Prime Curves
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Prime Assets Ch. 04 free porn video
Rebekah hadn’t replied to any of Emma’s text messages, and so at around noon on Sunday, still in her pyjamas, Emma decided to call her.
‘Hey, Emma,’ the voice down the phone line was somewhat muted.
‘Bex, I’ve not heard from you. I feel awful about last night, what a disaster.’
‘Yes. Well.’
‘What’s the matter? Did the two of you hate it, too? I saw you leave at the interval, along with everyone else.’
‘Look, this isn’t a good time, Emma. Me and the fella, we… We’ve had an argument.’
‘Oh, Rebekah, I am sorry to hear that. Call me back another time.’
Emma reflected on these circumstances. Her blood froze at the thought that, what if, she was the reason for the argument. What if Rebekah’s boyfriend had ejaculated at her burlesque set the previous evening like the other men in the audience, and that had been the reason for the rift in their relationship? She instantly dismissed the notion. Surely the constant exposure to Rebekah’s own not-inconsiderable bosom would have, over time, have inured him to the erotic overload of a voluptuous, shapely pair of breasts. She put the phone down on the bedside table, now concerned that her body may be affecting her friendships. If only she could turn back the clock one week and go back to her normal old life at the library!
But there was always Simon, who had stuck with her through the whole process of developing her act. He had perhaps misjudged the levels of eroticism permissible, but she was certain that his heart had been in the right place. She felt bad for having slammed the door in his face the previous night, and, hearing him potter about in the kitchen, decided to go down and wish him a belated good morning.
‘Aha, you’re up,’ said Simon, standing in his dressing gown at the stove cooking some brunch. ‘Eggs?’
‘Yes please,’ said Emma, and slumped down onto a chair at the kitchen table. The way her breasts jostled as she did so reminded her of just how much she used to hate them. That hatred had given way to a false sense of confidence, and now she not only hated her boobs, she hated herself for having been so foolish as to deem them positive assets.
‘I’m guessing that last night didn’t go quite as planned,’ said Simon, cracking another egg into the pan.
‘It was a disaster,’ sulked Emma. ‘A complete bloody disaster.’ She explained what had gone down at the cabaret bar.
‘All of them? They all jizzed their pants?’
Emma picked forlornly at her brunch and nodded. ‘They had to call off the entire show.’
‘It’s a compliment of sorts, isn’t it?’
‘Hardly. I thought it was just you that got so excited down there seeing me topless.’
‘I think any red-blooded male would lose control faced with the sight of those boobs,’ said Simon. ‘They’re pretty damned perfect.’
‘Simon, if you don’t mind my asking, your previous partners. Were they also big-busted?’
Simon set his fork down and leaned back in reflection. ‘They certainly were. Each bigger than the next. But I always get kind of obsessed, and girls don’t like that.’
‘They didn’t like you being obsessed with their boobs?’
‘No-one wants to be fetishised,’ Simon reasoned. ‘And to be honest we were always incompatible, personality-wise.’
‘Do you still, um, masturbate thinking about them?’ It was a bold question, but Emma felt they had now crossed a threshold of intimacy.
‘Sometimes, I guess,’ gulped Simon. ‘Why are you asking about this?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Emma. ‘Sorry.’
The next day, with no more library job to go to, she decided she was going to have to sign on for unemployment benefits. But, as she emptied her now redundant burlesque costume paraphernalia into the bin in front of the house, something fell out which caught her attention. It was the calling card the gentleman in the cabaret bar had given her, the handsome, important-looking fellow in the grey suit and tie. Reasoning that whatever work he thought he may be able to get her would be easier money than whatever temp job she would find herself doing instead, she took the card back into the house, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialled the number.
‘Prime Assets, how may I help?’ said the receptionist.
‘I, um, I was given your number by one of your agents, he suggested I call, that you may have some work for me.’
‘Putting you through now.’
Emma waited.
‘Howard Hurst speaking.’
‘Oh, hello. This is Emma Enderby, I think we met on Saturday night. You gave me your card?’
‘Emma! I’m so pleased you called!’ Hurst gave Emma an address in the West End and told her to head straight over.
Prime Assets’ offices were on the third floor of a grand old office building accessed via an alleyway off Regent Street. Emma stepped out of the lift and pushed through the glass doors to the reception area, where a blonde with a fine bust of her own sat behind a desk.
‘Howard really does know how to spot ’em,’ giggled the receptionist.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Emma.
‘Your breasts,’ the receptionist elaborated. ‘They’re magnificent!’
Emma had decided to show off her curves and cleavage by wearing her light blue top, but still was taken aback by the comment. She decided to welcome it as a compliment. Anything to make her feel better about her wretched bosom. ‘Thanks.’
‘Take a seat, please. Howard is interviewing someone but he’ll be with you shortly.’
Emma perched her plump bottom on a chair and flicked through the agency’s catalogue of models. If the name of the organisation hadn’t been enough of a clue, the pictures of the models confirmed its area of specialisation: big boobs. But there didn’t seem to be anything seedy or salacious about it, it seemed that they were simply catering to a niche in the market. The girls’ resumes seemed to cover things like lingerie work and… She heard voices, and turned to see the dapper gent from the cabaret bar showing a willowy, enormous-bosomed young woman in a form-hugging red dress to the exit.
‘Thank-you for the opportunity, Mr Hurst,’ she said, bust swaying.
‘I look forward to working with you, Miss Sinclair,’ replied Hurst with a dashing smile. ‘You really do have the most extraordinary pair of breasts.’
He bade her goodbye, the turned to the waiting area where Emma had stood to greet him, and clasped his hands. ‘Miss Enderby. Such a pleasure to see you here. This way, please.’
After a handshake that was so strong that Emma decided it must have been intended to shake her bust on purpose, the two went through the doors and along a corridor, through an open plan area of agency workers, male and female, and into Hurst’s spacious corner office.
‘I’m sure you’ve already figured out what it is we do here,’ smiled Hurst as he sat back in his deep leather office chair.
‘I can guess,’ shrugged Emma. ‘Boobs?’
‘One hundred percent,’ said Hurst. ‘Boobs, breasts, bosoms, jugs, puppies, norks, gazongas, we do them all. You see, we found that the world is full of women you could describe as top-heavy, slim everywhere except for their chests. Prevailing body culture neglects to acknowledge this body type, the representation of women in society skews to the more flat chested.’
‘Sadly true,’ agreed Emma.
‘This means there are a lot of bosomy, beautiful young women out there who being discriminated against, who could be models or actresses, but for whom the only options are glamour work or pornography.’
‘I don’t want to do that,’ Emma interjected.
‘And we don’t get our girls that kind of work, don’t worry,’ said Hurst, raising a reassuring hand. ‘We find work, all kinds of work, where our models’ breasts put them at an advantage. Now, although like I say we don’t do adult work, there is sometimes nudity involved. Having seen you on stage, I’m guessing that toplessness isn’t likely to be a problem for you?’
‘It’s n
ot that it’s a problem for me, more that it’s a problem for other people,’ sighed Emma. ‘Men get… rather excited at the sight of my bosoms.’
‘As I recall very well,’ said Hurst, a gleam in his eye. ‘Remind me. Take your top off, please.’
Strangely unperturbed, Emma stood and stripped down to the ill-fitting beige bra from the edges of which excess breast bulged.
‘Oh my,’ said Howard, also standing. There was a rigid bulge in his suit trousers. He made his way round the front of his desk to face Emma, gazing wide eyed at her poorly-contained bosom. ‘I’m hard already, and you’re still in your bra. Look.’
Emma looked, rather startled, as Howard Hurst proceeded to unzip his flies and, with difficulty, extract his thick, stiff erection. It was big, the biggest Emma had ever seen. As Hurst tugged the twitching boner free, his balls, heavy and swollen in their wrinkly sack, tumbled from his trousers too, dangling playfully in the long shadow cast by that engorged shaft. Emma wondered with nervous curiosity how much cum must be stored in those snooker ball sized nuts, and had the feeling she was about to find out.
Hurst steadied himself, his hands placed on the desk behind him, his tall, purple priapism growing and stiffening before him. ‘Take off the bra,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ Emma toyed uncertainly with her bra straps, watching the gaping tip of Hurst’s organ as it began to drizzle thin, hot pre-ejaculate.
‘Okey dokey,’ said Emma, and snapped open the hooks behind her, letting the cups fall from her heaving breasts, both of which were splattered almost instantly by payloads of cream fired from Howard Hurst’s helplessly convulsing erection. The poor man, she thought.
‘Christ alive,’ wheezed Hurst, still cumming at Emma’s firm, jutting breasts. ‘I’m not even touching it! Oh my fucking… One moment, I’m going to call my assistant in here to finish me off.’
Emma’s nipples throbbed, craving attention, and she seized her chance. ‘Oh, let me, please,’ she hastened. ‘It’s the least I can do!’ She took a few steps forward and leaned over Hurst’s towering cock until its pulsing head brushed lightly between her dangling breasts.
‘Ungh!’ exclaimed Hurst, as the feather light physical contact set his balls off again, two messy eruptions spilling upwards into Emma’s deep cleavage. ‘Oh Jesus!’ Doing exactly what Emma was hoping he’d do, he grabbed her firm boobs with his strong hands and mashed them in horny desperation around his throbbing penis, and thus Emma’s nipples got the rough manhandling they craved sending warm waves of pleasure through Emma’s body. Juices seeped happily into into her knickers, but she contained her sexual relief, not wanting to make a show of it in the way her prospective agent seemed content to do.
‘Oh they’re out of this world,’ growled Hurst, groping and squeezing away at Emma’s twin creamy abundances as they slapped his decelerating erection lazily this way and that. ‘You’re perfect, Emma. Perfect!’
Emma was too glad of the much-needed positive feedback to dwell on the rather strange circumstances in which it was being given, and there was something thrilling and powerful about this well-endowed businessman being at her mercy. ‘Thank-you, Mr Hurst,’ she said. ‘Can I assume you’ll be taking me on as a client, then?’
Hurst let go of Emma’s breasts and steadied himself against the polished oak desk once more. ‘Definitely,’ he gasped. ‘And, please, call me Howard.’
Emma stood up straight, a thick, dangling garland of semen stretching from her cleavage to the spent, wilting helmet of Howard’s cock. There was so much of it. She had thought Simon was a prolific ejaculator, but this was something else. A real man’s load. ‘Great!’ she smiled.
‘We’ll get you measured up now. If you’re free tomorrow night, I have a job I think will suit you well.’
Having had her breasts subjected to much scrutiny from Howard and his team, Emma was excited to be handed an envelope containing her first brief.
‘It’s a nude life modelling job,’ said Howard as he walked Emma to the lift. ‘Have you ever done that before?’
Emma shook her head. ‘No. How hard can it be, though?’
‘That’s the spirit!’ said Howard. ‘It’s an undergraduate at Goldsmiths art school specializing in depictions of breasts. He uses his budget to hire a different model from our books a few nights a week, and Miss Healey has had to drop out at short notice, so I’ll send you in her place. It’s five hundred pounds for two hours, minus my ten percent commission.’
Four hundred and fifty pounds! That would cover the month’s rent she owed Simon. The gig couldn’t have come along at a better time.
The next evening, she packed her bathrobe in a bag and took the bus to New Cross, reporting at the college reception, where a skinny, sweaty young man of about twenty met her.
‘Jemma?’ he said, extending a hand, eyes darting up and down between eye contact and glances into the cleavage on display.
‘Emma,’ Emma corrected him. ‘Jemma can’t make it. I hope my breasts are suitable enough for your project.’
‘They certainly look it,’ he said. ‘I’m Grant.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
Grant took her to a studio in a remote part of the campus, and switched the lights on while Emma shut the door behind them and looked around. There was no doubting that Grant’s work was devoted to the female bosom. Work in every medium was scattered all around, from pencil sketches to watercolours and oils, from photography to sculptures and plaster body casts. On a television set in the corner, a video depicted a very beautiful pair of breasts jiggling in tantalising slow motion. The obsession showed in the quality of the work, which was of a very high standard.
‘Your work is beautiful,’ said Emma, taking it all in.
‘Big breasts are beautiful,’ mumbled Grant. ‘I just try to do them justice.’
‘Well, I shall be honoured to become part of your body of work,’ said Emma, thrilled. ‘Shall I undress now? Where do you want me?’
Grant directed her to a well lit spot in the centre of the room. He had set up cameras for stills and video, as well as drawing equipment, paints and a canvas on an easel, presumably to be prepared for whatever inspiration may strike. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Strip fully nude, please.’
Emma kicked off her shoes, tugged off her socks, and dropped jogging bottoms and knickers to the cold floor in one go. She let Grant’s beady young eyes linger on her ginger-tufted pussy for a moment, then fingered the hem of her top. She had decided to go braless for the sake of expediency, and wondered of the breast-obsessed student could tell. ‘Before I take this off,’ she said, ‘I have to check, and there’s no delicate way to put this, but… well, have you already ejaculated today?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Grant said. ‘In fact it’s a good question. As part of the artwork I’m staying celibate. I’ve not ejaculated for five weeks, and I’m not going to until the end of term, when I’m going to film the final release to show as part of the artwork as a whole.
Emma took this in as she contemplated the five weeks of pent-up cum in those bloated,tit-obsessed student testicles. ‘Then you might want to consider booking me last instead of tonight,’ she said, still toying with the hem of her vest top, bottomless. ‘I don’t want my bosom setting you off prematurely. I’m told I’m a bit… special.’
‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ gulped Grant unconvincingly. ‘Strip down to your bra for now.’
‘That’s the thing,’ grimaced Emma. ‘I’m not wearing one. This is how pert and sexy my boobs are braless.’ She gave her shoulders a brief shimmy and let her bosom sway freely in its idiosyncratic, gravity-shunning way before Grant’s palpably astonished eyes.
‘Oh,’ said Grant. ‘I see.’
‘Yes, now you see,’ said Emma. ‘Now, shall we postpone for the sake of your artistic integrity?’
‘Fuck integrity,’ blurted Grant, yanking off his belt. ‘And f
uck art. I’ve got to see these now, and if I shoot my load then so be it!’
‘You’ve got an erection already, haven’t you,’ smiled Emma. ‘I’d suggest getting those video cameras running.’
Grant rapidly divested himself of his trousers, and his rigid erection strained up toward Emma’s clothed, braless breasts. It was by no means the size of Howard’s meaty rod, but Howard did seem to be unnaturally well-endowed, and so Emma didn’t like to judge Grant’s more modestly proportioned boner against Howard’s any more than she imagined a girl with C-cups would relish the thought of having her own assets compared to a stout pair of double-F’s like Emma’s.
Grant got the cameras running, stripped off his T-shirt and now stood naked in front of Emma, his smartphone pointed at the clothed bust occupying his feverish thoughts. ‘Okay,’ he said, voice trembling. ‘Ready.’
Emma took a deep breath and swept her top upwards, throwing it to one side. Her breasts, released, jostled and gamboled before here in proud nakedness. For a few seconds she thought that perhaps her bust wasn’t going to have the anticipated effect, so accustomed had she become lately to its instant ejaculation-provoking properties.
Grant stood, motionless and silent, until a small silent whimper began from his throat, like the distant sound of an approaching tidal wave, growing louder and louder, until the twitching of his shaft reached a level of rapidity that almost became a blurred vibration and with a prolonged grunt of sheer relief, those five weeks of cum, built up from exposure to the delectable bosoms of Howard Hurst’s star clients, erupted from the scarlet head of his student cock like a fountain of liquid obsession. Wriggling and twitching like an unmanned garden hose, Grant’s lust-possessed appendage pumped cum through the air in what seemed like an uninterrupted torrent, and Emma finally got the belated bosom-decoration she had briefly feared might never happen.
Patiently Emma stood there for Grant’s benefit, the climactic centrepiece of his breast-worshipping art installation being painted prematurely onto her buxom body, Jackson Pollock-style. It felt exciting to be a muse! Not an object of simple animal lust, but the subject of a serious creative endeavour. Grant’s bodily fluids, raining down on her breasts in a sticky, heavy shower, felt like paint on a canvas. This was a mark of aesthetic appreciation from a new artist, something to be hung on the walls of a contemporary art gallery, not simply an opportunistic twenty-year-old pervert wanking onto her tits.
‘You weren’t kidding,’ said Grant, breathless, half laughing in astonishment. ‘I’ve never cum so hard in my life! Stay there, I want to get some more pictures.’
Emma stood, happily jizz-strewn, while the art student immortalized the moment photographically, snapping away liberally while his wagging, naked penis tried to make up its mind whether to retreat, flaccid, or resume its erect state once more.
Over the next hour, Grant paid tribute to Emma’s breasts in a variety of media, at one point scraping his own gelatinous semen from them and mixing with acrylic paints to create a skin colour he then used as the basis for a hasty portrait on canvas. ‘Now my cum is all over your skin,’ he explained enthusiastically. ‘They’ve merged, one and the same thing!’
‘How exciting!’ Emma exclaimed as she stood there, hands behind her back, letting the talented young man scrawl away with his paintbrushes, barely taking his eyes off her jutting boobs. ‘You’re so clever!’
He slathered her breasts with oil before slapping wet sheets of plaster cast all over them. Emma closed her eyes and breathed deeply, hoping to stave off the orgasm which Grant’s sensitive hands on her nipples was stirring up within her. The form of attention was endlessly fascinating and arousing for her. His intense focus on her body, in particularly the part of it toward which she harboured such confused feelings, made her heart pound with a kind of sexual excitement she had never experienced. It was, she recognised, something along the lines of the unromantic attention she had sought in her burlesque dabbling, but this was an audience of one, and he didn’t seem to mind cumming, again and again, in the presence of a bosom she was starting to realise was of a potency not found in your average pair of tits. As Grant cupped and hefted her breasts while washing the hardened bits of plaster from them with warm soapy water at the end of the session, she felt a few squirts of liquid pelt her stomach and pussy, and realised that it was cum, ejaculating from his giddy cock and that he was too distracted and lost in thought to even notice.
Lizbeth
- 20.03.2020
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