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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} First Time Repost (1) : Watch Where You Put Your Hands ~ by DrSpin (MFF)
Date: Wed, 28 Nov 2001 18:10:05 -0500
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Watch Where You Put Your Hands (MFF)
by DrSpin (aka Neil Anthony)
(first ever repost - originally posted November 1999) 

---------------------------------------------------------
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neil@ruthiesclub.com

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

I wandered vaguely into the kitchen, affably drunk and 
agreeably buzzed in the style of my generation. It was my 
old friend Ken's house and that's what we did on the 
various occasions when we gathered for dinner parties and 
similar events of social intercourse. Get pleasant with 
the aid of legal and slightly illegal drugs, I mean. 
Well, we also wandered about vaguely but that was a by-
product.

I wandered into the kitchen and was surprised to see 
Ken's daughter washing up the dinner trash. I shouldn't 
have been surprised because I'd seen her about the place 
earlier in the evening and I had even spoken to her but 
she hadn't been at the table and being surprised was 
another by-product. You know what I mean. 

I was surprised and I stopped wandering and peered at her 
as she turned to me. Her name was Judy. I knew that 
without having to think about it because I'd known her 
all her life. Perhaps I was her godfather. I think I was. 
I was certainly somebody's godfather around here. She was 
about 18 or 19. Anyway, she wasn't yet 21. She was 
studying some place some distance away and she was back 
home for a brief holiday. I knew this because she'd 
already told me earlier in the evening.

When she turned to me, as she or anyone would have when I 
wandered aimlessly into the kitchen, I was surprised to 
see that she had developed really top-class breasts. They 
were positive statements; full, heavy, round; pushing out 
the cotton shirt she was wearing in a definitive manner. 
They were plainly there too much to ignore.

So having wandered vaguely into the kitchen, there I was 
standing in front of Judy pointedly studying the 
excellent shape of her expressive bosom. I shouldn't have 
been surprised because I knew very well she was an 
attractive girl with a really striking figure. I'd noted 
it many times in the past, in that sort of agreeable and 
affable approving way that a godfather or an old family 
friend would. This night, however, it was striking me 
quite firmly. I was taking close note. Thinking back, 
perhaps my jaw had dropped and my mouth was open slackly. 
I hope not. Nobody likes to look like a village idiot, 
even when they're drunk and stoned.

My feet stopped wandering and even my eyes stopped 
wandering but my hands did not. Involuntarily they 
wandered, palms extended like a prophet preaching, in the 
unmistakable direction of Judy's fine breasts. And 
stopped. A couple of millimetres away. I hadn't made a 
decision. That little part of my brain that wasn't 
befuddled must have given the order.

I was standing there with my hands frozen in a 
conspicuously groping position a breath away from her 
breasts and it finally came to me that it wasn't a viable 
proposition. I looked up at her face and her eyes were 
wide. She was very surprised herself, backed up as she 
was against the sink with my hands almost upon her, all 
ten fingers bent and curled to her shape.

"Um," I said, because I had to say something. I had to 
say something more. "Oops," I said.

"Uncle Mike," she said. Her voice was a little strangled. 
She always called me Uncle Mike, even though I wasn't. 
"What are you doing?"

I looked into her eyes and closed one of mine. It helped 
me think. "Nothing," I said, and thought it wise. Almost 
profound. I had summarised the whole complexity of it in 
a single word. I was almost out of this trap, reputation 
untarnished, at that point. All I had to do was take my 
hands away and this silly thing could be dispensed with 
as an amusing sidebar.

I took my hands away and hung them from the length of my 
arms at my side. Say nothing, I told myself. Smile 
brightly and walk away like an inebriated man.

"Sorry," I said, just when I was telling myself not to 
talk. Idiot. An admission of guilt. "I think you must 
have magnets in your bra." 

No, I didn't say that. Surely I didn't. Christ Almighty.

"I'm not wearing a bra," she said. I looked and noted a 
couple of blunt points I hadn't seen before. I nodded my 
head slowly.

"Well, there goes that excuse," I said, still looking. "I 
just can't think of another one at the moment."

She was making a little snorting noise. I looked up and 
found her with her mouth pressed tight, trying not to 
laugh. "I don't think you're in a fit state," she said. 
"Do you think I should drive you home?"

I blinked at her. "Home? Must I go home?"

"It would be good idea. I'll drive you."

She did, steering me past her languid parents and the 
vaguely lingering guests. She drove her car and I sat in 
the front seat. 

"Sorry," I said. She was going to a lot of trouble.

"Don't worry," she said breezily. "I'm used to it."

"Used to driving people home?"

"No. I'm used to people staring at my boobs."

"Oh. That." Watching the road was making my head spin.

"You know," she said conversationally, "they're not that 
big."

"No?"

"I know lots of girls who are bigger. Much bigger, some 
of them."

"Really."

She glanced across at me. "Allison is a 42D and Megan is 
38 double-D. I'm only..."she stopped and looked across 
again. "What do you think I am? I mean, what size do you 
reckon?"

I shook my head, trying to convey I didn't have a clue 
and trying at the same time to clear out the haze. "I 
have no idea."

She giggled. "If you open the glove box you'll find out." 
She giggled again. "Fallout from a heavy necking session 
last week." She lifted a hand from the steering wheel and 
pointed. "Go on." 

I pushed the button and extracted a handful of underwear. 
"Read the label," she said. 

I pushed the bundle of white clothing around in my hand. 
I couldn't find a label. She sighed. "Never mind. It says 
36C, okay? Mind you, some C cups are a little small. I 
guess I'm somewhere between a C and D." She looked across 
at my hands. "Oops," she said. "I forgot about the 
pants." She giggled once more. "I got a bit carried away 
that night."

"Judy," I said, putting the white things back in the 
glove box. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Funny, I thought you were interested in the size of my 
breasts. You were certainly giving a good impression of 
it back in the kitchen. I thought I was going to get well 
and truly groped."

"Yeah, look, hell and britches, I'm really sorry about 
that. I just lost track of where I was and who you were."

"It's okay. I wouldn't have run around screaming, you 
know. It was just unexpected. After trying to get you to 
notice me for so many years, you suddenly come into the 
kitchen and do that. I was just surprised."

Eh? What did she say? I replayed her words. What was that 
all about? 

"Of course I noticed you," I said, evenly and carefully.

"I don't think so. I think the first time you ever 
noticed me, I mean noticed me, was tonight. That's why 
I'm driving you home."

"Eh?" This time I verbalised it.

"You were my fantasy man for a long time, when I was 
younger and needed one."

"Me?"

"I suppose it was because I saw you fucking my mother."

Shit. A big heap of it. How long ago was that? Years. 
"You saw us?"

"Sure did. The first time by accident. Then I snuck home 
early from school and watched." She slowed the car and 
swung into my driveway. She turned off the engine and 
looked at me. "I bet that sobered you up."

Right. I was never more sober in my life. The hairs were 
standing up on the back of my neck but my brain was 
clear. "Judy," I said. "That was finished with a long 
time ago. It's been forgotten. It was a big mistake. It 
didn't last long."

"Yes, I know," she said. She unclipped the seat belt. "I 
think you need a cup of coffee. I'll make it." 

She opened the car door. She waited for me to let her 
into the house. I was between wives at the time. I'd had 
two and would no doubt, knowing the way I fell into such 
things, inherit a third at some time in the future. It 
meant I was keeping the house pretty well draped and 
drab, the way you do when it's only you to look. I 
switched on lights and she found her way to the kitchen.

I followed her. "Does Shelley know you knew?"

"No." She was bustling about efficiently. "It was a nasty 
secret I kept to myself."

"I'm sorry, Judy. It must have caused you terrible pain 
and anxiety."

She turned to face me, her 36C breasts swaying gently 
against the fabric of her shirt. "What it did was open up 
a whole world to me," she said. "It was an instant 
education." She leaned back against the bench, a small 
smile on her face. "She really got off, didn't she. What 
you guys did built an expectation in me that those sort 
of fireworks happen every time. Boy, I found out that was 
wrong."

I made a face at her. "I can't believe you watched. Your 
own mother."

"You thought the house was empty. Twice I lay on the 
floor beside the door and watched everything you did."

"How old were you? I can't remember."

"I was 13 and insatiably curious. Yours was the first 
stiff cock I ever saw."

I tried hard to ignore that. "Remind me, how old are you 
now?"

"I turn 20 next month. I couldn't believe how big it 
was."

"How's the coffee going?"

"Brewing. It might be a flawed memory, but I still don't 
think I've seen a bigger one."

"Your memory is childishly unreliable. Anyway, how many 
have you seen?"

"I don't know. Maybe 30. Probably more. Don't look at me 
like that. I haven't been a virgin since I was 15. Did 
you think I was?"

"Well, no, I guess. I mean, I hadn't thought about it. 
But, Jesus, 30 sounds pretty busy."

"Uncle Mike, you're out of touch."

"How's the coffee going?"

"Ready in a minute. Anyway, don't you want to hear about 
my girlish fantasies?"

"Judy, stop. I'm your uncle."

"You're not my uncle."

"Stop it anyway."

"I will if you stop looking at my chest." Guiltily, I 
jerked my eyes up. She had that faint smile again. "Would 
you like to see them?"

I backed away from her hastily. "Judy, enough," I said. 
"Where's that coffee?"

She turned to the percolator. "Go and sit down," she 
said. "I'll bring it to you."

I sat on the couch, a room and a half away from her, and 
tried to marshall my thoughts. But I had thought nought 
when she approached, bearing cups on a tray. She sat on 
the floor beside me, her legs folded beneath her.

"Give up," she said. "I can have you any time I want."

"I don't understand why you would," I replied.

"I've wanted you for years."

"I'm way too old for you."

"You don't seem any older than when I first wanted you."

"At 13? I was definitely too old for you."

"Stop sparring with me. This is inevitable."

"What's inevitable?"

"You and me."

"You and I."

"Right."

"No, I was correcting your grammar."

She stood up quickly and easily, a sure sign of the 
suppleness of youth. "Enough of these word games," she 
said, and pulled the shirt over her head.

I've seen bunches of good breasts in my time. Her mother 
had good breasts. I've seen great breasts. My first wife 
Sandy had great breasts. I've even seen beautiful breasts 
but it was a long time ago and I could never remember her 
name or her face. Sure, I know it's a cliche and I know 
you know it's coming, but Judy, my god-daughter, had best 
breasts. They say Helen of Troy had such top-rate 
knockers that they would incite an army to mutiny. Maybe. 
They could not have been better than those arrayed for my 
exclusive perusal. A strange forced noise came from my 
mouth and I realised I had been holding my breath for a 
dangerously long spell.

She was standing in front of me, the shirt dangling from 
her hand. She raised her eyebrows. "You like, huh?"

I let out breath in a rush and shook my head vigorously 
to clear the dizziness. I rubbed my eyes, blinked 
deliberately, and looked again. She was still there. 
Beyond compare. Perfect. Supertits.

"Wait," she said. "There's more." She put a foot on the 
coffee table and bent over to untie a shoe. An 
exceptional breast hung gracefully and pressed against 
her thigh. She took off both shoes, unclipped and 
unzipped the jeans and slid them down her hips, hooking 
her thumbs in her pants on the way and taking them 
together down her legs. She stepped away from the bundle 
and stood before me, hands at her sides. 

"I don't get a lot of complaints," she said.

Well, she wouldn't. But those who had received such a 
privilege would not have had my long experience. It took 
decades to reach true objectivity, and I could not have 
awarded her a 10. Her legs were a little short and a 
little stocky in the thigh, her hips were a little wide 
and, if one were to go on being critical, she was 
sporting that silly artificial-looking sideways-Groucho-
Marx-moustache-like vertical clipped rectangle of pubic 
hair that girls fashioned these days so they could wear 
high-cut swimsuits. It looked like a mohawk haircut in 
the wrong place. She could have a full 10 for her tits; 
no doubt whatsoever. But the rest of her was not perfect.

She was, however and in the summation of my analysis and 
taking all factors and components into account, the 
finest naked woman I had seen in the flesh in all my 
life. She was, and it's yet another cliche you know has 
been near at hand and threatening, a goddess.

"You could say something," the goddess said. 

Right. Time was passing. What to say that was not banal? 
Why me? I was more goat than god.

"How about this," I said. "I'm not worthy. Put on your 
clothes and go home."

Sorry? You thought this was going to be a sloshing, 
sluicing and slurping sex saga? I've brought you 2500 
words along the way to a non-orgasmic anti-climax? Well, 
what do you want? A bullshit Penthouse Forum letter or 
the truth of it, as it happened?

The truth of it, as it happened, was that I sent her 
home. You see, goatish men in their mid-forties don't 
score with beautiful and fragrant 19-year-old girls. Or 
at least, they don't without aphrodisiac assistance in 
the form of power, money, drugs and nasty life-
threatening weapons. Or at least, when a particular set 
of unusual circumstances creates a fleeting illusion that 
perhaps they could, then they shouldn't.

A wise man once said a sporting gentleman should never 
eat meat pies on Monday, never bet odds-on and never give 
a sucker an even break. Sound advice. But I had loved her 
mother once or a few times and I liked her tremendously 
still. I could not have ravished her lovely daughter, my 
god-daughter, and looked Shelley in the eye for the rest 
of my life. I sent Judy home.

It took a while and I had to be dogged because she was 
wily enough to plead her case without wearing clothes. 
There were tears. There was embarrassment and 
humiliation. I tried to explain but didn't manage it 
well. I think it was her first rejection, because she 
banged the door on the way out and screeched her tyres in 
the driveway. I didn't look forward to seeing her again 
and didn't do so for a few months. 

But when I did she was sunny.

"Uncle Mike," she said fondly, taking my hand and folding 
it in both of hers. "You know," she said to her mother 
who was standing by, "I think he's just about the nicest 
man in the world."

"I wouldn't go that far," said Shelley dryly. "But he has 
his moments."

The truth of it, as it so happened, was that I had 
recently taken up with Shelley again. I think it was 
Judy's fault. She had reminded me of her mother's good 
qualities.

ENDS

* DrSpin/Neil Anthony is at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

* also at neil@ruthiesclub.com and at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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