I hate working conventions, answering the same stupid questions over and over and staying on your feet for hours. This one was computer stuff at the Washington Convention Center, and I was highly pleased when I lovely young woman dressed as a cheerleader opened the stall across from me and started hawking her gadgets. Pleased is the wrong word; I was aroused. It was ten o'clock in the morning and I had hard-on.
She was a striking young blonde with a really incredible chest, long legs, a lovely ass and a ready smile. Her costume consisted of a tight-fitting yellow sweater with the company's name spread across her lovely front from pointed tit to upright knocker. It was banded with white just beneath her jutting beauties and left her well-toned middle bare down to her tiny waist and deep belly button where she wore a multi-gored and very short shirt of pale yellow which hit her about mid thigh. Instead of saddle shoes or sneakers, she wore short, white boots with about three-inch heels and, I soon saw, very tiny white underpants.
Since there wasn't much business in the morning, I crossed the aisle and introduced myself. "My name's Prentice, but my fiends call me Trish," she said with a smile. "Hi."
"You sure are pretty," I told her truthfully. "Are you really a cheerleader?"
"Uh huh, at school. I was JV this year, but I'll be with the varsity in the fall." She blinked at me. "I'm going to be a junior."
"No kidding. I though you were older."
"It's these," she said, gasping her big boobs and holding them up. "There's so darned big."
"I guess they do get in the way sometimes, but they're really nice, very, I don't know, shapely. Is that the word?"
"Jugs, that's what they are. It's hard to find clothes that fit and the boys are always saying things and running into me. You know, getting a feel, seeing if they're real." She grinned at me. "They're real. honest. Want to feel?" She grinned at me, knowing she was teasing and enjoying it.
"Not here. We might get in trouble." I said as my cock jumped and squirmed.
"I can't wear a bra under this, and the wool or whatever it is, it scratches my tits something awful." She wiggled and her boobs jiggled.
I nodded and admired. They were high and the aroused nipples were evident, poking out and pointing slightly away from each other. "How come you can't wear a bra?" I asked, enjoying the direction this was taking.
"It shows because this is loosely knit or something. Anyhow, I promised and the man paid me extra not to, fifty bucks."
"The guy that hired me. He made me strip bare to the waist right in his office and checked me out, made sure they were naturals." She licked her lips. "I did jumping jacks for him."
"What size are they now?"
She shook her head, tossing golden curls. "Last time I was measured, for basketball, getting a sports bra, they were 32-D's, but I think they're still growing. Daddy says I can get them reduced after I've matured, eighteen maybe. He really loves them."
She smiled and nodded and then a bunch of Japanese tourists came in so we got back to work. After the noontime the mob thinned out, I offered to take her to lunch when another girl in a similar outfit showed up but without the incredible knockers Trish sported. I told the guy with me that we'd be back in an hour, and he wished me good luck.
Trish kept up with long strides and drew stares as we crossed the street. I took her to Hooters, and we both enjoyed seeing other girls with similar equipment on display. I don't think any of the silicone waitresses had a set as lush as Trish's. On the way back, we stopped in a drugstore and I bought a package of bandaids of various shapes. At the convention center I gave it to the smiling girl and suggested she try to get a couple of round ones over her irritated nipples.
The other guy went to lunch, and she was back in ten minutes, looking sad-eyed. "I can't get them to stick," she said, handing me the package. "You try." She started pulling up her sweater and I stopped her.
"In an hour or so, when my partner gets back."
She nodded and went back to work. Later I took her down the hall to a distant men's room and locked us into a stall. She lifted her tight sweater and I said, "Very nice," and reached out and caressed them gently. They looked like the business end of torpedoes, perhaps two liter size I guessed. "Now relax, close your eyes and hold up the left one." She did and I applied the biggest circle sticker which did not quite cover her areole. Then I did the other one with another round, flesh-colored bandaid and smoothed down both and then pulled her sweater out over her jutting melons and down. "How's that feel?"
She nodded and smiled. "Thanks. You're the first guy I've ever shown them to that didn't try to bite them or something."