Melanie slipped through the door to the coffee shop. It was raining outside, and she struggled to keep her backpack and briefcase from getting doused in the downpour. Specks of rainwater clung to her dark brown hair, and she wiped an errant drop off the tip of her nose.
Her glasses steamed up within seconds in the warm, close air. It smelled like years of ground beans. It felt like someone could inhale a triple dose of caffeine if they took a deep breath.
Melanie didn’t need any more energy. She was already sharply on edge. This was where she was supposed to be interviewed for Harvard.
Once her glasses cleared the brunette surveyed the morning coffeehouse crowd. The shop was outfitted with dark mahogany tables and an imposing stone-tile floor. Most of the people inside were intently fixated on laptop screens, and their faces shone with reflected LED light. Two petite, bored barristas waited behind a counter.
“I’ll be the one with the beard,” the interviewer had said, over the phone.
Melanie sighed. Perhaps half the men had goatees. Nor did anyone get up to introduce themselves to the heavy-set brown-haired girl with the raincoat on.
A red-faced man carrying two massive cups tried to elbow past her. Melanie turned sideways and squeezed up against the entrance. She was a “big girl,” taller then most her age, and she carried a layer of weight all over her thick frame. The man scowled as he pushed by. On the one hand, at least he didn’t hit her boobs. On the other hand, Melanie didn’t have any to hit. Her blouse fit comfortably over a boyish chest.
Her height did mean that she could easily survey the customers.
One man sat by himself at a large four-person table near the middle of the room. He had a goatee, and did not have the standard newspaper or Macbook. Melanie walked up to him slowly. She wasn’t sure what a Harvard Man looked like, but he was a strong possibility. He had brown hair and wore an expensive button-down shirt.
“Excuse me?” she said. The man looked startled, and put down his coffee cup.
“Yes? Can I help you, miss?” he said.
“Are you… are you the person who’s conducting my Harvard interview?”
The man paused for a moment. His eyes briefly ran up and down her wet, rained-on outfit. Melanie flushed. She and her Mom had agonized over what to wear. Clothes and fashion were not a strong point in the family. Eventually she had settled on a dark black long-sleeved blouse and a stiflingly professional pair of grey pants. On top she wore a faded yellow rainjacket.
“Yes, I think I am,” the man said, and smiled. Something flashed within his hazel-brown eyes. He stuck out a hand. “I’m Damien. A pleasure.”
“Melanie,” she said, gratefully sinking into the chair. It was a little too small for her.
“Melanie,” he seemed to taste the word. “why don’t you get a cup of coffee, then we’ll begin? You can leave the raincoat with me.”
“Oh! Sure thing,” she didn’t really want coffee; her stomach was bouncing up and down as it was. But she pulled the coat off and slung it onto the seat.
* * *
Damien watched her walk up to the counter. She wore old black dress shoes, probably purchased just before High School. In her dark blouse and grey pants the rather overweight girl looked more like an old punching bag then what he was… used to.
Still. If a girl landed in his lap, Damien wasn’t one to push her off. Except, perhaps, onto her knees.
A man entered the coffee shop. He had a thick, full beard, and wore a faded sweater with HARVARD written on the front. Damien concentrated. The man swiveled like a spun top, and marched back out the door.
* * *
Melanie balanced the coffee cup with both hands, set it down on the table. Damien was perusing her packet of admissions material.
“I took these from your briefcase. I hope you don’t mind,” he said, examining the records of achievement. They extended to three pages in small type.
“No, it’s fine,” Melanie said. “You might want to pay extra attention to the GPA and SAT figures, here…” she had already marked them with a highlighter.
“Yes,” Damien said. He tapped them with a finger. “4.3 GPA, plenty of college prep courses. 720 Math, 750 Writing, and an 800 Verbal! Well done. Numbers to be proud of.”
He pushed them to the side. “Not that numbers alone are what gets a young lady into Harvard.”
Melanie’s heart sank. She had been warned about this, of course, but in her secret dreams she had hoped for at least some respect for four years of unrelenting toil. Doing flashcards on Friday nights deserved some payoff.
“So. What would you say is your worst quality?” Damien asked. His eyes glittered.
Melanie’s Mom had already practiced this one with her.
“I work too hard,” she said.
“You work too hard.”
“Oh, yes!” Melanie said. She fidgeted with her hands, underneath the table. “I put in a lot of hours, and it’s hard to know where to stop.”
Now she was supposed to turn the negative into the positive. “Although recently I’ve been thinking about—“
Damien held up a hand. “Melanie, I’ve been sent here by the Harvard… Admissions… People… to evaluate you as a person.”
“Okay?”
“So these formulaic Counselor-tested, College-prep approved answers are not going to help me do that. Now, I will ask you again. What is your worst quality?”
“I try too hard to impress?” Melanie tried. Damien stared at her, then laughed. It had a rich, rolling timbre.
“Good!” he said. “Very good. It’s that kind of honesty I’m looking for. How about this, then. Are you physically active enough?”
“What?” This was not a question she had prepared for. Considering her flabby proportions, it was borderline offensive.
“Too often I see students physically exhausted from the effort of preparing for college. Many collapse from the strain in their first semester. At Harvard we develop both the mind and the body. So, do you work out?”
Underneath the table, Melanie changed.
Her stomach, flabby and loose from four years of sitting around with books, began to turn flat and trim. Unnecessary pounds melted away, sucked into a tummy that was increasingly slender. The pounds that had accumulated in her rear vanished. Her ass reshaped itself into a standard heart-shaped butt, until she perched on a well-toned rear end.
Melanie felt at her collar. It had grown tighter even as she poked at it, the number on the tag falling in twos. Her pants dropped belt loops as they fit snugly to her new, slimmer waist.
“Of course I work out,” Melanie said, as the folds of her neck dropped away.
“First question, successfully navigated,” she thought, smugly.
“Glad to hear it,” Damien said. “I find it helps tremendously with your energy level, doesn’t it?”
Melanie blinked. How did he know?
* * *
It was two years ago...
It had been difficult to show up at the gym at 6 in the morning. Melanie had been surrounded by testosterone-washed boys, and girls with barely constrained chests giggling around the weight machines.
But she had stuck to it, religiously adhered to her thirty minutes a day, until her thighs had reshaped themselves into something acceptable.
Melanie had passed her target weight three weeks back. She wore a modest pair of workout sweats. There had been few curves underneath the excess weight, although she had caught some chess club members glancing at her new ass.
There was really no rational reason to keep pumping her new, trim legs up and down. But there was just something about the steady rhythm. It moved her thighs up and down on the hard bike head. The intense physical activity left her just… slightly aroused.
* * *
“Sure, definitely helps with your energy,” she said, lamely.
Behind Melanie and Damien a husband and wife burst into a loud, vicious argument. The short man clutched a newspaper with trembling hands, while his blonde, statuesque significant other snapped at him. The entire coffee shop turned to look at them bicker.
“I don’t care what you think we should do this summer,” the woman hissed. “You promised me the southwest. You promised me cactus and Grand Canyons. I don’t care what Work says about it, I—“
Damien leaned backwards. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m conducting an interview here. I’d appreciate it if you kept it down.”
The woman shot daggers at the calm brown-haired man. Then she caught something in his eyes, swallowed, and turned back around. Now she whispered her complaints, and her husband had to strain to hear.
Damien swiveled back.
“So, then, moving on. Extracurriculars.”
“Oh, yes!” Melanie said, eagerly. “I was in Literary Club. I interned for my Congresswoman. Chess Club. I formed the Multicultural—“
“And cheerleading, I see.”
“Cheerleading?”
Melanie frowned. She hadn’t been a cheerleader.
Hadn’t she?
She crossed her legs, unconsciously.
Melanie’s socks faded from dark black to a creamy white. A heart-shape appeared on either side, along with two girly bows. Her shoes lost their dark hue, softened, and reshaped into comfortable white sneakers. Two red stripes appeared along the sides.
“Why a cheerleader?” Damien said. He leaned across the table. “Out of character for a Harvard applicant, isn’t it? Cheerleaders have a…” he struggled for a polite way to say it, “a reputation.”
Her panties, a dun grey from years of standard use, lightened to a bright baby blue.
Maybe it was silly to have a lucky pair of panties, but Melanie had worn them the day she had made the squad, and they always went on in stressful times.
“Oh, that’s an old, ancient stereotype,” Melanie said. It was disappointing that a Harvard Grad couldn’t see past outdated preconceptions. “Cheerleading is a sport. You’ve got to work with a team, be a leader, go to competitions…”
“Shake pom-poms…” Damien said. A hint of a smile played across his face.
“Half the squad was in AP Calculus with me,” Melanie argued. She flushed. Was he really a Neanderthal, or was this just to test her reactions? She took a long drink of coffee. Her legs swiveled underneath the table. Years in the short cheerleading skirt had taught her how to keep her thighs demurely crossed.
“Were you one of the people tossing, or were you one of those who went up in the air? Like you see on ESPN Two?”
Melanie looked at him with one eyebrow up. Her weight was down thanks to unstinting effort, but with her big bones—
“I’m going to guess up in the air,” Damien said, and finished his cup of coffee.
Melanie dropped her own glass. It spilled onto her blouse, darkened the black fabric with a big blotch of French Roast.
Her fingers had suddenly grown thinner, shorter, lost any pencil-callus and reshaped as a dainty, feminine hand. Looking down, distracted by the hot wet stain, Melanie missed the sight of the table growing higher, her dimensions slowly shrinking. Her clothes drew in to fit her smaller frame. When she looked back up, Melanie had to pitch her head up to meet his hazel-brown eyes.
She hadn’t felt this clumsy since the first day of tryouts.
* * *
“Melanie! Is there a Melanie here?” the Captain said. Melanie tentatively raised her hand. The short cheerleading skirt made her feel half-naked, and her newly shaved legs felt raw and red in the cool air.
The Captain looked her up and down. Melanie blushed. Most of the applicants had burgeoning young boobs, and flounced around happily in tight white skirts. They were all taller then she was. Melanie felt deeply out of place with her flat chest and coke-bottle glasses. But she had promised her Mom she would at least try.
The Captain was one of those tall blondes with more curves then a Grand Prix. She looked down at the petite brunette with the boyish body.
“How are you with heights?” she said.
* * *
“Sorry, that was clumsy,” Melanie said, wiping at the coffee. She gave him her best cheer smile. It was a bit inane, but it worked.
She blamed her clothes. Melanie always had to shop in the petite section for anything that would fit her trim little form. Everything was inevitably too tight, fitting her like a second skin. She scratched at her pants. They pulled tightly around her thighs, hugged her new waist like a shrunken glove.
Melanie had bought the outfit just a few days ago. Had it shrunk in the humidity? It was far too tight for her usual modest style. Cheerleading skirts and public performance had gotten her a long ways towards comfort with her body. But she had wanted to be ultra-modest for her all-important Harvard interview.
Except for the heels.
Melanie lived in heels. She needed them to reach a decent height. Otherwise everyone looked down their nose at her, and for a future Harvard grad, that was unacceptable.
Her sneakers shimmered, kept their white sheen, but exposed her pink-painted toes. Two itty-bitty straps cris-crossed her feet, and a short heel sprouted from the back.
The socks disappeared.
“Why don’t you hit the bathroom?” Damien suggested.
“Can I?” Melanie said. She sighed. Spilling coffee on herself during her Harvard interview. Classic Mel. For someone who lived in heels, it was amazing how often she was pitching onto the ground, tripping over her own feet, and generally acting like a ditz instead of a confident young woman.
* * *
Damien watched her prance towards the bathroom door in her creamy white heels. With each step the pant leg crept up, exposing a length of lightly tanned leg. Melanie walked with the unconscious grace of someone with long experience with stilettos, each step carefully placed in front of the other. When the pant leg reached the knee he stopped it, waited for her to pause in before the door, and then fused the two legs together into a long grey skirt.
Practice made perfect.
Damien turned back to the whispering blonde with the litany of complaints. He tapped her shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Why don’t you try listing what you like about your husband? It might be faster.”
The blonde nodded, slowly. Then she turned back around to her puzzled husband.
“I like your big dick,” she said, and blushed.
The man lowered his newspaper.
* * *
Melanie peered into the bathroom mirror.
Her complexion was smooth and unblemished, at least. She had inherited her Mom’s aristocratic high cheekbones. But Melanie had never liked her beetle-brown eyebrows or her nose. She hated her nose.
How could she have gone out without makeup? Not the bright pink and black-bruise mascara of some of her cheerleading friends, necessarily. But after years on the squad Melanie liked a thin patter of concealer and a tan layer of lipstick.
Her lips felt naked.
“My purse!” She had forgotten her—
A brown pouch appeared on her shoulder. It was slung over her shoulder with a dainty leather strap, and patterned with a smiling yellow sun.
“You’re holding your purse, Mel,” she told herself, rolling her eyes.
A few practiced swipes swathed her lips with a light layer of makeup. She dusted her face, looked critically at the reflection, and swept her standard brown hair back.
When she replaced the makeup her long, lanky hair pulled up, away from her shoulders, and resculpted itself just below her neck. It thickened, added bounce and volume, and shone even under the weak light of the bathroom light. Streaks of highlight, from a slumber party game of truth-or-dare, appeared at the tips.
The silky, sleek style was the best a brunette could hope for.
“You can do this!” she told herself, one hand on her purse, and stepped carefully out of the bathroom.
Two sparkling diamond earrings popped, unnoticed, into her ears.
* * *
Damien was admiring the exposed cleavage and short pink mini of a twenty-something girl. The woman had two chow-chows on a short leash, and wore dark black sunglasses. Trophy Wives were thick on the ground in the overpriced neighborhood.
Melanie fought back a surge of frustration. So, even her Harvard interviewer was just another dirty guy, head happily submerged in the gutter, ranking women he saw on a scale from “one” to “tits.”
She probably came in somewhere at “negative two.” The cheerleader top had been made for someone with an actual set of boobs, and the ill-fitting fabric had always grated at her. Yes, big boobs were stupid and painful, but she had always felt two years younger then girls with a proper pair.
At least she had a nice ass.
Damien turned, noticed her scowl. He smiled and pointed through the window.
“You like dogs? Those chows are magnificent, aren’t they?”
“Oh!” Melanie said. The dogs. He had been looking at her dogs. Here she had been accusing him of unrestrained spectator boob-watching, and he was just admiring a pedigree pair of canines.
Melanie scolded herself, plopping back down into the oversized seat. It wasn’t as if she had never used her body before.
* * *
Just a year ago...
“Sorry I’m late,” she told the assembled Chess Club. They were uniformly male, and most had glasses even thicker then her own. “Practice went late.”
Melanie still wore the brief white cheerleading skirt. She was exhausted. Getting tossed in the air took more energy then she had thought it would.
“You’re up next,” Bobby said. He was the outgoing President. She had caught him looking at her butt, yesterday. Melanie had given it an experimental wiggle. It had felt weird.
“Up for what?”
“Your speech. For President. If you’re still interested.”
“Oh!” Melanie had completely forgotten about the election. What with working out and cheer and everything, Chess Club had lost much of its allure. She sat down in an empty chair and nervously faced the acne-faced teens.
“Okay, um, I think I would be a really, really awesome Chess Club President. I think if I’m elected we’ll.. play lots of chess, and maybe go other places to play chess. So, in conclusion, I think I should be the President of the Chess Club.”
There was a moment of silence. Then every single member broke into enthusiastic applause. Melanie was confused until she looked down, following the line of their rapturous stares. She had completely forgotten to cross her legs. The boys had spent the entire, confused speech gazing up her legs at her bright blue lucky pair panties.
She won in a landslide.
* * *
“I’m more into cats, myself,” she said.
“Shame. There’s something about the blind obedience that just gets me right here,” Damien said.
“Damien?” Something was tugging at her mind. Something was odd. Was it… him?
“Yes?”
“What do you do for a living?”
Damien scratched at his goatee. “Good question. After Grad School, I was… I suppose you could say I was a Master of the Universe.”
“On Wall Street?” Melanie asked, puzzled.
“Sure, why not? But these days? I like to think of myself more as an… artist.”
Melanie nodded, satisfied. Made it rich in the stock market, then retired to a life of leisure. Classic Harvard. Something still nagged at her. She pushed it back.
Damien shuffled through her files.
“Next question, next question… Here’s a classic one. Name a challenge you faced, and how you overcame it.”
She was ready for this one, too.
Melanie swept back an errant strand of hair, favored him with her best smile, and said “It was my third day in that little town of Costa Rica when I realized that the children had never learned how to be eco-friendly.”
“Oh, lord,” Damien said, and chuckled. “Melanie, did you spend a Spring Break in Costa Rica to learn about adversity?”
“They didn’t even know about papers and plastic!” she squeaked. That trip had been the centerpiece of her admissions essay. She had built a recycling shack!
“Something personal. Personal, Melanie. You can trust me. Be honest,” he leaned across the table. His eyes were very soft. She couldn’t seem to break stares with the dark-haired man holding the coffee cup.
Melanie started to grow tits.
They filled in with rich pockets of firm skin, doubled in size, then kept growing. Soon they were average-sized globes, large enough for a handful. Her blouse tented, tugged at the expanding orbs. Buttons came undone. Her bra frantically reworked itself to restrain her boobs, added straps and buckles. The cups grew wide and deep. Melanie’s pencil-tip nipples spread over her new mounds of tit-flesh, Soon she had wide, dusky aureole.
They were big and round.
Melanie’s lip trembled. She had known this question was coming. Everyone asked it.
“When I was 16, my body went from my own, to this big-boobed cow,” she said softly, gesturing down. At her tits.
Damien nodded. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” he said. “When did they first grow in?”
“Far too long ago.”
* * *
“They’re huge!” Melanie wailed. “They’re awful!” She hugged a pillow on the bed. For the previous month and a half she slept on her chest, willing the ever-expanding tits on her chest to somehow push back in.
She looked down. Just two months ago she could see the laces on her shoes. Heck, she could see her belly button. Now she had a huge ridge of quivering boob, topped with brown nipples the size of her eyes.
Her Mom hugged her. That just made things worse. Melanie had long hoped to avoid her Mom’s boob-obsessed genes. The older woman’s own pneumatic pillows were soft, large, and still hadn’t a hint of sag. At sixteen, Melanie had been convinced she had passed through the danger zone.
Then, over just a few months, each morning had brought centimeters of expanding tit. She had gone from flat-chested Melanie to one of the largest girls in school. The words “boob job” had floated through the school halls. Walking with her arms crossed just squeezed them up and out.
“It’s not all bad,” her Mom said. She cradled her own chest. “These will open doors for you, honey.”
“Yeah, they stick out far enough,”
Her Mom shook her head. “Melanie, tell me, have they been… sensitive?”
“What do you mean?”
She gave Melanie a meaningful look. “Sensitive.”
Melanie sniffled. That had been the worst part. As much as she hated the titanic things, they felt so, so, undeniably amazing. Her nipples burst with pleasure each time she wore anything coarse, and circling them with a single finger led to a happy daze of hormonal fun. Her chest tingled nicely when she was cheerleading. Whenever Bobby looked at them she floated on a cloud.
“Yeah, they’re sensitive,” Melanie said. She hung her head.
“Oooo-kay, then. We’re going to Dr. Simmons tomorrow. You’re going on birth control.”
“What? Why?” Melanie said. She still barely even noticed boys. Although their unabashed staring at her chest had left her feeling surprisingly warm.
Her Mom put a hand on Melanie’s knee. “Dear, have you ever thought about the fact that I’m thirty-five?”
* * *
“I’d imagine they hurt,” Damien said. “All that weight.”
“No.. not really,” Melanie said. It was strange, but the same quirk of fate that had left her with awe-inspiring boobs had also given her relatively strong back muscles. They rode high and firm even without her mail-order bra. “It’s more about what everyone said about me. No one takes you seriously when you’ve got boobs like I do. I told them I was going to go to Harvard, and they laughed at me. Laughed!”
“Melanie the Cow. Milkshake Mel. Mel-Bell,” Melanie said. She crossed her arms underneath her chest. “I’ve heard them all.”
“Teenagers can be cruel like that,” Damien said. “And I’m sure jealousy played a role.”
“Those are what the teachers called me! I sat in the front row because I was a good student, not to… show off my boobs. Did you know the school voted them most likely to succeed? Not me. Them.”
“Really?”
“It was a write-in campaign. Melanie’s Tits. It won in a landslide. The school hushed it up, but everyone was in on it.”
Melanie cupped them with both hands. “Cheerleading was the worst of all.”
“I’d imagine.”
“I had to wear the tight shirt with the short skirt. Attendance went up thirty percent. People arrived at half-time just to see me prance around with my jiggling tits. If I had popped out there might’ve been a riot.”
“It must’ve been hard to keep up with your studies, under that kind of social pressure,” Damien said.
Melanie squirmed. “Something like that.”
* * *
“An A minus isn’t fair!” Melanie exclaimed. She had gotten the grade yesterday, and spent the entire evening agonizing over it.
“If I’ve missed something, I’d be happy to regrade it,” Mr. Harcourt said. He was a young teacher, his credential probably still in the mail. He had thick glasses, like hers, and wore a stained blue tie.
Melanie cursed, inside. She had already gone over the exam twice. She had missed three problems. Her new sweater had been driving her crazy, rubbing against her sensitive boobs with soft cotton fabric. It had been simply impossible to concentrate.
In the end, she had been able to only think of one thing to do.
“But Mr. Harcourt,” she said, cooing softly over the top of his desk. Melanie had practiced the breathy sex-kitten voice in the shower that morning. “I’ve been going through some hard times. You understand that, right? Puberty? It’s been such a struggle.”
The teenager leaned carefully over the paper-stacked desk. All she had to do was move her shoulders down, her arms together, and acres of rippling tit nearly popped out from between her overstuffed sweater. It was the same distracting one as yesterday, and her overheated jugs begged for release from the sweaty fabric.
“If you have a note from—a doctor—or something—“ Mr. Harcourt said, his eyes locked on Melanie’s gently shining chest. Too late she spotted the wedding ring on his finger. Oh well.
“Oh, I can show you right now!” Melanie cried. She picked up a pencil, held it gently between two fingers. That seemed to interest Mr. Harcourt even more. She reached down to her test, scribbled something, and then stood up once more.
“Now watch what happens when I sit down,” Melanie purred. She lowered her stuffed chest just an inch and a half. First it gave Mr. Harcourt a private screening of her cleavage. Then it rested against the paper.
“See? My answer got all smeared. I can’t correct my work. It’s terrible.”
Mr. Harcourt was no longer listening.
Melanie looked down. Distracted, she had placed the length of the pencil down the interior of her boobs. Just the tip of the pink eraser stood out from the substantial valley.
Her tits were so hot, her nipples so hard and wet. For the first time Melanie wondered if there weren’t some benefits to big boobs.
Melanie licked the top of the eraser.
* * *
“I see you managed to pull straight-A’s regardless,” Damien said. He nodded.
Melanie wiped a line of sweat off her forehead. The Harcourt memory never failed to get The Girls erect, down in their satin confinement. After that incident a growing collection of short skirts and coy sweaters had ensured a high GPA. With her growth spurt and extreme sensitivity they had been the only way to ensure a decent set of grades. Homework inevitably ended in long sessions of breast-play.
Melanie tugged at the top of her blouse. The buttons vanished, from the collar on down, and the material grew wispy and insubstantial, more like a filmy gauze then an austere blouse. The tight shirt tucked itself underneath her chest, then sprouted apart at mid-chest, until a smooth expanse of barely-hid tit clung behind it. It was shiny and yellow. The twin swells of her boobs pushed together.
“Especially impressive considering your SAT scores. Not that a series in the six-hundreds is bad, necessarily, but it is a little marginal for Harvard.”
“Six hundreds?” Melanie thought. She frowned. Something seemed wrong about that. She could remember opening the score sheet, jumping up and down, screaming something over and over.
Wasn’t she yelling, “800! 800!”?
She crossed her legs while she thought. Her skirt took the opportunity to grow short and tight, a flared white poodle-inspired design with a pink hem at the bottom. Daringly-long heels dangled at the end of her feet.
Short skirts had become a particular obsession soon after her descent into the valley of the jugs. With her oversized hooters and tiny frame, most everyone soon forgot that she had legs at all. Or, if they did remember, they thought of them as something she used to cart the boobs around. Short skirts just restored some of the balance. Sure, the cute outfits with the long expanses of tits and ass had given her an unwarranted reputation. So what? If she was going to have big breasts, she might as well use them.
Damien noticed her hesitation. “A 650 Verbal is still something to be proud of,” he said. “The SAT is still the pinnacle of individual achievement. You can’t cheat the SAT. I believe I only got a 620 or so, myself.”
Now she remembered.
“I had a little help,” she confessed.
* * *
“C’mon, Melanie,” Bobby said. “This isn’t very hard. A Knight is to a Castle as a Crab is to a….?”
“Shell! No, wait, no. Envelope! As to an envelope!”
“You had it right the first time,” he said, tapping his pencil. Bobby checked his watch. “I really need to be going. We’ve both got AP English tomorrow. Reynolds and his vocab tests.”
Melanie sat bolt upright. “No, you can’t go! I’m not ready yet!”
Besides, Mr. Reynolds had already stopped grading her exams. She had shown up bright and early one day with a micro-mini and matching boy shorts underneath. Melanie sat in the front row. It was the first time something other then her titties had earned her an A.
They sat in Melanie’s room. She had decorated it in pink and pastel, and the air was thick with the scent of makeup experiments. Her Mom had shown Bobby upstairs, winked knowingly at him, and closed the door.
Melanie licked her lips. They were covered in bubblegum pink.
Bobby stood up. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he insisted. Standing up also gave him the chance to stare down the inviting length of her cleavage. Melanie knew she should change out of her teacher-inducing outfits after school. But the yellow micro-mini with the oversized zipper was just too cute, and besides, it matched her silk panties. On top she wore one of her light cashmere sweaters. It conformed precisely to the size of her boobs, and had a big slit in the middle so the sun could peep on her.
Melanie panicked. She bolted upright, jiggling the entire time, and grabbed Bobby’s hand. “Please!” she pleaded. “I need help with this! It’s really hard! You know I’m trying to get into Harvard!”
“Melanie, I’m not going to Harvard, much less you.” Bobby said. He looked down at his hand. She had it securely in her grasp.
Tears leaped into Melanie’s eyes. “Because of my chest, is that it? Big boobs. Cheerleader. Not Harvard.”
“No!” Bobby insisted. “Look, Mel, I’ve known you since sixth grade. I just—I don’t know.”
“Then stay!” Melanie insisted. She tugged harder on his arm. His hand fell forwards—and landed directly on her nipple.
Her eyes widened. The now-familiar jolt of pleasure shot through her, that embarrassing wonderful feeling. But now it spread quickly to her head and the juncture between her thighs.
Suddenly her thoughts felt thick and juicy. All she could seem to concentrate on was how nice Bobby’s hand felt.
“Ooh,” she moaned, and moved his hand up and down. “What are you doing? It feels… really, really good.”
Bobby stood stock still, so she took his other hand and placed it on top of her other needy nipple. Soon he got the idea, and was enthusiastically rubbing up and down the length of her chest. Melanie had to sit down before her legs collapsed.
“What do I do now?” Bobby asked.
“I don’t know. Don’t stop,” Melanie said, panting hard. She was flushed, and her lithe little body glowed with heat.
“You don’t know? Everyone at school says that you…” Bobby said, puzzled.
“I know what they say!” Her body seemed to know what it wanted. And it wanted her boobs nuzzled by a warm, wet mouth.
Soon Bobby, his glasses thrown aside, suckled hard on a long nipple. Melanie arched her back as the first, glorious orgasm rippled through her. It blew through the long-established restrictions in her mind, left behind a slick trail of sex juices. Bobby’s hands felt like a hurricane. For the first time Melanie loved her huge hooters, her funbags with their rock-hard nipples.
She had his dick out before her addled mind could quite put a rational thought together. Bobby plunged it up and down her fat mounds, the slick dribble of his precum greasing her chest. He came within a minute, and the goo scored her chin. Then he collapsed on top of her.
“You want to come over tomorrow?” she asked, a few minutes later.
“To study for the SAT?” he asked, buckling his belt.
“The what?”
* * *
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