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I approach, and she clasps her hands, her dress opening down the front of her body, exposing a long, narrow slash of skin.
I raise my hands to her shoulders, taking the collar of her dress. She flinches at my touch.
Fuck yeah.
“Now, Izzy, I’m going to slip your dress off, okay. But don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you.”
She finally looks up at me, and in such close proximity I see her blue eyes contain specks of a still-darker blue, like someone painted them, then scraped away the top layer to expose the color underneath.
I slide the shoulders of her dress—it really is a polyester piece of shit, I’ll have to thank Gwen later for that—off her shoulders. It slips down her arms and to the floor, where it puddles on top of her sneakers.
One arm rises in a lame attempt to cover her nipples, now stiffening from the exposure.
I take a step back. “Now, get back to your dusting.”
She picks up the feather duster, which had tumbled to the ground at some point, and steps out of the dress circling her feet. Turning her back to me, she waves it at an imaginary piece of furniture, giving me a perfect view of her lovely back, the heart shape of her ass under her loose panties, and her strong thighs.
“Baby, pull your panties between your cheeks for me,” I say, unable and unwilling to hide the growing rasp in my voice.
She takes a quick look over her shoulder, as if for reassurance.
I nod. “C’mon, honey. You can do it.”
She drops the duster again and slips her fingers under the elastic of her panties, slowly sliding them toward her crack, exposing the smooth, lovely skin of her ass.
She stops when they are halfway exposed.
“More,” I growl.
When they are completely wedged between her cheeks—it probably isn’t too comfortable, but I don’t really care—I walk over and place a hand on her shoulder.
“Bend forward.”
She glances back again, then slowly bends, aided by the gentle push I give her, until she’s at a ninety-degree angle, her hands on the sitting chair for balance.
“Stay there,” I say.
I step back to see the white cotton bunched up, then smooth over her pussy lips, nearly visible through the thin cotton.
“Are you shaved, honey?” I ask.
“N… not really,” she murmurs.
I smooth a hand over one of her ass cheeks. “Why? Why not, Izzy?”
“B… because I don’t want to be a slut. Like the other girls.”
Great answer. This girl is earning herself a big fucking tip.
“Let me see. Pull your panties aside.”
She gasps, but without missing a beat, reaches around and gathers the panty fabric—seriously, those fuckers arehuge—unwedges it from her ass, and pulls the fistful aside to show me her pussy.
I sigh as I find that, as she said, she’s not shaved, but that her hair is sparse, being a blonde and all, and that her lips and lovely little slit are easy to see.
I crouch down for a better look, and fuck if she doesn’t smell amazing.
“Looks like you’re a little wet there, Izzy,” I say. “Are you?”
