Chance for a full-chested

July. The sun melts the sky to the color of faded jeans, bleaches bricks to dull glints, drinks the greenery of leaves into parchment, desiccates asphalt into dust. The sun renders sweat and the minimal clothing we can afford from us. Lean, sun-toasted girls walk towards me—with loose, sun-bleached hair, in vanishing skirts, in sweat-darkened tank tops, with amazingly clearly visible nipples and areolas, because what kind of bra in such heat? They are weary from the heat. They should be sitting in a wicker chair in the shade of palm trees, sipping a colorful cocktail through a straw, but they have to go, and the expression on their faces inspires awe: with such

faces, they are not going to the supermarket for a bikini, but to attack the fascists.

And suddenly, she rushes towards me.

I was trudging home from work, exhausted from labor and the boss; under the weight of the scorching sun rays, I hunched over and stared at the faded asphalt a meter ahead—otherwise it's too bright for the eyes, even though the day is leaning towards evening. So first I saw the worn-out low-heeled sandals. Unbearably golden in the sun, they flowed into long chocolate legs, insanely slender, smooth, sculpted, not a gram of cellulite. Springing resiliently from the calf, the legs flowed into the hollows behind the knees and stretched with strict thighs to the fringe of denim shorts, barely covering the plump pubic mound.

Taken aback, I stopped, stared at her face. A perfect heart shape, framed by hair the color of dark honey, flowing down to her waist, fluffy brown eyes, a small straight nose, lips plump just a little more than usual. She was smiling... No, not true. At that moment, I didn't notice the smile, I gaped at her chest. Forget the coffee drunk after the shift—my heart pounded two hundred beats per minute only now, at the sight of the flesh bulging from the orange tank top: round, matte, flowing into an amazing cleavage. Across the tank top stretched by this magnificence, a distorted inscription spread: "Feel Our Goodness!"

Oh yes, I very much wanted to feel that goodness—with my hands, or better with my mouth, or even better with my cock.

Around the girl's neck, thrust far forward by the phenomenal bust, dangled a transparent donation box.

Seeing the box, I slowed my pace.

Seeing me staring at her chest, the girl turned away completely and walked off.

Sighing and cursing, I trudged dejectedly towards the metro. She's behind, a few meters away, with those legs and breasts! And full lips. Ready to talk, because it's her job; she can't just walk away from a conversation—she needs to collect "goodness."

I turned around and clumsily pretended I urgently needed to go back down the street. The volunteer was pestering some couple. A blonde with a snub nose was indignantly flaring her nostrils and pulling a stern guy (his face frozen in a mask with eyes averted sideways) somewhere away from the dream. Go on, go! She's mine!

I slowly walked towards the volunteer, trying to catch her eye, but she diligently looked away. Her mind-blowing tits swayed as she walked, her round ass, hugged by worn denim, enticingly twisted. Why not for me?! I straightened my shoulders and thrust out my chin!

But how can she be interested in me, so fixated on her chest?

But how can I walk past her, the proud bearer of such a chest?!

And why is it so shameful to start a conversation?..

I walked past, almost brushing her shoulder with mine, my panting lifted a curl on her cheek. The girl didn't grant me even half a glance. We passed each other. The absolute end. Hunched over, I trudged into the metro. And suddenly I remembered: "She doesn't know how awesome you are!" my friend once said. "Pity the fool. Give her a chance."

His advice had proven its worth more than once, even with more arrogant ladies. I decisively walked back. Yes, she's displeased with my attention to her chest; and she understood everything correctly—but I'll give her a chance to get to know me better.

Preparing a very original opening line to immediately hook her interest in me, the extraordinary one, I drew a blank again—nothing came to mind. So I started with the dumbest thing:

"What are you collecting for?"

"Medical equipment for the Maslyaninsky district orphanage," she reported.

I immediately awkwardly started shoving a hundred-ruble note into the slot of the transparent box, burning a hole with my gaze through the orange tank top stretched over the voluminous chest. I think I noticed the buttons of her nipples, slightly raising the fabric...

"Don't mind for the kids," I muttered meanwhile. "But for the equipment, I guess you need a lot?"

"You have no idea!" the girl said and decisively thrust out her chest, with that movement catching my hundred. I easily released my fingers and looked into her eyes. The girl smiled at me so sincerely that I didn't even want to think about practiced, mercenary looks. Ah, how beautiful she is! Ah, how much interest and playfulness is in her eyes, looking at me right now...

(where was this interest a minute ago?)

I smiled back at her joyfully:

"Then I'll add more. What's your bra size?"

"What?!"

"I want to donate as many hundred-ruble bills as your bra size," said the beer I drank on the way from work. The sun had made it drowsy, otherwise it wouldn't have dared. Though, we—me and the beer—had nothing to lose.

"Eighth!" the girl smiled mischievously, thrusting her bust out even more advantageously.

"You're lying, fifth!"

"Sixth!"

I can see it's sixth myself, I just feel sorry for the hundreds.

"Prove it!"

"Whoa!" she was taken aback, even averted her gaze.

"Well, you know you're a sixth," I tempted. "What do you have to lose? The children are waiting for your decision."

"Well, let's call my girlfriend, she'll confirm," the busty girl chuckled.

If I were repulsive, she'd have told me off already, right?

"Why do we need a blacksmith? The evidence is with you, so present it!"

For a second, she looked into my eyes with a very stern, studying gaze, then her lips, sticky from pink gloss, pronounced deliberately sensually:

"I don't even know... Present the evidence right here?"

"Let's go behind the garages," I suggested, not believing my luck.

A contemptuous grimace touched the girl's full lips, her eyes dulled. Seems I ruined everything. With one phrase!

"Just kidding. Over there, in the square, there are very cozy benches."

She sized me up with her gaze again, then suddenly relaxed and said:

"Okay, let's go."

This doesn't happen! But the girl stepped towards the passage between the buildings (seems she knew that square perfectly) and looked at me over her shoulder, puzzled. Swallowing, I caught up with her and, not daring to offer my arm, started telling my best jokes, dirty ones of course. The girl obediently laughed, and I feverishly imagined her buddies jumping out of the bushes and punching my face.

In the little square, we found a deserted corner curtained by lilac, where only the high, sun-blazing windows of the surrounding houses could see us.

The girl smirked, turned away, and languidly lifted her tank top, revealing a narrow, tanned back with a touching dotted line of spine. The silk straps of her bra flashed snow-white. Continuing to smirk slyly over her shoulder, the girl offered:

"There should be a label there. Read it."

That's it, and you were getting your hopes up...

Well, fine! I'll still remember this day all my life.

Approaching closely, immersing myself in the floral scent of her hair, with trembling fingers I found the label, turned it outward. Read triumphantly:

"'E'."

Couldn't resist, dove my nose into her silky, fragrant hair, touched her nape with my lips.

"It should say 'F'," the girl said, stunned, but didn't pull away.

"But it says 'E'," I whispered, inhaling her hair, sliding my face towards her neck. "Little liar..."

"Shiiit," she moaned, tilting her head, exposing her delicate neck to my breath. "Fine. Look!"

She pulled up the lace cups, huge breasts cascaded down and swayed on either side of her narrow back, enormous, resiliently upright, with huge tender-brown areolas. Gasping, I caught them with my hands, tender, cool, slippery... squeezed slightly, lifted, ran my fingers over them. The girl was breathing heavily and suddenly, slightly thrusting her ass out, rubbed it against my erect cock. Squeezing the breasts tighter, I ran my tongue along the curve of her neck. She turned and with a movement of her head offered me her wet, full lips. I pressed against them, soft, pliant, fresh, I simply drank them, while my fingers gently circled her erect nipples...

"Excuse me," some man snorted disapprovingly from behind.

We turned, but only saw his back in a light shirt. We glanced at each other, embarrassed. She started hiding her breasts. In the white lacy bra, the breasts looked amazingly tender, even though they were bursting out shamelessly.

"You probably bought a small bra on purpose so your breasts would stick out," I chuckled, happy, lowering a five-hundred-ruble note into the slot of the money box.

"I didn't buy anything! It's a Chinese size, they always mix everything up."

"Happens. I read American statistics: eighty percent of women buy lingerie 'by eye.' Seventy percent of them get the size wrong..."

"By the way, my name's Alyona."

"Maxim."

"I'm hungry!"

I smiled:

"Of course, there's a wonderful cozy apartment nearby..."

"Actually, I was thinking about a cafe," Alyona straightened her tank top, looked down critically and pulled it, increasing the neckline.

"They donate more this way," she explained, catching my look.

"I don't like eating in public places," I lied. "A bunch of chewing, slurping people... Ugh. How about this: light wine, cheese, fruit, a steak fried by my hands?"

"Fish."

"What?"

"I want fish."

"No problem. Shall we go?"

"I need to hand in the proceeds," she sighed, almost tearing the tank top with her chest, "and change. Believe it or not, this," she gestured at herself, "is the uniform."

"How much time do you need?"

She glanced at the tiny gold watch on her slender, tanned wrist:

"I still have forty minutes of work. Then... Well, about an hour and a half."

"I'll just get the nest ready!"

We walked to where we met. On the way, Alyona dictated her number, I dialed it, sending mine. We parted at the metro. My heart was pounding with anxiety.

"I'll be waiting for you very much," I said, meaning "you will come, right?"

Alyona gave me a cynically-romantic look and, not embarrassed by anyone, kissed me on the lips. It felt like a promise.

An hour and a half—not that much time. I dashed to a familiar agency where they knew me and, after some fuss, rented me an apartment without a passport, then—shopping. I rented an apartment in a very convenient neighborhood—right in the courtyard a fruit kiosk, at the end of the building—a store with wine, cheese, cold cuts, and next door—a pharmacy with condoms. Briefly thought about fish—I really could cook it myself, and that would be cool and very romantic, but I'd need to buy not just the steak, but also spices, sunflower oil, etc., then fry it, and I, by the way, desperately needed a shower. Anyway, I ran to the nearest restaurant and ordered fish there, and while it was being prepared, popped in for flowers (bought a bag of rose petals for the occasion), candles, a corkscrew (checked out rope, clothespins... but decided that would be a bit too much for a first date), and disposable packets of shower gel. On a whim, bought two glass wine glasses.

The apartment was on the eighth floor of a new "candle" building, well-kept and familiar to me. Two rooms: a living room with a sofa and a flat-screen TV on the wall, a slightly bourgeois bedroom in pastel tones with a huge bed, a minimalist kitchen—and a luxurious spacious loggia with a view of the river. I moved the low glass table from the living room to the loggia, prepared sofa pillows for lack of wicker chairs. Set the table, frantically tearing at cheese and fruit with a knife because I had fifteen minutes left. Put the fish in the oven, turning it on to the lowest setting—to keep it warm. Scattered candles around the bedroom. Five minutes for a shower. Looked doubtfully at my worn underwear and decisively hid it under the bed, pulled on jeans just like that. I'll surprise the girl.

Though, her boldness has probably worn off by now. If she even comes, she won't put out. It's a first date, after all.

Before running to meet her, I surveyed the preparations. Satisfied. Won't put out—so be it. We'll just have a good evening.

Of course, she was late. I stood at the metro exit, with a meter-long snow-white rose in one hand and a sweat-dampened phone in the other, and didn't dare call, so as not to seem overly eager. First, I'll wait ten minutes. No—fifteen.

The minutes this fine summer evening were unbearably slow. The heat was subsiding. Tree shadows stretched like a comb across the sidewalk. Passersby were becoming more numerous. Cars, honking irritably, barely crawled through the dusty haze—end of the workday, rush hour.

She's not coming.

"Young man! Can you give me that rose?"

I turned around and beamed like a baby—of course, it was Alyona. But how divinely she looked! A light blue dress, white stilettos, a web of white gloves to the wrists, a web of a white parasol, honey-colored hair—and when did she have time?!—cascading in a curled wave over one shoulder.

"Actually, the rose was intended for Miss Russia," I babbled, "but since before me," almost blurted out "Miss Bust," "Miss Universe..."

And with a bow, I offered the rose.

Alyona accepted it with a light smile, thoughtfully twirled it in her fingers:

"I don't even know... What if Miss Two Universes appears before you? Will you take it back from me?"