Uschi Read online

  Uschi

  by Lesley Finch

  © 2016 Lesley Finch

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter One

  ‘Tell us, Alice, what you think you could bring to this role.’ Roger Addington, forty, smiled at the young job applicant sitting opposite him. He was grateful that her steely blue eyes and elfin good looks provided sufficient distraction from the temptation to let his gaze drift down her straightened blonde hair, which fell loosely onto the upper swells of her ample breasts, between which a tight, deep crack of cleavage rose again towards her shapely chin. The job was hers. Roger would see to that, as he had seen to the appointment of so many similarly well-endowed women to positions in his team for which they were otherwise poorly qualified. He was, in a word, a pervert, and as such perfectly prepared to compromise his professional ethics and abuse his position of authority to ensure that he would spend every passing minute of his otherwise miserable working day surrounded by his favourite creatures on God’s Earth: slim young women with large busts.

  The spanner in the works this time was that one of said unscrupulously recruited members of his team, a certain 25-year-old dusky Bavarian beauty named Uschi Dorster, who, being not only jutting and sizeable of bosom but, unexpectedly to Roger, just as quick of wit and sharp of mind, had been encouraged by Human Resources to sit in on the interview process. Alice was the third applicant they’d seen that morning. The first two had been eminently suited to the vacant position, but had, unbeknownst to Uschi, fallen laughably short of Roger’s secret physical preferences. Similarly, the two applicants they had interviewed the previous day, and the five more that had sat in the same chair boasting their account management prowess the previous Friday. All bright young women (and a couple of men: Roger was keen to create an illusion of gender equality in his recruitment process), but not until Alice had there been a single serviceable pair of breasts attached to any of them. Once, he had conducted more than thirty interviews before filling a role in his team with the jiggly, top-heavy young Irish graduate Sarah O’Reilly, whose girlish blonde curls and penchant for tight, bustline-enhancing sweaters made her the perfect candidate in Roger’s eyes.

  And he was more than happy to put in the extra hours making up for her sloppy paperwork in return for the eight hours of glorious sexual arousal which she unwittingly provided from Monday till Friday. And at least she had been to university. He had, after a lengthy search, given a position of alarmingly high responsibility to a French school-leaver of a mere nineteen years of age, purely on the strength of the disproportionately overdeveloped and pendulously hyper-mobile, yet defiantly well-formed breasts which, with typically Gallic laissez-faire, she rarely if ever saw fit to support with a brassiere, despite the conspicuousness beneath her loose-fitting tops of the puffy, upward-pointing tennis-ball sized areolae with which those mammary glands were so lewdly crowned. Her name was Vanessa, and her tall, willowy chain-smoker’s frame only served to emphasise how absurdly huge each wobbling breast was. He sensed that the rest of his busty team disapproved of this free-spirited contempt for underwear, but he was determined to let her continue to dress as she pleased.

  ‘For example,’ Uschi chipped in, ‘What difference did you make in your last job?’ Roger tensed. Ordinarily this would have been easy, but she was going to ruin everything.

  The bosomy blonde on the other side of the table bit her lip thoughtfully (and, to the salacious Roger, erotically), and swivelled her baby-blues to study the top-left corner of the room, as though the answer might be engraved there. Her pensive distractedness afforded Roger the long-overdue opportunity to stare directly at her swelling bust as it rose and fell warmly and heavily with each breath she took, and to experience the pleasant lustful sensation in the engorged genitals that throbbed gently in his suit trousers. With expert timing, the result of a lifetime’s practice at stolen bosom-glimpses, Roger returned his gaze to Alice’s eyes a split second before she returned hers to meet his. ‘Um,’ she began uncertainly, ‘I came up with the idea for team drinks after work on Fridays?’

  Uschi began to say something, but Roger interjected. ‘Excellent!’ he enthused loudly. ‘Team bonding. It’s just as important as the work itself, I always feel.’ Shifting his posture to allow his semi-erection to manoeuvre its way to one side beneath the wallet in his pocket where it would escape notice (he had long taken to wearing dark suits to disguise tell-tale bulges) Roger rose to his feet. ‘I think that’s all we need,’ he said, extending a hand in Alice’s dimly smiling direction.

  ‘Roger...’ said Uschi with quiet urgency.

  But Alice had already slung her handbag over her shoulder and was submitting herself to a lengthy and vigorous handshake from Roger, a handshake which sent momentous waves of motion through her generously-proportioned chest, and gave the leering breast-fiend of a manager a good sense of her breasts’ significant weight and mass.

  ‘I’ll see you out, Ms Hall,’ Roger said, opening the door for the petite yet bosomy blonde. ‘Uschi, thank-you for your help.’

  Later, back in the secluded corner of the third floor sales back-office where Roger and his team had their desks, Uschi approached her manager. ‘So, Roger,’ she said in her earthy Germanic tones. ‘That was the seventh candidate so far.’

  ‘Eighth, I think,’ said Roger, looking reflectively into the middle distance just in time to allow Sarah’s chest to hop, skip, and jump its jaunty way through his field of vision as she made her way to the watercooler.

  ‘That many,’ said Uschi. ‘Wow. Anyway, I have some notes on who I think would be best.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ said Roger, digesting the sight of Sarah’s shapely Irish bosom.

  Uschi consulted a notebook. ‘I thought Jonathan’s experience with CRM systems made him ideal, and Maureen from last week seemed to be a strong candidate also. Do you agree?’

  Roger took a break from his fantasy about Sarah, and allowed the memory of Alice’s firm chest to return to his leering mind. ‘Actually, I’m going to give the job to Alice,’ he told Uschi.

  ‘Alice? You’re kidding, right? The airhead bimbo blonde?’

  ‘Now now Uschi,’ Roger’s voice took on a serious hushed tone. ‘Some of your colleagues are blonde, you can’t judge people by the colour of their hair.’

  ‘Or by the size of their...’ began Uschi, then stopped herself. Her lips pressed tightly together, her chin jutted.

  ‘I appreciate your input,’ smiled Roger. ‘But I’ve made up my mind. You’ll see. She will fit into the team quite well.’

  Uschi scowled and appraised Roger with suspicious, narrowed eyes.

  ‘Vanessa,’ said Roger, calling across to the Frenchwoman, now twenty years of age. ‘Could I see you in the meeting room over there please?’ He stood and excused himself from Uschi, who glowered, hand on hip, as he headed to the meeting room, Vanessa standing and traipsing, bust swinging bralessly to and fro, behind him.

  Roger closed the door. ‘Please take a seat, Vanessa.’ The two sat either side of the table in the small room. Vanessa studied her fingernails and sighed. Her long, light brunette hair hung limply and untidily in her pouting face. She wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense, but she had a smouldering old-world Parisian glamour about her and a commanding sexual presence, her nose striking and full of character, her lips swollen and sulking, her eyes weary beyond her tender years.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  Roger took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid there have been more comments about your... standard of dress in the office,’ he said. There hadn’t, of course. He was making it up, not to be divisive, but compelled by horny obsession to devise the excuse to steer any conversation onto the subject of breasts and bras.

  Vanessa rolled her eyes. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I cannot ‘elp it.
I ‘ave not worn a...’ groping for the English word she cupped her heavy breasts gently in bony hands through the baggy beige long-sleeved top.

  ‘Bra?’ said Roger with convincing innocence, expertly disguising his glee at being able to say the word out loud to such a gloriously-endowed young woman.

  ‘Yes, bra,’ said Vanessa, releasing her loosely-clad breasts to sway freely again. ‘I ‘ave not worn a bra for years, not since my boobs grow so big. But I do not think it is your business, or anyone else’s.’ She folded her arms petulantly, but by no means self-consciously, across her ballooning breasts, squishing them into irregular shapes that pushed at the thin cotton fabric of her top.

  Roger gulped hard. ‘I’m in an awkward position here, Vanessa. Your... appearance is somewhat distracting for your colleagues, and certainly for me.’

  Vanessa leaned angrily toward her manager, unfolding her arms and squishing her wobbling chest hard against the table edge. ‘What about the other big tits in the office? Do you have meeting with them, too? I cannot ‘elp ‘aving these big tits, you know? And neither can the other girls. I never wear the low-cut tops with the cleavage, for example. Maybe I have problem when Susan or Kathrin or Sarah they walk around like zis.’ To illustrate her point, Vanessa tugged the indeed modestly high neckline of her top down as far as it would stretch, and with her thin arms squeezed her enormous breasts together, the effect being a good several inches of bare cleavage on display, whose gravitational pull seemed to invite Roger and his now fiercely rigid erection to lose themselves within its silky depths forever. She let her neckline snap back upwards and relinquished the tight compression of her billowing chest again, allowing some of the blood to flow from Roger’s penis back to the rest of his body.

  ‘Point taken,’ Roger said. Then, cautiously: ‘Do you not even own a... a bra?’

  ‘No,’ shrugged the grumpy Parisian. ‘Only old ones and zey do not fit me any more. Ze last time I wore a bra it was a cup size... D, I think. But no way zat will fit me now!’ She laughed mirthlessly. ‘I am now maybe H, double-H, I, J, K... who know?’ She let that sink in. ‘And anyway,’ she added, ‘I don’t think I need one. My breasts look good without a bra, an’ I am more comfortable like zis. So ze other women in the office, if zey have problem with me, zey can fuck off.’

  Roger raised his hands and smiled grimly. ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry to have brought it up.’

  ‘Can I go?’ said Vanessa with deep sarcasm. ‘And get on with my work?’

  Roger gestured to the door. Vanessa stood and sauntered haughtily out of the room back to her desk and went back to browsing the internet.

  When his erection had subsided enough not to be a conspicuous public obscenity, Roger left the meeting room and returned to his desk. Making sure no-one was looking over his shoulder, he went to his personal folder on the company computer network and opened a spreadsheet innocuously named “contract admin”. In it he had listed the women who reported to him, and alongside each name the bra size which he supposed they wore, and in a separate column various notes and observations about each woman’s breasts, thoughts on bounciness, speculation upon nipple size and colour, that sort of thing. He had passed the point of being proud or ashamed of this appalling ethical violation: it was simply something he needed to know. Next to Vanessa’s name he typed “H-CUP???” Then he added Alice Hall’s name to the end of the list, saved and closed the spreadsheet, and typed an e-mail to Human Resources advising that he had finally found a suitable candidate for the new account manager role and that she could start on Monday.

  As soon as Roger got home from work he undressed, lay naked on his bed as he did every weekday evening and, by reflecting on the heady femininity in which he had spent the day so hornily immersed, allowed his penis to swell rapidly to full, twitching rigidity. His testicles, tight, bulging, and overwrought, quivered as they always did and with a violent lurch his untouched erection pumped forth the day’s pungent build-up of thick opaque semen in a quick series of powerful spasms, the viscous fluid flying variously onto his arms, chest, and stomach. Sometimes, after a particularly vivid day of tumultuous breast-based entertainment provided to him by his oblivious team, the eruptions would pelt him stickily in his own face, and at the height of summer when the bosomy abundance he had assembled was at its most scantily clad, his daily emission after work would sail, one explosion after the next, right over his face and hit the headboard of the bed, or even splatter the wall above it. It was how he had masturbated for many years, and if manual intervention felt necessary, as it did tonight, the rubbing of his subsiding erection with trembling fingers always felt like a grubby anticlimax. He never watched pornography, never saw prostitutes, never had erotic dreams, certainly never attempted to embark upon romantic relationships. He had found a perfect, though delicately balanced, sexual equilibrium of spending eight hours a day surveying a constant parade of fully clothed proudly bouncing young breasts, and ending the day by allowing his metabolism to respond as only it knew how: by ejaculating freely and powerfully, like a fire hydrant. As it was, his body’s natural release that evening felt incomplete, the conversation with Vanessa about her bounteous French breasts and flagrant bralessness having left him more unfulfilled than usual, and he grimly rubbed his wilting penis to a few final pathetic spurts onto his belly. Then he showered, dressed, ate his dinner, watched some television, undressed again, and went to bed early to allow sleep to replenish his bodily reserves in preparation for another day of slow-burn titillation.

  The next day at the office began much like any other. Susan Kowalski, the tall, curvaceous Canadian who despite her beautiful red hair, adorably cute freckled face and enormous breasts suffered from inexplicably low sexual self-esteem, was wearing a new floral wraparound dress and a bra that was boosting her cleavage to mind-boggling effect. Clearly having one of her good days. Roger wondered about flattering her by remarking on how good she looked, or at least letting her take notice of his admiring gaze, but he dared not risk exposing himself for the foul pervert that, deep down, he knew he was. So instead, Susan’s luscious buxomness went as unremarked-upon by Roger as it did every day.

  Vanessa was next in, and in peeling off her baggy woollen jumper came closer than ever to accidentally peeling off her T-shirt with it. Roger caught sight of her flat, bare stomach, but thankfully the cotton of the grey T-shirt got trapped under her ballooning breasts and her bust remained obscured, though leaving very little to the imagination regarding its shape and mass. She flung her jumper over the back of her chair, untucked the hem of the T-shirt from under her big breasts where it had become trapped under their bulbous form and weight, straightened herself out and sat down to switch on her PC. Roger wondered how his body would react if one day the inevitable happened and she accidentally stripped topless, actually baring her magnificent chest to him in all its youthful, overdeveloped glory. Were those areolae, so unignorable in their bulbous fleshiness, really as irresistibly suckable as he hoped and feared? Would he just spontaneously ejaculate in his trousers there and then, ruining the day’s long build-up to the gratifying orgasm he had become accustomed to enjoying every evening? The tease was all he wanted, all he needed. Anything more would be unbearable.

  Sarah O’Reilly was next to arrive, her nice chest tightly shrouded in a thin, dark grey sweater, the sleeves rolled up to reveal pale, attractively chubby forearms. It was a cold day and her small nipples were poking visibly through both bra and sweater. Roger stole a couple of glances and reflected with admiration on how high-riding and shapely Sarah’s breasts were, and upon the endearing asymmetry with which her stiff nipples squinted upward and outward. He had her down as a 38D, but his judgement in these matters was poor. More than anything he hoped to make sense of the arcane principles that underlay bra sizing, and to learn his team’s sizes in particular, but even after two years of building and managing this team, his attempts to find out remained futile.

  Except in Uschi’s case. Some weeks previously, after the wom
en had all gone home, he had rummaged through their desk cabinets for clues, and to his fervent excitement had found a sweat-stained sports bra at the back of Uschi’s bottom drawer. The data gleaned from the bra’s faded label took pride of place in his otherwise speculatively-populated breast spreadsheet. When Uschi was the next to walk into the office, her really rather perfect bosom prodding impudently from an open raincoat at a black silk blouse, the top few buttons of which were undone to expose a carefree and natural-effect cleavage, those numbers and letters cycled round and round Roger Addington’s feverishly bosom-obsessed mind on permanent loop. He wanted to sing them from the rooftops, to write her bra size on the office wall in a long, delicious ejaculation of pent-up sperm.

  Selina Carpenter followed close behind. All bets were off where this petite redhead’s bra size was concerned, as she had recently announced that she was in the early stages of pregnancy, and indeed as a consequence her breasts, already a decently-sized firm and pert handful apiece to begin with, had visibly doubled in size in the past week alone. Her burgeoning, milky bosom had been the subject of much bawdy talk and teasing from the other girls, but to Roger’s frustration the actual details of what bra size she had found herself having to upgrade to hadn’t arisen as part of the ribaldry. What was clear, however, was that Selina’s chest had lost nothing of its upswept shape and despite growing so rapidly had, if anything, increased in density. And there was no hiding her nipples, which, previously blending in with the attractive, perky curvature of her bosom, now announced their milk-giving presence in no uncertain terms. She had been forced to swap taut, gaping blouses for stretchy fabric tops, and her choice today of a plain white V-neck stretch-top was audacious indeed. As her coat came off and her engorged pregnant torpedo-breasts thrust forth from her svelte torso, Roger’s cock surged dangerously close to instant orgasm when confronted with the clearly visible fact that Selina’s dark, swollen nipples had escaped the white cups of her new bra in their entirety, and were clearly visible not only from their protuberant hat-peg shape prodding through the fabric, but from the dark pigmentation that stood out in such vivid contrast to the colour of the top and the pallor of her skin beneath it. The idea had clearly been to disguise the darkness and pronounced pointedness of those magnificent new nipples with a padded white bra, but that plan had gone spectacularly awry, as the upper edge of each bra cup was clearly not only failing to contain the nipples, but there was a good two inches of breast between the cups and each richly enlarged pinnacle. Those nipples hadn’t just popped out, they were miles from home. Roger felt a pang of aching pleasure in his testicles, and a tingling sensation in his penis. He was heading too fast for orgasm, and looked quickly away, attempting to focus on the work on his computer. He heard Uschi laugh and draw Selina’s attention to the extent of her wardrobe malfunction, Selina gasping at the realisation and shrieking with embarrassed laughter, then excusing herself amid much mirth and heading to the ladies’ restroom to address the issue of her errant nipples.