If they came home in tatters, stained by bleeding knees, they were taken away and the wounds were healed with stinging iodine and a loving kiss. She was always there. She was the hand I held as I took my first steps, the tear-stained cheek I kissed as I boarded the train for college.There came a time - I can't tell you precisely - when I began to see her as more, as a woman, a sexual being. What I do remember is this: we were in the library. It might have been after the required "Saturday Night Bath". I was in my standard-issue flannel pajamas and we were curled up together on the sofa. There must have been a less-than-interesting program on the flickering, grey screen of our new television because I was concentrating on her breasts: a supple, rolling landscape barely concealed by the chiffon nightgown and peignoir she was wearing. I turned and rested my cheek against them. She responded by slouching down to offer me a more comfortable position. I remember it well: they were firm yet. She was now in possession, of what I would spend my entire evening checking out, a fantastic new D-cupped rack. Whereas before she didn’t even need to wear a bra, she was now quite literally bursting out of her strappy top, never mind her black lacy bra struggling to cope underneath. This was driving me mad and I knew, whatever it took, that I wanted to see those breasts. Her boyfriend Rory was busy getting drunk at another table so I took it on myself to provide company, and plenty of drinks to Debbie. She had sat herself down next to me on a sofa and I made no secret of how much I liked her new rack, she was pretty pleased herself with it. Despite a fantastic set of pins, she rarely wore a skirt, never mind one that would have shown off her legs and her pert butt. But sitting next to her I wasn’t bothered by that, her jeans had slipped halfway down her gorgeous ass as she had sat down, giving me a perfect view of her butt cheeks, separated only by a tiny black lacy g-string. With.
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