After he's been home a month or so, with no luck finding real work (and not much effort, to be truthful), he ends up going to a concert at the local civic center with a group of guys and a few hangers-on. His buddy Mark shows up with his kid sister Emily, who brought along a friend - Traci, he thinks her name is. He remembers the two girls from long ago, as kids, even before he went away to college. He knows they had long been friends. They had always been so pesty, always wanting to hang around Mark and his gang. Rich always felt that this one, Traci, had once had a little crush on him growing up. He, of course, never gave either of them the time of day or a second thought. How young they once were. He can remember them at, what, seven or eight years old? Could they really be seventeen already? Man, time flies.
He recalls being home over summer break one year, the two girls then in their preteens, playing with the ouija board at Mark's house. Asked about this, Mark replied that "Yeah, Em's new kick is trying spells and things. Witchcraft,"' he says with mock drama, "black magic...oooh! Scary! I think she's trying to put a curse on her English teacher for giving her a 'B', and she says she's going to turn me into a monkey. Funny, huh?"
"Yeah," Rich had replied, "don't they have better things to do?"
"I dunno...but you better watch out," Mark joked, "or her little friend will put a spell on you, make you her boyfriend..."
"Shut up, y'idiot."
He remembers seeing Traci with Emily again, a few years later, at some town picnic he grudgingly agreed to go to with his parents. Though still a kid, she had started to develop coltish good looks and had begun to carry herself more like a young woman than a little girl. She was dressed in the latest teeny-bopper styles, definitely a good looking thirteen year old - in contrast to Emily, who on the other hand was still a little bookworm at that point, pudgy with baby fat.
But nothing could have surprised him more than seeing the two of them today, at the concert. How they'd grown! Emily had sprouted, and thinned out, to a relatively attractive, long haired brunette. He knows, through Mark, that she is doing well in school, and she carries herself with confidence. He has to admit that Traci, however, is now downright hot. God, look at that body! Is that really little Traci? Blonde, probably five-six or so, she came to the concert dressed in a pair of tight, low-rider jeans and a white, clingy, button down blouse. Thin but curvy and ripe the way only a teenager can really be. And, though both girls are wearing make-up, Traci's is done expertly, accentuating her full lips, high cheekbones and big eyes. Though they came across as somewhat haughty at first to the group, as girls their age tend to do around those outside their usual cliques, Traci warms to Rich as soon as they recognize one another.
By chance, they end up sitting next to each other at the show. Little Traci, he realizes, certainly isn't very little anymore. He spends as much time as possible surreptitiously looking at her breasts in profile, trying to gauge their size, astonished at her development since he last saw her. He studies the outline of her bra band through the material of her shirt. Man, she is built, he thinks, watching the heavy mass of breast stretch her white top under her arm. And that's a considerably significant bra. I can't believe she's a seventeen year old and has that much weight to support. He finds himself trying to imagine, standing there next to her, what color this bra is that she’s wearing, what kind of material it’s made of - white, he figures, white nylon with some spandex. And the rest of her, he marvels, is near ideal as well. Though he has never really liked the low-rider jean look on girls, this pair did hug a plump, heart-shaped bottom that is obviously perfect.
Though Traci talks mostly to Mark's sister during the concert, he jokes around with her a little bit, trying to act funny and cool between stealing glances of her body. It is a guilty sort of kick for his ego, making this little hottie (who, if he was back in high school, wouldn't give him the time of day) giggle at his jokes. He feels pretty impressed with himself, actually. The concert, however, ends uneventfully, with Rich and his friends parting ways with the girls, who obviously can't go bar-hopping with them afterwards.
The next week, sitting at a local dive bar, tossing darts with his friends, he hears through Mark that Traci has been asking about him. Is he home for long? (positive) Has he found a job yet? (negative) Does he have a girlfriend? (definitely negative) Mark, of course, proceeds to bust his stones over this, playing it all up as his little sister's friend's girlie crush back for its revenge. "Though," Mark admits, sipping his beer, "I have to say she's got a kickin' bod, for a kid. She came with Em and I to the beach once this summer and...man!"
"And what?" Rich asked, not wanting to look like he is probing, or interested in the least.
"Well, she was somethin'..." His friend, more serious now, continues, "You’re not, like, going to call her or anything, are you?" Did he hear a hint of jealousy in his Mark's tone?
"Naw, no way," Rich replies quickly, throwing another dart, "I'm not a cradle robber." Still, the thought stays with him, and he spends much of the night thinking about her. He's never been too good with girls; a few relationships here and there - some serious, some not. But none, he admits to himself, with a girl that looked like Traci. To his chagrin he finds himself fantasizing, imagining her peeling off that clingy white top, imagining the two of them fooling around together. She seducing him with that hot little body. Jeez, that would be so cool. That's it, he decides as he lay in his bed, emboldened by the several beers he's had, I'm calling her tomorrow night.
The next evening, sobered a bit and definitely less brave, he resolves rather to call over to Mark's house, knowing full well his friend will be out working. "Oh, hey Emily," good, his sister answered, "it's Rich. Mark home?"
"No, he's bartending tonight at Steak & Sword."
"Oh, yeah, right. Hey, how'd you like the show last week?" God, he feels stupid. Why are his palms sweating?
"Pretty good. I just got their album."
"The new one?"
"Yeah."
"You like it?"
"Yeah, it's okay. You want me to burn it for you?"
"No, I have all their music already. You want any of their others? Their first album?"
"Sure, give a copy to Mark..."
"Yeah, sure, whatever..." Okay, he has to get to the point. "Say, Em," he pauses awkwardly, trying to come up with the right words, "did...your friend...like the show?"
"Traci?"
"uh, yeah."
A pause. "I think so. Why?"
"I dunno. she said she really liked the band and I just hoped she liked the show 'cuz. well, you know how bad it is if you like a band's music but then they put on a crappy concert..." he’s babbling, he realizes, and had lost the nerve to ask any more about Traci. "Well, whatever, you know what I mean."
"Uh, yeah, Rich, I think she liked the show." Did he hear a hint of amusement in her voice? He has to end this now, before he comes across like a total idiot.
"Uh, okay, just have Mark call me later."
"Later tonight? When he gets in?"
"Uh, no, it's not important. He can call, uh, tomorrow."
"Sure. Bye Rich."
The next night he comes home from an early night out, dinner with some friends, to find a message on his machine from Emily, but the caller-ID links it to "Graham"...Traci's house. "Hey, Rich," Emily's abrupt message begins, "Traci wants you to call her. Here's her number. Anytime tonight is fine." He writes her number down on his hand before he realizes that - duh – it’s on the caller-ID. Okay, his brain isn't working at full tilt, his heart racing a bit. Emily is obviously over at Traci's house. He realized he is nervous. What should he do? Call her? It is after ten...he didn't want to wake her parents. But, she did say anytime. God, what is he - back in high school again, playing these stupid games? Just freaking call her, dork.
She picked up on the first ring. "Hello?"
"Hi, uh, Traci?"
""Yeah?"
"This is Rich...from the concert? Last week?"
"Oh, hi! How are you! Did you like the show?"
"Yeah, it was good...real good..." a pause, "What's up? Emily said you wanted me to call you."
"Oh, yeah. Can you make a copy of 'Signs'? Em said you had it...It's the only album of theirs I don't have."
"Sure, no problem," he agrees, searching for small talk, a way to continue the conversation, "So, you really like them, huh?"
"Oh yeah, they're awesome!"
"And I thought you were just there to see the singer's abs."
"Shut up! I was not! I really like their music!"
"I dunno, Traci, you squealed pretty loud when Brandon took off his shirt."
"Shut up!" she titters with girlish giggles, "You jerk!"
Emboldened, he decides to take the plunge. "Hey, what are you doing this weekend?"
A pause. "Nothing much, really." Suddenly she is quiet, more serious "Why?"
"I dunno, you want to do something on Friday? Get something to eat, catch up on old times?"
"Like what old times, when you and Mark used to, like, totally ignore us?"
"Uh...yeah...oh, c'mon, you guys were just kids back then..."
"I know, I know, I'm just kidding...Oh, wait...I can't Friday. I'm going out with my parents."
"Hm. And I'm busy Saturday night," he says, remembering his old friend coming into town. Could he blow that off..? No way; Mark is coming with them. "How about Thursday?"
"Uh, sure…" She giggles, and pauses. Did he hear another voice in the room behind her? "That'd be cool."
"Okay, I'll come get you around seven. Do you still live over near the high school?"
"Yeah, white house."
"Great, I'll see you then. Bye." He puts down the phone and exhales a deep breath. So, he did it. Now, if only he can keep his friends from finding out. Yeah, right. That's pretty much an impossibility. Whatever. He doesn't care at that point. He’s going to dinner with a freakin' hot chick; so what if she’s technically jailbait? He'll be happy to take all the shit in the world from his friends just to have the chance to look at that body all night - and what if she wants to do more than just let him look? Though he knows himself: he has too much of a conscience, he'd be too polite, too big-brotherly to ever take advantage of any youthful infatuation on her part. Or, rather, is he just chicken shit? Nonetheless, his mind swims with the possibilities as he makes his way to bed, grabbing the box of kleenex on the way.
He's prompt to show up at her house on Thursday night - a little early, in fact, so he drives around the neighborhood a bit. Nice houses. When he finally pulls into the driveway, she immediately bounds out the front door, as if she's been waiting, looking out for him. His eyes widen as he watches the sight, her full chest heaving up and down in a tight, white, midriff-bearing top, sleeves off the shoulder. Her long, bare, well-fleshed legs carry her down the front walk quickly on thick heeled, black sandals. A short, floral patterned, black silk skirt flows midway up her tan thighs. She flashes a bright white smile as she waves to him on her approach, bending over slightly to look in the car window. Is that cleavage? Look away!
Bedazzled, he almost doesn't notice a woman - her mother, it must be - standing in the shadow of the doorframe, peering out apprehensively. He waves up at her and thinks of getting out to politely introduce himself, but Traci is quickly in the car beside him. Caught off guard by her sudden appearance, her mane of blond hair, her toothsome smile, he instead smiles to greet her. Gushing a little too eagerly, "Wow. You look great," he asks her if he should get out to say "hi" to her mother.
"No way. She almost didn't let me out of the house. She doesn't like the way I'm dressed."
"Really?" Well, I certainly like it, he thinks.
""Yeah, but when I said I was going with a friend of Mark's, she let me go. So, quick, just take off."
"Uh, okay." He is a little relieved, feeling a bit embarrassed to be out on a date with a girl ten years his junior. Having to meet her mother would have been awkward. He smiles wanly and waves again up at her as she drifts away from the doorway and he backed out of the driveway. He looks over at Traci as he pulls off down the street, careful not to speed too quickly in case mom is still watching. She is certainly dressed up for a Thursday night - that outfit, make up, hair done out to there.
"So, what is it your mom wants you to wear?"
"Oh, I don't know. I think she thinks…well, she doesn't want me showing off...my, well..."
"Your what?"
"My figure. She, like, thinks I'm still a kid. 'Don't you think that's a little too revealing?' she says, 'Don't you think that makes you look too busty?' Ugh! I mean, c'mon, mom, face it. I've got legs now. I've got hips. I'm built like a...well, like a woman." And, obviously, he thinks, she wants everyone to know it.
He swallows dryly. "Well, I think you look really nice," he says matter-of-factly - too shy, suddenly, to say anything that could be interpreted as even slightly lecherous.
He tries to keep his eyes on the road as he felt her smile broaden in the seat next to him. "Thank you, Rich," she says demurely, "that's nice." Who does she think she’s kidding? She knows she looks good.
As they banter he thinks seriously about changing his plans for dinner. Could he bring her to the restaurant at which he has reservations with her dressed like that? This is a place he remembers his parents taking him to on special occasions. White tablecloths and all. Most of the clientele will probably be senior citizens - he doesn't want to cause any heart attacks.
What's the big deal? he finally decides. Mostly because - with her sitting next to him - he can't think straight enough to come up with an equally nice place with a looser dress code. He is self-conscious, nonetheless, of the looks they get as the hostess walks them through the restaurant to their table. The sidelong, admiring glances of the men are painfully obvious, following Traci's figure as she saunters, seemingly oblivious, several paces ahead of him. He feels also the judgmental attention of the room pass over them, and for the first time in his life feels a bit like a dirty old man with his young date. He sincerely hopes there isn't anybody he knows here.
All apprehension quickly lifts soon after they are seated at their table in a dark, private corner. Dinner goes smoothly. She is much chattier than he and carries conversation easily. She talks about school, about starting her senior year, about running for class vice-president, about not getting into many of the AP classes she had wanted. She is surprised, she says, to learn that he hasn't had a girlfriend for quite some time. She also admits to not be seeing anyone, claiming to be "sick of boys, guys my age are such idiots." He takes this for what it’s worth - she isn't actually admitting a desire to date him, he has to tell himself. But is she hinting along those lines with her playful glances, by laughing at his corny jokes? He is a little befuddled, having expected this outing to be mostly him entertaining an overgrown kid. Rather, Traci is surprisingly poised for a seventeen year-old girl - and seems quite adept in the use of her feminine wiles. She is, he comes to realize in time, actively flirting with him. A bit dazzled by the attention, he catches himself beginning to respond in kind, however clumsily. It’s very hard not to, with those big, bright eyes batting their long full lashes, smiling at him across the table. And her skin is so smooth, so perfect - sun-kissed to a light tan over her long neck and bare, graceful shoulders. She;s so young, though.
They defer dessert, taking his suggestion to grab some ice cream at a local parlor. They sit outside on the hood of his car near an overhead light, watching kids and families file in and out of the store. As he licks at his cone he remarks on her extra-large milkshake. "That's some big ol' shake...Do you know how much fat that thing has?"
"Why, should I be worried it'll go to my hips?" she asks teasingly, taking a long draw at her straw and smiling, looking into his eyes.
"Oh, uh, no...I mean," he stammers, "You have very nice hips. Go ahead - drink up."
"That's right, I have to keep my curves, don't I?" With that she takes an exaggerated, long pull on her shake, moaning in mock pleasure as she sucks hungrily at its heavy, calorie-laden thickness.
"Wow...watch it, or you'll have more than just curves..." he jokes, feeling bold, talking about her body.
"Yeah, hopefully it all keeps going to the right places!" she giggles, obviously referring to her ample womanly charms.
They sit in silent thought for a moment before she speaks again. "So, Rich, you don't think this outfit makes me look too trashy?" she asks coyly, coquettishly swinging her feet, sandals dangling at her toes, and sucking again at her milkshake.
"No, no way. I think your mom's crazy," he responds, aware that this is perhaps the third time tonight she has sought his praise of her appearance, "You look fine. She shouldn't hassle you like that. I mean, you're a grown...well, you're seventeen and you should wear what you want."
"Yeah, well," Traci continues, "I think she's been uncomfortable, jealous maybe, since I got...bigger than her."
"Bigger? What do you mean? Taller?"
"No," she replies, lowering her voice furtively, as if to share a secret, "y'know what I mean..." She sticks out her chest to demonstrate the size of her impressive assets, "...bigger."
"Oh, uh...yeah...really?" Yikes.
She smiles mischievously, noticing how quickly he’s become uneasy, watching him stumble over his words. She loved how, if she wanted, she could make guys so nervous, so awkward. It’s always a thrill for her. And maybe this guy’s no different, she thinks, even if he is, like, almost thirty. She decides to try playing with him some more.
"Yeah. My mom, like, refuses to buy me new bras. She can't believe that I'm bigger than a 32-D. I'm like, c'mon, mom!" Her eyes twinkle eagerly, seeing that she has his interest. Rich, the older boy who once wouldn't give her the time of day, hanging on her every word. My, how things change! "But she's all like 'The one's you have are big enough, you just got them.' I mean, c'mon, look at this..."
With that she presses back her shoulders, tightening the already overstretched top over her breasts. The outline of her obviously too-small, halter style bra is evident, as is the swell of flesh rising over the top edge of its cups. "So, this is a 32-D, and I'm, like, bulging out of it," she states, smiling at his bashful stare, studying her chest. She can't believe this is the same guy! Times change...I'm not a little girl anymore, huh Rich? With mock exasperation, she continues proudly "I've been wearing a D-cup for a year, but do you see how small that is on me now?"
"..mmmm..uh, yeah, I guess...s-so...what, uh, size do you need now?"
How adorable, she thinks. He’s trying to act cool, almost clinical, disinterested. But he wants to hear more, she can tell.
"I dunno, I guess I'm a 32 double-D," she replies, and continues with extra emphasis "but that's like, so huge!"
"Uh, is it? I-I wouldn't know...couldn't you just be up to, like, a 33 or 34?"
"Oh no, no, no...Here, look," she begins to explain, as if correcting a small child, as she places her milkshake down on the car's hood. She draws his attention back to her chest by turning her large left breast to him in profile, while at the same time raising her arm and tossing back her dark blond hair. "Do you see the band here under my arm?" It’s plain to see, taut beneath her shirt. "That goes around my ribcage. I'm a thirty-two like that, it's thirty-two inches around my chest, underneath my boobs."
"Uh huh," he mutters dumbly, absorbed.
"Now, that fits pretty good, don't you think?" She finds this fun, tutoring this grown man on bra sizing. And she always liked talking about what she knows are her best assets. Guys, she found, would become rapt with attention whenever she mentioned her breasts.
"Oh, uh, yeah."
"And around the back?" she asks as she rotates at the hip and hunches her shoulders forward, turning the back of her shoulders to him and tightening her top about her. He studies the single, sturdy strap of her bra as it passed under her shirt and tautly across her back. That a girl her age would need a brassiere of this caliber excites him. He can see its clasp, admire her firm flesh and muscle tone.
"Mmm. Yeah. Fine." He can feel an erection hardening in his khakis and hopes to god she hasn't noticed.
"But now, look at this," she instructs, as she turns back so he can see the fullness of her left breast again in profile. With a touch of drama she sticks her chest out slowly, presenting it for more easy viewing. "My cup size is, like, how much my breast sticks out from my chest, at the farthest point, along the bottom." She arches her back a little more, for emphasis. "You see? That's big, huh?"
God, he thinks, look at that tit. So big, so round, so plump and firm…on that thin body. It looks so heavy. Oh, to squeeze it, to put a cheek up against it.
She tries to keep a straight face as she watches his expression, unabashedly intent on the weight of her left breast. "And you see how I'm, like, overflowing over the top, kinda coming out the sides?" To accentuate her point, she adjusts her shirt, pulling it more taut over her breast. She hears him swallow, nervously. "Do you see that?" Once again she feels like she is tutoring a dim child and tries to keep from smiling in amusement.
"Oh, uh, yeah...I s-see..." Though above all else he is still trying to act cool, he makes the conscious effort to try to burn this image to memory, as a photograph in his brain. So he can recall the image of her huge, young breast straining against her overworked brassiere. His mind and heart are racing, incredulous of the situation, the conversation he’s in with this overdeveloped teenage girl. He really had no idea how big she had become over the years. He crosses his legs, hoping to hide the erection which now presses hotly against his thigh.
"So, I think I'm a double-D now," she continues matter-of-factly, "which is the next size up from a 'D'. On a thirty-two inch bra." She straightens her shoulders, and moves to pull her hair up into a pony tail, raising her arms. Embarassed to find himself still staring at her chest, he looks away abruptly, taking a lick at his now-melting ice cream cone.
"I mean, I don't know anyone with cups this big, on a thiry-two inch band. Do you?" She is now acutely aware of him definitely not trying to look at her chest, of paying a little too much attention to his ice cream. How cute!
"Oh, I d-dunno...I don't really-"
"Old girlfriends?"
"Oh, uh...no....No way..."
"Hmm. Yeah, well, I guess guys don't really have to think about that sort of thing, huh? Just us girls," she comments, picking up her milkshake once again and taking a purposefully long pull at the straw. She sees his face redden. Why is it that guys always get sort of embarrassed talking about bra sizes? Seems sort of silly, to her. She looks at her watch and starts. "Oh, jeez, Rich," she says, hopping from the hood, “I have to get home. It's a school night and my mom will freak if I get in after ten."
The quick ride home is relatively quiet. She sucks at her straw distractedly, finishing off the remainder of her shake as he tries to make light conversation. She seems a bit lost in thought. Pulling into her driveway, he notices the car Mark's parents had given to Emily parked in the street. "Oh, uh, yeah..." Traci explains, "she had to use my computer for a project. Still here, I guess." She thanks him for a nice evening, apologizing that she had to be back so early. "But, hey," she asks, "it's s'posed to be nice weather this weekend. Do you want to come over and hang out by the pool?"
"When, Saturday?"
"Yeah, come over for lunch. And bring your suit!"
Oh boy, is he positive he wants to do this? But, if he’s going to wear his suit, maybe she'll be wearing hers..."Uh, sure."
"Great! I'll see you then!" As they both lean over to politely hug goodnight, he is aware of her breast pressing into his arm. "I should go," she says, parting from him, "my mom's probably looking out the window, checking her watch. But here, let me get this for you." She takes hold of a paper napkin sitting crumpled between the seats and surprises him by leaning in and dabbing his lips with it. "You had a little ice cream still, in the corner..." Flashing a brilliant white smile, she climbs out the door and waves goodbye, napkin in hand. That was sort of odd, he thinks as he watches her bounce up the front steps, but also curiously arousing. God, he is such a horndog!
Driving home, his heart is racing. Man, she is so fucking hot! He can't remember ever having any girl with even remotely as nice a body actually wanting to talk to him, let alone describing her damn bra size in intricate detail. Did she know what she was doing? Was she trying to drive him crazy? Jeez, if only he was younger, back in high school now. Because he doesn't feel right about actually pursuing this girl, starting any sort of relationship. She’s so young. He'd catch crazy heat from his friends, her parents would probably think he is a lech. But, if he could be seventeen again, oh man. Boy, that was ten years ago. And...what is he thinking? If he was seventeen she wouldn't want anything to do with him, of course. All that interested her about him is that he’s an "older man". "So mature". Yeah, he thinks, real mature, alright. Living in his parents' house, rent-free while they're away until the spring. No job. A bunch of underachiever friends. Does she realize I'm such a loser? Well, whatever, I'm going to get the chance to see her in a bathing suit, he thinks guiltily. God, those breasts. Still incredulous, he replays their conversation at the ice cream shop over and over, the image of that big breast vivid in his mind, until he gets back to his place.
Though trying to distract his thoughts with television, he finds himself unable to stop thinking about her. She is so immature in many ways, narcissistic as teenage girls tend to be, and obviously impressed with herself. But, man, does she have enough to be proud of! She’s becoming built like a wet-dream and she knows it, he thinks. She was obviously teasing him with her body all night, and he just ate it all up.
Soon he can help it no longer and is in his bed, jerking off to the vision of her heavy tits in that tight shirt, the line of bra. Oh, to see what was underneath that top, underneath that bra. To be underneath that bra. He guiltily imagines how firm, how warm it would be, to be small, up against her full, young body, her ripe softness, her big new breasts. Underneath her bra, the bra she needs to support, to contain, those teenage double-D's.
As he becomes more and more stimulated, closer to climax, he is dimly aware of an unusual feeling. Unsettling. Almost as if he’s being watched. The sensation becomes acute enough to make him look around the darkened room, checking if his shades are closed. Satisfied that he’s alone, he continues to stroke himself to thoughts of Traci's bosom. "Thirty-two double-D," he moans to himself, "thirty-two double-D." Sitting in the car next to him, pressed against his arm. Thirty-two double-D. God, that's so huge.
He imagines himself being tucked into Traci's bra, slid in next to her flesh. But as he feels the first hints of his orgasm shiver to the surface, another vision visits him alongside that of her body. Eyes. Feminine eyes, aware of him, watching him, studying him. Though not usual in his masturbatory imaginings, this feeling of being watched - though unnerving - arouses him even more. Not able to shake the image, he imagines it is her, Traci, aware that he is fantasizing about her, knowing it’s her that he thinks about when he touches himself. She would like that, wouldn't she? Knowing that guys jerk off to her, knowing the power of her body, knowing that he imagined himself helpless as a baby at her huge breasts? Oh god, she would like that, she would.
And suddenly, it’s too much, and he is overtaken by his orgasm. His loud moans echo through an empty house. He beats himself hard, trying to concentrate on the pictures swimming through his head of himself as a tiny little man trapped in Traci's bra, between her breasts, in her huge cleavage. Still those eyes watch him, narrowing, crinkling as if in...amusement?
Soon his pulses begin to wane, and the visions fade. He brings himself back to reality, breathing heavily. Lying in bed, he realizes that he is nagged by a faint hint of embarrassment, almost as if someone now knows something about him that would shame him. Don't be paranoid, he thinks as he cleans himself up and crawls back to bed, you're just overtired. Nonetheless, he hopes sleep would come quick.