When I was 19-20, I worked as a production assistant for a TV show which I won't name. It was not a huge deal. It was steadily successful in a small way, and is still on today. It was a fun job. Most PA jobs are not. You run shitty errands and never get appreciated. Usually the boss treats you like shit. This job was different. People were friendly. They were all geeks and counter-culture people who blew off the norms of Hollywood bull-crap. Several of them were British, and certainly, the star of the show was. And because this was a small show, he was generally considered the boss because he was also producing by that time. I had a crush on him, as most of the women who worked there (and an alarming number of the men) did. He was quirky, tall, handsome, and his accent was charming. He was smart, and funny. He treated us all remarkably well. We all hung out together often. That's unusual for a crew really. You see the cast and crew of TV shows constantly say in interviews that they are all great friends, but in reality, they usually don't get along that well off camera. The fact is, you put high profile people with artistic temperaments together for fourteen hour days and no, they don't want to go to dinner after work. Or ever. In our case, the show was done fairly quickly each evening, and we had time. So we often had sushi at a place down the street from the studio, and that evolved to hanging out at someone's house. Since the boss made the most money and had the nicest house (by far) it was often his place that became the hang out of choice.
In the interest of privacy, I am going to call my former boss Ethan, though that is not even close to his real name. I just like that name. It works for this. Ethan, having been successful for quite a few years both in the UK and here in the states, had a very nice place. Nicer than the bohemian one bedroom apartments we all lived in. House in the hills, an old Hollywood bungalow from the silent film era. Swimming pool in the back. By Hollywood standards, it was modest, but he wasn't the type to have a useless waste of space even if he could afford it. I liked him for that. Our little bohemian group got pretty close. Most of the older people that worked on the show began to politely leave out little group when the flirting began, as it inevitably did, among the younger of us, and Ethan, who was in his forties. They had no problem with it, but they didn't want to be involved in case drama broke out. Understandable. That left about nine of us, including Ethan. The regulars, we called ourselves. I will change all the names, of course, but there was Nina, who was the prettiest of the girls. A half asian, half black girl of 25 with legs up to her neck. Andrew, who we just called "Drew" who was hilarious and cute, and gay. His boyfriend Danny, who was Irish. There were Melissa and Kate, who were quiet but in their off time that was not with us, they went to fetish clubs. They sometimes showed us custom made whips and floggers they made and sold at "scene" clubs. There was Mike, who was gorgeous, I mean, really gorgeous, and his girlfriend Kelly, who was not, and they were madly in love. And there was me.
I'm five feet tall, maybe five foot one if I really stand up perfectly straight. I'm cute. Very cute. I have that sweet, large eyed face that gets taller women into movie roles. I'm not a ten, but I am easily an eight. Back then, my hair was longer. It is dark chestnut brown and curly, hanging halfway down my back. I have huge blue eyes. That's the kicker. That's what makes people tell me "you should be a model" before they realize my lack of height and then say "but you're pretty." But the thing that can stop traffic is my tits. I don't have 'breasts' or 'lovely pillows' or any nonsense like that. I have luscious, big, round, bouncy tits. At 20, though my tits are big, I did not need a bra. They sat up high on my chest, the nipples eternally perky and poking at whatever top I wore. My typical daily uniform was usually some combination of thrift store skirt (often in plaid), a tight tee shirt or tank top, and over the knee striped stockings which was sort of my trademark. With Chuck Taylors and my black framed glasses, a little dyed pink streak in my hair, I had a 'look' to me, I was told. But people usually just looked at my tits. My tits are a 10.
At our gatherings, it was run of the mill for people to make out on the couch, or by the pool. More than once, I saw Mike and Kelly fuck in the pool when they thought no one was looking. Our attitude toward sex was liberal. One day when Melissa mentioned that she was thinking about getting breast implants, she lifted up her top and tucked down her bra. Melissa was small breasted, a small B cup maybe, but they were nice enough. She showed us and asked for honest opinions. We gave them, and none of us thought she should mutilate herself with implants. It was Ethan who tugged her by the belt of her jeans and sat her on his lap, her blouse still up, breasts revealed. He gave a nod, as if to ask "May I?" (ever polite, he was) and when she shrugged, he cupped a breast in hand. She gave a little surprised gasp, and then licked her lips. He had her on his lap for about ten minutes, playing with her tits, lightly pinching the nipples, bending to suck one into his mouth. We were all watching. No one was shocked really, not in a bad way. Surprised a bit, maybe. And turned on. I closed my legs tighter, feeling my pussy getting wet. He gave her a little smack on the ass as he stood her back up and tugged her shirt down, then a kiss on the cheek. Pure gentleman.
"When you get those awful implants, you lose sensation in your breasts. If you liked that then why would you want to damage feeling that again, just to appease some fuckheads who think women are supposed to look like Barbie dolls?"
See, that's why I liked him.
"Well, I'd love to have ones that look like... like hers!" Melissa pointed at me.
Feeling bold, I stood up and gave a "who, me?" look. Everyone giggled. I was known for my tits. 'Tits that make you want to bite them, they look so good.' Mike had said. This gathering was a week before my 20th birthday, and Ethan said,
"Yes, you, poppet." Ethan sometimes called me that. Poppet. Totally inappropriate for work, I know, but I loved it. He patted his knee. "Let's have a look at you, yes?"
Our little gang giggled and poured more wine as they watched me not only sit on his lap, but climb on and straddle him so that we were face to face, my legs wide apart over his lap. I smiled at him, daring him. I was a little drunk, but so was he. Still, we knew exactly what we were doing. That day I was wearing a short denim skirt, my usual striped socks up over my knees, and a little thrift store silk top that had tiny buttons. I even had my hair in pigtail french braids. No kidding. A walking hard on. He took my glasses off and set them down on the table next to us, and he smiled at me. The nod again, just to make sure, 'May I?' I responded to the silent request by giving him a kiss. His hands went to work on the tiny buttons, having trouble with the tiny pearl things. His hands were huge. He is a tall man, a very tall man, and his hand can cover my entire face. He finally just pulled the fabric apart, not ripping it but just separating the sides. No bra that day. Just bare tits, nipples rock hard. I was so turned on. He took a moment to admire them, and that I was not used to. I was not a virgin, but I had only had two previous boyfriends and both would just dive right in. There had been a couple of one night stands that were no different. They were my age. College boys who got excited. No finesse. No technique. This was different, aside from the fact that my best friends were watching. But I glanced to the side and saw that Mike and Kelly were making out, further than we had gone. But no one was watching Mike and Kelly, not even Mike and Kelly. They were watching us.
Ethan cupped my tits in his hands, gently squeezed, caressed, pinched a little. When he pinched my nipple lightly, I arched my back and gasped. He smiled at that, and he said out loud,
"You like the rougher stuff, then."
It was half question, but it didn't need to be answered, because he could probably feel me getting wetter through my panties, onto his jeans. That's all it took, his accent, his huge hands, his sly look, and I would have unfastened his jeans, stuffed myself onto his cock and rode him shamelessly right then and there, but he was taking it slow. No hurry with him. Older men, I love them. By this point, my frat boy boyfriends would have already fucked me and finished. But not Ethan. Ethan was testing me. Looking at my face to figure out what I liked. A pinch, a flick of a fingernail over a nipple, a lick, sucking, biting. Feeling the need to participate, to return the favor, I reached for his cock, still under his pants, but he brushed my hands away.
"Patience Grasshopper," he said, giving me a wink. "clasp your hands behind your back."
I did so, but sloppily. A few more seconds and I was reaching for his cock, his shoulder, his anything.
"Melissa," he said, almost sing-song. "will you please hold this bad little girl's hands behind her back for me?"
More giggles, good natured, from the group. The sound of Melissa getting up and walking behind me. I felt her hands on mine, gathering my wrists and holding them there. With one hand she gathered my braids together and made a joke about 'handlebars.' I laughed and stopped immediately when I felt his mouth gather up my nipple, really as much of my breast as he could fit in his mouth, and begin to suck while flickering his tongue over the tip. I felt... fucking amazing. This was not tit-sucking 101 which was what I was used to. This was the work of an advanced player. He wasn't just sucking my tits, he was tugging, pulling at the peaks, gathering my tits with his hands, up and under if that makes sense. He scraped a fingernail over them, then stuck two of his fingertips in my mouth for me to suck on before returning to my tits and using the wet to slick one nipple as he sucked the other. I was grinding on him, shamelessly really. I was trying to make my pussy rub against his thigh, to get some kind of relief because I was aching for a cock. I heard whispers from the group but I could not make out the words. I heard Nina say I was beautiful. That made me blush. All this and I was blushing from a simple compliment. I heard Kate, one of the kinksters, say,
"I've got my bag with me in the car. I can bring it in."
Everyone knew what was in Kate's bag. The whips, paddles, floggers and other toys she made. She was a master leatherworker.
