"Hey Bree! Your favorite weirdo just got on and wants to talk to you." You hear some stuff being dropped on the floor down the hall as footsteps begin to get louder. Bree runs into the room, still in her blue jeans and pink halter top. "I thought you were in there to change for tonight?"
"I'm working on that. Geeze." Standing beside you, she leans over to see the screen. "What did he say?"
"Not much. He just typed your name and asked how your day went?"
"Tell him I just got home, that my day was fine until somebody spilled a drink on my pants...and tell him I'll be right back and that he caught me in my underwear changing." Bree starts laughing. "Yeah, tell him that and see what he says."
You're already typing what she said. You chuckle as she finds another way to mess with Tom. Tom is a neighbor who lives down the street. He moved in several years ago around the beginning of Bree's junior year. Tom's a bit weird, but not because he has a few physical disabilities. Tom's weird because he has an almost stalker-like fascination with Bree, and has no problem letting her know that he likes her. And Bree loves messing with him because of it. She probably brings a lot of it on herself. "What are you laughing at Bree?"
Pointing at the screen, she says, "Duh. He offered to come over and help me change. Wake up John. Maybe I should be typing." Without skipping a beat, Bree pushes your chair back a bit and sits on your lap, pulling the chair back up so she can type. With no armrests, you reach around and rest your arms against her legs, your hands resting just above her knee.
Now Bree's a beautiful girl. You've known her for about five months now, and while you are just friends, her definition of friends has resulted in somebody asking you that once. Her body could get her a modeling job if she wanted: shapely legs, a tight yet round ass, well endowed breasts, and a developing hourglass figure. She has been working out on the equipment her dad owns to help keep in shape. And every time she decides to sit on your lap at the computer, she reminds you of all of that.
Bree laughs again, just before she wiggles her ass in your lap as she scoots back and turns her head. "Can you believe he said that?"
"Amazing." You quickly look to read what was said. Something about how he had a dream about her last night. Oooooh, that's what she meant. Apparently the dream was a fun dream for him as she finally kissed him first. You chuckle as she types back to him, asking if she used tongue or not. Not surprisingly, the response was yes. As Bree starts to type again, you stop her. "Wait, I have a thought." You lift your hands off of her legs and reach for the keyboard. You type back a response and hit enter.
Laughing, Bree reads what you typed. "That's odd, as I usually don't use tongue on the first kiss." She smacks the side of your leg. "Nice. I was going to ask if he liked the taste." She starts laughing again. "Well, I guess he didn't like hearing that, he sounds a bit upset." She pushes your hands away and starts typing again, "Anything else happen?"
You read as Tom types back that the alarm woke him up before anything else could happen. Bree starts laughing again. "Now what do you want to say Bree?"
"I don't know. You start typing." Her hands limp off the keyboard and rest between her knees as she leans back.
With your chin on her right shoulder, you reach up and begin to type. You start asking him what he would have done if the alarm hadn't woken him up, what Bree was wearing, and where were they at? Each time you come up with some odd response like you did before. Each time Bree laughs. It isn't until Tom begins answering your question of whether this was the only time they kissed that you begin to notice that Bree is slowly rubbing the inside of your legs. You keep typing as you inch your feet forward between hers. Two minutes later, you use your feet and legs to spread her legs apart.
You keep typing, this time with Bree telling you how her day went so you can tell Tom, with some embellishments. As you type about how Bree started feeling horny during her music history class, you notice that her hands are no longer rubbing your legs, but you can feel her arm flexing against yours as you type. With your chin resting on her shoulder, you carefully lean your head forward and glance down, confirming that her hand is moving between her legs. At an opportune moment, you apologize to Tom and ask how his day went. Once you have him talking, you pull your hands away from the keyboard. You startle Bree as your left hand gently rests against her and squeezes.
Stuttering, Bree manages to speak. "I...I'm sorry."
