tagExhibitionist & VoyeurMs. Tease Act 03

Ms. Tease Act 03


Act III: Showering

It's unusual for her to show up early on a Thursday, but I can hear the low rumble of her faux hotrod coming up the gravel drive. She's generally punctual, but not compulsively so. When she comes into the office, she's still dressed in her workout clothes -- blue vinyl warm-ups that cover the vast majority of her skin. I prefer when she shows up in her customary tight blouses and the sexy-but-not-slutty skirts, sauntering in after an abbreviated night out on the town to work the third shift, concerns for comfort supplanted by concerns for allure.

At least she could have had the decency to leave the warm-ups in the car I think to myself, knowing that underneath more clingy, Spandextrous fabric rules the day. The thought makes me curse my luck as of late, and I press my legs together unconsciously so that my thighs put pressure on my cock. I'm barely able to say hello before the phone rings, sidetracking me from all my self-pity. It's our boss; he wants me to help him brainstorm in order to fill in the gaps on staffs' electronic time cards.

As we talk, she pulls out a change of clothes. It distracts me momentarily, but the more intimate garments -- the feminine lace and hoists -- are swaddled safely inside more impersonal attire. When she mouths that she's going to take a quick shower, gesturing down the hall from the office, I lose my train of thought entirely. The shower thing explains why she's early.

I cover the mouthpiece and tell her to let me know if she needs any help washing her back. Or even her front for that matter. I laugh when I say it, but the joke falls flat and awkward between us, both of us knowing that I couldn't possibly be more serious. Mercifully, she chooses to laugh along rather than calling me out for my lecherous tendencies.

As she gathers her things and heads for the bathroom, I get back to my conversation, going over the schedules and feeding the boss the times he needs to ensure that everyone gets paid. So far, there doesn't seem to be any discrepancies.

Until we get to her.

She's missing a punch, and he wants to know if she's available. I tell him to hold on a minute, thinking I can still catch her before she's in the shower as I move across the house, hoping all the while that I'll find her in the buff. When I get to the bathroom door, the water's off. I hesitate a moment before softly knocking.

"Yes?" she calls out from behind the door, as if sensing some mischief on the air.

"Sorry," I say, "but the Boss wants to talk to you about one of your punches. Are you already in?"

"No," she says, telling me to give her a second.

Although I know a gentleman would simply leave the phone on the washer by the door, I just can't bring myself to do it.

After a moment she cracks the door and peeks her head around, her arm showing naked to the shoulder, causing the blood to rush to my face, as well as to certain points south of my beltline.

The hand comes out to take the phone from me, but the sight of that shoulder and the knowledge that she's already topless at the very least has me momentarily paralyzed. I find myself growing dizzy as she swings the door open a little further in order to grab it.

In her haste to take the call, she's got a blue towel clutched to her chest so that it hangs down in front of her vertically, rather than taking the time to wrap it around herself properly. The positioning of the towel causes her considerable tits to flatten slightly, threatening to spill over the top of it like a couple of overripe water balloons. The analogy makes me think of the time when I was a boy and a babysitter turned out all of the lights and let me and my best friend Phil Moriarty squeeze balloons filled with warm water and a mishmash of condiments she'd found in the fridge, tricking us into believing we were feeling her burgeoning breasts.

I take it all in in an instant before the door swings back, mostly shielding her. I can't make out what she's saying. The blood's in my ears now too, pounding. But not all of it. A small current of the stuff continues to course its way south, causing my cock to lengthen in my pants, snaking down the leg to rest against my thigh.

Had I been thinking straight, I might have thought to return to the office in hopes of her making the trek back clad only in that towel once the confusion regarding her time had been sorted out, the hard muscles of her bare ass flexing and rebounding. But the long rectangle of light between the door and the jamb pulls at me, drawing me in like the proverbial moth to a flame. And so I stay put, watching for the blue towel and flashes of skin, feeling self-conscious but making up excuses on the fly to stay in the vicinity. I throw the cleaning rags into the washer, reaching way back behind the machine, ostensibly to retrieve a rogue sock I spot on the floor, but actually in an effort to improve my angle of view. I'm too worried about being caught though, and can't make out more than fleeting glimpses of a bared arm or leg.

All too soon it sounds as if the conversation is wrapping up. I'm a little envious of the fact that my boss has gotten to hold a conversation with her while she's in her birthday suit, though I've little doubt he'd readily swap places with me had he been aware of what was happening. I take a small step back to wait for the door to come open again. I know it looks bad, but it's as if I've become bogged down in quicksand or perhaps a tar pit. I'm powerless over the desire to see more of her body.

"Sorry about that," I say, taking the phone as the door swings open again. It takes a concerted effort to maintain eye contact and ignore her tits bounding out over the top of the improvised terrycloth tube top. They seem to beckon at me to take another gander.

"That's okay," she says with a laugh, recognizing instantly how hot and bothered the situation has me.

I grab my dick through my pants and give it a squeeze as the door closes and I make my way back to the office. It seems I'll never get through a Thursday night with my virtue intact. I'm finding that I have to take matters 'in hand' more and more often these days, not coincidentally coinciding, I'm sure, with the days we work together.

Back in the office, I let go of myself reluctantly and grab hold of a cigarette instead, thinking it'll have to make do, hoping it'll calm my nerves some as I step outside, keeping the door open so I can listen for any trouble.

I don't have long to wait. I've barely gotten the cigarette lit before I hear her call out.

"Briiiiaaaan!!!" she yells. I can't tell if it's a sound of panic or one of annoyance, but I drop the cigarette and make my way quickly back to the bathroom. My dick is hoping she's taking us up on our offer to help her wash, but I push the ludicrous thought from both our heads.

The door's cracked open again, even more than before. She's showing her head and shoulders all the way to the swell of her breasts.

"There's no water," she tells me, looking at me suspiciously as she opens the door wide, as if somehow I'm to blame for the drought.

I'm stumped for a moment by the implied accusation. Truly I'm not cunning enough to think to turn the water off. Had I been, I'd have waited until she was already wet and slippery with soap before making my move.

She steps aside to allow me to pass. As I enter, I try to put on my most professional face, the kind employed by the professional do-gooders of the world, the EMT's who make it a point not to notice that the twenty year old coed with alcohol poisoning is buck naked and built like a brick shithouse -- all shaved snatch and quivering bosom down beneath the watery sheen of vomit.

I try both the hot and cold dials. There's nothing, though I can hear water pouring into the washing machine not six feet away. I look for a shutoff valve, but the bathroom's been recently refurbished and there isn't one, or rather there isn't one that can be readily seen. What I can readily see is her standing there, the towel still held precariously in front of her. Her clothes are heaped on the floor, and I take the opportunity to sneak a quick peek, hoping to spot her underwear. But I'm too frazzled by the whole situation, and find myself looking away before I can pick them out.

What my eyes light upon next doesn't help my predicament any. The whole right side of her body is visible outside the breadth of the towel's coverage area. I can see the sideswell of her tit, the womanly curve of her hip as it tapers all the way down and becomes her leg. The skin looks smooth and dark, and there are no tan lines to be seen, not even in the spot where her panties naturally come across her hip. Gallantly I resist the urge to lay my hand on it, though I can imagine how my thumb would fit into the little groove where her leg meets her pelvis, how it'd feel before I'd run the hand around to give her ass cheek a squeeze.

My penis is shifting around again, and I have to turn my attention back to the shower before the thing gives me away. I examine the new fixture, finding a little slide and working it so that the water courses down, ducking out of the way to avoid the spray as she thanks me, closing the door with her modesty still mostly intact.

For a while I remain productive, charting on the children and wrapping up the various and sundry items in my little 'to do' reminder book. Before long I hear the bathroom door open and she comes into the office, drying her hair and smiling. A tight white t-shirt and a gray knee-length skirt constructed of some heavy fabric have replaced the warm-ups. The shirt is plastered to her, as if she's neglected to dry herself properly. It shows off her shoulders, and the shadows of what looks to be a sports bra when she turns her back to me to pull something out of the hygiene cabinet. She seems strangely at ease, and though I know it's ridiculous, in that moment I find myself frustrated almost to the point of tears that I'm forced to put up with women constantly walking around with clothing covering up their nudity.

"I had to dry myself with a rag," she tells me.

It doesn't occur to me to ask her why she hadn't utilized the cursed blue towel. Already her words have my brain working busily to call up images of three or four rags running over all the inches of her skin, absorbing one drop after another from off her glistening body.

"That was so hot. I feel like I should say thank you, or tip you or something."

It comes out of me before I realize what I'm saying. She laughs, telling me she'd thought I'd turned off the water at the main just to mess with her. Frankly, it sounds like something I'd do.

"I was hoping you were calling for me to come and help you wash," I admit.

"No, but I could go back and dry off again if you like."

"By all means," I say. "Happy to be of assistance. Any time you need..."

Sadly, she merely smiles as she continues to dry her hair.

"I notice you didn't have any tan lines," I say, frantic to keep the conversation going, unwilling to let the wondrous moment fade gradually into the past.

"I haven't really done any tanning yet," she tells me, misunderstanding and thinking I'm criticizing her.

"No no, you look dark."

"I have a tanning bed at my house."

"You must be doing it in the buff then," I say.

"I usually just wear a t-bar," she tells me, "but I just had my bikini line lasered so I can't really tan yet. The laser attacks the pigment along with the hair follicles."

The mental picture of her in nothing more than some miniscule bathing suit bottom effectively dries up the words in my mouth. In my mind I can see the red laser tracing the lines where her pubic hair overreaches the boundaries of the bikini, denuding and enflaming the secret flesh. I wonder if 'Pussy Hair Laser Technician' is a job that men can apply for too, knowing already that I could easily make such a profession into a long and rewarding career if only my clients were all as stunning as her.

There are so many thoughts competing for airtime in my head that I've begun to feel feverish. At this rate it'll be after midnight before I get all my work done, and so I excuse myself to the living room so I can focus on my paperwork.

The move is fruitless however. I'm pleased to see her coming to join me out on the couch, inquiring about something in the staff communication log. I answer the best I can, leaning in to peer over her shoulder and take in the smell of her hair. Working together we're able to puzzle out a coworker's notoriously chicken-scratchy handwriting. As we chitchat she lays a hand on my arm to make her point. At times I slap playfully at her shoulder and we laugh.

She tells me I blew my chance, that I should have shuttled her bare-assed to the other bathroom across the house. She's right I know, and the thought pains me genuinely. Another opportunity squandered. I should have stayed right behind her, covering her flank, preserving her modesty as I moved her around, watching her ass sway, slapping it from time to time when she dawdled.

"Well, unless you're going to need any more help in the bathroom, I guess I'll leave you to it," I say, finally wrapping my work up. It's getting late now, and I need to get some place more private in order to attend to some of my own bodily requirements.

She smiles, telling me that she thinks she'll be okay. For once I choose not to press the issue, gathering my stuff and shutting my laptop down before wishing her a goodnight and heading out. As I do, I give her another joking 'thank you' over my shoulder, eliciting more grins.


I can't get her out of my head on the short motorcycle ride home. The more I think about it, the more I become convinced that she's not oblivious to the effect she has on me. When I get hung up at a red light, I reach down with a gloved hand to adjust the bulge in my pants, squeezing it when privacy from the other motorists allows. Once home, I check the mail and then pour myself a glass of scotch.

She's still in my head as I take a shower of my own, spending more time than is probably necessary on my penis, causing the thing to swell obscenely in front of me. I'm so horny that it feels like ants are crawling on my flesh. I know I could give myself a dozen firm wanks and be done with it.

But I want to play some more. Once I finish up with the shower, I towel off and throw on a sleeveless t-shirt and some boxers before reaching for the phone. Pulling her number up, I send her a quick text: "Would you put gorgonzola on the grocery list pretty please?"

I know it's not much, but it's the best I can come up with on short notice.

Her reply comes a few minutes later: "Yeah, no problem."

I stare at it for a moment, swirling the contents of the glass so that the ice cubes clink together. I'm disappointed by the response, but not quite sure what it is I was expecting. I console myself that at least she didn't tack on a 'goodnight' or a 'talk to you tomorrow'. That said, obviously I need to be the one to ramp things back up.

"Sure you don't have any more shower-related emergencies? Because I can come right back. Wouldn't be a problem. Only take like ten minutes," I text her, hitting send and taking a swallow of the scotch.

"Na sorry :-( Tell you what, I'll take a shower next week. K? Just call me Ms. Tease! Lol," comes the response.

The message, along with the thought that I might get a chance to replay the night's happenings -- to correct all my missteps -- immediately has tingling sensations rushing to my midsection. I'm rubbing my testicles unabashedly through my boxers with my left hand as I key in my reply.

"Deal. And there's nothing wrong with teasing. Bring it on please. Oh yeah, and if you start to blush in about an hour and don't know why...I apologize."

"Hahaha! Oh, I'll know why :-)"

For a minute I simply stare at the message, feeling grateful. It's almost as if she's giving me permission, and I transition quickly from testicle rubbing to manipulating my penis, bringing it quickly to full erection and stroking it. And though it's difficult, I'm able to maintain a mostly steady rhythm as I text her back.

"Bless you Ms. Tease," I type. "Make that 30 minutes. Lol."

"Lol. Without trying to spoil the moment, do I need to do a name change on Ashley's progress note?"

The change in tenor takes me aback. But already the scotch has gotten me to feeling bold and so I press on.

"You couldn't possibly spoil my mental pictures girl," I type. "She had it changed at her court hearing. Fix it please."

"Ok, no problem. U may continue......:-)"

"Who says I stopped? Lol."

"Oh, my bad. Lol," she responds. The lol's are coming so fast now that we're in danger of becoming hysterical. I wonder if she's picturing me in her mind, if she's thinking about how my dick might look, standing up so hard and proud all because of her. It turns me on to no end to picture her picturing me jerking off as I think of her.

I'm stroking harder now, feeling buzzed from the scotch. I know I'm in danger of dashing off something that might spook her, ruining things irrevocably. And so I'm honest with her, telling her that I'm going to say goodnight before I stick my foot in my mouth. "I'm holding you to the shower thing though," I add at the last moment before telling her to wish me luck.

"Luck :-)"

The text makes me groan out loud. Again I get the impression that she enjoys having the power to put me in such a state. But I know also that she's only playing with me, using me as a diversion to get her through the long night alone. Looking down at my cock, I mumble how she's the devil before continuing to pull on it.

I'm startled from my lustful reverie a moment later by the sound of my phone. Holding myself tightly in my fist, I check the text. It's her again. I'm on-call, and no doubt it's another work question.

"Soooo...how's it going? Lol. Just kidding. I'll leave you alone."

My dick grows even harder as I read it. I give it a few more pumps before hurrying to type a response.

"No no! Please keep going. It's more helpful than you know."

I hit send and then dial up the outbox and resend the one about saying goodnight before I stick my foot in my mouth, editing out the last four words.

"Lol. Goodnight," she replies.

Damn, I think, blaming the scotch for making me bungle yet another opportunity. I hurry to send her a last message: "You're probably right. Oh well, it was worth a shot. Thanks again :-)"


I try not to look too much into the word, getting up instead to grab my bottle of personal lubricant from the closet where I keep my toiletries.

It's become something of an end-of-the-week ritual, and I work the lube into the length of me until my cock shines and makes little squishy sounds as I move my fist up and down. My balls are tingling again, and I run my fingers over them to get them greased up too. I try to picture her moving around the house -- her hips going back and forth, bending over to pull out the house rags that I threw in the washer, the gray skirt showing off the entirety of her legs, coming up just short of her ass. I want to sneak up on her right at the moment that I come, surprising her with little warm splashes that coat the back of her thighs. But I know that's impossible. I can only egg her on, pleading with her to bend over a little more so she can reach the rags way down at the bottom of the machine, knowing I can come if I can only get a peek at her panties.

But instead she straightens up, making me groan and reach for my phone.

"It'd probably be inappropriate if I asked you to tell me what color underwear you had on, huh?" I text, and then hit send. I figure at best I'll get another 'lol', at worst a sexual harassment lawsuit. But I've become something of a loose cannon and no longer care. Thankfully, it only takes a couple of seconds before she messages me back.

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