Prime Curves
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Prime Assets Ch. 02 free porn video
As a vivacious eighteen-year-old, Emma had taken an interest in dancing. Absent-minded and clumsy by nature, she had thought that dancing might be a practical and fun corrective through which she might acquire some physical coordination, grace, and poise. She had always loved the old musicals, and when she saw a casting call pinned to the library noticeboard for the local amateur dramatics society’s forthcoming production of 42nd Street, no experience required, she leapt at the chance. Her endearing, smiling nature whisked her with ease through the initial get-to-know-you audition, and she began twice-weekly tap dance rehearsals in the church hall with the other young women in the show.
There was only one problem: her breasts. A chorus line has to look consistent, and while Emma was roughly the same medium height and slender frame as the other dozen or so girls, her breasts seemed grotesquely oversized by comparison: The other dancers were all in the parsimonious A to B-cup region, whereas Emma was already sporting a generous pair of perky, grapefruit-sized E-cups that had unexpectedly sprouted since her eighteenth birthday. She was coming to realise that tap, with its endless skipping up and down, might not be the ideal dance style for a woman with so prominent a bosom. The bouncing didn’t hurt as such (her breasts were too dense and well-sprung for that), but she worried that she might look out of place among her flat-chested peers. And, given that she herself had only been a B-cup a mere matter of months before, she still wasn’t quite used to her new top-heavy centre of gravity, which was exacerbating her already ungainly bearing.
And these fears were confirmed soon enough. One evening, the director, a flamboyant homosexual named Cecil, replete in chiffon scarf, velvet dinner jacket, and blond toupée, came to see how the tap routines coming along, having been spending the other evenings in rehearsals with the lead actors. After applauding the progress they had made, he took Emma to one side during a break.
‘Such a spirited performance,’ he smiled obsequiously, touching Emma on the arm.
‘Thank-you!’ beamed Emma with a brief, cleavage-flaunting curtsey. She had upgraded bra, but not leotard, and a great deal of busty upper chest was on creamy display, some of it dislodged from the size E cups from the bouncy, jiggling exertion of the routine. As she stood up straight again, she shivered a little as her nipples, clear of the bra, grazed the inside of the stretchy lycra.
He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering with sympathy on her round bosom. ‘There’s just one thing, dear,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re rather, er, big up top, aren’t you?’
Emma’s forehead creased with anxiety. ‘Is that a problem? I’ve only had them since April. I’m working on my balance, I promise!’
‘It’s not that: it’s the bouncing, m’love. And you look a little out of place next to the other girls.’
Emma opened her mouth to speak.
‘You’re a lovely girl,’ the director hastened, ‘And I’m sure you’ll be a fine addition to the chorus line. Just find a way to strap the girls down, eh?’
He swept off to talk to the choreographer, leaving Emma mortified and embarrassed, but determined to make Cecil happy. So, the very next day, she had bought a minimizer bra, an elaborate contraption the department store assistant promised her would keep her errant, wobbly new breasts in check.
Rehearsals from that point on had been a much more comfortable and dignified affair, with Emma’s ample globes now a distant memory, squashed tightly down into her armpits, the remaining swell in a much more sensible ratio with her otherwise slim proportions. Her thighs and hips were already showing signs of the generous curvature they would adopt in a few years’ time, but otherwise she was a perfect bodily clone of the other dancers.
But that was until the costumes arrived for the dress rehearsal. The chorus line outfits were strapless, spangly red numbers, cut low in the bust and high in the leg, to be worn with nude tights and yellow, elbow-length gloves. In the dressing room, Emma watched the other girls with nostalgic melancholy as they shedded bras and slipped into the tight-fitting costumes, their small breasts nestling neatly into the cups. Her boobs had been that discreet once. Not any more, though. With her industrial-strength sport bra still on, Emma pulled the sparkly costume up as high as it would go, and enlisted a fellow dancer to zip her up at the back. What a relief that it fit!
The costume designer, an irritable, thin character in her fifties, draped in measuring tape and sewing paraphernalia, did a double-take from across the room and strode across to Emma. ‘You do realise that everyone can see that bra,’ she said.
‘It’s to help me fit into the costume,’ Emma explained.
‘Well, you can’t wear it on stage,’ the woman said, with a flat-chested woman’s lack of empathy that bordered on some cross between envy and disgust.
In the wings, Emma waited as long as she good before going on, then got one of the others to help with the delicate operation of unfastening the bra and pulling it out from under the costume. As the undergarment peeled free with difficulty, Emma felt the heavy mass of boob surge forward dangerously, the seams of the dress creaking and straining under the sudden pressure.
And then it was time to go on. As the small band gave an out of pitch rendition of Lullaby of Broadway, Emma and the other girls, all smiles and dazzled by the lights, tapped their way merrily on to the stage before the assembled preview audience. Emma was aware that her bosom was rebounding vigorously, but her mind was focused entirely on the rhythm and the painstakingly-rehearsed tap moves. Without the bra it felt like being topless, as the flimsy fabric cups of the costume offered no support whatsoever.
Beaming the most dazzling smile she could muster, and skipping rhythmically on the spot, arms outstretched, her eyes gradually adjusted to the glare of the stage lighting, and at that point, she became aware of a minor flurry of activity in the audience. To her shock and horror, a young man with straggly yellow hair, staring up at her with transfixed, unblinking eyes, had extracted from his trousers a tall, rigid, erect penis, and, with a strange involuntary compulsion, was stroking it up and down with a trembling hand.
Emma didn’t know what to do. The man was alone in the front row. Had no-one else noticed? Should she do something? And spoil the performance when it had only just begun? A camera flash went off in the audience, blinding her again momentarily. Then another. In the intermittent seconds when her vision readjusted enough to see the audience, all she could see was this young gentleman, masturbating his highly-aroused erection while staring directly at her.
The overture came to an end, and Emma stood there next to her fellow dancers as the audience members applauded politely from the darkness. It was then that Emma realised that her sensation of toplessness throughout the dance routine had not been her imagination. The cups of the costume had lost the fight against her thrusting, jiggling, eighteen-year-old breasts almost instantly, and she had spent the past two minutes treating the assembled crowd to an X-rated display of opulent bare-bosomed titillation that had clearly sent at least one spectator beyond the threshold of public decency.
The man ejaculated, a fountain of pent-up semen drawing several tall, milky lines in the dusty darkness of the church hall. What happened next was commotion, screaming, volunteers rushing to cover the man up and escort him roughly from the premises. The curtain fell.
Embarrassed beyond anything she had ever experienced, Emma had pulled the costume up to cover what she could of her bulky breasts and fled the stage in tears, never to return.
The whole experience had cast a long shadow through her adult life since then. She
gave up all stage ambitions immediately, began dressing more conservatively, lived in abject fear of being masturbated over in public. And as her bosom grew over the years, so her complicated love-hate relationship with it intensified. She never saw the man with the straggly yellow hair from the front row again. She hoped he had been locked away for good, the filthy pervert. And any time she ever heard Lullaby of Broadway, she had to leave the room lest she have some kind of panic attack.
And so it was with mixed feelings that she boarded the bus into Soho with Rebekah. The thought of being in a theatre at all surfaced memories of her amateur dramatics disaster, but here she was, trussed up in corset and fishnets (concealed from the public eye by a long coat Rebekah had also lent her), dressed in a manner unnervingly similar to that malfunctioning chorus line costume.
But, at the same time, she realised that there was something transformative about wearing somebody else’s clothes, something transcended outward appearances. Not just clad in Rebekah’s bustier and stockings, but her eyes panda-thick in kohl, and swimming in an intoxicating cloud of Rebekah’s designer perfume, she felt like a different person entirely, and she kept telling herself that to keep unpleasant memories at bay. And she was with her best friend Rebekah. Rebekah would look out for her.
‘Here for the show, ladies?’ The colossal black bouncer beamed down at them from above his bow tie.
‘Quentin, this is Emma,’ said Rebekah. ‘It’s her first time here.’
‘Performing?’ said Quentin.
Emma snorted. ‘Not a chance,’ she said.
Quentin ushered them through the door, out of the litter-strewn, seedy bustle of Soho and into the velvet faux-luxury of the cabaret bar. They bought their tickets from the box office, handed their coats in to the cloakroom, and stepped into the small, dimly lit theatre space, full of little round candle-lit tables. To Emma’s relief, she and Rebekah were among the more conservatively dressed patrons. It was the kind of show where the audience was every bit as flashy as the performers on stage. So, despite their generous acreages of exposed, corset-boosted cleavage, Emma and Rebekah were unlikely to draw undue attention to themselves, even in their revealing bustiers and 1940’s hairdos.
They made their way to the bar and perused the drinks list.
‘What’s your poison?’ said Rebekah. ‘Triple Sec?’
‘Just a single for me, please. Or maybe I’ll stick to tap water,’ said Emma sensibly. ‘That wine from this afternoon has gone to my head a little.’
‘Fine,’ said Rebekah. ‘But you down the water then join me on the cocktails, okay?’
‘Well, okay then,’ smiled Emma. She didn’t want to be a spoilsport.
Rebekah perused the list while the lean, muscular barman waited patiently. ‘For me, a White Russian, and for my friend… a Ginger Blush. How does that sound?’
‘Very appropriate,’ reasoned Emma.
‘That can be your burlesque name,’ said Rebekah. ‘Ginger Blush.’
‘Nonsense!’ laughed Emma. ‘You’d never get me up there!’
‘You’ve got the tits for it,’ said Rebekah. ‘Don’t you think so, Mario?’
The barman studied Emma’s creamy, corseted bosom, clasping his elbow and tapping his chin. ‘Magnifico!’ he declared at last, in his effeminate Italian sing-song tones, then set about mixing the drinks.
‘He’s gay, don’t worry,’ laughed Rebekah. ‘No need to look so affronted.’
‘I should lighten up a bit, I suppose,’ said Emma.
‘The booze will help with that,’ counseled Rebekah with a wink.
They took their seats at a little table, just in time for the show to begin. Emma took a sip of her Ginger Blush cocktail. Port, champagne, ginger liqueur. It certainly hit the spot.
The MC was a glamourous woman who introduced herself to the audience as Miss Appropriate and proceeded to sing a showtune quite badly. Emma wondered if the poor delivery was as bad a joke as the stage name. Surely she meant ‘inappropriate’, not ‘misappropriate’? To misappropriate meant to embezzle. Never take a librarian to a cabaret, she thought!
The first act was called Kitty Katty. Expecting some kind of feline theme, Emma was disappointed to find the routine a rather generic, drawn-out removal of elaborate clothes down to nipple tassels and knickers. ‘She’s just a stripper in fancy dress,’ Emma grumbled quietly, to which Rebekah shushed her. It was getting more like the library all the time.
A conjurer was on next, then a rather fetching moustachioed fellow in a boater playing heavy metal songs on a ukulele, and then another skinny girl with no tits making her interminable way out of a rhinestone and feathers of a showgirl outfit.
‘I thought burlesque was supposed to be all about big boobs,’ said Emma to Rebekah at the interval. They were on to their second round of cocktails, and the alcohol was having the unintended effect of making Emma maudlin. She had been hoping to see some physicality on stage that would make her more comfortable in her own buxom skin, but instead she was being confronted with a standardized version of the very average, manageable-bosomed person all her short-lived ex-boyfriends had been fantasizing about when they’d been with her.
Rebekah clicked her tongue. ‘Stop moaning, Emma,’ she said. ‘We’re supposed to be having fun.’
‘The dancers are all so dull,’ Emma said.
‘Do it yourself, then,’ urged Rebekah with sincerity. ‘You’d kill it here.’
Emma looked down at her drink as the thought of being up there on stage, semi-nude, flashed through her mind and memories of Lullaby of Broadway came flooding back with crippling horror. ‘Not a chance,’ she said, but at the same time she saw that the view of her drink was mostly obscured by the jutting cream vista of her dual-domed bosom, and she had to acknowledge that she did have something the other burlesque acts lacked. Two things, in fact.
Rebekah went to the ladies’, and Emma people-watched from her vantage point at the little round table on the gallery. She was surprised at the number of couples in the audience, but then on the other hand she wouldn’t have known what to expect. Dirty old men in raincoats? The masturbating man with the straggly yellow hair flickered briefly through her mind, troubling her, and she forced her chain of thought past the memory. She overheard a snippet of conversation from the couple at the next table, both dressed to the nines. They were giggling, touchy feely, perhaps on a first date or at least in the early, flirtatious stages of a relationship. They were plotting what they were going to do to each other when they got home afterwards. Emma blushed the same colour as her cocktail at some of the vocabulary, and at the same time her small areolae throbbed aching pangs of neglect atop her double-F bosoms beneath the corset.
Though the women on stage were a disappointment as role models, the men here were splendid. Well groomed, immaculately tailored, gentlemanly yet sexually open minded. She began to wonder if couples came to watch the show as a kind of foreplay. The thought of being on stage and somehow facilitating all of these bedroom liaisons, of titillating men and women to a point where they had to fuck each other’s brains out the second they got home… she had to admit it was something of a turn-on all by itself.
Again, she snapped out of this absurd fantasy, and Rebekah returned with a third round of cocktails. Another bad showtune from Miss Appropriate, and then Emma’s ears pricked up: an open spot. Rebekah looked across and gave her a nudge and a wink of encouragement. The open spot did a decent job considering how nervous she must have been, but Emma was still not getting the curvaceous femininity she had been expecting. The girl was a B-cup at best. The bosom-shimmies and tassel-twirls which traditionally constituted the climax of the performers’ acts were measly affairs. No jiggle, no wobble, no entertainment value. The
tassels were shaking, but the boobs were not, as there was barely any boob there to begin with. Emma thought back to the shimmy she had undertaken for her own solitary entertainment in the wardrobe mirror the previous evening. There was more burlesque value in that effortless jiggle, more bosom for your buck, than in all the acts she had seen tonight put together!
On the bus home, Emma, now a little too drunk on Ginger Blush cocktails, pictured herself on stage at the cabaret. Perhaps this would be a way to exorcise those demons of the past, to confront her paranoia of accidental public nudity, in an environment where her body might be appreciated aesthetically by urbane modern gentlemen, rather than something to be either feared at one end of the scale, or masturbated over at the other.
‘I’m home,’ she blurted out, accidentally slamming the door behind her, that old clumsiness made worse by the excessive consumption of alcohol. It was past midnight, but she’d seen the lights on, so she assumed Simon was still up. And indeed he was, sitting in the living room with the remainder of a bottle of red wine and listening to some trad jazz.
‘Good evening,’ he said, taking in Emma’s uncharacteristically sexy attire as she wrestled her coat off before him. ‘Been somewhere nice?’
Emma furrowed her brow, then looked down at the corseted swell of her bosom before her, and at the red skirt and fishnets. She now realised that she’d gone home wearing Rebekah’s borrowed clothes by mistake. Her own, dowdy, everyday things were still over at her friend’s flat.
‘Burlesque night,’ she said. ‘You ever been to a burlesque night’?’
Simon shook his head, still staring quite speechless at Emma’s appearance.
‘You’d like it,’ she enthused, walking up and down the living room, still full of nervous, cocktail-fuelled adrenaline. ‘Lots of girls getting their bosoms out on stage. Classy, though. Sound like your kind of thing, Simon?’
‘Um, yes, I guess? I mean, if you liked it then I’m sure I would, too.’
‘Are you into bosoms?’ she asked rather forwardly. ‘Do you like them?’
‘I do,’ he replied.
In her mind’s eye, Emma reviewed the acts she’d seen that evening, and the meagre wares that had been on display. ‘The bosoms weren’t that great, though,’ she added. ‘They could have been bigger. You go to a sexy cabaret, you pay your money, you want big bosoms, right?’
‘Right.’ Simon took another sip of wine.
‘I just couldn’t help comparing theirs to mine, y’know?’ Emma went on, slurring a little, and glad of a captive audience for her jumbled thoughts.
‘That’s understandable,’ said Simon.
‘I’ve got quite big ones, you see,’ she said, quite unnecessarily, given the volume of firm, creamy, gently freckled flesh that bulged from the tightly-fastened bustier into which Rebekah had, with difficulty, squeezed it earlier that evening.
‘Really?’ said Simon, inscrutable. He crossed his legs.
‘Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed!’ giggled Emma. ‘Look! Look at them!’ She arched her back, her breasts nearly hit her on the chin. She felt that aching throb in her nipples again, that yearning to escape from the confines of clothing, to be looked at, appreciated, sucked… a hot blush spread across her throat and chest.
‘I, um, I thought that was just the corset,’ said Simon, washing away the dryness in his voice with another gulp of red.
‘You don’t believe me?’ said Emma loudly, a broad, mischievous smile dimpling her rosy cheeks. ‘You think I have small boobs?’
And without waiting for a reply from her landlord, she began to unfasten the corset. The first clip had the most arduous task of holding Emma’s bosom in place at its most ample extreme, the pressure of its firm bulk requiring effort to alleviate. She squashed her breasts together with her forearms as cocktail-clumsy fingers fumbled with the small plastic hooks. Finally it snapped open, and Emma’s pale breasts wobbled in slight liberation.
‘Wait till you see these!’ she chuckled, proceeding to the second fastener. Then, ‘Sorry it’s taking so long.’
Charlize
- 11.01.2021
- 25
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