He gives in

My breath shuddered as I looked down and my hand finally began to move again. With stiff, **** fingers, I grabbed the little tab and lowered the fly. Gravity did the rest as my slacks loosened, parting just enough to give her a peek.

There was no fabric beneath.

For the briefest moment, she caught a glimpse of dark pubic hair. Her brows lifted subtly with curiosity, as if this little detail of me going sans underwear intrigued her more than anything else.

Then it was gone. My hand blocked her view as I reached inside, fingers fumbling for a second before I drew myself free.

I wasn’t fully hard, just heavy, half-awake, a slow rise that suggested the tension of the situation was inhibiting my desire. It hung forward from my hand, the soft weight of it swinging slightly in the still air before I let go and let it rest, exposed.

My arms dropped uselessly to my sides, uncertain, surrendering the shame I found myself in.

“That’s not how it looked in the picture,” she said, tilting her head slightly. She sounded as if she were faintly disappointed, like I hadn’t lived up to a standard I never agreed to. “How am I supposed to compare if it looks like... this?” she gestured.

I flinched, my hands twitching at my sides.

“I can’t just–” I started, then exhaled sharply, feeling my face flush. “You have to understand how... uncomfortable this is. I’m not a machine, Mia. I can’t make it happen just because you want it to.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, eyes drifting down again. “That’s a shame.”

She began to idly swing her legs again, the soft swish of her feet drawing my eyes whether I wanted to look or not. Her knee-high stockings caught the light with each swing, white, with little frilled tops that hugged just above the curve of her calves. They were innocent by design, yet anything but in effect.

“Maybe,” she started, with a hint of a smile in her voice, “I could help.”

Her fingers, still resting on the inside of her thighs, began to slowly drag upward with purpose, gathering the fabric of her black and blue checkered skirt as they moved. Inch by inch, the hem lifted, until it came to rest high on her thighs, just barely preserving any mystery. The fabric stopped right at the point where it blocked my view of what kind of panties she might be wearing.

Then, without a word, she brought one hand to her blouse, and her fingers slipped over the first button. She never took her eyes off my member, watching closely for any sign of a reaction. One button undone. Then another. Her skin peeked through the open collar, and it looked soft where the edge of her bra was just barely visible now.

Her eyes found mine again.

“Still uncomfortable?” she asked, tracing her fingers at the open edge of her blouse.

My eyes lifted with uncertainty as I finally began to take in her look today.

Her auburn hair was pulled high into a wavy ponytail, but it didn’t tame her. Loose strands framed her face in soft curves, brushing her cheeks, separated by the blunt cut of her bangs drawing even more attention to her eyes. Those sharp, impossibly big eyes that had looked so much softer on the days she wore contacts, when nothing came between her and whoever she was looking at. Stunning, then, but dangerous now as they stared at me.

She smiled faintly, and my attention went lower.

Her legs were long, too long for someone only 5'6", I might’ve once thought. They were slender, and perfectly balanced for her build, their shape brought to focus by the white knee-high stockings hugging her calves. It was a girlish touch with the delicate frills.

She undid another button, catching my attention as my focus jumped back to her fingers now. Then another. The blouse parted further, revealing the center band of her white bra, that was fitted neatly across her ribs. As she worked her way down, her hands paused just above the waistband of her skirt. Then, with a slow drift of her hands, she pulled, parting the blouse fully, letting the soft upper swells of what looked to be B-cup breasts, come into view.

My manhood finally twitched. Still half-hard, still heavy and somewhat unresponsive, but not entirely without hope, it would seem.

My breathing was deeper now. I swallowed and licked my lips, still unsure what to do with my hands, with my eyes, with the tension building at the base of my spine. I tried to look away. To look at the pictures on my desk. What mattered in my life.

“Look at me,” she said. “It’s okay.”

I did.

“Like I told you,” she continued, “I know you’ve looked before. I never stopped you. I never told you not to. Not once.”

She let the blouse hang open, and I could see her chest rising and falling with a slow, even cadence, giving me time to take it all in.

“I liked it,” she added, sounding playful. “Still do. But looking at ‘Mr. Winky,’ I’m not sure if he likes me…” She pouted slightly, her full lips drawing into a gentle curve as a touch of sadness slipped into her tone.

It was in her eyes more than anything. Those deep, expressive eyes that had always got me going when she wasn’t hiding behind her glasses. I’d seen that look before. In debates. In the hallway. In sessions. But never like this. I used to admire them in our sessions, and the way they carried the note of disappointment now, hit me harder than it should’ve considering the situation.

“I–” I tried, but the sound barely cleared my throat.

She leaned forward, still seated on the desk, and parted her legs even further. The open blouse was framing a bit of cleavage, but as she moved, the fabric fell away to either side of her ribcage. Her skirt remained bunched high, held in place by the gentle tension of her thighs.

“I get it,” she said, softly. “You’re nervous. I’m sure something like this is all... new for you.”

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