J Long: The town sluts

Ricardo had been impressed when he had seen Ramona come into the plush offices of KKKQ dressed in a miniskirt and shoes. Yep, that's all, folks – just miniskirt and shoes. Well, naturally Ramona had had the decency of mind to put on one of her twenty-thousand-dollar cheetah coats before she walked into the studios.

But once she was inside the air-conditioned offices, she had casually doffed her coat and asked the plain-Jane secretary to see Mr. Ricardo Franklin, head of Franklin Productions.

The plain-Jane did not have a plain blank expression on her face when she had seen how naked Mrs. Rathers' breasts were. They were totally naked, not a stitch of cloth, not a hint of a bra, not even a Goddamn band-aid to cover her taut nipples.

Ramona announced herself: "I'm Ramona Rathers. I would like to see Mr. Franklin about the television documentary that he's planning to do on breast cancer. I'm very interested in breast cancer and what I can do to help. Aren't you interested in the dangers to your breasts?"

Plain Jane was startled by the question. She glanced down at her tits. But because she had bumps for breasts and pimples for nipples, she couldn't see anything dangerous about her tits.

She punched a button. "Mr. Franklin, ah, er, Mrs. Rathers is here to see you about her breasts."

A harsh-sounding voice rasped back through the little black box. "WHAT?! WHO!?"

Ramona punched the intercom button. "Mr. Franklin, this is Ramona Rathers. My husband is Wendell Rathers, president of the Rathers Wrench Company. A company that happens to own two-thirds interest in KKKQ. I'm interested in seeing you. Are you interested in seeing me?"

"Yes! Why, yes, of course! Miss Doe, please send Mrs. Rathers in."

Ramona walked through a maze of carpeted hallways, then the door was opened to Ricardo Franklin's office. She walked in casually.

Mr. Franklin was not casual. He was flabbergasted. Astounded. Petrified, lust like his prick was getting as he saw all that prime tit-meat enter his office.

Nobody had ever walked into his office dressed in miniskirt and shoes. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Once George Parmidou, the great mime artist, had walked in bare-chested with a miniskirt on and no shoes. But that was because he was doing a parody on gay guys who walk around in drag. And besides, George was a guy – or, at least Ricardo assumed he had a prick between his legs and not a pussy.

But Ricardo knew that this person who had walked into his office dressed in miniskirt and shoes was a girl. Experience told him that those thirty-eight-inch titties were real. At least they looked real to him – because they looked very fleshy and bouncy and very suckable.

Ricardo's mouth watered as he shook hands with Ramona.

Ramona sat down. Pursed her lips. Elbows in so that her tits bazooooomed outward. Crossed her nyloned legs with a wispy sound. Allowed her perfume to overcome the Hai Karate that Ricardo preferred for his baby face.

Then she spoke: "Mr. Franklin. Let me call you Ricardo. Ricardo, I'm here on behalf of all those women who are concerned with these."

She hefted "these", those mammoth thirty eight-inch titties, and held them upward and outward so that Ricardo's eyes were filled with the hot vision of her tits pointing right at him.

"There are thousands of women walking around in America who don't know that they might have that dreaded of all dreaded diseases – cancer."

"Urn-hum."

"That's why I would like to do your TV documentary about breast cancer. I would like to demonstrate to those thousands of women who walk around with that dreaded disease in these to show them what to look for, what to feel for, and how to cope with the fact that something horrible may be happening to these at this very moment. Don't you agree?"

He nodded, his head following the up-and-down movements of these, those wonderful titties that bobbed before his awed eyes.

Ramona uncrossed her legs wispily, puckered up her lips and advanced on Ricardo's desk. She leaned on the edge, her tit-ends brushing against several items on his desk – her right nipple scraping against the gold-plated desk pen and her left nipple draped over the edge of his family portrait, like a meaty chunk of limp bologna that was obscuring his wife's face.

"And if you don't agree, Ricardo, there are other ways and other means for me to be more persuasive."

Ricardo glanced up from the left nipple that hid his wife's shit-eating grin. He looked into Ramona's eyes.

It was the first time that he had noticed the woman's face. He had been so completely enraptured by those naked breasts coming into his office that he simply had not looked at the other parts of Ramona's luscious body.

Now he looked at the other parts of Ramona's luscious body.

The face was very luscious. Lips that seemed to be forever puckering, as if they had been weaned on miniature pricks or big dill pickles. Eyes that glimmered beneath the radiant lines of Avon Eyeglow. Cheeks that were like polyester pants wrinkle free. A pert nose. Average forehead. A widow's peak beneath the fluff and curl of a hundred-dollar shag job. Ears that drooped slightly because of the ten-ounce gold earrings that were prick-shaped, pendulous things.

All in all, everything about Ramona's face was very exceptional. Except for her average forehead.

The tits were self-explanatory.

The miniskirt wasn't.

The miniskirt, now that Ricardo could see it in the wall mirror behind Ramona, was more like a bandanna given to a dress designer under orders to make it into a dress.

The dress designer had done a very good job with the bandanna. At least it covered up Ramona's asshole and pussy. Otherwise there just wasn't enough material to hide the meaty thighs that made wispy sounds whenever Ramona walked or sat or even stood still.

The shoes made Ramona a foot taller than her actual height. They were platform shoes, shoes probably designed by some eunuch podiatrist who probably felt that spike heels just weren't healthy for a girl to wear so he had come up with something more solid. Ramona's shoes were solid all right-made of cork heels and patent leather and little gold-braided straps that crisscrossed her trim ankles.

Now that Ricardo had surveyed the woman before him, he didn't want to move. Just wanted to stare at all that thigh he could see in the mirror and all that tit that was sprawled across his wife's face and toppling over his desk pen.

He picked up the desk pen, righted it so that the tip wouldn't scratch Ramona's tit.

"Well, Mrs. Rathers. You really have… well, you certainly have the qualifications for the job. But we already have a girl to do the breast examination. She's a trained nurse and…"

"Mr. Franklin. Er, Ricardo. I hope you remember who supported KKKQ last year during its annual fund-raising event. Who personally wrote out a check for ten grand so that shows like Handy Andy's Household Hints wouldn't be canceled. And, I hope you remember who put up the money for your series The Goulash Gourmet with that fag George Parmidou doing those stupid mimes of a French chef."

Ricardo nodded. Yes, he remembered where and from whom and for what all that money came from. The Rathers Wrench Company. Shit, nobody in the whole town of Weedley made a move without the Rathers Wrench Company either behind it or in front of it or a part of it or all of it. Shit, out of a town of twenty-thousand souls, almost half the adult population was employed or in debt to the Rathers Wrench Company.

So Ricardo nodded. His balls were over a barrel. There was nothing he could do. He had to let Mrs. Ramona Rathers' tits go on the air.

"Now, Ricardo, what do you think of my tits?"

"Oh, well, Mrs. Rathers. They are… all, er, just beautiful, Mrs. Rathers."

And that was why Ramona Rathers was in her dressing room looking at her just beautiful tits and applying just beautiful makeup to her just beautiful tits to make sure that they were more than just beautiful.