See, the thing about Grace Landers is that... She is my step sister. Growing up, our parents were friends, but we never really talked. Now I know, I know, a step sister isn't really family, but its still kinda sick. In my defense, we both grew up in different places, and after we reached our early twenties, it was then that our parents hit it off. My mom, her dad, banging like a drum set at a death metal concert. Golly. Screaming like it too. Am I right?
Would you believe that they broke my bed once. I mean, I broke it first, during the most manic experience of savagery and wild, sexual fuckery I have ever lived through. Whilst making love to my hand. Hands. Plural. How'd I manage that? We won't get into it; thats a story for a different time. You might agree thats quite enough madness for an introductory paragraph.
You know something? She has never really been my particular kind of woman. Granted, she is a solid nine, but she ain't exactly the most beautiful out there and I didn't really like her personality so much. Bet you think this story is starting off pretty odd - you got no freaking idea.
Seemed to me like she was either a good actor or she really was your typical airhead dummy with bleach blonde hair and like, a thousand guys crawling around after her. Growing up, I was always determined not to be one of those guys. Show no interest, she will come to you, or something stupid and illogical like that.
Hang on, look at me, I'm bein' rude. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Randy, I'm twenty three. I'm from Brooklyn. I work in a big, fancy hotel in New York City, you might'a heard of it; the Big, Fancy Hotel. Now, let me say this right off the bat, I'm not the best looking guy but I like to think I get by. I am one hell of an elevator boy though, that's gotta count for something.
So anyways, the first time I really ever came into contact with Grace was about two years ago, on the day I was going for a job interview in the hotel. Now growing up, I really just saw her around school, never really got to know her. Not like I wanted to. Though the odd encounter did involve spotting her through crowds of students as her millionth boyfriend hauled me upside down to the womens toilets and dunked my head in that bowl that was always rank, for the millionth time. So, as I was saying, I'm walkin' through the lobby of the hotel with my best three piece suit, dressin' for impressin', you know. I'm gettin' looks of lust and "How you doin'?"s from women I don't even know, and I just own that shit. In response to the looks of primal, sexual need, I simply walked and ignored. I liked it; being the object of female desire, as opposed to them being the object of mine. Which, might I add, was far more common place.
I'm shooting the smoothest "Hey"s and winks and waving at strangers like they're my best friends. Tryna seem like a great guy for my new potential employers. I slide up to the reception desk with a click and a spin, and low and behold. What do my eyes meet at the smooth end of my on the spot spin, but the biggest pair of tatas that I have ever had the pleasure of greeting, and of course, they belonged to Grace.
I mean these things were massive, not the biggest ever, but bigger than a double d, thats for sure. See, back then there was no real strict dress code in the hotel, so long as we all had black shirts, trousers or skirts, and shoes, everything was hunky freakin' dory. Now I could tell by the way these things strained to get out of the tightly bursting, black shirt that this woman was a danger to the general public. I mean, good God, one inhale, the slightest bit too deep, and the tension alone on that shirt would send a button flying. It would shoot that projectile button so fast and far that it would hit the old woman in the fur coat, hat, scarf, fuckin' glasses - who was easily fifty feet to my six - straight between the eyes. That woulda been one hell of a knock out. A clean TKO. Goodness. Down she goes. The thunk would have been heard on the other side of city.
Now Grace, Christ, had at least the top seven buttons open, and it was apparent to me that this was either to ensure the safety of the poor shirt that had to be parting at the seams, or that this was on purpose. Now this was before we became a happy family. Let me tell you, I could have gotten lost in that cleavage. The line was at least twelve inches long between that rack. So, through my dumfounded musings and furious arousal because of this woman for whom I had never had the slightest interest, I hear this oddly irritating voice coming from just above this glorious pair of breasts.
"Hey! Can I help you?" At this point I was staring into the biggest, deepest brownest, doest doe eyes and I was just not responding. All my blood was somewhere else if you know what I mean. The low down part of me, that thinks far more than the high up part of me. I could sell it as a circus act!
"Hey! Randy, right? Can I help you?!" The sexual irritation in this womans voice was almost the reason for my end. It wasn't, however. Combine the gigantic tits, bursting from both that struggling bra and that screaming shirt, with her huge, doe eyes and how painfully tight her thin body was and you will understand the death that I died when I saw those crooked ass teeth. Good heavens.