Don't stare

The way she's sitting, it's impossible to not look down her shirt, and holy shit is there a lot to see. She leans gently forward and gives you a glare.

"You fucking letch!" She mocks, her glare turning to a smirk. Laughing softly, she adjusts further in the seat, tilting her loose tank top ever more toward you. Feeling the blush burn around your ears and down your neck, you duck a little in your seat and try to pull your focus away from her clearly stiff nipples and properly back on traffic.

"Lesson two," Mel sas before you can start to apologize. "Don't stare. Women don't like to be stared at, creep," She ended softly, pushing one shoulder strap off. Even if her shirt hadn't caught on those very stiff nipples, she'd probably still be sitting there, staring at you, brazenly baring even more flesh than almost her entire breast.

"But...you work hard on your body and you like to show it off?" You try to search for a way to justify the fact that you can't stop looking down her shirt, one breast nearly free and the other peering right back out at you.

"God, that's so fucking lame," She says. "I mean, I get it, but I don't dress this way to make your cock rise, I dress this way because I like the way it makes me feel. Except when creepy mother-fuckers stare at my tits." You were definitely staring right at them when she said that part. To be fair, her shirt is putting some fairly incredible tits on display. Without the undershirt on anymore, as this as it is, that tank to is basically just providing window freaking on mostly bare tits, while failing entirely to encase them in its thin cotton fabric.

"Your shirt is just..." You stammer.

"Quit. Fucking. Staring." She emphasizes each syllable in turn. It isn't so much like she is upset, but it is clearly best to follow her orders.

"It's not like you don't stare," You attempt to mount another defense, trying to focus on the road and not the edge of areola plainly slipping free of the ever-further-drooping side of her top. Trying and failing, but still trying. You don't think you'll ever get the image of your best friend's tits spilling free of her top out of your mind. You hope you never will.

"See?" She says with a smile. "You're still seeing them, but you're remembering, not staring like a fucking creep. I like that you're thinking about that, I like that I've got you distracted. It's good to know that you think about me without staring at me like I'm a piece of meat."

"But I mean, I am definitely thinking and, um, definitely reacting..." You say with a nod down to your crotch, her undershirt resting gently on a very clear bulge. "I kinda feel like I'm still being creepy..."

"No, you're enjoying a memory. I wouldn't have shown you and you wouldn't have that memory to enjoy if I didn't want you to..."

"You wanted me to..." You swallow, hard. Your cock throbs harder as you pull up in front of her house. "You wanted me not to peek and not to stare." You look over, eyes locked on hers, desperately trying not to see how much of that nipple is escaping now.

"So..." She reaches across for her undershirt, still in your lap. She pointedly and quite firmly sets her hand on your cock, her fingers gently gripping it through your shorts. As she turns your way, she shuffles the remaining shoulder free, her top slipping down, her breasts fully spilling out, perky and round, gently jiggling in the motion, nipples so very stiff... Not that you're staring... "Want to come in for lesson three? My parents are out for the weekend..."

"Um, ya..." You blink, eyes almost watering from all the not looking. "Yes, of course, I'm all for learning."

"Of course you are." She smirks, picking up the undershirt, slipping her top back in place and sliding out of the car. You quickly follow her inside and she stops just in the doorway, setting the undershirt on a table by the door as she turns to you, smiling.

"So..." You swallow.

"Lesson three..."