The cult bookshop was still open when Stephanie passed it on her way to the Underground, so, remembering her plan to lose herself in some sordid, boob-obsessed reading material, she stopped in.
‘Can I heeelllllp…’ said the portly young bearded bookseller, doing as fast a double-take as his sluggish physique would allow upon setting eyes on young Stephanie, his voice trailing away, disappearing, echoing into the young woman’s delicately quivering cleavage. She had, improbably, invited him to titfuck her once while testing one of Nina’s ingenious bras designed for the purpose, and he was as besotted with those plump, shapely teenage breasts now as he had been while gladly purging his musty seed all over them.
‘Hello,’ said Stephanie brightly, posture adjusting to make her bust look as thrustingly bulbous as it possibly could, ‘How are you?’
‘M-me?’ said the bookseller guiltily, body tense with the effort to maintain eye-contact with the curvaceous young woman before him. ‘Um, fine thanks. Did you enjoy… it was a Phoebe Flynn adventure you bought last time, wasn’t it?’
‘I seem to recall you gave it to me free of charge,’ said Stephanie with a flirty wink, then, in case the remark wasn’t self-explanatory, added: ‘After I let you stick your boner between my boobies and jizz all over them.’
The bookseller’s fat, goateed chin dropped into the chin just beneath it.
‘But yes,’ said Stephanie, ‘Very well remembered. It was a Phoebe Flynn book, and I did enjoy it. Not so much all the science fiction space stuff, that’s not really my cup of tea, but the bosoms on the other hand…’
Stephanie widened her eyes and nodded with an impish grin, her ginger curls and gravity-defying chest nodding along with youthful enthusiasm. ‘Yes the bosoms,’ she repeated in a rather lower voice, attempting seductive huskiness. If she was going to practise crowbarring her tits into every conversation with a man then there was no time like the present, and she decided to throw herself into the boob-banter with erotic gusto, channelling that sensation when her nipples teetered on the edge of breast orgasm. ‘All those busty young ladies in the book, every page spilling over with boobs, all described in endless, horny detail, I simply loved it.’
‘You… you did?’
‘I know it must come as a surprise, you’d think I’m hardly the target market, that girls with big knockers like me would disapprove of a book so thoroughly obsessed with them, but in fact it’s quite the opposite! Books like that are an inspiration to a girl as erotically well-endowed as I am, they’re like an instruction manual for how to put them to the fullest possible use. And lately I have come to the conclusion that if boobs like the ones you see before you aren’t making a gentleman shoot his load, then they’re just hanging there doing nothing—well, not hanging as such in my case, mine just stick out in front of me—but you take my point that there’s no sense in as fuckable a pair of tits as this going to waste, don’t you?’
The bookseller was now just staring directly at Stephanie’s chest, and the buxom young school-leaver was pleased to notice a tent erecting itself within grubby tracksuit trousers.
‘Anyway,’ Stephanie continued, ‘I’m back for more.’
‘More…?’ the bookseller croaked, hopeful and terrified in equal measure.
‘Reading material, I mean,’ Stephanie clarified, letting her enticing, crop-topped H-cups sway idly before her. She dropped her voice to a half-whisper. ‘The rude stuff. As breast-obsessed as it gets.’
The bookseller emerged from his cleavage-induced trance a little and led Stephanie deep into the rear of the shop, through the labyrinth of unsorted book stacks, until they got to the dusty, dog-eared and dubiously-stained second-hand erotica.
‘I suppose all these dirty books are as breast-centric as each other,’ Stephanie mused allowed as her gaze drifted up and down the shelves. The spines of the books were rather innocuous, the titles at best cryptically salacious.
‘Well, you’d be surprised,’ said the bookseller, scratching his belly through a faded Babylon 5 T-shirt. ‘Breasts themselves aren’t really a niche in written erotica, which is strange considering what a fetish they are in real life, and how prevalent they are in photographic and filmed porn. So, in fact, books for breast fans only make up a small proportion of what’s been published, and you won’t even find much printed after the eighties.’
‘Oh,’ Stephanie pouted, and was resigned to making do with combing through pervy sci-fi for breast references when the bookseller smiled a wry smile and added:
‘But that’s still hundreds of books. And I have most of them here.’
Stephanie’s spirits lifted, and she regarded the spines of the books around her with fresh eyes. ‘You mean…?’
The bookseller beamed and nodded, hands on hips, erection prodding shamelessly upwards. ‘It’s not just the Phoebe Flynn books. You’re looking at possibly the largest collection of vintage breast and titwank-fetish erotica in the country. Whatever your preference, it’s here.’
Stephanie stroked the spine of a volume promisingly titled “Breast Worship”.
‘Excellent read,’ said the bookseller. ‘A cult of Christian fundamentalists recruit the most beautiful-bosomed women they can find in order to prove the existence of God.’
‘Gosh,’ said Stephanie. The cover illustration showed a crucifix dangling over a pair of lovingly-painted, half-exposed boobs. ‘Sounds rather highbrow for furtive masturbation material.’
‘Just because we like tits doesn’t mean we’re idiots,’ said the bookseller, bridling somewhat. ‘If anything the classy stuff is a bigger turn-on.’
Stephanie inspected a label on the shelf, scrawled with a code. She pointed at it. ‘This starts with a double-D. Is it Dewey Decimal code?’
‘Oh, that’s just my little joke, I made my own indexing system called double-D, because… well…’ he cringed at his own dirty pun.
‘Oh, bra cup size,’ said Stephanie, burying her distaste and disapproval and instead mustering the kind of come-hither enthusiasm she imagined the likes of Nina and Helen exhibiting in the same circumstances. ‘You are funny! I probably just didn’t get the joke because it’s been a while since I was only a double-D myself. I’d practically forgotten the size existed at all. In fact, I underwent something of a freak growth spurt last year, and grew from a C straight to a G-cup overnight!’
‘And it didn’t stop there. I’m an H-cup now. Thirty-four H.’ Stephanie let the words roll around her pink lips and tongue with lusty relish. Prosaic though those letters and numbers were to a buxom bosom’s owner, Stephanie knew that a man with a weakness for the generously endowed female could go weak at the knees just at the mention of these vital statistics.
‘Most impressive,’ mumbled the bookseller, mentally undressing the bodacious young redhead before him.
‘The reason I’m being so specific,’ Stephanie went on, ‘is that, given how meticulously you have indexed these works of boob adulation, you might be in a position to recommend books where the females being objectified… I mean admired… have breasts and other general physical characteristics similar to my own. You see, I want to get inside the heads of the kinds of men most likely to pop a boner in my presence. Really understand what it is about me that gets them off, what it is that’s making their balls so overloaded with cream that all they can think about is shoving their cocks between my bosoms and cumming all over them. You know what I mean?’
The look on the bookseller’s entranced face made it very clear the he knew precisely what Stephanie meant.
‘I want to be able to talk about my big bosoms in a way that turns boys on every bit as much as the sight of them,’ Stephanie concluded, ‘and I think that if I read enough erotic literature devoted to bosoms like my own, I will be able to talk dirty in a way that befits my cock-stiffening appearance. I know you’ve seen my bare breasts before, but perhaps you would indulge me by allowing me to describe them?’
The bookseller glanced over Stephanie’s shoulder to check that they were still alone in the shop. ‘Y-yes, please do.’
‘Wonderful!’ grinned Stephanie, shoulders raising as she squeezed her chest together with her forearms in puckish glee. ‘First of all, I should introduce myself. I’m Stephanie.’
The bookseller took Stephanie’s dainty extended hand. ‘Martin.’
Martin! The name rang in Stephanie’s ears, conjuring up all of the mixed feelings regarding sex guru Martin Leyton and her failed attempts to seduce him. It seemed absurd, in hindsight, that she had ever thought herself in with a chance. But here was another Martin, a Martin she had eating out of her palm. The opportunity to say the name aloud gave her a curious thrill.
‘Well, Martin, I’m ever so pleased to meet you,’ Stephanie said, shaking Martin the bookseller’s hand vigorously enough to fill his wide-eyed field of vision with a vista of quivering H-cup cleavage. ‘Lucky me, stumbling on so erudite a breast expert!’
The description applied, conveniently, to both Martins, and Stephanie decided that pretending this was the notorious titwank expert who had visited Stonemere Park school in her second term would make boob-talk practice much easier, and would help exorcise these unresolved and unrequited feelings of attraction.
‘So, Martin,’ she began with a pretty grin and a flash of her bright emerald eyes. ‘My name is Stephanie. I’m nineteen years old, just finished my A-levels, five foot four inches tall, thirty-four inches in the hips, thirty in the waist, and I wear a size thirty-four H bra. I’m a late developer, and when my plump, round, gravity-defying C-cups blossomed to G’s overnight they stayed just as round and just as gravity-defying, but naturally a great deal plumper! I say plump, but apart from perhaps a little puppy-fat, these delicious teenage boobies of mine are all dense breast tissue. My nipples are small, pink, soft, and inverted most of the time, but they’re ever so sensitive, as are my breasts as a whole, which means I enjoy the most intensely pleasurable breast orgasms! I can cum simply from taking my bra off and letting them sway gently from side to side, so that my naturally tight cleavage writhes sensuously. The only reason I wear a bra, between you and me, is to keep my big bosoms from jiggling themselves to boobgasm in public! And it feels even nicer doing it with something wedged between them, Martin. Such as a nice, stiff, boob-loving erection. There’s nothing quite like a mutual titwank orgasm, is there? Pleasure throbbing endlessly through big undulating breasts while a rigid cock pumps a pair of balls dry from the heart of my squirming cleavage! Do you have any books like that, Martin? Redheads with bosoms the size of their heads, small, pale, sensitive little inverted nipples, who enjoy nothing more than jiggling themselves and the men around them to helpless breast-induced orgasms?’
Both Stephanie and Martin were now hot and flushed with erotic anticipation, and their swollen erogenous extremities were close to working their way free of low-cut white vest top and jogging trousers respectively. The bookseller’s erection was straining so desperately that it was stretching the elasticated waistband clear of his stomach entirely, and the more it strained and twitched, the more Stephanie found herself arching her back and thrusting her huge young chest further and further outwards, feeling those sensitive, pink little areolae creep free of her bra cups and ever closer to that low-cut neckline. She was that finding the talent for dirty talk came worryingly easy, especially when presented with so besotted a practice target and especially-especially when she could say that name aloud in the same breath as her explosively sexual boobs.
‘No, don’t touch it, Martin,’ she urged, snapping out of her reverie as she saw the bookseller’s hand drifting in the direction of the clearly rather painful tent in his trousers. ‘The first step to enjoying a titwank is to learn to ejaculate hands-free. It is a profound insult to a young lady’s bosoms to masturbate over them using your hand, didn’t you know that?’
‘I… I… I’m s-sorry,’ said the flustered bookseller, hand flying up and away from his groin in confusion. ‘I… I thought…’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that I don’t want you to cum all over them,’ Stephanie hastened with a kind laugh. ‘On the contrary: I want you to cum over my big teenage bosoms very much, Martin! But it’s only polite for you to let my bosoms do the wanking, or to be so overwhelmingly turned on by the sight of them that you simply unload untouched. There’s nothing quite as flattering as being jizzed over hands-free, big fat ropes of lovely thick cum flying from a freely wriggling boner and draping themselves over my wobbly knockers!’
‘Noted,’ stammered the bookseller, hand and cock trembling in pre-ejaculatory limbo. ‘I think I have just the book for you.’
‘Ooh, goody!’ said Stephanie. She shook her breasts again in the hope that a delicate nipple would “accidentally” flick into view for the bookseller’s Y-front-creaming pleasure.
The priapic shop owner pulled down a suspiciously dog-eared paperback from a high shelf and handed it to Stephanie. The cover featured a buxom redhead, braless in a tight maroon top so as to show off the obviously rather magnificent pair of breasts underneath. The woman’s face was familiar, and filled Stephanie with rather mixed feelings.
‘”L.C.T.F. My Story”,’ read Stephanie aloud. ‘”By Emma Enderby.”‘ It was the tell-all memoir of Martin Leyton’s live-in assistant, the busty ginger muse who had inspired him to set up his notorious titfuck-tuition clinic on Harley Street. Stephanie had met her twice now, and she admired and envied her in equal measure.
‘Not technically erotica, is it?’ she said. ‘More autobiography, really.’
‘You say that,’ replied the bookseller, ‘But rarely have I cum so often reading a book. It’s three hundred pages of her talking about her tits. And what tits they are! Very similar to yours, if I may say so: pale, lightly freckled, with small pink nipples, and probably about the same size. There are colour pictures. Lots of them. She talks about learning to titfuck and mastering the art of the boobgasm, and there’s lots of hands-free cumming. You’d like it, I think.’
Stephanie flicked through the well-used paperback. It was indeed comprehensively illustrated, the author’s ample endowments and the masturbatory uses to which they could be so effectively put depicted not just in photographs but elaborate schematic diagrams. In theory this slavish pursuit of scientific titwank precision should have appealed to Stephanie’s rational nature, but that irrational side to her, the side she loathed so much about herself, the jealous, bitter side, simmered up to the surface again. Uncanny though the resemblance which Emma Enderby’s appearance—boobs and otherwise – bore to her own, and spot-on though the bookseller’s recommendation was in principle, Stephanie wasn’t sure she could make it through even the first few pages of this salacious memoir without throwing the book against the wall in an envious rage.
‘I think I’d prefer fiction,’ she said, finally, handing the book back. ‘Something made-up, but where the heroine’s boobs are similar to mine.’
The bookseller looked longingly at Stephanie’s precariously-clad boobs, so close to bursting forth from their tight white vest. ‘Perhaps if you just showed me them,’ he ventured, ‘to remind me what they look like…?’
‘Oh but that would be cheating!’ sniggered Stephanie, shifting back into bosom-flaunting flirty gear. ‘No, Martin, if you want to lose that heavy, spunky load of yours then you’re going to have to do it just from listening to me describing them to you!’
Upon saying this, a thought occurred to Stephanie. All this talk of getting men to cum just from talking… She needed to get back to Nina’s to tell her the idea while it was still fresh in her mind. She took the pile of books the bookseller had recommended. ‘I’m sorry Martin, but you’re going to have to jizz over my bosoms another time, I need to go. I’ll take all your book recommendations. How much do you want for them?’
‘Just a titwank,’ croaked the orgasm-denied shopkeeper.
‘You’re getting that anyway,’ grinned Stephanie. She stashed the books in her tote bag and treated the tortured man to a final generous shimmy-shake of her globular teen H-cups in their tight white stretch-cotton casing as she backed away down the aisle. ‘Back again as soon as I get back from my trip in a couple of weeks. Promise not to cum until then? Toodle-oo!’
Chest almost hitting her on the chin with every exuberant bounding step back up the Portobello Road, Stephanie arrived back at Storm In A G-Cup.
‘Nina! Nina!,’ Stephanie exclaimed, barely in the door and flushed with excitement and exertion, bosom still rebounding autonomously. ‘I’ve got an idea! Get your customers to describe their breasts to Luke down the phone. If they can do that in enough detail to make him cum he’ll get the bra size right every time!’
‘Stephanie,’ said Nina with polite restraint. ‘I’m with a customer.’
Stephanie looked. Nina was, indeed, with a busty bra-shopper, and a rather straightlaced-looking one at that, a prim, bespectacled woman of around forty, hair in a tight mousy bun.
‘Oops, sorry,’ said Stephanie.
‘I think that when you said cum, Stephanie, you meant that look would come here, to the shop?’
‘Um, yes, that’s what I meant.’
‘Well, thank-you Stephanie,’ said Nina. ‘Have a nice time on your holiday with the girls.’ She turned to the customer and apologised for the interruption.
‘No need to apologise,’ said the woman. Then, with a coy lick of the lips: ‘Who’s Luke?’
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