Aunt Nancy
Vol 1, Ch 30A
Much Ado About Nothing
When I was 12, that very first evening when I'd arrived to my aunt and uncle's home to visit, which home was, some months later (after both my parents had perished in a car accident) to become my permanent residence thereafter, until such time that I'd be launched therefrom to take up life on my own as an adult, my aunt had suddenly made clear to me, in a way none of her pictures through the mail had, that her nipplehood had developed indeed to a level of prime supremacy. If jogging with her around the neighborhood four years prior to that evening, one early morning when I was 8, when I could for the first time notice she did indeed have noticeable nipple impressions into her little jogging top, which observations had aroused my interest and curiousity into her lively breasthood, then, getting an idea of how big and flagrant her nipplehood had developed even moreso when I was 12, evidenced by their jutting so forcefully and obviously into her gold satin bathrobe, had surely cemented her grip around the still growing nerve ganglia along the base of my neck going into my spine, which part of my anatomy and mental circuitry controlled, regulated and encouraged the sexual urges and rabid prickular proclivities inherent, tender, and extremely susceptible to flammable stimulation, that are present in the fertile minds of most 12 year old boys.
The truth, however, was that, when I was 12, I hadn't until that evening in their kitchen quite appreciated how primal and provocative my aunt's nipplearium portended till, sitting at their kitchen table in the bright light of the kitchen ceiling that evening, I was no way able to not see how flagrantly poignant and arresting were her nipple pointings at the tips of her apparently still growing tits.
Plainly, but for the hint of it that one morning jogging with her 4 years prior, I'd simply never seen before how a woman like my aunt could even do that, with her breasts, into an article of clothing, though, don't you know it, I'd imagined such sightings many a night falling asleep, purely for my own fantastical imagination. Yet here this lovely woman was doing it right in front of me, for real, and she was my aunt. I don't mean to exaggerate but the fact was, what she'd done, how'd she looked to me, on that first night of my arrival into the kitchen, slammed down an Aunt Nancy lock onto my brain and my cock.
But that wasn't the only change to come about. In the six years since I'd moved into her home, which began when she'd rescued me from the orphan's detention home some months after the satin gown evening, my aunt had during those half dozen years virtually taken over the household. In her own slow, methodical, unwavering, unobtrusively gradual way, she'd assumed supremacy and tittular authority.
To wit: Gordon - a thorn in her side - was gone from the household most of the time, having elected to spend the summers at military camp, and his junior high and high school years at a military prep boarding school With him away, she, meanwhile, felt free to return back to wearing whatever kind of clothing, whatever kind of tops, she wished to, regardless of my uncle's prior admonitions months back, to tone it down. She flouted that order frequently, and neither had to tolerate Gordon's gawky uncouth stares and silly outbursts of vocally exclaiming how unusually developed she was becoming. I admired her though for not beating the living crap out of him, for she could have easily done so, given her long time training at Emjay's dijou.
And with her free-er choice of clothing having thus taken hold again - not via my uncle's consent but instead by her own simply choosing so - sometimes her now larger, more developed, nipples would belligerently show into her clothing, and, sometimes they would not. Sometimes, she'd wear a bra, and sometimes she obviously wasn't. Sometimes her tops elegantly showed what beautifully large, perfectly pneumatic breasts she'd developed over the years, and sometimes all you could detect from her attire was that, even though you could see no easily discernible shape of her bounty, there very likely was a huge bounty of breastmeat under her clothing, nevertheless, because either that huge swell growing out several inches above and several below, her waist, was fat, or it was huge tits, you'd have to go with the latter by how trim and toned her neck, arms, hips and legs were. And then once you realized that, if you were a guy, I suppose many, if they were of the boobhound proclivity, would soon find themselves locked away somewhere back in their plushy safe suburban home, locked away in the 2nd floor bathroom, while their lovely wives were cooking dinner, righteously whacking off, thinking about her. Thinking about how beautiful and sexy she was. Thinking about those huge knockers, to boot.
One thing was clear: Her breasts had quite definitely acquired significant weight, volume, and heft over the past few years, and she had, and was using, the power she'd derived therefrom, to display her bustial superiority whenever and however she wished. My uncle's admonishments had, in sum, become powerless. And so, he stopped. He accepted, that she'd dress however she wanted, whenever she wanted, regardless of his druthers on the matter.
I believe that acceptance finally began to develop after the prior-described episode at the cabin. There, up in the loft, after we'd all been there several hours, soon after Gordon and my uncle had ventured out for a hike, or I should say, fledc, she, in my presence, had most definitely exploded her sexual angst into full fruition. It occurred to me later, as an adult, that that afternoon up in the loft in a cabin dozens of miles from any hint of civilisation, her behavior so to speak, might've been the first time, since her marriage, that'd she'd done, "that", in the presence of a man, well, an 18 year old man-youth at that, where such male was not her husband.
Many things between a husband and wife are thought, but not spoken, only because they know each other so well. And I believe, that what had been thought between them, though not spoken - is that she had deliberately chosen to capitulate her primal intimate organs into explosive feline release, in front of the man/boynot her husband, which event I believe he was cognizant of although not present for, as he surely seemed to have recognized the signs of it coming on ahead of time, in the cabin, right before he made his hasty exit with Gordon. I furthermore believe this power of hers, to silently but surely give him the non verbal signs, that she was soon going to engage into a feline release, for lack of better words, gave my aunt a sense of power and independence from her husband, which she'd been prior-to restricted from for all the time preceding then. It gave her the upper hand so to speak. I daresay her sexual proclivities and the intensity of her power, evidenced by, amongst other things, her massive, steadily growing breasthood, soon allowed her to dominate and manifest herself completely over him.
He didn't resist therefore when she announced I would not be going for a walk with him and Gordon. And she knew, that he knew, what that meant too. It meant she'd deliberately chosen me to be someone not him who would privately witness her feline explosion. I don't know if he knew it meant I would also participate as well. The two of them may have reconciled that it would be better if there were some things about her he did not know. I reckon that would have been one of them.
It was obvious by the time Gordon and my uncle had returned to the cabin, that she had simmered down and recovered to more like her usual self. My uncle would have surely noticed that. I thus believed he'd assumed she'd achieved feline explosion during his and Gordon's journey outside of the cabin. I wondered if his imagination went as far as to picture her lying in the loft, completely unclothed, with her fingertips addressing her need, whilst she suckled me with her overdeveloped juggs.
Bear in mind, I was only beginning to understand sex then. Had my aunt had sex with me that day, in the cabin? Technically, no, I suppose. She'd had sex with herself...which I'd observed. Was her act of suckling me, a sex act? By itself, no, is one possible interpretation. But doing it, while bringing herself to fruition, with her own hands, inside herself? Maybe. I don't know. Was it a lascivious act? Maybe. So then the question becomes, What acts are considered lascivious? Black's Law Dictionary defines it as: Tending to excite lust; lewd ; indecent; obscene; relating to sexual impurity; tending to deprave the morals in respect to sexual relations.
Yow.
All I knew was that my aunt had developed imponderably large tits, and that she liked to, and let me, time to time, suck on them. The fact that she'd begun pleasuring herself, whilst in my presence, was probably something the vast majority of the human race would consider as lascivious, though I don't think it damaged me any, emotionally, at least not that I can tell, but who knows?
I believed then, at age 18, that whatever went on between my aunt and me was purely our thing, extremely private, and that no one else was to know about it. They just wouldn't understand, I thought. It was solely a unique relationship between her and me - she as my mother-aunt, and me as her nephew-son. I realized that my aunt suckling me, at age 18, was not normal. But I had the good sense to know, thankfully, that had I mentioned it to her, or anyone for that matter, she might stop doing it.
I felt certain my aunt cared deeply about me, and had no intentions whatsoever, to hurt me in any way, ever. I knew biologically, I wasn't her son. But I knew she had no other children, and sadly, Gordon had failed to meet muster, as a bona fide stepson, for a variety of reasons. I knew I was under her charge, and that she would care for and protect me, to giving up her life, if need be. Her love felt that strong. She was certainly as close to a loving, caring mother that I'd ever have.
The fact that she'd begun pleasuring herself, whilst I drank from her - I could see no need to begrudge her that, or deny her that, or see her actions as some way to hurt me or control me or abuse me. She already had control of me, and she had my full trust, already, even if she'd never had begun to pleasure herself in my presence. But somehow her doing that, of course, helped to make the bonds between us even stronger, because she was sharing a seriously intimate side of herself, with me. It wasn't lascivious, or bad, in my opinion; it was strictly my aunt mother being herself and feeling okay about sharing that part of herself with me, or, at least, permitting me to be within her presence during those moments, while incidentally suckling from her lavishly developed breasthood.
In the dark hours before falling asleep some nights, I'd think back, though, to how my aunt had stolen my uncle from Gordon's mom. I'd imagined how she'd showed up one day, holding my uncle's hand, approaching on the walkway to Gordon's suburban home, my aunt wearing something tight, something clingy, her dark blond locks slightly curling around her face, past her shoulders, to just above and around her bust, her strengthening and growing breasts emphasizing the insistence of her mammary prowess, with her strong evidential nippleage formidably swelled, conveying the subtle, unspoken, but most definite message, that she possessed the power to have what she wanted, whenever she wanted it, even if that included the woman's husband. I thought of Gordon's mother realizing, then, she had no chance, and remembered how, later, a few years down the road, Gordon's mother, walked out a 15th story window into the nothingness and eternity.
I thought of the day, out on the back pool deck, when she stood next to Mr. Hiscox, his eyes on her bust, next to Mrs. Hiscox, who was becoming, from appearances, jealous and angry, understandably, while, my aunt - whose smooth surfaced bust suddenly, slowly, and inexorably erupted with ever largening nipple impressions, the metamorphoses taking place over a period of only a few minutes. My aunt didn't have to say a word, while the usually assertive Mrs. Hiscox, suddenly became cowardly and sheepish, slowly fading away, while Mr. Hiscox, if told to, would have likely gotten on his knees, I bet, and given my aunt cunnilingus, right there, in front of everyone.
I remembered the day how she'd completely humiliated the female civil guard at the detention facility, the doughty heartless woman shaped liked a pear, who was attempting to use every evil tool of bureaucracy and red tape at her disposal to block my release, simply because she could, simply because she enjoyed that bureaucratic sense of power bestowed upon her by the state.
But my aunt, livid, and finally at the end of her patience, released the few buttons of her blazer holding it closed, exposing to the woman, and the guard, her full and impressively developing bustage, thus revealing to the woman, for the first time, her uniquely full mammary pressage, and insistence, whereupon, the guard intervened, settling the matter quickly, arranging for my full and legal release in under a minutes' time.
My aunt, I was learning, got what she wanted. Hell, of course she didn't kill my parents. But somehow in the end of it all, she did get me, which now I believe was something she'd always wanted. And she might have felt emboldened with that want by observing the lack of love and warmth my parents showed towards me.
All the while, she gained all these things in her quiet, effective, feminine manner. The fact of her growing developing jugghood only seemed commensurate, complementary, and physical evidence of her growing personal power.
Likewise, seemingly as a purely natural outcome, she'd deigned to suckle me therefrom, commencing that ritual not more than 6 months after I'd moved into her home, becoming a part of her family, because she wanted to, and because I wanted her to, while that last time, in the cabin loft, she'd slid her fingers into herself, slowly and fully arriving at the tumultuous shores of Valhalla whilst I watched, felt, and heard everything.
I must admit, it gave me great, fantastic pleasure, to see my aunt prance around the kitchen, to and from the dinner table, as she served Uncle Rich and me dinner, when she'd worn something especially tight and clingy. No bra in sight on most occasions, in the house. At such times, it was like her big nipple-topped knockers had a big sign on them: "We're so big now. We really do need to be sucked on, and I know you want to do it."
The funny thing, is that, because in all other ways besides her breastdom, she was slim and petite, and always had been, I think she still thought of herself, as little. As a consequence, she invariably, especially in the house, and since Gordon had left for summer camp, wore tops that were too small, in length. And because of her big knockers, she couldn't tuck such shirts in. So those particular tops would just hang on her, out there, pushed into space by her big circles and associated breastial equipment there.
Sometimes, especially if I were seated and she was standing, I could see a part of the bottoms of her thick milky white fulsome jambaroos.
Occasionally, say, if I were in the kitchen seated at the table, and my aunt was cooking, when she'd reach up to the top of the cabinets to retrieve an item of cookware, the bottom of her top would inadvertently slip up and over the points of her big tits, and come to rest there, on her chest, momentarily above her well developed business, until she'd notice it and pull the top back down over it all. I'd quickly look away and pretend not to notice. Sometimes I'd hear her say to herself a quiet "Oh my," whenever that happened, as if her learning of the fact of her growth beyond that of what her tops allowed, was something that lagged behind, in time, of the advent of the growth itself.
Vol 1, Ch 30A
Much Ado About Nothing
When I was 12, that very first evening when I'd arrived to my aunt and uncle's home to visit, which home was, some months later (after both my parents had perished in a car accident) to become my permanent residence thereafter, until such time that I'd be launched therefrom to take up life on my own as an adult, my aunt had suddenly made clear to me, in a way none of her pictures through the mail had, that her nipplehood had developed indeed to a level of prime supremacy. If jogging with her around the neighborhood four years prior to that evening, one early morning when I was 8, when I could for the first time notice she did indeed have noticeable nipple impressions into her little jogging top, which observations had aroused my interest and curiousity into her lively breasthood, then, getting an idea of how big and flagrant her nipplehood had developed even moreso when I was 12, evidenced by their jutting so forcefully and obviously into her gold satin bathrobe, had surely cemented her grip around the still growing nerve ganglia along the base of my neck going into my spine, which part of my anatomy and mental circuitry controlled, regulated and encouraged the sexual urges and rabid prickular proclivities inherent, tender, and extremely susceptible to flammable stimulation, that are present in the fertile minds of most 12 year old boys.
The truth, however, was that, when I was 12, I hadn't until that evening in their kitchen quite appreciated how primal and provocative my aunt's nipplearium portended till, sitting at their kitchen table in the bright light of the kitchen ceiling that evening, I was no way able to not see how flagrantly poignant and arresting were her nipple pointings at the tips of her apparently still growing tits.
Plainly, but for the hint of it that one morning jogging with her 4 years prior, I'd simply never seen before how a woman like my aunt could even do that, with her breasts, into an article of clothing, though, don't you know it, I'd imagined such sightings many a night falling asleep, purely for my own fantastical imagination. Yet here this lovely woman was doing it right in front of me, for real, and she was my aunt. I don't mean to exaggerate but the fact was, what she'd done, how'd she looked to me, on that first night of my arrival into the kitchen, slammed down an Aunt Nancy lock onto my brain and my cock.
But that wasn't the only change to come about. In the six years since I'd moved into her home, which began when she'd rescued me from the orphan's detention home some months after the satin gown evening, my aunt had during those half dozen years virtually taken over the household. In her own slow, methodical, unwavering, unobtrusively gradual way, she'd assumed supremacy and tittular authority.
To wit: Gordon - a thorn in her side - was gone from the household most of the time, having elected to spend the summers at military camp, and his junior high and high school years at a military prep boarding school With him away, she, meanwhile, felt free to return back to wearing whatever kind of clothing, whatever kind of tops, she wished to, regardless of my uncle's prior admonitions months back, to tone it down. She flouted that order frequently, and neither had to tolerate Gordon's gawky uncouth stares and silly outbursts of vocally exclaiming how unusually developed she was becoming. I admired her though for not beating the living crap out of him, for she could have easily done so, given her long time training at Emjay's dijou.
And with her free-er choice of clothing having thus taken hold again - not via my uncle's consent but instead by her own simply choosing so - sometimes her now larger, more developed, nipples would belligerently show into her clothing, and, sometimes they would not. Sometimes, she'd wear a bra, and sometimes she obviously wasn't. Sometimes her tops elegantly showed what beautifully large, perfectly pneumatic breasts she'd developed over the years, and sometimes all you could detect from her attire was that, even though you could see no easily discernible shape of her bounty, there very likely was a huge bounty of breastmeat under her clothing, nevertheless, because either that huge swell growing out several inches above and several below, her waist, was fat, or it was huge tits, you'd have to go with the latter by how trim and toned her neck, arms, hips and legs were. And then once you realized that, if you were a guy, I suppose many, if they were of the boobhound proclivity, would soon find themselves locked away somewhere back in their plushy safe suburban home, locked away in the 2nd floor bathroom, while their lovely wives were cooking dinner, righteously whacking off, thinking about her. Thinking about how beautiful and sexy she was. Thinking about those huge knockers, to boot.
One thing was clear: Her breasts had quite definitely acquired significant weight, volume, and heft over the past few years, and she had, and was using, the power she'd derived therefrom, to display her bustial superiority whenever and however she wished. My uncle's admonishments had, in sum, become powerless. And so, he stopped. He accepted, that she'd dress however she wanted, whenever she wanted, regardless of his druthers on the matter.
I believe that acceptance finally began to develop after the prior-described episode at the cabin. There, up in the loft, after we'd all been there several hours, soon after Gordon and my uncle had ventured out for a hike, or I should say, fledc, she, in my presence, had most definitely exploded her sexual angst into full fruition. It occurred to me later, as an adult, that that afternoon up in the loft in a cabin dozens of miles from any hint of civilisation, her behavior so to speak, might've been the first time, since her marriage, that'd she'd done, "that", in the presence of a man, well, an 18 year old man-youth at that, where such male was not her husband.
Many things between a husband and wife are thought, but not spoken, only because they know each other so well. And I believe, that what had been thought between them, though not spoken - is that she had deliberately chosen to capitulate her primal intimate organs into explosive feline release, in front of the man/boynot her husband, which event I believe he was cognizant of although not present for, as he surely seemed to have recognized the signs of it coming on ahead of time, in the cabin, right before he made his hasty exit with Gordon. I furthermore believe this power of hers, to silently but surely give him the non verbal signs, that she was soon going to engage into a feline release, for lack of better words, gave my aunt a sense of power and independence from her husband, which she'd been prior-to restricted from for all the time preceding then. It gave her the upper hand so to speak. I daresay her sexual proclivities and the intensity of her power, evidenced by, amongst other things, her massive, steadily growing breasthood, soon allowed her to dominate and manifest herself completely over him.
He didn't resist therefore when she announced I would not be going for a walk with him and Gordon. And she knew, that he knew, what that meant too. It meant she'd deliberately chosen me to be someone not him who would privately witness her feline explosion. I don't know if he knew it meant I would also participate as well. The two of them may have reconciled that it would be better if there were some things about her he did not know. I reckon that would have been one of them.
It was obvious by the time Gordon and my uncle had returned to the cabin, that she had simmered down and recovered to more like her usual self. My uncle would have surely noticed that. I thus believed he'd assumed she'd achieved feline explosion during his and Gordon's journey outside of the cabin. I wondered if his imagination went as far as to picture her lying in the loft, completely unclothed, with her fingertips addressing her need, whilst she suckled me with her overdeveloped juggs.
Bear in mind, I was only beginning to understand sex then. Had my aunt had sex with me that day, in the cabin? Technically, no, I suppose. She'd had sex with herself...which I'd observed. Was her act of suckling me, a sex act? By itself, no, is one possible interpretation. But doing it, while bringing herself to fruition, with her own hands, inside herself? Maybe. I don't know. Was it a lascivious act? Maybe. So then the question becomes, What acts are considered lascivious? Black's Law Dictionary defines it as: Tending to excite lust; lewd ; indecent; obscene; relating to sexual impurity; tending to deprave the morals in respect to sexual relations.
Yow.
All I knew was that my aunt had developed imponderably large tits, and that she liked to, and let me, time to time, suck on them. The fact that she'd begun pleasuring herself, whilst in my presence, was probably something the vast majority of the human race would consider as lascivious, though I don't think it damaged me any, emotionally, at least not that I can tell, but who knows?
I believed then, at age 18, that whatever went on between my aunt and me was purely our thing, extremely private, and that no one else was to know about it. They just wouldn't understand, I thought. It was solely a unique relationship between her and me - she as my mother-aunt, and me as her nephew-son. I realized that my aunt suckling me, at age 18, was not normal. But I had the good sense to know, thankfully, that had I mentioned it to her, or anyone for that matter, she might stop doing it.
I felt certain my aunt cared deeply about me, and had no intentions whatsoever, to hurt me in any way, ever. I knew biologically, I wasn't her son. But I knew she had no other children, and sadly, Gordon had failed to meet muster, as a bona fide stepson, for a variety of reasons. I knew I was under her charge, and that she would care for and protect me, to giving up her life, if need be. Her love felt that strong. She was certainly as close to a loving, caring mother that I'd ever have.
The fact that she'd begun pleasuring herself, whilst I drank from her - I could see no need to begrudge her that, or deny her that, or see her actions as some way to hurt me or control me or abuse me. She already had control of me, and she had my full trust, already, even if she'd never had begun to pleasure herself in my presence. But somehow her doing that, of course, helped to make the bonds between us even stronger, because she was sharing a seriously intimate side of herself, with me. It wasn't lascivious, or bad, in my opinion; it was strictly my aunt mother being herself and feeling okay about sharing that part of herself with me, or, at least, permitting me to be within her presence during those moments, while incidentally suckling from her lavishly developed breasthood.
In the dark hours before falling asleep some nights, I'd think back, though, to how my aunt had stolen my uncle from Gordon's mom. I'd imagined how she'd showed up one day, holding my uncle's hand, approaching on the walkway to Gordon's suburban home, my aunt wearing something tight, something clingy, her dark blond locks slightly curling around her face, past her shoulders, to just above and around her bust, her strengthening and growing breasts emphasizing the insistence of her mammary prowess, with her strong evidential nippleage formidably swelled, conveying the subtle, unspoken, but most definite message, that she possessed the power to have what she wanted, whenever she wanted it, even if that included the woman's husband. I thought of Gordon's mother realizing, then, she had no chance, and remembered how, later, a few years down the road, Gordon's mother, walked out a 15th story window into the nothingness and eternity.
I thought of the day, out on the back pool deck, when she stood next to Mr. Hiscox, his eyes on her bust, next to Mrs. Hiscox, who was becoming, from appearances, jealous and angry, understandably, while, my aunt - whose smooth surfaced bust suddenly, slowly, and inexorably erupted with ever largening nipple impressions, the metamorphoses taking place over a period of only a few minutes. My aunt didn't have to say a word, while the usually assertive Mrs. Hiscox, suddenly became cowardly and sheepish, slowly fading away, while Mr. Hiscox, if told to, would have likely gotten on his knees, I bet, and given my aunt cunnilingus, right there, in front of everyone.
I remembered the day how she'd completely humiliated the female civil guard at the detention facility, the doughty heartless woman shaped liked a pear, who was attempting to use every evil tool of bureaucracy and red tape at her disposal to block my release, simply because she could, simply because she enjoyed that bureaucratic sense of power bestowed upon her by the state.
But my aunt, livid, and finally at the end of her patience, released the few buttons of her blazer holding it closed, exposing to the woman, and the guard, her full and impressively developing bustage, thus revealing to the woman, for the first time, her uniquely full mammary pressage, and insistence, whereupon, the guard intervened, settling the matter quickly, arranging for my full and legal release in under a minutes' time.
My aunt, I was learning, got what she wanted. Hell, of course she didn't kill my parents. But somehow in the end of it all, she did get me, which now I believe was something she'd always wanted. And she might have felt emboldened with that want by observing the lack of love and warmth my parents showed towards me.
All the while, she gained all these things in her quiet, effective, feminine manner. The fact of her growing developing jugghood only seemed commensurate, complementary, and physical evidence of her growing personal power.
Likewise, seemingly as a purely natural outcome, she'd deigned to suckle me therefrom, commencing that ritual not more than 6 months after I'd moved into her home, becoming a part of her family, because she wanted to, and because I wanted her to, while that last time, in the cabin loft, she'd slid her fingers into herself, slowly and fully arriving at the tumultuous shores of Valhalla whilst I watched, felt, and heard everything.
I must admit, it gave me great, fantastic pleasure, to see my aunt prance around the kitchen, to and from the dinner table, as she served Uncle Rich and me dinner, when she'd worn something especially tight and clingy. No bra in sight on most occasions, in the house. At such times, it was like her big nipple-topped knockers had a big sign on them: "We're so big now. We really do need to be sucked on, and I know you want to do it."
The funny thing, is that, because in all other ways besides her breastdom, she was slim and petite, and always had been, I think she still thought of herself, as little. As a consequence, she invariably, especially in the house, and since Gordon had left for summer camp, wore tops that were too small, in length. And because of her big knockers, she couldn't tuck such shirts in. So those particular tops would just hang on her, out there, pushed into space by her big circles and associated breastial equipment there.
Sometimes, especially if I were seated and she was standing, I could see a part of the bottoms of her thick milky white fulsome jambaroos.
Occasionally, say, if I were in the kitchen seated at the table, and my aunt was cooking, when she'd reach up to the top of the cabinets to retrieve an item of cookware, the bottom of her top would inadvertently slip up and over the points of her big tits, and come to rest there, on her chest, momentarily above her well developed business, until she'd notice it and pull the top back down over it all. I'd quickly look away and pretend not to notice. Sometimes I'd hear her say to herself a quiet "Oh my," whenever that happened, as if her learning of the fact of her growth beyond that of what her tops allowed, was something that lagged behind, in time, of the advent of the growth itself.
