"Big Tits, Big Dicks and Fantasy Fucking!"
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Thursday afternoons were really quiet at B&A. The seamstresses and consultants (sales ladies) all had the day off. Mrs Bird came in for a half day and was gone by noon. So I had the place to myself to take care of what ever had to be done. I was usually gone by 4pm, locking up after I was done. Mrs. Bird had given me a key after my second month on the job. Of course she still "dropped in" every Thursday afternoon just to check up on me but I think she was beginning to trust me. A little.
It was almost three pm and I was readying to leave. So imagine my surprise when the doorbell rang. And rang. And rang.
When I finally got there, unlocked and opened up, a figure ducked under my arm and pushed into the show room.
"It's about time!" she exclaimed. "I thought no one was here!"
"Well," I started.
"Never mind. I'm here. I'm ready for my appointment! Where is Mrs. Bird?" she demanded.
"She's not here," I started again. "We don't have..."
"Nonsense! I have an appointment!" she repeated. Her voice was a little less certain and I took a moment to examine my unexpected visitor.
Smothered in an oversized trench coat against the autumn chill she didn't look like one of our usual customers. They tended to be coiffed and pampered women of means. This young lady was somewhat unfashionable. Her blonde hair had been cropped short as was the current fashion. But her shoes were sensible walking shoes, her jeans were too loose to be up to date. And I couldn't see anything else about her since she was all bundled up. But I couldn't overlook the rose bud mouth and pert nose underneath her china blue eyes. She looked like she was about to cry as she peered around the shop. She was too pretty to cry. I wished there was something I could do to help.
"But I came so far! On the bus. I hate the bus! My Mom said she made the appointment with Mrs. Bird just for me! I didn't want to come. I hate getting fittings! It's so, um, embarrassing..." she ran down and just looked at me. Tears were welling up in her eyes.
"Can't you help? I don't want to have wasted the afternoon!" Her voice was on the ragged edge.
I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. But I didn't know what I could do. I had no idea how the consultants and Mrs. Bird did what they did.
"I'd love to help, young lady,"
"Missy, call me Missy."
"Um, of course, Missy. But I'm the accountant, not a fitting consultant. I would hardly know where to start." I explained.
"Well, I suppose you could just do the beginnings, right? I hate to have wasted the whole afternoon," she repeated.
"Um, well..." I stuttered.
"I haven't had a fitting since I was 18, over four years ago. I used to come with my Mom but..." again her voice trailed off as she turned to face me.
"Please?" she begged again as she struggled out of her coat. Dropping it on a chair she turned to face me with a sigh of resignation.
HOLY SMOKES! Underneath a loose ribbed sweater Missy was smuggling a prime pair of watermelons! The sweater was tucked into her jeans which only emphasized the difference between her waist and bust line.
"Well, I suppose I could take some preliminary data and give Mrs. Bird an idea of what you are looking for," I offered. Faced with the chance to get to know the second largest pair of tits I'd ever seen probably had a lot to do with my change of attitude.
"That's great!" she enthused. "Now, how do we start?"
"Well," I temporized. "What did you do the last time you were here?"
"Um," she started to blush, "they took my measurements. You know," she touched her hips, waist and bust lightly to indicate what had been measured. "I suppose we should start with that." She glanced up at me from under her eyebrows to judge my reaction.
"Uh, okay. That sounds about right," I said as I glanced around the fitting room looking for a tape measure and ... There! I found a pen on top of a stack of forms I had seen before. The Customer Evaluation Form. I hadn't filled one out of course, but everything was pretty straight forward I saw as I read thru it.
From behind me I heard a soft rustling sound and another sigh from Missy.
When I turned I found that she had discarded her jeans and shoes. She was standing in front of my with only a pair of sensible panties and her over burdened sweater!
"Yow, uh, I mean, you, what...?" I stuttered. Smooth talker, right?
"Well," she blushed, "you have to get accurate measurements, right?" With out looking at me she began to pull her sweater up.
Without taking my eyes off her I asked her name.
"Melissa Roberts," she replied, her voice muffled under the sweater as she finally worked it up over her bust line.
I took my time writing that down giving her a chance to discard the sweater on top of the pants she had dropped on a chair.
When I looked back at her she was standing, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her arms crossed in front of her chest. It was like trying to hide twin beach balls behind two crossed sticks. But one thing was very clear, even to me.
"That bra really doesn't fit you, Missy," I pointed out. The item in question was truly a horrible fit. There was breast flesh pooching out from under the bra cups. As she slowly lowered her arms I saw that the cleavage was being forced up and out by how tightly the cup cut into the soft pale pink flesh. Straps dug cruelly into her shoulders. It looked as uncomfortable as hell!
"Well, I haven't been fitted since I was eighteen, four years ago," she admitted. "I've grown a little since then, I guess. I usually just strap myself down, you know."
Grown a little? I could see seams buckling under the pressure while they tried to hold back her extravagance of breast flesh. Grown a little? Her breasts were HUGE and her bra was only ridiculously large. Yikes!
"Well, we'll get to that," I said. "Get up on the scale and we'll get started."
I thought to offer her a dressing gown, there were several on hooks behind the door, but she didn't seem to be too uncomfortable standing in front of me in only pan and an over-matched bra. I figured if she could deal with it, I certainly could, too.
She stood on the scale and stood up as straight as she could with her shoulders pulled back. This of course emphasized her massive development and I almost tripped over my own feet as I moved to stand next to her to look at the readings.
"Okey dokey, Missy, you weigh, um, 123 lbs," I read off the scale. "And you are," I pulled out the dohicky that measured her height, "five feet tall," I finished.
