Her school principal is an idiot, she says.Like most men, she says.At home, she favors cut-off sweat-shorts and Fruit-of-the-Loom tank tops, assorted colors, a size too small. Her breasts stretch the fabric between them into shadowy grooves, and her nipples, usually erect, are sharply defined. I detect no panty line beneath the shorts. Perhaps she wears a thong, though none are to be found in her underwear drawer. Perhaps she wears nothing. It is something to think about.Regina doing dishesShe stands barefoot at the sink, in a powder-blue top and matching briefs. Her hair is off her neck, pinned in a spray at the crown of her head. The lump at the base of her cervical vertebrae stands revealed, enticingly. I approach from behind, unnoticed, or so I believe. Sinking to my knees, I purse my lips inches from her bottom. The elastic around the leg-holes caresses her buttocks; the blue cotton folds into the valley between. She hums softly, a phrase from the Symphonia Domestica.Regina. Breathing in deeply, John tried to stretch his back out, the muscles stiff from his prolonged vigil at the window. Sara was sitting in front her computer, the towel draped around her now hung open, exposing her to the glow of the monitor. Her hand was below the desk, her arm moving slowly as she typed occasionally on the keyboard. Shrugging, Sara removed the towel from round her and sat there exposed to John's hungry view. John took the opportunity to appreciate Sara's body, her long blonde hair draped back over her shoulders, her thick shapely lips and her nipples firm topping her tits hanging in a lovely half moon shape. John could now see that her hand was firmly between her legs, occasionally moving up to toy with her nipples.John reached down and grabbed the front of his jeans, feeling his cock straining against the material. His tongue licked his lips as he saw the moisture glistening on her hand as she toyed with her nipple, pinching it and rubbing around it. His mind span as.
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