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Asperger’s strikes again.
“Take off your shirt,” I order, but I don’t move away from her to sit back and enjoy the show. I stay close, close enough it gives her an illusion of privacy as she uses me as a shield. All while giving her the feeling I’m too near to see much of her.
But she surprises me. I expect her to at least hesitate, to need a minute to work up the courage to follow the order, or at least to come out of the pleasure fog she was in before her mind could make her body listen. Instead, she’s the one who scoots back a little, not shy at all—in fact, quite the opposite. She looks damn near giddy to take hold of the bottom hem of her T-shirt with crisscrossed hands before wiggling just a little as she pulls it up and over her head.
And fuck me, she’s not wearing a bra.
Even I have to consciously control the gruffness of my voice when I tell her, “Very good, princess.” When I finally lift my stare from her breasts—probably one of the most perfect pairs of tits I’ve ever seen—she’s actually looking at me, her expression telling me she’s watching closely for my reaction, my opinion of what she’s revealed to me. As always, she wants my approval, but this is different. This is something she actually has confidence in, and her self-consciousness has lifted enough to not weigh her gaze down to her lap. So she can actually try to read the effect her body has on me instead of waiting to hear about it while she hides her head in the sand.
I need to finally warn her that I won’t have the typical cues to look for.
“You’re stunning,” I tell her, lifting my hand to trace one finger from her collarbone down to the center of her chest, where I can feel her heart beating wildly. I can sense her struggling to sit perfectly still, but her body wants to rock into my light touch, to feel more of it. “Absolutely beautiful, little one.” I angle my hand just enough that my knuckles graze her left breast as I skim down the center of her cleavage, and I hear her tiny gasp that lifts her chest an extra inch.
“As I told you before, my eyes are strange to a lot of people,” I begin as I watch goose bumps form in the wake of my gentle touch. “If you try to read what I’m thinking as you would someone neurotypical, I can promise your comprehension will be wrong.”
“Neurotypical? You mean you’re not?” she asks, and by the look on her face, she’s surprised herself that she voiced the question so easily, especially as I continue to trace a figure-8 around and between her breasts.
I shake my head. “My face is normally unreadable unless I make the purposeful effort to change my expression. It’s the exact opposite of my eyes, which never stop moving. They don’t settle on one object unless I consciously force them to quit shifting, like to look someone deep in their eyes. Or what they perceive is deep in their eyes. Really, it’s a trick we Aspie’s use to make it seem like we’re meeting someone’s gaze, but in fact we’re looking at one’s nose or maybe the spot between their eyebrows.”
I lift one shoulder in the learned gesture that puts others at ease, a shrug to relax the tension of confusion or to move forward in a conversation that would typically go nowhere. “Most people read that as a sign of dishonesty, my ‘shifty eyes,’” I say the last part as if I’m telling a spooky story, even stealing my hand from her soft skin to wiggle my fingers in her face, lifting my eyebrows and flaring my eyes dramatically before giving her a smile and shaking my head.
My hand goes back to what it was doing, petting her as she leans forward into my touch. I wonder if she realizes she’s practically crawled into my lap—to either get a closer look at my eyes, at what I’m talking about, or to press her tits together in an attempt to trap my hand between them. Or maybe both. Her nipples have pebbled so tightly, and I haven’t even allowed myself to graze them, still just drawing patterns around and between the perfect globes.
Too perfect to be natural, in fact, but I literally could not care less about that. They fit her beautifully, not overdone in the slightest. If I were an average man, or maybe just not a doctor, it would’ve been difficult to tell she’s had an augmentation at all. That’s how well they were done. But the learned dead-giveaway is the fact that they are perfectly symmetrical, exactly the same size and shape. I could practically use her nipples if I didn’t have a level handy.
