Her New Boobs

We were talking about ships' bottoms, as you do, or at least when your business is re-painting them. Big ships, mostly, oil tankers and bulk carriers.

Big ships use a lot of paint and selling that paint is a highly competitive business. Mostly, it's an all-male business, probably because it often involves crawling around in the darkest, filthiest recesses of giant ships, not something that most women really get excited about.

Except Angela Duncan. "Do you remember Angela Duncan," I asked my Technical Manager, as we looked at the drawings of our latest project, a 325,000 ton double-hulled tanker, barely three years old. but already needing corrosion treatment in many sections of the vast void spaces which separate the crude oil cargoes from the ocean. New oil tankers are like big vacuum flasks to prevent oil spills if there is external damage such as a collision with another vessel.

"Yeah, what happened to her, the sexy bitch? he asked.

"I was just thinking the same thing myself," I said, "I haven't seen her since we worked at the Capitol Chemicals terminal, and that must be about four years ago. She moved to Scotland with her husband, the ex-Navy guy. I think she's settled down."

Angela Duncan certainly hadn't settled down when I knew her and my mind pleasurably recalled some of our encounters. She was a rare breed, a paint specialist with a degree in corrosion engineering, and undoubtedly the best-looking corrosion engineer I ever knew.

Angela, who I think was 28 when I last met her, was blonde, blue-eyed, and propelled by the proverbial "all-the-way-up-to-her-arse" legs. But the pièce de résistance were the silicone spectaculars which Angela ultimately treated herself to following a particularly good year's bonuses.

When I first met her, I thought she was rather tasty even with the modest boobies that nature had provided. Angela, it emerged, had never been happy about these although she regularly wore white silk shirts that were carelessly unbuttoned whenever, as an area sales rep. for a large paint manufacturer, she had a sales meeting with a client. Because we bid for work on many of the projects which used Angela's paint I attended many of these meetings. Angela would stay over in our area for a day or two and would regularly entertain me to dinner on her company's expense account.

I think she almost saw me as some sort of father figure. I was 54 then, carrying too much weight and with not a lot of hair left. We hit it off from the start, however; I helped her with a lot of practical advice, and we soon got to the stage where, rather than a handshake when she entered my office in a cloud of Lancôme Poême I got a hug and a quite steamy kiss. I confess I was under her spell.

Whilst the unbuttoned shirts undoubtedly made their impact it was, ironically, usually myself who got more benefit from it than the customer. I would usually sit beside her and was therefore often treated to the sight of a pert, rubbery nipple as she leaned down to remove another file or brochure from her briefcase.

It was quickly clear to me that Angela was a natural exhibitionist because her strong suit in all these sales meetings was an erotic display of her legs the blatancy of which sometimes alarmed me. I was convinced we might get thrown out by some customers because of Angela going over the top but it never happened and she certainly sold a lot of paint. She always wore dark suits; a plain silk shirt, open jacket, tight, short skirts and heels. From having her as a passenger in my car, I also knew that she wore stockings and suspenders but only from the odd occasion when she had reached for papers or brochures in the back seat of the car and the short skirt had risen up briefly to reveal the start of the dark band of a stocking top.

After about the third or fourth time we visited a client together, I commented, back in the car, that I didn't think her customer had been paying much attention to her presentation, not that it had mattered.

"Oh, do you think he was just enjoying the leg show, then?" Angela responded. At least I had established that she knew the effect she had been having on the wretched maintenance manager of a chemical plant who needed paint for a big storage silo. He signed a purchase order for a lot more than he needed; Angela sat beside him and helped him fill it in.

"Well, I'm sure I would have been if I had been sitting where he was. But I wasn't, sadly," I grinned.

Angela looked at me quizzically.

"Was I overdoing it a bit?" she asked me. "Is this skirt too short?" She wriggled in the car seat attempting to pull the skirt down. Again the dark bands of her stocking tops were visible. She had removed her jacket because it was a hot day -- sitting in the car park outside the chemical plant it was sweltering -- and she had not re-buttoned the white silk shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra and I could see her delicious half-inch left nipple, erect and red, chafing against the material of the shirt. There was a trickle of sweat running down between her breasts. My throat was dry and there was an embarrassing bulge growing in my trousers. It was hot.

"It would be too short for me but I might try it if it sells as well as it does for you," I said.

"Mum always said to me that, if you've got it, flaunt it," said Angela, "I just wish I had the tits to go with the legs."

"From where I'm sitting, I wouldn't worry too much about them," I observed.

Angela look down at her chest disapprovingly and said they looked like a couple of fried eggs.

"You can't do anything with these," she said, and, to my amazement, unbuttoned a further three buttons, cupped her firm, if modest, breasts together, looked up at me and said, "Look, no cleavage worth a shit. And my husband is really a tit man. I'm going to get a boob job and do it right. I've been saving."

I wanted so much to lean forward and kiss those delectable nipples but he who hesitates is lost, as they say, and I watched disappointedly as Angela's "worthless" breasts disappeared back inside the shirt.

"Don't waste any money on your legs, then," I said.

She leaned back in the seat lasciviously and stretched out those fabulous limbs. She had only done up two buttons on her shirt and her half-pint breasts were almost totally exposed and glistened with sweat. She looked thoroughly obscene. She was wonderful.

"Yeah, they're alright, aren't they. A quick flash always makes that first purchase order a bit easier, I've found," she grinned at me. "I never know just exactly how much to show. I'll have to practice in front of you in your office until I get it just right." With both hands she smoothed each nylon-clad leg provocatively from ankle to mid-thigh.

I didn't know if I was still just being used to gratify her exhibitionistic tendencies or if there was more to this than I thought. Happily married I was, and am, with a 50 year old very fit wife still sporting a body almost to rival Angela's -- but I could feel my heart pumping and I clenched and re-clenched my buttocks, flexing an erection fit to burst as I fantasised what might happen between me and the sexy, sexy lady sitting next to me.

"Jesus, Angela, that could take hours," I said hoarsely.

This crazy, wanton woman giggled like a schoolgirl and shook out her long, blonde hair. Her perfume suffused the car and the blood pounded in my head.

"Anyway, I'm not wearing stockings on a day like this all the way back to your office. They're just for business," she said. With that, she slid the little black skirt up her gorgeous legs and brought black suspenders, stark against her white thighs, into mouth-watering view. She raised one leg, bent it at the knee, started to unsnap one nylon then looked at me coyly and said, "Disappointed? I knew you would be a stockings and suspender man."

"At least let me take them off for you," I pleaded.

"Hey, easy boy," she scolded.

"I would consider it a rare honour," I bullshitted.

She paused.

"Well, go on then," she said. My heartrate soared.

I looked around the car park considering the consequences if one of our customers had parked next to me and would any second, according to the inviolable principles of Murphy's Law, come out to go for lunch.

What a man of the world I was turning out to be. I had pillaged nightspots over the years from Manila to Mexico City yet here I was in a car park in Essex, my hands shaking so badly I was almost scared to touch her in case one of my stupid, bloody customers appeared or, worse, I couldn't undo the damned suspender.

Almost too scared. I clasped her by the knees and swivelled her bum round on the leather seat to face me.

"That's better. I can work easier from this angle." Angela had clasped her hands behind her head and stared at me with a half smile on her face. Her shirt had ballooned open and her fantastic bared nipples and aerolae were stiffly extruding towards me.

The skirt was again covering part of her stocking tops so I raised her knees and pushed it down towards her waist out of the way rather more than I needed to.

I was looking straight down between her legs and I then realised what she had meant when she mentioned "a quick flash". She was not wearing any panties. My cock jumped in my pants and I licked my lips involuntarily.

She had the most beautiful bush although she wasn't a natural blonde. I could just see the shape of her pussy lips as she casually opened and closed her legs ever so slightly and I made a mental note that, if nothing else happened ever, I would cut out the seat leather and preserve it forever.

I unsnapped the top suspender on her right leg and slid my hand round the inside of her thigh to reach the back one. I rolled the stocking down and carefully removed it. Angela continued to stare at me intently; a pristine moment of high sexual tension and voyeuristic ecstasy.

I just had to slide my hands all the way up her left leg and reached the top suspender without having a heart attack. My left hand drifted round her inner thigh vaguely in the direction of the bottom button and I allowed my fingers to brush against her pussy hair. It was damp.

"Uh,uh, just the stockings," she grinned at me, gripping my wrist. My fingers still wiggled gamely but superficially in her wet pussy hair. My dick was throbbing.

"Angela, I'm dying here. I want to lick you."

"This is getting out of hand, you randy bastard. Come on, time we were off." said Angela breathlessly..

And that was the sudden and deflating end of my second-last encounter with Angela. She bailed out. I drove her later to the railway station; she kissed me with ruby red glossed lips, squeezed my cock through my trousers for a second, and said, "I'm a married woman and you're a married man. It would only end in trouble."

An erect penis has no conscience. A truer word was never spoken. But back in that car park on that beautiful day in May, I knew I would have fucked Angela's brains out in my car if she had even touched my zipper. My cock had never been so hard in years and I masturbated explosively for days afterwards, the silky feel and smell of Angela's nyloned thighs and her hairy little love-nest swimming in my mind.

Part II

About four months later Angela called me to ask if I would come in as contractor on a project in Suffolk at a power station where she hoped to sell a large quantity of paint. She had set up a meeting the following week and asked if I would attend and could I pick her up at the station as usual. I didn't need any second bidding.

"But if you're wearing stockings and suspenders and no knickers again I don't know if I could stand it, Angela," I complained.

"No, I've changed my image completely," she replied, "I'm a good girl now, you'll see."

That was a dumb thing for me to say, I thought. I didn't really want to discourage her, did I, as my old one-eyed friend stirred at the sound of her voice on the phone. Ah, once an exhibitionist, always an exhibitionist, I convinced myself.

Her train was on time. The weather had been outstanding for an English summer and, although it was only ten in the morning, it was already hot.

I didn't recognise her at first. I was looking at this stunning creature strutting down the platform swinging a bag, her short, yellow, flared summer dress swirling round mid-thigh in the warm breeze. Wow, I thought, look at the tits on that and, just then, the creature waved at me. Holy shit, it was Angela, and, oh God, when she said she had wanted new tits, she had really meant it.

"Hiya, you old bastard, what d'ya reckon" said Angela and she twirled and struck a busty pose that would have made Marilyn Monroe jealous. She looked sensational.

"Well, you wanted cleavage, girl, and you got it. I'm, I'm speechless. You are the most beautiful, sexy animal I have ever set eyes on."

"36D, and not an inch less," she said. "Shit, I feel like a million dollars."

I felt like a million dollars, too. She took my arm and we walked through the station. Every male head in the place turned and followed us and probably a lot of female ones as well. Angela looked like a film star.

On the short drive to the power station, I got the whole story of Angela's visit to a private clinic and she delighted in regaling me with all the details of cosmetic surgery and silicone implant techniques.

Before we went into the meeting, Angela placed a hand on my knee and said, "Look, I've something to tell you. This might be the last time we meet for a while. I've handed in my resignation. My husband has been offered a very good job in Aberdeen in the oil industry and we're moving north in about a month. Don't tell our client, though, will you?"

Tell the client? Screw the client. There go all my voyeuristic opportunities, I thought. Selling paint will never be the same again.

I tried to make a joke.

"You might need an export licence to get those boobs into Scotland, you know."

"No," she said, "I think they were made in Scotland. Like bagpipes. Here, give them a squeeze." And she took both my clammy hands and placed one on each sumptuous breast. I squeezed; they were firm, so firm.

"Well, let's get this meeting over with," said Angela and I said, "Oh, yes, sorry, em, I suppose I better let go now."

I don't remember the meeting. I remember at one point we all trooped off to a conference room upstairs and the three men who joined us all stepped aside at the bottom of the stairs to let Angela go up first. Oh, what gentlemen.

Her legs went on for ever under the thin, flared dress. Near the top of the stairs, she appeared to slip out of one of the wooden mules she was wearing. She bent down from the waist to put it back on and looked back to the four of us following from below. "Sorry," she called out brightly.

No-one said a word. I think the throats of the other guys were parched. Angela was wearing a white thong and her pubes positively bulged through it. It was earth-shattering. They wanted to buy paint from her. We got back in the car and I asked her to lunch.

"Better still," I said, "We're finished for today and it's a great day. Let's buy ourselves a picnic and go and get some sun at the beach. What do you think?"

Angela was a little reticent. She explained that she didn't have a swimsuit with her.

"At least you're wearing knickers this time," I said.

"And a bra," she replied, "These fellas need some proper support now. Oh, I suppose I can sit in my sundress. I haven't been to the beach in ages."

My mind was whirling. Just how much trouble could I get into here. Some white wine should do the trick. Wicked Willie was up and about and was already struggling to come out for air and see the sundress sat next to me steadily riding up Angela's milky thighs. The dress was cut low and the cleavage of Angela's new 36D monsters seemed to be a bottomless pit.

We stopped at a mini-market and loaded up with paté, cheese, french sticks, some cold chicken drumsticks and a big bag of seedless grapes. Angela picked up two bottles of sparkling white wine and a box of those vodka mixers saying it was her treat and we set off for the seaside. I knew a lovely spot in the dunes on the Suffolk coast and I had a big towel and bottle of sunscreen from my golf gear in the boot and an old travel rug. There were gulls wheeling overhead and larks singing high in the sky.

By the time we found ourselves a perfectly sheltered bowl between two dunes and laid out the rug, Angela had already polished off one of the vodka cocktails. I poured her a large bubbly in a polystyrene cup and she fell on her back on the rug sneezing and laughing when the bubbles went up her nose. For the second time that day I saw that mind-blowing white thong pulled tight at the top of those wonderful legs. This time she was facing me, giggling because of the bubbles up her nose, with her legs apart, apparently oblivious to what I could see. The thong was almost transparent with perspiration and I could clearly see her bulging lips and the tiny curls of hair matted behind the thin nylon fabric. Maybe if I had died there and then and gone to heaven I would have considered it a fair deal.

"No stockings today, then," I ventured lamely.

"Oops," giggled Angela, who sat up smoothing down her dress and took a bigger, but more careful, mouthful from the plastic cup.

"I have to be good, now, and not tease you," she said, "Don't get me drunk and incapable. Isn't it time you got those lily white legs of yours out for a sunning."

I pulled off my trousers and shirt and rolled on to my stomach on the towel primarily because I was only wearing a pair of white boxers with a single button and my dick was doing its damndest to burst though them. I slithered over on my belly beside Angela and offered her some chicken and pate. We ate and drank steadily for about twenty minutes.

I said to Angela that she needed some sun as well and that I promised to be good if she wanted to take her dress off. I couldn't have controlled my heart rate if I tried. I even offered gallantly to apply some sunscreen to her back.

She only hesitated a moment, then got to her feet, a little unsteadily I observed, and started to slowly unzip the dress miming to the tune of "The Stripper". Oh, thank you God, I thought, she's drunk.

"Christ, it's hot," said Angela, as she discarded the thin dress in an untidy heap on the sand. Statuesque didn't describe her; she was positively Amazonian. Her spectacular melons strained to escape from a white lace bra which did not quite cover the tops of her nipples and the white thong was buried in her bum. She strutted around in the sand and demanded more bubbly.

I held up the bottle and she dropped to her knees so I could refill her cup. The voluptuous breasts heaved and jiggled and the left nipple, still as big as a snooker cue tip and just as hard, slipped out and quivered in the sunlight. The cleft between her legs was strikingly visible. I was in paradise. It was like being drugged. It certainly beat working.

"You're going to burn," she said, swallowing another slug of wine and leaning salaciously over me, "Let me get some protection on you."

She squirted far too much of the white lotion on my back and, kneeling beside me, started to spread it out across my shoulders. The touch of her fingers made me wriggle and I manipulated my distended cock on the towel until a depression in the soft sand accommodated it.

"Oh, God, this stuff's going everywhere. There's enough here to do your legs but it's going to make a right mess of your boxers. Best if they came off, I think," said a giggly Angela. I turned my head to look at her as she drank again from her cup of wine. This time she spilled most of it and it cascaded down into her bra and onwards through the cleft in her wondrous breasts to her miniscule panties. I swallowed hard as the thong, inches in front of my face, became completely transparent, her labia now swollen and pink with the arousing effect of the wine and the hot sun.