Inappropriate Behaviour and Other Stories
by Aussiescribbler
Smashwords Edition published by
Aussiescribbler
Copyright
2011 Aussiescribbler
Cover image from http://www.123rf.com/
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Sleeping Beauty and Prince Pervert
I'm a psychiatrist. My name is Dr. Baker. I was hired by Roy Channing of Channing Chemicals to treat his 21-year old daughter Darla for her inappropriate sexual behaviour.
Darla had recently been expelled from college. My initial impression from Mr. Channing's description of the incidents which had led to her expulsion led me to believe that Darla might be suffering from nymphomania.
Given Mr. Channing's prominent position in the community, the situation had to be handled discreetly.
I have a small property in the backwoods of Maine which is extremely pleasant in the summer months. I felt it would be a good idea for me to take Darla away from the distractions of her home in Los Angeles and give her some intensive psychoanalysis in just such a remote natural environment. I have always been a believer in the theory that the artificial environments of our modern cities have a disturbing effect on the psyche and that, likewise, a return to more natural surroundings can have a calming influence. The plan also had the advantage of removing Darla from the clutches of the Paparazzi who had had a field day recording her naughty college pranks for the gutter press.
The one person who was not pleased with the plan was Darla herself.
"Do we really have to do this psychoanalysis shit?" she complained, during our first session together. "Why don't we just fuck instead? Daddy doesn't have to know what we get up to. When I get back, I can act really good for a week or so, and then we can just pretend that the effects of your treatment wore off. No-one will be any the wiser, and you'll get to fuck a really luscious twenty-one year old. You must be at least fifty. I bet you don't get girls like me throwing themselves at you everyday."
"Who does or doesn't throw themselves at me is not the issue here," I tried to explain. "The issue is whether or not you are going to learn to control your inappropriate behaviour."
"What's inappropriate about trying to get a bit of sex?" she wanted to know. "Sex is fun, right? So why shouldn't I have a bit of fun? It seems perfectly natural to me."
"It may seem natural to you, but how many other girls do you know who run into the boy's locker room after the football match and hop into the shower with the whole football team?" I asked her.
"I can't help it if all the other girls are too chicken," she complained. "The guys like having a pretty nude girl to help them soap up their cocks for them. The only reason I got expelled was cause the coach came in just as I was sucking Billy Mitchell's dick. If you ask me, he was jealous. I think the coach fancies Billy himself. I mean if he's not a homo, why did he say no when I offered to do the same for him? Answer me that."
"You have to learn that your behaviour has consequences," I pointed out. "And that you can't always avoid those consequences by offering to have sex with people."
"At least I know that you're not a homo," she said, ignoring the point I was trying to make. "'Cause when I said we should fuck, I saw your dick go stiff in your pants."
"What may or may not happen inside of my trousers is not the issue here..." I began again, having the vague feeling that I was repeating myself.
"Why don't you just pull it out and give it a tug?" she asked. "I won't tell anyone. I know you want to. Masturbating is so much fun."
"That brings us to another point," I replied. "Masturbation may well be an enjoyable pastime, but it is one that is only appropriate in private. It is not appropriate to masturbate during economics class."
"Well, I was bored," she pouted. "And I would have got away with it if Dorothy Matthews hadn't dobbed on me. I reckon Dorothy should do more masturbating herself, then she wouldn't be so uptight she feels she has to spoil someone else's fun."
"You always find someone else to blame," I pointed out, "but the fact is that you bring problems on yourself when you fail to exercise proper self-control."
"I didn't want to go to college in the first place," she claimed. "It was daddy's idea."
"Your father just wants to make sure you can get a good job," I explained. "What sort of job are you going to get without a college education."
"I could be a prostitute," she replied.
"What sort of occupation is that?" I asked her. "I don't think you would enjoy it as much as you may think. You wouldn't have any choice about who you had sex with."
"I know that," she said, her tone of voice implying that she thought I was stupid. "But I could earn lots of money."
"How do you think your father would feel if his daughter turned out to be a prostitute?" I asked her.
"Daddy just wants me to work for him," she replied, in a voice dripping with scorn.
"What's wrong with that?" I asked. "You could make a lot of money that way too."
"My daddy's company makes the chemicals that made a hole in the ozone layer," she explained. "Because of him people are afraid to go to nude beaches anymore because they might get skin cancer and die. At least prostitutes bring some enjoyment to the world."
"But you wouldn't be able to be a prostitute for very long," I pointed out. "Eventually you would get old and no-one would want you anymore."
"By that time I would have saved up enough money to retire to the Greek Islands, where I could laze in the sun and masturbate while I watch all those young Adonises playing in the surf," she pointed out. "At least I can if my daddy hasn't destroyed the ozone over the Greek Islands too by then."
"You really don't like your father, do you?" I asked.
"I just don't like what he does for a living," she replied.
"Well, I think we have had enough talking for today," I said. "This treatment doesn't just consist of talking. You are here to learn how your behaviour can lead to either good or bad consequences. The choice is yours. Here in the country we have to be self-reliant. If you don't go and cut some wood this afternoon, you will not have a fire in your room tonight when it gets cold. If you don't cook dinner for yourself, you will have nothing to eat."
"I'm not lazy, you know?" she whined. "I don't mind chopping my own wood, and cooking my own dinner. It will be fun after being waited on hand and foot. But we can still have that fuck afterwards, if you feel like it."
Sure enough, she proved a very efficient worker. She chopped enough wood not only for the fire in her room, but for one in mine and one in the lounge-room as well. As she worked away enthusiastically, I took the opportunity to look her over.
She was relatively small, with a face that was cute rather than pretty, framed by dark hair that fell loosely to her shoulders. She was wearing a white t-shirt and tight denims that came to a frayed end just above her knees. Her breasts hung a little low for her age, perhaps due to her habit of going braless as she was now. Her breasts swung enticingly beneath her t-shirt as she swung the axe, and the sight caused my cock to stiffen once more.
"All done," she said triumphantly as she came over to the spot where I was sitting under a tree, pretending to read a book. Her pale green eyes looked straight into mine with an impressive air of defiance.
"Very good," I replied. "I'm impressed."
"Now I'm all hot and sweaty," she said. "Mind if I go for a swim in the lake?"
"Not at all," I replied. "Physical exercise... er, physical exercise of the right sort... is most important."
"Want to join me?" she asked as she unzipped her jeans.
"Not right now," I replied.
"O.K." she said, as she pulled off her jeans. She continued to look me in the eye as she pulled the t-shirt over her head to reveal her soft, pale full-nippled breasts. "Do you like my boobs?" she asked, placing her hands beneath them and jiggling them.
"Whether or not I like your boobs, is not the issue... " I began.
"I can tell you do, Doctor, by the fact that your dick is getting really stiff in your pants again," she giggled. "I wish you weren't such a party-pooper and would come skinny-dipping with me. I'd love to get a look at that stiffy of yours. Look how stiff my nipples are. That's because I get so horny showing off in front of you. I bet my pussy is really wet, too." She grabbed the sides of her skimpy panties and pulled them down. Her pubes were full, but trimmed neatly at the sides.
"You really must learn to curb your exhibitionistic tendencies," I told her, with as much conviction as I could muster.
"Mmmmm, it is really wet," she said, running her fingers over the pink lips of her vagina.
"Wanna feel?"
"No, I do not!" I lied.
"Party-pooper!" she pouted, before turning and running toward the lake. I gazed longingly at her pale bottom as it jiggled off into the distance. This was going to be a very long couple of weeks.
That evening went fairly uneventfully. Darla sat and watched T.V. while I worked on my book.
"Are you really sure you don't want me to sleep in your bed?" Darla asked when I explained the sleeping arrangements. "There's nothing like having your cock sucked to relax you and give you a really restful night's sleep."
"Now, now. None of that," I warned her, and retired to my room.
I undressed and was about to climb into bed when I noticed something lying on the floor. It was a brown paper bag. When I picked it up and opened it, I found that it contained a pile of magazines. They were the kind of magazines that are full of pictures of nude women. Darla was playing games with me again. On the top of the pile was a note saying: "Hope you have a really lovely wank, Doctor."
I knew that I should resist any of the temptations with which she presented me. But, on the other hand, how would she know that I had looked at the magazines?
I turned on the bedside light, and then turned off the room light. Spreading the magazines out on the side of the bed away from the door, I lay down on my left side and began to leaf through them. It wasn't long before my cock was stiff. I grasped it with my right hand and began to stroke it gently as I looked at all of those bare breasts, bottoms and vaginas. I also found myself thinking of Darla standing there nude in front of me, the sweat of all that wood-chopping pouring down over her pale skin.
When I reached the end of one of the magazines, I found an Instamatic photo taped to the last page. It was of Darla. She was nude and she was masturbating. In fact the photo had captured her at the moment of climax as her vagina squirted out a stream of liquid.
Just as I found this photo, the door burst open and in ran Darla in a long night shirt. I looked over my shoulder at her as I shot jet after jet of cum over my bed sheet and the magazine and photo.
"Oooo, goody," she cried, hopping up on the bed beside me. "All those luscious women and you picked me to jerk off over. I'm so glad." She kissed me on the cheek and wiped some cum off of my flaccid cock with her finger and then licked it with her tongue. "MMMmm, yummy cum," she said.
"You get out of here!" I screamed, pushing her off the bed.
"What are you going to do?" she asked cheekily, turning away and lifting her night-shirt to display her nude bottom to me. "Spank my naughty little bottom?"
I grabbed her and pushed her from the room, and then locked the door.
Thankfully, after all that exercise, Darla slept in late the next morning.
"It was very wrong of you to come into my bedroom last night," I told her when she emerged at about 11.00, wearing a light floral summer dress. "How would you like it if I invaded your privacy?"
"But Doctor," she replied, cheekily, "you know that I would love to have you invade me anytime you like."
"It is not just what you want, that counts," I pointed out. "You have to consider what other people may want as well. Some people like a bit of privacy."
"It's very hot today," she replied, ignoring me as usual. "I think I'll take all of my clothes off."
"Don't you dare!" I warned her.
"What are you going to do about it?" she asked, as she pulled her dress over her head. She was only wearing a skimpy pair of panties.
"I warn you," I told her, "if you take those panties off, you'll be sorry."
"Why will I be sorry?" she asked. "All you ever do is talk. Are you really going to punish me if I take my panties off?"
"I don't believe in punishment," I explained. "I believe that it is my job to help you to understand your behaviour and to change voluntarily."
"So you won't punish me if I take my panties off?" she insisted.
"Well, no..." I replied.
"Good," she said. "I'll take them off then. I think you really want me to, because your dick is getting so stiff that it is about to burst the front of your pants. Why don't you pull them down. You'll be much more comfortable and I'll be able to see what your dick looks like when it is really big and stiff. I'd like that. I think you have a really cute dick, but I haven't seen it really stiff yet. At least, only when it is still inside your pants."
She pulled off her panties and sat in a chair across from me completely naked.
"So if you were in my position," I asked, in exasperation, "what would you do to try to make a girl like yourself see sense?"
"Well, as far as I can see," she replied, as she fiddled casually with her nipples, "the only way to stop someone from doing something you don't want them to is to punish them when they do it."
"What kind of punishment?" I asked.
"Maybe spanking," she suggested.
"Did your father spank you when you were little?" I asked.
"No. My daddy was like you," she replied, "he didn't believe in corporal punishment, and he would have fired any of my nanny's who dared to spank me."
"Ah-hah," I said, "we may be getting to something here. Sometimes children feel insecure if parents don't set boundaries for them. They may feel that a parent who doesn't punish them when they are naughty, doesn't love them. Are you maybe misbehaving in order to get someone to prove that they love you by punishing you?"
"Maybe that's it," she replied, though she didn't really sound very interested in my theories. "So the best way for you to cure me is to spank my nude bottom."
"You may have a point," I replied. "You always assume that the consequences of your actions will be painless. Having never been spanked, you assume that that will be painless too. Am I right?"
"Well, it can't hurt all that much, can it?" she said. "And I do like the idea of feeling your hand touching my nude bottom. In fact I like that idea so much I think I need to masturbate."
"If you start masturbating in front of me, you can be damn sure I'll give your bottom a sound thrashing," I warned her.
"But you like seeing me masturbate," she told me. "I saw how much you liked looking at that photo of me playing with myself. But it is much more fun in real life. You should see how far I can squirt my pussy juice."
"I'm not going to warn you again," I threatened.
"I'll just go and get a towel to put over the seat so I don't make a mess of it," she said, ignoring my warning.
"O.K. That's it," I barked. "Come over here and lay down over my lap."
"I thought you'd never ask," she giggled, coming over and laying her nude body over my legs. She pushed her bare bottom up high, and spread her legs slightly so that I could see her puckered little anus between her pale soft cheeks.
I kept telling myself that what I was doing was just for her own good, but the stiffness of my cock couldn't help but give me mixed feelings. Nevertheless, I knew that I had to teach her that pain could be the result of her bad behaviour.
I raised my hand high into the air and brought it down forcefully. A resounding "crack" filled the air.
"Ouch!" cried Darla. "That hurt."
"Of course it hurt," I replied. "And I've only just started."
I slapped her again and again. I have to admit that there was a perverse pleasure to be taken in turning those pale, white cheeks a dark red.
"I'm sorry!" cried Darla. "I'm sorry for being so naughty, Doctor! Please stop!"
I loved the way her bottom jiggled after each slap, and I loved the way her body wriggled against my erection as she tried to free herself.
Eventually, her wriggling became too much and I felt a wave of pleasure sweep over me as a warm wetness spurted into my pants and ran down over my balls.
She felt the wetness, too.
"What is that?" she cried. "Oh-oh, the naughty Doctor came in his pants."
"That's enough for now," I said, trying to maintain my dignity.
"Look what you did to my bottom," she pouted, presenting her red cheeks for inspection.
"I told you it would hurt," I said. "Perhaps you have learnt a lesson."
"It did hurt," she agreed. "But now my bottom feels deliciously warm, and my pussy is really, really wet. I think I'm just going to have to masturbate in front of you anyway."
"I can still spank you again," I warned her.
"That would be nice," she replied. "But next time take your pants off first so you don't make a mess of them when you shoot your messy cum."
She ran off and fetched a soft towel from the bathroom and laid it over her chair. She winced when she sat down.
"This is how I masturbate," she said. "It's so much fun."
I was too tired to resist any further. I just sat there and watched while she slid her fingers in and out of her pussy and fiddled with her nipples.
"Are you sure you don't want to slip out of those uncomfortable clothes and wank along with me?" she asked. "I know you would enjoy it."
She wasn't lying about how messy it was when she came. Her pussy juice squirted all over the towel and even onto the carpet.
She refused to put any clothes on for the rest of the day.
I tried to work on my book but she would just come over and sit in my lap and wriggle her nude bottom and say, "Wanna spank me again?" I clearly wasn't making any progress with her.
That night I locked my door before going to bed. It was a warm night and a refreshing cool breeze blew in the window.
I woke at about midnight to feel a nude body wriggle into my bed next to me.
"Someone forgot to lock the window," she giggled, before kissing her way down my chest and belly and taking my cock into her mouth.
That is all I remember. After that things just get real fuzzy.
You say you picked me up for masturbating in public in the middle of Portland? I don't remember that. But perhaps if you could just take off this ridiculous strait-jacket, I would be able to get my thoughts together.
The End
I thought that the world would tumble down around my ears when I told my wife the awful truth.
It's strange how reality is sometimes such a relieving disappointment compared to our worst imaginings. Contrary to my anxious visions, there was no look of horror, no rush to pack my bags and heave me out on the street.
"Well, it's not like you would ever do something like that," she said. "People think about funny things. If you knew some the things that pass through my brain, you'd think I was totally loopy."
I felt a weight lift from my chest as I realised that my secret was no longer mine to bear in silence. In fact, now that I saw that the world was standing up fine to the awful truth, it began to seem a good deal less substantial itself.
"Like the way I keep thinking about your friend Roger's dick," she explained, sitting up in bed.
"I beg your pardon?" I asked, wondering if my ears where functioning properly.
"Well, he must have a pretty big one, right. When he comes over to pick you up to go to the gym, it always seems to be flopping around in his baggy track pants. He obviously doesn't wear any underpants. I wonder why that is. Maybe it turns on the girls at the gym, hey," she enthused, now sitting up cross-legged in the bed.
"I really haven't considered the issue," I replied, not knowing what to make of all this.
"I must admit, it is kind of a turn-on," she told me. "I keep thinking about how I would just have to reach out and give those baggy pants a tug and they would fall down around his ankles and that big dick of his would be flopping around right in front of me."
"You're not supposed to be having sexual fantasies about my best friend," I replied. "It's not decent."
"Well, look who's suddenly Mr. Decency," she countered, sarcastically. "I mean you started it."
"Yes," I agreed, "but at least I have the good taste to be ashamed of having such ideas."
"Anyway, there's nothing illegal about pulling a guy's pants down to have a look at his cock," she said.
"I think you'll find that there is," I let her know. "I believe that it comes under the heading of 'sexual harassment'."
"Only if he didn't like the idea," Samantha insisted. "And I think Roger would love to have me pull his cock out of his pants. Especially if I offered to suck it for him."
"Samantha! How can you even suggest such a thing!" I cried.
"Oh, yeah. Like there's none of my friend's you'd like to fuck," she responded. "I saw how hard your dick got every time Rachel bent over to give you a drink in that low-cut dress at Tony's party last week. Don't tell me you weren't thinking about how much you'd like to reach into her top and pull one of her boobs out and suck on her nipple."
"Well actually I wasn't thinking about that at all," I replied.
"Sure," she responded, acting as if she was more disgusted by my denial than she would have been if I had agreed with her assessment.
"No," I explained. "What I was actually thinking about was ripping her dress off altogether, throwing her down on the table and ravishing her amid the chips and dips."
"Really?" Samantha wanted to know, her face lighting up. "Rachel would have loved that. She likes it rough. And she kind of fancies you, I think."
"You really are disgusting," I told her, shaking my head.
"So I've got a dirty mind," she replied. "I think you like having a wife with a really filthy mind. If you didn't you wouldn't have that huge stiffy you're trying to hide under the sheet."
With that she pulled down the bedsheet and my stiff cock was revealed, wagging back and forth as it poke out of the fly of my pyjamas.
"I may not be allowed to play with Roger's dick," she pouted, "but I'm allowed to play with hubby's dick." She grasped my stiff cock in her sweaty hand and began to wank it up and down.
"Was it me that gave you this, or the thought of ravishing Rachel among the party snacks?" she wanted to know
"I'll treat that as a rhetorical question," I replied.
"Coward," she said.
"You were such an innocent girl when I married you," I pointed out. "How did you acquire such a dirty mind?"
"I put it down to boredom," she replied, pulling the sheet from her crossed legs. She wasn't wearing any knickers beneath her shorty nightdress. I could see that her pussy was dripping even before she began stroking it leisurely. "You'd be surprised the depths of debauchery to which the innocent mind plummets when faced with endless staff meetings. Sometimes I feel an almost irresistible urge to strip out of my conservative school teacher outfit in the middle of a staff meeting and just masturbate in front of the head master. Just like this."
Samantha enacted a perfect parody of an eye-rolling, drooling deviant, as she finger-fucked herself in merry abandon. She expressed through this defiant display a degree of dissatisfaction with secondary school bureaucracy that, in the subtlety of it's symbolic portrayal would have put Laurence Olivier to shame. But then public masturbation was never Olivier's strong point.
She came so hard she fell off the bed. Her performance had taken a lot out of her. About a pint of pussy juice I would say, judging by the state of the bottom sheet.
"Now I want to see you jerk off," she told me. "Stroke that big stiff cock for me, loverboy."
"Well, I've never done that with anyone watching before," I flustered.
"Come on," she said. "I love the idea of watching guys jerk off. Sometimes I think I should get a job in one of those stripper booths where the guys all wank off and shoot their spunk over the perspex. I'd go right up to the window and lick it right where their juicy jism was dripping down the glass."
"How do you know about those kinds of things?" I asked as I began to slowly stroke my cock.
"From this magazine," Samantha explained, pulling a brightly-coloured magazine out from under the bed. Cum-Burping Whores, Vol. 3, No. 11 read the title. The cover photo showed a girl with too much make-up on apparently trying to swallow the largest penis I had ever seen.
"Where the hell did you get that from?" I wanted to know.
"Sandy found it in her hubby's bedside drawer," she explained. "She lent it too me, 'cause I like reading the letters. Some of the pictures are pretty cool, too. Like this one."
She held up a picture of a woman with both a huge smile and about a half a pint of jism on her face.
"Why don't you come up really close, so I can get a really good look at you wanking your cock? And then you can spurt all over my face just like that," she suggested enthusiastically.
"Oh, my god!" I cried as I splattered her face with my creamy essence.
"So, what other fantasies do you have?" she asked with a straight face as rivers and strings of jism dripped down her face and swung from her nose and chin. I've never laughed so much in my life.
"You know what I'd love to do?" she told me. "The next time the Jehovah's Witnesses knock on our door, I'd love for us to answer the door to them just like this. With your cock hanging out of your pants dripping cum on the carpet, and me with jism all over my face. And of course we'd have warm, friendly smiles on our faces as we invited them in to share their message with us."
You know, since I told my wife the awful truth, we've grown a lot closer to each other as a couple. And, as an added advantage, we never seem to get visits from the Jehovah's Witnesses anymore.
The End
Sally couldn't have made me feel any more welcome when I moved into her flat. She helped me unpack and all the while kept up a stream of chatter about the events of her life, current and past, every so often giggling about something funny that had happened to her, or at my clumsy attempts to unpack my suitcases.
The fact is I was paying more attention to her than to my unpacking. This was only the second time I had met her, the first being the brief meeting at which she decided that I was the most suitable applicant from those who responded to her newspaper advertisement. At that first meeting I had been struck by her beauty, with her dark, auburn-tinged hair, cut in a bob, and the light dusting of freckles over her nose. Her loose summer dress couldn't hide the fact that she was slim, but rounded in all the right places. I couldn't believe that I would be lucky enough to share a flat with such a beauty, so when she rang me to say that she was accepting my offer, it took a while to really sink in.
"That's enough for today," I said, as I went to place the last unopened suitcase under the bed.
"Come on," said Sally grabbing it away from me, "you won't feel really settled in until everything's put away. If you want to be a lazybones, then you sit there and tell me where you want things to go and I'll put them away."
There was no way I was going to be able to stop her from opening that suitcase, so I sat down in resignation, cursing myself for having brought it with me in the first place.
Sally opened the lid and looked inside.
"Ummm..." she said, making me feel like a naughty schoolboy. I looked down shamefacedly at the large pile of "men's magazines" inside.
"So that's why you didn't want to open it. You thought that if I found out you were a sex maniac, I'd kick you out. But you needn't have worried," she reassured me, "you may be a sex maniac, but I can tell that you're a harmless one. Just don't go getting any ideas about me, though. I have a boyfriend."
"Oh, no, no. I didn't have any ideas about you," I lied.
"Surely those can't be real," she said, looking closely at a magazine that had fallen open in front of her. "It must be awfully uncomfortable to have to carry that around all day. I don't know how these girls can expose themselves like that. Showing all their bits to the world as if it was the most natural thing in the world."
Now, five years and many outrageous adventures later, I sometimes remind Sally of her words on that day.
"Well, it's a girl's prerogative to change her mind," is her invariable reply.
This is the story of how that change came about.
It started on a Saturday about two weeks after I moved in. I was just entering the living room from my bedroom when I was met with a captivating sight. Sally was down on her hands and knees looking for something on the carpet. She was wearing an electric blue cotton mini-skirt and it had ridden up enough to allow a glimpse of her panties, which were pale pink with..."Ouch! Ohhh shiiiiiiit..." I yelled as I plummeted to the floor. I'd tripped over the vacuum cleaner.
"Are you all right?" Sally asked as she rushed over to me.
The fall had winded me and I lay with my face buried in the shag-pile, trying to get air back into my lungs.
"Come on, roll over," said Sally, helping me with a push. "Now just lay there and relax for a couple of minutes 'til you get your breath back."
She was squatting next to me, her legs slightly apart. I gazed up at the tiny red roses that decorated her panties.
"Do you mind," she said, moving her legs together, as she noticed the direction of my gaze. "It's not polite to look up a lady's skirt."
I blushed. Meanwhile Sally's gaze moved over to the spot where she had been when I entered the room.
"That's what you were doing when you tripped over the vacuum-cleaner, isn't it? I was bending down over there. With this short skirt on you could have almost certainly seen my panties. And you were obviously more interested in them than you were in looking where you were going."
There didn't seem any point in trying to deny it at this stage. "Well they ARE very nice panties," I said.
"It doesn't matter how nice a lady's panties are. It's not polite to peek at them without her permission," she explained, in the half-smiling manner of a mother trying to reprimand a small boy whose naughty behaviour amuses her in spite of herself.
"Please miss, may I have a look at your panties?" I asked politely. Hell, it was worth a shot.
Sally bit her lip and looked off into space for a moment. "All right," she said, standing up and lifting her skirt right up over her belly and spreading her legs slightly.
I gazed at her panties, at the small strip of bare skin above them, at the soft white skin of her inner thighs, and at a stray black pubic hair that had escaped on the right side of the gusset.
She turned around and I was treated to the sight of the same pink material stretched tight over the loveliest bottom I think I had ever seen.
Then she dropped her skirt back into place and turned to face me again.
"I think I can get up now," I said.
"The miracle of St. Sally of the Panties," she smirked. "I can't believe I just did that. Just lifted up my skirt and showed you my panties. It's not the proper thing to do at all. But I must admit," she said, blushing, "It felt really good. I thought I'd just feel embarrassed, but it gave me a real rush. I felt alive and powerful and...well, horny."
"Well if it makes you feel that good, feel free to do it as much as you like," I suggested.
"Oh, yeah! You'd love that, wouldn't you?" she replied, no longer lost in the raptures of skirt-lifting.
"It's only your happiness I'm thinking of," I said with a straight face.
"Well, if you're so interested in my panties, I'll let you help me choose which pair to wear to work on Monday. I miss having a girl around who I can show my clothes off to," she explained. "By the way, you don't happen to get off on washing girl's panties, do you?"
"Not particularly," I replied.
"Shame about that," she said, "but it was worth a try."
I couldn't wait for Monday morning, and when it arrived I was up bright and early.
The door to Sally's bedroom was open, so I went in. Sally wasn't there but I could hear the shower going in the bathroom so I sat down on her bed to wait. Eventually the door opened and she entered the room wrapped in a bath towel.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I've come to help you choose which panties to wear," I reminded her.
"Oh, that's right," she said. "Well open the drawer under the bed and see if you see anything that takes your fancy."
I opened the drawer and found that it contained nothing but panties of different colours, patterns and materials.
"How about these?" I suggested, holding up a purple silk g-string.
"Hardly appropriate for work," she said.
"But no-one's going to see them, are they? So what's the difference?" I asked.
"I might fall down the stairwell," she said. "How would that look if I was lying there unconscious with my skirt up, and my purple g-string, not to mention my entire buttocks, exposed to the whole of the office staff. Now choose something appropriate. We haven't got all day."
I chose a pair of bikini-style pants with diagonal blue and white stripes.
"Yes, they should do," she said. All of a sudden she seemed to become nervous. There was a slight quaver in her voice and, when I tried to meet her eyes, she looked away.
"I better check and make sure there aren't any holes in them," she said, turning away from me and lifting them up to the light.
As she raised her arms, her towel fell to the floor. She stood in front of me completely naked. I admired the curve of her back and her lovely round bottom, still pink from the shower.
"Oh, my towel," she exclaimed and bent down to pick it up, thus giving me a closer look at her delicious butt.
When she turned towards me, covering her front with the towel, she looked badly shaken. It took her a moment to get up the courage to look me in the eye.
"I did that on purpose," she confessed.
I didn't know what to say.
"You better get out now and give me a chance to get dressed for work," she said, regaining her composure.
Although no mention was made of what happened in Sally's bedroom that morning, in the days that followed I was often treated to the sight of Sally dressed only in her bra and panties or a T-shirt and panties. Sometimes after a shower she would put off getting dressed and would wander around doing this and that while wearing only a towel. I remember one morning when she rang a friend and chatted for half an hour, all the time fiddling with the top of her towel. I'm not sure if she was teasing me, knowing I would be hoping for a repeat performance, or testing her own self-control. She was probably doing both. Unfortunately her self-control was not found wanting. One thing that I noticed was that her confidence was increasing. At first she was nervous. She would walk around the house in her underwear but her movements were stiff and self-conscious and she was less chatty than when she was fully clothed, but gradually that changed. Eventually she seemed to be more comfortable the less she was wearing. We would have long conversations as she sat next to me on the couch, leaning back onto the arm, her left foot under her bottom and her right leg stretched out on the floor. I would sit there trying to concentrate on the conversation while gazing with fascination at the way the gusset of her panties stretched over the tendons of her inner thighs.
Our relationship was blissfully uncomplicated until the day that Sally came home drunk at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning. I had gotten up early to watch my favourite Sunday morning cartoon show. Shortly after I turned it on there was an almighty thump against the front door and the sound of the wrong key rattling unproductively against the lock.
When I opened the door Sally staggered in and fell into my arms.
"What a party!" she cried. "I think I'm a little bit sozzled."
"God, you stink," I commented tactfully. "It smells like you poured more booze onto you than into you. You better have a shower. It might help you sober up, too."
"O.K.," she said, staggering towards her bedroom and trying to remove her clothes at the same time.
"Do you know where my hippy shirt is?" she yelled from her bedroom.
"It's still on the line," I replied. "I'll go get it for you. You just get in the shower."
No sooner had I reached the clothesline, which was in the middle of a piece of shared land at the back of the flats, when I heard Sally's voice behind me.
"You know the one I mean, don't you?" she asked. "The T-shirt with the kind of purple explosion on it."
"Yes, I know the one you..." I began as I turned to face her. "Oh, my God! You can't walk around like that!"
She had taken off everything but her jeans. Her naked breasts wobbled enticingly as she came towards me. The slight chill in the early morning air made her small dark nipples stand out stiffly.
"What if the neighbours see you?" I asked, frantically looking around to see if the coast was clear.
"Who cares if the neighbours see them," she replied defiantly. "Hello world, come see my titties!" she yelled at the top of her voice.
"Oh God!" I cried, panicking.
I grabbed Sally, turned her around and started pushing her back towards the flat.
"Who wants to see my titties?" she cried again.
There was only one thing I could think of to do. I clasped my hands over Sally's breasts. The feel of her soft flesh against my palms and fingers was incredibly erotic, even under such distressing circumstances. I felt my prick moving and stiffening inside my jeans.
"Help, help, I'm being molested," cried Sally, trying to pull my hands away. I struggled with her, holding her even tighter. Her bottom pressed back against my erection. "I think you like molesting women," she said. "It's given you a stiffy."
"I'm bored," she said, when I finally managed to get her inside. "And tired," she yawned. She sat down in a chair and was instantly asleep.
I carefully picked her up and carried her into her bedroom. I pulled back the covers on her bed and lay her in it. For a moment I hesitated. Then I reached down and undid the button on her jeans before gently unzipping them. She had shown me her panties often enough, so surely it would be all right for me to take her jeans off. I knew that all I was doing was looking after her, but her accusations of molestation and the fact that my prick was as hard as a rock the whole time couldn't help but make me feel unsure.
I was hoping that alcohol-induced amnesia would erase the whole incident from Sally's memory. I wasn't that lucky.
"How dare you go and grab my breasts!" she yelled when she woke up that afternoon. "Just because I'm drunk doesn't give you the right to grope me!"
"I was just trying to protect you from embarrassment," I replied. "What if the neighbours came out when they heard you yelling."
"You really think I would have been less embarrassed, because you were groping my breasts at the time?" she asked.
"I wasn't groping you," I responded. "I was just trying to cover you up."
"If you'd wanted to cover me up, couldn't you have grabbed a shirt off the line and put that around me?" she asked.
I had to admit she had a point.
"Yes, I suppose so," I replied. "But I panicked and just did the first thing that came to mind."
"Why doesn't it surprise me that the thought of grabbing my tits was the first idea that entered your head?" she asked sarcastically. "And don't tell me you didn't enjoy it. I bet I've got bruises on my bum from being poked by that stiff little dickie of yours."
"It's not that little," I put in, hoping in vain to salvage some small morsel of dignity.
"If you can't control yourself, I'll just have to keep my clothes on from now on," she concluded.
Thus followed a couple of boring weeks during which Sally kept herself so well covered up that I was lucky to get a glimpse of her bare knees. Luckily, however, Sally was as bored as I was and, gradually, without anything being said, she went back to her old habits.
By the time of my thirtieth birthday, the breast-grabbing incident had been long forgotten, and Sally was in one of her naughtiest moods.
"Close your eyes," Sally yelled from her bedroom. "I decided to dress up, or down rather, for your birthday."
"I know," I said, dutifully closing my eyes. "You're wearing your birthday suit."
"You wish," she replied, with a laugh. "I may be an exhibitionist, but I'm not a nudist. All right, you can open your eyes now."
I wolf-whistled as I looked her over. She was wearing a tiny black T-shirt with the Rolling Stones tongue symbol on it. She wasn't wearing a bra. But the special treat was down below. She was wearing the purple silk g-string that I had picked out for her to wear to work.
"Like what you see?" she asked teasingly.
"I can tell this is going to be my best birthday ever," I replied.
"Wait 'til you get a load of the back view," she said spinning around.
She had the most beautiful smooth round bottom I had ever seen. I had seen her bare buttocks briefly before, but now I was going to have a chance to look at them all day long.
I wasn't the only one to enjoy themselves that day. Sally was having the time of her life, teasing me unmercifully, making suggestive comments, go-go dancing to the music on the radio, and playing along with all my little games.
"What's that on the floor?" I would say, pointing to a spot just in front of her.
"I don't know, I'll have to have a look," she would reply with feigned innocence. Then she would turn away from me and bend from the waist to examine the spot on the floor while I gazed rapturously at her glorious backside.
"I can't see anything," she would say after a couple of minutes of intense examination, "but I'd better have a look from the other side." Then she would turn around and squat down on her heels, with her legs spread wide and the g-string just barely covering her pussy, errant pubic hairs sprouting from the elastic on both sides.
I spent the day in a near permanent state of erection. Something Sally did not fail to notice.
"It can be hard turning thirty," she said as she busied herself cooking my birthday cake, "but I can see that you're managing to keep your pecker up."
At various times during the day the frustration was too great and I would casually saunter to the toilet where I would pretend that my right hand was Sally's soft, wet pussy, pumping away until I spilt my seed into the toilet bowl. Or, more often, over the seat, or the cistern, or the floor.
"Damn," I would say, frantically wiping away with a wad of toilet paper. I always worried that I'd miss some and that Sally would discover it and realise what I had been doing.
"It seems like every time I turn around you're in the toilet," Sally observed with a cheeky smile, after I returned from my tenth trip. "Maybe you need to have your prostate checked out," she added with a wink.
The highlight of the day came that evening. Sally and I had been sitting on the sofa for a couple of hours chatting about my life, how I celebrated my birthdays when I was a child, the glorious dreams I had had about what I was going to do with my life, and the less glorious things that I had actually done.
"Well," said Sally, "it's about time I gave you your birthday present." With this she reached down, crossed her arms, and grabbed the bottom of her T-shirt. With one swift motion she lifted it up and over her head.
"Your breasts? Your breasts are my birthday present?" I asked, dubiously.
"No, silly. The T-shirt. The Rolling Stones are your favourite band, aren't they?" she replied.
"I hate to tell you this," I said, "but it's not going to fit me."
"I know that," said Sally. "It's not to wear. It's a souvenir of today. Something to help you remember when you get old and senile."
"I don't think I'll ever forget today," I replied.
"What do you really think of them?" asked Sally, noticing that I was staring at her breasts.
"I think they're wonderful," I reassured her.
"I wish they were firmer. I'm afraid they're going to sag as I get older," she confided.
"Well you'll just have to make the most of them while you can," I suggested.
"By showing them off at every opportunity, I suppose," she said. "You're so predictable."
"You know you really want to," I teased.
"The problem is, you're right. I feel so good when I'm exposing myself. I feel like I'm living in a world where there are no rules. A world where everybody gives sexual pleasure to everybody else and nobody needs to get jealous," she explained. "But I worry sometimes that I will get to believe too much in that world. What if I can't control my impulses and I just start to take my clothes off on the train on the way to work?"
"Well, you'll just have to get it out of your system while you're at home," I replied. "Just remember that. If you wear too many clothes at home, you're increasing the likelihood that you'll go totally bonkers and start stripping off in public."
"Well I'm not wearing too many clothes at the moment," she said, looking down at her breasts and her tiny g-string.
"Just stay the way you are at the moment," I replied. "You're perfect. Particularly your breasts. I'm glad they're not firm. I like them soft. They feel so nice."
"All right," she said. "Since it's your birthday, I'll let you touch them."
I reached out my hands and gently placed my fingers under her breasts. Then I lifted my thumbs and slowly circled each nipple. They stood up stiff and hard as I gently brushed around them again and again with my thumbs.
"I think you'd better stop now," gasped Sally, "or I won't be responsible for my actions."
"That sounds like fun," I replied.
"No, seriously," she said, pushing my hands away. "I'm sure if Gregory knew what we'd been doing he would consider that I had been unfaithful to him. I don't see it that way. You and I are just friends who happen to have a shared interest. But there are limits. Besides, look what you made me do to my silk panties."
The wet spot that she was pointing to left no doubt that she was turned on. I just wanted to strip off those panties and take her in my arms, but I knew that I would have to make do with imagination.
From that day on Sally grew constantly bolder and bolder. And I spent more and more of my time in the toilet.
I knew that things were really getting out of hand when I came home from work one day and found Sally wearing nothing but a T-shirt.
"What do you think of my new T-shirt?" she asked.
I was too busy gazing at her pussy. Her lips and the fold of skin between them were easily visible through her masses of black pubic hair.
"Stop looking at my pussy, and pay attention," she instructed. "You'll have plenty of time to look at my pussy later. Now I want you to look at my T-shirt."
With great difficulty I looked up at the T-shirt. 'I've been a very, very naughty girl,' it said in red letters on a pink background. Then Sally turned around to let me read the back. 'I think you'd better spank me,' it said.
"Sounds like a good idea to me," I said, coming up behind her and giving her a swift slap on the right buttock.
"Ouch!" she cried, turning to look at me with mock indignation.
"Actually, I'm a liberal," I explained. "I don't believe in punishment. I think the only reason you've been naughty is because you haven't had enough love and nurturing. But I can make up for that." With this I grabbed her around the waist and slid my right hand slowly over her belly and down into her pubic forest.
"Hey, none of that!" she cried, slapping my hand away. "I may not know where the borders of infidelity are, but I do know that my pussy is electric fence territory. No entry, all trespassers to be shot on sight."
It was a very enjoyable, but very frustrating, evening. While we were eating dinner, I kept dropping my fork and having to crawl under the table to look for it. Sally knew what I was up to and kept her legs spread wide apart. Since she couldn't see me I grew bold and examined her pussy right up close. I gazed at the slightly parted lips which went high up at the front. I examined the wrinkled pink fold of skin that protruded between them. I was tempted to take the time to count every one of her pubic hairs.
"I don't know where that fork is, but it's not up my pussy," said Sally.
"There's no need to be crude," I replied. "Anyway I'm just looking on the floor."
"Well, while you're down there," she said, "maybe you could find out whose breath it is that I can feel between my legs."
Later when we were watching television, Sally kept crawling over to the TV to adjust the fine tuning. I couldn't see anything wrong with the picture myself, but as long as I got to see Sally on all fours with her bottom in the air, I wasn't going to complain. Eventually the sight of her was too much and I made my way to the toilet again.
"Did you have a nice wank?" she asked when I returned.
"I just went for a pee," I replied, the picture of innocence.
"If you'd tried to pee with that hard-on you had when you left the room you would have sprayed the ceiling," she commented, perceptively.
"All right, so I was wanking," I admitted, "what of it?"
"I love making you wank," she smiled. "Someone could bet you a million dollars that you couldn't give up wanking for a week, and I could make sure you lost the bet. Not that I would, mind you. I'd put you in a strait-jacket, and then we could split the money."
"Well, I'm glad you have such faith in my powers of self-control," I replied, indignantly.
"But when it comes to perving and wanking you don't have any self-control," she insisted. "For as much control as you have over it, it might as well be my hand stroking your dick. And I bet you like that idea, too."
"Maybe for my next birthday," I suggested.
"You're so pathetic," she said. "I like that in a man."
I was wondering where it was all going to lead. I didn't have long to wait.
The following day I spent the morning working in the garden. After I had finished pulling out weeds I was covered in dirt, so the first thing I did when I entered the flat was to head for the shower.
The shower was the kind with a detachable head. There wasn't any shower cubicle, it was just attached to the wall over the bathtub. There was a railing over the front of the bath from which to hang a shower curtain, but there was no curtain. It was a hot summer day, so the spray of lukewarm water over my skin felt good.
I was just spreading soap over my chest and under my arms, when the door opened and in walked Sally.
Instinctively my hands shot down to cover my private parts.
"I'm just making myself a sandwich," she said casually, "and I wondered if you'd like me to make one for you while I'm at it."
"Do you mind?!" I said, shocked at this blatant invasion of my privacy.
"No, I don't mind," said Sally, "it's no trouble at all."
"I mean do you mind not walking in on me when I'm trying to take a shower," I explained irritably.
"Oh, so it's all right for you to see all my naughty bits, but when there's a chance I might catch a glimpse of your willy, you get all Victorian," she complained.
"I'll have ham, cheese and tomato," I said resignedly.
"I think I can handle that," replied Sally, "but first I think I'll just sit down here and have a little rest." With this she hopped up onto the side of the vanity and crossed her legs. She was wearing a light green short-sleeved blouse and very short cut-off jeans. She looked gorgeous.
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