by Lesley Finch
His actual boner was now fully developed beneath his desk, Roger was shaken from his lecherous daydream by Sophie, the support rep at the next desk along from Jemima, talking about her tits. Of course, Sophie wasn’t talking directly to Roger, none of the girls ever opened up to him directly, she was chatting to Louise. But Roger let his fantasies stray once again to cast himself as Sophie’s partner in dialogue.
Sophie was attractively, healthily curvaceous. Juicy in all the right places, she had freckled, girl-next-door pretty features, petite doll-like nose and a rosy-cheeked smile. Her shoulder-length brunette hair was almost always tied back in a cute ponytail to reveal distinctive ears and a long, graceful neck. Sophie’s stout, shapely chubbiness was the alluring privilege of a woman in her mid-twenties who enjoyed life and was fortunate enough to have nonetheless remained exceptionally slim in the waist and ankles. Hourglass was most definitely the word. And her breasts.
Ah, those breasts.
Through overheard workplace boob-banter, Roger had gathered that Sophie had been big up top even in her skinny former years, so the proud, heaving 36G melons that always looked so enticingly grabbable and kissable under her tight, colourful V-neck sweaters were by no means flab. They were perhaps proportionally larger than they had been a couple of stone ago, but it was clear from their staunch lack of wobble and bounce that Sophie’s G-cups were still principally all dense, meaty breast-tissue. And her nipples, by her own account, resembled thick, pink, rubbery baby pacifiers which responded with extreme sensitivity to the slightest stimulus, hence her need for thick padded bras. But although the padded bras probably exaggerated her bustline, Roger had the gleeful feeling that even without the bra, cuddly, freckle-nosed Sophie’s jugs were nevertheless more than sufficiently ample in their buxom dimensions. And how often Roger had imagined wrapping his greedy lips those huge, shiny, turgid pink wet-nurse areolae and sucking them while rolling her sensitive, erect nipples around his mouth with his long tongue, while running has hands around her nude, rounded hips, into her slender waist then up her back before sliding his palms under her armpits and cupping both firm, heavy tits with tender, loving passion, before releasing the nipple with a wet plop and setting hungrily to work on the other, back and forth, back and forth, sucking and caressing the buxom, firm brunette to the brink of a boobgasm which he would finally resolve by thrusting his gagging, streaming boner into that hefty cleavage, Sophie climaxing while his dick pelted her pretty smile with burst after burst of grateful jism.
‘This woman on the phone just now,’ Sophie was saying to Louise. ‘After a bra recommendation that would help take the weight of her 32D’s. 32D! I wanted to tell her what it’s like carrying a pair of 36G puppies like mine around all day!’
‘Tell me about it,’ Roger imagined himself chipping in. He would walk around to Sophie’s desk, casually open his trousers and present his thick, flaccid length of pale uncircumcised cock to her. ‘Imagine having to carry this around between your legs.’
‘Roger!’ Sophie would exclaim in surprise, but not anger. ‘What do you think you’re doing, getting this, this monstrous cock of yours out, right here in front of me in the office?’
‘I’m just trying to bond with you,’ Roger imagined replying. ‘We need to understand each other’s bodies so we can work better as a team. Here, feel how heavy it is.’
Sophie would then lean forward and run her fingers underneath Roger’s slowly-expanding dick, savouring its mass and weight, letting it bob up and down, first the weight of the bulbous helmet at its summit, then the full effect from the base of the shaft. ‘Oh my, it really is heavy, Roger,’ Sophie would acknowledge with grudging respect. ‘However do you cope?’
‘And that’s just the cock,’ Roger would say. ‘Now feel the balls.’
‘You’ll have to stand a little closer,’ the seated brunette would say, and Roger pictured himself taking a step forward, his dick lengthening until it almost settled on the foremost extremity of Sophie’s chest which jutted, inviting of cleavage, beneath it.
‘Oh Roger, those balls!’ Sophie would need both hands, one for each pink, hairy, cum-bloated tennis ball of a testicle. ‘They weigh an absolute ton!’
‘Admittedly, that’s just when I’m exceptionally turned on and haven’t had the opportunity for release in a few days.’
‘So, um, what’s turning you on now, Roger?’ Sophie’s dark eyes would look up at him from beneath thick lashes. ‘Is it my delicate, cold hands on your big cock and balls?’
‘Partly.’
‘Is it my firm, chunky thighs?’
‘Kind of.’
‘My pretty face?’
‘In a way.’
‘Is it… My tits? Oh my goodness, Roger, I never knew you were a boob man. And here I am with these juicy 36G’s! Well, Roger, impressively weighty though your genitals are, I think you really need to get your hands on my melons to really understand what it’s like to be carrying around extra baggage all day.’
Roger’s fantasy saw Sophie peel off her sweater, beneath which her sturdy breasts were safely strapped into a bra that was secure despite leaving vast expanses of creamy bosom exposed.
‘Step a little closer, Roger, so you can reach beneath my breasts.’
Roger would then advance yet closer, and in arriving at boob-cupping range would find his horizontal erection with no place to go other than to be thrust forcibly into the deep, tight cleavage which Sophie’s padded bra held together. His cock would react to the pressure by hardening still further in self-defence, that tight sheath of heavenly bosom propelling him towards orgasm already. He imagined himself hefting Sophie’s chest from beneath, testing its considerable weight, up and down, sliding her breasts up and down the sides of his rigidity as he did so.
‘I see someone likes a good titfuck,’ Sophie acknowledged as part of this improbable workplace fantasy scenario. ‘You’re supposed to be appreciating the weight of my breasts.’
‘I am appreciating them, Sophie,’ Roger would growl softly. ‘Very much.’
‘There’s not much room in my tight cleavage for your thick cock. Should I take my bra off?’
Roger weighed up the relative merits of continuing so tight and thorough a titwank versus getting to set eyes on those breasts, and concluded that, in the unlikely event that Sophie were actually to give him the option, he would like her to remove the bra. He pictured the scene, his hands cradling her heavy jugs, his desperate dick between them, and matronly young Sophie reaching round behind her back with both hands to unfasten the bra. The sudden relaxing of pressure on Roger’s cock as the cups fell away would, Roger imagined, have the paradoxical effect of pushing him more vertiginously to orgasm, with the mind-blowing sensation of those big, succulent pink nipples flicking out and prodding him in the hips a further contributing factor. And, every time his bulbous purple helmet would emerge from the welcoming depths of Sophie’s heaving cleavage, he would unload a fountain of cum, draining his fat, dangling balls one delicious jizzload at a time, the thick white ropes sailing high above the buxom brunette’s head before descending to decorate her proud G-cups in seed.
How filthy Roger’s fantasies had become! Uschi had been a terrible influence on him. But at least she had always been there to cancel out the horny ordeals she had put him through, by giving him full, unlimited access to her uniquely sexy body throughout the course of her mischievous experiment. What a relief it would be to have her here at Tempest Lingerie! Roger would make the call later.
But first, there was more time to kill completing his fantasy titfuck tour of his team, so he could work himself up to the most satisfying masturbatory orgasm he could.
At the desk next to Sophie sat Louise, lovely Louise with her long, wavy, Goldilocks hair, erotic blue eyes and pouting pink lips, and those supple, shapely 32F’s, so classically beautiful in form, especially evident when she went braless in that wraparound blue stretch-cotton dress that separated them diagonally from shoulder to hip but did nothing to
suppress their jiggly, gravity-defying buoyancy and gentle-nippled perkiness. She had joined the company straight from school, another girl who could have been a model were it not for her cumbersome and disproportionately over-developed bosom, and was thus forced to pursue a fashion career through other means. Louise had always struck Roger as overqualified, and not just where her bust was concerned. Her work on the phones wasn’t great, but he suspected that this was because she had her heart set on better things, perhaps modelling, perhaps the creative side, perhaps even management.
‘Your boobs are looking particularly nice in that top today,’ Roger imagined himself saying as a friendly ice-breaker. Even as the manager of a lingerie support call centre it was absurd to contemplate so familiar an opening conversation, but this was his sexual fantasy, and in this warped imaginary world of his, such barriers either didn’t exist, or were his to cross as he pleased.
‘Thank-you Roger,’ Louise, improbably, replied in this daydream. He pictured her arching her back and thrusting them forth to accentuate her breasts’ dimensions, height on her chest, and pert form, the blue cotton stretching taught and rounding out their pointed extremities. ‘I know it’s rather naughty to say this considering where I work, but I think they look much better without a bra, don’t you Roger?’
‘They do, Louise. Certainly if the swelling and throbbing in my trousers is anything to go by.’
‘I never wear underwear beneath this dress,’ this unlikely fantasy version of Louise confessed. ‘It’s so tight against my body that the outlines of my bra and knickers would show through, and in a way I think that looks even ruder than simply dispensing with underclothes altogether. After all, I don’t want to draw attention to my lingerie at work, especially not with a man present!’
‘But it’s the lack of underwear that turns me on, Louise,’ Roger imagined himself confessing in turn. ‘The constant bounce and wobble of those pert buttocks and breasts whenever you move gives me the hardest, thickest erections. I have to sneak off to masturbate several times a day!’
‘You masturbate thinking about my bouncing braless bosoms, Roger? Oh my goodness that’s so dirty. Whoever knew you were such a horny pervert? I suppose I had better let you excuse yourself and retire to the gents’ toilets… unless your requirements are of a more urgent nature and need attending to immediately?’
In the admittedly unlikely event that this scenario were to unfold in real life, Roger would most certainly have insisted on instant attention there and then, in the corridor, or at her desk, or wherever it was supposed to be happening. He was far too horny by this point to start populating his fantasy with backdrops and details. It was just Louise, in her tight blue wraparound dress sans underwear, and him frantically extracting his almost fully erect cock so he could stroke it while gazing unashamedly on the curly blonde’s exquisite, supple figure.
‘Oh Roger,’ she would probably exclaim upon setting eyes on his outrageous priapism and ponderously swinging bollocks, ‘It’s enormous! Was it huge to begin with, or were my braless jiggling bosoms responsible?’
‘A bit of both,’ Roger would mutter as he concentrated on her tits and ran his fist up and down his still-swelling length.
‘And those balls! So huge! So heavy! And I thought my appendages were a nuisance. You must have a terrible time try to fit all of that into your pants and trousers, especially with my sexy body turning you on every day!’
‘Half the weight is cum,’ Roger would explain, wildly inventing unlikely biological statistics as he continued to wank. ‘Once I ejaculate onto your breasts it won’t be anywhere near as heavy a burden.’
‘Then there’s no time to lose,’ he imagined Louise saying. ‘I should probably get my bosoms out for you, then, shouldn’t I?’
‘Yes please.’
Roger had often wondered how Louise got in and out of that wraparound dress. It was, presumably, something that had to be done all in one go, and this speculation found its way into the events of his erotic daydream.
‘I can’t pull this dress down to let my breasts out,’ Louise would say. ‘I’m going to have to peel the whole thing off.’ Roger pictured her taking the dress by its hem and tugging it up, up her creamy thighs, past the tops of the gartered stockings she was wearing for the purpose of this masturbatory fantasy, then revealing a tousled dark blonde quim to match her eyebrows as she continued drawing the stretchy blue cotton up over her rounded hips until it bunched around her slim waist before continuing its journey over her supple stomach and dimpled navel, up, up, her full breasts rising with it until they could hold on no longer and plummeted down to bounce and jostle for Roger’s giddy delectation.
And as Roger’s actual cock and balls swelled and twitched in his trousers, he imagined Louise standing before him while he applied the slightest stroking touch necessary to encourage comprehensive ejaculation, spray-painting that soft, gorgeously formed body of hers in cum while she smiled indulgently, so pleased to be relieving him of that taxing burden.
And so, finally to Imogen, tall gangly young Imogen, long and bony in limb and features, with her light brown frizzy curls that cascaded generously onto her shoulders. Her sleepy pale blue eyes and thin lips were rarely graced with anything resembling a real smile. A cynical smirk was all Roger could hope for most days. And considering her otherwise spindly physique she was the last woman one would expect to be boasting a staggering pair of 28L whoppers, but there they were, pendulous yet swooping and shapely, swinging around above her flat stomach in tops originally designed for the less well endowed form but which over time had been stretched out to sort of fit her. Imogen was very much in the mould of Vanessa, the laconic French braless wonder from Roger’s last job, but without the confrontational attitude. She was simply rather quiet and distant, and given her lack of conversational prowess, Roger concluded that it was her extreme cup size to band size ratio that had got her the job here at Tempest Lingerie. If Nina’s plan had been to staff her support telephone line with women top heavy enough to identify with the customers’ bosomy woes, then Imogen was most certainly qualified for the job in this regard, if not her ability to actually engage with the callers on any empathetic level.
Roger wondered what got Imogen off. It was easy to imagine the sexual proclivities of the other girls—Jemima the posh daddy’s-girl slut, Sophie the smothering matronly type, Louise the intellectual tease—but Imogen seemed almost asexual, which for Roger was confusingly at odds with her eminently erection-inspiring proportions. Never any mention of boyfriends, or even girlfriends. She got involved with the daily boob conversations, which was how Roger knew her bra size and that her nipples were large, soft, flat, rarely erect, and more or less the same colour as the rest of her skin (again reminiscent of Vanessa’s sumptuous Gallic boobs and nipples), and how he knew her bra size and her preference for soft, unstructured bras that didn’t elevate and exaggerate her knockers to an even more outrageous scale.
Still more intriguingly, there was a rumour in the office that Imogen led a double life as a topless burlesque dancer, a rumour she always refused to comment upon, and which Roger and the others had tried in vain to verify via online web searches. After all, without knowing the name she may be performing under, how to search? For all Roger’s obsession with boobs, he had never been particularly attracted to the wealth of bare breasts on the internet, preferring to retreat into his own fantasy world within for masturbatory assistance, and so the knack for tracking down anyone online, let alone a mystery stripper, still eluded him.
But what if she really was a fancy stripper, he got to thinking as he watched her enormous soft breasts sway in a faded brown long-sleeved T-shirt. What if all that bottled up sexuality found its only expression on stage as she snapped open garter belt clips and shook her tassels for the rigid-cocked entertainment of complete strangers on stag nights. He imagined stumbling upon her act in a club one evening and watching from the side of the stage as she jiggled her way out of a sparkly outfit, her long curls fly
ing as she danced and gyrated, then finally releasing those overdeveloped melons to thunderous applause, only her succulent nipples covered up.
‘Imogen!’
‘R-Roger! Wh-what are you doing… here?’
The sight of her manager in this other setting would, he imagined, disorientate her, make her forget to revert to her bored office persona, the adrenaline from her taboo bosom-baring stage act still pumping through her, a slight film of sweat over her huge, nearly naked knockers reflecting the coloured lights of the club. ‘I was meeting a friend nearby, and popped in for a drink,’ he would fib. Even though this was his sexual fantasy and he could really say and do anything he wanted, the subterfuge was still a big part of what turned him on. ‘I might well ask you the same question.’
Imogen would give a wry chuckle. ‘So, did you see my act?’
‘I caught the end of it.’
‘What did you think?’
‘I never know what to make of burlesque, Imogen. Is it right to be... turned on by it?’
‘It’s meant to be satire, an exaggerated parody of striptease. It’s really meant to appeal intellectually rather than erotically. My breasts are so big as to be more absurd than arousing, so that’s why I do it. Are you saying that you got turned on, Roger?’
‘If I admit that I did get turned on, then I would be undermining the artistic integrity of your performance,’ Roger imagined himself saying impressively. ‘And if I deny that I did, well, then… I’d be doing your beauty a great disservice.’
‘Well, Roger. This is a first.’
Imogen would lead him backstage to her dressing room, a dingy space, paint peeling from the walls, some of the lightbulbs around the dirty mirror duds. She would turn to face him, bust wobbling freely, as he shut the door behind them. Softly lit from the side, Imogen and her overgrown, tasselled breasts would look more invitingly sexy than ever. ‘You’re the first man not to laugh at them.’