Robin can't resist her breasts

Robin's entire world narrowed to the soft weight of Sofie's head in his lap and the monumental effort of not getting a hard-on. He stared down at her, his gaze tracing the elegant line of her neck, the perfect swell of her yellow-painted breasts rising and falling with each shallow breath. They looked like two sun-ripened fruits, the nipples tight and pointed. He could feel the heat of her scalp through his thin shorts, a warmth that seemed to travel directly to his groin. He clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the couch cushions on either side of him so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Don't get hard. Don't get hard. Just breathe.

But looking was its own form of ****. The pressure began to build, a slow, undeniable heat pooling low in his belly. He knew he was losing the battle. He had to do something, channel this energy somewhere else before it manifested in the most humiliating way possible.

His eyes darted to her breasts, so close, so defenseless. An idea, born of pure desperation, sparked in his mind. A distraction. A physical outlet for the energy coiling in him. It was a terrible idea, a violation. But it was better than the alternative, with her face so close to his lap.

Slowly, his trembling hand lifted from the couch cushion. He moved it with excruciating care, hovering over her chest for a heartbeat before letting it settle. He didn't grab or grope. He laid his palm flat against the soft mound of her left breast, just below the areola. The paint was dry, creating a slightly tacky, warm surface against his skin. The flesh beneath was yielding, impossibly soft. He was touching her. He was actually touching Sofie's breast.

Sofie's eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flew open. A new warmth, distinct from the comforting heat of Robin's leg, bloomed against her chest. It was a weight, a pressure, a deliberate touch. Her mind, already a frantic scramble of panic and humiliation, stuttered to a halt. She didn't need to look down. She knew whose hand it was. A wave of heat, far more intense than any blush, washed over her entire body. It was mortifying, electrifying, and… strangely, not entirely unwelcome. This was Robin. Her friend. The boy who had painted her with such care. Her breath hitched, and she let out a tiny, strangled squeak.

The touch, combined with her subtle, panicked recoil, caused her to lose her grip. Her father shifted, his hand slipping from her hers. With a soft, sleepy sigh, it fell. It didn't land on the couch cushion. It slid down, directly between her spread legs, his hand pressing fully and firmly against her blue-painted crotch.

Sofie froze, her entire body going rigid. The pressure was immense, a direct, unignorable contact from a source that should never, ever be there. She was trapped. Pinned. Her father's hand was a heavy, proprietary weight over her most private area. She looked down, her vision swimming with embarassment. His fingers were curled slightly, the tips digging into the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.

Her first instinct was to shove his hand away. But as she tensed her muscles to do so, Robin's hand on her breast gave a gentle, exploratory squeeze. It wasn't aggressive, but it was a clear, undeniable presence. A silent communication passed between them in the dim light of the television. I'm here. I'm with you. A strange sense of resignation washed over her. What was one more layer of humiliation? She was already a cursed to be naked, painted by her roommate, and now pinned by her crotch by her sleeping father. She didn't protest Robin's touch. She let it happen.

But allowing it didn't make it less embarrassing. Robin was the first boy to ever touch her breasts, and the situation was so warped it was almost laughable. His touch was careful, almost reverent, his thumb stroking the soft curve just below the scoop neck paint line of her "shirt," deliberately avoiding the nipple. But the intimacy of it sent a jolt straight to her core, a tingling warmth that pooled low in her belly.

Her hips betrayed her. They gave small, involuntary shifts, a subtle rocking against the pressure of her father's hand. The movement was a reflex, a physical response to Robin's touch that she couldn't control. It was a disastrous mistake. The shift didn't dislodge her dad's hand; it wedged it in deeper. His arm settled more firmly, his elbow tucking against her thigh, locking his hand in place against her mound. She couldnt see from her angle, but she could guess that her lips had parted slightly around his knucles. She tried to shift back, to pull away, but it was no use. She was stuck. A perfect, accidental trap. She was now being wedged even more securely by the very part of him she had been trying to escape.

Robin felt the subtle movement of her hips, saw the fresh wave of panic in her eyes as she realized she was trapped by her dad's hand. He also felt the soft, yielding weight of her breast in his palm, the way her body seemed to arch into his touch despite her terror. The conflicting signals were maddening. He was supposed to be helping, but he was making it worse. And yet, he couldn't stop. His arousal, which had been threatening to erupt, was now channeled into this single, focused point of contact. He explored the shape of her with his fingers, learning the curve and weight of each breast, his touch a secret apology for the horror she was enduring. He was a bundle of conflicting impulses: guilt for his role, fury at her father, and a primal, undeniable lust for the voluptuous girl in his lap.

Sofie was also a mess of sensations. The weight of her dad's hand was a constant, low-level hum of violation. The gentle, exploratory touch of Robin on her breast was a confusing counterpoint of illicit pleasure. She was trapped, painted, and being touched by two men in the most compromising way imaginable. Not just any two men, but the two men she respected most in the world. And all she could do was lie there, her breath coming in shallow pants, and endure.

She glanced over at Viki, wide eyed, who had her hands over her mouth in object awe. "Help!" She mouthed. Viki, seeing her naive little roomate's quandry, slid out of her chair and carefully walked over, analyzing the situation.