I wanted a talk, a confrontation some sort of reaction, not silence. The longer I stood there the more I rolled things over in my mind. What if she didn't get a good look at me when she walked in and really didn't see that I was in her panties? I was certain she had looked down but she turned so quickly. If she didn't notice her panties on me then putting my jeans on would put an end to any possibility of discussion. But she HAD to know I was in her panties, didn't she? If she did know, then why wasn't she coming back in my room to talk to me about it? If not, I would have to let her see me again in her panties. I didn't want to wait another day for this. Either she walked in or I walked out but how could I accomplish this? There was no way I could make Mom walk in on me again but I could control what I did. It occurred to me that I would have to eventually return Mom‘s panties to her drawer at some point. If I could change in my room, dress and return them, though walking into Mom‘s. It wasn’t the job I felt guilty about it. It was him. He’d always been a fantastic boss. One I could have a laugh and joke with, never busted my balls for being late on the odd occasion, and always let me have holiday time, no matter how little notice I gave him. I was only 23, but from stories from my mates and family, it sounded like he was one in a million, and I was genuinely going to miss the guy. As I walked in he greeted me with an enthusiastic handshake, that trademark toothy grin and casual ‘You alright, Andy, how’s tricks?’ This was going to be difficult. I sat down at one of the seats around the corporate table after we’d exchanged the inevitable pleasantries and banter. He was a big Arsenal fan, and after their recent demolishing at the hands of Liverpool, I couldn’t help but rub some salt in some quite obvious gaping wounds, as he normally wore one of his Gunners ties to work. On this occasion he had gone with a mustard yellow number, something else I picked up on and.
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