At the Optician
My eyes opened as I took in my next patient: she was young, about 20 or 21, I think, and quite pretty, not that tall, but she wore glasses that I could see were around the minus 12 mark. I could see her last prescription before me, so that was no great mystery. Another thing that was not a mystery to me, and indeed anyone else looking at her, was that she was slightly plump all over, but especially so in the bust department. She had chosen to wear a tight knee length skirt in a sort of tartan pattern that stretched pleasingly over her generous curves, and a low cut and similarly tight top that ended just above where I imagined her large-cupped bra started. For once I had something more than an attractive pair of glasses to look at: I was distracted by her large bust wobbling its way over to me by means of her legs.
She smiled at me, then plonked herself unceremoniously on my test chair, her bust vibrating as she did so. There followed some predictable questions along the lines of “how are you getting on with your glasses” and “are you having any problems?” It seemed that she’d noticed some slight deterioration, so it was time to test her. She read first with her left eye, and could only see to the 20/40 line. With just her right eye, she could only do 20/50. It was time to try some test lenses.
So she took off her glasses, and I offered up and placed onto her petite nose the test frame, then put in the equivalent of her existing prescription, by now obviously rather inadequate. I took a much gentler lens from my set and pushed it in front of her right eye, and after some adjustment, got that eye back to 20/20 where it belonged. Then I picked up another lens, and reached out with it in my hand to the test frame perched on her face, and for some reason, perhaps it was the excitement or just slippery fingers, it slipped from my fingers and dropped. It seemed to vanish, defying my quick, anxious gaze. Then I sighed mentally as my eyes rested on her ample bust.
I had to ask, ’err… excuse me, but I think that my lens fell into your… bust.' She looked at me rather innocently, smiled slightly, then replied, ‘can I have my glasses back, so that I can see them more clearly?’ I hastily - and slightly shakily - swapped them, then she proceeded to peer into the gaps around where her bust vanished behind the fabric of her top, and of course between them. She shrugged, and her bust wobbled again. I tried my best not to look too hard, but the trial lens was in there somewhere.
She seemed to pause, then visibly gather herself, before giving her upper body a good shake, sending her bust, despite the constrictions of her bra, flying around in all directions for a long and delicious moment. Then it settled down, and I heard her say ‘I think I can feel it.’ I watched her push her fingers down into the seemingly endless expanse of her left bra cup, feel around and then withdraw. She shrugged again, lifting and dropping the whole of her chest again. It was fascinating to watch… what was that lump?
Nervously I pointed to it, and said ‘I think that’s it.’ ‘Where?’ She couldn’t really see it, not because of her glasses or myopia, but simply because of the size of her bust precluded her from doing so. I pointed more closely: she gave a little sigh, and then said, ‘perhaps if I shimmy myself again, it’ll fall out.’ I nodded slowly, trying to keep my mind on the job. This time she stood up, pulled her top up a few inches to her waist, and gave herself an almighty and more prolonged shake. At first nothing seemed to happen, then I saw the lump move, so I moved my hands to catch it. Sure enough, after another serious shimmy, it fell out of the bottom of her bra cup, down her tummy and into my hands. I breathed a huge and silent sigh of relief. Then it was time get on with the eye test…