The warm and salty wind was coming up from the coast to the foothills: it passed among the tamarisks and maritime pine forests, bringing to the edge of the pool the scent of resinous trees. It was a beautiful sunny day in early summer on Ibiza.
Lisa was lying on a sunbed, with her legs bent and her thin arms stretched out above her head. She was 24 years old, green eyes, full lips and soft features, almost like a baby; honey-colored hair; and a tanned complexion, so unusual for a woman born in Denmark. And nature had endowed her with a slim body that any man would have called perfect, if not for a little anomaly.
Lisa had enormous breasts. And huge not by the meaning of the term we use every day; not a mere five-or-six-cup-sizes-too-big balloon-tits that would have caused embarrassment to many other girls. Lisa had a bosom that was huge even by the standards of a lap dancer at a Las Vegas topless bar, absolutely disproportionate and, even more incredible, completely natural. As she lay half asleep under the rays of the sun, her breasts sagged, quivering to her breathing, down along the sides of her well-defined ribs, barely restrained by the laces of her big black bikini top.
Lisa had been universally known, for many years, as the model with the largest natural breasts in the world. A marvel not only for her sheer size, but because, unlike many of her colleagues, Lisa used to show them with a unique ease. It was just the innate naturalness with which she moved, walked and made every little motion, that struck anybody who saw her; everyone marvelled that she could move so easily and naturally while carrying those mammoth breasts, their tremendous weight obvious from the long, smooth curve formed as they swung pendulously from her chest ... however, seeming to ignore the power of gravity, almost as if the grossly overdeveloped mammary glands considered the pull of gravity impertinent.
Her skin still wet, a pleasant chill crept over her as the light breeze picked up; Lisa was lying down, her eyes closed against the sun. She was following the scrawls of her thoughts unconsciously, in a kind of pleasant numbness.
She thought, perhaps because of that warm wind that touched her gently, about the day her life changed.
She had left the previous night from her small village in Denmark, a few days after the death of her mother. The only thing she was sure of at the time, was that she would not be turning back; she had left behind the technical institute, some boy who was drooling after her, and an adolescence full of humiliation.
She had stopped all physical activity at the age of fifteen, not because of the weight of her breasts, exhaustingly heavy as they were, but from the continual mockery of her girl-classmates and the lustful stares of the boys; she spent years wrapped up in large sweaters to hide, even from herself, how much she was different from the other girls. When her mother died she realized that she could not go on enduring all that by herself. She also decided that, if she had to put up with being stared at by everyone she met, she might as well do it for money.
So that morning, after she arrived in Hamburg and ate a sandwich at the station bar, she walked in the snow to the red light district. She searched up and down the main street for almost an hour. She was looking, amid the squalor of the cold winter light, for a place that was different - one that could, somehow, instill her with courage and confidence.
Eventually she stopped in front of one strip club, not because it was better or worse than the others, but because an old lady, the only living being in the neighborhood, was cleaning the entrance.
"Excuse me, where's the boss?" – she asked.
The woman stared, leaning with both hands on the broom.
"Up the stairs here at your side, right door.”
Lisa thanked her and began to climb the stairs, pulling the heavy suitcase after her. On the landing she stopped to take a breath, composed herself and knocked at a door covered with layer upon layer of black paint.
"Come in," - said a voice from inside. Lisa opened the door and entered.
It was not the office that she would have expected to find above a night club. It was primarily warm and welcoming, with carpets on the floor and wood-paneled walls; she noticed immediately that there wasn’t even a picture of a naked woman, which she naturally expected to find; the furnishings consisted of an old leather sofa, a dark wooden desk, a filing cabinet and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bottles of whiskey. There were wooden boxes and loose bottles everywhere, on shelves, on the cupboard beside the front door, on the bookshelf. Lisa noticed that none of these seemed to have been used, there were no empty glasses around.
The man sitting behind the desk, who was looking over his glasses, was a dumpy gentleman, with a sharp beard and watchful eyes. Everything about him was prosaic, apart from the glasses that seemed, somehow, out of place.
Gunther (that was his name) in his life had drunk too much to be a connoisseur and too little to be an alcoholic. He had found, unlike many, his balance, despite leading such an edgy life as that of the owner of a night club. His practice and experience over the years had moved him away from the other vices that such circles lead to and so, at the age of sixty, he was living his profession as quietly as any other employee at the club.
The big girl who stood in front of him had wet hair; she was wearing a heavy parka and a thick scarf around her neck, dripping dockers boots that the man looked at with disapproval. On the whole she seemed to be just a young teenager verging on obesity, although her coat was pushed out unusually far in front.
"I wondered if, by chance, you were looking for a girl for the club ..." - Lisa began.
"First, would you mind closing the door?"
Lisa looked back, embarrassed, and shut the door.
"Your name?"
"Lisa," - she said.
Gunther for several moments stared into her eyes. Lisa looked down.
"Maybe you could try taking something off."
The girl approached the sofa, unrolled the scarf and took off the parka, dropping everything on the armrest.
Removing the coat had revealed a rough wool Norwegian sweater, under which the girl's frontage bulged out unnaturally large; it wasn't hard to guess what swelled her figure out so prominently. The man jerked back, startled, then leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk and, after a minute of silence, made a gesture with his hand as if to invite her to continue.
Lisa took off her sweater, threw it on the couch, and stood there, her ballooning bosom covered only by a t-shirt so tight that it seemed on the verge of shredding. No semblance of obesity remained; starkly revealed now were the thin arms, the slim waist, the tall figure.
And those full and overflowing breasts, so wide that their curves were completely overflowing her arms as she held both arms tight to her sides ... the largest breasts he had ever seen in his personal experience, were watching him. Or so it seemed at that moment. To make an embarassing situation complete, the cotton fabric clearly outlined the peaks of her large nipples.
She was wearing a bra, a big old-lady-bra, the outlines of its wide straps, reinforced cups, and thick bandeau visible under the shirt. Gunther could have had her continue disrobing or stop, it would have required merely another gesture with his hand. But he did not want to embarrass the girl any more than strictly necessary; he decided to reserve getting a full view of her as a surprise for that very night.
Lisa realized it, in that moment of silence, and smiled slightly.
"Are you legal? For this kind of work?" - asked Gunther.
"Eighteen years old. Just last week."
There followed another pause that seemed, to Lisa, to be very long.
"Here we do three shows a night, at ten, midnight, and two; the wage is 30 euros per show, plus tips, of course. If you want you can start tonight. "
"That will be fine, but ..." - she said.
"But ...?"
"You know, mister, I've never done anything like this, I do not know if I will be able ..."
"Girl, we're not the Crazy Horse, here; what you have, is more than enough."
Lisa took her things from the sofa, dressed and, going out of the office, said, in a deliberately baby-voice: "If you say so ..."
Lisa was lying on a sunbed, with her legs bent and her thin arms stretched out above her head. She was 24 years old, green eyes, full lips and soft features, almost like a baby; honey-colored hair; and a tanned complexion, so unusual for a woman born in Denmark. And nature had endowed her with a slim body that any man would have called perfect, if not for a little anomaly.
Lisa had enormous breasts. And huge not by the meaning of the term we use every day; not a mere five-or-six-cup-sizes-too-big balloon-tits that would have caused embarrassment to many other girls. Lisa had a bosom that was huge even by the standards of a lap dancer at a Las Vegas topless bar, absolutely disproportionate and, even more incredible, completely natural. As she lay half asleep under the rays of the sun, her breasts sagged, quivering to her breathing, down along the sides of her well-defined ribs, barely restrained by the laces of her big black bikini top.
Lisa had been universally known, for many years, as the model with the largest natural breasts in the world. A marvel not only for her sheer size, but because, unlike many of her colleagues, Lisa used to show them with a unique ease. It was just the innate naturalness with which she moved, walked and made every little motion, that struck anybody who saw her; everyone marvelled that she could move so easily and naturally while carrying those mammoth breasts, their tremendous weight obvious from the long, smooth curve formed as they swung pendulously from her chest ... however, seeming to ignore the power of gravity, almost as if the grossly overdeveloped mammary glands considered the pull of gravity impertinent.
Her skin still wet, a pleasant chill crept over her as the light breeze picked up; Lisa was lying down, her eyes closed against the sun. She was following the scrawls of her thoughts unconsciously, in a kind of pleasant numbness.
She thought, perhaps because of that warm wind that touched her gently, about the day her life changed.
She had left the previous night from her small village in Denmark, a few days after the death of her mother. The only thing she was sure of at the time, was that she would not be turning back; she had left behind the technical institute, some boy who was drooling after her, and an adolescence full of humiliation.
She had stopped all physical activity at the age of fifteen, not because of the weight of her breasts, exhaustingly heavy as they were, but from the continual mockery of her girl-classmates and the lustful stares of the boys; she spent years wrapped up in large sweaters to hide, even from herself, how much she was different from the other girls. When her mother died she realized that she could not go on enduring all that by herself. She also decided that, if she had to put up with being stared at by everyone she met, she might as well do it for money.
So that morning, after she arrived in Hamburg and ate a sandwich at the station bar, she walked in the snow to the red light district. She searched up and down the main street for almost an hour. She was looking, amid the squalor of the cold winter light, for a place that was different - one that could, somehow, instill her with courage and confidence.
Eventually she stopped in front of one strip club, not because it was better or worse than the others, but because an old lady, the only living being in the neighborhood, was cleaning the entrance.
"Excuse me, where's the boss?" – she asked.
The woman stared, leaning with both hands on the broom.
"Up the stairs here at your side, right door.”
Lisa thanked her and began to climb the stairs, pulling the heavy suitcase after her. On the landing she stopped to take a breath, composed herself and knocked at a door covered with layer upon layer of black paint.
"Come in," - said a voice from inside. Lisa opened the door and entered.
It was not the office that she would have expected to find above a night club. It was primarily warm and welcoming, with carpets on the floor and wood-paneled walls; she noticed immediately that there wasn’t even a picture of a naked woman, which she naturally expected to find; the furnishings consisted of an old leather sofa, a dark wooden desk, a filing cabinet and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bottles of whiskey. There were wooden boxes and loose bottles everywhere, on shelves, on the cupboard beside the front door, on the bookshelf. Lisa noticed that none of these seemed to have been used, there were no empty glasses around.
The man sitting behind the desk, who was looking over his glasses, was a dumpy gentleman, with a sharp beard and watchful eyes. Everything about him was prosaic, apart from the glasses that seemed, somehow, out of place.
Gunther (that was his name) in his life had drunk too much to be a connoisseur and too little to be an alcoholic. He had found, unlike many, his balance, despite leading such an edgy life as that of the owner of a night club. His practice and experience over the years had moved him away from the other vices that such circles lead to and so, at the age of sixty, he was living his profession as quietly as any other employee at the club.
The big girl who stood in front of him had wet hair; she was wearing a heavy parka and a thick scarf around her neck, dripping dockers boots that the man looked at with disapproval. On the whole she seemed to be just a young teenager verging on obesity, although her coat was pushed out unusually far in front.
"I wondered if, by chance, you were looking for a girl for the club ..." - Lisa began.
"First, would you mind closing the door?"
Lisa looked back, embarrassed, and shut the door.
"Your name?"
"Lisa," - she said.
Gunther for several moments stared into her eyes. Lisa looked down.
"Maybe you could try taking something off."
The girl approached the sofa, unrolled the scarf and took off the parka, dropping everything on the armrest.
Removing the coat had revealed a rough wool Norwegian sweater, under which the girl's frontage bulged out unnaturally large; it wasn't hard to guess what swelled her figure out so prominently. The man jerked back, startled, then leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk and, after a minute of silence, made a gesture with his hand as if to invite her to continue.
Lisa took off her sweater, threw it on the couch, and stood there, her ballooning bosom covered only by a t-shirt so tight that it seemed on the verge of shredding. No semblance of obesity remained; starkly revealed now were the thin arms, the slim waist, the tall figure.
And those full and overflowing breasts, so wide that their curves were completely overflowing her arms as she held both arms tight to her sides ... the largest breasts he had ever seen in his personal experience, were watching him. Or so it seemed at that moment. To make an embarassing situation complete, the cotton fabric clearly outlined the peaks of her large nipples.
She was wearing a bra, a big old-lady-bra, the outlines of its wide straps, reinforced cups, and thick bandeau visible under the shirt. Gunther could have had her continue disrobing or stop, it would have required merely another gesture with his hand. But he did not want to embarrass the girl any more than strictly necessary; he decided to reserve getting a full view of her as a surprise for that very night.
Lisa realized it, in that moment of silence, and smiled slightly.
"Are you legal? For this kind of work?" - asked Gunther.
"Eighteen years old. Just last week."
There followed another pause that seemed, to Lisa, to be very long.
"Here we do three shows a night, at ten, midnight, and two; the wage is 30 euros per show, plus tips, of course. If you want you can start tonight. "
"That will be fine, but ..." - she said.
"But ...?"
"You know, mister, I've never done anything like this, I do not know if I will be able ..."
"Girl, we're not the Crazy Horse, here; what you have, is more than enough."
Lisa took her things from the sofa, dressed and, going out of the office, said, in a deliberately baby-voice: "If you say so ..."
So, if nobody is going to do it, I'm gonna be the first to comment myself.
RispondiEliminaJust to say to you, if you will have the patience to read my novel, that it's not a case that everything begins on a Valentine's day...