"HI, there," I told the stubby prominence, tweaking it with my thumb and index finger. I squirmed where I stood, and the nip pushed out a little further, fat and squiggly, eager to thrust itself into the pinching grip I had on it.

My other hand came up of its own will and cupped the other tit. The nipple here was only a little behind in the race; one good squeeze and it was fully as stiff and punchy as the left one. It was all hard and eager, hot against the palm that covered it, pressed it down, made it stand up that much faster. Why not? I thought. There's nothing on the radio and I don't feel like watching TV. Releasing my breasts, I reached behind myself and unhooked the clasp in the middle of my back. The cups fell forward, sliding off my tits, and the straps eased down my shoulders. I let the bra swirl to the floor, immediately cupping my hands over my now bare tits.

They were warm and damp with a faint sheen of perspiration, almost like oil. I worked it into the small conical titties, working my hands in circles on them until the flesh was hot and the nipples even harder and my knees beginning to sag where I stood, ass up against the edge of the desk.

I went to the bed again, pulling down my panties as I walked, and I stepped out of them just before turning round to look at myself in the makeup table mirror. It was made for close-up work, but I was far enough from it that I had a good, overall, up and down look at Barbara Gifford in virtually all her naked glory.

For fifteen, I'm not built badly. At least, that's what people like to tell me.