By Captain Dunsel
Denise Benton was nervous. In two hours she was meeting Roger Portman at the Sheraton lounge for drinks. Roger Portman was Creative Director at My Girl Apparel, the fifth largest manufacturer of women‟s clothing in the United States. Denise had been courting him by e-mail for nearly six months, trying to set up a meeting so she could show him her design portfolio. Finally, after several false alarms, he had agreed to meet her. Portman was in town for just the day, and he had warned her that he only had one hour of free time to spare before he had to leave for the airport. But he had agreed to meet her.
Denise knew this was it—her big chance. If My Girl Apparel picked up even one of her designs she‟d be in the big leagues at last. No more dead end internships. No more being snubbed by the prestige shows. No more going store to store, begging for a few miserable feet of display space. All her dreams would come true. Everything was riding on this meeting.
Which was exactly why she was so nervous.
Denise knew there was a good chance she‟d impress Portman. She had a lot going for her. She was smart and talented and attractive—at least, attractive to men who were attracted to busty, blue-eyed blondes, which was certainly most men, in her experience. And she was good with people. She was confident that Portman would find her pleasant enough company for an hour. She knew how to charm a man, after all. That was easy. Just show him a little cleavage and laugh at his jokes. She knew how to impress a potential employer, too. Just answer his stock interview questions with unexpected, intelligent, insightful responses. What she didn’t know was what Roger Portman would think of her design portfolio. Portman was a creative genius. If he didn‟t like her designs it wouldn‟t matter how much he liked her insightful responses or her big boobs.
But he had to like her designs. He just had to! They were so cute!
As she paced back and forth in the apartment living room, Denise caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. As a matter of fact, the dressing robe she was wearing right now was one of her best designs. Denise did a fashion model pose, admiring the cut of her creation. Modified kimono style, hem just below the waist, in aqua satin, with the prettiest grapevine embroidery on the lapels. Very cute. Of course, she could only wear the stupid thing when she was alone because it would not stay closed, but that wasn‟t the designer's fault. Well, okay, true, it was partly because the satin she chose was slippery and the belt kept coming untied, but that was true of all satin robes, and you couldn't not design satin robes. And anyway, it was mostly because the robe was one of her samples and was two sizes too small for her and her boobs kept pushing it open. Pacing back and forth with no bra on and her breasts bobbling around freely just made the problem worse. Denise pulled the little robe closed and tugged the belt tight for the umpteenth time. And the fact that it didn‟t fit her didn‟t change the fact that it was really cute. All her designs were really cute. Roger Portman was sure to see that, wasn't he?
But what if he didn’t see that? What if he thought she was a no talent hick from the sticks who— All right, I have got to calm down, Denise thought. If I’m freaked out like this I’m not going to charm and impress anybody. But how? She had tried her yoga exercises and her meditation exercises, but they hadn't helped much. She had even tried praying, which she hadn't done since college, but got nothing in return. In the next hundred minutes she needed to take a shower and do her hair and put on her makeup and get dressed and drive over to the Sheraton—but most of all, she had to relax!
Denise wished Shannon were here—but unfortunately her apartment mate was in Florida visiting family. Shannon never got nervous. No, that’s not true, Denise corrected herself. Shannon got nervous as often as anyone, but she had a way of calming her nerves. A way that Denise had always scorned. “You can't find real serenity in a bottle,” she would scold Shannon. “Don‟t knock it until you've tried it,” Shannon would fire back, smiling and pouring another drink. Right now Denise was wishing she hadn't been so contemptuous of Shannon's alcohol-induced serenity. She could use any help she could get.
Well, she thought, it’s not like there’s a learning curve. After all, anyone could pour a drink. And there was plenty of booze in the apartment, Denise was sure of that. Shannon was always well-stocked. She stored her liquor in the cabinet under the microwave. There was so much, Denise could drink some and Shannon would never even know—and maybe just as important, never get to say “I told you so.”
Denise sighed, unsure what to do. She was nervous about having a drink, but she was even more nervous about the meeting with Roger Portman. Denise, she told herself, you’ve got to do something. This is your big break, and you’re about to blow it. Clearly this was no time to stand on principle—and besides, no one ever need know that she had compromised. Not that Shannon would mind even if she did know. Heck, she'd probably encourage Denise to partake. She'd laugh and tease, of course, but she'd be all for it. So there was no good reason not to have a drink. One small drink, just enough alcohol to calm her ragged nerves.
Denise turned and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen. Her boobs almost immediately bobbled free of the silk robe again, but she scarcely noticed, absently tugging the robe back around them. This is no big deal, she thought, trying to convince herself that she'd made the right decision. After all, she had drunk liquor before. Twice before, in fact. Neither time had ended well, but that was because she had drunk way too much. Denise smiled wryly at the memories. Wayyy too much. But this time there wouldn't be any sneaky frat boys adding vodka to her smoothie, or any handsome brother-in-law convincing her to have “just one more” glass of chablis. Which meant this time she wouldn't end up in the frat house swimming pool or in her sister‟s laundry room having sex. Really incredible sex, she had to admit, smiling in spite of herself, but still—this time she‟d just have one small drink. Just enough to relax her and take the edge off.
Denise entered the kitchen and grabbed a water glass from the dish drainer, then bent over and pulled open the cabinet under the microwave. Her breasts, of course, tumbled free of the robe. Denise ignored them. Shannon had a variety of liquor bottles stored in the cabinet. Too many, in fact. Denise wasn‟t sure which bottle to take, which kind of liquor would be the best choice. She picked up bottles, turning them, browsing the labels, and finally settled on something called “Tennessee Heaven.” She read the label. Handmade Fruit and Spice Flavored Spirit, Barrel Aged, 165 Proof. She wasn‟t sure what that meant, but she liked spiced fruit and the name seemed appropriate for a Southern Baptist girl.
She unscrewed the bottle cap and took a sniff. It smelled like nasty medicine, but all liquor smelled like nasty medicine in her experience. Denise poured some of the amber liquid into her glass. She stopped at halfway, wondering how much she should drink. Shannon would drink three or four cocktails this size in one evening, sometimes more. Of course, Denise was pretty sure Shannon mixed the liquor with other things, sodas and flavored water and stuff. But Denise didn't care about what this drink tasted like, she was drinking for medicinal purposes, not pleasure. She filled the glass to the rim with Tennessee Heaven and placed the open bottle on the counter.
Well, here goes nothing, she told herself, and lifted the glass to her lips. Denise knew there was no time to pussyfoot around, so she forced herself to drink down several large gulps of the harsh liquor in one swallow. Like drinking medicine. As she expected, it tasted foul—like artificially sweetened gasoline—and she gagged and sputtered and coughed. But that was okay, she didn't need to enjoy it. Still, she had to pause and catch her breath before continuing.
“Jeepers,” she said aloud, her voice raspy, “how does Shannon drink this stuff?” She could already feel the blood rushing to her head from the sudden influx of alcohol, and there was a slightly nauseated feeling in her stomach. So far she was definitely not enjoying this. Denise knew she had better finish off the glass quickly before she lost her nerve. She took a deep breath, put the glass to her lips, and forced herself to swallow gulp after gulp after gulp until the glass, finally, was empty.
“Gah!” she exclaimed, making a face. “Yuck! They should've called it Tennessee Hell!”
Denise stood there for a moment, frowning, leaning on the counter, collecting herself. She coughed. The blood rushing feeling and slightly nauseated feeling were still there, getting worse in fact, and she had a few bad moments when she thought she might throw the liquor right back up—but that passed. And then the nausea passed. And then the blood rushing passed.
And what replaced it all was…better.
In fact, now that she wasn‟t actually drinking the stuff, now that it was already inside her and she was just standing there letting it do its job, it wasn‟t all that bad. Not pleasant, of course, but not all that bad. She could feel the alcohol going to work. There was a numbing sensation creeping over her, bit by bit, radiating out from the warm glow in her belly and quickly spreading to her extremities. She remembered this feeling from the two times she had drunk liquor before. She remembered liking it. Denise smiled. Yup, it is definitely working. In fact, she was already feeling less stressed out, more relaxed.
Denise glanced at the microwave clock, surprised to see that she had been standing there enjoying the effects of the Tennessee Heaven for nearly ten minutes.
“Ooh,” she said, “I need to hop in the showerer.” She put her empty glass down, misjudging and almost missing the counter at first, but placing the glass securely on the second try. She wondered if her coordination was off because of the alcohol, but decided that was crazy. Not from one drink. She pulled her silk robe closed and headed for her bathroom, but as she walked back down the hallway she stumbled, suddenly dizzy.
“Whoah,” she said, leaning on the wall for support. Maybe it wasn‟t so crazy after all. Maybe that Tennessee Heaven really packed a punch. One little glass and she was already walking unsteady. ily. Unsteadily. Better be careful or Portman will think I’m drunk. For some reason that idea made her giggle. She pushed off the wall and headed down the hallway, weaving slightly but managing to avoid any further collisions.
I’m okay, Denise thought, smiling. A little unsteadily, but by the time I arrive at the Sheraton at eight I’ll be five. Fine. She stumbled again and caught her balance on the back of the sofa. She giggled. Oh man. This will not do. You may have overdone the Tennessee Heaven, girl. She giggled again, more amused than concerned. The meeting was still…she peered at the clock on the TV…eighty-five minutes away. She'd be fine by then. Denise was just about to push off the sofa and continue on her way to the bedroom when the doorbell buzzed.
Denise blinked. Why do they call it a doorbell when it buzzes? she wondered. Shouldn’t it be a doorbuzz? That idea made her giggle. The doorbell buzzed again. She looked at the door, puzzled. Who could it possibly be? All of Shannon's friends knew Shannon was out of town, and all of Denise's friends knew she had this meeting tonight.
Well…one way to find out, Denise decided. She let go of the sofa and started for the front door. She was weaving a little more now, but not so anyone would notice unless they were watching her carefully. Denise leaned on the front door jamb and went to unhook the chain. For some reason her fingers were clumsy and she had trouble grabbing hold of the thing, but after several tries finally managed to unhook it. She smiled at her success, then pulled the door open, stumbling back a step, using the door knob as an anchor to keep her from stumbling back even further.
It was Mr. Pitrowski.
“Heyyyyy, Mr. Pitrowski!” she said a little too loudly, smiling brightly. Mr. and Mrs. Pitrowski were her neighbors from across the hall. Denise liked them. They were a real sweet couple. Always friendly. They never complained no matter how much noise Shannon made.
Denise noticed, not for the first time, that Mr. Pitrowski was quite handsome for an older man; he must have been a real lady killer when he was younger. She giggled at the thought.
Right at the moment, however, Mr. Pitrowski looked unhappy. Or maybe ill. Or startled, at least. His face was pale and his eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open.
“Mr. Pitrowski, are you right. All right?” Denise asked, concern furrowing her brow. She took a step forward but held tight to the door knob and kept her balance. The older man seemed to collect himself and smiled weakly.
“Yes…yes…I‟m, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I‟m fine. Denise.” His face took on a look of puzzled concern. “Are you all right?”
“Me? Ohhhhhh, sure.” Denise waved her free hand at him. The movement threw her off balance and she lurched, stumbled, then caught herself. “I‟m dunky-dory. I mean hunky-dunky-dory.” She grinned at her neighbor. “What can I do for you, Mr. Pitrowsee…ski?” She giggled and poked his pectoral as she corrected herself. “Ski. Ski.” Denise decided to let go of the knob and lean against the door jamb instead, holding on with both hands, the better to keep her balance. She pressed her cheek against the smooth wood and smiled sleepy-eyed at Mr. Pitrowski. She was starting to feel sort of dreamy. It was nice.
“Uhhh…oh. Yes. Mrs. Pitrowski wanted me to return the pinking shears she borrowed,” he said, holding out a small plastic scissors case.
“Ohhhhh, sure. Good. Thanks.” Denise leaned forward and took the case, then turned and placed it on the little table next to the door—but it immediately slipped off and fell to the floor. Oopsy. Denise blinked at it for a few moments, wondering what she should do, then she looked up and smiled. “Don‟t worry, I'll pinkit…picket up layer.”
“Yes,” Mr. Pitrowski said. “Um…Mrs. Pitrowski would have thanked you herself but she's off visiting her mother.”
“Welllll, you tell her from me that's she very welcome,” Denise said, leaning into Mr. Pitrowski, her face only a few inches from his. She saw him wrinkle his nose and realized he must smell the booze on her breath. He knew she had been drinking.
Oh well, Denise thought, smiling. Good ol' Mr. Pitrowski wouldn‟t care that she had snuck a little drink. Denise blinked. Their bodies were very close together now and that seemed to make him nervous for some reason. Denise was about to ask him why he was so nervous when her hand slipped off the door jamb and she fell against him, knocking him back a step.
“Whooops!” she cried, laughing as her knees buckled and she collapsed into his arms, her face buried in his chest.
“Oh my,” Mr. Pitrowski said, which made Denise laugh even harder for some reason. She was slumped against him like a boneless rag doll now, her big boobs pressed flat against his chest, and she was in no big hurry to unslump herself. It felt very nice. She could feel his muscles through her thin robe and his thin shirt and from the feel of them Mr. Pitrowski had some pretty terrific muscles for an older guy. Denise would have been content to stay sprawled in his arms for quite a while, but after a few moments he lifted her by her elbows and guided her as she stumbled back a step and regained her balance. Pretty much. She leaned on the door jamb again, holding on with both hands now, and grinned at her neighbor.
“Sorry,” she said, trying to stop giggling. “Sorry. Sorry. I‟m a little woobily. I‟m a little wallaby.” She giggled again and leaned her head on the jamb, gazing at Mr. Pitrowski. He wasn't altogether in focus. Oooh dear, I think I’m a little drunk, Denise thought. “Whooo,” she said, wagging her eyebrows expressively, letting him know that it wasn‟t her fault she had fallen against him because she was a little drunk.
“Uhh…Denise,” Mr. Pitrowski said, lowering his voice. “Have…have you been drinking?”
“Mmmmm…well.” Denise leaned closer and lowered her voice as well. She placed a hand on his chest. “Just between you and me and the two of us, Mr. Pitrowski, I had a tiny little bitty bitty drink.” She leaned back, smiling. “Notta lot. Juss a li‟l binny drink is all.”
“I thought you didn‟t drink, Denise.”
“Thass right! That is right. I don‟t. I don‟t. That‟s right. This was mecin…mendin…” She blinked, frowned. She had never realized before how hard that word was to say.
“Medicinal?” Mr. Pitrowski asked.
“Right!” Denise agreed, patting his chest. “Right. Thank you. This was purely mediss…sissinal.”
“Why did you need a medicinal drink?” Mr. Pitrowski asked.
“Well…” Denise said, letting him in on the secret, “I have a meeting with Mr. Roger Pitman…Portman of the My Girl Apparel apparel company.” She smiled proudly. “I‟m gonna show him my portman…portfolio.”
“Wow…that sounds like quite an opportunity for you, Denise,” Mr. Pitrowski said.
“It is. It certainly is.” She leaned in and whispered. “That's why I had a li'l drink. To come…” She closed her eyes and scowled, annoyed that the words weren‟t coming out right. “Calm my nerves, y'know?”
“Ahh. Well…you'd better be careful not to overdo it.”
“Ohhhhhhhhhhh, don't you worry about me, Mr. Portman,” Denise said, then smiled, realizing her mistake, and patted his arm. “Pitrowski, I mean. I know all about the dangers of drinking too much…to drink.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh yes. Oh my yes,” she assured him. She leaned in very close and spoke softly. This was a secret, but she knew she could trust Mr. Pitrowski. “See…when I get drunk, I get very…umm…amorous.” She giggled.
“Ohhhh yes.” Denise giggled again. “Oh yes. Quite ambermus.” She whispered. “The truth is… apparently, you see, when I get drunk, I apparently like to have sex with men I hardly know.”
Mr. Pitrowski blinked and swallowed hard. “Is that so.”
“Mm-hm,” Denise told him. “Happens every time. Both times. It happened. So believe me, I am going to make very sure to get drunk.” She frowned, then giggled. “I mean…” She giggled again. “I mean, very sure not to…not to get too drunk.”
“Of course. Well…I better shop…” She closed her eyes, tried again. “Hop in the shower. Now you…you be sure to thank Mrs. Piss…Pitrowski for returning the pinkening shears for me, okay?”
“Um…yes, I will. And you be careful on your date.”
“No no no…snot a date,” Denise corrected him. “It is a business mean.”
“Well…still, you be careful, Denise,” Mr. Pitrowski said. “You've been drinking and men will take advantage of that, even at a business meeting.”
“Awww,” Denise cooed, cocking her head, touched by her friendly neighbor‟s concern. She clumsily wrapped her arms around Mr. Pitrowski‟s neck and leaned close, smiling. “You are so sweet, Mr. Pisstrowski.”
Denise kissed him on the cheek. Then she kissed him on the cheek again, but a good deal closer to his mouth. Then she kissed him on the cheek a third time, and this time her lips sort of slipped onto his, and the next thing she knew she was really kissing him.
Even as it was happening some part of Denise's brain was wondering why she was doing it, why she was acting without her usual inhibitions, but she didn't care. It felt good to just do what she wanted to do, and she wanted to kiss nice, handsome, muscular Mr. Pitrowski, so she was kissing him. Mr. Pitrowski didn't exactly kiss her back, but he didn't exactly not kiss her back either. Mostly he seemed to be taken by surprise. In fact, the shocked look on his face made Denise giggle and she broke the kiss, stepping back into the apartment.
“Nnnnn…goodnight, Mr. Pitrowski,” she said coquettishly, touching his nose with her finger, and she closed the door. Denise leaned against the door and giggled. She liked old Mr. Pitrowski. He was nice. And handsome, too, for an older guy. Funny, though, he seemed really nervous and distracted tonight, even before she kissed him. She wondered why. Maybe he’s lonely because his wife is away, she thought. Maybe that was why he returned the pinking shears; it gave him an excuse to say hello. Maybe I should have invited him in for a drink.
Denise looked down at the little plastic case on the floor. It was only then that she noticed her satin robe was hanging open again, her boobs and white thong panties completely exposed. For a moment she didn‟t think anything about it, other than her usual annoyance at the stupid satin robe. Then she blinked, and realization lit her muddled brain. Her big blue eyes widened.
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed, hands to her mouth. She closed her eyes and giggled, falling back against the door. “Oh my god!” No wonder Mr. Pitrowski looked like he was going to faint. And no wonder she had been able to feel his muscles so well. Her boobs had been standing there naked for who knows how long.
That explained the look on his face—the poor man was obviously totally embarrassed. Denise giggled. She knew that she should be embarrassed, flashing her boobs at her middle-aged neighbor like some kind of exotic dancer, and then kissing him on top of it. But mostly she thought it was funny. The look on his face! Denise giggled again. Nice work, Denise. You mortified your neighbor. “Ohhhh my god.” Denise sighed a deep breath, still smiling. Oh well. She would find some way to apologize the next time she saw him. Poor Mr. Pitrowski.
Denise pushed herself off the door and headed for the bathroom, still weaving and still giggling at the look on her neighbor's face.
God, nothing is more relaxing than a hot shower, Denise thought as the needles of water massaged her naked, soapy body. She couldn‟t recall the last time she had been this relaxed in fact. The thought made her giggle. She ran the scrunchie over her plumpish thighs and flat stomach and big breasts, luxuriating in the feeling of tingly relaxation. Denise giggled again and let the soapy scrunchie drift southward. She was feeling so nice she was very tempted to take the time to pleasure herself—the shower was her favorite place to masturbate, after all, and she was feeling unaccountably horny. Maybe it was the kiss, or knowing that handsome Mr. Pitrowski had seen her tits. She let the scrunchie brush against her “special” spots, felt the familiar lovely tingle. She wondered if Mr. Pitrowski liked what he saw. She bet he did. She bet he‟d like to—
But no, alas, Denise knew she didn‟t have time for this. “You have to meet Roger Portman,” she reminded herself, “and show him your tits.” She giggled. Just not quite so much of them. Denise giggled again, then sighed and reluctantly rinsed off.
Five minutes later she was toweled off and sitting at her dressing table, naked except for her skimpiest black lace panties, the towel wrapped around her damp body. With the ease of experience Denise quickly dried and fluffed and styled her hair, pulling her thick blonde mane up into a classic French twist, but leaving a few sexy wisps and curls to dance across her shoulders. It was an easy, simple style, but it looked great. A little messier than usual, maybe, because her fingers were sort of clumsy, but that was okay. That messy look was still in, and it made her look slightly tousled, which was supposed to be sexy.
Denise never wore much makeup—with her flawless skin and youthful beauty she didn‟t need to—so it didn‟t take her long to apply it, even in her less than coordinated condition. She ended up going a little heavier than usual on the eyeliner and lip gloss—not on purpose, but her hands didn‟t want to do what she told them to. She examined herself in the mirror and frowned. Between her tousled hairdo, raccoon eyes and glossy lips she looked more than a little slutty. She blinked. Oh brother. This was no way to earn Mr. Portman‟s respect.
Denise realized to her alarm that she was starting to feel nervous all over again. Oh no…the alcohol must be wearing off, she thought. Her anxious fears about the meeting with Portman were seeping back, eroding the happy feeling of contentment she had enjoyed while showering. She still felt woozy and sort of out-of-it, but the warm serenity of a few minutes earlier was starting to desert her.
Well, maybe I’d better have another drink, she thought. She suspected that might be a really bad idea, but at the same time it was an idea that seemed to make sense, and she didn‟t know which way of looking at it was correct. It was hard to keep her mind focused on a straight line of thought. Arguments would present themselves, arousing memories of drunken sex would flit across her mind's eye, promises she made to herself would bubble to the surface—but none of it would stay focused long enough for Denise to reach a sensible conclusion. In the end she decided that one more drink wouldn't hurt, and it would probably help, and anyway this time she wouldn't drink it down all at once, she'd take her time and sip it while she got dressed.
Doubts and warnings still nagged in the recesses of her muddled mind, but Denise ignored them. She stood, stumbling a bit, and walked to the kitchen, holding the towel closed with one hand. She had to steady herself with the other hand a few times on the way—her legs had gotten out of synch and her feet seemed to be hitting the floor about a half second later than she expected. Denise entered the kitchen and smiled when she saw the open bottle and empty glass, right where she left them.
“Excellent,” she said out loud. Too loud. Why am I shouting? she wondered. Denise stumbled slightly on her approach, but caught herself on the counter. She picked up the bottle, noticing that the label was smudged or something. The words kept swimming in and out of focus. Denise blinked and stared hard at the label. TtEeNnNnEeSsSsEeEe HhEeAaVvEeNn. The smaller words about fruit and spices and proofs were so blurry she couldn't read them at all. Not that it mattered. Tennessee Heaven was all she needed to know.
Denise filled the glass with the liquor, right to the rim, admiring the pretty amber color, then put the bottle down. Like her feet, it hit the counter a half second before she expected it too, clunking loudly. She giggled. Her coordination was definitely off; she'd have to be careful at the meeting or Roger Portman would know she'd been drinking.
None of his damned business anyway, Denise thought, and she giggled again. She raised the glass to her lips and drank eagerly.
To her surprise, this time the strong liquor hardly bothered her at all. It still didn‟t taste good, but neither did it make her gag and cough. I must be developing an intolerance, she thought as she drank. In fact, the Tennessee Heaven went down so smooth that she managed to finish off the entire glass in one long series of forced gulps. True, she coughed a little as she swallowed the last of it, but on the whole it was no big deal.
Denise leaned back against the counter and closed her eyes, waiting for the liquor perform its magic. Sure enough, in a matter of moments the warm relaxation was once again caressing her like a security blanket. In fact, this time it was even better. She didn‟t just feel relaxed, she felt good overall. Really, really good. Happy, and contented, and secure, and dizzy. Really, really dizzy, but that was okay. She didn't mind the world spinning around and around if it meant she could feel this relaxed and confident. What was the word Shannon liked to use? Oh yeah. Bulletproof. Denise giggled. That was it. She felt bulletproof.
Denise opened her eyes, surprised to find that the kitchen wasn't spinning in circles as she had expected. It was, however, decidedly out of focus, like it was trying to be two or three kitchens at once. She looked over at the microwave clock but had trouble reading it. Denise couldn't decide if it said 6:25 or 2:65. It seemed to be saying both. Like a double exposure, she thought.
She glanced down to see that the towel had fallen away, held against the counter by her chubby ass, but leaving her boobs exposed. A double exposure, she thought, just like when she flashed Mr. Pitrowski. That made her laugh and she stumbled, sliding against the counter, the towel falling to the floor. She caught herself with her elbow and glanced at the empty glass in her hand…
…and it was then she remembered that she wasn't supposed to drink this second drink down all at once. She was supposed to sip it while she got dressed.
“Oops,” Denise said, and she giggled again. Oh well. No harm done. “No harm, no foul, no farm,” she told the universe, stumbling sideways and catching herself. She would just pour another one and sip it while she put on her clothes. No problem.
It was a bit of a problem pouring the drink, as it happened—her aim was off and a good deal of Tennessee Heaven ended up on the counter instead of in her glass, but she eventually managed to fill it up. Overfill it, in fact—so much so that she had to lean over and sip a little before she dared lift the glass. Even then the glass was very full, and she was afraid of spilling as she walked, given that her dizziness and lack of coordination were getting even worse, so she drank about a third of the glass before setting out. That accomplished, she headed for the bedroom, naked except for her panties, the bath towel forgotten, bare feet slapping on the tile floor.
Her legs had definitely gotten out of synch because she was no longer just weaving a bit, she was practically careening, bouncing off the walls and giggling like an idiot as she walked. She tried to keep her balance and walk a straight line, but her legs weren‟t cooperating. Her big boobs weren‟t helping either, swinging and bouncing and swaying as she stumbled down the hallway to the living room. Over the years she had, of course, learned to walk gracefully despite her dangerously cantilevered bosom, but in her present condition, naked and suffering from severe alcohol relaxation, those big boobies swinging around were throwing her seriously off balance. Denise sighed. Half the time big tits were more trouble than they were worth. If men didn‟t like them so much she'd just probably get rid of the damn things.
A particularly unbalanced brush with the wall caused her to knock some framed photos of Shannon‟s family out of whack. Oops. She'd straighten them later, no time now. As she entered the living room she stumbled sideways, twisted to catch herself, and knocked over the little Mickey Mouse lamp on the stereo cabinet. Oops. Denise tried to pick up the lamp, but bending over that far made her really dizzy and she staggered backward, giggling, and crashed into the bookcase. A copy of The Bourne Identity fell on her head and tumbled to the floor.
“Ow,” she said, and she giggled at the absurdity of it all. Denise decided she'd better just leave the book and the lamp where they lay for now, lest she end up flat on her ass. Wow, she thought, looking around. The living room wasn‟t spinning so much as it was wavering, warping in and out of shape. No wonder she was having trouble keeping her balance. She stood there, leaning against the bookcase for a few moments, hoping the dizziness would pass. It didn't. If anything it got worse. Now she was concerned that she would spill her drink all over the carpet if she continued to the bedroom. Shannon would see the stains and know Denise had been drinking her liquor. Better drink it here, she decided.
This time there was no internal argument, the idea was obviously such a good one. She put the glass to her mouth, tilted back her head, and emptied the barrel aged, 165 proof, flavored spirit in a half dozen gulps. No coughing this time, Denise noted proudly, lowering the empty glass.
She stood there for a while, supported by the bookcase, enjoying the warm fuzzies that were gradually taking over her brain. Denise grinned. Now that she was nice and relaxed, Roger Portman didn‟t stand a chance. He would be bowled over by her boobs. Wait. She closed her eyes and giggled.
“Not my boobs,” she corrected herself, “my design fortpolio.” That wasn‟t right. She frowned, then giggled, eyes still closed. “Fort…port-fo-lee-o,” she enunciated carefully. That was right. Denise smiled. Then frowned. Wasn't she supposed to be doing something? Ohhh right right right. Pick an outfit, get dressed, drive to the Sheraton. But first she needed a drink to sip on while she got dressed.
Denise launched herself off the bookcase and headed back down the hall to the kitchen, where she was pretty certain she had left the bottle of Heavenly Tennessee. Stupid of her to leave the kitchen without a drink. What had she been thinking? She was weaving like a drunken sailor now, as her brother Greg, who was in the Navy, liked to say, but it was okay because the hallway walls kept her on course and shipshape. She knocked a couple of photos off the wall this time, but she knew she could pick them up later, when she wasn't so damned relaxed.
The open seas of the kitchen were more of a challenge to her navigation skills, but she made port at the counter…after a minor skirmish with the fridge in which several ceramic cat magnets were lost. Not bad considering her naked, bobbling boobs were still throwing her off balance and she just couldn’t stop giggling.
The bottle was right where she left it—or rather, all three bottles were right where she left them. Denise knew that was an optical illusion. There was only one bottle. But which one was the real bottle and which were the illusions? She wisely guessed the middle bottle and she was right, though it still took her several tries before she got a hold of its neck. That made her giggle, of course. Everything made her giggle. Her aim had gotten worse since the last time she poured and she had to hold the glass very close to her face in order to judge the distance properly. Even then it was a challenge, but she managed to refill the glass. True, there were a few spills on the kitchen floor, and a splash on her left tit, but she knew she could clean them up later, when she wasn't so tipsy.
She downed the glass of Tennessee Heaven with a grace and ease that would have made Shannon proud. Or jealous. Smooth and easy. Not so much as a stifled cough. Denise licked her lips, surprised to find that she was actually enjoying the taste now. Had to groan on me, she thought. Denise stood there in a daze for a while, enjoying the way the kitchen was embracing her, making her feel warm and secure. Everyone always said the kitchen was the warmest, happiest room in the home, and they were right. Denise couldn't recall when she had felt so warm and happy.
Okay…no time to be wasting time, she scolded herself. Can’t meet with Portman wearing nothing but your panties. Denise giggled at the idea. Then she frowned, concentrating. Wasn't there something she was supposed to do before she got dressed? She stumbled sideways, suddenly unbalanced, her ass rubbing against the counter. Ohhhh right. Right right right. She was supposed to pour a drink so she could sip it while she dressed up.
Proud of herself for remembering, Denise lifted the water glass to eye level and refilled it. This time she did better, spilling only a little on her wrist. She was less successful in her attempts to place the bottle back on the counter—it just didn't want to sit straight. Stupid boggle. Bottle. Finally she managed to set it down securely. Excellent. She knew she should recap the bottle and put it back in the cabinet, so Shannon wouldn‟t suspect Denise had been snitching her booze, but Denise knew her fingers were too numb to pull that off. She'd do it later, when she wasn't so fucking drunk.
Denise blinked, puzzled by the sound for a few moments before she realized it was the doorbell. Someone was at the front door. She took a few sips from her drink and headed for the living room.
Denise felt just wonderful and she laughed out loud to show it. She was stumbling and lurching a great deal now, zigzagging down the hallway, colliding with the walls every few feet, but that was okay. Despite these minor coordination issues, she was actually feeling quite nimble and light on her feet. In fact, Denise was proud of how she navigated around the living room furniture with incredible grace, knocking only a few books from the bookcase when she sideswiped it, and hardly missing a step when she tripped over the stack of Vogue magazines by the sofa.
“I‟m coming, I‟m coming, I‟m coming,” she said, weaving to avoid the stereo cabinet and lurching toward the door. “Whole your horses.”
Her hand was on the door knob when she suddenly realized she was wearing only her skimpiest black lace panties. Oops! She thought, and she giggled. It wouldn't do to have a repeat of her little scene with Mr. Pitrowski.
“Jussa minute!” she called to whoever was at the door, “I‟m naked!”
Denise reeled into the bedroom and looked around for something she could throw on to answer the door. She blinked. Nothing looked familiar. Then she giggled, realizing that she was in Shannon‟s bedroom.
“Okay okay okay okay,” she said. She saw one of Shannon‟s tank tops laying across her hope chest. That would do. Denise carefully placed her drink on the chest, then grabbed the tank top and clumsily pulled it over her head, stumbling around as she did so, trying not to muss her hair. She wasn‟t altogether successful. By the time she finished half her hairdo was falling across her face. But she had the tank top on so at least her tits were covered. Sort of. Denise staggered back a step, tugging at the ribbed white top. Shannon was not nearly so well-endowed as Denise and the tank top was wayyyy too small.
Denise picked up her glass, spilling only a little of her drink, took a sip, and headed back to the living room, banging her hip on the door on her way out of the bedroom. “Ouch.”
“Okay okay okay, I‟m coming,” she said. She pulled the door open, stumbling back, ready to give whoever it was a piece of her mind.
But it was her friend Mr. Pitrowski. Denise grinned.
“Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” she yowled, dragging the word out into a dozen syllables and staggering sideways. “Misser Tripowsi!” She saw that he was staring at her breasts and giggled at the obvious lust in his pretty gray eyes. “Doannnn worry…this time I‟ve got my boolies…boobilies covered.”
“Yes, um…” her handsome neighbor replied, unable to take his eyes off her chest, obviously enchanted by the way her breasts stretched Shannon‟s tank top, threatening to burst out the sides at any moment. Denise thought that was cute. She liked men who liked her boobs. She smiled flirtatiously, tilting her head.
“Did you come back to borrow the shrinking…the pinking shears?” Denise asked, but she knew perfectly well why Mr. Pitrowski had come back. He had come back for a chance to stare at her big beautiful boobies. Sweet man. She took a sip from her glass.
“Hm? Oh. No, no. I just thought…” He smiled shyly and held out a tall, slender bottle. “I thought if you really wanted a drink to calm your nerves that this might help.”
“Oh yeah?” Denise asked, peering at the bottle, intrigued. She wanted something to calm her nerves. She still wasn‟t convinced Shannon's booze was working. “Whadissit?”
“This is the stuff my grandfather drank in Poland,” he said. “They call it vody miloski. It‟s sort of…special. I thought maybe you‟d like to try a little.”
“Well surrrrre, thass great!” Denise said, grinning. “I down think this stuffa Shannon's is working, y'know? I‟ve been drinking it like water an' I'm still drunk.” She blinked. “I mean…nervous.”
She staggered back from the door, her boobs dancing inside the tank top, fleshy bulges peeking out the sides.
“C'mon in, Misser Pertrowski,” she said, holding out her arm and waving him in with her glass, sloshing the Heavenly Kentucky or whatever it was. Her neighbor entered into her living room, glancing around nervously. Denise swung the door shut. It closed with a loud bang and Mr. Pitrowski flinched. Denise giggled and staggered over to him, snaking her arm into his, nuzzling against him.
“Mmmnnn…you look like you‟re a li'l nervous yourself, there, sweetie.” Denise didn‟t think twice about calling her neighbor , a man she hardly knew and who was old enough to be her father, “sweetie.” It seemed completely natural.
“Oh, uh…well,” he stammered, his eyes darting down to her breasts. He couldn't keep his eyes off 'em. That was so cute. He raised the bottle. “Um…would you like to try some of this?”
“Yes,” Denise said firmly. “Yes. Yes, I would.” She held up her glass. “Wait. I‟ll empty this glass an' we can use this glass for a glass.”
Without a second thought Denise tilted her head and knocked back the rest of her drink. It really did go down like water now. She couldn't figure out why it had tasted so nasty at first.
“Mmwah,” she said, lowering the glass. “Y'know, that stuff is practically juss watered… colored water.”
“Not doing the trick, huh?”
“Nope nope,” Denise said shaking her head—which was a bad idea because it made her even dizzier than she already was and she stumbled back. Only the fact that she was holding Mr. Pitrowski‟s arm kept her from falling. “Nope. It is not. It is most def'nly not truant…doing the trick.”
“Well, let's see if this works any better,” Mr. Pitrowski said, pulling the stopper out of the bottle he was holding.
“Are you sure your gran'father won‟t mind if we drink his booze?” Denise asked, staring at the bottle. The liquor inside was crystal clear but with a slightly bluish tint.
“I don‟t think so, dear. He‟s been dead for forty years.”
Denise laughed hard at that, braying like donkey and doubling over. Mr. Pitrowski kept her from falling again, the sweetie. She recovered, and grinned stupidly up at her neighbor. She was listing severely now, leaning against his side, but that was okay. He would hold her up.
“Been dead fer forry years!” she repeated, giggling in delight. “Thass great.”
“Well…hold out your glass,” Mr. Pitrowski said. Denise blinked and obeyed, holding it out—but the empty glass was a moving target. Mr. Pitrowski had to hold her wrist steady with his free hand. He poured a splash of the clear liquid into her glass. “See what you think.”
Denise stared at the glass, blinked, frowned.
“Heyyyy,” she complained, “thass juss a slip. A sip.”
“Well, this stuff is very potent, Denise,” Mr. Pitrowski warned, “I don‟t think you want to have a—”
“No no no no no,” Denise said, shaking her head. “I need to get drunk or Misser Poorman won‟t like my boobs.”
“What?” Denise repeated, dazed.
“Denise, this isn't…it's…like a hundred and ninety proof.”
“Perfect!” Denise declared, smiling. “Filler up!”
“Well,” Mr. Pitrowski said, cocking his head ruefully, “okay. You asked for it.”
“Yes I did,” Denise agreed. “I assed for it. I deaf…def'nilly assed fort. So give it to me.” Mr. Pitrowski poured again, this time filling the glass nearly to the rim. “Thank you.” She lifted the glass to her lips.
“At least drink it slowl--”
But Denise was already draining the glass. Mr. Pitrowski watched with an astonished look on his face as she swallowed the contents in a matter of moments without so much as a cough. Denise smacked her lips, trying to decide which she liked better, Shannon‟s booze or Grandpa Pitrowski's booze. Neither one tasted like much, really. They both pretty much tasted like watered down water. How would she ever relax her portfolio if all she drank was water? She needed some real booze.
“I need some real boobs,” she said, frowning.
And then it hit her like a ton of Polish bricks.
Josef Pitrowski was a good man—a loving father, a devoted husband, and a faithful friend—but he was a man.
He hadn't had anything improper in mind when he had walked across the hall to return the pinking shears to Denise. His only purpose had been to check another item off the “to do” list Lucy had left for him. He hardly knew his young neighbor. She was a nice enough kid, he supposed—certainly more polite than her roommate Shannon—but he had never exchanged more than a few words with her. Of course he was aware of how attractive she was—how could he not be aware, the way she flounced around the building in her skintight dresses and plunging halters and short micro-miniskirts…and that one time in a bikini about the size of a Kleenex. A travel-size Kleenex. Brother, he could still picture her walking down the hallway in that little number—boobs jiggling, butt wriggling, flashing that 400-watt smile. He‟d have to be dead not to notice.
When he commented on their neighbor‟s wardrobe, Lucy had laughed and told him not to be such an old fuddy duddy. She explained that Denise was a fashion designer and that the clothes she wore were her own designs and that it was really just a way of advertising her wares.
“She's advertising her wares, all right,” Josef had said, which had earned him a playful slap and a smirk.
So yes, Josef admitted to himself, maybe he had been looking forward to seeing his buxom, blue-eyed neighbor in a tight-fitting dress or lacey camisole top or something when he wandered across the hall to return the shears. Maybe even in that bikini. But nothing more. She was a pretty girl, after all, and there was nothing wrong with admiring pretty girls.
And then Denise had answered the door with her satin robe hanging open, leaving her huge breasts—much bigger than he had realized—completely exposed. And she hadn‟t even realized it because she had been more than a little drunk. And then she had fallen against him, pressing her incredible body against his. And still, even that wouldn‟t have been enough to make Josef do anything more than consider himself a lucky so-and-so.
And then she had kissed him.
And so, after a turbulent half hour of soul-searching, he had decided there were some temptations even a saint couldn't be expected to resist—and Josef Pitrowski, while a good man, was no saint. And so he had retrieved the bottle of vody miloski they saved for their annual St. Andrew's Day toast from the back of the liquor cabinet and come back across the hall to seek his fortune.
And now here he was, with Denise—far more drunk than when he had left her—slumped against him like a voluptuous, blonde-haired rag doll while he filled her glass with enough of the potent Polish liquor to decimate a battalion.
“Thank you,” Denise said, and she lifted the glass to her lips. Josef didn't know what would happen if she drank that much vody miloski, but he suspected alcohol poisoning might be a possibility.
“At least drink it slowl--”
But she ignored him, draining the whole glass dry in a matter of seconds. Josef could hardly believe his eyes. He had seen grown men sputter and choke after drinking two fingers of vody miloski, and here this child was downing it like water. She smacked her lips and blinked, her blue eyes swimming.
“I need some real boobs,” she said, frowning.
Josef blinked. What was she talking about?
And then the vody miloski hit her like a ton of Polish bricks.
Her eyes rolled up into her head, her knees buckled, and she would have been on the floor if Josef hadn't caught her around the waist and kept her more or less upright. She had been wilting before, but now she was completely boneless, her body slumped against his, utterly limp. Josef was very much aware of her huge boobs mashed against him, stretching and distorting as she slowly slid down his side.
“Denise?” he asked, adjusting his weight, hefting her up, trying to keep her erect. “Are you all right?”
She gazed up at him. Her face was red, her eyes were heavy-lidded and bloodshot, and she wore a sleepy, foolish smile.
“Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Mishrrr P‟zowskeeeeeee…” she drawled, as if she were speaking in slow motion. She didn't look like she really knew where she was or what was happening—which, Josef presumed, was almost certainly the case. “Wharr yew dune in my porffolio?”
Josef didn't know how much longer he could keep the drunken girl on her feet. She was gorgeous, but she wasn't exactly petite, and she wasn't doing anything at all to keep herself from slipping to the floor.
“Maybe you'd better sit down, huh?” he suggested.
Denise closed her eyes and giggled like an idiot. “Mayeee I benner siddown,” she agreed, her speech so slurred she was all but incomprehensible. He hefted her upright one last time in hopes of walking her to a seat. Her legs were like silly putty, all but useless, but he managed to half-walk, half-carry her across the living room and deposit her limp body on the sofa. She flopped down onto the cushions, her breasts jiggling, her head flopping back, her eyes closed, the same goofy grin on her face.
Josef sat down beside her. Denise seemed to sense him—she opened up her eyes and turned her head, smiling woozily at him, her eyes swimming. He didn't know what she was seeing, but he imagined it was unfocused and distorted. He wondered if she even recognized who he was.
“Yoooooou're soooooo sweee, Misssrrr Spitowseee,” she drawled. That answers that, Josef thought.
“Well…you‟re very sweet yourself, Denise,” he answered.
“Mmmmnnnnnnn,” she said dreamily. “You shing I'm shweee?”
“Yes I do. Mrs. Pitrowski and I have always said you're a very sweet young woman.” Which was true enough, but Josef had no idea why he thought mentioning Lucy was a good idea. Idiot. He really wasn't cut out for this. He had never cheated on his wife, not once, not ever. If only this very, very drunk little girl wasn't so very, very sexy.
“Mmmmmmm…” Denise murmured. She leaned—slumped, really—toward him, her big breasts brushing his arm, and whispered confidentially. Her warm breath stank of booze. “Doan tell Mizzz Puhzowskeee…but I thing I‟m drunk.”
“Really?” Josef said, counterfeiting surprise.
“Mmm-hnnn,” Denise nodded sleepily. “I‟m to’lly drung.” She lowered her head, the bun of her messy blonde hair going into his face. Josef spit out a few stray locks and shifted the rest to one side.
“Well…it'll be our little secret.”
“Mmmmnnn,” Denise cooed dreamily. Then a thought occurred to her and she raised her head. She clumsily poked Josef's arm with her finger. “Also…doan teller thad you kissed me.”
“Uhh…Denise, I didn‟t kiss you, you kissed me,” Josef said, wondering why he was bothering to correct her. She blinked, sluggishly processing that information, then grinned and giggled.
“Ohhhhh yeahhhh…” she drawled. Another thought occurred and she limply slapped his chest with her palm several times. “Oh. Oh. Oh also…teller…no…doan teller that you showed me my bresss.”
“That'll be our little secret too.”
“Nnnnnnnnn…” Denise hummed, then she giggled. She slithered closer, purposely pressing herself against him, or so it seemed. Her face still looked like a drunken cherub, but her eyes took on a predatory gleam. “We gotta lotta li'l seecriss, don’t we, Missr Katowski.”
“Uh…” Josef said, nervous and excited at the same time. She was so warm and soft and…available. “Y-yes. We do.”
“Mmmmmm,” she said, nuzzling even closer, wrapping her arms around Josef‟s neck, her breasts squashing against his chest, her mouth inches from his ear. “You wanna know a 'nuther li'l sequin? Hmmmmmmmmm?” She draped her leg over his thigh.
“Umm…” Josef cleared his throat, trying to stay in control. It still wasn't too late. He hadn‟t really done anything wrong yet. If he got up and left right now no harm would be done and Lucy would never be the wiser.
“Mmnnnn?” Denise asked, her tongue playfully lapping his ear lobe. “You wanna?”
“S-s-sure,” Josef said, knowing he was lost. His Polish sausage hadn't been this stiff in thirty years. Whatever happened, he wasn’t getting up and leaving. Not with this intoxicated, voluptuous, horny girl crawling all over him.
Denise whispered throatily in his ear, her breath hot, her words hotter. “I'm gone fuck you, sweee,” she said.
Josef almost fainted right then. He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Now why would you want to do that?” he croaked, still unwilling to believe that this gorgeous, big-boobed, blue-eyed, blonde-haired vixen genuinely wanted to have sex with him, even drunk as she was. And she was incredibly drunk. Josef had never seen anyone this drunk who was still conscious.
Denise giggled and snuggled even closer, pressing herself against him, the pressure of her huge tits almost painful. She obviously thought his concern was adorable. “Cuzzzzzzzz,” she said, licking his jaw. “I'm drunk, silly.”
“Yes you are,” Josef agreed, daring to place one hand on her bare midriff, which was exposed beneath the skimpy tank top. To his relief, she didn‟t flinch. Encouraged, he gently added his other hand, letting his fingers lightly caress the warm, soft flesh of her flanks. She responded by wriggling even closer to him.
“Mmnnnnnyes I am,” she whispered huskily in his ear. “I am drunk off my ass.” Her voice became stern. “Annn I toll you what happens when I dret…when I drink…get drunk.” She wrapped her fingers around his left wrist.
“Uhh…” Josef stammered, ready to apologize, sure that she was about to object to him having his middle-aged hands on her youthful, perfect body. And then to his surprise and delight she gently but firmly slid his left hand under the edge of the tank top, maneuvering it up, over the soft flesh of her belly, over the firmer muscles of her rib cage, and finally, unbelievably, miraculously, guiding him onto her enormous breast. She pressed hard on the back of his hand, encouraging him to squeeze the supple mass, her rubber hard nipple popping out from between two of his fingers. She squeaked softly at that, "Ooh!" then giggled, her hand still urging his, clearly encouraging him to fondle her fat tit.
Josef eagerly obeyed the girl‟s unspoken request, gently squeezing and kneading and massaging, her stiff nipple poking at his palm. Denise moaned softly, then enveloped his ear with her mouth and lips. Her whispered voice was like a roar.
“Nnnnn…” she breathed, arching her back slightly in response to his touch. “I toll you ahhhh when I'm drunk ooh! I like to have…have sess with men I mmmnnn I know… hardly know.”
Josef couldn‟t believe this was happening. It was some sort of crazy fantasy come to life, like something he might see in one of those cheesy softcore movies that came on Showtime late at night. Except this wasn‟t a movie, this was really happening. This beautiful, intoxicated sex kitten was encouraging him to feel her up, and was obviously enjoying it as much as he was.
Denise's hand abandoned his, slid back out from under the tank top, and started kneading his right thigh through his trousers. Josef's sausage got even stiffer.
She really wants me, he thought, amazed. I mean, sure, she’s drunk as hell and doesn’t really know what she’s doing, but still…at this moment she really wants me to make love to her. Emboldened by this realization, Josef snaked his other hand up under the tank top without any urging from Denise. His hand easily found its huge target and soon he was kneading both the doughy mounds of her tits like an expert pastry chef.
“Ohh-h-h-h, nnnnnnnn…” Denise responded, half moaning, half giggling. She clearly approved of what he was doing, thrusting her chest into his busy hands. Her own hand moved up his thigh and boldly cupped his bulging groin.
“OHHhhh…Christ!” Josef gasped back, squeezing his eyes shut. It had been a long time since anyone had done that, let alone a twenty-two year old blonde with a face like a teen magazine cover model and a body like a Playboy centerfold.
She giggled with drunken delight at his reaction and gently massaged the prominence in his pants. “Nnnnnnnnn…” she cooed, simultaneously nibbling his ear, “somebody wanns to come out ann plaaaaaaay!”
Her giggle was infectious and Josef smiled, but he concentrated on the task at hand: molding the flesh of her tits into new and interesting shapes. Denise, meanwhile, maneuvered her lips down his cheek and onto his mouth. What she did there wasn't so much a kiss as it was an attack—a lusty, open-mouthed, shock-and-awe offensive. Her plump, moist, warm, berry-flavored lips firmly molded themselves to his, like luscious gaskets, twisting and morphing to create an air-tight seal. Effective in its own right, but all in preparation for the second wave of the assault: her tongue. Thick and wet and muscular and aggressively exploring the inside of his mouth. It was a devastating campaign.
Josef half moaned, half gasped deep in his throat. He had never been kissed like this before, never with such wild, untamed, abandoned lust. As she kissed him her hand was now actively squeezing his penis through his trousers and underpants, like an obscene milkmaid working a teat. She wrapped her leg tighter around his thigh, wriggling her own groin against him, still kissing him passionately.
After what seemed like hours, Denise finally came up for air—though Josef would have welcomed asphyxiation if it had meant she would keep kissing him like that. She disengaged her lips and sat back, grinning at him with lusty delight. He still had his hands up under her tank top, gripping her boobs, but the blitzkrieg kiss had made him lose concentration and now he was simply holding them, like cantaloupes in the grocery store. Denise glanced down at his hands under the clinging top, then back up, tilting her head and smiling coyly.
“I thing I have on too mooney…money…” She giggled and closed her eyes, trying to gather her hopelessly inebriated thoughts. When she opened her eyes again they were still sleepy, but they had a wicked gleam in them. “Too many clothes on.” She giggled. “Don' you?”
Swaying drunkenly to and fro where she sat, she reached down, grasped the hem of her tank top, and pulled. The tight, stretchy fabric resisted at first, but eventually peeled upward, revealing first her soft belly and Josef‟s forearms, and then his hands and the handfuls of bulging boob flesh they could not contain. Denise continued and pulled the top up over her head, struggling a bit in her drunken clumsiness as it caught on her hair, but finally pulling it free. She held out her arm and playfully dropped the tank top onto the living room carpet like a strip tease dancer, giggling mischievously.
Josef released her breasts, the better to get a really good look at them for the first time, dropping his hands. Her boobs sagged, rebounded, settled. Josef stared, drinking her in like an elixir. Even drunk as she was, her hair a disheveled mess, her angelic face red-cheeked and bleary-eyed, he thought she was probably the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. No doubt his aesthetic sensibilities were prejudiced by the fact that she was all but inviting him to make love to her…but still. She was undeniably one gorgeous young woman, maybe the most gorgeous he had ever seen, certainly the most gorgeous he had ever seen wearing nothing but a pair of lace panties.
“Welllll?” she asked, arching her eyebrows and smiling devilishly. “Why are you drill… why're we still…are you still dresshed?”
Josef knew he was fool. He knew that any other man, any sane man, wouldn‟t hesitate to strip off his clothes, rip off those skimpy black lace panties, and fuck her drunken brains out. She was all but begging him to do it. No one would ever know. It was very unlikely that even Denise would ever know, she was so wasted. Lucy was out of town. It was the perfect set up, a dream scenario, a fantasy come true.
But Josef Pitrowski was a good man. He had to be sure. Given how drunk she was, he knew it was probably no more than him salving his guilty conscience, but he still had to ask. “Denise…” he said, cursing himself for an idiot.
“Mmmmmmm?” she drawled, wavering in and out, her eyes at half mast, her naked tits shifting back and forth like twin pendulums. She was so totally smashed he doubted she really knew where she was or who he was or what was going on. This was probably all a dream for her, a sexy dream where she seduces her older neighbor.
“Are you sure, honey? I mean…I‟m old enough to be your father.”
No response. She just sat there, smiling inanely, swaying. You jackass, Josef scolded himself. Now she’s reconsidering. Happy? He sighed, resigned to the fact that she was going to wake from the dream, change her mind, come to her senses, realize her mistake, demand that he leave. Oh well. At least I got to squeeze her tits. He waited for the axe to fall.
Still no response. Just the sleepy eyes, the foolish grin.
Nothing. Or rather…something. Even as she sat there staring at him, swaying gently, Josef could sense a change. Her smile had grown wider, more idiotic, more empty. Her eyes had gone from sleepy to zombie-like, swimming in and out of focus, half open but looking at nothing. She was still, technically, conscious…but she was no longer there. All that booze had finally taken her away to someplace else, someplace private.
“Denise honey? Can you hear—”
And then, without warning and without a sound, she fell back onto the sofa. She hit the cushions with a soft whumf, splayed out like a rag doll. Her hair was strewn across the sofa and her face, her massive tits had sagged to either side, into her armpits, and the shapely leg that had been hugging him dropped limply to the floor.
Nothing. Not even a stir. Only the rise and fall of her stunning chest showed that she was still alive.
She was out. Dead to the world. Insensate.
And gorgeous. And practically naked. And, by her own admission, horny.
And just a child.
A child with double-D tits.
Who was too incapacitated to give consent.
Or…had she given consent before she was really, truly incapacitated? After all, she had flashed her tits and kissed him back when she was just a little tipsy. What was that if it wasn't consent? Or at least, an invitation.
Yes, but now she was unconscious.
Yes, but it was her own doing. Mostly. Josef hadn't gotten her drunk, he had just gotten her…a hell of a lot drunker.
Still…screwing your passed out, barely legal neighbor on her own sofa is not exactly the behavior of a good man.
Still…she wanted him too. She said so. She seduced him, really, when you thought about it. Sure, he had sort of…pushed her over the edge, alcohol-wise, but still…
Denise moaned softly and flopped her head to the opposite side, her breasts jiggling like mountains of gelatin.
God damn she’s gorgeous, Josef thought.
Denise's left hand came slowly to life and instinctively snaked down inside her black lace panties, her fingers diddling what they encountered. She moaned with pleasure and smiled.
That decided it. Josef Pitrowski was a good man, but he wasn‟t a saint. And if this meant that he wasn’t a good man, well…so be it.
He went to the front door and locked it with the chain. Her roommate Shannon was supposedly away for the week, but plans could change. No sense taking chances. He went back over to the sofa and stood there watching Denise as she mindlessly masturbated herself. She was still out cold, but she was having a good time nonetheless, moaning and squeaking and arching her back as her slender fingers did their magic.
Josef quickly removed his clothes and shoes, tugging down his underpants, finally standing there naked…and self-conscious. He was in good shape for a man his age, but he was still a man his age. Old enough to be this nymph's father.
“Oh h-h-h-h-h-h-hhhhh…” Denise whimpered, tossing her head, her handiwork bringing her back to the land of the living. Not entirely conscious, certainly, but bordering on semi.
Now or never, Joe, he told himself. Either do it or get dressed and go home.
Josef reached down and grasped the band of her black lace panties, tugging them down over her hips and thighs and shins, yanking them past her feet, and tossing them away. She was completely naked now, her hand still active between her thighs. Josef gently took that hand and moved it aside, letting it fall limp, then repositioned her plump thighs for ease of entry. He knelt on the sofa and lifted one leg over, straddling her, hovering over her recumbent body. Denise moaned quietly, perhaps in disappointment that her hand had been removed, but otherwise gave no sign that she knew he was there.
“We're going to make love now, Denise, okay?” he asked. “I'm going to make love to you like you asked me to.”
Josef gently gripped his penis and, carefully lowering himself, eased it into her vaginal opening, slipping it slowly between the lips of her labia. Her masturbation had nicely lubricated the folds and the tip of his member slid right in with a soft shlurp.
“Eep!” Denise squeaked.
Josef eased back out—not all the way, just far enough to let his penis stroke the sensitive tissue of her engorged clit. Then back in, just a little ways. Then back out. And in. And out.
“Ohhhhh,” Denise moaned, tossing her head. She liked it.
Taking care to keep his member from sliding in too far, still just teasing, Josef stiffened his arms and arched his back so her could lower his mouth to her massive boobs.
“Nnn!” Denise squeaked in a high-pitched voice, a little girl's voice, obviously pleased with what the rounded tip of his penis was doing to her moist labia. Josef placed his lips on the nipple of her left tit and gently sucked, letting his tongue tickle the rubbery knob. And still he teased her with his stiff member, barely entering past the palace gates.
“Uhhhhhhh…” Denise moaned with pained delight. Her hands instinctively found his head and pressed him into her breast. Josef sucked harder, nuzzling his face into the soft, warm mountain. “Ohh! Ohh! Ohhhhhhhh!”
Buried in her boob, Josef decided teasing time was over. He let his penis slide further inside her, its head pushing apart the fatty walls of her vagina, making itself at home. Even as he mouthed her breast, Josef eased his penis in even further, gently but firmly, burrowing into the folds of moist tissue, further and further, until his shaft was completely inside her, embraced on all sides.
“OHHHHHHhhhhhhhYEAHHHHHHhhhhhhh!” Denise cried out in approval, grabbing his ass, arching her back to help him push in a few more millimeters. He did his best to oblige, sheathing his sword right up to the hilt.
“Nnnnnnnn,” Josef grunted, raising his head from her boobs and biting his lower lip. He eased himself back out of her, paused, and eased himself back in.
“Ungh!” Denise commended him.
Josef eased back out. Pause. Back in. Pause. Back out.
“Errrg!” Denise groaned by way of suggestion. Josef agreed and gave himself over to the ancient rhythm, the ol' back in, back out, letting instinct take over. The tempo accelerated, gradually but inevitably, the head of his stiff penis catching on her aroused clit with each gentle thrust.
“Oh…god…oh…god…” Denise huffed and puffed in time to his increasingly solid thrusts. Josef gazed down at the girl he was fucking. She was so beautiful—a blonde-haired goddess. He watched her big tits recoil and jiggle with every thrust, the pale orbs of flesh sloshing around like water balloons. He knew what he was doing was wrong, maybe even the worst thing he had ever done in his life, but he didn't care. It was perfect. She was perfect. Their bodies joining and parting and joining and parting was perfect. He wasn't so foolish as to think he was in love, but he knew he was in some sort of pure and perfect lust. He was fucking his dream girl. She was passed out drunk, but she was his dream girl, and from the sound of her passionate cries she was having as much fun as he was.
Maybe more. She wasn't a dead weight, after all, as he had expected her to be. Not just a flexible mannequin. True, she was still out cold, but she was nevertheless an active participant in the festivities—squeaking and groaning and urging him on, back arching, plump ass lifting to meet his plunge, fingers digging into his own ass cheeks. She might not be conscious enough to know where she was or who was fucking her, but she definitely knew she was fucking. And she was definitely enjoying it.
Faster and faster, slapping and slurping, thrusting and withdrawing, Denise emitting a sharp, quivering cry with each attack, a delighted intake of breath with each retreat, all of it punctuated by breathy but surprisingly articulate phrases of exhortation and appreciation. Her cries of pain and delight got louder and louder as the tempo got faster and faster, the action hotter and hotter. She’s a screamer, Josef realized in some small part of his brain, the small part that wasn't given over to the instinctive animal pumping.
“AH!uh YES!uhFUCK!uhYEAH!uhYES!uhYES!uhYES!” Denise was yelling now, sounding pretty much like an insane woman. Or a woman having really great sex, Josef acknowledged, that small part of his brain congratulating himself. Not bad for an old man.
As he fucked her, nearing his climax now, Josef still marveled at the beauty of her just slightly plump body—even as he hovered above it, heaving and dripping sweat onto it. He loved the way her pale flesh jiggled with each jolt. Not just her big tits, which were all but slapping her in the face each time he plunged into her, but the soft baby fat of her belly, the slight Rubenesque bulge of her abdomen, the plumpness of her thighs and ass. She wasn't overweight, not by any sane standards, but she was voluptuous—and watching her youthful voluptuousness jiggle and shimmy as he slammed her and slammed her and slammed her was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.
When the climax hit they came together, just like in the movies, their bodies stiffening and quivering with ecstasy as Josef shot his wad deep inside her. Denise screamed out an incomprehensible shriek at the top of her lungs (some part of Josef's brain was still sane enough to hope the neighbors didn‟t complain) and her finger nails dug painfully into his ass cheeks as she held him in place, her body wracked with orgasmic convulsions. It lasted a while. She was still twitching and shuddering and whimpering, her back still arched and her body still stiff, long after Josef was back to normal. But he was patient. If she was still coming, he had no objection to staying locked inside her until the spasms subsided.
Which, eventually, they did. He felt her body relax, unstiffen, and sink down into the sofa cushions. She let go of his ass cheeks, her hands fell away, her head flopped back, and she began to giggle.
Josef gently eased himself out of her…which caused a small gasp followed by more giggling…and climbed off the sofa. He was whooped. He felt like he had run a marathon; every muscle in his body was sore. Josef stretched and sighed and stood there staring down at Denise. Even now, her skin slick with perspiration, her face and chest red and blotchy from exertion, her hair an explosion of tangled blonde strands, her makeup smudged, her tired body splayed out awkwardly—even now she was gorgeous.
She still wore a happy grin, but she had stopped giggling and her breathing was becoming more regular. Josef thought maybe she was asleep.
“Denise?” he said.
Time to go, Josef thought. While the going is good. He dressed quickly, listening to Denise‟s rhythmic breathing. There was a good chance he'd get away with this, that nobody would ever be the wiser. Most likely Denise wouldn't remember what had happened, and if she did she'd probably think it was all a dream. Heck, it was already hard for him to believe it had really happened.
Josef collected his bottle of vody miloski and looked around for any other evidence of his presence there. Nothing. He was clear. No one would ever know.
He unlocked the door chain, then stood for a moment, watching his dream girl sleep. Goodbye, he thought. He knew this would never happen again. The best he could hope for was a glimpse of her in the hallway and a friendly good morning.
Oh well. Josef Pitrowski wasn't a greedy man. If he did, in fact, get away with this, he would count his blessings and be satisfied to hold it as a very special memory.
“Goodbye, Denise,” he said.
Then he went out the door and quietly closed it behind him.
Denise came to lying on the sofa, which was weird. How did she end up on the sofa? She blinked and sat up, trying to clear her head. The room was spinning around and her thoughts were all muddled. What had happened?
I was having a drink, she thought. To calm her nerves.
She remembered having a drink…or was it two? Two, maybe.
Denise giggled. Oh yeah. And then she answered the door and flashed poor Mr. Pitrowski.
And then she took a shower. And she remembered starting to masturbate in the shower.
Oh yeah. And then she had another drink. So it was two drinks. Three, maybe.
Oh dear. She felt a familiar soreness “down there” between her legs. A pleasant soreness. And her body was all sweaty. And her hair was all mussed up. And her muscles were sore. And she was lying naked on the sofa.
It was obvious what had happened.
She obviously had been a little tipsy from the two or three drinks, and she obviously must have started thinking about poor Mr. Pitrowski seeing her boobs—which, she had to admit, had been a turn on—and she obviously must have decided to masturbate on the sofa. For quite a while, judging by the moist soreness down there. And then she must have dozed off.
Denise, you dummy, she thought. There was no time for these sort of extra-curricular activities. She had to meet Mr. Sheraton at the Portman in…
She peered at the clock on the VCR but couldn‟t bring it into focus. Did it say 7:35?
“Oh my god!” Denise cried. She had dozed off and now she only had twenty-five minutes to get to the Sheraton! And she was naked and sweaty and her hair was a mess!
Denise stood up from the sofa…and the world tilted. She sat back down heavily, dizzy and disoriented. What now? she thought. Could she still be dizzy from those two drinks? That didn't seem likely.
Well, whatever the reason, dizzy or not, she had to meet Roger Portman in twenty-five minutes. Denise stood up, caught her balance, and stumbled toward the bedroom, catching herself on walls and furniture, determined not to miss her appointment. This was her big chance! If she rushed she could rinse off in the shower, get dressed, and still make it over to the Sheraton by a few minutes after eight. That would be okay.
Denise giggled as she lurched into the bathroom.
After all, she'd be fashionably late.