Chapter 29: Any woman out there

We went upstairs to the main bedroom. The girl was clearly coming out of it. She was breathing in long, deep, happy sighs and she turned her head when we entered the room. Her eyes, no longer glassy, sparkled as they fixed on me, apparently hardly noticing Wendy. I walked to the foot of the bed and stood there with my legs somewhat apart and my arms folded as I tried to assume a pose suggesting a confidence and mastery I was far from feeling.

I looked at my acquisition. She was lying on her back with her legs somewhat apart; huge flows of spunk had oozed from her cunt and a pool of it, still wet and sticky, had gathered on the cover. Her vast brown breasts, although impressively firm and round, had settled a little to either side of her and through the gap between them my eyes met hers.

"Your name?" I demanded brusquely.

To this point her air had been one of utter post-coital relaxation but on being addressed in such a tone she made a visible effort to pull herself together and concentrate.

"Florence Oshodi," she replied.

"Florence Oshodi," I informed her solemnly, "I have captured you. You are my property, my slave. Do you understand?"

A tiny intake of breath was the only indication of the shock she must have felt. "I understand," she replied quietly and without the least suggestion of resistance.

"I am your master and you must address me as such," I said sternly.

"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master."

"Good," I said more kindly. "This lady," I indicated Wendy, "is my wife and you shall treat her with the greatest of respect, but she is not your mistress because you belong to me alone."

"Yes, Master."

"Hello, Florence," said Wendy pleasantly.

"Hello, madam," she respectfully replied.

"Florence," I told her, "give me an account of yourself."

So Florence told her story. She was Nigerian and her family had sent her to England to study, which she had been doing diligently but without much enthusiasm. For the last five or six years — she was twenty now — her life had been dominated by her breasts. Even in a tribe in which large breasts were usual and highly valued, the women in her family were famous for their magnificence; but she far exceeded everyone. Her bust had begun to sprout when she was only nine but the growth had been manageable to start with; from the age of thirteen, however, she had begun to explode. At first she had been delighted but as the growth accelerated first her parents, then Florence herself, had become concerned. Doctors, however, found nothing wrong or abnormal about her; they suggested that because her parents were first cousins the family's natural tendency to large breasts had been intensified. To comfort her, her parents told her it was the will of God to make her as she was and she believed this and accepted it.

By the time she was fifteen the constant male attention she attracted had become such a serious problem that her parents sent her — at substantial personal financial sacrifice, for they were not wealthy — to a girls' boarding school. In this academic and all-female environment, despite the envious gibes of her classmates, Florence had flourished. She won a scholarship that contributed to the cost of continuing her education and her parents, mistrustful of Nigerian universities, had sent her to England. As her breasts continued to expand she found herself pestered by male students but the problem eased when she found herself a boyfriend, since although he was not a violent person he was big and intimidating enough to ensure that she was left in relative peace. The breasts themselves had grown more slowly after she had passed eighteen and she hoped they had reached their final proportions. However, she recognised that they would always be a problem for her. She found her studies boring but applied herself with determination; she thought that maybe it had been the will of God to give her large breasts so that she would overcome her natural laziness and work hard and get a good job so she could pay to have them reduced.

She described our encounter in the bookshop. She had realised that a man was standing uncomfortably close and had moved away, but when she took a good look at him she realised he was the most attractive and desirable man she had ever seen and she could not stop herself from following him around the shop. When she saw he was getting ready to go panic overtook her and she had made her boyfriend angry by giving some feeble excuse for leaving. She had followed the wonderful man, taking care not to be seen, and had found herself in a distant suburb she had never visited before. She knew that what was happening was bizarre and unaccountable but she could not bear the thought of losing him. She thought that maybe this too was the will of God. (At this I felt highly uncomfortable, not to say extremely guilty.)