holding up the finger she touched me with. I can see that it’s glistening with my genetic material. When she touches it to her thumb and then separates it again, a small string of me shows in the overhead lights before snapping.
I wait for the look of disgust, but instead she brings her finger to her mouth, her tongue darting out to take in the tiny threads. “It doesn’t taste like nothing,” she tells me.
“Oh yeah,” I say, trying to act casual but battling a full-blown erection now. “What’s it taste like then?”
“It tastes like I made you horny.”
I can feel my jaw drop. It’s several seconds before I can reel it back into its proper alignment on my face. She’s looking me dead in the eyes, and finally I have to look away, my dick jumping as if it’s been hit by electricity. When I do she laughs again, making me think she’s intentionally torturing me.
“What about you?” I ask, fighting to regain my composure.
“What about me?”
“No wet spots?”
“No,” she says, but it’s her turn to look away.
“Are you sure?”
She scoots the chair back several feet and before I’m aware of what’s happening, she spreads her legs wide, baring that hot pink bulge before slamming them closed again, her thighs clapping together audibly.
“Oh, like that helps,” I laugh. “I wouldn’t have seen a river.”
She looks back at the door, listening for any unusual sounds, hoping for extrication. But the kids are all asleep, and there’s no help forthcoming. All at once she seems to be breathing harder. Her tits rise and fall, concealed safely beneath both shirt and bra. When I notice them, my own breath speeds up, seemingly in an attempt to sync up to hers.
“Fine,” she says. “You ready?”
When I nod, her legs part again, slower this time, her panties coming into view like a sunrise, every bit as lovely.
She keeps her legs spread as I squint, trying to pull her mound into focus. But I’m unable make out any telltale signs of arousal, despite my best efforts.
“Satisfied?” she asks.
“No. I still can’t tell anything from so far away.”
She sighs in mock exasperation, standing up and coming closer, until she’s mere inches from me. I can smell her perfume. It’s layered on thickly, a command rather than a question. I’m finding it hard to organize my thoughts. I have the urge to lick her neck before she puts her hands on my shoulders, guiding me back and down into my chair. Once I’m seated, she takes the hem of her skirt and lifts it up to her waist. She’s close enough now that I can make out the way her underwear molds itself to the contours of her pussy. The shape of it is so distinct that it makes me wonder if she hasn’t shaved the thing entirely.
“Well?” she says.
“It’s fucking gorgeous,” I tell her.
She laughs and the hem goes down for a second before coming up again. “No, silly. Any wet spots?”
“Oh yeah,” I say, feeling dumb and shaking my head to try and lift the fog of lust that threatens to overpower me. As I lean in to inspect her, I wonder how many years they’ll give me if I bite her hard on the thigh and she screams. If the number’s fewer than ten, I may have to risk it.
I’ve become aware of my penis jabbing against the front of my pants, as if it would nose its way right on through. Damned if I can’t smell her now, the core scent of her coming through the cloud of perfume. Though I can’t readily see anything, I’m far from convinced. My cock has never before so misread a moment.
“It won’t be there,” I say.
“Then where?”
“Lower down,” I tell her. “Climb up on the desk.”
And though she obediently allows me to guide her up onto the desk, I’m sure I have her. She’s trembling as I ease her onto her back, keeping her legs closed up tight.
Once kaçak bahis I have her positioned just so, I lean in over her, locking eyes with her. I’m certain she can feel the heat of me. It comes off of my cock in waves, inches from her leg. “Nervous?” I ask her.
“Of course not.”
“Then spread ’em,” I say, dropping back down in my chair.
She takes a deep breath and then a moment later does so. Again the pink panties come into view, and for a time I can only stare.
“Go ahead,” she tells me, craning her neck to watch. “Take a closer look.”
She sounds far away. The thump of my heart beating in my head and in my lap muffles her.
Taking hold of her legs, I spread her open even further, taking my time and feeling the hard muscles of her thighs, pleased by her flexibility. As I bring my face in closer, she reaches down to adjust her underwear, trying to ensure I’m not seeing anything I haven’t clearance to see. She isn’t quick enough though, and I can make out the edge of a cleanly-shaven lip before she adjusts her panties, secreting the lip away.
I’ve started to sweat — the room suddenly hot, as if her pussy is some super-efficient furnace, capable of heating the entire office. My penis prods me ever on though, and I get in even closer, so close that she can feel my breath against the insides of her thighs, making then quiver. And then closer still, until my nose is only an inch or so from where her stiffening clit pushes against the pink fabric in an enchanting little panty ridge. I want more of that scent. It draws me in, making my nostrils flare, beckoning me like steam coming from some secret fissure deep in the Earth.
I’m disappointed to see that her underwear appears to be dry. Clearly Ms. Tease has just been getting her jollies torturing me. I’m on the verge of admitting defeat — letting her thighs come back together like the covers of a book — when I see it: a single droplet of moisture blossoming against the fabric of her panties, turning it a slightly darker shade of pink, making my breath catch in my throat.
Straightaway she perceives that some change has occurred, and she hastens to sit up. But I still have hold of her thighs, and she only makes it halfway. Resting on her forearms, she gazes down at me.
“Now are you satisfied?” she asks, her face flushed.
“Hold on a second,” I tell her, placing my hand on the center of her chest and easing her back down again, feeling the warm sideswells of her tits. My eyes go back to her crotch, and as I watch a second drop appears, wicked away from her body by her underwear, the wet spot slowly expanding.
“What?” she asks, sounding nervous for the first time.
“Don’t move,” I tell her, taking my index finger and pressing her panties against where the drops and my limited experience tell me her hole must be. At once the wet spot grows, spreading out from the midpoint and coating my finger with her juices. She makes a small sound of pleasure and jumps when I make contact.
“Ah hah,” I say triumphantly, moving the finger around in small circles, pushing the fabric into her body with it ever-so-slightly before taking it back and holding it up in front of her to inspect.
“Okay, okay. You got me,” she says, getting quickly to her feet and straightening the skirt. Her nipples are visible again, straining hard against both bra and shirt. I wait until I catch her eye, and then lick the wet from my finger.
“Yum,” I say to her. “It tastes like I made you horny.”
She ignores me. Just as quickly as she’d lost it, she’s regained her composure. I stand completely still as she comes closer, close enough so that our hips touch. I’m certain she can feel the hardness of me. My hips go forward slightly, nudging her, seemingly of their own accord, my dick nestled high up against her stomach.
“What are you going to do with that?” she asks me, bumping her crotch back at mine several times to clarify the object of the pronoun.
“I imagine my penis and I will be spending some quality time together when I get home.”
She laughs when I say it, clearly pleased to have put me in such an urgent state of arousal.
____________________________
I’m antsy all the way home. I can’t get the image of her nipples and that swath of wet fabric out of my head, the feel of her pussy clutching at the very tip of my finger through her panties. Once through the door, I drop my pants and examine the stain on my underwear, seeing again what she’d seen. I can’t help but stroke myself through the boxer-briefs, the way I’d wanted to do in front of her, bringing myself quickly back to full erection. The thought of all that moisture squishing around in her panties — the pulpy mess — has me pacing around my apartment until I can’t take it any longer.
Grabbing the bottle of lube (thinking fleetingly that I should probably consider buying stock in AstroGlide), I lie back on my bed, shedding the boxers and immediately settling into a slow, tight-fisted cadence. I work the lube into the shaft of me as I think of running my tongue over that smooth lip of hers and down into the pouch of her underwear, getting her juices all over my face, staying down there until I look as if I’ve just taken first place in a watermelon eating contest.
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