Who cares. I told myself.“What I am seeing is enough to make my day. I don’t want to see anything else” (I was so naive those days). “Shut up, please.” And she sat straight up, which got me even more confused and aroused. She was wearing a blouse and nothing else.“I want you to tell me how this looks on me.”“Your’s looks wonderful” was what I could muster. My eyes were still fixed on her cleavage and a good portion of her boobs while wondering what color her nipples would be. She suddenly disconnected the phone and messaged me that someone had come to her room, so she had to disconnect.Days went by, and we continued with our way of getting things done and letting things go. But from that day, I was hell-bent on seeing her naked. I had this wild idea of seeing her naked, standing in front of me while I would shamelessly ogle her out.To this day, it was only hugs and kisses and pressing her boobs (on a day when I was extremely lucky to do so). I wanted more than that. I wanted to. If one light accidental touch hadbeen that electrifying, I just had to find out what a deliberate caresswould do. I'm sure my eyes rolled backwards in their sockets and I knowmy heart skipped at least a beat if not two as I slowly stroked mymiddle finger up my thigh and across the tightly stretched nylon of thepantyhose covering my crotch. The pantyhose went off in a frantic rushas I fought to gain better access to my dripping pussy. For some reasonmy legs wanted to separate, to give me better access. As a guy this hadnever crossed my mind, probably since my dick did all the thinking andautomatically rose to the occasion.My body was screaming 'stroke me, fill me, help me get that orgasm I sodesperately want' while what little of my rational brain waged a warthat was screaming equally as loud 'Greg, don't do it. Greg, you're aman. Greg, be a man'. And then there was the irrational emotionallydriven side of me that was actually verbalizing, or more accuratelypanting 'Oh Greg, oh Greg,.
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