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By de Vere
From de Vere’s upcoming collection of short stories, LET: Tales of Love, Eros and Taboo. Some stories are true, some are fictional. Some are aspirational. You decide which are which.
The names have been changed to protect the naughty.
Let me tell you how I made enough money to retire before my forty-third birthday.
And the money is far from the best part.
It started in my mid-thirties, watching women jog by on the trail alongside the river, the three-mile circuit I circled two times, three days a week. Far from the first time I noticed female joggers running in sexy sports bras or tank tops. No, they entranced me for years, but there my idea grew from watching them.
Demure women running hidden under loose tee-shirts? My eyes drift down to their legs, sexy muscles flexing and relaxing with the rhythm of their pace. And I enjoy it, having no problem with their modest tops. I am a leg man—well, maybe more of an ass man. Depends on the legs. Or ass. But, let’s be honest—who doesn’t enjoy a woman jogging in a sports bra? A tight tank top will do. Sometimes I think the true reason for that fabric is not to wick away sweat, rather to hug their breasts allowing nipples to poke lusciously into the textile. To show to the whole world breasts bouncing with every step.
Even a leg man loves watching that. Ass men, too.
They love showing off their bodies. You can tell. Usually the more beautiful women wear those tops, the ones with spectacular boobs. They enjoy the attention same as guys like me do, the muscular guys with cut abs running without our shirts. We lie that we do it for the tan, but the admiring looks women in their sports bras exchange with us out of the corners of our eyes as we go by is the true reason. Sometimes I say hi and struggle to keep my eyes on theirs. Other times I smile. But every time I watch them bounce by.
My brother has always been a bit of a tool. Four years older, better at everything growing up than I could ever hope to be, Shane’s shadow covered me my entire life. He knew it, never letting me forget growing up, missing no opportunity to compare accomplishments. Better grades, taller and at an earlier age, more handsome, he got laid two years younger than I could pull off, winning all manner of awards I never received consideration for. Of course, he married well right after college and made more money than I thought possible in a glamorous position with a Fortune 100 company. Kicked my ass all the time, too. Maybe that is why I started lifting weights freshman year in high school and have kept it up since. To discourage him. I may not drive a Land Rover, but the days when he could pin me to the ground and punch the snot out of me ended long ago.
These days he threw parties at his fairway mansion at the Atlanta Golf Club. Why he invited me so often remains one of life’s mysteries. Perhaps suppressed affection or maybe enjoying showing off his expensive toys and gorgeous wife every time I attend. I left with women from enough of his parties to keep me coming back, maintaining a success rate that he never would top. Or maybe he did, for I suspect he banged many women on his business trips and late nights at work, just because he can. And it was at one of those parties that I came up with the idea that put us in the same tax bracket and resulted in a lifetime ban from his house. All because of female joggers.
Drinking craft beers and pretentious wines by the pool while he barbecued meats to accentuate the catered side dishes, I had been hitting on women all afternoon when I recognized a runner from the park. One of the women who loved to entertain male joggers and power walkers with her tight running tops and spandex pants. Even in a billowy white silk top that probably cost five hundred dollars, I immediately recognized her. Her husband worked with Shane and hovered nearby to chase predators away from his blonde trophy bride, so I walked over content merely to meet and have someone to talk to at the park in the future, when her husband was nowhere to be found.
She remembered me, too. First thing she said was, “I almost did not recognize you in a shirt.”
“Me either,” I said, aware that her husband stood watch over by the grille with my brother. She laughed and introduced herself as Valeria, and we exchanged small talk about running, choice of shoes, even which energy drink we preferred. “Water or PowerAid?” I asked. She drank that oxygenated water shit that some genius scammer came up with, forcing me to choke back revealing her gullibility to her.
Spotting her lurking husband spoiling any chance of fun that day, I decided to press my luck a bit. “May I ask a personal question?” Pleasantly assuring I could, I charged ahead. “Do women realize how jogging in sports bras or tight shirts drives us guys nuts? I know it’s comfortable and all, which is why I run without a shirt,” I said. It was half-true. “But I hope you don’t mind me saying this, women who wear clothing as sexy as yours casino şirketleri can be rather distracting.”
“I certainly hope so,” she coyly replied.
“Ah-hah! So, it is deliberate!”
“No more so than you ripped men running without shirts,” she answered, looking down at me as though I had shown up in my usual running attire.
“I beg to differ. Women have much more movement than men when they run. Many women try to hide it under a tee-shirt or supportive bra.”
“Until gravity ruins it for me, I intend to keep running like that. Once they start sagging, I will wear a bra. But I’m nearly forty, so I’ll keep enjoying it long as I can.”
“So you do enjoy making men drool,” I accused her.
“Of course. Same as you do. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Right?”
“Do other women feel the same way?”
“Not that we sit around discussing how our boobs look in our jogging tops, but we know. We aren’t stupid.”
No, they are intentional. Now I knew. “Would women run topless if they could get away with it?” I gave her a wink while looking over her shoulder toward her husband.
“Ouch! I will have you know Spandex holds you in place. Running topless would hurt. At least for women my size. Maybe the skinny ones could get away with it. Not that you men would care.” We laughed while chatting about other things besides her breasts for a while before she wandered off to leave me with my thoughts.
Not long after that, I ran into my niece. Vicky studies at the Savannah College of Art and Design, which everyone called SCAD, despite the way that acronym grates on the ear. She regularly spends her weekends home. Almost nineteen by then, she dressed in clothes chosen to put her art school angst on full display. She had a new tattoo on her shoulder her father must hate, a decorated Día de Muertos skull. Even without it, she stood out, and not only her age. Although pretty, since childhood Vicky cultivated a nerdy look that made her appear out of place there amongst the beautiful people vying to impress. So, I walked up to ask about her fresh tat. “Did you get that to annoy your father?”
“I’m studying fashion design. If studying psychology, I probably would have an answer better than I got it because I like it.”
I had to admit, it did look good, so I told her. I asked about her classes, and she complained about blanking out trying to come up with a project for a fashion design class. “The assignment is to design something functional, but with good form. Something unique. I’ve got nothing. I need to submit the idea by Wednesday, and we have until the end of the term to produce the actual garment.”
“How long is that?”
“Three weeks after Wednesday.”
“Any particular kind of clothing?”
“Nope. Men, women, anything, as long as it is a functional product not already on the market. Functionality is key.”
Valeria and her boobs flashed through my mind, so I joked, “You should make a braless strap for women to wear while jogging, to support their boobs without totally inhibiting their bouncing and still allowing their nipples to poke through their Spandex.
Vicky has dark eyes, passed down through her mother’s Italian blood, eyes that normally conveyed a practiced expression of boredom, but in that moment, she could not prevent them from growing wide. “You are frickin’ brilliant!”
Fashion design never occurred to me as a career path, despite long appreciating anything that accentuated female bodies. Still not understanding my moment of inspiration, I assumed she mocked my ignorance of the fashion world. “Sorry, it was only a joke.”
“No, really. It is brilliant! You’re a runner—how would that work?”
“I’m a male runner without boobs. What we need is a female runner. Luckily, I know that one right there.” Rounding up Valeria, Vicky explained the idea.
“If it can give me a few more years with boobs firm enough to jog into my forties, I’m all for it,” Valeria assured her. “Just make sure it is comfortable yet supports without ruining the natural shape.” Armed with this advice, Vicky set off on her project.
A knock on my door came a few days later. Vicky rarely visited, and never without her parents. “I need your help,” she breezed past me into my condo.
“Sure, whatever you need.”
“Since it is your idea, after all, maybe your vision can help me in the process.” Laying a bag on the table, from which she spread a collection of mutilated bras across the table. “I cut the cups off, but that doesn’t work. It needs something.”
Why had she come to me? My joke blossomed into a concept that, even viewed skeptically, seemed good enough to Ace her project. What more could I offer? “How can I help?”
“You are going to help me figure out how to support boobs while looking natural. These old bras are a start,” she picked through them, “and we can dissect them.”
Cluelessly examining her assortment of de-cupped bras—nothing more than straps—movement too quick to react to caught my attention out of casino firmaları the corner of my eye. Vicky pulled her sweatshirt over her head.
“I bought this running shirt because, you know, I’m not much of a jogger.” It looked great on her. Accustomed to seeing her since high school dressed in the billowy Goth art-student uniform gave little opportunity to notice her breasts. Larger than expected, stretching against the fabric pleasingly, I forced myself to quickly look away. “Pick one. I’ll try it on and show you.”
Returning from the bathroom wearing one, the line across her sides and back under her shirt the only evidence. “See? There’s no support. Maybe they’re too big. Not many runners have C-cups, do they?”
“Most runners are smaller. Look, Vicky, I am not comfortable talking about your….” Unable to finish, my eyes instead glanced down to her chest.
“Come on, Uncle Sean. I need your help. It’s your idea and I’m relying on your expertise on runners’ boobs. Besides, I never noticed how droopy mine are until I cut the cups out, so they aren’t very interesting.”
“Jesus, don’t call me Uncle Sean in the same breath as talking about your boobs,” I protested, tongue finally working. “And they aren’t droopy.”
“More than I thought. They’re just boobs. You’ve seen plenty in your day. I bet you’ve seen Valeria Middleton’s since the party. What should I call you?”
Her optimism in my prowess secretly pleased me. “We’re alone here, so I’ll assume you are talking to me. And I have not seen Valeria’s boobs, although we will run together Wednesday, so it’s only a matter of time. Are you sure you are cool with this?”
“Get over it and help me figure out how to make these straps work!” Settling into her work, she tried them all on with the same result. None provided any support. After cutting a couple she brought intact into something resembling one of those shelf-bras in that old porn from the 1950s, back in the days of older, voluptuous models, those provided support quite different from what I imagined. Her either. Over wine and a pile of butchered lingerie, we brainstormed late into the night. Finally, inspiration struck.
“Wait here,” I told her. A few minutes later I returned carrying a collection of junk from around the condo. Plastic packaging, cardboard, a mousepad, all arrayed beside the straps. “What if we add a lip, not a shelf? Like this.” Holding a sheet of plastic against the strap so it stuck straight up where the cup would be, I trimmed it down to size. “We sew it on so it will push the breasts up. Determine what material works and is comfortable. Smaller breasts will likely need a smaller lip.”
“I like it! Let me see that.” It would only work after sewing the lip to the strap, but nothing could deter her from her mission that night. Cutting two identical sheets of semi-flexible plastic long enough to extend several inches below the strap for stability, she returned from the bathroom with the contraption in place. “How do they look?”
Amazingly, it gave the envisioned support. Now more relaxed, I answered, “Great. Let me see that!” Never in my life had I imagined inspecting my niece’s breasts from inches away. “It lifts but unless seen from down here, you can’t see a thing! How does it feel?”
“Plastic may not be the material of choice. That can be worked out. The best part is we can adjust it by sliding the plastic up or down to get the right amount of support. Help me decide how much looks best.” What worked in the bathroom failed with the shirt, which she remedied by lifting her boobs while I adjusted it slightly. Moving one side allowed us to compare the resulting support, arriving at the optimal level several adjustments later.
“There,” I announced, stepping back thrilled. “Perfect!”
A long look in the mirror from all angles confirmed it. “Okay! We need to mark it so I’ll know where to sew. Where’s a Sharpie?” Returning with one, she tugged her top up to reveal the strap, along with the bottom of her breasts and the plastic pushing them, now straining under the weight.
“Vicky, shit! Don’t do that to me! Here!”
Staring at the marker I offered her, she set me straight. “I can’t see under there to mark them myself. You have to do it.”
“Don’t ever tell your father about this.”
“No fucking way. No!” She stopped me as I began drawing a line on the plastic along the bottom of the strap. “Mark the top so I can line it up right. All the way across!” So, that is what I did. I almost avoided brushing against the curve of her flesh, but to get the marks in the right place, it happened a couple of times, which she ignored. Packing the pattern and the rest, I asked her to let me know how it worked.
“I will keep you abreast,” she promised with a wink before closing the door.
Her next unannounced visit came two days later. “Wait until you see what I have! I went to a bunch of stores and tried several different materials and guess what? Some work great! Your idea is incredible—I am SO getting an A güvenilir casino in this class!” I don’t think I’d gotten in a word before she pulled her top off to reveal the running shirt with the first braless strap underneath. “What do you think?”
Her breasts weren’t droopy—typical nineteen-year-old Cs that gravity had barely begun to take—but the strap did produce a noticeable difference. “It’s fantastic!” Over the next hour she demonstrated various prototypes made from rubber, different plastics, thick fabrics or with layered materials sewn together. Each one pushed her boobs up sufficiently, although some more visibly, a little more or less lift depending on the material. Pleased with her handiwork, she lifted her shirt to show me each one, like she did when I marked the plastic for her. This time, she changed right there, turning her back to me while casually describing the next one. I admit, I enjoyed plenty of side boob as she changed, so I did not discourage her.
While changing, I asked, “Which one feels the best?”
“Saving the best for last. This one.” So absorbed that she forgot, she turned to show it off without putting her shirt on. Seeing my face, she shrieked, “Oh!” belatedly covered herself with one arm, but I had gotten an eye-full. We both laughed with embarrassment. What else can you do? Crimson flooded her face and she froze turned halfway around, then handed me her favorite.
“It was inevitable,” I said to put her at ease. “We’re creating a new form of lingerie, so I suppose your co-designer would end up seeing you wearing it.”
“You’re right.” A moment’s hesitation, then she said, “What the hell!” Dropping her hand, she let me gaze at her breasts. “It will help, right? For you to see how they work?”
I readily agreed. “Absolutely.”
“Tell the truth: how does it look? Without the top?”
No man would have been able to stop gawking. My niece has amazing breasts, with rosy nipples the size of half-dollars, not quite centered but slightly outward. The braless strap eliminated any sign of droop. As I began answering, I caught myself. She meant the strap.
“It looks great,” I said evenly to hide any enthusiasm.
Turning her back to change into the last three was her last remaining trace of modesty. Each time she donned the top before turning, then removed it to show her materials and workmanship. I paid little attention to the materials I pretended to examine from close range. Small breasts appeal to me. I rarely date women above a B-cup. Hers were perfect, I decided as she modeled her favorite, plastic like the prototype now layered between cushiony fabric and spandex. “It’s so comfortable and pushes up best, don’t you think?” She even swiveled from the hip to show off her handiwork.
“It’s perfect.” Something came over me as she reached for her shirt. “I have to say it—you have beautiful breasts.”
“Why, thank you, Uncle Sean!” Our eyes met momentarily before I again looked down. “There is more work to do before these are ready to market, so at least you will enjoy your work! Next we’ll work on other sizes.”
“Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself, but if this works like I think it will—well, I already am drawing up a business plan.” Then she put her top back on while I watched in stunned silence, leaving soon after.
She brought a friend on her next visit. “This is Madison. She’s been helping me with other sizes. Don’t worry, she won’t breathe a word of this. I traded her test answers from marketing class. She’s a B-cup, so it’s perfect.”
I extended my hand. “Sean.”
“A-B, really.” Madison said, the first time a woman’s introductory words to me were her cup size. “So, you invented this?”
“We invented it,” I corrected.
“It’s his idea; I worked out how to fabricate it.”
Madison had black hair, deep green eyes, that pale, artist complexion, and breasts that drew me as a magnet. Demonstrating no inhibition by taking off her top to allow Vicky fit the first one on her while I stood there slack-jawed, Vicky offered an explanation. “Don’t worry, Madison models for drawing classes. Pays her bills. I’m paying her the same for this. Development costs.”
“I’m not taking her money,” Madison explained with a jiggly laugh. Closer to B, I decided.
Vicky told how Madison helped her work out the different sizes, her smaller breasts requiring less support, thus smaller, more pliable lips. Each one she modeled both with and without a running shirt. We all agreed on the top two before showing me the piece de resistance. “This is the best. I think we can market both kinds, but this is perfect for runners and works with hers. It should be all a true A needs.”
It was a piece of engineering genius. The others had all been like the original: regular bra straps de-cupped, but this one she made from scratch. Nothing more than a spandex strap with a bra hook, fabric slightly wider beneath each breast. “I am trying to work one out for a C, but that requires more engineering. What do you think?”
“The only Cs you are going to get in your class are bra sizes. This is definitely A-material!” The girls laughed, Madison entertainingly so still wearing only the strap. “Can I borrow that one, and maybe one of the others?”
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