Perhaps more, he thought as he saw her eyelids flutter half-shut when he began to run his hands up and down her sides. He hadn't even consciously mean... to, just started doing it out of... what? Habit? He'd never done this to Buffy, although having a woman straddling him must have awakened deeply rooted muscle memory, an almost reflexive reaction to the imposed intimacy of the situation."Don't fight it, Giles," she purred, slipping her small hands over his and guiding them across her stomach, up. He arrived one Sunday morning proudly announcing he'd just showered for my viewing pleasure, we had a few hours as my mum had just left for a big shop. We headed straight upstairs to my Guns and Roses cladded bedroom where I remember him boldly stripping his clothes like we were about to do a school science project about masturbation. He didn't even bother to completely undo his jeans he shoved them to his ankles and kicked them off. He paused when he got to his tight boxer shorts asking if I. More

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