Gee… 52

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In the summer of 1972, Alan Carson had begun dating Becky Amos and was enjoying a fairly good relationship. However, after he met Becky’s family, he found himself drawn in a totally different direction.


Chapter One: Something about Becky.

There was something about Becky that was different than any of the other girls that I had dated back in the early 70’s. It’s the reason why I remember her more than any of the other girls, I suppose.

It wasn’t the great sex we had, because we never did IT. We did everything else that two 18 year old kids could do to each other, but she was adamant from the first date about not giving up what I really wanted, and her defenses remained strong right up to the end.

It wasn’t her looks that set her apart from the rest, although she was certainly attractive enough. Becky was what I would call a suburban hippie; she wore bell bottoms, flashed the peace sign a lot, went bra-less a lot and didn’t shave her armpits, but enjoyed life in a nice house in a nice middle-class neighborhood. That was all fine with me, because I was probably just as shallow in my own way.

Early on in our relationship, I met her family, which consisted of a younger brother, and her parents. The kid was a dork, and her father seemed alright, if a bit gruff. Maybe he didn’t like the length of my hair, which was almost down to my shoulders.

He surely wasn’t grouchy because of my relationship with Becky. Hell, one time I thought he caught me in the kitchen with my hand under Becky’s blouse, giving her little titty some serious honking, but he didn’t say a word and marched right past us to the fridge where he grabbed a beer.

His indifference was probably because Becky wasn’t her real father. Becky’s brother was his, so he was protective of him, but I guess because Becky was only his step-daughter, he didn’t much care what I did with her, so long as I didn’t get in the way of him getting a beer. He worked long hours, so I didn’t see much of him anyway.

Which brings me to the other person in Becky’s family. Her Mom. To put it mildly, Mrs. Evelyn Amos was a trip. She was loud, bold and brassy from the first moment I met her, and she didn’t put on any false fronts for anyone, so far as I could see. If something crossed her mind, she just came right out and said it, and she had some of the craziest expressions I had ever heard.

“So, you have any luck trying to stick your stinger into Becky’s honeypot yet?” she asked me early on in our relationship, while Becky was out of the kitchen for a minute.

The soda I had been drinking as Mrs. Amos spoke, burned my nostrils when it came shooting out when I heard that. Stinger? Honeypot? What kind of jargon was this, and even more wild was, how could her mother ask something like that?

That was just her way, though. Just blurt it out. That was why Becky rarely left me alone with her mother, or least that was what I thought at the time. I figured she was embarrassed by her mother’s comments, but at that point in our lives, weren’t we all humiliated by our folks?

That wasn’t the main reason why I remember Becky’s Mom, though. There was something else that captured my attention, and has kept her in my memory all these years. To say that she had something that effectively grabbed my prurient interests, would be a massive understatement.


Chapter Two: What Mrs. Amos had.

Ava Gardner. That was who Mrs. Amos had mentioned one day to me as I waited for Becky to get ready for our date. She told me that I should have seen her a few years ago, when she looked like Ava Gardner.

Mrs. Amos was brushing her hair at the time, which was wavy and a deep dark brown, and I was trying like hell not to look. I didn’t know who Ava Gardner was at the time, but I found a picture of her later and discovered that there was a similarity in her facial features, but to be frank, my eyes didn’t spend all that much time looking above the neck of Mrs. Amos.

Mrs. Amos was probably somewhere the same age as my own Mom, which would have put her in her mid 40’s. She had what would be fairly described as a very different body than most women her age, or of any age.

Her legs were pretty shapely as well, and she almost always wore these black pants that went down just below her knees. They weren’t too tight, but were snug enough to reveal that she had a very small butt, especially compared to the rest of her.

The rest of her. Those were the parts that set her apart from the rest, in my mind. Her arms were solid, if at bit plump, and the waist was a bit thick too, but those parts I rarely spent much time looking at either. My eyes were locked in on one area, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t resist staring at her breasts.

Mrs. Amos had the biggest breasts I had ever laid eyes on, and I had memorized every Playboy magazine that I had gotten my hands on, as well as a lot of experience in rifling through my old man’s porn collection that he thought was safely hidden away in the attic.

Mrs. Amos always wore Fast link these sleeveless V-neck cotton tops that seemed designed for only one reason, and that was to drive yours truly Alan Carson out of his mind. She had a black one, which was my least favorite, but she also had a bunch of these identical style blouses in other colors. Blue and red, which were okay, but paled in comparison to my favorites, the white one and the canary yellow one.

The white one especially drove me crazy, as it seemed to make her breasts seem even more massive than they were. You could clearly see the outline of her bra underneath the fabric, as well as some of the cavernous cleavage that was very visible at the neckline of her blouse.

I often wondered what those breasts of hers would look like outside of their harness? Footballs? No, bigger than that. Much bigger. Watermelons might be a bit of an exaggeration, I figured, but not by much.

In his modest porn collection, my old man had these topless photos of this woman from long ago, Virginia Bell, and it was her that I finally settled on to be what Mrs. Amos would look like naked. Virginia had incredibly full jugs that hung down to her waist, with fat nipples that I fantasized about sucking on while I would stand in my attic, the picture in one hand and my cock in the other.

I would be sweating like a pig in that stuffy attic many times after being with Becky and getting all worked up, my fist working feverishly as I looked at that picture of Virginia Bell. Mentally transposing Becky’s Mom’s face onto the photo, I would pop out a load that would leave my knees weak and a big mess in the sock I had slipped over the head of my dick in order to spare the floor.

Not easy being 18, with a girlfriend who wouldn’t go all the way, and it wasn’t an easier when her Mom looked the way she did either.

Chapter Three: August 3, 1972, 1:15 p.m.

I don’t remember what I had for dinner last night, but I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was a normal enough day for August, which meant it was hot and humid. I had a summer job, but on that day I got let out at 1, so I was left with an afternoon free.

Becky was working as well, but she was working all afternoon. I suppose I could have found one of my friends to kill the day with, but for some reason I drove to Becky’s house.

There was no car in the driveway, which meant that either nobody was home, or Becky’s mother was there all alone. After sitting outside in my car for a minute, I took a deep breath and went up the steps and knocked.

My plan, if I had a plan that is, was to pretend that I didn’t know Becky was working and hang around with her Mom for a little bit. She would offer me a drink of this stuff she liked, and since I was too young to drink I would eagerly accept it. After staring at those jugs of hers for a while, I expected to be horny as hell and would go home and jerk off a couple of times and then hang out with my friends.

The door opened, and Mrs. Amos appeared wearing the yellow blouse, one of the better ones in my rating system, straining to contain those massive breasts. Trying to act natural, I said hello cheerfully and asked if Becky was there.

“She’s working all day,” Mrs. Amos replied. “Come on in Alan, you’ll let all the cool out.”

I nodded and stepped through the doorway, brushing lightly against her tits with my elbow as I entered. That was not intentional on my part, but enjoyable, and I walked down the short hall and into the kitchen, which was where her mother usually hung out.

“I thought she was working this morning,” I lied, trying to avert my eyes from the obvious and looking at the little plaques on the wall.

“Nope,” Mrs. Amos said. “She won’t be home till late. I thought maybe you were coming to visit me.”

“Huh?” I said, and although I protested that I must have gotten the dates mixed up, from the look in her eye I got the feeling that she was seeing right through me.

“Well, how about a drink then?” she said, and grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured me a generous helping of the stuff.

Four Roses. The stuff was really strong if you drank it straight, which Evelyn Amos always did, and I was not going to be a sissy and ask her to dilute it a a quart of ginger ale like I would have preferred, so I winced some down and tried not to choke.

We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, while I watched Mrs. Amos lean forward so that her jugs were resting on the counter-top, and it was about then when my cock made my underwear very crowded indeed.

“My back is killing me,” Mrs. Amos mentioned, straightening up and putting her hands on her hips and leaning backwards.

As I watched her contort, I fully expected that blouse to split right down the middle from the force of those torpedoes thrusting outward, and even though it wasn’t hot inside, I was sweating bullets.

She gave me a little smile as she seemed to note my interest in her little show, and after rolling her hips around for a second, lifted fast links her arms above her head and stretched. My attention was diverted momentarily when I saw her plump armpits, moist from perspiration, as she reached high.

“No used to seeing armpits without hair in them, huh Alan?” Mrs. Amos asked, breaking me out of my trance.

I had been enthralled by the faint 5 o’clock shadow that thickly coated the vast expanse of her fleshy underarms, and had been trying to visualize what she would look like if she had let the hair grow like her daughter did, when I was embarrassingly brought back to reality.

“Oh… sorry,” I said sheepishly, taking another sip of the Four Roses as punishment for my sin.

“No you aren’t,” Mrs. Amos said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Looking is free. Good thing too, because you’d be broke by now.”

I was flustered, and that seemed to make Mrs. Amos happy, as she kept the pressure on me.

“Can’t figure out why Becky goes around like that,” Mrs. Amos remarked, referring to Becky not shaving her armpits. “You like that sort of thing, Alan?”

“Yeah… I mean… it’s okay I guess,” I stammered, trying to finish off the drink so I could leave.

“Different strokes for different folks,” Mrs. Amos said. “Isn’t that what you guys say?”

“Uh, I guess,” I mumbled.

“Of course, you can tell what some guys like right away. Maybe it’s the rocket in your pocket that gives you away.”

“I guess I better get going,” I said, getting flustered more by the second.

“Here, you didn’t finish your drink,” Mrs. Amos said, splashing some more of that vile Four Roses into my glass before I could stop her.

“Uh, I have to drive, Mrs. Amos,” I said.

“I know, but a big strong fella like you can handle that little bit. And you don’t have to call me Mrs. Amos. That makes me feel old. Call me Evie, okay?”

“Uh, okay Evie.”

“Be right back,” she said. “Don’t go running away on me.”

Mrs. Amos, or should I say, Evie, left the room, and as she did I poured half of the glass of whiskey down the drain. My head was already spinning, and the booze was no help. I took the opportunity to reach down and get my erection swung over to my right side so it didn’t snap in half, and got my hand out of my pants just in time to catch Mrs. Amos making her entrance, and what an entrance it was.

“Oh, that’s so much better,” Evie announced.


Chapter Four: Better for who?

Evie Amos knew what she was doing. I realized that when she sashayed back into the kitchen, looking even more amazing than she had before she left. She had made a little wardrobe change, and it was one that was very noticeable. The black slacks were still on, and so was the yellow blouse. What was missing was the bra.

I couldn’t look. I felt like my cock would erupt once my eyes took the briefest of glances at Evie’s huge breasts rolling around unsupported in that canary yellow blouse, so I grabbed my glass and started to swirl the liquid around as casually as I could.

Evie Amos cleared her throat a little, and when I glanced over as subtly as I could, I noticed that her attention was focused on me, and more precisely on the bulge in my khakis, which was as prominent as could be, much to my chagrin.

I shifted my stance around, trying to make it less obvious, but only succeeded in getting myself even more aroused, if that was even possible.

“No fun if you stop looking,” Evie said, as my eyes went back to my drink.

Front door or bathroom. Those were my options.

“Uh, gotta use the bathroom,” I blurted out, already on my way as I spoke, and I moved fast, not looking back until I reached the safety of the bathroom.

“Big man,” I muttered to myself after I pushed the bolt over and leaned against the door while trying to catch my breath.

Indeed. After weeks of fantasizing about Evie Amos, there she was in all her bra-less glory, and there I was hiding in the toilet. I mean, I knew she was only teasing me, but I didn’t even have the guts to stand there and look at her like she seemed to want me to.

It was about that time that I looked over and saw it, hanging over the shower curtain rod. The brassiere that Evie Amos had taken off was dangling there in full view, the shower curtain parted as if it were on stage.

I staggered over to it like it was a religious idol of some kind, my hands reaching up and touching it tenderly. A long line bra that looked dainty and feminine in the front, with lace around the top, and more industrial looking on the sides and back, to better reflect the heavy-duty work it had to do.

The cups were immense, and I took it down off the rod and let my hands roam in the deep caverns, which were still warm and sightly damp from being on Evie moments earlier. I put my head inside of one of the cups, not caring how stupid I must have looked, and inhaled the sweet scent of Mrs. Amos that lingered in the fabric.

The bra size. For some reason, that seemed to matter a lot to us guys at the time, even though in reality it often had little meaning to the size of the breasts inside. I knew Becky wore a padded 34A when she did wear one, and Sue Paige, the girl I had been with before her, was a 32B. Debbie Blair, the girl that I first had sex with, was a 36C, and was clearly the bustiest one of them all.

I had to turn on the light to see the tag, which was more than a little faded, and even when I could make it out, it didn’t seem possible, yet there it was. 52G.

52G? That sounded like it had more to do with Bingo than bras. I had spent an adolescence carefully examining the foundations sections of every catalog that came to our house. Penney’s, Wards, Sears and all the rest. I knew all about the A’s, B’s, C’s and D’s, and even was aware of the double and triple D’s. I had never seen a G cup mentioned anywhere, yet here it was in my sweaty hands.

Actually, it was in only one hand, my left. My right hand had gotten my belt undone and had managed to get my underwear down over my erection. I’m not sure what I was actually going to do next, as I had begun slowly stroking my swollen member. I had to pee, but since my cock was curving up toward the towel rack above the toilet that might have been a problem.

My exploration of this spectacular garment of Evie’s, and the question of exactly what I was planning to do next was interrupted by Mrs. Amos herself, who was outside of the door, asking me if I was alright.

“Fine,” I squeaked with little conviction. “Be right out.”

My erection vanished quickly after that exchange, and I was then able to pee without much problem. Putting my cock away, I noticed that my underwear was a gooey mess, the result of my cock dripping since I had come into the house, and I noted that there was even a little wet spot on my khakis as well, and could only hope that Mrs. Amos wouldn’t notice.


Chapter Five: Mrs. Amos sees very well.

When I went back to the kitchen, I was preparing to make a hasty exit, but the first thing I noticed was that my glass had been refilled. I went back to my earlier spot near the sink and tried to think about my strategy.

“Everything come out okay?” Mrs. Amos asked with a smirk.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I guess I better get going.”

“Oh, I thought you would stay and keep me company for a while,” she said. “Got someplace to go?”


“Well then, why don’t you stay?” she said. “I don’t scare you do I?”

Evie had moved around the bend of the counter, and was now facing me, only about five feet away from me. Even though at 6’1″ I was at least a half foot taller than her, why was it that it felt like I was looking up at her all the time?

“Scared?” I chirped. “No. I think you’re really cool.”

“Good,” Evie said, taking a step toward me, and even though her face was a couple of feet away, her breasts were considerably closer. “I didn’t think you would be scared. Matter of fact, I thought that you were kinda interested in me.”

I stood there trembling, my knees almost knocking as my mouth moved silently, with only my breath coming out in a ragged staccato.

“Because I thought you were looking at me,” Evie Amos said in a husky and sultry voice while her hands reached down and grabbed me by the wrists. “I know I was looking at you, and I liked what I was seeing. A lot. I saw what looked like a healthy slab of meat trying to escape. Am I right?”

My hands were being lifted as she brought them up the short distance to her breasts, and I gasped when she pressed them up against her tits.

“You like?” Evie said, pushing my hands hard against her tit-flesh. “Not what you’re used to, I know that. Right?”

I nodded, finally beginning to play with her breasts without being prodded, and as I kneaded the doughy jugs, she smiled in response.

“That’s it baby,” she rasped, undulating her upper body while letting my wrists go. “You like them big, don’t you? I could tell that right from the start. Don’t be too nice with them though, I like them handled a little rough.”

I squeezed her tits as best I could, despite my palms being overwhelmed by the size of her massive mammaries, and I felt the pegs of her nipples poking out hard. Meanwhile, Evie’s hand was running along the front of my slacks, having no problem finding what she was looking for.

“Mm… you like them big, and so do I,” she purred, her hand seizing my erection which was almost on my hip by then. “Nice… ooh… you’re so big, Alan. Lucky you didn’t use this on my Becky. You’d split that poor girl in two.”

I stood there playing with her tits through the blouse, frozen in place while Evie’s hand made short work of my belt as well as the clasp of my pants, and with a flick of her wrist I felt my pants drop to my ankles.

“Haven’t had one this big in years,” Evie marveled as she reached into my gooey briefs and pulled out my cock, giving it a hard and slow pull which made my knees weak.

I don’t know what she was used to getting, because I wasn’t all that big down there, having just a bit more than six inches, but I was on the thick side, and I was loving what she was saying too much to argue about it not to mention the fact that she was giving me some confidence to boot.

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