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Ode to an Unbuttoned Shirt with a Cardigan

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     He sits to the side of the room, surrounded by people and yet thinking only of that one person who has derailed all other trains of thought. He's distracted even as the controlled chaos whirls about him. Dirty things come to mind and he wets his lips as he contemplates them all, daydreaming of skin on skin and perhaps a soft cry of "daddy" as he crosses and uncrosses his legs.
     Is it hot in here? It's a bit hot in here.  He thinks as he subtly unbuttons the first few fasteners of his checked shirt. He knows full well that that it isn't hot in there, he brought out one of his favourite cardigans this morning because it was nippy out, but right now with those images in his head he couldn't care less about the weather.
     Careful mate, he thinks to himself, it'd be bloody difficult to hide your... affliction... right now. He takes a deep breath and pats his thighs, counting inwardly to calm himself down. He looks up and around the room, vaguely noticing the click of a camera as he pats his leg a bit more. There's a cool breeze, and it hits his chest just so, slipping under his shirt like a icy caress and bringing gooseflesh across his pectorals in waves. His sensitive nipples are hard now, and this is not helping his concentration at all, but when he notices one of the women across the room staring, he just smirks. Maybe I'll just leave it open a bit longer...