This is an entry to the Summer Lovin 2021 contest
Warning:
This has some spiritual overtones at some parts of the story
The story is that my mother had trouble getting pregnant. That is supposed to explain why I'm eight years younger than my sister. It was nice being younger, because when I was little, it was as if I had two mothers: My real mother, and my sister. I couldn't pronounce Layla correctly, and I called my sister Bayba, initially. That nickname stuck, and everyone in our nuclear family called her Bayba, ever since. Luckily, she didn't mind, thinking it was cute. However, when I was ten, and my sister Layla was eighteen, she disappeared from my life. She went off to college, or so we all thought, but neither I nor our parents ever saw her again.
I suppose that's unusual, but I think the issue is my father. Just as I, at age zero through nine, thought I had two mothers, apparently my Dad, once Layla turned thirteen, thought he had two wives. It seems Layla was not thrilled with such a situation, or at best she was ambivalent, because she disappeared rather thoroughly, as soon as she could.
Neither my Dad nor my Mom could find Layla, and they tried! They each tried, but to no avail. My Dad even hired a detective, and still, there was no luck. Around Christmas my Mom would get a picture postcard, and all it would say on it was BB, presumably meaning it was from Bayba, letting Mom know she was still alive. I got the impression my sister could care less about Dad. Mom would always cry when the postcard came.
My parents never again saw Layla. They might have, had they lived long enough. Their lives were cut short one New Year's Eve, by a drunk driver, when I was just 21 years old, and Layla, wherever she was, was 29. I often wondered what had become of her. What was she doing? Where did she live? Had she made me an uncle?
**
I'm now 25, work in Silicon Valley, and am taking a summertime vacation with my girlfriend Michelle, in the south of France. We decided to spend it in Cannes, which has sandy beaches, and great shopping, the latter being for Michelle. The restaurants are not bad, either! Michelle wears a tiny bikini to the beach, and I love showing her off while she is so attired, but I'd love it even more if she went topless at the beach, as some of the other women do. She refuses to do so, however. If she weren't so kinky in the bedroom, I'd think she was a direct descendant of the Puritans.
All's good, however, as I truly enjoy checking out the other women at the beach who are topless. Michelle sees me doing it, but she doesn't mind. As she put it, when we discussed it, "I'm glad you're a man, JB, and that, of course, is what men do."
My name is James Robert Masters, Jr. I wasn't called junior growing up, and my father went by Jim, so my parents called me Jim Bob, since my mother was from the south originally. Jim Bob sounded weird in Indiana, where I grew up, so I switched it to JB, and that stuck. Even with my father now gone, Michelle and my friends still call me JB.
On our third day at the beach, a new topless woman was there. I couldn't see her face, as she had a huge floppy hat pulled over it; but I could see her boobs. I couldn't tear my eyes from her boobs, as they were my dream boobs. They were large, but not too large. They had perfectly centered areolas, which were a dark pink, almost brown color. In the middle of those lovely areolas were fuchsia nipples to die for. Her nipples were large and prominent, had lovely texture, and I could only imagine what they'd look like if they were erect.
The color of her boobs was a porcelain white, with undertones of a rose pink. You could see one prominent vein (or artery, I was never clear about that), supplying blood and oxygen to that fleshy, soft, bundle of heaven. They fell to the sides as she lay on her mattress, but when she sat up, they moved gracefully and perfectly to illustrate just how boobs are supposed to hang, if you want to have the best boobs in the country.
Of course, I didn't share the knowledge with Michelle that I had seen my dream boobs. Nothing good would come from such a share. Michelle figured it out, anyway. Maybe it was my tongue hanging out of my mouth as I stared at them and drooled, that was her first clue? Nothing gets past Michelle. She even referred to her as my "dream boobs woman." Michelle never felt threatened. One of the nice features of Michelle is that she's not insecure. She knows I'm crazy about her, and all other women, if they're anything to me, they're just transitory fantasies, and Michelle incorporates them into our bedroom play.
I figured Dream Boobs Woman and her husband (she had on a gold band ring, and another, with a rather spectacular diamond; he didn't wear any rings, but that happens a lot with men, and given the situation, both Michelle and I assumed her male companion was her husband) were probably American, since they had English language books with them, as well as a copy of the International New York Times. I studied her boobs so intensely, I'm sure I will never forget them.
I noticed that one of the books my dream woman had brought to the beach was a Danielle Steel novel. My mother, may she rest in peace, loved Danielle Steel and was almost never without one of her books. My mother loved pulp, and she was an avid reader.
Michelle said she was hungry, and the fancy private beach had a restaurant right on the beach, so we dined with our feet in the sand, to the sound of the small waves lapping at the shore, and the smells of the sea air filling our lungs. I guessed this was what heaven is like.
When, after lunch, we returned to our spots on the beach, the American woman with her divine boobs was gone, and so too of course was her husband. I was disappointed, but I distracted myself with the other bare boobs at the beach. Michelle asked me who had the best boobs, and we discussed it. Then she surprised me, and delighted me, when she joined the topless crowd, and she quickly became my primary object of desire. I wished I could take her right then, right there, but I contented myself with a kiss and some delightful, albeit surreptitious, boob fondles.
A day later we took a train over to Nice. There's lots of stuff to see in Nice from the tourist standpoint, and we did our level best to see everything one can see in one, long day. I still, however, couldn't get that woman in the floppy hat with those wonderful naked boobs, out of my mind. I should explain.
You see, when my parents suddenly died, and my sister was nowhere to be found, it fell upon me to deal with everything, and I do mean everything, from having them buried, to getting death certificates, to the memorial service, to the reading of their wills, to taking over the house, and to setting aside my sister's share of the inheritance, should she ever show up. Both parents had life insurance, with double indemnity clauses, so actually I fell into quite a bit of money, not even counting the value of the house. This was Indiana, so while the house was worth a few hundred thousand dollars; it was not in the millions or anything like that.
I went through all of their 'stuff.' I was throwing things out right and left, but I have a soft spot for pictures. My parents had albums of family pictures, not just of us, but also of my grandparents, and some of my great grandparents. I kept all those, but hidden away, I found one envelope of pictures, marked X on the cover. I opened the envelope, and it was filled with pictures of my Mom, when she was around 30. I suppose the reason it was marked X was the state of dress of my Mom, or better put, the state of her lack of dress.
Most of the pictures had my Mom topless, and a few of them had her nude. I was in awe of her boobs; they were absolutely, positively, magnificent! I studied those pictures of my Mom's boobs, from when she was in the prime of her life, over and over again. I found another envelope marked XX, and in respect for my dear departed Mom, I won't describe the pictures in that envelope, but wow! Who knew what a firecracker my Mom had been? And who knew she had incestuous relations with her brother, my Uncle Harry?
The third envelope was marked XXX, and I can't describe it, or my reaction to it. It involved more incest, but this time the players were my Dad, and not with my Mom, but, alas, with my sister Layla. Those pictures were so blazing hot, they could set a pile of kindling ablaze. The age of consent in Indiana is only 16, but I'm not at all sure my Dad waited for Layla to be 16. Dad liked to get an early start on things. Apparently, on occasion my Uncle Harry joined in for a double team of my poor sister. I wondered who actually took the pictures? Could it have been my Mom??
I mention all this because it suddenly occurred to me, in what could only be described as an epiphany, that the mystery woman on the beach with the boobs of my dreams, had exactly, and yes, I do mean exactly, the boobs of my own sweet Mom, when she was 30. They were identical in form, size, areolas and nipples, everything. Mom even had the exact same prominent artery (or vein?)
I'm not an idiot. I know that nobody in his right mind uses boobs as a method of identification. Fingerprints, sure. DNA, sure. Boobs? I don't think so. However, this case was extreme. I've made a close study of women's boobs ever since I was 13 and discovered porn. Trust me, if there's one thing I know, it's the sizes, shapes, forms, ways of hanging, nipples, and areolas, of women's boobs, and they're all different. No two are alike.
What does this mean? It means there's something strange going on. Why should a woman on the beach in Cannes have the exact same boobs as my mother did at her age? I needed to learn more. Surely you can understand how I needed to learn more! But how? How was I to learn more?
**
Nice was wonderful. About its only fault is that the beach is not sandy, but comprised of pebbles, which to tenderfoots like Michelle and me make it feel as if we're walking on cut glass. The private beaches, however, have walkways, and mattresses on wood frames, and tables, so as long as you avoid the water, you can avoid the sharp pebbles. Nice still has beach air, and a beautiful, paved promenade along the beach (raised up a bit for great views), museums, shopping, architecture, a charming old town part to it, and restaurants galore.
We were walking along the Promenade des Etats Unis (hey, why not? We're Americans after all), and I was checking out all the topless women sunbathing at the private beaches. I was lost in wonder at the spectacular variation in women's boobs, and remarked upon it to Michelle, who laughed, and said, with fake exasperation, "Men!"
I saw her again. The woman with the perfect boobs. The boobs of my dream woman. Michelle, bless her soul, was skeptical. I told her to check out the woman in the third row from the water, fifth from the left.
"Well, she's wearing the same hat as the woman in Cannes was," Michelle said. She surprised me by whipping out of her purse a small spyglass. I tell you, the contents of a woman's purse is always full of surprises. "It's a different man that she's with, however. It's probably not the same woman. Your dream boobs are not unique, you lucky guy." Michelle had a wicked, teasing smile.
"Does she have the tattoo on her right shoulder?" I asked. The woman in Cannes had a tiny tattoo of a ladybug on her right shoulder.
"I'll be damned. Yes, she does. Maybe she's having fun on the Riviera? You know, hubbie's away, and the mice will play?" Michelle said, following it with a giggle. I felt Michelle was taking some vicarious delight at my Dream Boobs Woman's seeming promiscuity, all the more so since she was married!
I just smiled, taking the spyglass from her, and having a look myself. Dream boobs woman was kissing the guy she was with, and his hands were on her boobs. I felt like taking Michelle to the beach and fondling her boobs, and more, but Michelle had her heart set on visiting the famous flower market in the old town. I learned early on that if Michelle is happy, she makes sure I'm happy, later on, in the bedroom. All in all, it's a good deal for me. That night was most certainly not a disappointment.
For our last hurrah on the Riviera, it was a cloudy, rather cool day, threatening to rain, so we took the train to Monaco. Michelle had read about the aquarium there. I was not
