Teen Confession : My Boobs Sucked

Next time Arjun came over, it wasn’t by accident. I planned it.

I wore just a white button-up shirt — no bra — and tight jeans that hugged every curve, especially between my legs.

That afternoon I texted Arjun a single line — Need help moving a box — and left the front door propped. I was waiting by the stairs in a half-buttoned shirt and the same tight jeans he’d nearly lost it over last time.

He stepped inside, spotted the open fabric and the curve beneath, and forgot to close the door.
I finished the job for him, resting my back against the wood while I undid the next button, then the next, until the shirt hung loose. My breasts were small enough to fit his palms; he traced them with his eyes first, almost shy, before reaching. When his thumbs swept over the points they were already hard, and the faintest pull of fabric over skin made me suck in a breath.

I tipped my chin up, inviting more. He leaned down, lips closing around one nipple, warm and eager. The suction wasn’t gentle — but it wasn’t rough, either; it was right, a steady pull that sent heat rolling all the way to the seam pressing against me. I knotted my fingers in his shirt, tugging him closer until my back arched and my jeans ground harder against the ache at my center.

He straightened, cheeks flushed, and dragged the zipper on his jeans down with one practiced hand. I watched him take himself in his fist, slow strokes at first — eyes fixed on the slick shine…