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From: drspin@newguy.com
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Date: Mon, 15 Nov 1999 16:10:01 -0500
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Author: DrSpin
(NOTE: My first posting, inspired by the rebirth of ASSM. I have many
more completed stories ready for posting. Still many more are partly
completed and require personal motivation currently unforthcoming. The
'Uncommon Behaviour' tag is a common theme in my stories, and basically
threads around unusual circumstances in which ordinary people do
extraordinary things. Like many other authors, I believe it's the setup
that makes the story, not the sex. Best of luck to the reborn group.)
An Uncommon Behaviour Story: 'Watch Where You Put Your Hands': By DrSpin
I wandered vaguely into the kitchen, affably drunk and agreeably buzzed
in the style of my generation. It was my old friend Ken's house and that's
what we did on the various occasions when we gathered for dinner parties
and similar events of social intercourse. Get pleasant with the aid of
legal and slightly illegal drugs, I mean. Well, we also wandered about
vaguely but that was a by-product.
I wandered into the kitchen and was surprised to see Ken's daughter
washing up the dinner trash. I shouldn't have been surprised because I'd
seen her about the place earlier in the evening and I had even spoken to
her but she hadn't been at the table and being surprised was another
by-product. You know what I mean. I was surprised and I stopped wandering
and peered at her as she turned to me. Her name was Judy. I knew that
without having to think about it because I'd known her all her life.
Perhaps I was her godfather. I think I was. I was certainly somebody's
godfather around here. She was about 18 or 19. Anyway, she wasn't yet 21.
She was studying some place some distance away and she was back home for a
brief holiday. I knew this because she'd already told me earlier in the
evening.
When she turned to me, as she or anyone would have when I wandered
aimlessly into the kitchen, I was surprised to see that she had developed
really top-class breasts. They were positive statements; full, heavy,
round; pushing out the cotton shirt she was wearing in a definitive manner.
They were plainly there too much to ignore.
So having wandered vaguely into the kitchen, there I was standing in
front of Judy pointedly studying the excellent shape of her expressive
bosom. I shouldn't have been surprised because I knew very well she was an
attractive girl with a really striking figure. I'd noted it many times in
the past, in that sort of agreeable and affable approving way that a
godfather or an old family friend would. This night, however, it was
striking me quite firmly. I was taking close note. Thinking back, perhaps
my jaw had dropped and my mouth was open slackly. I hope not. Nobody
likes to look like a village idiot, even when they're drunk and stoned.
My feet stopped wandering and even my eyes stopped wandering but my
hands did not. Involuntarily they wandered, palms extended like a prophet
preaching, in the unmistakable direction of Judy's fine breasts. And
stopped. A couple of millimetres away. I hadn't made a decision. That
little part of my brain that wasn't befuddled must have given the order.
I was standing there with my hands frozen in a conspicuously groping
position a breath away from her breasts and it finally came to me that it
wasn't a viable proposition. I looked up at her face and her eyes were
wide. She was very surprised herself, backed up as she was against the
sink with my hands almost upon her, all ten fingers bent and curled to her
shape.
"Um," I said, because I had to say something. I had to say something
more. "Oops," I said.
"Uncle Mike," she said. Her voice was a little strangled. She always
called me Uncle Mike, even though I wasn't. "What are you doing?"
I looked into her eyes and closed one of mine. It helped me think.
"Nothing," I said, and thought it wise. Almost profound. I had summarised
the whole complexity of it in a single word. I was almost out of this
trap, reputation untarnished, at that point. All I had to do was take my
hands away and this silly thing could be dispensed with as an amusing
sidebar.
I took my hands away and hung them from the length of my arms at my
side. Say nothing, I told myself. Smile brightly and walk away like an
inebriated man.
"Sorry," I said, just when I was telling myself not to talk. Idiot. An
admission of guilt. "I think you must have magnets in your bra." No no no,
I didn't say that. Surely I didn't. Christ Almighty.
"I'm not wearing a bra," she said. I looked and noted a couple of blunt
points I hadn't seen before. I nodded my head slowly.
"Well, there goes that excuse," I said, still looking. "I just can't
think of another one at the moment."
She was making a little snorting noise. I looked up and found her with
her mouth pressed tight, trying not to laugh. "I don't think you're in a
fit state," she said. "Do you think I should drive you home?"
I blinked at her. "Home? Must I go home?"
"It would be good idea. I'll drive you."
She did, steering me past her languid parents and the vaguely lingering
guests. She drove her car and I sat in the front seat. "Sorry," I said.
She was going to a lot of trouble.
"Don't worry," she said breezily. "I'm used to it."
"Used to driving people home?"
"No. I'm used to people staring at my boobs."
"Oh. That." Watching the road was making my head spin.
"You know," she said conversationally, "they're not that big."
"No?"
"I know lots of girls who are bigger. Much bigger, some of them."
"Really."
She glanced across at me. "Allison is a 42D and Megan is 38 double-D.
I'm only..."she stopped and looked across again. "What do you think I am?
I mean, what size do you reckon?"
I shook my head, trying to convey I didn't have a clue and trying at the
same time to clear out the haze. "I have no idea."
She giggled. "If you open the glove box you'll find out." She giggled
again. "Fallout from a heavy necking session last week." She lifted a hand
from the steering wheel and pointed. "Go on." I pushed the button and
extracted a handful of underwear. "Read the label," she said. I pushed
the bundle of white clothing around in my hand. I couldn't find a label.
She sighed. "Never mind. It says 36C, okay? Mind you, some C cups are a
little small. I guess I'm somewhere between a C and D." She looked across
at my hands. "Oops," she said. "I forgot about the pants." She giggled
once more. "I got a bit carried away that night."
"Judy," I said, putting the white things back in the glove box. "Why
are you telling me this?"
"Funny, I thought you were interested in the size of my breasts. You
were certainly giving a good impression of it back in the kitchen. I
thought I was going to get well and truly groped."
"Yeah, look, hell and britches, I'm really sorry about that. I just
lost track of where I was and who you were."
"It's okay. I wouldn't have run around screaming, you know. It was
just unexpected. After trying to get you to notice me for so many years,
you suddenly come into the kitchen and do that. I was just surprised."
Eh? What did she say? I replayed her words. What was that all about?
"Of course I noticed you," I said, evenly and carefully.
"I don't think so. I think the first time you ever noticed me, I mean
noticed me, was tonight. That's why I'm driving you home."
"Eh?" This time I verbalised it.
"You were my fantasy man for a long time, when I was younger and needed
one."
"Me?"
"I suppose it was because I saw you fucking my mother."
Shit. A big heap of it. How long ago was that? Years. "You saw us?"
"Sure did. The first time by accident. Then I snuck home early from
school and watched." She slowed the car and swung into my driveway. She
turned off the engine and looked at me. "I bet that sobered you up."
Right. I was never more sober in my life. The hairs were standing up
on the back of my neck but my brain was clear. "Judy," I said. "That was
finished with a long time ago. It's been forgotten. It was a big mistake.
It didn't last long."
"Yes, I know," she said. She unclipped the seat belt. "I think you
need a cup of coffee. I'll make it." She opened the car door. She waited
for me to let her into the house. I was between wives at the time. I'd
had two and would no doubt, knowing the way I fell into such things,
inherit a third at some time in the future. It meant I was keeping the
house pretty well draped and drab, the way you do when it's only you to
look. I switched on lights and she found her way to the kitchen.
I followed her. "Does Shelley know you knew?"
"No." She was bustling about efficiently. "It was a nasty secret I kept
to myself."
"I'm sorry, Judy. It must have caused you terrible pain and anxiety."
She turned to face me, her 36C breasts swaying gently against the fabric
of her shirt. "What it did was open up a whole world to me," she said.
"It was an instant education." She leaned back against the bench, a small
smile on her face. "She really got off, didn't she. What you guys did
built an expectation in me that those sort of fireworks happen every time.
Boy, I found out that was wrong."
I made a face at her. "I can't believe you watched. Your own mother."
"You thought the house was empty. Twice I lay on the floor beside the
door and watched everything you did."
"How old were you? I can't remember."
"I was 13 and insatiably curious. Yours was the first stiff cock I ever
saw."
I tried hard to ignore that. "Remind me, how old are you now?"
"I turn 20 next month. I couldn't believe how big it was."
"How's the coffee going?"
"Brewing. It might be a flawed memory, but I still don't think I've
seen a bigger one."
"Your memory is childishly unreliable. Anyway, how many have you seen?"
"I don't know. Maybe 30. Probably more. Don't look at me like that. I
haven't been a virgin since I was 15. Did you think I was?"
"Well, no, I guess. I mean, I hadn't thought about it. But, Jesus, 30
sounds pretty busy."
"Uncle Mike, you're out of touch."
"How's the coffee going?"
"Ready in a minute. Anyway, don't you want to hear about my girlish
fantasies?"
"Judy, stop. I'm your uncle."
"You're not my uncle."
"Stop it anyway."
"I will if you stop looking at my chest." Guiltily, I jerked my eyes up.
She had that faint smile again. "Would you like to see them?"
I backed away from her hastily. "Judy, enough," I said. "Where's that
coffee?"
She turned to the percolator. "Go and sit down," she said. "I'll bring
it to you."
I sat on the couch, a room and a half away from her, and tried to muster
my thoughts. But I had thought nought when she approached, bearing cups on
a tray. She sat on the floor beside me, her legs folded beneath her.
"Give up," she said. "I can have you any time I want."
"I don't understand why you would," I replied.
"I've wanted you for years."
"I'm way too old for you."
"You don't seem any older than when I first wanted you."
"At 13? I was definitely too old for you."
"Stop sparring with me. This is inevitable."
"What's inevitable?"
"You and me."
"You and I."
"Right."
"No, I was correcting your grammar."
She stood up quickly and easily, a sure sign of the suppleness of youth.
"Enough of these word games," she said, and pulled the shirt over her head.
I've seen bunches of good breasts in my time. Her mother had good
breasts. I've seen great breasts. My first wife Sandy had great breasts.
I've even seen beautiful breasts but it was a long time ago and I could
never remember her name or her face. Sure, I know it's a cliche and I know
you know it's coming, but Judy, my god-daughter, had best breasts. They
say Helen of Troy had such top-rate knockers that they would incite an army
to mutiny. Maybe. They could not have been better than those arrayed for
my exclusive perusal. A strange forced noise came from my mouth and I
realised I had been holding my breath for a dangerously long spell.
She was standing in front of me, the shirt dangling from her hand. She
raised her eyebrows. "You like, huh?"
I let out breath in a rush and shook my head vigorously to clear the
dizziness. I rubbed my eyes, blinked deliberately, and looked again. She
was still there. Beyond compare. Perfect. Supertits.
"Wait," she said. "There's more." She put a foot on the coffee table
and bent over to untie a shoe. An exceptional breast hung gracefully and
pressed against her thigh. She took off both shoes, unclipped and unzipped
the jeans and slid them down her hips, hooking her thumbs in her pants on
the way and taking them together down her legs. She stepped away from the
bundle and stood before me, hands at her sides. "I don't get a lot of
complaints," she said.
Well, she wouldn't. But those who had received such a privilege would
not have had my long experience. It took decades to reach true
objectivity, and I could not have awarded her a 10. Her legs were a little
short and a little stocky in the thigh, her hips were a little wide and, if
one were to go on being critical, she was sporting that silly
artificial-looking sideways-Groucho-Marx-moustache-like vertical clipped
rectangle of pubic hair that girls fashioned these days so they could wear
high-cut swimsuits. It looked like a mohawk haircut in the wrong place.
She could have a full 10 for her tits; no doubt whatsoever. But the rest
of her was not perfect.
She was, however and in the summation of my analysis and taking all
factors and components into account, the finest naked woman I had seen in
the flesh in all my life. She was, and it's yet another cliche you know
has been near at hand and threatening, a goddess.
"You could say something," the goddess said. Right. Time was passing.
What to say that was not banal? Why me? I was more goat than god.
"How about this," I said. "I'm not worthy. Put on your clothes and go
home."
Sorry? You thought this was going to be a sloshing, sluicing and
slurping sex saga? I've brought you 2500 words along the way to a
non-orgasmic anti-climax? Well, what do you want? A bullshit Penthouse
Forum letter or the truth of it, as it happened?
The truth of it, as it happened, was that I sent her home. You see,
goatish men in their mid-forties don't score with beautiful and fragrant
19-year-old girls. Or at least, they don't without aphrodisiac assistance
in the form of power, money, drugs and nasty life-threatening weapons. Or
at least, when a particular set of unusual circumstances creates a fleeting
illusion that perhaps they could, then they shouldn't.
A wise man once said a sporting gentleman should never eat meat pies on
Monday, never bet odds-on and never give a sucker an even break. Sound
advice. But I had loved her mother once or a few times and I liked her
tremendously still. I could not have ravished her lovely daughter, my
god-daughter, and looked Shelley in the eye for the rest of my life. I
sent Judy home.
It took a while and I had to be dogged because she was wily enough to
plead her case without wearing clothes. There were tears. There was
embarrassment and humiliation. I tried to explain but didn't manage it
well. I think it was her first rejection, because she banged the door on
the way out and screeched her tyres in the driveway. I didn't look forward
to seeing her again and didn't do so for a few months. But when I did she
was sunny.
"Uncle Mike," she said fondly, taking my hand and folding it in both of
hers. "You know," she said to her mother who was standing by, "I think
he's just about the nicest man in the world."
"I wouldn't go that far," said Shelley wryly. "But he has his moments."
The truth of it, as it so happened, was that I had recently taken up
with Shelley again. I think it was Judy's fault. She had reminded me of
her mother's good qualities.
ENDS
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