An Innocent Conversation

I held her eye, and couldn't help but smile. "You reckon anyone will see?"

"You've seen," she observed, cool as you like and sexy as fuck.

"Yes I have," I confirmed. "And I'm very grateful, too."

"Uh huh," she returned, affecting to sound unimpressed but her face betraying her amusement, as well as the mutual thrill and excitement we shared at this forbidden action. "So what do I get in return as a show of your gratitude, hmm?"

I was suddenly at a loss. What could she possibly want from me, what could I do to repay the kindness she had shown in providing such an unexpected, treasured and wondrous display? "Umm..." I said; and again, when all else had failed, comedy prevailed as I pulled my own shirt tight against my chest, peeking down to see my own nipples showing clear and proud through the astonishingly sheer material.

She laughed at that, sudden and aloud, and as the whole class turned wondering at the source of her merriment she managed to coyly cover her nippular regions with her arms. "Sorry," she told the class. "Martin's being a buffoon."

"Try to control yourself please, Martin," our teacher admonished me.

I nodded a grudging acknowledgment, turning to fire an evil eye off at our Justine once my chastisement was done. "You're the one with your melons virtually hanging out, and I get in trouble?" I muttered.

"Helps if you're pretty," she told me.

"Nice."

"I'm still waiting for something from you," she informed me; and as I turned to regard her, this time I managed to catch her as she quickly looked away from my crotch.

'Fuck me,' I thought, 'she wants the D.' And that was it: I'd seen some tit, she was after some tat.

Haltingly, hesitatingly, my self-doubts from junior school rushing back even in the face of what I was sure was confirmation of what she was seeking, I reached down; I grabbed the fabric of my rough, slate-grey coloured school trousers; and I pulled them such as they became hard-pressed, like a glove, against the length and heft of my throbbing arousal as it sat trapped and helpless, pinned between my thigh and trouser leg.

It was definitely what she wanted. Her breath sucked in with a rush, making her bosom crowd against the sheerness of her shirt once more, which in turn made my own display twitch almost agonizingly.

"My my," she murmured. "Aren't we a big boy, Martin? I would never have suspected."

"Aww," I demurred, even as my heart and spirit and cock soared with the praise. "I bet you say that to all the boys you semi-flash in the back of Chemistry."

She managed to stifle her laughter this time, and she punched me sharply in the thigh, twice, hard up against the very leg that my cock was pinned to.

"Careful!" I warned. "Thump me too hard, you'll risk setting it free!"

The look of hunger and wantonness that she turned upon me near as damn made me spill a load in my shorts, just like that. "Do it," she breathed.

"What?"

"Set it loose!" she urged.

"What?? No way!" I nearly squealed in stunned reply.

She affected a pout. "Whyever not, Mister Martin?"

"Because, Miss Justine," I told her, even as I scrabbled desperately in my mind for a cooler response than my last panicked, schoolboy's outburst. I came upon a good one: "We're taking turns here. We've both shown ourselves through fabric now. If you want me to set something to the breeze, you go first."

"I can't do that!" she returned, her turn now to be horrified. "I can't pull a tit out! Teacher's not THAT blind."

"I've already seen your tits, or as good as," I told her, shrugging as though it was now a trifle - even as my eyes kept darting back to the mesmerising sight at least once every three seconds. "Time to let the cat out, my dear."

Her mouth fell open in an amused show of shock. "I can't..." she said, for perhaps the seventh time that day.

"Dare ya."

That was her kryptonite: the dare. And I knew it now, even as she started to shift in her seat. The further-fetched, more unreasonable and more dangerous the dare, the more compelled she was to answer it, to answer my challenge and show me for a fool for doubting her and her wildness. It was a tremendous power that I had found myself holding over her, and as the saying goes, it came with a tremendous responsibility - but oh, the possibilities it presented...

Somehow, whilst feigning complete nonchalance, Justine had shifted such that she could hike up her knee-length skirt, not too very high in front, but right up to her waistline at back, such that the entirety of her simple white cotton knickers were plain for me but no-one else to see as we sat alone in the back row.

And again, slowly and subtly, taking her time and relishing the forbidden action, she raised slightly in her seat, hooked her thumbs in, and slid her panties down her legs and over her shoes; she paused shortly to refix her skirt to a less-highly-hiked position, though I had a good few seconds to appreciate the giddying sight of her upper thighs and bared buttocks, and all a sudden her knickers were in her hands, beneath the table and hidden from sight to all but me.

"Martin..." she murmured, seemingly overcome by a secret she was only too keen to share: "They're so damp."

Without asking or thinking, and knowing I was welcome to do so, I reached over and slipped the knickers out of her hands. They shuffled through my fingers, and shortly I found myself in complete agreement with her: these cotton whiteys were soaked through, a wondrously warm, thick, cloying slickness concentrated at the crotch of her netherwear and soaking, radiating high up the front and rear of the garment. And the aroma that arose from that piece of simple material, the heady scent that filled my nostrils even at arm's distance: so strong, so sweet, such a natural musky perfume she put forth...

"Justine!" I found myself growling. "Just... damn, girl."

"Martin: I have been so wet, all day," she told me, in that heart-stoppingly low, guttural, brutally honest tone that simply made me melt. "When you put it to me, since the very moment you gave me the idea of going braless beneath a sweater, I've been waiting days and days for the right weather where I could try it. Today I woke up and I knew, and I didn't even reach for a bra this morning: just the shirt and sweater, and that was it, nothing else over my boobs. And I walked around all day, Martin, I walked around all day with my breasts moving and swaying, free and easy inside my shirt, dragging and rubbing against the loose cotton. And it felt so good, Martin. I was waiting for someone to catch me - hoping it would be you who caught me. I hung around you, I tried to hold your attention and talk to you all day, you dumb bastard, but you didn't see that my tits were out and you didn't say anything and I couldn't get you alone to share my secret - not til now.

"And I've been dripping all day Martin," she went on, and I knew it to be true, the thick slickened headiness of the incredible thing in my hands was the proof. "I've been so hot, so wet, Martin I've been so horny..."

"I need to see it," I told her. "By all that is good and holy, Justine, I have got to see your hotness, your wetness."

She looked at me, a look that could have killed me stone dead right there, even as she pushed her pen to the far edge of the desk and let it drop.

I could have kissed her, right there and then - I dearly wanted to as well, except the task presented to me could not be ignored. "Allow me to get that for you, my dear," I grinned.

"Such a gentleman," she replied, the sweetness in her voice perfectly equipoised by the fire in her eye.

And I did go and get it for her. I stood, uncaring at the veritable flag pole flying rudely from my crotch - let her see it, let anyone else see it too, though all and sundry were too wrapped up in ionic bonds and valencies to pay us any heed.

I walked around that desk, and I bent down to pick up that pen. And I turned my head to see as she spread her legs, wide and wanton, and let it all hang out. There they were, her perfectly formed inner lips framed by gloriously large and meaty labia, her hot wet pinkness wide and spread for me, her glistening moisture running clear and free and obvious down to soak the back of her skirt, her clit budding and engorged, her depths opened, beckoning, beguiling.

It was right there. I might have shuffled under, I might have tickled it with a finger, I might even have touched it with my tongue and tasted of her rich aromatic musk, but discretion prevailed and I returned to my seat - I'd even had the presence of mind to actually collect the pen, too. "And there you go, m'lady," I said as I returned the errant stationery.

"What did you think?" she whispered, surprising me with the delicacy, the genuine vulnerability with which she asked.

"Twas a thing of rare beauty, Justine," I promised her. "Breathtaking. Stunning. Words fail."

She grinned hugely at that, and beneath the table I sensed she was closing her legs.

"Leave them spread," I dared her.

She looked at me again, seeking confirmation.

"Let them see," I whispered. "Let them see the wonder that is you, Justine. Let them see it and love it and despair!"

It must have sounded corny as fuck, but she did it - those legs spread wide again, and once again her sex was free for any to see, though there were still no heads turning our way.

"I've put myself to the breeze," she pointed out. "Your turn. Let them see you, too. Let me see you."

My cock was out in a flash, finally free of its own clothy confines and providing me with a great sense of relief. It barely fit beneath the table, the tip of my knob brushing against the underside of the desktop, and she had to crane her neck quite a bit to take me all in.

"Are you always that big?" she asked, boggling slightly.

"Setting new records for you, my dear," I promised her.

Having been presented with her sex, I had lacked the time and gumption to have a feel; Justine, however, had quick and easy access to me, and she availed herself of it fully as she ran her hand over my bulging hardness, soft and tender, reverent and appreciative. My initial shock at what had come to pass subsided into gratefulness, and I sat back and revelled at my situation as I received a handjob in class.

Fine as it was for me, it wasn't enough for her. "Come meet me in the storeroom," she hissed quickly, before standing and excusing herself to the bathroom.

I found myself in a quandary. I wanted to follow her - needed to follow her, but I was sure that any attempt of mine to attend the bathroom would be seen through for the quick and dirty meeting it surely (hopefully!) was going to be. Happily it proved a non-issue as the teacher declared he had left essential paraphernalia back in his office and exited the room himself.

I near as damn chased the guy out the door, and wandered not at all nonchalantly - chalantly? - down the hall to the storeroom next door as he shuffled blithely in the opposite direction. A carefully coded knock was hastily answered by our Justine, and before I knew it we were behind locked doors and it was on.

Her few remaining garments - shirt and skirt was all she had left - were soon on the floor. My trousers met my ankles and my shirt flew open in a masterfully coordinated bout of button-loosing, and we were upon each other, skin on skin and flesh on flesh. It was a sensual overload for my virginal self, and hardly had Justine sunk to her knees and taken my cock into my mouth than I was heaving and shuddering with an unwelcome early orgasm; she took it like a champ, swallowing a few mouthfuls before cheekily rising to kiss me again, treating me to a taste of my own meatiness and saltiness - so very like our Justine, to mock-punish my early orgasm with a taste of my own seed.

I slowed myself down, and focussed on her pleasure. Some clumsy third-base action with less attractive members of our class in junior years had set me with something of a roadmap for female pleasure, and I found myself setting her to a good building rhythm in short order. I had taken up position behind her, enveloping her in a glad embrace, crowding tight against her, her naked back and rump against my bared chest and hips as I caressed her bodily, getting a good handful of those trouble-causing breasts, circling and teasing her fascinatingly dark nipples, passing my hands and fingers over her hips and legs, up and down her thighs, teasing the modest, carefully-maintained little tuft of womanly fuzz over her sex before delving into her hotness and wetness, feeling and exploring that which I had long lusted after but had only recently seen for myself beneath a classroom desk surrounded by our peers.

I worked with her and for her, finding what she liked, the pressure and rhythm that earned the best encouragement of moans and sighs. I rejoiced as her moisture flowed anew and I had her building, building, rising and peaking, climbing almost out of my arms as though to escape the pleasure that arose from her centre, rose and took hold of her, and thankfully an overly-noisy video that the teacher had put on in our room served to cover the involuntary sounds of her crescendo as her pleasure spilled over and she came, she came long, she came hard, she came for me.

By this point my own arousal had long since returned, and pausing only to fetch a handy rubber from a pocket in her skirt - what had she been planning for me, all this time? - she slipped it into place with a grin, a wink and a kiss. I picked her up and braced her shapely arse upon the edge of a nearby table, setting her at the perfect height for entry; she guided me and I followed her lead, and I slipped easily into her moistened, malleable depths.

This was it. This was what I had dreamed of - what we had all dreamed of, me and my hapless mates. This was the hallowed ground, the holy grail. I was fucking Justine.

But no. Justine was not one to be fucked, and she shortly made it known: she launched off the counter top and latched her legs about me, and we stood clear in the middle of the store room and we fucked each other. She rode upon me as I drove into her, we took turns to control the speed and pace, with unspoken accord we set the tune and went to town. A second orgasm took root in me, I felt it take hold but this time it was not running away from me - this one was deeply rooted, firmly planted, and it would take its time to spring on forth.

Justine's own vocalness made a welcome return too, as she again let me know what felt good and what felt great. "Mmm," she told me as I stroked in and out just so; "ohh yeah," she purred as I paused to grind a little against her, seeking to hit her clit with the root of my shaft; "yes Martin, yes like that, juuust like that" she told me as I found a new angle that seemed to have my curving heft working better against her inner spot, and as I kept on doing it just like that her moans turned to groans, her groans to cries, and I had to smother the ensuing shouting and hollering with deep and lusty kisses as she again rose to her peak, and she brought me with her, and I came good and long and hard in time with her own ultimate release.

Evenually we wound down, we regathered our senses, and likewise our clothes. "Did you happen to bring my knickers in with you?" she asked of me.

I froze. "Umm," I ventured. "I may have left them on the desk..."

She froze too, wide-eyed with terror at the possible consequences awaiting our very late return to class, until I let loose a grin and fished the garment from my trouser pocket. "Sorry," I told her.

"You're not sorry at all, you shithead!" she accused, even as she snatched them off me and slipped back into their relative safety.

"True," I confessed. "Though I am being truthful when I say, I haven't seen your bra all day."

She laughed at that - again, that warm, generous laughter that makes a small man feel ten miles tall - and we left the storeroom and headed back to class, hand in hand, not caring who saw or thought what as we headed back to our seats. Perhaps only a few of our classmates guessed at the significance of our flushed countenances, tustled hair and dishevelled appearance, but there were more than a few of my male peers who did not fail to notice what our Justine had been hoping would be noticed all day: two barely-covered boobs, braless and proud.

Let them see it, I thought. Let them strain and peer, catching the odd flashing glimpse of breast and nipple brushing against fabric as she did indeed jiggle and bounce as she walked. Let them see all that they could, for I had seen more, far more than I'd ever hoped or dreamed.

And there was far, far more to come, too.