Act VI: No Peeking
"I'm running late," she tells me when I see her next. "I still need to change."
She's wearing workout clothes again -- loose sweatshorts, and an abbreviated t-shirt that shows off her chest, as well as her bellybutton when her arm goes up to run a hand through her hair. Her stomach is invitingly toned, as taut as a rope under load. I can see the super-fine blond hairs showing in the light when she moves in profile.
I tell her it's okay with me, watching as she gathers up her clothes and makes her way to the bathroom to change. God knows I'm in no hurry to get back to the solitude of my shabby apartment.
She returns to the office seconds later though, having found both bathrooms occupied.
"Change in here," I tease.
"Yeah, I probably should since it's the only room in the house with a lock," she says, giving me a look.
But instead of offering to step out, I only smile, checking out the short skirt she carries before telling her to go right ahead, the tables turned.
She's unfazed though, merely laughing before asking me if I'm serious.
"Why not?" I tell her. "I won't watch..."
She smiles back at me, taking up the challenge and closing the door.
"You BETTER not," she says, kicking off her sneakers.
I expect that she'll face away from me, but instead she just turns to one side, similar to the way I'd done only a week earlier after experiencing some pesky 'swelling' issues. The office is situated such that it's difficult to get away with anything more egregious than scratching oneself without being put at risk of being spotted by someone through a window.
As I pretend to be focusing on my charts, I can't help but keep one eye on her progress. At first there's little to be seen. Women can be so damned creative in withholding what it is we men are forever trying to see. And yet all the while remaining enticing somehow. It makes me wonder if isn't some innate ability.
Her opening move is to pull the skirt on over the sweatshorts. Already I find myself getting aroused as I watch her dress, the slithery rustling sounds getting under my skin. Even though she's going the complete opposite direction of what I'd like, the act reminds me that she's swathed in only a few meager layers, clothing that if only she'd consent to remove would reveal the miracle of a real live naked woman.
I can tell that she's determined to deny me even the slightest of glimpses as she reaches down beneath the skirt to shed the sweatshorts. But the skirt's too tight, and when she tugs on them, the skirt comes partway down too, revealing the startling reality of her leg muscles and a tanned ass cheek before she hurries to pull it back up into position.
I want to compliment her on the view. But I remember in the nick of time that I'm not supposed to be watching, looking away a mere moment before she spots me.
Even so, she sees something in my face -- some flush or deception -- and reminds me of our no peeking accord.
"I barely saw anything," I object. "Do what you need to do girl."
My interest is peaked anew as she turns her attention to the rest of her attire. She's eyeing me closely to make sure I don't cheat. Nevertheless I'm having a difficult time even pretending not to watch as her arms retreat into the sleeves of the t-shirt to contend with her sports bra. She looks for all the world like an escape artist trying to free herself from a straightjacket as she works the thing up over her tits, contorting her body until it ends up ringed around her neck.
Clever, I think, as the arms come back out. When she raises them to pull the bra over her head, I take the opportunity to steal a lingering glimpse, watching as her tits rise up on her chest, all wobbly and unrestrained. I can make out the pokey tips of them pushing out against the fabric.
"I think you left your nipples on," I joke, despite the fact that all my smart-assery has gotten me nowhere to this point.
"Eyes averted!" she laughs, cupping herself lovingly in both hands and squeezing, tweaking her nipples reflexively before reaching for the workaday white bra sitting on top of her purse. I'm annoyed with myself that it's somehow escaped my notice.
As she feeds the replacement bra over her left arm, and then in through the armhole, I'm only partially aware of the fact that I'm still working on the same chart I was when she arrived. I try to steal a peek into the dark recesses of the sleeves, hoping to spot a free-roaming nipple, but my shitty luck holds true to form.
While she's struggling to try and properly seat the bra, the shirt works it's way upwards, offering up tantalizing vistas of her stomach, but falling short of showing me the undersides of her tits, despite the silent prayers I project heavenward. When she fastens the big white bra in the back, her breasts are thrown forward. But the fabric of the thing mutes the effects of her erect nipples.
By now I've given up all pretenses of pretending to work. It's the moment of truth. Getting the replacement shirt on without treating me to a goodly amount of skin is going to prove more difficult I know, and I hope she doesn't have anymore garment tricks up her sleeve.
It's apparent that she too has come to a similar conclusion as she eyes the fresh shirt. I watch as she contemplates how to go about things, weighing the possibilities in her mind. I figure she'll simply turn her back to me now, and I prepare to content myself with the impending view of her almost-bare back. But instead she just laughs and shrugs, announcing 'what the heck' as she peels the shirt off in one fluid movement.
The maneuver catches me by surprise, and I forget entirely that I'm not supposed to be looking. The white bra does an admirable job of supporting her ample tits, but either she's forgotten, or no longer cares that the cups are made entirely of lace, giving me a birds eye view of her perfect coffee-and-cream-colored, quarter-sized nipples.
When I see them, my penis goes hard beneath the desk so quickly that it's as if the blood had a direct line from my eyeballs to my groin. I've little time to enjoy the view however, as once the new shirt goes on and her modesty reestablished, she immediately opens the office door, as nonchalant as if the incident had never occurred.
As she goes about her business, checking to ensure that the children are all in bed, thankfully my poor stunned penis begins to recover from his shock. He deflates unwillingly over the course of the next hour as I finish up my neglected charts.
All the commotion coming from the office as I get ready to leave gets her attention. Overtly, I watch as she approaches, her hips going back and forth in that skirt, giving my penis a fresh infusion of blood. Sitting down in the seat across from me, she smiles and crosses her legs as she informs me that all of the kids are in bed. She seems pleased by my efficiency, which should make her own night go easier.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, surreptitiously checking out her legs. The tan poles of them extend far back into the shadows of the skirt. When she catches the direction of my gaze, she shifts nervously, re-crossing them. She's behaving oddly, seemingly waiting for something as I grab my pants and move to head off to the bathroom to change (I dislike riding my motorcycle in shorts, even with the temperatures as they are).
But as I go to pass her, she takes hold of my wrist, stopping me.
"Where do you think you're going?" she asks.
"To change," I tell her, perplexed at being held up.
"Oh no," she says. "Seems to me you owe me a little show."
"How do you figure?" I ask.
