Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
The jersey isn’t long enough on her, reaching only mid-way down her thighs. She tugs at the hem nervously, shifting from foot to foot, offering up more and more of one leg, and then the other as she asks her question.
“Do I have any appointments tomorrow?” “Can you ask Ms. Jenny to wake me up at 5:00?” “Can I get a drink of water real quick?” The questions are a nightly ritual at the group home I work at. The question itself is irrelevant, just another excuse to be up after 10:30pm. It’s a contest to see who can get away with being out of bed the longest before we staff become flustered enough to start doling out the punishments.
But it’s her birthday. She knows she’ll have to really push her luck before I become truly annoyed with her. She’s 18 now, a woman old enough to vote, smoke cigarettes, and do all sorts of other unsavory things. A rare success story whose overcome the odds, enrolled already in the local community college, as resilient as a dandelion. By this time tomorrow she’ll be moving into her very own apartment. What’s the worst that I can do to her?
I’m having trouble focusing on what she is trying to say as the jersey keeps moving, making me wonder if she has anything on underneath. She’s beautiful. I’ve never noticed before, but there’s no doubt about it. Something’s changed since this morning. Some switch has been thrown, an unexpected gift bestowed. The usual restraint and shyness are gone, blown away like the flames on her birthday cake.
I don’t have long to speculate regarding her more intimate attire, as a moment later the shirt dances higher yet, revealing her panties as she laughs at whatever response I’ve managed to come up with. They’re a shade of white-blue, different than the ones she’d worn earlier in the day. She’d given me several unsolicited glimpses of the filmy red pair she had on beneath her skirt, lounging on the couch across from me, sitting with her knees apart, then jumping up suddenly with legs splayed, hurrying off to greet another party guest.
The replacement pair is pulled snug against her body, the left side wedged high up between her thigh and the pudgy lip of her pussy, effectively outlining the bulge of her sex. I get the feeling that she’s picked up the direction of my gaze, but I’m unable to avert my eyes. Not a single stray hair protrudes beyond the elastic piping of that underwear. It’s apparent that she keeps her pubic hair, what little she even has, cropped close. Indeed, the way her underwear molds itself against her body makes me wonder if she’s shaved herself altogether.
I shake my head to break free from my trance. These are not the types of thoughts that I’m accustomed to having about any of the young women I work with, and I’m suddenly very conscious of the fact that I’m working alone.
Generally speaking, men aren’t scheduled to work shifts at any of the girls’ houses, but from time to time, one of us gets pulled in to help maintain coverage. A chatty tribe these teenage girls are, so many little meth orphans who can’t seem to get enough attention. One would never suspect they could be so difficult to manage.
I didn’t start the night off alone. But my coworker has gone home sick with some sort of stomach complaint, the details of which I find it wise not to delve too deeply into. It’s no big deal really. We’ve all been screened, our fingerprints checked against a federal database of murderers, pedophiles, and scoundrels. It’s more a matter of not wishing to put any of the staff into potentially compromising positions, than any real concern for misconduct.
Nevertheless, those panties have got my mind to wandering. Suddenly I can picture her sitting alone in the bathtub, naked as a jaybird, goose bumps running along the length of her arms and legs where they jut out of the water. I can see vividly her breasts peeking out from behind the bubbles, bobbing on the surface- amazing actually that a teenager already possesses breasts large enough to accomplish such a feat. She’s craning her neck as she tugs at and stretches the little lips of her pussy in order to prevent a flat surface for the razor. We can’t afford the luxury of shaving cream, and she has to resort to plain bar soap to build up a lather.
I can tell that all that pulling and stretching has activated her clitoris, causing it to elongate and peek out from her pink folds like a tiny periscope. I know she’ll have to concentrate hard to finish the job properly, the goose bumps gone now, replaced by beads of sweat that cling to her tits and forehead. Her own moisture begins to seep out from her body, helping the razor to glide smoothly over the pale, intimate flesh.
When she’s finished shaving, she runs the bar of soap over her crotch, a still squared-off edge going over her clit and making her flush, making her thighs go tense. After the first time, she has to do it again. And then again, making sure her pussy is clean and smooth, that she didn’t overlook a single follicle. I can imagine her biting her bottom lip, the line between hygiene and outright masturbation escort bostancı blurring. She glances over at the lockless door when she hears voices coming from out in the hallway- one of her nine housemates, or perhaps even the low reverberations of my own, coming to her faintly and adding to her excitement.
By now, her moisture comes faster, dispersing in the bathwater, tingeing and infusing it with her scent, so many parts per million, the water level in the tub rising infinitesimally, drop by secret drop. Unknowingly, she’ll carry the scent along with her on her body once her bath is done, once the hounding of her housemates drives her from the tub, her hand reluctantly leaving her tingling puss.
Without being aware of doing so, she’s sending out signals as she hugs me goodnight, a single nostril hair detecting arousal on the air and passing it wordlessly along down low to my brainstem, to the place where those things primal and sightless still live in dark, dank swamps. The arousal trickles undetectable, spreading itself like a virus, the information lighting sectors in my brain.
Undoubtedly, her own arousal is several steps ahead of my own, the sensations new to her still and hard to pinpoint for what they are. It’s merely something that will keep her tossing and turning once I crack the bedroom door to call “lights-out”, something that will make sleep an impossibility, the proximity of her roommates stifling any chance for relief should she even recognize it for what it is, knowing only that her pussy is taking a lot longer to dry than the rest of her body.
Free now of the bra, her nipples are hard, refusing to deflate, irritated and insistent against the fabric of the jersey she sleeps in. More trails of arousal are being sent southward, continuing to build until it all becomes too much to take and she has to get up, the need unspecific still, merely a restlessness that manifests itself initially as a sudden thirst, and then a tingle bone-deep in her pelvis that she confuses with the urge to pee. Stumbling back to the bathroom on unsteady legs, the drops coming reluctantly and then stopping, the rasp of the toilet paper across her crotch further confusing and inflaming, bringing her back to me sitting in the office time and time again, making up questions on the fly that can wait until morning. My own chemistry triggered as well now, churning, coughing to life and sending out it’s own hormonic invitations, tendrils that flutter and beckon her back, her receptors finely tuned, flickering hot…
“Are you even listening to me?”
She’s still there. Or there again. I realize that I’m exhausted. It’s my eighth shift in a row and I can’t be certain. But that shirt’s unquestionably still there, going up and down, drawing my complete attention.
“Careful with that shirt,” I tell her.
She blushes and her arms go still. “Oh yeah, sorry.”
“You better have something on underneath…” I say, knowing the answer already and treading some invisible line of conduct.
“I do,” She tells me, smiling and lifting the shirt all the way to her waist, giving me a chance to examine the way her mound pushes against her underwear, before dropping the hem again.
“Don’t show me that,” I chide her gently. “I meant besides your underwear. You know you can’t walk around here without shorts on. Especially when there’s a man on shift.”
“But they’re so cute,” She argues. “I just got them. My caseworker took me shopping.”
I wait. Again the shirt comes up. She runs her palm over the front panel, taking another step closer as she smoothes the fabric over her groin. “They’re soft. Don’t you like them?” She asks.
I look away. I can feel myself shaking as I try, without success, to focus on my paperwork.
“I like them,” she states decisively, taking hold of the waistband and pulling up on the new underwear in order to seat them to best advantage. The move serves to pull the fabric even tighter across the bulge of her sex. Both of her lips are clearly visible, and then, miraculously, the split between them- the doll going anatomically correct, knocking the wind from me.
She doesn’t notice. She’s waiting for me to compliment her on her taste in lingerie.
“Camel toe,” I say before I can stop myself.
Immediately the shirt drops.
“Shut up!” She giggles.
She lifts the jersey again to examine herself. “Oops,” She says.
She has my complete attention now. I’ve forgotten all about my paperwork as she reaches into the leg of her underwear with a forefinger and runs it downward, pulling the fabric out and away from her body, revealing for the briefest of moments the hint of a cleanly shaved lip.
Once freed, the fabric is noticeably damp where it has been pulled flush up against her entrance. She spots the wetness as soon as I do and runs her thumb over it.
“Whoops,” She says, flushing further and rocking back on her heels, resisting the impulse to flee back to the safety of her bedroom.
“Have to ümraniye escort pee?” I ask her.
“That’s not pee…” She laughs, gathering herself.
“No?” I ask, feigning indifference.
“Don’t you know anything about women?” She asks me. “You’re not a woman.” I tell her, reminding myself as much as her.
“18 years-old is a woman.” She tells me, raising her thumb to her nose and sniffing it.
I laugh, but it rings false. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve been 18 for all of, what, twenty hours now?” The words trip over one another. I can’t believe she’s sniffing herself like that.
She pays me no mind.
“What’s it smell like?” I finally ask.
“Me.” She says.
“You mean like your pee…”
“It’s not pee you idiot.” She comes even closer, sticking her thumb under my nose. “Smell.”
Jesus. Her scent is faint, but it’s there. Even so, I sniff a time or two before shaking my head.
“I can’t really smell anything,” I fib.
“Hold on a minute.”
The hand goes beneath the shirt again. I can’t take my eyes away as she strokes herself through her underwear. I can tell that she’s having a hard time pulling her thumb away from her crotch and returning it to me.
“Still nothing,” I tell her. “Besides, I’ve smelled pee plenty of times.”
“You’re an ignoramus,” She tells me, genuinely concerned by my naivety.
“Ignoramus? Good word,” I say.
This time her whole right hand disappears down into the pouch of her panties.
“It was one of my vocab words last semester.” There’s a hitch in her voice that I’ve never heard before.
“What are you doing now?” I ask her.
The hand flits around beneath the shirt. It’s as if a small bird, a sparrow perhaps, had become lodged there. Her breathing comes faster, making her breasts rise and fall, the nipples going hard, breaking the clean slopes of her chest.
This time when the hand emerges, two fingers are coated in her syrup, as if she’s plunged them into a piece of ripe fruit.
“Smell now,” She tells me.
I take hold of her wrist and get the fingers right up under my nose. I breathe her scent in deeply before letting her go, my cock beginning to fill with blood.
“Smells good,” I tell her.
“Not like pee?”
She takes another whiff herself, and then surprises me by putting her middle finger in her mouth and sucking on it.
“Mmmm,” She purrs.
“Taste good?” I ask her.
“Oh yeah. I taste good.”
“What’s it taste like?”
“Here,” She tells me. “I saved you one.”
She offers me her index finger and I waste no time getting it into my mouth. I suck on it hard, as if it were a small dick. My own considerably larger member is beginning to press up against the underside of the desk. She begins making moaning noises before checking herself, watching me as I clean the juices from her finger.
“You like it?” She asks me. I nod, still sucking, determined to take in every last droplet of her essence.
“What is it?” I ask, reluctantly releasing the finger.
“You really don’t know?”
Somehow I’m able to keep a straight face as I tell her no.
“Do you want me to show you?”
The words hang in the air overhead. I can’t believe my luck, and I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from jumping up and taking hold of her bodily. I manage to eek out a yes, and she glances out into the shadows beyond the office door to ensure none of the other girls are spying on us. All seems quiet.
I tell her that I am. Quite sure.
I watch as she gathers the jersey up at her waist, trapping it beneath her elbow and reaching across her body with her right hand. I hold my breath as she pulls the crotch of her panties away from her body and off to one side, baring the glorious whole of her shaved pudendum to my view.
I’m worried I may faint as she peers down at herself, using her hand to brush away a piece of lint left behind by her underwear, her little finger glancing off her clit.
“You ever see one before?” She asks me, a strange smile on her face. She seems utterly unconcerned at having her exposed sex staring me directly in the face.
“I’ve seen drawings before in books,” I boast. “I thought they had hair on them.”
“I’ve been shaving it since I was 13, silly.”
“It looks smooth,” I tell her.
“It is. I just shaved it this morning. You want to feel?”
I know this is the moment of truth. Up until now, I’ve been nothing more than an innocent bystander, a diligent employee just trying to get his work done so he can go home. What man or woman could find fault with me? After all, it isn’t my fault if a consenting adult chooses to flash me her beaver. But I know once I touch her, there can be no going back. It’ll mean my job. I won’t do it. I can’t.
“Okay,” I shrug, as if I can take it or leave it, as if I regularly have newly-minted 18 year-olds offering to let me manhandle their coochies.
She comes around to kartal escort bayan the side of my desk. Her crotch is level with my mouth I note, somewhat frantically. I can smell her clearly now, and I know that her scent will linger long after I’m relieved by Ms. Jenny an hour from now. “I’ll just have to crack a window and hope for the best,” I have time to think before she takes hold of my wrist, laying my palm flat against her skin.
I stroke her gently, my pinky following the path of her own, edging close to the groove that nestles her clit. With a finger I push against her fleshy lip, noting its elasticity.
“If feels spongy. Kind of like Jell-O,” I tell her.
She smiles, pushing her hips forward the slightest bit, as I explore her with my hand. Her eyes are closed and she’s moaning quietly, hoping I don’t hear, content to pretend for the time being that this display is solely for my edification.
“But where does the wet come from?” I ask her.
“Feel lower down.” She tells me, keeping her eyes closed.
I sweep my thumb lower across her lips, catching slightly on some stubble before picking up moisture where they come together over her hole.
“It’s sweat,” I tell her.
I continue to rub her with my thumb, pulling her glistening lip aside a fraction, getting my first peek at the pink inner lips that hang down. She feels it and tells me to hold her open.
“See the hole?” She asks. “That’s where the wet comes from.”
I must look doubtful because she adds: “Put your finger inside if you don’t believe me.”
I waste no time in taking her up on her offer, getting my index finger up against her vagina proper, inserting just the nail before looking up at her.
“It’s okay,” She tells me, her breaths coming faster. “Go ahead and do it.”
“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t. Bigger things than a finger can fit in there,” She says.
I insert a little bit more. My finger goes in easily enough, despite how tight she feels.
“Is this where babies come out?” I ask.
She nods and then laughs, her cheeks flushed. “Kids and cocks.”
“Oh yeah.” I give her a little more of my finger before abruptly withdrawing, a small sound of disappointment making it’s way past her lips.
I lay my hand on the desk. We both stare at it as she pulls her underwear back into position. The index finger is glistening with her moisture.
“Don’t waste it,” She says with a nod.
“No,” I say, putting the digit in my mouth, lapping up most of her juice before remembering my manners. “You want some?”
She nods and takes my finger in her mouth, sucking at it even harder than I’d done to her, an unspoken promise in her eyes.
After a while I tell her she’s not being fair. “You’re taking it all and you can have it whenever you want.”
I try to take back the finger but she sucks even harder. I stand up and move my face close to her, tongue out, fighting for a taste when the finger emerges from her mouth. Soon my tongue is going over her lips.
I’m only partially aware of the fact that my dick is pointed obscenely towards her, nudging against her bare leg as we struggle, thumping behind my zipper like a dog’s tail against the carpet. She becomes aware of my condition as we share the last traces of her fluid.
“You’ve got a stiffy!” She says, taking a step back before pointing at my groin and laughing nervously.
My hips go forward when she says it, but even so I try to deny it, covering my midsection with my hand, trying to smooth over the offending lump. My dick’s having none of it though, and when I remove my hand, the lump remains.
“Shhhhhhhh!” I tell her. “Not so loud! And I do not have a stiffy.”
She laughs at me and calls me a liar, boldly poking my cock through my pants down low at the base.
“You’re hard as a rock. Look at it!” It’s true. My cock is pointing straight up, having climbed almost to my waistband. She pokes it in several more places along its length to make her point.
“That just happens sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything. Besides, you’ve got a couple of stiffies there yourself,” I tell her, reaching up and tweaking a nipple through her shirt.
She squeals as I give it a little twist. I know the rough fabric of the jersey will make her nipple stiffer still.
“That’s only because I’m cold is all.”
“Mine too,” I say.
Again she tells me I’m a liar. “Boys don’t get stiffies when they’re cold. It’s because you’re horny. Look at that big thing. It’s about to rip through your pants.”
We look together. The damned thing is certainly conspicuous. It’s like another person has come into the room.
“I am not horny,” I insist. “And even if I was, it wouldn’t be any of your business.”
She ignores me, still eyeing the lump in my pants. Again I cover my dick with my hand, squeezing and pressing against it on the sly, making it grow even more. So much blood has rushed to my midsection that I’ve begun to feel somewhat lightheaded.
“It’s gross,” She tells me, shaking her head. “I think penises are ugly.”
“My penis is not ugly!” I protest, genuinely offended.
She merely stares at me.
“I’m serious. Compared to most of the penises I’ve seen, I’d even say my penis was rather handsome.”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32