Braless Strap

"Sure. I will need them back by next Friday. Oh, will you come to the presentation?"

"Of course. How will you...?"

"Wearing running shirts. We have mannequins at the school to display the rest." Luckily, Madison laughed again.

"Can I get your opinion on something I've been working on?"

"Sure. What is it?" Valeria dabbed a trace of sweat from her brow. After completing four miles, sweat poured from me. I have no explanation how she did it, as she kept pace with me the whole time.

She remembered the idea from the party and loved the prototypes. "Did you just want the opinion of a runner, or did you want me to try one on?"

"Would you mind?"

"Mind? Saved me from asking in case you only wanted my input." Back at my condo, she emerged from the bathroom with her nipples pleasantly straining the spandex of her running shirt. She tried the regular one first, but now wore the all-spandex model. "This is incredible! You must let me run in it!"

Of course I did. After all, she screwed my brains out after the fashion show, so giving her a test-run is the least I could do. She chose a yellow shirt of material so thin as to be opaque displaying not only the peaks of her nipples as she ran. Men gawked that day. Not that they didn't on her typical runs, but now openly staring at her bouncing chest. When we finished, I asked, "What do you think?"

"It is comfortable and provides surprisingly good support, even for old boobs like mine. Best of all, it stayed in place. I expected it to slip down. And you saw the attention it attracted."

"You certainly attracted attention, and they aren't old."

"Old enough to need the support. If you need an investor, for development costs or anything else, come talk to me. At the very least, I want one of my own before they hit the market."

"I will happily present you with the first one, autographed by the designer."

"It provides true support without the weight of straps digging into your shoulders with each step. And it gives a natural appearance. Not only for runners—it can be worn under any garment requiring a brassiere but not suiting a standard bra. Strapless gowns, tank tops. No one will know you are wearing a bra, except you!"

The entire class followed her every word during the entire presentation. The spandex model Valeria loved displayed on an otherwise nude mannequin. I may have been the only straight guy in that clothing design class that day, but everyone stared admiringly at Vicky's and Madison's breasts, nipples pleasantly poking against the fabric, clapping enthusiastically at its conclusion. Even the professor, a frustrated designer who awarded her with awell-deserved A.

The next few weeks flew by as Vicky threw herself into perfecting her prototypes during summer break. By then, they looked professional, not the chopped-up Frankenbras she began with. At least twice a week I stared at my niece's lovely tits as she modeled every improvement. Madison came a few times, but Vicky made sure to demurely change in the bathroom when she did. Not counting frequent trysts with Valeria or with the Asian flight attendant I met by the pool, I spent more time that early summer staring at breasts than any time I could recall. Jasmine, the flight attendant, had spectacular small breasts that I absolutely adored, but nights alone, as I drifted toward sleep, the breasts in my mind were Vicky's.

We drew up the papers together. Vicky took the sixty-percent I insisted upon, accepting only the other forty, but she insisted on naming me CEO. To keep my brother from learning about this—or at least to delay his discovery—Valeria forked over significant portions of her husband's paycheck to get things rolling. Back then, factories in the textile region of South Carolina were shutting down with alarming frequency as work shifted overseas, so I found one that eagerly agreed to start with a small run of the Braless Strap. We trademarked the name.

The night before production began, I treated my partner to dinner at a fine restaurant, saving the bulk of our drinking for later. Back at my condo, she asked, "How should we celebrate our little company?"

"The most appropriate way would be with Champagne." I took a bottle of Perrier-Jouet from the fridge before adding, "Topless."

Spoken half in jest, I never really expected her to take it seriously. "No way. I am not drinking topless with my CEO. That would be inappropriate. Not to celebrate the release of our Braless Strap! I bet you didn't notice I am wearing one."

"I most certainly did." What I didn't add is how stunning she looked under the silk top that caressed every subtle curve.

"Are you still banging Valeria?"

"I am."

"Would she have financed this if you weren't sleeping with her?"

"Probably. Maybe not."

"The sacrifices you made for this company, Chairman Sean!"

"It wasn't that much of a sacrifice."

"She is hot. How do her boobs look in the Braless Strap?"

"Would it bother you if I said they don't look as good as yours do in it?"

"Ooh, I like that!"

"It doesn't creep you out?"

"Should it?"

"Yes."

"Would it bother you that I have wondered for months how it would feel if you kissed them?"

"A word of warning: office romances always end up badly."

"So I've heard. Not like screwing your niece, though. They say that always works out well."

"Who says that?"

"I do." Nothing remained to be spoken. Taking her into my arms for the first time, we shared a wet, passionate kiss that lasted longer than any kiss I can remember. Despite my yearning for her breasts, I merely massaged them while her tongue captivated my soul. By the time I kissed them like we dreamed for months, she moaned and arched her back. Held alluringly by the size C spandex model she perfected, they looked more beautiful than ever. Soft, heavy yet firm as the teenager's they were, the only reason I stopped was her insistence that I continue moving down. I obliged, lips enjoying a body more voluptuous than most I had seen, still firm and shapely, freeing her from her lacy thong.

"Is that your latest art project?"

"Do you like it?" I ran my fingers over the shape shaved onto her.

"Love it. The Eiffel Tower?"

"See? I knew you are a secret art aficionado."

My fingers traced the dark tower. "This is the most secret art I have ever appreciated. You aren't a virgin, are you?"

"Oh, Lord! What if I am?"

"Then I won't go through with this."

Laughing heartily, she said, "Yes you will! Nothing is stopping you tonight."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Now shut up and fuck me, Uncle Sean!"

"Not before I enjoy eating in the heart of Paris." I kissed down the Parisian landmark until arriving at the warm moisture between her legs. Maybe not the tight, athletic legs I typically savored, but viewing them alongside my head as they passed over my shoulders onto my back, she certainly had some lovely thighs!

We decided to confess to her parents before they found out. Some things can only be kept secret for so long. My brother suspected when we arrived at the house together, telling him we had some news. Whatever he may have expected, it wasn't this.

"For how long?"

"About a month," I answered.

"But we hung out for longer than that," she added, thinking that somehow helped.

"Did you think you could keep this from us?"

"No," I admitted to divert blame away from her. "We just wanted to make sure it was going to work before telling you."

"How is it working out?"

"Great!" Her voice expressed her optimism. "We hoped to sell 50,000 the first month. Instead, we sold 127,000. We had to boost production twice."

"That's 250% above expectations," I added.

Shane snarled, "I can do math, Sean."

"This month has begun even stronger," Vicky told her dad, complete with early numbers.

What, you thought we were going to tell them we were dating? We aren't crazy! No, the company gave us cover to spend time together, something that otherwise would have exposed our affair. The Braless Strap's success helped them come around, diverting them from the fact that Vicky only spent a couple of nights in her dorm since the start of Fall semester. At that moment, her toothbrush, makeup and tampons all sat in my bathroom and most of her clothes hung in my closet. No one needed to know. Later we celebrated their begrudging acceptance of our business venture in bed, wildly enjoying each other's bodies in ways that would have killed them.

"The look on his face when we explained we are making lingerie together—do you think he suspects?"

"He'll lie awake all night imagining how we created a working prototype."

"Yeah, he understands it took some trial and error," she said, rolling to put her arm around me.

"Imagining me looking at your boobs will drive him nuts, but he will rationalize that we used dress forms and models."

"What would he do if he knew you just fucked my brains out?"

"I left you my forty percent in my will. Just in case."

First year profits went through the roof. Every woman in America seemingly harbored a secret desire to display their nipples through tight shirts while defying gravity. This all took place long before anyone leaned how to sell clothing over the internet, so we began plotting how to allow men in Europe, South America and Asia to enjoy watching women flaunting their boobs in next-to-nothing in the coming year. Checks rolled in and we now accounted for half of the mill's total work.

"We're fucking millionaires, and I'm not even twenty yet! Should I quit school to concentrate on running the business?"

I encouraged her to continue studying, convinced this might be a passing fad. By then we could afford models for slick ads in Vogue and Cosmo, as well as product development. Vicky left all of that for me, so I spent part of each day with topless models. Vicky expanded the line for most bra sizes, and with overseas expansion coming up tested the designs to make sure they worked for breasts of different races and sizes. She made sure I approved each one. I really was falling in love with that girl. Valeria loved fucking another millionaire, and we repaid her investment in full with interest in only months. Jasmine talked of leaving the airline with not-so-subtle hints of an interest in marketing the Braless Strap in Asia. I wondered if breasts from Japan, China, Korea, Vietnam and the Philippines differed much. Testing my hypothesis on several women from each country proved me correct. Latinas were slightly different, too. God, I loved my job! I would have considered doing this for the entertainment value alone, but the second year we each made over two million dollars. I bought a house and gave Vicky her own bathroom and Valeria her class schedule. I've seen all the documentaries about people who enjoy sudden glamorous and financial success, so knew it would never last. But I enjoyed the hell out of every minute until it all came crashing down.

Shane arrived unexpected one Sunday morning to find Vicky's new Porsche parked outside the garage where she left it after driving us back tipsy from one of the local fashion events we now regularly attended. The thought of knocking off a side mirror trying to fit through the door terrified her.

Her father asked, "Is that Vicky's car?"

"Yes."

"What the fuck is she doing here at eight on a Sunday morning?"

After briefly considering lying about some business meeting, my hangover and bed hair would have made that transparently ridiculous. "We had an event last night. She got a little drunk and didn't want to drive, so I put her up here."

"My daughter spent the night at your house?"

"I'm twenty, Daddy. Jesus!" Turning to see her coming down the stairs wearing only one of my Oxford button-downs, I knew our secret finally was out.

"Vicky? What the hell is going on?"

Pushing her long hair back from her face, she spoke laconically. "Don't start with me. I'm an adult. I can do what I want."

"Are you fucking my brother?"

Perhaps still enjoying shocking him, but it may have been fatigue at hiding our relationship as we had for nearly two years. I could never read her face before coffee. I jumped in gallantly to protect her. "Look, Shane, we wanted to tell you for a while now."

His fist caught me perfectly flush on the nose with enough force to knock me onto my ass. Vicky screamed as he mounted me to continue the beating and rushed to try to pull him off me. Through watery eyes I saw her lunge at him before he could get off more than a couple of punches. He pushed her back but she hung on. Somehow buttons popped and the shirt hung off one lovely, tanned shoulder and those breasts I had grown to love whipped crazily around. Even he looked, giving me the opening I needed. I could not hit him, not over this. Frankly, I deserved this beating and his hatred, but I was not going to just lay there and take it. I tossed him off and Vicky stood between us, stopping him from charging me. Once he retreated out the front door, she pulled the shirt across her chest. I could only be thankful that the bottom button held. For her latest art project, she shaved a Playboy Bunny. Shane would have fucking killed me if he saw that.

"You should go to the ER."

"No way. Imagine the questions." So she wiped the blood from my shattered nose and mercifully administered pain-relieving dopamines by earnestly sucking my cock. I heartily endorse this pain-killer, despite its highly-addictive side-effect.

"Why didn't you fight back?"

"I've been screwing his daughter for two years. I hope that gets it out of his system.

Laughing in that funny, jerking manner of hers made her breasts shake. "He will hate you forever. You need to watch your back as long as you live. You aren't going to call the police, are you?"

"They would probably arrest us."

"Why? Are we illegal?"

"Probably. Who knows? Who cares?"

"Not me," she answered before singing, "Breaking the Law." We barely left bed that day, only for delivery pizza and $100 bottles of Bordeaux pain-reliever. The phone rang and rang unanswered. Her mother may never have fully trusted me, but never suspected for a moment I might fuck her baby. I did at least three times that day while she rang our phone off the hook.

By the time we sold our business to a famous lingerie conglomerate, Vicky had graduated from college and we were millionaires many times over. The final sales price she negotiated was a staggering $269 million. It does not take much imagination to guess how we celebrated that night, laughing at her financial joke. Before we left the US for good, she informed everyone she decided on artificial insemination since she never intended to marry. Her daughter has the good fortune of looking exactly like her. Her son has my eyes and nose.

Despite never needing to work another day in our lives, she still runs a boutique design house from our isolated Greek island where the kids play under olive trees and we sunbathe nude on the veranda. She named the company Woman from U.N.C.L.E.

Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke!

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