Uschi

by Lesley Finch

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked Shelley.

  Roger had rarely been so satisfied in his life. ‘Yes, thank-you,’ he said, and reluctantly relinquished his grasp on Shelley’s heavenly K-cups. He wondered if the imminence with which he was about to cum was as obvious on his face as it felt. Uschi was right that this level of direct, unfiltered, uninhibited exposure to the large breasts effectively cancelled out his need for a private fantasy sex life. No amount of idle masturbatory daydreaming later on would come close to the sight, the scent, the sheer weight of a real, naked pair of tits in Roger’s hands. Whether he would, as Uschi hypothesised, ever get bored of them, was another question. Roger was excited at the prospect of testing the theory in practice, but scared of the outcome if Uschi were proven right. Roger couldn’t imagine a life without the stimulatory presence of lovely boobs around him. What point was there in living without tits?

  ‘Where’s the bra lady,’ Selina frowned, scanning the room.

  ‘What bra lady?’ said Shelley.

  ‘We booked a professional bra fitter who was going to come with another model and demonstrate how we girls should be measuring ourselves properly. She was supposed to be here by now.’

  Roger was, in a way, relieved that he wouldn’t have yet more bra sizes spoilt for him, and took the news in his stride. The candid disclosure of vital statistics from the buxom models Jemma and Shelley was more than enough for one day. And if he could make it home without jizzing his pants, then at least he still had the mysteries of Selina’s burgeoning, pregnant bustline to ponder at orgasm-inducing length. Selina didn’t realise how much this constant talk of breasts and bras was teasing and titillating him. With Uschi so rigorously demystifying the team’s breasts, such treats were now a rarity for Roger.

  ‘Anyway, it’s nearly time,’ said Selina, distracted and stressed. ‘Let’s go wait for the keynote speaker to finish, I’ll introduce you, you start speaking from the notes, and I’ll get these girls ready in the various outfits so they can pop out on cue.’

  ‘Pop out on cue?’ Roger’s imagination ran wild in the wrong, horny direction.

  ‘I mean come out, walk out on stage,’ said Selina. ‘Not pop out of their tops. Although looking at the size of dem tittays anything could happen.’

  The keynote presentation had been given by the woman in the company Roger feared most of all: the Head of Human Resources, Kathy Telford. Roger was a diligent, conscientious manager, but his predilection for hiring staff on the basis of bust size would, if discovered and proven, spell instant dismissal and an end to his career. Ironically his all-female team was if anything over-compliant with the company’s diversity and equal opportunity policies, and deep down he had always dreaded the day that this would be flagged as suspicious and that his luck would run out. But the polite smile Kathy gave him leaving the stage as the assembled women applauded told him this was not that day.

  Selina left Roger standing in the corner and tapped the lectern mic. ‘Good morning, ladies. We’ve got a packed schedule and since the day is all about women and issues women face, we’re going to get things off to a very female start by talking about two things that men definitely don’t have to deal with: boobs. Big boobs, and how to clothe them here at work. I didn’t use to have this problem myself, but as you can see since becoming pregnant I have developed a sizeable pair myself.’ A ripple of sympathetic laughter passed over the audience. ‘Now, I said that it’s just women who have to deal with boobs, but for the next forty-five minutes, one man will have to deal with them too, and that’s my manager Roger Addington who has kindly agreed to run the session, so let’s please hear it for Roger.’

  Roger approached the lectern amid a sprinkling of bemused clapping while Selina scampered back out of the room to deal with her enormous-bosomed models. He scanned the audience. The smaller-breasted employees seemed to have skipped this one, as the average bust size seemed to qualify pretty much the entire crowd for a role in his team. His actual team was in the front row, beaming up at him in encouragement. Uschi gave him a thumbs-up and a subtle jiggle of her own luscious bosom, enticingly clad in a low-cut white vest top that afforded Roger an inviting view down her deep, hot cleavage. If she was wearing a bra it wasn’t doing a particularly good job of concealing her areolae, which were distinctly evident, puffy mounds swelling just beneath her daring neckline, the effect being that it was her nipples alone holding the garment up much as Shelley’s jutting K-cups had held her towel aloft. Vanessa definitely wasn’t wearing a bra, her outrageous nude-shade camisole-clad Parisian pair resting on her trousered thighs as she hunched over her smartphone. Sarah was looking pert and proud in a pinstripe fitted blouse, a lacy white bra very much in evidence beneath, Susan beside her in a figure-hugging black skirt suit with a low-cut red crop-top beneath baring expanses of bosom that made Roger think with mixed feelings back to the sheer weight of her beautiful breasts as they had erupted from her corset into his hands, and Alice was looking every bit the bubbly busty blonde in a strapless pink knitted dress that flaunted her ample F-cups to endlessly jiggly erection-inducing effect. She kept fidgeting with it and tugging it upwards, bothering her wobbly bosom anew. There wasn’t a single cleavage present that Roger didn’t ache to penetrate and fill with the gallon of cum he felt bloating his testicles.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ Roger croaked, and took a sip of water then consulted the script Selina had given him. ‘Breasts. We all love them, women and men, but while it’s fun to show them off, the workplace is neither the time nor the place to do that. Large flaunted bosoms can undermine your professional credibility, and draw unwanted attention from male co-workers. Let’s go through some basic tips for how to keep your assets in check.’ Roger cringed inwardly at the cheesy writing. He waited for heckles, but none came. So nondescript was Roger’s public sexual identity that the women seemed untroubled by the fact that these comments upon their intimacy were being delivered by a man.

  Roger pressed the clicker and a Powerpoint slide appeared on the screen behind him. “Know Your Neckline.”

  ‘Know your neckline,’ Roger read aloud, after clearing his throat and taking another nervous sip of water. The door on the other side of the stage area opened and in walked the smiling redhead model Jemma. She was dressed in black heels, navy tights, a tight, smart knee-length skirt, and a white wraparound-type top that plunged in a deep V-shape to expose almost the entirety of her cleavage, from her clavicle to just above her stomach. The exposed portions of succulent breast quivered gaily as she strutted to the centre of the stage and struck a series of poses, each one clearly intended to emphasise just how inappropriate her revealing décolleté was.

  ‘Jemma’s top is cut too low for the workplace,’ said Roger, then strayed from the script as his erection surged behind the lectern. ‘The shape of the neckline not only draws focus down, but the sheer amount of bare flesh on display constitutes an unnecessary distraction. Jemma’s 32F breasts, while firm and shapely, nonetheless jiggle noticeably when she walks in high heels, drawing yet more attention to the bust area.’

  Jemma obliged by parading back and forth on her heels, sending her ample, half-naked chest into glorious jostling undulations. She gave Roger a wink as she headed in his direction.

  ‘Thank-you, Jemma,’ smiled Roger, and he really meant it. Jemma skipped out the door behind him as Shelley entered through the other.

  ‘But bear in mind that while a large bust does not suit a low neckline, nor is it recommended to wear high-cut tops,’ Roger returned to the script, attempting to regain his composure after Jemma’s jiggly show.

  Shelley walked to centre stage and placed hand on cocked hip. She was in grey suit trousers and wore a pale crew-neck sweater that appeared to have been painted directly onto her skin, so vividly did it describe the finer details of her heavy-bottomed, pouting breasts with their thick, turgid, half-erect nipples. Quiet gasps were heard from the audience, and Roger’s erection, safely hidden from view behind the lectern, leapt at the sig
ht. True enough, the neck-high collar of the sweater only served to amplify Shelley’s already overwhelming bosom, even in its evidently braless state. The thin, tightly ribbed knit of the stretchy pullover found itself tucked under the globular undersides of each pendulous, jutting boob, and as her chest swayed in ever more irregular figures of eight, the fabric found itself trapped in the depths of her cleavage, too. Almost nothing was left to the imagination.

  ‘As you can see,’ continued Roger. ‘Shelley’s particular choice of sweater only serves to accentuate the size of her bosom in comparison to her otherwise very slim physique. The expanse of fabric between neckline and bustline draws attention to itself in the same way a lack of clothing might.’ Roger deviated from the script again. ‘Note also how the thin, elastic nature of the material reveals to us that Shelley is not wearing a bra. The curvature of her large breasts is evident down to the last detail, including the outline of her full areolae and erect nipples. But we’ll return to bralessness and Shelley’s nipples later. Thank-you, Shelley.’

  Shelley shot a dazzling grin at the audience, then headed to the exit behind Roger. As she approached, meaty K-cups lurching lustily beneath the paper-thin blue sweater, Roger saw her eyes glance down at his tented crotch and quickly look up again, her smiling eyes meeting his. Oh dear. While the lectern was concealing his wildly priapic state from the audience, the boner was clearly visible from the stage. But it was too late to do anything about that, unless he came in his pants there and then which would be just as difficult to conceal, every bit as embarrassing, and would deny him yet another private bedtime orgasm on his own terms.

  Jemma returned to the stage again in a sensible black top that, as Roger went on to explain, broke up the space between her neck and her bosom in a gentle V, and whose colour hid any tell-tale shadows cast by her protruding chest.

  ‘Accessories,’ said Roger, changing the presentation slide to display the word on screen. ‘Avoid any which through their appearance or placement draw attention to the size of your bust.’

  Shelley walked back in through the door opposite and did her model’s walk. This time she had gone for a figure hugging plunge-neck top with short sleeves, this time with a bra underneath which elevated her stupendous bust to staggering, cleavagey altitude, but whose cups still failed to reach high enough to accommodate her distinctive nipples, which poked rudely at the red fabric atop their hillocked areolae. A long pearl necklace swayed round her neck.

  ‘Shelley is sporting a pearl necklace, which,’ he ad-libbed, ‘She has been fortunate enough to have had bestowed upon her by an admirer.’ There were a couple of sniggers from the dirtier-minded woman in the audience. Shelley flashed Roger a knowing smirk. All Roger could now see in place of the necklace was thick drapes of his own freshly produced semen, all over those fabulous K-cup breasts and nipples. ‘See,’ he said, ‘how the pearls spill over Shelley’s breasts, dangling and swaying from their jutting extremities. Notice also how the necklace occasionally gets trapped under one breast -’ Shelley disentangled jewellery from boob, ‘Or disappears into her deep cleavage.’ Shelley engineered a deft shimmy to make this happen, then pulled the long strand of milky white pearls back out with what Roger perceived as a flirtatious smile in his direction. ‘All we’re looking at,’ Roger said, ‘Is Shelley’s bust.’

  Out came Jemma, as Shelley made her pearl-dangling exit. Jemma was in three-quarter-length cream linen trousers and a grey cardigan buttoned—with visible effort—over a white blouse. One button valiantly held the two halves of the cardigan together, and a golden brooch had been pinned with improbable positioning directly upon the perky summit of her left breast, where it wobbled and swayed atop this rounded, shapely dome.

  ‘Two things to note here,’ read Roger. ‘If you have larger breasts – as Jemma does – avoid using a single button to fasten a top, as it will draw the observer’s focus. Likewise, a brooch such as the one over Jemma’s nipple is going to make her big bosom the centre of attention. When I look at Jemma now, I simply find myself just staring at her chest, as I’m sure you all do, too.’ There was a murmur of agreement from the assembled women.

  Shelley took Jemma’s place, still wearing the low-cut cleavage-baring red top, but this time wearing a much shorter pearl necklace that extended halfway down her breastbone. ‘Here’s Shelley again,’ said Roger, ‘and we can see that she has swapped the long, dripping strands of pearls for a necklace that draws focus up to her face. When we look at her now, I am sure you agree that her bosom isn’t the first thing we find ourselves looking at.’ The bountiful abundance of Shelley’s surging bust with its bra-shunning nipples and deep, rich cleavage, made this statement not a little absurd, and Roger noted a good number of envious, disapproving faces in the audience.

  Uschi, on the other hand, wore a grin from ear to ear. She knew what sweet torture this experience was for Roger, and something about her visible satisfaction told him that the best, and therefore simultaneously worst, was yet to come.

  “Buy Clothes To Fit Your Bust,” announced the next slide in the presentation, and Roger turned to his cue card. ‘If your figure is top-heavy, you will find that clothes fitting your waist and hips won’t necessarily fit your bosom. Here’s Jemma to show us the pitfalls of dressing for your hips and not your chest.’

  In walked Jemma, a black suit jacket over a horizontally-striped black and white dress above whose low décolletage her creamy breasts billowed and quivered with the very imminent threat of complete overspill.

  ‘Jemma, what size dress is that?’

  ‘A size ten,’ said the ginger model, walking carefully so as not to dislodge her bosom in its entirety from the precarious confines of the dress.

  ‘Remove the jacket, please,’ said Roger, a little too eagerly. Jemma obliged, casting off the garment and slinging it over her shoulder as casually as she could. The dress was, to everyone’s surprise and consternation, completely strapless, and it wasn’t clear what was holding its bustline in place except the forceful outward pressure of her dense young bust itself. Anything, a cough, a sneeze, would be sure to send the hopelessly outmatched item scurrying downwards to bare her – presumably braless – chest to all in the room.

  ‘While the dress fits Jemma’s body in most respects, it clearly hasn’t been designed with an F-cup chest in mind,’ Roger commented, rather unnecessarily. He wished he could freeze this moment in time. His balls weighed a ton, his cock felt like it had never been so erect, he could cum at any moment, while a few feet away from him, a glorious pair of firm, round breasts were on the brink of escaping. ‘Jemma should have gone for a two part outfit with a size ten for her lower half and a top a few sizes bigger.’

  Jemma made it off the stage, holding her breath and walking carefully to keep her errant bust contained. Shelley returned, supposedly to demonstrate the correct way of dressing. Pinstripe trousers covered her long legs and small, pert bottom: a perfect fit. Her upper body, on the other hand, was not so discreetly clad. The white cotton blouse, while doubtless several sizes bigger than the size 8 trousers, was nonetheless pathetically undersized. Between each labour-intensively fastened button, huge oval gaps yawned open, exposing the abyss of cleavage created by the push-up bra. The material was so delicate and thin that her nipples—still several inches clear of the bra cup limits, stood out not only by virtue of their thick rectitude but also their dusky pigmentation, a rich contrast to the pallid skin of her bosom. If Jemma’s boobs had looked fit to pop out of her dress, Shelley’s looked ready to tear the entire blouse to shreds. And Roger’s erection was fit to explode in his pants. This was just too, too much, but he was determined not to let Uschi have the pleasure of pre-empting yet another wank, and took a deep breath to regain his composure in the face of such outrageous busty stimulation. I’ve seen their breasts naked, he reassured himself to take some edge off the tease. I’ve seen them, I’ve touched them, I’ve felt their weight, their density, their smooth supple texture... no the reminiscence just seeme
d to be making it worse.

  He looked at the cue card, which said some things about how the model’s blouse was supposed to be a perfect fit. ‘In theory,’ he said instead, ‘Shelley here should be wearing a size 20 blouse which should be adequately clothing her chest, but... Shelley?’

  ‘Sorry,’ winced Shelley, her freckled snub nose wrinkling in an impossibly cute manner. ‘It is a size 20 blouse, it’s just still too small for my tits... I mean my breasts.’ As if on cue, the middle button of the blouse popped open. ‘Oops,’ said Shelley with a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry about this.’

  She left the stage, her pink lips mouthing an apology at Roger as she passed. No apology needed, thought Roger. No apology needed.

  ‘This seems like an appropriate time to turn to the subject of underwear,’ said Roger. He clicked the pointer and the next slide appeared. “Wear An Appropriate Bra.”

  ‘You may think that it doesn’t matter what bra you wear. After all, no-one’s going to see it. But it’s not that simple. Here’s Jemma.’

  Jemma took to the stage in a sharp black skirt suit. The jacket was buttoned beneath her bust, and ample hills of boob cavorted between the lapels, bisected by a tight, straight line of cleavage. She unbuttoned the jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. Beneath it she was wearing a white lace balconette. It covered her nipples, but only just, the tops of her pale areolae peeking over the cups.

  ‘You may think,’ read Roger, ‘that a lace white balconette constitutes reasonable workplace lingerie. But when you’re late for that meeting and running along the corridor...’

  Jemma broke into a jog in a wide circle around the stage. The sheer volume of exposed hemispherical breast, combined with the elasticated straps of the bra, meant that Jemma’s bust was almost instantly set into an energetic vertical bounce that looked on the brink of hitting her on the chin. The accurate fit of the bra meant that Jemma’s breasts remained well-contained throughout.