It happened shortly after I turned eighteen. At the time my mother would claim she was thirtyish and think she looked twenty five. By my reckoning she was fortyish and looked about thirty. For all her advanced age she could still pull the men. I'm not by any means suggesting she was a tart. She never had more than one boyfriend at a time and she usually kept the same one for a year or so.
I have to admit that with my face and figure I could also pull in the boys. If I wanted to, and I didn't particularly want to. Boys my age seemed so juvenile and older men would expect more from me than I was prepared to give. (So did the boys, but they're easier to manage.)
My father, from what I could remember, was a very dynamic man, determined to get his way and not afraid to let people know where he stood. He demanded what he considered his rights and wasn't willing to let anyone infringe on them. That's what got him killed, actually. He had right of way at the intersection and took it. The truck coming through apparently had no brakes and no regard for my father's right of way, going straight through him without slowing in the slightest.
Maybe losing my father as a young teen left me searching for a father figure. Who knows? I do know that I found my mother's current boyfriend very attractive.
Andrew was about forty, reasonably good looking, fairly tall and quite fit. He was also intelligent without being over-bearing. He had a pronounced idea of what was right and wrong and didn't mind jerking me into line if he thought I'd stepped over said line. I remember the last time I swore at my mother. It was the last time because Andrew heard me and let me know his opinion of young ladies swearing and the respect owed to parents. He had a very forceful way of expressing his opinion and my mother was totally unsympathetic.
"If it hurts that much you can eat standing up," she told me and dismissed my complaint.
I'm not saying that Andrew lived with us but he did spend a lot of time at our place. That explains why he was there one morning when I came stumbling out of my bedroom to get some breakfast. My mother had already left, her shift starting early that week, but Andrew was sitting at the table drinking coffee.
I came in, still in pyjamas, seeking my own coffee, needing something to kick-start the day. When I say pyjamas I'm not talking about a sexy silky outfit that clung to my figure and drew all eyes; I'm talking old baggy flannelette that was comfortable and warm and ideal for a long cold night.
So there was Andrew, drinking his coffee and looking calm and sophisticated. There was me, desperately clinging to my mug in case it tried to escape before I'd guzzled the contents, looking sleepy and incredible non-femme fatale.
Andrew finished his coffee and put his cup over on the sink. Then he came over to me, took my precious coffee out of my hand and put it on the table. While I was scrabbling to get it again he lifted me onto my feet.
"My coffee," I wailed.
"It can wait a moment," he told me, laughing.
With that he twitched the sides of my pyjama top and they fell to either side, showing exactly how far I'd grown. I had very nice breasts. Large enough but not too large, and very shapely. Not being one to tan topless, not that there'd been any decent tanning weather, my breasts were snow white, with a nice pink tip.
I had no idea if he'd managed to undo the buttons, or if my top and already been unbuttoned, or if the buttons automatically popped when he tugged the sides apart, but whichever it was it left my breasts on full display, there whiteness a nice contrast to the blush on my face.
