Lucy would look up out the bright window, admiring the sunlight beaming through, enveloping her perfect face in light, then drop her head directing back to her soaking shirt. I don't know what came over me, maybe it was the water dripping down her chest or the way she was leaning over, skirt covering nothing, those silk red panties exposed. I dropped the towel, my hand slid into my white boxers, I grasped my cock and started slowly massaging my shaft, as it hardened in my hand. Eyes fixed on her red panties, glistening in the light from the window. She was still bent over the sink, racing to clean her shirt.My school uniform was covered in black coffee, great just what I need.. I suddenly felt something brushing up against my underwear, my eyes wide with shock. I turned my head around "Mr Cleaver! Wha..." Before I could finish my sentence, my best friends dad had reached around and covered my mouth, I tried to stand but he pushed me back down against the counter with his other hand. In the twenty-first century employed a techno Geek. Mine wasn’t a spotty college whiz kid you threw a few bucks at to perform miracles. No, mine was a fort-five-year-old Russian called Dmitri Premagenev, or ‘Prema’ for short. A bald, bear of a man—a bit-part actor, a gypsy troubadour. Part insane, part genius. He had worked at a Space Facility in Kazakhstan, then for the KGB hacking into US industrial companies, before being retired to a gulag for ‘behavior incompatible with a Soviet Citizen.’He had learned his English in Russia, watching smuggled John Wayne movies. Capitalism had taken its toll; he spoke like John Wayne, with a heavy Russian accent, and modeled his life on the ‘Duke’. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, he fled to America. Prema was his usual obtund self. I agreed to leave the package with him. He wanted time to work on it, and I needed sleep.Two days later, my cell rang. It was 4 am, and Prima was on the line. “Why so early?” I growled, clinging to the.
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