B & B with Usha

Describe her? She had coffee coloured skin, chocolate coloured eyes, and the biggest pair of boobs I've ever seen on a nineteen year old. Big and round they were, filling out her top like a pair of affectionate cats. And here was the thing, I'd had one in my hand! Last time I visited, just as I was leaving, final fling – Thinking to myself, if she yells blue murder I'll claim it was an accident and won't come back! But she didn't yell blue murder. Not a bit of it. She melted against me.

There was I, bag in one hand, door open, her against the wall, eyes drifting closed, while in my other hand was the plumpest, softest, most wondrous bloody tit I'd ever handled. She seemed incapable of moving with my hand on her like that; incapable of anything at all, other than to groan like a steamer on the Thames in a pea-soup fog. But heck, there was no time. I had to go. Bloody taxi waiting! But I decided, then and there, that I'd be back. And quick-time too, before the foxy cutie left Mrs Robinson's employ.

Usha was her name. Usha Maresh. From India, somewhere. I'd asked her all this on the way out: who she was, where she came from, how old she was, how long she'd be staying in this country. And she told me, getting her breath back, tit released, demeanour cooling, politeness coming to the fore.

Mrs Robinson ran a B & B not far from Heathrow Airport. Sometimes she took in youngsters to help her as she, in turn, helped them with their studies, gave them board and lodging, as they attended one of the many nearby language schools. When not learning English they helped around the place; showing guests to their rooms, explaining how everything worked: the TV, cable flicks, internet connection, gas meter. Even the shower, if you weren't too familiar with England. But I was. I was from Nottingham, see. Well, just outside. But I travel a lot. Into Europe. Sourcing flanges.

Flanges is my business. Which is how I came to be back here, now, standing at the counter, Friday night. Mrs Robinson was looking for my room key. I'd asked if someone could take my bag to my room and show me how everything worked. But she hadn't seemed to have heard me.

Fat tart.

'Is Usha still here?' I asked – getting impatient, I suppose.

'Who?' she shot back. Then, 'Here it is, number 6.' She glanced beyond me, 'Ah, Usha, lamb. Could you take Mr Fairley up to room 6?'

The voice behind me said that she would, as my pulse and temperature shot up some degrees. Lovely treacly voice, Usha has. I was afraid to look round in case I had an orgasm there and then, and Mrs Robinson saw it. So I let the owner of the treacly voice take the bag from next to my foot. 'Please follow me, Mr Fairley,' said my voluptuous nineteen year old – or was she twenty now, it had been a couple of months. I turned. She was already half way up the stairs. Mrs Robinson dressed them in pleated plumb coloured skirts, and tight white tops. Even from behind I saw the bulges of her breasts. God but she was stacked! I followed in her wake.

Number 6 is not my usual room. I followed Usha's pretty ass along the corridor, catching the occasional glimpse of the hint of swaying breasts. Her top had spaghetti straps. The coffee-coloured skin of her shoulders seemed youthful and inviting.

'Here we are,' she said, reaching the room at the end, then turned. For the first time our eyes met and I saw from her slight start of surprise that she remembered me, and that her breasts were as magnificent as they'd been the last time we met. Before she could react, I handed her the key. She turned, put it in the lock, and opened the door.

'Put it on the bed,' I suggested, as she reclaimed my bag from the carpet.

In she went. I closed the door behind us, followed her in.

'I'm sorry, Mr Fairley, but Mrs Robinson insists the doors stay open when staff are in the room. It's one of her rules.' She said it apologetically, hand still on the handle of my bag that she'd placed on the floor by the large double bed.

'Just till I change,' I said, taking off my jacket as I advanced into the room, leaving the door closed.

She didn't have an answer to that.

I tossed my jacket on a chair, pulled off my tie, put that there too, and had my shirt half unbuttoned when I said, 'Can you explain the cable film system? You know, How it works, and stuff.' I asked this as it was by far the most complex thing to explain, and involved erotic movies. (Mrs R. always had one or two of them for rent on her system.) Lusciously-breasted Usha started her spiel. I shrugged off my shirt. I am a little on the heavy side, but have a broad and hairy chest. Young girls quite liked a manly chest, or so I've read (somewhere or other).

The TV and box for the films was on the counter that doubled as a dressing table. A mirror on the wall beyond. Usha was explaining the cable video rules. There was a laminated list of tonight's films in a bracket on the back of the box that sat on top of the TV. She was explaining how payment would be made and put on my bill.

'How do you know what I've watched?' I asked, innocently, moving behind her, knowing damn well how it worked. She glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I could see her tits quite clearly now, the swell of each above the neckline that ran across her chest; the mound of the rest within the cotton of her top; the impressive cleavage, front and centre. Her eyes took in my chest, the hair, then dived quickly, embarrassedly, back to the box; her fingertips atop it she referred to the lit green numbers on the front of the box.

I reached around her for the list of tonight's films. I couldn't seem to get it out the clip so reached my other arm around her other side, to help. Her voice trailed away to nothing as her eyes flipped back to the mirror. In the mirror: the youthful Usha with the much less youthful Billy Fairley close behind, hairy chest against her smooth and youthful shoulders, thick arms stretched round each side of her, underneath her arms, starting to wrestle with the film list.

'Seems to be jammed!' I groaned, frustrated, forcing the laminate into it's clip, pretty Usha hard against me. Her slender girlish fingers lifted off the box and sought to help me pull it free. But it wouldn't come free.

As she pulled up on the card, (and I forced down,) her elbows rose with the effort, and mine slithered higher underneath. Soon I had the weight of the side of her wondrous breasts against the inside of my arms. But still we couldn't get it out – because she was pulling, as I was pushing! I eased up a tad, but only a fraction, which lifted her arms higher still, and let my biceps snuggle closer to the sides of these tantalising breasts. I rolled my arms against her side feeling the movement of breasts. She lifted the card, held it out in front of her, arms length. I kept my arms where they were, but brought my hands together on the box.

'Can you hold it out?' I asked, as if I were trying to read it, my biceps by now smothered pleasantly in breast. The sweet girl did as she was bid. In the mirror I noted the emphasized cleavage and lift of her breasts caused by my biceps beneath. The temptation to wrap my arms round her (and bugger the consequences) was enormously strong ... but what if she screamed?

'Can you read that?' she asked me, holding the card straight out in front, up against the mirror.

'Not really,' I screwed up my eyes. 'Need my glasses. Why don't you read it for me,' I said, as the heat from her body started warming my cockles, and such. She started to read as my hands started wandering the control box on top of the television in front of us both. This brought my arms even further around the sweet girl, keeping my biceps tight against her breasts. 'The last sundown,' she read – which I'd seen: daft western. 'Then at ten,' she went on, 'on channel 1, there's an adult film. While on channel two, at eight ...'

I interrupted. 'What's the adult film?'

'It's ...' she hesitated.

'What?' I encouraged, hands now crossed in front of her, wrists against her skirt.

'It's about a harem, it says,' she said.

'What's it called?'

'Eastern Delights.'

'Is it Indian,' I asked, hands now at the level of the counter, flattened against her thighs. Upper arms snugly enclosing her luscious breasts.

'I'm not sure,' she said, clearly reading on and finding it embarrassing.

'Why don't you read the summary?' I encouraged.

So she did. 'In Calwarad, a humid province in the South of India, an all powerful caliph preys on the wealth of the villages over which he holds sway. He has discovered a mysterious herb, which heightens female arousal when drunk with Tanquery Gin. After cornering the market on the herb – and the gin – the caliph starts preying on the female population of the villages. See the result.'

She looked up. I did too. Our eyes caught ... and then, as if by common consent, two clear chocolate coloured eyes, and two bloodshot grey ones, wandered downwards, as if on a recce: the youthful coffee and cream of Usha in the arms of an overweight apple and slush coloured white guy, his hands around her, flattened on the lithe midriff of the girl, upper arms pressed against the sides of the girl's magnificent breasts. The upper swell of breasts, above the line of her low-slung top, were now pronounced, distinctly, rendering the cleavage deep and eye-catching. Our eyes both fixed on that.

'And the other channel?' I asked, all innocence.

But her eyes were on the reflection of our situation. I could see the conflict mirrored there, as if she were asking herself: Do I continue to help this guest, or do I bring to his attention where his arms are, and ask him to move them away? Or might that offend? My eyes were on the card. After a time, conflict apparently remaining unresolved, her eyes went there as well. Then I stopped her.

'What do you think it means, that caliph guy, preying on the female population?' I asked, as I lifted my arms up her body, feeling the breasts on my biceps lift too. She shook her head as if she didn't know. Her eyes were on mine in the mirror as my hands, as if with a life of their own, moved slowly up the lovely girl. Although I would never have dreamed of doing it, (if fully in control of myself,) I suddenly had these wonderful breasts in my hands, and was gently squeezing them. They overflowed my hands.

Her mouth had fallen open and her head lolled back on my shoulder. The next thing I knew her eyes were drifting closed and a sigh had escaped her spectacular chest.

I began to fondle her. Seriously fondle her. My groin hard against her buttocks, pushing her hard against the counter.

'Ngaar! ... No ... please ... Urngg,' she gasped, her face coming up next to mine as her head rolled one way and the other on my shoulder. Her hands had dropped to the counter, one hand holding the card, the other was up on fingertips. She was making no effort to dislodge my mesmerised hands on her heavy breasts, nor bring to an end what they were doing there – other than verbally.

'Please,' she whispered softly, lips against my cheek as her spine seemed to curl and her torso angled her mounds even harder more firmly into my hungrily devouring fingers and palms. I turned my face – an inch, no more – and felt the girl's mouth come hard and hungrily against my own. Soon our tongues were playing tag, a hungry saliva-driven dance, hard yet wet and moist and hot as I continued to wildly entertain these heavy breasts of hers, and she started to attack my tonsils with her tongue. Which is when the telephone rang.

Damn!

I let it ring. She didn't seem to notice, so ardently was her mouth attacking mine. But it might be her boss, I realised, who, if she didn't answer, or appear, might come looking for the girl. I pulled my mouth away, having to arch my neck as she seemed intent on keeping the contact we had. Even when our lips came apart hers remained held wide, glistening, her pretty pink tongue still hopefully probing.

'You'd better answer that,' I said, to the incessant ringing of the phone.

But she didn't move. She didn't seem to register at all. Her eyes had drifted closed again, her head lolled on my shoulders, one of her hands reached up from the counter and gently laid atop mine, eagerly fondling her breast, but making no effort to dislodge it. She seemed to be pressing it closer, in fact, egging it on, encouraging the toil it was engaged in. I realised her breasts were so sensitive that so long as I was embracing their attention, hers was shot to hell!

I reluctantly released the luscious treasures. She seemed to come slowly back to life. Her hand hovered where mine had been, then squeezed the right hand bulge, deeply, affectionately, once, then dropped her hand as her eyes drifted open. She stared at the two of us, then seemed aware of the ringing of the phone. She looked back at our reflection: she against the counter; me, though no longer fondling her, still pressed close behind her.

The phone stopped ringing.

That could be trouble!

'You'd better call and say you are explaining how things work,' I said to the foxy top-heavy chocolate coloured girl. But she seemed miles away. Then she shook her head. Then she frowned. I stepped away from her. Her frown seemed to deepen as her eyes jumped to me.

She was frowning at me!

'You had no right to do that,' she snapped in admonishment as she came more fully to her senses. 'No right at all. It's unfair.' She stepped towards the door. 'So unfair.' She straightened her top, pulling the upper part higher on her chest, then the lower part closer to the waistband of her skirt. 'I should report you, you know,' she said, heading to the door, rather than the phone. Looking thoroughly upset. (Mostly with me.)

'The phone,' I indicated, starting to worry. It sat on the counter, close to the mirror. Close to where we'd been when I drove the girl wild!

But she wasn't heading there.

'I shall go downstairs, and report,' she said with finality, and just as she did – and just as I stepped out her way, leaving the way to the door clear and unobstructed – the phone started ringing again. She stopped, looked back at it.

I was at the phone in two strides. As soon as I'd lifted it up and heard who it was, I said, 'Yes, she's here. I'll put her on.' This I followed up with, 'I've asked her to show me how the movies work, seems a new system I don't understand.' Then I held out the phone. 'It's Mrs Robinson,' I said to the coffee-coloured girl with the glorious boobs. Of course, she had to come and take it.

I stepped out the way.

A little.

'Yes ma'am,' She said to the phone. She glanced at me, standing close, with a look that suggested she may have thought I was standing a bit too close, (in view of what had gone before). But I didn't move away. My elbow was nicely positioned, close to her interesting chest. 'I was explaining how the film ... yes. Yes, of course, Mr Robinson. Yes, I understand. Yes ma'am. No ma'am, I wont leave until he understands. Yes ma'am. Yes ma'am. When I've finished. Yes, Mrs Robinson. Certainly, ma'am. Yes ma'am.' Then she hung up.

As she replaced the telephone I gently sunk my elbow into her breast. With the flat of her hand she pushed it away and eased past me. She stopped a metre along the counter, bottom to it, watching me. 'What do you want?' she asked, part challenge, part annoyance, part doing as she was told by Mrs Robinson.

'What did Mrs Robinson tell you to do?' I asked, knowing the thrall in which she held Mrs Robinson. The thrall in which everyone held Mrs Robinson. She could be an absolute harridan when she wanted to.

'I'm to show you how everything works,' she said, dropping her eyes to the floor.

'Fine,' I said, 'then may we continue where we left off?' I don't know where I found the gall, but I'd manage to make it sound as if she had been failing in her duties for causing the interruption, which of course was nothing to do with her.

She turned to the TV, the control box atop it and the card on top of that – abandoned in the heat of the moment, as it were. 'I asked you about the caliph,' I said, allowing her to move back to the box, and moving behind her as before. 'What it meant when it said he was taking advantage of the girls in his area?'

She picked up the card and started re-reading what it said, looking for the answer to my question. I looked at her reflection in the mirror. In particular, these plump and tantalising globes that strained the thin white cotton top; that overflowed to form impressive mounds above the upper line. I wondered what would happen if I simply grabbed at them. Would that put her in thrall of me, as most of them were of Mrs Robinson? Would it cause her to loose control, again?

'It doesn't say,' she said. 'If you want to know I suggest you ask Mrs Robinson.' And with that she turned around and glared at me, challengingly, as if stamping her authority on the matter.

But as she turned, I leaned into to her. And as she completed her turn, I felt her breasts push hard into my chest, move as they did so, then pancake hard. I had reached a hand behind her, appearing to reach for the card she'd abandoned, and used that hand to pull her close. Now I moved my chest against her breasts. Feeling them rotate. Feeling their heavy fleshiness ease this way then that, pressed hard and eagerly between us both. Chest hair against her smooth skin. Her eyes seemed to drift as her lips slowly opened.

'But I asked you, not Mrs Robinson,' I said, as if I were a rightfully aggrieved guest and she an errant employee. Her head had fallen backwards into the crook of her shoulders. I moved my chest some more, using her breasts like medicine balls, changing their shape, rolling them warmly this way then that. 'You don't need the card, but I have it,' I said. Though in fact I didn't have it at all. What I was talking about I had no idea. But it didn't seem to matter. The hand I had behind her was flat against her back, helping the work we were doing on the wonderful breasts of the girl. She shook her head,

'Please ... Don't,' she groaned, though didn't define what she meant.

'I asked your opinion,' I repeated, insistently. 'What do you think the caliph did to the girls?' I said this, as I gently but firmly moved her lustrous body against my own. She seemed to make an effort to regain her control. So I rolled her breasts some more, and she lost it. Then she started again, so I rolled her breasts again, and she lost it, again. But I wanted her breasts in my hands. Rolling them around was all very well but I needed to fondle them properly. But how? It was she who provided the answer.

'The card,' she gasped. 'Let me read it again.' It came out as a whisper. The brow of the girl was dropped on my nose.

I let her turn, but as she turned I quickly reached around her and cupped her breasts with both my hands. This immediately elicited a number of things: a sudden gasp from her, like air being released from a punctured tyre; her two hands leaping to mine, fingers curling round both, trying to pull them off; soft brown shoulders climbing to her ears and starting to grind on the side of her head; and her knees, buckling.

'The card is there,' I said, as if she'd transgressed, nodding at the card in the mirror, holding her up off the floor with the help of her healthy young breasts. 'How do I work it?' I added, nodding at the black box as well.

Her slender young hands – that had been over mine in their futile attempt to dislodge them – moved unsurely off, heading for the box atop the Tele, while mine continued at the task of properly attending to what they contained: hungrily stroking, softly caressing, firmly squeezing ... then a tentative search for a nipple ... finding it ... and finding it rock hard. Her head dropped back on my shoulder. Again. 'Would he treat them like this, do you think?' I asked, curiosity peaked.