She had the body I wanted. My hands trembled to touch her and I yearned to have her. I watched her movements in the university while she returned to the classroom. We weren’t classmates, not from the same course nor the same class. I was just someone using the library, open to the community for use. Now thinking about it, I like to watch her. I’ve seen her stumble on the curb and look to the sides, pretending nothing happened. Look at her phone screen with a sad, melancholic face. I imagine some situation in which she was involved and got the closure for the story now, looking at the phone. Who was it? I wanted to know with whom she went out. I know it might be just a message about something she forgot to do. But in my head, it was a love affair.
I was the type no one would be suspicious about having perverted thoughts. Although here I am, touching myself, picturing my friend with me. Her breasts touching my mouth ever so slightly. My hands in her hips. Oh, shit. Don’t get the idea I do things out in the open. It’s discreet; sometimes, a crossing of legs which makes the fabric of my pants rub softly. A hand getting warm between the legs, staying “still”. A run to the bathroom and a little bit of privacy in the cubicle. Not too long or too exposed. My gaze was fixed and my mind, distant, when her gaze met mine and she came towards me.
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