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 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.
"I'm serious."
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 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.
