Uschi Returns Read online

  Turning away again, thirty-six F bra in hand, Nina snapped open the first bra again, letting it fall down her back. Roger was once again treated to the unbearably tempting sight from behind of Nina’s juicy J-cups that swooped and tumbled into view below her armpits. He thought again of how tight and deep her cleavage was, even without a bra holding those luscious knockers together, and though he tried to distract his mind, all he could think of was driving his boner in there and fucking her tits, cumming instantly and continuing to cum in long, grateful nutloads as he fucked and fucked… A powerful warning shot of cum into his pants snapped him out of this reverie, and he composed himself once more, stalling the orgasm that had all but begun already.

  Having fumbled at length with the smaller bra, Nina turned slowly to face Roger once more. ‘I think I’m decent, Roger.’

  Nina was anything but decent. Roger counted the difference in cup sizes in his mind. After F, there was double-F, G, double-G, H… This bra was five cup sizes too small for the bosom inside it. Yes, the back band was giving a couple of inches of slack, but this just meant that Nina’s imperious tits were thrusting the whole undergarment away from her ribcage. Bosom was spilling out everywhere, underneath, to the sides, and a rising tide of tit was practically up to Nina’s face.

  ‘Well, your nipples are covered, at least,’ Roger said. But the jury was out even on that, as the tops of Nina’s rosy, goose-pimpled areolae were peeping, firm and sizeable, a fraction of an inch above the lace trim of the cups. And it was clear from the outline beneath that it was her erect nipples themselves that were the only thing holding the cups up.

  ‘I’ll spare you the test, Roger,’ Nina said, breathless from the effort of holding her chest in, ‘But I can guarantee you that if I took one step, my tits would be out of this bra like this.’ She clicked her fingers, and even that minor activity caused the bra to let out an audible creak as it fought the might of Nina’s big, firm breasts. ‘But my bosoms would escape before the fastener broke, I’m sure of that. Go out to see Ms Price, and let’s find out if she was wearing the right size, and whether all of this really happened the way she’s claimed.’

  Roger stood, holding the cardboard box and powder blue packing tissue in front of his distended groin as casually as he could. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it, Nina,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks Roger. It’s great to have you here,’ said the poorly-contained redhead. ‘You can leave the box here.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll, um, I’ll pop it in the recycling,’ said Roger.

  As he turned to leave and placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard a yelp from Nina behind him.

  ‘Don’t turn around, Roger!’ Nina’s voice ordered. ‘My breasts just escaped from the bra cups!’

  ‘A relief, I’m sure,’ said Roger. He opened the door and hurried out in pursuit of his own relief.

  He was still holding the bra packaging when he made it into the toilet cubicle, so hasty had his beeline been for emergency privacy, and upon releasing his tortured cock he came with the velocity and force of a Wimbledon tennis serve without even touching it. New balls, please, he thought, as payload after payload of pent-up cum hit the toilet cubicle partition in a series of loud splats.

  The powder blue packing tissue certainly came in handy in cleaning up the sticky mess.

  It was raining when Roger pulled his company car up outside the address on Helen Price’s account the following afternoon. He had offered to meet the complainant at or near her place of work, but she had expressed a firm preference for a home visit.

  Roger hurried from the car, briefcase held above his head against the rain, and rang the doorbell.

  The door was opened not by the woman in her thirties Roger had expected, but by a teenage girl with dark hair tied up in a scruffy top-knot, presumably the daughter she had mentioned on the phone. She was tall, boyishly in the hips but distinctly non-boyish in the chest, as her tight patterned leggings and strappy pink cotton vest top revealed in vivid anatomical detail. The apple, as Louise had noted, did not fall far from the tree. The young woman looked Roger up and down with vacant eyes. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Roger Addington, from Tempest Lingerie. I’m here to see a Ms Helen Price.’

  ‘Mum’s not ‘ome from work yet,’ said the teenager, tugging at her stringy shoulder strap and setting into rubbery motion a bosom which, despite its high, pert shape, was apparently entirely self-supporting, if somewhat elastically bouncy. Roger managed to maintain eye contact with the girl despite this distracting level of jiggly boob activity in his peripheral vision.

  ‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  The teenager let go of the strap and let it snap back onto her shoulder, letting her freakishly pert braless bosom descend and rebound under its own laws of physics. ‘She shouldn’t be long. Want to come in?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Roger. ‘It’s bucketing down out here.’

  ‘I can see. Come in.’

  The girl led Roger through the hallway into a small front room with decorated in outdated fashion. ‘Here, have a sit down,’ she said.

  Roger set his briefcase on the carpet and wrestled his way out of his suit jacket, which had already become soaked on the short dash from the car. ‘I think I’ll stand while I dry off,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to get the armchair wet. Would you mind hanging this up for me?’ He handed the bosomy teenager the dripping jacket.

  The girl took it and held it high, letting it swing damply back and forth against her chest as she left the room in silence. When she returned some moments later, Roger was alarmed to see that the rain from the jacket had soaked through the young lady’s own top, rendering it partly transparent. The outlines of pale, puffy, mounded areolae were now strikingly evident through the damp cotton, high on those cantaloupe melon-sized bosoms. They were very reminiscent of Uschi’s nipples. Oh Uschi.

  ‘Yeah alright, Mister, quit starin’ at my tits.’ The girl placed hands on cocked hips.

  Shit! And Roger was usually so good at keeping his breast-watching discreet. ‘I just, um, I’m sorry my jacket made you wet…’

  ‘So I’m braless, what’s the big deal,’ the teenager said. ‘Or is it because you’re from the bra company? Disapprove, do you?’

  Roger couldn’t decide whether the girl was flirting or taunting. Regardless, he didn’t want to engage with it. ‘It’s really none of my… none of my business,’ he stammered. He was getting an erection, so he sat down in spite of his previous intentions. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ he said in an attempt to change the subject away from the pair of teenage breasts before him.

  ‘Samantha,’ said Samantha, suddenly not so annoyed. She descended to sit cross-legged on the rug in front of the electric fireplace, thighs wide open with her bare feet curled beneath, back straight. Her chest bounced several times in response before shuddering back to its firm pout. She studied her fingernails. ‘Mum gets annoyed when I don’t wear a bra. Especially when we have visitors. And especially especially when she has one of her boyfriends over. I think she’s worried they’re prefer my boobs to hers. And she’s the one who goes braless all the time.’

  ‘I see.’ Roger cleared his throat. When would Ms Price senior be getting here, he wondered with escalating impatience.

  ‘But I haaaate bras,’ Samantha continued in a petulant whine. ‘No offence. I know you’re the bra expert and all. But they’re so uncomfortable, and I really don’t need one. What do you think?’

  Roger resigned himself to the opportunity to look with undisguised attention at this outrageously top-heavy young woman’s eminently well-formed bosom as she helpfully arched her back and thrust it towards him for inspection. He cleared his throat again. ‘I think that all women should wear a bra.’

  ‘Of course you’d say that,’ Samantha raised an eyebrow. ‘You sell the things, don’t you. But my boobs have been this size for years now, and I’ve only ever worn a bra when Mum’s about. I only own one. It’s not o
ne of yours. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Roger. He had taken the precaution of masturbating that morning, but was now wishing he’d done so before leaving work early. He was expecting some bosomy developments with Ms Price herself, but hadn’t anticipated so nubile and luscious-bosomed an additional stimulant for his rampant libido.

  ‘Besides,’ said Samantha, standing and stretching. ‘Bras in my size are all fucking ugly.’ Her top was drying out, but Roger had seen enough to be able to fill in the nipply blanks.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Roger. ‘We sell some very attractive items in sizes that go way above the average bust size.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ scoffed Samantha. She dropped her arms to her sides and pushed out her chest again, letting her boobs sway a little. ‘I bet you don’t do my size.’

  ‘Bet we do.’

  ‘Guess what size I am.’

  This was too much for Roger’s sensitive erection. Where was this young pricktease’s mother?

  ‘Or do you need to see them naked to be able to tell accurately?’ Samantha slid the straps from her skinny shoulders and the neckline of the pink top slipped down until it caught on her puffy areolae. Her cleavage was as naturally tight as Nina’s, but ten years younger.

  ‘Whoah,’ said Roger. ‘Um, that really won’t be necessary, um, Samantha.’

  Young Samantha Price started to set her chest into a steady side-to-side shimmy. Her nipples were holding her top in place, but only just. ‘Come on. Guess.’

  ‘Twenty-eight K!’ blurted Roger.

  The shimmy stopped dead and Samantha raised her eyebrows. ‘Very good,’ she said with a small smile of grudging respect. It was a pretty smile.

  Then, the beam of car headlights crossed the room and a car shuddered to a halt in the rain outside.

  ‘Fuck, it’s Mum,’ said Samantha. ‘I better run upstairs and find that bra.’ She tugged the stringy straps of her pink vest top back up over her shoulders and ran, bosom bounding heavily, from the front room to the hallway, where she took the stairs two at a time up to her room.

  The front door opened, and a drenched Ms Price hurried in. She jumped in fright when she saw Roger on the living room settee.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, Ms Price,’ said Roger. ‘I’m Roger Addington, from Tempest Lingerie, here as discussed.’ He stood and extended his right hand in greeting, his left hand holding his briefcase tactically in front of his tented groin. Any hope that his boner would subside in young Samantha’s absence was shattered by the sight of her mother. If the splash of moisture from Roger’s jacket had rendered Samantha’s top mildly damp, the pouring rain had left Helen’s white blouse almost entirely transparent, and it was plain to see that beneath it she was as braless as her daughter. And for a mother thirty-six years of age she had a pair of breasts any twenty-one-year-old would be proud of. They were firm, wide-based and almost conical in shape, sticking far out in front of her in perpendicular defiance of gravity, a quivering shudder running through them with each move she made. And even if the blouse hadn’t been soaking wet it would have been hard to ignore those nipples, stiff, thick, a rich milk chocolate brown atop rounded, goosebumped areolae. Roger furthermore detected with interest that the vanquished cups of another bra appeared to be hanging under the blouse beneath the woman’s armpits.

  ‘Oh my,’ Helen Price laughed nervously, then took Roger’s hand and shook it, her wet breasts wobbling about at their stiff-nippled peaks. She ran her other hand through her dark, wet, shoulder-length hair, tucking it girlishly behind one ear. She made no effort to hide her nipples from her visitor. ‘I’m so sorry, I completely forgot you were coming. Please excuse my appearance, I’m practically topless! Nothing you haven’t seen before though, I’m sure.’ She gave a wink and ran her hands down over her breasts, ostensibly to wipe some of the rainwater from them, but, it seemed to Roger, perhaps more in the service of drawing attention to them.

  In fact, these breasts were something Roger hadn’t seen before, and that was part of his horny problem. The infinite variety and endless beauty of the female bosom was one of the factors that kept him so obsessed with this glorious anatomical marvel.

  ‘I take it you experienced a similar issue today to the one you experienced with our bra?’ Roger was getting a little suspicious. The woman’s story and circumstances weren’t adding up, the contradictions compounded by some of the things Samantha had said.

  ‘Uh, yes,’ said Helen, looking down at her wet blouse and the opulence that jiggled beneath it. She unfastened the top couple of buttons, giving Roger a boner-boosting view of her sloping cleavage, then reached down into her armpit with one hand and fumbled for the bra cup that hung there. Roger recognised the brand. It wasn’t a Tempest. ‘I should change out of this. Excuse me one moment.’

  Helen scurried out of the room, kicking off her high heels as she went and passing Samantha, who had returned down the stairs.

  ‘Hi Mum,’ said Samantha, and walked back into the living room. She sat in the armchair opposite Roger and folded her legs beneath her. She was wearing her bra, a beige T-shirt style, the straps and cups showing all around her pink vest top. ‘Wearing a bra now,’ she said. ‘Happy?’

  ‘It looks like a good fit,’ observed Roger. ‘Perhaps getting a little worn out, though. H-how long did you say you’ve been this size?’

  ‘Twenty-eight K?’ Samantha jutted her jaw out and rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she cast her mind back. ‘Since I was sixteen, I think.’

  Roger gulped.

  ‘When I was a C, double-D, E, F, I got away without wearing a bra. I just told Mum and the teachers at school that I was wearing one, and they believed me. My tits were rock solid. I could run, play netball, they just wouldn’t move.’ She smiled with pride at the memory. ‘But they kept growing. And no matter how firm a pair of boobs are above a certain size there’s no stopping them bouncing. So I was rumbled, and Mum took me out to buy this.’

  This didn’t correspond to Helen Price’s tale of buying her daughter bra after bra. Roger opened the briefcase that lay on his lap and took out the lingerie order history and studied it. All these bras in escalating sizes. Then something else struck him. The order history was in reverse chronological order, and so although it seemed at first glance that the bras were increasing in size over time, in fact they were decreasing. This had even escaped Nina when she had studied the same document. There was something strange going on.

  Samantha slid her hands into the cups and rummaged. ‘Hate wearing this fucking thing,’ she muttered. ‘Wish I could just whip it off and bounce my boobs about.’ She shot a glance across at Roger to gauge his reaction. She was trying to get a rise out of him, and beneath his briefcase, she had succeeded. He was painfully, desperately erect. What he wouldn’t give to rip that bra of hers open and...

  Helen returned to the front room. To Roger’s surprise, she had extracted the broken bra from under her wet blouse and discarded it, but had put the blouse itself back on, wet and transparent, and leaving nothing to the imagination where the size, shape, and appearance of her breasts and nipples were concerned.

  ‘Mum, I can totally see your nipples!’ exclaimed Samantha. ‘Why do I have to wear a bra and you don’t?’

  ‘Now now, Sam, Mr Addington here is a professional from the bra company, and I’m assuming he’s here to check whether my breasts are as large and firm as I claimed they were on the phone. Isn’t that right, Mr Addington?’

  ‘Please, call me Roger,’ smiled Roger. Helen had composed herself a little, and despite the candidness with which she was flaunting her bosom, she had adopted a slightly more steely distance than the flirtatious persona she had, perhaps as a reflex response, adopted upon meeting Roger initially.

  ‘Well, Roger, here they are,’ said Helen, and unbuttoned her blouse, throwing it in a soggy heap onto the glass coffee table.

  Roger gasped in spite of all efforts to professionalism. Although the wet blouse had appeared to leave nothing to the
imagination, there was no substitute for seeing a pair of breasts fully nude in the flesh, especially a pair as impressive as those of Ms Helen Price. They jutted as though held aloft and thrust forth by an invisible corset, and her thick, dusky nipples pointed straight out at Roger like eyes, seductive and inviting. To look at them he didn’t doubt her stated bra size of 36F, it was what his estimate would have been, and, as he had demonstrated with the woman’s busty daughter, he had become a very astute judge of a woman’s measurements.

  Helen sat down next to Roger on the imitation leather settee, and turned to present her twin peaks to him.

  Roger inspected them closely. ‘What are these white streaks,’ he said, ‘across your breasts and in your cleavage?’

  Helen looked down and hesitated before replying. ‘Oh, that’s, uh, toothpaste. Don’t just look at them, though, feel them,’ she said, ‘and tell me these breasts aren’t capable of breaking one of your bras in two.’

  There was nothing Roger would rather have done, and his fingers twitched at the prospect while the briefcase covering his ever-growing erection began to levitate. But this whole situation was threatening to spiral out of control, possibly an attempt to entrap or blackmail him and the lingerie company, and while Roger was confident that he could trust himself not to succumb to the Price women’s eminently tempting feminine bounties, he was not so sure his cock and balls possessed the same willpower.

  ‘Ms Price,’ said Roger, heart thumping, ‘Thank-you for the invitation, but I really don’t need to touch your breasts to be convinced of how firm they are. It’s more than evident just looking at them.’

  ‘Oh.’ Helen seemed a little put out. ‘In that case, do I take it you’ll compensate me?’

  Roger grimaced a little and gave a non-committal shrug. He had gathered his evidence, given the matter some consideration, and was now ready to sum the matter up, like a detective in a drawing room at the climax of a whodunnit. He reached into his briefcase again and produced a brand new front-fastening Lacy Lady in a size thirty-six F.