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Ms. Tease Act 01

By: ChumleyJinks



Act I: Boundary Issues

Author's Note: This is a work of non-fiction. Any resemblance to fictional characters or locales is unintended and purely coincidental.

___________________________

The flirting has been going on for months now, building up, simmering with each week that passes, like a stew that is left to slowly develop character. Up until recently however, it's been mostly of the harmless variety. After all, she's freshly divorced and a coworker of mine, and I've been in a hit-or-miss (mostly miss) relationship with a certain young lady of my own.

I can't pinpoint how it all began. Was it the glimpse of the white bulge of her panties beneath her skirt that I lucked into as she climbed off the bench after a staff meeting? Or was it the way that she casually brushed lint and pet hair off her shirt, making her breasts tremble while simultaneously holding a conversation with me? Perhaps it was the time that she came up behind me and tugged on the waistband of my underwear, putting pressure on my testicles as she complimented me on my taste in boxers.

I can't be certain, but my guess is that it's a combination of all these things and more. There's no question though that something has changed, some switch thrown. Now when we pass each other in the close quarters of the office, our bodies come into unneeded contact, sliding up against one another, maddeningly close. It's become increasingly difficult to ignore the fact that we're shielded by only the thinnest of layers as we steady ourselves with a hand on the hip, feeling the promissory friction that may not be a promise at all, personal space suddenly at a premium.

Sometimes I think she's been laying down a careful foundation of mental pictures designed to keep me tossing and turning until finally I can take no more, breaking down and abusing myself in the most fundamental of ways so I can finally get to sleep. It's gotten to the point where just the mere anticipation of seeing her gets all of my blood flowing downhill.

"I don't know if it would be considered crossing boundaries or something, but I wanted to show you this," she tells me one night when we're on shift together.

We work at a shelter for children, a place for the luckless orphans of the world -- kids whose parents have forsaken them for drugs, and hatred, and abusive relationships. It's nearly eleven pm and she's on to work the overnight shift, to keep watch over their troubled slumberings. As usual I'm running late, hurrying to finish charting on the myriad temper tantrums and catfights so I can go home. But the unusual boundaries comment grabs my attention, and I can't help but surreptitiously inspect the tight semicircle of her ass as she turns to one side to root through her purse.

"Here," she tells me, brandishing a glossy catalogue of some sort.

The cover depicts a woman taking a bubble bath, candles burning on the rim of the tub, her head thrown back in contemplation, or perhaps contentment. The flowery script up at the top reads 'Pleasures', or 'Passions', or some such thing. Clearly the catalog is geared towards women, and it makes me wonder why she's showing it to me.

When I open it, I'm inundated by a bevy of elaborate adult toys and novelties. It's an unexpected surprise, and I feel blessed in the same way I did as a teenager when stumbling across someone's secret stash of porn in the woods near my parents' home -- some other horny teenager's cache of jerkoff material. I still recall the sense of anticipation I'd felt carefully separating the pages of some ancient Penthouse, bloated by the rains and delicate as tissue paper, but still decipherable, exactly what the doctor ordered. All these years later and I still look back with fondness on those anonymous ladies who'd graciously, if unknowingly, consented to shepherd me through my formative years -- the feathered hair and furry muffs they favored back in the eighties, back before stroke books became the overlit and airbrushed gynecological manuals they are today.

I raise one eyebrow when I realize what it is, but she only smiles at me, a slight blush coming prettily into her cheeks.

The catalogue is essentially a showcase for vibrators in all different sizes and colors. There are page after page of the things. I'd never known there were so many varieties of dildos in all the world, many of them in frankly emasculating proportions. I take my time flipping through them, marveling at all the bells and whistles required to coax forth the elusive female orgasm.

"You know, you really don't need these things. Women can have sex whenever they want," I say, annoyed by the inherent irony, an irony that is particularly galling in light of how long it's been since I've gotten laid. It's as if women had no idea they were controlling all of the fucking in the first place.

"True, but sometimes they don't want to go through all the hassle."

There's some validity to that I think, as I return my attention to the catalog. I'm reminded of the time the four year-old daughter of a woman I was dating emerged in the middle of a dinner party with her mother's shiny white toy, tickled pink by her discovery if you'll forgive the expression, causing not a little embarrassment for all parties involved, most notably me.

Even so, I can't help but admire the designs of the things. Some of them are partially disguised as animals, some as shower attachments and neck massagers. Most of the higher-end jobbies have little tongues engineered to stimulate the most intimate of nerve endings, vibrating rubber nubs cozying up to clits, humming against them so many thousand times per second. Still others employ a parallel protuberance contrived to probe and ponder less-frequently treaded territory, making me think of twin-necked guitars. These later ones make me blush and look away. I can feel some commotion going on down inside my underwear, a stirring that is decidedly unwelcome at work.

I ask her what the occasion is, why she's showing me this. She says a friend of hers gave her the catalogue, having recently signed on to host parties for a concern that dealt primarily in dildos and trashy lingerie. The friend in question hosted get-togethers in her home wherein she would sell the toys to friends and family alike in exchange for product -- the 21st century equivalent of the Tupperware party -- earning credit towards her own naughty stash of playthings with each butt plug and pair of edible panties sold.

It's an intriguing premise, if only as a business model, and I wonder aloud what kind of vibrator arsenal the mysterious friend must be sitting on.

"No pun intended," she says, making us both laugh.

"It's fascinating," I tell her in all honesty. "But that's not really the part I require."

"Here," she says. I can feel her tits against my upper arm as she leans in and finds the page she's looking for.

Sandwiched in the middle of all those dildos is a smattering of other offerings: imported nighties made from latex and from lace, high-viscosity lotions, and even a small selection of products designed exclusively for men. I peruse the items on the solitary page, relieved that I'm not in the market for a vibrator, feeling overwhelmed until she thoughtfully points out a masturbation sleeve that she says comes highly recommended.

Truthfully, the 'Gigi' doesn't look like anything special. It comes across as too low-tech amongst all those supercharged vibrators, no place seemingly for batteries or vacuum attachments. From the little blurb, I deduce that it's some sort of synthetic vagina, allegedly modeled after some faceless, but lovely-crotched woman.

"I can't look at this," I tell her once I finish reading the description of the gripping and slipping potential of the thing. "It's giving me an erection..."

I'm horrified to have let it slip. But she only laughs, clearly amused to see me so flustered.

I hand the catalog back, but as I get ready to leave, the name continues to bounce around in my head. Gigi...gigi, I think. Where have I heard that name before?

"Oh," I laugh, the name finally ringing some long un-rung bell. "I know why that sounds so familiar. It's like a glorified fifi."

"What's a fifi?" she asks me, flipping casually through the catalog herself now.

"It's something prisoners make using rubber gloves and towels," I tell her, wondering if the comment makes me sound mysterious and dangerous, struggling to covertly make out which toy has her attention all the while.

I try to explain the fundamental construction of the thing, but she can't picture it, and so I take a hand towel and one of the latex gloves we use when a kid gets a cut and needs bandaging. As she watches, I lay the glove on top of the towel with the wrist part hanging off the square of cloth and then roll the glove up inside. She appears fascinated as I fold the wrist back down over the rolled up tube of fabric.

"Here," I say, presenting her with the fifi.

She sticks a finger partway into the latex orifice and frowns. "Ouch," she says.

"Hold on," I tell her, taking a bottle of shampoo and dropping a dollop of the stuff into the glove, allowing gravity to do its thing. "Try it now."

She still looks doubtful, but gamely gives it another go. I can't pull my eyes away as she works the finger in and out once more before giving a shrug.

"No," she says, handing it back to me.

"No good?" I ask, wanting her to keep going. I'm certain the disappointment shows on my face as I imagine her taking her other hand and snaking it down beneath the waistband of her skirt and into the pouch of her panties, silently comparing heat, moisture, and texture, doing a thorough job.

"No," she says dismissively, snapping me from my reverie. For a moment it had seemed so real that I could imagine her wiping the juice from her fingers on her leg. "Not even close."

"It beats nothing I guess," I say, feeling oddly protective of this ingenuity that I've had no hand in, this latex ray of hope in so many bleak, institutionalized lives.

The conversation isn't helping my erection problem though, and I'm grateful for the protection of the desk which shields the lump in my pants from her view.

"I guess, but everyone I talk to says the Gigi is the best," she tells me, flipping back to the page in question. "I've felt it. It feels like one of those toy tubes that rolls over itself and slips out of your hand. You know the kind I mean? One of those stress toys?"

"I have one of those. I may have to try it out when I get home thanks to you," I say to her with a laugh, gripping myself obviously through my britches down beneath the desk and making her giggle.

"Ohh, I'm sorry," she says, pouting a little, as if genuinely concerned with my penile welfare. It's cruel of her to arouse me so. She knows I've been having little luck with the ladies lately.

"Maybe when I host my first party and the orders come rolling in I'll buy you one," she adds.

I'm caught off-guard to hear that she too has decided to join in on the pyramidal fun. Frankly, I'd never have pegged her for an orgasm peddler. On my way out I offer up the token, half-hearted refusal, telling her it isn't necessary, hoping to hell she'll come through just the same.

____________________________

Once home I try to put the conversation out of my head. It's the end of my workweek, and I have plans to meet some friends for cocktails. But my penis is having no part of it. He pushes out insistently at the front of my pants, like some sort of pussy divining rod.

"What do you want?" I ask him looking down, knowing the answer already.

He admits to nothing. Like most penises, he's more the strong silent type.

"Can't you wait for a couple of hours?" I ask, negotiating for time.

Again he doesn't answer, and so I pick up the phone, calling to cancel my plans using the obligatory 'something's come up' excuse before finally calling her. My heart pounds as I dial the house number, and I stroke myself absentmindedly while I wait for her to pick up.

"Hey," she says. "You all right?"

"Oh yeah," I tell her. "Listen, I don't suppose that friend of yours would special delivery me one of those gigis in the next twenty minutes or so?"

She laughs. "No, I don't think so."

"Damn," I say. "Well...I guess I'll have to take care of things the old-fashioned way then."

"Good luck," she tells me, the conversation gone suddenly awkward, neither of us sure as how to proceed.

I thank her anyway and hang up feeling stupid and frustrated. My dick is ridiculously hard, and when I pull my pants down, it sticks straight out. I know I'll need to appease the little fucker soon if I'm going to get anything else accomplished.

Resigning myself to the inevitable, I sigh and move to grab the bottle of 'personal lubricant' from the closet. I'd had to buy the stuff exclusively to deal with all the sexual frustration she's been bringing me over the last couple of months, the remnants of her perfume, and the feel of her skin brushing against mine clouding my head even many hours later.

'Apply a generous amount to the genitals,' read the instructions on the side. And though I cringe when I remember making the purchase -- standing red-faced and embarrassed as the pretty young cashier rang it up, knowing she too would have read the directions and no way in hell to pretend it would be used otherwise -- I'm grateful for it now as I kick the pants and boxers off, laying back on my bed.

Working carefully, I apply the prescribed amount onto the tip of me, letting it run down before taking hold. I call back up the image of her with her hand down in her panties, and almost immediately I've settled into a slow, steady, tight-fisted rhythm. I think again of her tits crushed up against my shoulder as my penis begins to leak, the pre-cum overflowing the head. It combines with the lube, and I work the concoction into the entire shaft, knowing that in the state I'm in it won't take long.

It doesn't.

I come hard while still thinking of her tits, how soft they'd feel in my hands, the warmth and smell of them, the way they might hang down over my face, the nipples elongating to brush up against my lips for a moment before I take them into my mouth and begin to suckle.

Ms. Tease Act 02



Act II: The Toy

"How's the night going?" she asks me, putting something of a sashay into her walk when she comes into the office -- an extra movement of the hips. She reminds me of a schoolgirl, pleased at having returned from some fresh mischief.

"It's okay," I tell her, wondering what she's up to.

"It's about to get even better," she says, smiling as she drops a non-descript brown paper bag on the desk. And though I know what it is, it seems somehow more significant lurking down at the bottom of that crinkly paper bag.

She's been threatening to bring me the toy for several weeks now, and I wish I could rip into the bag like a kid on Christmas. But my new trainee is still on shift with me, wrapping up his portion of the day's paperwork. And though I'd wager he gives a fine blowjob (and certainly don't begrudge him the action), I can tell already that discretion is not one of his stronger suits.

And so I ignore the bag for now, working on my own allotment of charts as I let the new guy try his hand at filling her in on the day's important happenings. The trainee's a gabby fellow, embodying every gay stereotype in the book. I wish he'd just give her the Reader's Digest condensed version and get the fuck out. I look forward to the thirty minutes or so I get with her alone on Thursdays and -- unfairly or otherwise -- I resent him for horning in on it.

She on the other hand appears perfectly at ease, smiling and nodding in all the right spots as he prattles on. I can't tell if she's just a better actor than I, or if she really isn't the slightest bit offended by his continued presence. All the while the bag just sits there on the desk, giving no clue as to its contents. It could just as easily contain one of the candles she also sells on the side rather than a 'top-selling masturbation sleeve' that is 'extremely stretchy to pleasure men of all sizes, and lined with ribbing for extra pleasure...completely reversible for cleaning'.

Mercifully my new coworker finally wraps up his monologue and makes his exit. Once he's gone, I try to play it cool. Though this is all new to me, I decide that it's never wise to look too eager in these situations. I pretend to be focusing on the last of my charts, but when I look up she's there in front of me again -- head cocked and arms akimbo. She's positioned herself in front of the desk, gazing down at me over the generous slope of her chest. The mischievous look is back on her face as she takes up the bag, shaking it a time or two before presenting it to me.

The bag's heavier than I'd anticipated, weighty with the promise of sexual gratification. I can feel myself blushing as I open the mouth of it, peering down into the shadows.

Down inside the bag, the sleeve's pink. Given what it's meant to replicate, the color seems to me a more sensible choice than the glow-in-the-dark model they also stock. The gigi sits in one corner, not unlike a new pet just home from the store, bewildered by the move and a more than a little bit frightened.

"Pussy," I quip as I reach in to pull it out. "The gift that keeps on giving."

My new toy is approximately five inches long, tubular, and as thick around as a good-sized cucumber. When I remove the protective plastic, the material feels firm and yet yielding all at the same time -- like a nicely formed tit. I wouldn't care to venture a guess as to what the material is called, but I imagine its molecular structure is first cousin to the gross-out substances like 'Gak' that one sees advertised on Nickelodeon to the delight of little boys everywhere.

There's a small hole in one end of the thing the diameter of a pencil. I infer that it's there to provide pressure relief, but I'm far more interested in the business end. The little ersatz slit is perfectly shaped, the type rarely encountered in real life. I wonder briefly if it's actually been modeled after a real live woman. If so, she's never had a child. And likely not a penis either.

Feeling bold all of a sudden, I make a show of trying to get a finger inside. Gigi's too tight though. The material sticks and grabs at me -- making me think of a chubby surfer struggling to pack himself into a wetsuit -- until she reaches into the bag, pulling out a small sample bottle of lubricant that I've overlooked. My hand is shaking noticeably as I apply a drop or two to the little lips and try the finger again. This time it catches momentarily at the nail and then goes right in, and I feel the wet slippery suction of the thing for the first time.

"Oh my," I say, finger-fucking it a few times, my penis thickening and elongating in my lap as I catch her eye.

"So, how's it feel?" she asks me.

"It feels pretty damned good," I tell her truthfully, withdrawing the digit and holding the Gigi with the pretty little lips facing her now. It feels delightfully obscene to be pointing the thing at her like that. "Here."

I know she's inspected her wares before, and I expect that she'll pass on the offer. But she surprises me, sticking her middle finger in deep, making me wonder if it's the same finger she uses on herself in her more private moments.

"Well?" I ask.

"It's definitely better than your fifi," she shrugs, as if she could take it or leave it. "Do I need to give you the standard demonstration so you'll know what to do?"

"Yes please," I answer at once, trying not to get my hopes up.

She's smiling again as she stands. But it's a less-confident one than she wore earlier as she leaves the office, returning a moment later with a firm, nicely curved banana.

Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she starts in on the approved product pitch, standing up tall like she's been taught, causing her chest to be thrown forward. I'm all ears and eyes as I watch her take the piece of fruit low down at the stem end, placing it without preliminaries between Gigi's stretchy little lips. At first the banana resists the unnatural coupling, hanging up at the opening, making her back off a little, picking up more lube at the entrance before driving it firmly home.

Holy shit, I think.

Once it's in, she runs the banana back and forth several times, twisting her wrist to make sure the entirety of the thing is nice and wet before pushing it to the hilt, the tip of the banana emerging from out the little hole in the other end.

"Oh yeah, faster baby," I wisecrack, making her blush and withdraw the banana prematurely before gathering herself once more.

"Well, that's the idea. When you're um...finishing, you just pull back inside the hole and it's like she's swallowing. That way there's less mess," she tells me, wrapping up her spiel, watching as I nod in understanding. It's obviously a trade secret, a tip for those of us in the know. I feel honored to be let in the club, like I'm some sort of Sex Mason.

It's a fine demonstration, and I'm sad to see it come to an end. Clearly she knows her way around fruit, but just the same I can't help but think that a better saleswoman would have taken full advantage of the props that presented themselves. It's plain that a more effective presentation strategy would have involved unbuttoning my pants and digging my hard cock out, baptizing it liberally in lube and then slowly working the toy over the length of me while holding on by the root. As she leaves to go dispose of the banana and wash her hands, I imagine her jerking me off hard and fast with the thing, working her arm until I throw my head back and erupt like a geyser, viscous white drops raining down on her hand.

When she returns I catch her eye again, bouncing the Gigi a time or two in the palm of my hand.

"I'll think of you whenever I use it," I deadpan, making her redden before I relent, standing and facing away from her, concerned that she'll spot my erection.

"I guess we both know what I'll be doing tonight," I continue. I want her to picture it, to know how worked up she's gotten me.

She laughs and then throws out a disclaimer. "My ex says they don't work."

"I'll let you know," I tell her.

____________________________

Once safely home and undressed, I grab a beer from out of the refrigerator and toss the sleeve gently on the coffee table. I'm anxious to try it out, but without the possibility of her there to watch, the prospect has become decidedly less urgent. As usual, I realize belatedly that I've played it all wrong. I curse myself, knowing that a more clever man would have asked her to help make sure the Gigi's a good fit, maybe even to oversee the inaugural attempt to ensure that he'd gotten the basic principle down. Nothing sordid or unseemly of course, merely in her official capacity as product demonstrator.

Annoyed by my incompetence, I take up my phone and text her, ostensibly to be considerate, but also because she's whetted my appetite and I want more.

"Oh yeah," I punch in. "There's a plate of fish for you in the refrigerator if you haven't found it yet."

She sends back a simple thank you. The response is noncommittal at best. Even so, I'm not quite ready to leave well enough alone.

"I think you've pretty much guaranteed yourself a plate every day for the next year or so," I press on, taking another swallow of my beer. I've downed half of it by the time that the phone beeps back at me in indication of a new message.

"Oh yeah? So does it work or am I asking too soon?"

Thank you thank you thank you, I think to myself, finishing off the beer in a flourish before messaging her back.

"Too soon. Trying to take it slow. Play it smooth, you know? Just having a couple of drinks and getting to know one another. Think I've got a pretty good shot though," I reply, pleased to know that my cleverness hasn't deserted me entirely.

"Lol. Yeah, you're right," it comes back. "Can't rush that kinda stuff ;-)"

"Slow and steady wins the race. Will definitely keep you updated as the night progresses though..."

I know when I hit send that we've reached a critical juncture. I'm hoping she won't cut me off me here, leave me to navigate the wide world of sex toys and advanced masturbation alone. I pace back and forth in the apartment, grabbing a second beer and taking a big swallow as I await her reply, jumping a little when the phone finally beeps.

"Haha.....okay."

I say a quick prayer of thanks as I settle in on the couch, reaching down to lightly pet myself through my boxers, drawing envious looks from the cat. The contact serves to make my dick swell with blood. I keep at it until the head creeps down the leg of the shorts and rests hotly up against my leg.

Carefully I unwrap the gigi and lay it back down on its wrapper, worried the stickyish material will pick up dust and little hairs. I poke at it a time or two to feel the way it springs back at me, imagining how it will feel enveloping me, slip-sliding up and down over my penis. Again I run the tip of a finger inside, picking up some residual moisture. My thumb sweeps up over the little clit, and I can't help but imagine it's her as I rub myself with my other hand all the while.

I'm so keyed up already that I know I could start and be done inside of fifteen minutes, even should I run into any unforeseen difficulties with the gigi. But I'm enjoying this prolonged sexual tension, and so I release myself and go to shower.

My dick flops heavily from out of my boxers as I undress. As usual, our timetables are not in complete and total agreement. I give him a stroke or two in reassurance and then run my hand down over my testicles, feeling some slight stubble and deciding to shave.

The thing grows even harder as I'm applying the shaving cream. He bobs in the air, getting in the way and generally making a nuisance of himself as I lather up my balls and take up the razor. It's a delicate job, and I'm careful as a surgeon as I stretch the skin of my scrotum this way and that in order to present a flat surface for the razor. All this friction does not escape the attention of my penis. The head is a vibrant pinkish-red now, and he's angling upward like a cannon preparing to attack some far-off but ever-advancing enemy.

Still I ignore him though, running my hand over the silky skin of my balls to feel for any missed hairs, enjoying the smooth feel of them before hopping in the shower.

By the time I'm done, my penis has finally reverted to its everyday proportions. Toweled off and garbed in clean boxers, my eyes return to the phone. I grab another beer from the fridge before dashing off another message.

"Update: things going great. Amazing really how much we have in common..."

"Lol! You're so silly...keep up the good work :-')"

Before I can respond, another text hits the inbox.

"By the way, the food was delicious. You're the best!"

The texts come so quickly that it's as if she's been waiting by her phone for my return. I know it's only the beer and my imagination, but nevertheless the idea has my needy friend stirring down inside the boxers once more.

"Oh no, you're the best. I'm glad you enjoyed it though. More to come," I type, proud of the double entendre.

"K," comes the reply.

Dropping the phone, I throw on the television and stick in a movie I've been meaning to see. As it plays I keep glancing over at Gigi, and every time I do she's still there. My cock has quietly found its way out of the fly in my boxers, peeking out, as if he too would like a look. An hour deep into the movie and the beers are still going down easy, but I realize that I've no clue as to what I've been watching.

Clearly the time has come; the beer buzz has me tingling and I can no longer focus on anything but the dull ache way down in my testicles.

"Okay. Think I'm about to make my move. What do you suggest?" I text, half-thinking she'll ignore me, feign that she's neck-deep in work.

"Be gentle and use lots of gel," she messages back immediately, and then: "Oh yeah, hold on tight but not too tight ;-)"

Fuck me! I think, closing the phone and then opening it again and checking the messages to make sure I haven't imagined them. I haven't; she's actually giving me practical advice on how to masturbate. The knowledge has me throbbing.

"Sound advice, no question there. Little nervous though. I may need another demonstration," I type, hoping that she'll invite me back for the hands-on version.

It's several minutes before her reply comes back, long enough for my dick to begin to despair.

"Haha very funny. I got kind of embarrassed. That's why I did it so fast."

I type as quickly as the little keypad allows. "I wasn't criticizing you. Fast can be fun. I'd say you did wonderfully. I'd buy any toy you were selling."

"Lol. I'll have to remember that. Gook luck."

When I look at the clock, it's already one a.m., and I'm worried she's trying to end the conversation prematurely. I'm stroking myself automatically through my shorts, my cock calling the shots now.

"Speaking of which," I type, apropos of nothing, but growing desperate, "I never asked you how you liked YOUR toy. Well worth the party I hope?"

It's the best I can come up with. I want her to confide to me how they'd all stripped down to their bras and panties, a group of seven or eight randy housewives jokingly pressing vibrating gizmos and plastic phalluses up against their crotches, secret moisture seeping into triangular panels of fabric one drop at a time -- the primal sap of them, seven or eight slight variations on the same theme of smell and taste. I want to be there as the frozen drinks pile up and they become more brazen, to watch as they slip giant dildos around the legband of their panties and up inside ever so slightly before shaking their heads and telling each other "wow", trying to laugh it off but breathing out through clenched teeth all the while.

I'm stroking myself frankly now, moving seamlessly from mere teasing to outright masturbation. My penis is fully extended in anticipation, and I know there'll be no turning back this time as the phone lights up again.

"Yeah, it's cool. The party was a blast. Lots of laughs and worth it. Yep yep..."

Lots of laughs? What the hell? The comment throws me a moment. I want to hear how they modeled sheer nighties. I want her to tell me in strict confidence how two of the more adventurous ladies lay crotch-to-crotch on the carpet, the push-pull movements they made as the two-headed dildo moved between them, connecting their bodies for one never-to-be-repeated moment in time. Better yet, I want to hear her describe her own toy in all it's emasculating glory, the flickery proboscis that feathers up against her clit in all the right places, lashing at the little bundle of nerve endings, getting her juices flowing until the droplets roll down her ass cheeks and glisten wetly on her thigh...

Instead I get: it's cool.

"Cool? That's it? Dang," I type, and then put the phone down in my frustration without hitting send, grabbing another beer from out of the fridge.

When I glance over, Gigi's still waiting patiently for me on the table. Feeling a twinge of guilt for neglecting her, I take the sleeve up, bringing it up to my face. The smell of the thing assaults my nose and tongue all at once. It seems to be made out of some sort of petroleum product. Again I examine how the little lips come together at the top in perfect symmetry. Labia minora my mind hisses at me, simultaneously activating my saliva glands. Before I've a chance to think too much about what I'm about to do, my tongue darts out and in between the little folds.

But she tastes like rubber, and I feel cheated like the time I ordered a shot called 'Tastes Like Pussy', having convinced myself against all logic and reason that maybe, just maybe.

It takes several long swallows of the beer to get the oily rubber taste out of my mouth. Once I've cleansed my palate, I place Gigi back on her protective plastic and take up the phone again. I know that it's a dead end, but my penis is adamant that we try another tract and so I add: "Things moving along nicely. Although I have to say she doesn't score very well on the taste test, which is VERY VERY VERY important."

I hit send. I'm trying to shock her now, make her experience what I'm feeling, haul her bodily into the place I'm at.

"Uuuggghhh. Lol," she messages me back a minute later.

And then: "Important yes, but please tell me you didn't."

"VERY VERY VERY important," I reiterate. I want her to know how much I love to eat pussy, how I'd ram my tongue deep inside her body if given half a chance. "My favorite part if truth be told. And yeah, I'm afraid so. Couldn't resist. Looked like it might taste pretty good."

"Really?" she messages back. "You must be a stud with the ladies. You must be undercover?"

It's what I want to hear. I can tell the seed has been planted, the idea of what my tongue might do dancing over her folds. I wonder if she's wet, if she's squirming where she sits. I reach down and stoke myself harder, pulling my dick and balls free of the boxers entirely. I know she's thinking about how my tongue might feel running up and over her burning hot clit, the strong muscle lapping at her juice, burrowing and snaking into all of her secret nooks and crannies, making her ass jump high off the seat.

"Really. Have tongue, will travel. Too undercover it sounds like," I type, all but offering her my services as I kick off my boxers and jack myself in full strokes.

"Hahaha. Nice! Well what's up with you and Ms. Gigi?" she texts, clearly having picked up on the invite but steering the conversation into safer waters, unwilling -- at least for now anyway -- to commit herself fully to such a heightened act of debauchery.

"Nice is right. Wasn't trying to be a tease," I respond, referring to both her and to poor neglected Gigi. "Think it's time she made my acquaintance."

"Okay, have a great night," it comes back, making me curse as I move operations to my bedroom. Lying down, I take up both sleeve and lube, using the later to baste Ms. Gigi with a generous amount of the stuff. It's a messy procedure, and I want to apologize in advance for the liberties I'm about to take. Drops of lube fall down from the pressure hole. I catch them in my hand, working them into my cock, making the head swell hot and full as I place it at the entrance.




Ms. Tease Act 02



But the inexperience of Gigi shows. She resists when I start to push, the little lips folding in on themselves and clinging to the tip of me, until I pull out and dot my shaft with several more drops of lube.

This time when I push my dick goes right in, her virginity taken in one cruel thrust. The stretchy sheath grips back at me, milking my cock as I work the thing around in a full circle -- 360 degrees of friction -- until the insides of her are coated in lube. At times I pull out, and then push in again until the sleeve bunches slightly and the head of my cock emerges from out the other end. I'm amazed by how good it feels and I keep my hips still as I jerk myself off in a steady motion with the thing, enjoying the squishy sounds it makes as I work.

But before long she starts to dry up. I chalk it up to nerves, pulling halfway out and dropping several more drops of lube into the pencil hole. It's an inconvenience, and it makes me wish I had one of those old fashioned Tin Man-style oilcans filled with AstroGlide to help ease matters along.

I wonder if she knows what a filthy toy she's gotten for me, and can't resist wiping a hand on the comforter and sending out another text into the ether, working the gigi with my other hand all the while.

"I'm working on having a good night as we speak. Can I put an order in for some more of this lotion now?"

"Yep. Wow! Take it easy soldier."

I hadn't really expected a response, and when I read it, it makes me stroke all the faster. "Tell that to Gigi," I type. "She doesn't get quite as wet as I'm accustomed to. Despite my talented undercover tongue..."

"Lol."

She's dropped off the radar again just when I need her the most. I want her to ask me to describe it, this wondrous slippy-sliding grip, the sounds Gigi makes moving over the length of me. Still it feels good to think of her imagining me working myself over, as if her knowledge of the act makes her a part of it, complicit in my building orgasm in some oblique fashion.

As I continue to stroke, all at once it begins to feel even better as Gigi and I catch a workable rhythm, both of us racing towards a common goal. Drops of seminal fluid overflow the head of me, spilling over at regular intervals. When my dick emerges out the little hole, the pearl-white drops mix with the lube, forming a perfect little ring that avalanches down the head, catching beneath the ridge when I pull back. It's a clear sign, and I know it won't be long.

"Oh my, it works," I pause to type in a last-ditch effort, feeling wicked for including her, but stroking hard and fast just the same. I'm desperate to hear her tell me to come for her.

"Yea!"

"Not quite yea," I type, knowing she's misunderstood, but immensely happy that she would cheer on my orgasm. "Any minute now though."

"Well I'll let you go. Enjoy."

She's done, but in my state I no longer mind. There are tingling sensations running all through the shaft of my dick and down to my balls. I drop the phone and reach down to rub them, working in the spillover cum-lube concoction until they glisten and draw up tight to my body. As I near my peak, more and more of me emerges from out the little hole, stretching it. I squeeze harder, the little dick slit of me open, pre-cum still seeping steadily from the tip.

Faster I stroke. And then faster still until I begin to groan, and then yell as I begin to ejaculate. I crane my neck to watch as the first semen salvo explodes from my body and hits me in the upper lip. The second blast strikes the right lens of my glasses, and another whizzes past my face and stains the pillowcase. I struggle to readjust my aim as the rest of my load emerges from me in ever-weakening eruptions. They slap wetly against my chest, and then my belly before finally slowing and stopping.

When I can breathe again, I look down. The head of my cock is pulsating visibly outside the sleeve, and I'm practically drenched in semen.

Though drained and exhausted, I'm happy as I wipe my hand elaborately on my thigh, taking up the phone one last time.

"For the record: wow, it works. What a mess though," I type.



Ms. Tease Act 03



Act III: Showering

It's unusual for her to show up early on a Thursday, but I can hear the low rumble of her faux hotrod coming up the gravel drive. She's generally punctual, but not compulsively so. When she comes into the office, she's still dressed in her workout clothes -- blue vinyl warm-ups that cover the vast majority of her skin. I prefer when she shows up in her customary tight blouses and the sexy-but-not-slutty skirts, sauntering in after an abbreviated night out on the town to work the third shift, concerns for comfort supplanted by concerns for allure.

At least she could have had the decency to leave the warm-ups in the car I think to myself, knowing that underneath more clingy, Spandextrous fabric rules the day. The thought makes me curse my luck as of late, and I press my legs together unconsciously so that my thighs put pressure on my cock. I'm barely able to say hello before the phone rings, sidetracking me from all my self-pity. It's our boss; he wants me to help him brainstorm in order to fill in the gaps on staffs' electronic time cards.

As we talk, she pulls out a change of clothes. It distracts me momentarily, but the more intimate garments -- the feminine lace and hoists -- are swaddled safely inside more impersonal attire. When she mouths that she's going to take a quick shower, gesturing down the hall from the office, I lose my train of thought entirely. The shower thing explains why she's early.

I cover the mouthpiece and tell her to let me know if she needs any help washing her back. Or even her front for that matter. I laugh when I say it, but the joke falls flat and awkward between us, both of us knowing that I couldn't possibly be more serious. Mercifully, she chooses to laugh along rather than calling me out for my lecherous tendencies.

As she gathers her things and heads for the bathroom, I get back to my conversation, going over the schedules and feeding the boss the times he needs to ensure that everyone gets paid. So far, there doesn't seem to be any discrepancies.

Until we get to her.

She's missing a punch, and he wants to know if she's available. I tell him to hold on a minute, thinking I can still catch her before she's in the shower as I move across the house, hoping all the while that I'll find her in the buff. When I get to the bathroom door, the water's off. I hesitate a moment before softly knocking.

"Yes?" she calls out from behind the door, as if sensing some mischief on the air.

"Sorry," I say, "but the Boss wants to talk to you about one of your punches. Are you already in?"

"No," she says, telling me to give her a second.

Although I know a gentleman would simply leave the phone on the washer by the door, I just can't bring myself to do it.

After a moment she cracks the door and peeks her head around, her arm showing naked to the shoulder, causing the blood to rush to my face, as well as to certain points south of my beltline.

The hand comes out to take the phone from me, but the sight of that shoulder and the knowledge that she's already topless at the very least has me momentarily paralyzed. I find myself growing dizzy as she swings the door open a little further in order to grab it.

In her haste to take the call, she's got a blue towel clutched to her chest so that it hangs down in front of her vertically, rather than taking the time to wrap it around herself properly. The positioning of the towel causes her considerable tits to flatten slightly, threatening to spill over the top of it like a couple of overripe water balloons. The analogy makes me think of the time when I was a boy and a babysitter turned out all of the lights and let me and my best friend Phil Moriarty squeeze balloons filled with warm water and a mishmash of condiments she'd found in the fridge, tricking us into believing we were feeling her burgeoning breasts.

I take it all in in an instant before the door swings back, mostly shielding her. I can't make out what she's saying. The blood's in my ears now too, pounding. But not all of it. A small current of the stuff continues to course its way south, causing my cock to lengthen in my pants, snaking down the leg to rest against my thigh.

Had I been thinking straight, I might have thought to return to the office in hopes of her making the trek back clad only in that towel once the confusion regarding her time had been sorted out, the hard muscles of her bare ass flexing and rebounding. But the long rectangle of light between the door and the jamb pulls at me, drawing me in like the proverbial moth to a flame. And so I stay put, watching for the blue towel and flashes of skin, feeling self-conscious but making up excuses on the fly to stay in the vicinity. I throw the cleaning rags into the washer, reaching way back behind the machine, ostensibly to retrieve a rogue sock I spot on the floor, but actually in an effort to improve my angle of view. I'm too worried about being caught though, and can't make out more than fleeting glimpses of a bared arm or leg.

All too soon it sounds as if the conversation is wrapping up. I'm a little envious of the fact that my boss has gotten to hold a conversation with her while she's in her birthday suit, though I've little doubt he'd readily swap places with me had he been aware of what was happening. I take a small step back to wait for the door to come open again. I know it looks bad, but it's as if I've become bogged down in quicksand or perhaps a tar pit. I'm powerless over the desire to see more of her body.

"Sorry about that," I say, taking the phone as the door swings open again. It takes a concerted effort to maintain eye contact and ignore her tits bounding out over the top of the improvised terrycloth tube top. They seem to beckon at me to take another gander.

"That's okay," she says with a laugh, recognizing instantly how hot and bothered the situation has me.

I grab my dick through my pants and give it a squeeze as the door closes and I make my way back to the office. It seems I'll never get through a Thursday night with my virtue intact. I'm finding that I have to take matters 'in hand' more and more often these days, not coincidentally coinciding, I'm sure, with the days we work together.

Back in the office, I let go of myself reluctantly and grab hold of a cigarette instead, thinking it'll have to make do, hoping it'll calm my nerves some as I step outside, keeping the door open so I can listen for any trouble.

I don't have long to wait. I've barely gotten the cigarette lit before I hear her call out.

"Briiiiaaaan!!!" she yells. I can't tell if it's a sound of panic or one of annoyance, but I drop the cigarette and make my way quickly back to the bathroom. My dick is hoping she's taking us up on our offer to help her wash, but I push the ludicrous thought from both our heads.

The door's cracked open again, even more than before. She's showing her head and shoulders all the way to the swell of her breasts.

"There's no water," she tells me, looking at me suspiciously as she opens the door wide, as if somehow I'm to blame for the drought.

I'm stumped for a moment by the implied accusation. Truly I'm not cunning enough to think to turn the water off. Had I been, I'd have waited until she was already wet and slippery with soap before making my move.

She steps aside to allow me to pass. As I enter, I try to put on my most professional face, the kind employed by the professional do-gooders of the world, the EMT's who make it a point not to notice that the twenty year old coed with alcohol poisoning is buck naked and built like a brick shithouse -- all shaved snatch and quivering bosom down beneath the watery sheen of vomit.

I try both the hot and cold dials. There's nothing, though I can hear water pouring into the washing machine not six feet away. I look for a shutoff valve, but the bathroom's been recently refurbished and there isn't one, or rather there isn't one that can be readily seen. What I can readily see is her standing there, the towel still held precariously in front of her. Her clothes are heaped on the floor, and I take the opportunity to sneak a quick peek, hoping to spot her underwear. But I'm too frazzled by the whole situation, and find myself looking away before I can pick them out.

What my eyes light upon next doesn't help my predicament any. The whole right side of her body is visible outside the breadth of the towel's coverage area. I can see the sideswell of her tit, the womanly curve of her hip as it tapers all the way down and becomes her leg. The skin looks smooth and dark, and there are no tan lines to be seen, not even in the spot where her panties naturally come across her hip. Gallantly I resist the urge to lay my hand on it, though I can imagine how my thumb would fit into the little groove where her leg meets her pelvis, how it'd feel before I'd run the hand around to give her ass cheek a squeeze.

My penis is shifting around again, and I have to turn my attention back to the shower before the thing gives me away. I examine the new fixture, finding a little slide and working it so that the water courses down, ducking out of the way to avoid the spray as she thanks me, closing the door with her modesty still mostly intact.

For a while I remain productive, charting on the children and wrapping up the various and sundry items in my little 'to do' reminder book. Before long I hear the bathroom door open and she comes into the office, drying her hair and smiling. A tight white t-shirt and a gray knee-length skirt constructed of some heavy fabric have replaced the warm-ups. The shirt is plastered to her, as if she's neglected to dry herself properly. It shows off her shoulders, and the shadows of what looks to be a sports bra when she turns her back to me to pull something out of the hygiene cabinet. She seems strangely at ease, and though I know it's ridiculous, in that moment I find myself frustrated almost to the point of tears that I'm forced to put up with women constantly walking around with clothing covering up their nudity.

"I had to dry myself with a rag," she tells me.

It doesn't occur to me to ask her why she hadn't utilized the cursed blue towel. Already her words have my brain working busily to call up images of three or four rags running over all the inches of her skin, absorbing one drop after another from off her glistening body.

"That was so hot. I feel like I should say thank you, or tip you or something."

It comes out of me before I realize what I'm saying. She laughs, telling me she'd thought I'd turned off the water at the main just to mess with her. Frankly, it sounds like something I'd do.

"I was hoping you were calling for me to come and help you wash," I admit.

"No, but I could go back and dry off again if you like."

"By all means," I say. "Happy to be of assistance. Any time you need..."

Sadly, she merely smiles as she continues to dry her hair.

"I notice you didn't have any tan lines," I say, frantic to keep the conversation going, unwilling to let the wondrous moment fade gradually into the past.

"I haven't really done any tanning yet," she tells me, misunderstanding and thinking I'm criticizing her.

"No no, you look dark."

"I have a tanning bed at my house."

"You must be doing it in the buff then," I say.

"I usually just wear a t-bar," she tells me, "but I just had my bikini line lasered so I can't really tan yet. The laser attacks the pigment along with the hair follicles."

The mental picture of her in nothing more than some miniscule bathing suit bottom effectively dries up the words in my mouth. In my mind I can see the red laser tracing the lines where her pubic hair overreaches the boundaries of the bikini, denuding and enflaming the secret flesh. I wonder if 'Pussy Hair Laser Technician' is a job that men can apply for too, knowing already that I could easily make such a profession into a long and rewarding career if only my clients were all as stunning as her.

There are so many thoughts competing for airtime in my head that I've begun to feel feverish. At this rate it'll be after midnight before I get all my work done, and so I excuse myself to the living room so I can focus on my paperwork.

The move is fruitless however. I'm pleased to see her coming to join me out on the couch, inquiring about something in the staff communication log. I answer the best I can, leaning in to peer over her shoulder and take in the smell of her hair. Working together we're able to puzzle out a coworker's notoriously chicken-scratchy handwriting. As we chitchat she lays a hand on my arm to make her point. At times I slap playfully at her shoulder and we laugh.

She tells me I blew my chance, that I should have shuttled her bare-assed to the other bathroom across the house. She's right I know, and the thought pains me genuinely. Another opportunity squandered. I should have stayed right behind her, covering her flank, preserving her modesty as I moved her around, watching her ass sway, slapping it from time to time when she dawdled.

"Well, unless you're going to need any more help in the bathroom, I guess I'll leave you to it," I say, finally wrapping my work up. It's getting late now, and I need to get some place more private in order to attend to some of my own bodily requirements. 

She smiles, telling me that she thinks she'll be okay. For once I choose not to press the issue, gathering my stuff and shutting my laptop down before wishing her a goodnight and heading out. As I do, I give her another joking 'thank you' over my shoulder, eliciting more grins.

____________________________

I can't get her out of my head on the short motorcycle ride home. The more I think about it, the more I become convinced that she's not oblivious to the effect she has on me. When I get hung up at a red light, I reach down with a gloved hand to adjust the bulge in my pants, squeezing it when privacy from the other motorists allows. Once home, I check the mail and then pour myself a glass of scotch.

She's still in my head as I take a shower of my own, spending more time than is probably necessary on my penis, causing the thing to swell obscenely in front of me. I'm so horny that it feels like ants are crawling on my flesh. I know I could give myself a dozen firm wanks and be done with it.

But I want to play some more. Once I finish up with the shower, I towel off and throw on a sleeveless t-shirt and some boxers before reaching for the phone. Pulling her number up, I send her a quick text: "Would you put gorgonzola on the grocery list pretty please?"

I know it's not much, but it's the best I can come up with on short notice.

Her reply comes a few minutes later: "Yeah, no problem."

I stare at it for a moment, swirling the contents of the glass so that the ice cubes clink together. I'm disappointed by the response, but not quite sure what it is I was expecting. I console myself that at least she didn't tack on a 'goodnight' or a 'talk to you tomorrow'. That said, obviously I need to be the one to ramp things back up.

"Sure you don't have any more shower-related emergencies? Because I can come right back. Wouldn't be a problem. Only take like ten minutes," I text her, hitting send and taking a swallow of the scotch.

"Na sorry :-( Tell you what, I'll take a shower next week. K? Just call me Ms. Tease! Lol," comes the response.

The message, along with the thought that I might get a chance to replay the night's happenings -- to correct all my missteps -- immediately has tingling sensations rushing to my midsection. I'm rubbing my testicles unabashedly through my boxers with my left hand as I key in my reply.

"Deal. And there's nothing wrong with teasing. Bring it on please. Oh yeah, and if you start to blush in about an hour and don't know why...I apologize."

"Hahaha! Oh, I'll know why :-)"

For a minute I simply stare at the message, feeling grateful. It's almost as if she's giving me permission, and I transition quickly from testicle rubbing to manipulating my penis, bringing it quickly to full erection and stroking it. And though it's difficult, I'm able to maintain a mostly steady rhythm as I text her back.

"Bless you Ms. Tease," I type. "Make that 30 minutes. Lol."

"Lol. Without trying to spoil the moment, do I need to do a name change on Ashley's progress note?"

The change in tenor takes me aback. But already the scotch has gotten me to feeling bold and so I press on.

"You couldn't possibly spoil my mental pictures girl," I type. "She had it changed at her court hearing. Fix it please."

"Ok, no problem. U may continue......:-)"

"Who says I stopped? Lol."

"Oh, my bad. Lol," she responds. The lol's are coming so fast now that we're in danger of becoming hysterical. I wonder if she's picturing me in her mind, if she's thinking about how my dick might look, standing up so hard and proud all because of her. It turns me on to no end to picture her picturing me jerking off as I think of her.

I'm stroking harder now, feeling buzzed from the scotch. I know I'm in danger of dashing off something that might spook her, ruining things irrevocably. And so I'm honest with her, telling her that I'm going to say goodnight before I stick my foot in my mouth. "I'm holding you to the shower thing though," I add at the last moment before telling her to wish me luck.

"Luck :-)"

The text makes me groan out loud. Again I get the impression that she enjoys having the power to put me in such a state. But I know also that she's only playing with me, using me as a diversion to get her through the long night alone. Looking down at my cock, I mumble how she's the devil before continuing to pull on it.

I'm startled from my lustful reverie a moment later by the sound of my phone. Holding myself tightly in my fist, I check the text. It's her again. I'm on-call, and no doubt it's another work question.

"Soooo...how's it going? Lol. Just kidding. I'll leave you alone."

My dick grows even harder as I read it. I give it a few more pumps before hurrying to type a response.

"No no! Please keep going. It's more helpful than you know."

I hit send and then dial up the outbox and resend the one about saying goodnight before I stick my foot in my mouth, editing out the last four words.

"Lol. Goodnight," she replies.

Damn, I think, blaming the scotch for making me bungle yet another opportunity. I hurry to send her a last message: "You're probably right. Oh well, it was worth a shot. Thanks again :-)"

"Welcome."

I try not to look too much into the word, getting up instead to grab my bottle of personal lubricant from the closet where I keep my toiletries.

It's become something of an end-of-the-week ritual, and I work the lube into the length of me until my cock shines and makes little squishy sounds as I move my fist up and down. My balls are tingling again, and I run my fingers over them to get them greased up too. I try to picture her moving around the house -- her hips going back and forth, bending over to pull out the house rags that I threw in the washer, the gray skirt showing off the entirety of her legs, coming up just short of her ass. I want to sneak up on her right at the moment that I come, surprising her with little warm splashes that coat the back of her thighs. But I know that's impossible. I can only egg her on, pleading with her to bend over a little more so she can reach the rags way down at the bottom of the machine, knowing I can come if I can only get a peek at her panties.

But instead she straightens up, making me groan and reach for my phone.

"It'd probably be inappropriate if I asked you to tell me what color underwear you had on, huh?" I text, and then hit send. I figure at best I'll get another 'lol', at worst a sexual harassment lawsuit. But I've become something of a loose cannon and no longer care. Thankfully, it only takes a couple of seconds before she messages me back.




Ms. Tease Act 04



Act IV: Panties

In the morning I awake refreshed, despite the fact that it seems as if the whole night through I've dreamt of panties: t-bars, g-strings, thongs, briefs, bikinis, hiphuggers, no-shows, and boy shorts -- mounds of the things piled high, a veritable smorgasbord of women's underwear, filmy fabric raining down from the sky like manna. The dreams haven't escaped the notice of my penis either. Even after I've managed to awkwardly empty my bladder, he's still standing tall, ready for round two.

Or perhaps I should say round two hundred and two. By now I've lost track of all the orgasms she's been responsible for. True to my word, I'd checked my box immediately upon getting into work. There's nothing, though I tell myself I shouldn't be surprised. It's quite the leap from man-made vaginas and psuedo shower rescues to used panties. Gently-used or otherwise. Still, I can't help but again imagine her pulling that gray skirt up to her waist and tugging the tiny garment down, giving them a quick, inquisitive sniff to see what all the fuss is about before jamming them down amongst all the ancient memos, coupons, cooking gadgets, and pay stubs in my box -- so much workplace detritus.

She's due to come in at eight, and I'm distracted all throughout the day wondering whether she'll come through with the underwear she's promised me (if she demurs, I'm prepared to insist it was a promise). The kids pick up on the tension, keeping well back from me, making me feel like a shitty pretend dad. I'm surprised by my frustration level; I feel like a horny 16 year-old again -- every cell in my body in a state of sexual High Alert, every coed interaction analyzed and secreted away, culled closely for possible masturbatory material. Despite the workout I gave him the night before, my dick stirs restlessly inside my pants as the hours drag on.

When I check the clock, it's behaving sluggishly. I watch as the second hand makes a grudging revolution. It's as if this anticipation has slowed down time and I wonder if I'm not on to something -- retarding the aging process by way of sexual frustration. But despite its reluctance, the day finally passes in the manner they always do, replete with cliché teenage heartaches and histrionics, hurt feelings and recriminations.

Our shifts on Fridays have a two-hour overlap, and when she comes into the office to set down her purse, her eyes give no indication as to whether or not she's brought along any frilly gifts for me. Honestly I figure it for long shot, thinking she'll probably try to play it off as a joke. Then again, she did bring us our new best friend Gigi, my penis pipes in, forever the optimist.

Before I can get a read though, the little ones are all over her, swarming thickly and pummeling her with questions about what they're going to do. Despite the overlap, I know I won't see much of her. Her schedule's been designed to get the kids in our care out of the house for ice cream, and to rent movies in celebration of the end of the school week. I'd like to blast whatever fucker has set it up this way, but I can't, as that fucker is yours truly.

As the kids scatter to round up shoes and touch up their makeup on the off chance they'll be boys moving about in the world, she comes back into the office. When I look up she's smiling and twirling a dark swatch of fabric around one finger.

"Where were you hiding those?" I ask her.

"They've been in my purse all day," she says, stuffing the underwear in my box behind the door.

I can feel my face go red, but I manage to mumble something to that effect of 'brilliant' before her nervousness gets the better of her and she leaves the office again.

Once she's off with the kids, it's a chore to resist the temptation to jump up immediately and retrieve the panties from my box. But I make myself wait. I want her to be there when I hold them in my hand for the first time; I want her to bear witness to my unbridled gratitude and lust firsthand.

The raucous bunch returns ninety minutes later to relieve me. For once I'm on schedule and ready to hit the road. I can hear them storming up the walkway, high on sugar and the thought of two whole days without school. She and I talk about silly, unimportant matters for a couple minutes. I don't recall much of what is said; likely it's about the children. I do know that none of it is panty related. When I'm packed to leave, I stand and pass her on my way to my box. She's by the door, facing away from me and bending down to fiddle with something at floor level, a shoelace perhaps. The Capri pants she wears cling tightly to her body, an alluring red underwear string peeking out from the waistband. It's all I can do to keep myself from coming up behind her and taking hold of her hips, grinding myself up against her ass, sliding my hands beneath her shirt to cup her tits.

"I almost forgot the most important thing," I fib, causing her to straighten up and turn to me.

I can tell that the lust shows in my eyes. And though she remains silent, it's obvious that on some level she senses the thoughts running through my head. While she may have upped the ante once again, she still isn't willing to go all in, ducking out of the office as I retrieve the undies from where she's tucked them away. The panties are black with a splash of red, but I'm too worried about the kids spotting me to really inspect them, and so I stuff her panties down in my bag before gathering up the remainder of my belongings.

"Bye ladies," I tell the kids. They're all sitting attentively in the living room, drawn already into the latest action-comedy yawner -- Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker cursing and insinuating their way through some caper that pushes the limits of what can and cannot be shown in a PG-13 flick, that being the highest rating available to the children during their stay with us. "Thank you," I say to her, catching her eye.

She laughs and tells me I'm welcome, seated safely between two of our littler ones, clearly embarrassed. I hesitate a moment, but she stays put rather than walking me out and locking the door behind me as per her usual routine.

_____________________________

Once showered and changed, I pull the panties from my bag to examine them at my leisure, turning them over a time or two until I figure out which way is up. They're made of some satiny-slick fabric -- black, with a strip of red lace running along the outer edges of the waistband and leg holes, a heart made up of red sequins on the front panel. I wonder if they were a Valentine's Day gift, feeling a twinge of unexpected jealousy for the lucky bastard who got to peel them dripping from her body.

I place the underwear down on my desk, feeding the cats and then mixing myself a cocktail, drinking it down in two big gulps. I find myself nervous for some reason, but I'm unsure as to why. I stare across the room at the panties. I want nothing more than to bury my face in the generous gift, but again I make myself wait while I pour another drink and move to the couch.

For a while I just sip my scotch, glancing time and again at her panties just sitting there. Damned if I can figure out how they ended up here, the curious chain of events that brought the underwear from store to home, and then from home to body, and finally from her body to here, sitting innocuously on my desk. Impulsively I take up my phone and send her a text message.

"Wow. Impressive choice," I type, hoping she's in the mood to play some. I take another swallow as I wait for her to text me back, reflecting on how we seem to take on alternate personalities behind the distant veil of text, dropping hints and innuendos haphazardly like stones down a well.

"I chose those because I have two pairs, and I got a lot of use outta them. Lol," the text comes back, infusing my genitals with a surge of blood.

I move to the desk and hold the panties up, imagining her moving around in them, the little sequined panel pressed up against her mound. But it annoys me -- unreasonably I know -- that I only got them due to some sort of panty surplus.

"Mmm...lots of use," I type. "That hurts though. Here I was thinking I was special."

As I wait for her reply, I take the underwear and bring them up to my face, covering my nose and mouth, closing my eyes as I breathe through them, as if her panties were a filter, taking the scent of them deep inside me. I'm grateful that she hasn't doused them in perfume -- the smell that she carries around with her. It's there, but it's only an accent, one note of many going hand-in-hand with the smell of the detergent she's washed them in.

I turn the undies inside out, locating the little padded area that presses up against the seam of her, bringing it up to my face again, breathing in through my nose for a long time before I finally smell it: the core scent of her, the secret tangy sweetness of her body. It's faint but unmistakable, and I breathe it in again and again, my nostrils flaring. I wish I could get to the wellspring of the enchanting aroma. My cock has gone erect, painfully so in the confines of the tight boxers. The phone beeps while I'm in the process of digging it out of my fly.

"I actually thought you'd want a pair I wore. I mean you could just go and buy new ones. Me wearing them makes them special :-)"

It's exactly what I want to hear. I'm amazed by how much she understands my need and tell her so.

"Exactly correct. You are the only one who understands me. At the risk of freaking you out: either you have some hypnotic perfume, or you are a truly blessed individual scent-wise. Lol."

The response comes quicker this time.

"Haha, they've been washed."

Washed or not, I know that she's smelled them too, trying to ensure she's not giving away too many of her secrets all at once. But I know also that she's too close to her own distinctive emanations to be able to pick up something so faint, a scent she's been moving around inside for twenty years now, since the first blossom of blood came and colored her thigh. Twenty years of acclimatization no match for twenty years spent doggedly trying to root it out, every sense geared towards detection, a single nostril hair twitching and sending along information to the brain.

"For the record I wasn't smelling them," I tell her, smelling them again. The scotch and the scent of her pussy are starting to go to my head. "I'm no perv. I was lying down and they fell and landed on my face. Lol. And you can never wash out that scent." 

"Fell on your face? That's funny. Haven't really had that happen to me yet. Lol."

The image of her with her own panties perched on her face makes me grab my dick in my right hand. I slap it loudly against the palm of my other, feeling a little unstable as I snatch up her underwear again and breathe hard and deep. I wish I could hyperventilate myself, make her scent a part of my being. I'm so horny suddenly that I want to fuck the couch, the bookcase, the refrigerator. Even the cat looks tempting.

"Never had panties on your face?! Then you haven't lived girl. Smack me if I get out of line. I may be hitting the scotch a little bit."

"Okay, 4 sure :-P"

"Lol. You were a little too eager to agree to that," I text back.

I almost wish she'd do it too. I can imagine us wrestling around as she scolds me for my mischievousness, my penis hard between us and pressing up against her flat stomach until she has me subdued. Her hands go to my wrists, pinning them over my head as her knees dig into my shoulders, giving me a clear view up her skirt to the twin pair of panties with the little sequined heart. The scent of her is stronger now. I try to lift my head to get my tongue on the heart, but it's impossible in my current position and she dances playfully out of reach.

The image fades and I pour another scotch, taking her undies again and looking close at the crotch for clues, anything to get me closer to the mystery of her. And then I see it: A single soft blond hair off to the side of the padded area, one end anchored in the fabric. I pull it out and hold it to the light. I'm having trouble believing that anyone's pubic hair could be so soft as I reach down and compare it with the coarseness of my own cropped bush.

"I think you left me a solitary hair," I text, unable to keep the secret. I want her to know I'm on to her. "Did you want me to save it for you, or can I keep it?"

"Uuuuuggghhh!" it comes back. "Are you serious?"

"Lol. A soft little thing. Likely fuzz from a sweater. A man can dream can't he?"

"Uuggghhh! Lol. You got me."

I can't tell if she's playing along, or admitting I've got her hair. I don't want to disgust her, but I'm desperate to hear her tell me about her pussy, to exalt in the virtues of its super-soft hairs and careful folds. I want to know all its secrets: the look, the texture, the smell, the taste. Oh fuck, the taste...

"Yup. A little blond thing," I type out. "Yours then? Brilliant. It's been awhile, but I'm pretty sure it was in the right vicinity. Lol."

She's not biting.

"Okay CSI," comes the reply.

The response makes me laugh out loud when I read it. Perhaps she knows me better than I thought. I finish my scotch and pour another, thinking of myself as some hipster lab technician as I add a splash of water to the elixir. If only I had the proper facilities, I know I could view her panties under a special light to check for any residual bodily fluids. I could use shiny tweezers to carefully transfer the soft blond hair into an evidence vial for safekeeping. I could even get a court order to take down her pants as the attorneys looked on, getting my face up real close and using tiny scissors to collect a sample of her pussy hair for DNA confirmation. Better yet, I could set up an elaborate network of glass tubing and beakers to somehow distill the essence of her scent trapped down in the weave of the fabric, re-liquefy it and gulp it down.

"Lol. Now that's funny. Funny but painfully hot," I type. "Though I get the feeling I'll never get any more panties after this :-("

The response never comes. I make myself yet another drink while I wait, trying to avoid becoming despondent. But all my patience is for naught; the phone remains stubbornly silent. As I pace the apartment, my dick is still half-hard and bobbing there in front of me. At times I take hold and give it a stroke or two, taking up her panties and breathing her heady scent some more until it has me lightheaded. I'm at a loss as to what to do. I know my penis can't take much more of this, but clearly I've spooked her.

"Okay, I can take a hint," I type out finally. "I'll do my damndest to keep you out of my masturbatory fantasies tonight. But am having little luck lately."

A minute later I add: "Okay, I'm lying. For quite a while actually."

Nothing. 

I put down the panties and pick up the phone, checking to make sure I haven't accidentally put it on vibrate, and then ensuring that the little battery icon has enough juice. But everything seems to be in working order. Reconciled to flying solo, I grit my teeth and lay down on the couch, taking myself in hand and working my dick in slow strokes up and down.

The text comes as I'm within minutes of coming.

"It's cool. I'm just working on the new girl's meds."

Cool? Not this again, I moan. Looking down at myself, I take hold of the base of my cock, squeezing it so that it flushes a darker color and then waving it in the air a few times, as if that will somehow help her to see the state she's got me in. I wish I could use the fool thing like a wand, command her to forget about her silly work and pick up the thread again.

"Devil," I text back in my despair. "I'd really like to take my...and...stick it...(censored)."

"R U drinking?"

The text startles me. I realize I've had plenty, and go to dump the dregs of my scotch down the drain before texting her back.

"No, not any more anyway. And not at all a factor in why I sent that last text..."

"Oh, okay. Just seems like the later it gets, the bolder you get. Lol."

Her assessment of the situation is spot-on. I feel ashamed that I haven't what it takes to make my move when I'm sober, spew the same tired pickup lines I see the smarmy motherfuckers in bars using, men with better track records than mine. I justify my cowardice by telling myself it's simply not my style, though I too know that if you throw enough rocks up in the air, one's bound to bounce off the top of your head from time to time.

"Lol. True enough. Apologies. Doesn't mean the sentiment isn't genuine though. Thought that counts and all..."

"Haha. No need to apologize."

The message bolsters my courage once more, and before I can think about it, I dash off my reply.

"Lies. What I'd really like to do is take my head and...(censored) under your skirt and...(censored)...lick your...(censored) up and down and..."

As soon as I hit send I know I've gone too far. I look down at my cock in accusation, but at this point he cares not a whit for either decorum or future working conditions. Quickly I send out another text to try and soften the effect.

"Okay, the scotch may have let that one slip," I type, before the alcohol roaring in my bloodstream makes itself known a third time. "But it doesn't make it any less true. Mmm...standing invitation girl. I better say goodnight now. Lol."

"Goodnight," it comes back.

It isn't much of a response, and I get the impression that I may have pushed Ms. Tease into an early retirement with my recklessness. My penis insists that I worry about it later, and for once we're in total agreement. Placing her panties back over my nose and mouth, I begin to jerk off in earnest. Before long I'm able to work my way past the perfume and detergent again. I wonder how many drops of her juice have fallen from her body only to be caught in the very fabric now covering my face. The thought pushes me over the edge. My tongue goes out and over the material, my balls drawing up tight to my body as I begin to come. Quickly I turn to one side, taking the panties from my face, worried I'll soil them with an errant blast. I groan loudly as my dick convulses, the semen flying several feet in the air as it leaves my body, pattering down on the rug, millions of little pollywog spermies navigating the carpet fibers -- evidence for future CSI wannabes -- draining me until the torrent subsides, leaving me breathing hard and wrung out. 



Ms. Tease Act 05



Act V: Swelling

The knock comes softly at the office door.

"Everything alright?" she asks me.

It's hard to say. When I glance down, it looks as if I've a steel bar jammed down the front of my pants.

"Ummm..." I say.

"Can I come in?"

"Okay," I tell her, unable to think up an excuse plausible enough to keep her out of the office any longer.

I face the other way as the door cracks open and her head and shoulders emerge into the room.

"I thought for a minute you'd died in here."

"Rigor mortis would explain it," I mumble under my breath.

She looks confused as she comes all the way in. "Explain what?"

"I'm having some...issues."

"What kind of issues? What are you hiding there anyhow?" she asks, seeing my hands down by my waist and coming closer.

"I seem to be experiencing a little swelling," I caution her.

"What kind of swelling?"

"You know...SWELLING," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Oh," she laughs. "So what? That happens to all boys."

"I know, but I can't leave until it goes down. You know how teenage girls are. They can spot an erection from fifty paces."

She laughs again. "How noticeable can it be?"

"Pretty noticeable," I shrug.

"Well, turn around. I'll tell you if it's obvious."

"No way!" I protest.

"Come on, don't be a baby. What's the big deal? I have seen swelling once or twice before you know."

"Not my swelling you haven't."

"Okay, forget it then," she says, turning to go. "Stay here all night for all I care."

I tell her to hold on, realizing that I'm acting immaturely. After all, she's only trying to be helpful.

"You promise you won't laugh?" I say.

"I won't laugh. Now show me it."

There's something about the way that she tells me to show it to her that I'm unable to refuse. I can feel myself going red, but even so I obey her, turning slowly, aware that my erection shows obscenely in profile before I square up facing her. Her eyes are locked on my crotch, and my cock grows even harder beneath the scrutiny, almost paining me now. I can feel the thumping pulse inside of it.

"Well?" I ask, unable to stand the silence.

"Wow," she says, making me cover myself with both hands.

"You said you wouldn't laugh at me," I remind her.

"I'm not laughing," she says.

"So is it noticeable?"

"Ohhhh yeah."

"You think they'll spot it?" I ask.

"I don't see how they couldn't," she says. "Even if they don't, if one of them tries to hug you, you're done for."

"I know. That's what worries me most."

"Well I'm sure it'll go down," she laughs. "Swelling always does."

"That's the problem, it's been like that for over an hour."

When I say it, it's her turn to go crimson. "You lie."

"I swear."

"Is that normal for you?"

"I wish."

She takes a minute to ponder the matter over. "I guess you'll just have to take care of things then."

"What do you mean take care of things?" I ask.

"You know," she says, eyeing the lump in my pants again. "Take care of things..."

I'm having a hard time believing she's suggesting what I think she's suggesting. "But I can't even get to the bathroom like this."

"Use the office then."

"You don't mind?" I ask, flooded with relief by how understanding she's being.

"Why would I mind?" she shrugs. "It's always good to have some dirt on your boss anyway."

Her comment makes me laugh, as both of us know she has enough dirt on me already to have me fired ten times over. "Fine, but you better not mention this to anyone else. I can't be having everyone having dirt on me. Give me fifteen minutes. That should be enough time."

"Oh no, I'm not leaving. I have a ton of work to do and I need the computer."

"But it's only fifteen minutes," I protest.

"Blame yourself for giving me so much to do."

I'm stumped. Like all women, she can be exasperating when she has a mind to be. "Then how am I supposed to...?"

"Don't mind me. Just close the door and get it over with." she says, brushing past me, so close that I can smell her perfume before she settles down in front of the computer. "I won't watch."

"You mean do it in front of you?"

"It doesn't bother me," she says, logging in.

I find myself dumbfounded by her nonchalance.

"Are we talking about the same thing?" I ask.

When she turns to me in her seat, I notice somewhat frantically that her eyes are at the precise level with my crotch. "If we're talking about you whipping out your dick and jerking off until you spray cum all over the place we are."

I can feel my jaw somewhere down by the floor, making speech an impossibility.

"Sorry," she laughs, seeing the pained expression on my face. "Figured that might help you out."

"I don't know how appropriate that would be," I manage to say when I'm able to speak again. 

"It has nothing to do with appropriate or inappropriate. You need to get that big thing down if you're going to leave, and I need you out of my hair so I can get my own work done. Apparently that's the only thing that's going to do it."

She's got a point. Besides, if truth be told, the idea of masturbating with her in the same room is not without its prurient appeal.

"What's got you in such a state anyway?" she asks.

The question catches me by surprise, and I'm at a loss as to what to say. It's like I shed IQ points in her vicinity. Eventually I admit that I'd caught quite the glimpse down her blouse earlier in the evening as she was down on her hands and knees, searching for some change she'd dropped on the floor. Thinking again of those tanned orbs swaying down inside her shirt serves to stiffen me even further.

"Oh my, I had no idea you were such a voyeur," she says with a little laugh. "I'll have to be more careful around you from now on. Now hurry up and get it over with."

I feel better after making my confession, determined to at least give it a go, even if the circumstances are somewhat unusual. "Can I turn off the light at least?"

"The overheads," she tells me. "But leave the other one on. We wouldn't want the children to think we were up to any funny business."

Indeed, I think, hitting the switch. It's still brighter than I'd prefer though, and I stand rooted in place for a moment, unsure as to how to position myself. Her mention of the kids makes me worry they'll be able to see past the flimsy curtains hanging in the office window. Otherwise I could have at least given her the courtesy of turning my back to her. As it is she's off to one side of me as I lower my zipper.

I'm aware of the silence, broken only by the occasional mouse click as I work to extricate my erection from my pants.

My penis bobs a time or two when it makes contact with the open air, as if scenting something out; in four years it's never been allowed the light of day inside these walls. Even in the diminished light, I can see that it's terribly inflamed -- pale white with a ruby red crown and a purple-green vein snaking along its length. For a moment I just stare at it as if I'd never seen it before.

"Well?" she says, her eyes never leaving the computer screen. She seems transfixed by whatever it is she's working on.

"Right," I say, turning a little more to the side, but not so much that I'm at risk of being seen through the outside window by any passersby peeking through the gaps in the blinds.

Without any preliminaries, I begin to stroke myself, using my right hand in long productive strokes. I'm aware of the sounds I make: my arm brushing up against the fabric of my shirt, the dry thump of my pud in my hand. It's funny that with two decades worth of jerking off under my belt, I've never paid any attention to them. But now these intimate sounds almost seem more inappropriate than the act itself, and I angle my elbow awkwardly away from my body as I continue to work.

The angle is all wrong though, and the elbow comes back in, the sounds intensifying as I speed up my stroking, going strictly for efficiency rather than any style points.

At times I glance to my left, but she's still staring at the screen, ignoring the commotion entirely. Even so, her presence has me befuddled and I'm not getting any closer. After some brief deliberation, I use my left hand to dig my balls out of my pants too, letting them hang down low and full. My breath comes faster now, and the sounds I'm making increase as my balls sway in time with all my tugging -- slapping dully against the fabric of my pants and adding to the cacophony.

We're getting somewhere now, and the proximity of my orgasm begins to make me brazen. I steal a glance at her body -- legs crossed high up, thigh muscles taut, chest thrown forward. I feel guilty for using her in such a way, but I can't help it. I'd like to chew my way through all that clothing until I reach the moist center of her. It's starting to feel really good now, and it's an effort to try not to groan.

I wonder if unconsciously she's counting the strokes in her head. If as I work, they continue adding up, her mind employing mysterious algorithms to translate them in her head into so many wasted inches, unaware as her mind runs through formulas for potential thrusts, friction that never was, 2.6 orgasms for every 1,000 plunges.

My own climax is there, but still it refuses to come to the foreground. As I rub my balls with my left hand, my right hand goes up to my mouth. I lick it wetly, thinking she won't notice.

"There's some baby oil in the hygiene cabinet," she tells me without turning her head.

I frown and waddle over to the cabinet to get it, my dick stretched to its full potential and bouncing heavily. When I look over my shoulder, she's paying me no mind. I go back to my spot with the baby oil, flicking the cap open and dousing my cock liberally with the contents.

It annoys me how cool she is throughout the whole ordeal. For months now she's had me in a sexual frenzy, but I could be putting lotion on my hands or feet for all the interest she's showing. When I set the bottle down, I do so with a little bang that receives a slightly raised eyebrow. Good, I think. The oil is cold at first, but it warms up quickly as I work it into the length of me, feeling it run down over my testicles. When I begin stroking again, the sounds go delightfully obscene -- little squishy slurps and clicks that I know she can hear.

It feels too good, and I'm certain I'm finally close to getting some much-needed relief. I steal another look at her, wanting her to share in the feeling, acknowledge this freight train of biological imperative. I realize that I've turned incrementally towards her without having any awareness of having done so. In fact I'm practically facing her now, as if daring her not to look at this miracle of abandoned decorum and crackling nerve endings.

There's a knock at the door -- one of the kids needing something that can wait until morning. It throws off my rhythm, staving off my orgasm. I can almost feel the semen backing up in the tubing of me as I stretch my shirt down over all the activity going on at my midsection.

"We're changing shifts. Be out in a minute," she calls out through the door.

"Damn it," I say.

"What's wrong?" she asks, refusing to look even now.

"I was so close."

She says nothing, and I know that I'm on my own. I need some inspiration to get back on track as I start up my tugging again. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, her face awash in the blue glow coming off the computer monitor. Her mouth is open slightly, and her breaths seem to come quicker, making her tits rise and fall. Looking closer, I can see that her nipples are hard, little nubs of arousal trying to drill their way out of her shirt. I know they're responding to the state of my cock -- erectile tissue saluting in mutual admiration, sending out greetings and salutations. Like foreign dignitaries at court.

The knowledge of her excitement makes me stroke all the faster. Drops of oil smack down on the floor as she uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs. The squishy noises are louder now. It sounds like fucking. I reach down and squeeze my balls gently, feeling the shaved skin of my scrotum as she crosses her legs again. I can't take my eyes off them, and in no time I'm back on the precipice, making little sounds: 'Haah', and 'Unh'. My leg muscles begin to tighten in anticipation, my ass clenching as I start to feel the telltale signs deep down in the core of me -- the tingle and whir of my prostate, a little centrifuge roiling my semen around in my nuts in preparation for release.

"Unh," I say, so fucking close.

"You better not make a mess on the floor," she tells me, anticipating me without turning.

The comment pushes my orgasm back once more, but the crescendo has already begun to build again. Frantically, I look around for something in which to catch my load -- a tissue, a stray cleaning rag left in the office. There's nothing, and I'm about to despair when I see her reaching down beneath her skirt. I watch as she lifts one ass cheek and then the other, working the tiny garment down and away from her body, over her shoes and off. She balls the panties up and hands them to me before finally turning to look at my dick.

I barely have time to register the wetness of the little black thong against my hand before I bring it up to my face, breathing her musky smell deep inside of me, jabbing my tongue into the fabric as I stroke faster, my arm movements a blur as she watches openly now.

"Do it," she says in a whisper, the kind usually reserved for lovers. "Lick my panties and come for me."

Her words push me over the edge. The tingle moves outward now, utterly beyond my control. The little centrifuge in me loses its center, flinging my load up into my shaft.

"Unh," I say. "Unnnh..."

My arm aches and still she's watching me, silently goading me on. When she licks her lips, I barely have time to get her panties off my face and down in front of my cock as shot after shot of thick hot seed spills forth from the head of me, the damn bursting upstream, making me cry out and all the little crack orphans in the world be damned.

The semen comes and comes. It's as if it's replaced all of my bodily fluid, flying out from the little slit at an incredible velocity, gob after gob until her underwear is covered in the stuff. It drips down off my hand to the floor in long white strands until finally there is no more. It's all I can do to keep my feet and avoid blacking out.

When it's over and I can open my eyes, I look down at the balled up panties in my hand. It's hard to believe they were once black; they look as if they've been dunked in a bowl of Elmer's Glue. I'm about to offer them back to her, but then hesitate, the panties in the air between us, worried if it won't be considered indelicate to return them in their current condition.

"Keep 'em," she says, turning back to the computer. 



Ms. Tease Act 06



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 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?" 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 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.