Tank top removal was not a good thing.  Well, since Paul wasn’t a complete idiot, it was a DAMN good thing!  It was just that her now bare breasts were of no help whatsoever to controlling his arousal.<br/><br/>Oh, get fucking real, Old Man!  Charlette’s anywhere near you and you suddenly turn into Boner Man.  I mean, look at you!  You just tell me what country’s flag you want me to hoist onto that pole.  A sinister chuckle, and then, You like hockey, right, Old Man?  Canada it is, then.<br/><br/>The little tease also known as Charlette playfully dropped her used-to-be-wearing-it tank top onto his face, thus obscuring that wonderful rack of hers.  Clothing pushed aside, Paul grinned at her while still appreciating the view.<br/><br/>Shortly thereafter, she began a light, slow grind against him.  In a word?  Torture.  At this rate, Paul was almost guaranteed to cream his boxer-briefs, and gladly, too.  Would be a mess, but then again, that’s what showers were for.<br/><br/>By now, he had had enough of this song-and-dance.  What would a tortured victim crave the most?  Payback immediately comes to mind.  And that’s just what Paul put into motion.  With his left hand, he casually took hold of her right leg just below the kneecap, and lifted her leg, which allowed him to slide out from under her.<br/><br/>Ha!  The hunted was now the hunter, or put another way, he was now behind her.  Which, coincidentally enough, was his favorite viewpoint anyway.  Funny how things tend to work out.  Charlette’s pajama shorts were still on her, and he let them be.  Instead, Paul’s left arm enveloped her bare waist, while his right hand played tic-tac-toe (or a reasonable facsimile) with her copious amount of breastage.<br/><br/>While this was going on, he pressed himself against her back.  A little further down, and Paul’s hardness, with his boxer-briefs and her pajama shorts running interference, was thrust between her cheeks.  It was his turn to perform a slow grind of his own on that luscious ass of hers.