I was sitting in class one evening when an attractive young woman hurried in late.

She was wearing a fitted Oxford shirt over cropped khaki pants and sandals. The classroom was crowded and we were all crammed in together around tables that formed a large U. I watched as she struggled to get into her chair, and when she bent over to wedge her way into it, I was granted a spectacular view down the front of her shirt. I thought in the next millisecond my gaze would behold a glimpse of aureole, or perhaps an entire nipple.

Alas, the sight vanished as she settled into the chair. As the hour proceeded, I began to wonder if this woman was wearing a bra. After all, I had seen so much of her breasts without the merest hint of a strap or cup. Then I noticed the reason I had seen so much. The top three buttons of her shirt were undone. The first closed button was right between her tits, which looked to be what the French consider the perfect size: just enough to fill a champagne glass.

During the break I tried to find her for a closer look, but she’d disappeared. With nothing better to do, I went back to class, hoping that history would repeat itself, that once again this provocative creature would settle into her chair and offer me a flash of her bosom.

Right before class recommenced, she came in, and, as before, awkwardly sat down. This time, however, the tautness of her shirt gave way enough for me to spy the whiteness of her bra. Disappointed that I could not fantasize about her unbound breasts chafing against the cloth of her shirt, its roughness making her nipples erect, I nonetheless found her choice to leave open three buttons quite, well, titillating.

My mind was obviously not on my studies when a thought struck me. Why not just go up to her after class and tell her that I had looked down her shirt, felt terrible about it, and offer to buy her a cup of coffee or something?

When class was finally over, I waited for her in the hallway. As she walked out I fell in next to her and casually mentioned how sardine-like it was in the classroom. “Tell me,” she replied. “I almost broke my leg getting a seat.”

“I noticed.”

What a perfect opening! Here was my chance. “By the way, I feel terrible about this,” I said, looking around for any eavesdroppers. “I couldn’t help but look down your shirt when you were sitting down. I’m really sorry. Can I buy you coffee or something? I feel awful.”

At first I thought she was going to erupt and in a chilling voice say something like, “Get a good look?” Or maybe, “What are you, a pervert? Get away from me before I call the police.”

Just when I was questioning the wisdom of this whole gambit, and beginning to think the police might indeed have reason to be displeased with me, she smiled and said, “Okay.”

Over the coffee she asked why I was sorry for looking down her shirt. “Well,” I began, “most women don’t even like it if you look at their chest just walking down the street, let alone actually look down their shirt.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “I leave my shirts a little more open on purpose. I guess I like the attention. You’re the first guy to be so honest about taking a peek. Listen, I need to use the rest room. I’ll be right back.”

Of course, I was thinking, She’s out of here — but then I saw she’d left her backpack with her books. A few minutes later she returned and opened her purse so that I had a clear view of its contents. Inside was her bra.

My eyes immediately flashed to her boobs. She chuckled and sat down across from me. “Finish your coffee.”

She placed her elbows on the table and hunched forward on them, resting her small tits on her forearms and giving me a wonderful vista of her cleavage and crescents of rosy aureole. I made no attempt to do anything but appreciate the loveliness I beheld, which manifested itself in my cock swelling to full attention.

After a few minutes, during which I had completely forgotten about my coffee, she reached underneath the table and felt for my rigid manhood. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” she said with a sly smile. “Gather up your stuff. I’ll give you a better look, but no touching. Understood?” she added, pointing a stern finger at me.

“Yes,” was all I managed to croak.

I followed her toward the women’s rest room, trying to conceal my erection and not be too conspicuous. “Just a sec. Let me see if it’s empty.” She ducked in, and a moment later returned and nodded me in. She led me to a stall where she sat on the toilet seat. “Close the door, and remember, no touching.” I nodded and turned to lock the door.

When I looked back, she was unfastening the remaining buttons of her shirt, exposing her hooters completely. They were much as I’d imagined, smallish and firm. Perky would be an accurate description. As her nipples hardened my own hardness returned.

She ran her hands up her torso, lingering at the side of each breast, fingers outstretched and spread apart. “Do you want to jerk off?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said, and fumbled at the fly of my pants to get at my pulsing member. I had never masturbated in front of anyone before, nor had even thought about it, so this was an entirely new experience and one where I was completely on autopilot.

As I stood there jacking off, she continued to caress her boobs, running her fingers over each, tweaking the nipples between her fingers. This was an erotic experience of titanic proportions for me. Soon the head of my thickly veined cock was purple with anticipation. A drop of semen had crawled its way up to the tip. I came with such fury that for a moment I feared I might actually shoot my wad across the stall and hit her. The first string of pearls, however, only made the toilet. As I continued to unload, my body shuddered, and I became totally lost in the moment.

When I was finally spent, I looked over at her. She had buttoned her shirt back up, and handed me some toilet paper. “Here, I’ll let you get cleaned up.” She squeezed past me and out of the stall. After I wiped myself off, all the while praying no one would come in, I looked around. The coast was clear.

I made a quick exit, hoping she was outside guarding the restroom door, but she was nowhere in sight. All the way home I wondered at the bizarreness of this experience, and pondered what kind of after-class activity was in store for next week.