The first time she did it, I thought it was an accident.
I looked, of course I looked, but my excitement then was at catching a glimpse of something forbidden. Amber was her name – I knew that because I’d overheard her talking to her friends on the bus. Her school friends, all wearing the same uniform of blue blazers, white blouses and pleated grey skirts; short grey socks and flat black shoes. The difference with Amber was that I knew she was wearing a pair of white knickers – not the ones with the polka dots, the ones with the tiny red and pink hearts. For I’d become quite the expert on little Amber’s knickers since that first fleeting glimpse.
Every morning without fail, Amber came out of her house in a state of partial undress, shut and locked the front door before dropping the key back through the letterbox. Then she ambled over to the bus stop and completed dressing. Each day she fed her tie around her neck, reaching behind to fold her collar down, thrusting her teenage tits out at me in the process. Sometimes her blouse wasn’t fully fastened at the bottom and I was treated to a peep of her belly as she stretched. Sometimes she bent over and fiddled with the contents of her bag before she did-up the top buttons and I saw the nursery slopes of her breasts. Those were rarer treats. What had become a daily occurrence was the flash of knickers.
Amber’s regulation school skirt finished above her knee and she tied her laces by placing each foot in turn on a metal pole next to the bus stop. As I sat waiting for my bus, I had the most perfect view up Amber’s skirt. I barely had to divert my eyes – I just changed the focus from the distant corner where my bus would appear to the rougher skin of Amber’s knee before sliding my view up the soft, smooth skin of her inner thigh and on up between her legs, allowing my gaze to rest on her exposed knickers. She always wore such pretty ones. Never old fading pants; or plain; or boring: Amber wore pretty knickers; mostly colourful, patterned cotton. The bulge of her pussy was clearly visible and sometimes there would the faintest crease of a camel-toe. That was when I had to be careful to hide my erection: when the contours of Amber’s pussy were clearly visible through the thin material of her knickers.
Innocent or knowing? That was the question which was killing me as Amber put-on her little panty parade every single day, without fail. I knew she was 16 years old; that she was a virgin; that she’d never been kissed; that she fancied a boy called ‘Matt’. Everyone travelling to work on the top deck of the 257 knew those little factoids about Amber. Only I knew that she was wearing the lemon sherbet knickers with the big white dots this morning. But what I didn’t know was whether Amber was aware that in putting each foot in turn on the post that I could see her knickers and therefore knew more about her than any other person on the 257. Was she knowingly putting her crotch in my eye-line every morning? She never looked-up suddenly to catch me; her knickers were simply there for me to look at, should I choose to do so, five-days-a-week.
It quickly became the highlight of my working day. I looked forward to seeing which ones she was wearing. Actually, I did more than that: I tried to anticipate which knickers she would be wearing on any given day. It was difficult as she seemed to be adding new ones to the collection every week.
