Dr. Tolliver's Bosom Balm Ch. 05

'Ladies, please, settle down now. Thank-you. Now, ladies, as you have shown me the generosity of travelling all the way out here to spend your valuable time with me this evening, first of all allow me to return that courtesy by introducing myself. My name is Doctor Thornton Ignatius Tolliver. Scientist, inventor, formulator of miracle medical concoctions designed to inspire and enhance the act of love. I trust, ladies, that I can rely on your complete discretion, as my products are somewhat scandalous in nature. They deal with the libido, the drive within all of us to satisfy the desire for sexual relief. We harbour this desire for days, weeks, months even. And, I'm certain you will agree with me when I propose that when that itch needs scratching, it needs doing so thoroughly!'

After a pause, Bronagh called out from within the hotel room closet. 'Do I come out now?'

'No, Miss Kelly, that was merely a pause for effect,' Tolliver replied, frustrated by the interruption to this run-through. 'I expect cheers or applause at this point in my address.'

Bronagh sighed. 'Well get on with it, there's barely enough room in here for one person, let alone a person with bosoms the size of mine.'

'You were the one who insisted on going in there to change, Miss Kelly.'

Bronagh sighed from behind the walnut door. 'I accept that. But simply having agreed to address your own frequent libidinous cravings by means of intermammary congress at any time of your choosing does not mean I will go about every other piece of clothes-less business in front of you.'

'I'll be seeing those peachy bosoms soon enough,' Tolliver said with a shrug, and returned his attention to memorizing the speech.

Peachy! Bronagh looked down at her chest, wrapped in a thin oriental-patterned bathrobe and dimly illuminated by the daylight seeping through the cracks in the closet's construction. The metaphor was well-suited as far as the pale colour, silken texture and unyielding density were concerned - assuming that this hypothetical peach were a sufficiently underripe white variety. But if only they were that small! She stopped herself in this line of thinking. Her bosoms had got her into this adventure, and she was willingly going along within. Happily, even. Nothing could be worse than the drudgery and emotional abuse of her "marriage" to Donald, and if acquiescing to Doctor Tolliver's baffling proclivity for spending his generous issuance by means of having his prodigious member massaged between those melon-sized peaches that jutted in defiance of gravity from her torso, then that was, all things considered, a small price to pay. Perhaps, even, if she could develop a taste for this lewd but - she had to acknowledge - actually quite harmless act herself, then the joke would be on Tolliver. As her small nipples grazed the walnut wood through the soft silk, she felt that tingle radiate outwards and inwards toward her thorax, and made a mental note to explore the potential mutual benefits of penis-to-bosom stimulation. This worldly "orgasm" thing which men experienced so frequently and messily, an equivalent of which other women claimed to possess experience and which Tolliver was perpetually promising them - guaranteeing, even - was something that had never knowingly happened to Bronagh, sexually experienced though her limited number of marital encounters with Donald had, technically, rendered her. If she had indeed experienced one of these orgasms, then she wondered what all the fuss was about. Some form of drastic sexual awakening presumably still awaited her.

After a journey first up river and thereafter across land by seemingly every mode of transport (the cabin of the Areola had at one point been loaded into a steam locomotive carriage), the two unlikely business associates had arrived at the Doctor's next scheduled destination, the trading junction town of Mercy. They had signed in to a small hotel under the names Mr and Mrs Tolliver. Tolliver himself had switched a ring to his left ring finger by way of completing the subterfuge; Bronagh, whose actual wedding band was of course now lost in the ash-grey sand of Old Cannon Town, had worn her green satin gloves to conceal its absence from her own finger.

The sales roadshow was two days hence, in order to provide time for word of its nature to get around the female population. With Bronagh's help, ready-printed posters, pamphlets and flypapers advertising the event (and produced on an ingenious miniature printing press on board the Areola) were distributed and displayed in locations that would bring them to a woman's attention, but most likely leave them ignored by men.

That part of the day's work now behind them, Tolliver and Bronagh were now back in their suite at the hotel and undertaking a dry-run of the presentation which they were soon due to give together. The presentation was to involve Doctor Tolliver describing the perfect bosom to a - hopefully - rapt audience of vain women, the surprise climax of which verbose ode to the buxom womanly form at its most desirable would be the unveiling of Bronagh herself, fully nude so as to eliminate any suspicion of a discreet support garment hoisting aloft a bosom which would be loudly advertised to be not the lascivious work of the Creator but the result of regular slathering with Doctor Thornton Ignatius Tolliver's patented Miracle Bosom Balm.

And this was how Bronagh now found herself vying with that monumental bosom for space in the cramped wooden closet of Doctor Tolliver's room in the hotel suite.

Tolliver cleared his throat and continued. 'Picture, ladies, if you will, the perfect pair of breasts. Now, I know what you're thinking, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and so on and so forth, but I am not talking about beauty. I am talking about perfection. I am talking about classicism, of the likes studied since antiquity by the great artists. Objective and empirical. To the trained, erudite eye, of course, true perfection is also beautiful. You can have beauty without perfection, but you cannot have perfection without beauty, and it is this aesthetic elegance which I ask you to conjure up before your mind's eye. And in case you are having difficulty conceiving of such sculptural pulchritude, may I present to you... the perfect bosom!'

Bronagh arched her back to let her protuberant, robe-shrouded bust nudge open the closet doors and took a step out into the daylit room. Unexpectedly, Tolliver, standing before the mirror, had in fact unveiled an artist's easel upon which a drawing was pinned to a board.

'Not yet, Miss Kelly,' Tolliver said, unable to resist a brief lip-licking glance at Bronagh's jutting globes of floral silk. 'First I will explain the principles of mammary perfection by means of these diagrams, then I will introduce you as the living embodiment of those very principles.'

'Oh, I see,' said Bronagh, still a little confused about the order of things, which Tolliver appeared to be making up as he went. Now temporarily out in the open, Bronagh squinted across the room at the diagram placed atop the easel. 'Is that a drawing of me?'

'It is, yes,' said Tolliver, a stiff smile of pride breaking through his mild annoyance at being interrupted again. 'I took some inspiration from Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man.'

Bronagh had no idea what that was but had no intention of giving Doctor Tolliver the satisfaction of professing her ignorance. The more she looked, the more she recognised herself in the two drawings, one depicting her hourglass form from the front, the other from the side. Her breasts, hips, and bottom looked enormous, especially as shown in the side view. 'When did you draw these? Have you been stripping me nude as I sleep again?'

'I assure you, Miss Kelly, I drew these from memory. The magnificence of your physique has been imprinted indelibly upon my mind from the very first time I saw those sweeping curves in the flesh.'

'Well, if you don't mind, Doctor Tolliver, I'll wait outside the closet. I am having difficulty fitting those sweeping curves into it.'

'How wonderful,' leered Tolliver, a gleam in his eye as he looked Bronagh up and down. 'What a body!'

Bronagh rolled her eyes and leaned against the side of the closet, one hand on generous hip, the other hand making a gesture urging the lecherous scientist to continue his rehearsal.

Tolliver produced from his waistcoat pocket what appeared to be a pen, but which when given a sharp flick of the wrist extended telescopically by some two feet to become a long pointer which he used to whip the drawing of Bronagh's breasts in a way that sent a strange, heady tingle from the tips of Bronagh's actual breasts down to the base of her stomach. Bronagh felt her nipples stiffen involuntarily under the printed silk of the robe. A defensive reflex of some kind, perhaps, but it bothered Bronagh. Her feelings had never been so helplessly governed by her breasts and nipples when they had been more manageably proportioned.

'Observe,' Tolliver declared to the free-standing mirror, and beyond it the imaginary crowd in the empty corner of the hotel room. 'Observe the shape of the perfect breast from the side. The line which extends downwards, arrow-straight and at a perfect thirty-degree angle, from the collarbone to the tip of the nipple.' The tip of his telescopic pointer tenderly followed the silhouette on its voluptuous trajectory. 'Here the line continues its path outwards and back around on a precise circular curve, its radius the same length as the distance from collarbone to nipple, its centrepoint precisely halfway horizontally from nipple to ribcage. Note how the nipple itself resides one third of the distance from collarbone to the swollen underside of the breast as a whole, and notice the symmetry of the nipple's upward thrust: the same thirty degree angle as the descent of the upper breast, but inverted.'

'Why, you're taking all the fun out of it,' quipped Bronagh drily from her vantage point across the room.

Tolliver closed his eyes to ignore her, composed himself, then went on, moving the tip of his pointer across the lurid schematic of Bronagh's personage to indicate the front elevation. 'See the taut, uninterrupted rotundity of these heavenly spheres, the way they expand outwards, halfway over the front of the arms, the way they swoop back downwards, inwards, and back upwards to meet at this deep, tight cleft in the centre...' The scientist trailed off as his mouth went dry. His focus returned after a moment. 'The areolae, exactly one twelfth the diameter of each breast, and an identical shade of pink to the lips: that's both pairs of lips, if you take my meaning. You see, the symmetry applies not just to the measurements but also to the pigmentation, to complete this apex of anatomical perfection.'

Bronagh gave a small, polite round of applause.

'Thank-you, ladies of this fair township of Mercy!' Tolliver's voice rose over the notional enthusiasm which Bronagh's hand-claps represented, then he signalled for silent attention once more. 'Now, you will all be thinking that aesthetic theory is one thing, but surely physical, anatomical reality is another entirely. How, you might be asking yourself, could a bosom of this size and - presumably - weight be so loftily self-supporting? What miracle of creation could possibly juxtapose such size and form, such lusty opulence with such dainty poise? It's impossible, surely! But, ladies, what if I were to tell you that it is in fact possible after all, and that all of you can achieve it yourself, with the thorough daily application of my patented pertness panacea: Doctor Thornton Ignatius Tolliver's Miracle Bosom Balm!'

Tolliver reached across to the table beside him and took a green glass corked bottle of the stuff then held it aloft.

'But I sense, lovely ladies, that you are not satisfied. You demand proof, you are entitled to proof, and you will now see all the proof you need to be fully convinced of the efficacy of my bosom balm!'

With a flourish, Tolliver lifted the board bearing his lascivious, buxom, Vitruvian Woman illustration to reveal a second board underneath it, this time a painting, in oil, of Bronagh. Topless. Its appearance startled Bronagh for several reasons. Firstly, as with the Vitruvian Woman Tolliver must have worked on this while she slept in the Areola. Did he himself never sleep? Secondly, there seemed to be no end to Tolliver's talents, as this painting was so realistic in detail, shade and light as to be quite alarmingly lifelike. Almost like a photograph, if it were possible to take photographs in full colour. And thirdly, the aspect of the picture which made Bronagh feel especially queasy was the aspect in which this likeness differed from her actual current appearance most dramatically: the breasts on the painted were limp in form and parsimonious in size.

Bronagh began to say something in confused protest, but quickly realised where Tolliver was going with this.

'May I present,' Tolliver announced, 'My delightful young assistant Miss Kelly. This portrait was painted three weeks ago, and I'm sure you will all agree that the artistry is of an impressive standard.'

Bronagh raised an eyebrow at this immodesty, but admitted to herself that it was necessary in the circumstances for the polymath scientist to concede credit to an imaginary third party so as to avoid any suspicion of a conflict of interest.

'As you can see,' Tolliver went on, his hand waving in the general direction of Bronagh's inaccurately-painted bare chest, 'Though Miss Kelly is doubtless a fair specimen indeed, an Irish white rose, with luminous pale skin, emerald eyes, shiny copper curls and delicate, girlish freckles... when it came to the matter of her bosom, Mother Nature did not endow her very generously. Until, that is, I began to use her as a test subject for my bosom balm. Now, three weeks later, let me introduce to you the real Miss Kelly as she appears now!'

Bronagh snapped out of the slight trance into which Doctor Tolliver's oratory skills had lulled her, stood up straight, and marched onto the "stage" in the centre of the hotel room, silk robe wrapped as far as it would go around her voluptuous body.

'Miss Kelly has had the good fortune to be the first beneficiary of my new medicated breast enhancement tincture,' Tolliver said, eyes bulging with sexual mania. 'Every morning for the past three weeks I have applied this thick white ointment to her breasts, tenderly massaging it into the soft, pale skin until it disappeared. At first, I didn't need so much, but as the days turned into weeks and the surface area requiring coverage increased, I found myself applying two generous handfuls to each breast, until...'

He stood aside and aimed both arms in Bronagh's direction, as though attempting the psychic removal of the robe.

Bronagh raised her chin, dimpled her rosy cheeks in a haughty, benevolent smile, fluttered her copper eyelashes, then let the floral silk robe slip from her alabaster shoulders, descend the slopes of her high, jutting bosom and posterior, and float to the floorboards. Beneath the robe, she was fully naked.

'Oh sweet Lord,' mumbled Tolliver, mouth drying again. 'I... Miss Kelly, do you mind if I...?'

Glancing across, Bronagh's eyes widened as she saw Tolliver fumble with his pants and yanking up the hem of his shirt before using trembling fingers to unfasten his long-john buttons to release his lengthy rod of an erect penis. 'Doctor Tolliver!' she exclaimed. 'Is this part of your selling routine?'

Tolliver shook his head and, after some internal debate, released his erection and let it bob and twitch freely before him. 'The mere sight of your nude body does this to mine. It's agony trying to fit this priapism into these pants,' he said. 'You don't mind if I let it hang out for now, do you?'

'I suppose not,' said the naked, voluptuous young Irishwoman. 'But it will need dealing with before tonight. It's one thing exposing yourself like this when it's a male stamina drug you are peddling, but if you do it whilst promoting feminine beauty products then you will simply come across as a predatory sexual deviant.'

'I understand.'

'Once this is over, Doctor Tolliver, I will pleasure you with my breasts. I will do it later, too, as often as it takes to calm your reproductive organs to a passive and docile state of rest. And no sneaking a swig of the stamina tonic. I don't want to be spending hours and hours with my bosoms wrapped around your old chap.'

'The stamina tonic is bogus, too,' Tolliver said with a pathetic grimace. The admission hardly came as a surprise.

'That does not come as a surprise,' said Bronagh, unable to resist being rather impressed that Tolliver's sexual performance ability was naturally as prodigious as the size of his equipment and the seemingly endless volume of seed he would produce in one expenditure. 'Anyway, continue.'

Doctor Tolliver, penis sticking up and out like a flagpole, muttered his way through the preceding part of his speech, then continued aloud: 'As you can see, ladies, after a three week course of having my miracle balm applied to her bust, she now possesses breasts not only extremely generous in size compared to their paltry initial dimensions, but also outrageously erotic and desirable in classical form. Michelangelo himself would be reduced to a dribbling wreck at the mere glimpse of so succulent and shapely a bosom!'

It was a little over the top, but Bronagh decided to take the compliment.

'The process,' Tolliver said, beginning to demonstrate, 'is simple. Pour a quantity of the salve into the palm of one hand, distribute it across the other, and then...'

Bronagh watched the scientist slop a generous handful across his hands, place the bottle back onto the table, then make his way out of sight behind her.

'...and then, rub it into the breasts.'

The next thing Bronagh felt was the alarmingly rigid head of Tolliver's penis wedge itself firmly between her buttocks. It was so solid she at first wasn't even certain it was a penis, but as she felt it begin to self-lubricate with pre-ejaculatory fluid and slip downwards until it began to pass between her thighs and she found herself straddling his horizontally extending shaft, the swollen head passing rudely beneath her vaginal lips. Still speechless, she parted her breasts with her hands until the cleft between them parted open far enough for her to be able to see that the plum helmet had emerged from between her thighs and stuck out in front of her making it look for all the world like she had a penis herself.

'D-Doctor Tolliver...!' she finally managed to say, as she found herself squirming around the scientist's member as her puckered quim between her thighs kissed and slurped like a buttered cob of corn.

'Nowhere else for it to go,' Tolliver said, unconvincingly.

'I can think of several places for it to go!' Bronagh snapped. 'And no, I don't mean there. Slot it between my buttocks and up the small of my back, for instance!'

'Yes, of course, I didn't think of that,' Tolliver's contrite voice mumbled behind her.

Carefully he withdrew, and Bronagh felt the ridge at the base of his purple bulge make its slippery back over one orifice then the other, which sent shivers variously up her front and back, then perceived the full length of that monstrous penis slide up between the stately domes of her bulbous behind - making her feel like a soft floury bun sandwiching a foot-long hotdog - and rest, heavy, hot and twitching, against her lower spine. Her intimacy still bore the ticklish sensory memory of being so very nearly penetrated. The moistness now felt cold in the air of the hotel room, and she couldn't be entirely sure whether that moistness was Doctor Tolliver's or, at least in part, her own.