The Ultimate Brassiere

by

Steve Palmer

I’M ONE OF those lucky people who enjoys his work.  I’ve been a corsetiére for almost twenty years, and for a tit-man, making custom brassieres for women with oversized breasts is very gratifying work.  I do top quality work and I’ve built a good reputation.  I’ve been called the best in the business.

Now, most of the orders I fill are for very fat women who must have all their clothing specially made, but I do have a number of slender customers who must have an oversized bra. It was such a woman who commissioned the most unusually large brassieres I have ever made.

The first time we spoke, she telephoned my shop asking some very intelligent questions about my work.  When she was satisfied about my competence and references, we started getting down to business.  She explained that they had just moved to the area, and she needed a new brassiere right away.  She said her needs were unique and that she was willing to pay a premium price to have me come out to her house for measuring and fitting sessions.  After discussing my fees and agreeing on a date for our first meeting, she gave me directions to her house.

It was a well-landscaped country estate that sprawled over a sizable piece of property.  The drive wound its way through lush scenery dotted with clusters of old trees, and finally to the house, which was a flawlessly maintained Victorian.

I stepped onto the porch and rang the bell.  After a few moments, the door swung open and a maid who was apparently expecting my arrival ushered me inside.  She showed me into a parlor where I put down my case and stood waiting amid antique furniture.  After a moment, a door on the adjacent wall opened, and a woman slowly entered, closing it behind her.  My immediate impression was that she was extremely obese, because of the great bulk protruding out under the long flowing robe she wore, but her face and hands were not those of a fat woman.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bernard.  Thank you for coming.  I’m Eunice Farnsworth.”

“Hello, Mrs. Farnsworth,” I said.  She was a very attractive woman, I guessed in her late thirties.

“I appreciate your coming to see me at my house, especially on short notice like this.”

“Not at all, Ma’am.  My clients are special and I like to treat them that way.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Bernard,” she said as she walked over to the other door and closed it.  “Because,” she continued as she turned and approached me, “as we discussed on the phone, I have very special needs.”  She stopped a few feet away from where I stood and reached up with both hands to begin unfastening her robe.  “If you’re as good at your craft as you have led me to believe, I’ll be bringing you quite a bit of business.  You see, there is a genetic condition among the women of my family that causes the bust to become quite large.”

I realized that I was dealing with no ordinary pair of breasts as she removed the billowing outer robe to reveal a slender figure that was overshadowed by her enormous, bulging bosom.  Under the robe she wore a very stylish outfit that was no doubt designed to conceal her bust, but not even military camouflage could accomplish that.  The commodious bodice of her dress was filled almost beyond capacity with this lovely woman’s amazing pulchritude, thrusting out imposingly before her and swelling down below her waist.

She continued, “This condition has been in my family for centuries and grows more extreme with each new generation.”  She began unbuttoning the front of her dress at the top.  I was careful to continue looking her in the eye as she spoke, but over the years I had developed my peripheral vision to a high degree, so nothing was missed.  As she undid the buttons, her décolletage opened wider and wider, revealing an exquisitely deep cleavage.  Her bust was so tremendous that she had trouble reaching the buttons where it protruded the most, but once past this crisis, the garment suddenly fell to her waist.

What I saw was incredible.  Her brassiere was the biggest I had ever seen, bar none, and yet it still could not adequately contain this woman’s astonishingly huge breasts.  In spite of the fact that the bra’s shoulder straps were a full two inches wide, they had started to pucker under their considerable burden.  Everywhere the stitching was failing, seams pulling loose from seams.  I put on my glasses and assumed my most professional concerned look as I gazed at her monumental bosom.  “Yes, I can see why you’ve been dissatisfied, Mrs. Farnsworth.  But I don’t see any problem here that we can’t overcome.”

That was apparently the right thing to say.  Her face immediately brightened and her humor softened from that point on.  “Oh, I do hope so.  I enjoy having nice clothes, but I don’t seem to be able to keep a decent bra.”

I took off my glasses and addressed her.  “Let me assure you, ma’am, that it is not necessary to have to put up with this sort of inadequacy in an undergarment.  I’ve designed and patented a number of techniques and devices that will give comfortable support even to a woman as full-figured as yourself.  Let me show you a few diagrams I have here in my case.”  I gave her my whole song and dance, showing her the various cantilevers and crossovers I had invented that would indeed make even a strapless brassiere possible for a woman with such a massive pair of boobs. Of course I phrased it a little more tactfully than that.

Her eyes widened. “Are you serious? Oh, I haven’t worn a strapless gown since I was in junior high school.” I knew I had her then. The only thing better than a new account is a rich new account.  And a rich new account with enormous tits was better still.

“Listen, I’m having a little formal get-together here this weekend, and I know it’s very short notice, but do you think it would be possible to make me a nice low cut black lace bra by then?”

I love it when customers talk short deadlines.  “Well, I’ll have to postpone a couple of other projects and of course there will be a rush charge, but yes, it can be done.”

“Wonderful!  When can we get started?”

Here comes the sticky part.  Some women think of their corsetiére the way they think of their gynecologist: they keep no secrets.  Other women never even let their husbands see all they’ve got.  I had to delicately find out where Mrs. Farnsworth stood between those extremes.  “Well, I can start right now,” I ventured, “but I’ll need to take some exact measurements.”

Bless her heart, she made it easy for me.  “Splendid,” she said, and reached behind her back to unclasp the bra.  Her great boobs came bounding out, free of all restraint.  She threw the two vast cups aside, exposing the most immense pair of breasts it has ever been my pleasure to see.  They were stupendous, dipping and swaying majestically in front of her, tipped by nice fat nipples surrounded by areolea the size of dinner plates.

I stood there in awe, trying to maintain my professionalism.  I was shaking a little and starting to sweat, but I couldn’t let her see that.  Moving slowly and deliberately, I put on my glasses and took the tape from my case.  My measuring tape was extra long, 96-inches, because the standard 60-inch ones are sometimes not enough for my work.  This was certainly one of those cases.

First I moved around behind her to measure her chest just under her breasts.  She had to lift them up so the tape could get in there.  (It was amazing to see how much of her bosom was visible from the back.  I was getting a profound erection.)  Next I took the actual bust measurement.  Or at least I tried.  My 96-inch tape was not enough!  I was dumbfounded.  This had never happened before and never occurred to me that it could.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said as she noticed me looking back and forth between the two ends of my tape.  Listen, babe, I thought, don’t apologize to me for having gigantic tits.  “I should have thought of this before,” she muttered.  “Let me get you my own tape.”

I watched as she paraded over to an antique buffet, her colossal mammaries bouncing and jostling every step of the way.  I ached.  Out of a drawer she brought me another measuring tape which, when I unrolled it, turned out to be 120 inches in length.  I threaded it around her back and tried again.  Her bust measurement was 112 inches!  I asked her to inhale and it increased to 117 inches.  I made the notation in my book.

As I hovered around this lovely woman with her beautiful, enormous boobs, taking this measurement and that, the thought naturally crossed my mind that I should throw her to the floor and ravish her.  This, however, is considered unbusinesslike and would certainly cost me a lucrative account, but I was comforted by the fact that my photographic memory would allow me to retain all I saw so I could at least go home and whack off later.

After I had extended this bare-bosomed session as long as I dared, she stuffed those monumental melons back into her bra and buttoned herself up.  We spoke at length about the quantities and styles of brassieres she wanted, and when she was satisfied, I began packing to go.

“Mr. Bernard?”

I turned to her.  “Yes?”

“Now that I know you are trustworthy as well as competent, I have another job I’d like you to do, if you have time.”

I felt my wallet getting almost as big as my hard-on.  “Certainly, Mrs. Farnsworth.”

“Wonderful.  Will you come with me, please?”  I followed her up a grand staircase to the second floor and down a hallway to where we halted before a closed door.  She knocked on the door and called out, “Katarina?”

“Yes, mom?” 

In my head I recalled something Mrs. Farnsworth had said to me earlier:  This condition has been in my family for centuries and grows more extreme with each new generation.

“Mr. Bernard,  my daughter Katarina needs a few new brassieres as well, if you would be so kind.”

As the door swung open, I saw a gorgeous young lady wearing old jeans that had been cut off very short, and a tee-shirt that said ‘More Than a Handful’, under which there was definitely no bra.  Under long cascading golden locks was the face of an angel working hard on a piece of chewing gum.  Her young breasts were definitely much bigger than her mother’s, stretching the fabric of her huge shirt so tight that I could see the darkening of the skin around her protuberant nipples.  The shirt could not cover the whole expanse of her colossal tits, leaving the bottoms of her enormous boobs exposed.  They were extravagantly oversized, jutting out from her torso an astounding distance.  As I stared at her stupendous bosom, my mouth went dry, my knees got weak, and the blood rushed from my head.

“You’re the bra guy,” she said, prancing barefoot over to me, her goliath bosom wobbling and shaking massively.

“Corsetiére, dear,” her mother corrected.  “You let Mr. Bernard here take your measurements and we’ll have some nice new underthings made for you.”

“Okay, mother.”

Mrs. Farnsworth left us and went downstairs.  The girl unceremoniously pulled her tee shirt off over her head, revealing her incredibly enormous, perfectly shaped tits, wiggling in unison and defying the laws of gravity.

“Big, huh?” she said between chews.  “Wanna fuck?”