George plops down in the office chair and pulls out the first-aid kit from the file cabinet, fumbling through it for a minute. He pivots the chair so that he’s facing the desk. “You wanna lean over the desk?” he asks, avoiding eye contact with Charlotte who is bright red. It’s adorable.
She quietly makes her way to the desk and turns her back to him, her ass level with his face. He stares at it a moment . . . a moment too long and Charlotte says, “It won’t bite, George.”
He clears his throat and rolls his eyes. As if she’ll shatter at his touch, his fingers feather across the material of her shorts where it’s ripped, delicately pulling back the material so he can view the cut better. “How the hell did you cut your ass, but not your hands or knees?”
“I’m talented in the arts of clumsiness. I’m a sensei, really,” she retorts and he chuckles.
“I think you’re going to have to pull these down, Charlotte.”
“No fucking way!” she almost shrieks as she straightens to a stand. “I’m not putting my bare ass in your face, George.”
“I can’t see the full cut.” George leans back, fighting the grin that wants to break out across his face. “You’re going to have to pull them down.”
“Yes! Yes! There is a God! Thank you!” I exclaim. Charlotte purses her lips, but I’m not sure if it’s at George, or me, or both of us.
“Seriously?”
“We’re both adults here,” George assures her. “I’ve seen a woman’s ass before.”
“You better not tell anyone about this!” she grits out as she undoes the button of her shorts.
“I don’t think anyone would believe me,” George laughs as he runs a wide palm down his face. I know he’s acting like he’s just doing this to mend her cut, but he’s going to enjoy this as much as me. Charlotte has an ass that makes a man want to slap it. Even a dead man. George’s knee shakes and it dawns on me how fucked up this situation is. My brother and I are both getting a chub by watching a girl pull her shorts down.
Charlotte wiggles her shorts down, hissing as the waist slides over her cut, until they’re just past the curve of her cheeks before bending over the desk, arching her back so her rear sticks up slightly. The room is dead silent. Even though she’s facing away from us, I know she did this on purpose by the way her lips are curved. She’s trying to torture us. It’s working. George’s lack of breathing is definitely noticeable. Her right cheek has a rather large gash on it, but even so, her ass looks amazing. And . . . she’s wearing a G-string.
George scoots up in his chair, attempting to adjust his hard-on without being obvious. This situation is all kinds of fucked up. I should probably leave because Charlotte might be uncomfortable, but . . . no. That’s not happening.
“Is it bad?” Charlotte places her forehead to the desk; embarrassed.
George takes out some antiseptic wipes and says, “This is going to sting a little.” With that, he begins to rub around the area before dabbing the cut itself. As soon as the wipe makes contact with her wound, she hisses and lurches forward; her body tensing. George just stares at her ass. Jesus Christ, we’re some sick fucks. Why was that so fucking hot? I know he’s thinking it, too. He’s my twin. I can read him like an open book.
“It fucking stings!” Charlotte bites out as she pushes her ass back out, almost daring the pain to return.
“Sorry,” George finally manages, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
In hopes of easing her discomfort, at least mentally, I decide to torture her back by joking with her. “I’m really enjoying this, by the way, Charlotte,” I note and she tenses, clenching her fist. I love seeing her become all fire and feisty.
“Okay. Let me try something,” George says. When he applies the wipe again, he blows gently on her flesh. Her skin immediately pebbles with goose bumps.
“Will it leave a scar?” Charlotte murmurs with her eyes clenched closed.
“Why? You got a lot of people looking at your bare ass?” I ask.
“I think I can use some butterfly bandages to close it, and just place gauze over it. We’ll need to check it and clean it once a day,” George mumbles. “Maybe with some Neosporin the scar will be minimal.”
“We?” Charlotte snorts. “I don’t think so.” Just then, George pokes her cut, making her yelp.
“Sorry,” he says, lacking sincerity. He did it on purpose. George makes quick work of cleaning the wound, applying ointment to it, and then he butterflies it and tapes the gauze on top. “There you go. I’d remove the gauze when you shower.” He slides his chair back and fumbles in the first-aid box, but I see him watching her as she slides her shorts back up. Dirty, rotten bastard. I shake my head and chuckle silently to myself. He’s just like me.
“Well, despite how incredibly awkward that was, I appreciate your help.” Charlotte turns and smiles faintly.
“You’re welcome.” George nods and stands, tossing the first-aid kit on the desk.
“Guess I need to go and change. Do you mind if I wear a jean skirt? These were my only black shorts.”
“No, that’s fine. You can take the rest of the day off, if you want,” George offers.
“No. I need the money,” Charlotte quickly adds. “I’ll be back in twenty.”