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Amanda Johnson had advertised herself the way that all women advertisethemselves--or, at least, all women who are on the make: she wentbraless, wearing low-cut necklines that showed plenty of cleavage;skirts slit up the side to mid-thigh; thong underwear (or none);stockings and garter belts; and, of course, a mask of makeup underperfectly coiffed hair.There was her body language, too: a wide, ready smile; a disarmingmanner; girly flirtatiousness; averted gazes alternating with lingeringlooks; an indulgent manner; and a solicitous, engaging, and submissivedemeanor.She'd sucked my cock on our first date and had taken it up her lovely,round ass on our third.I'd thought I'd found the perfect woman.Thereafter, slowly, subtly, she'd changed--or, rather, the true womanbehind the makeup, the perfectly coiffed hair, and the admirable breastimplants had begun to make her appearance. What I'd granted as favorsand privileges became demands. She began to expect special treatmentall the time. . I asked her name and she answered 'Ellen'. I watched her noting idly that she was a pretty child, just on the verge of entering womanhood. Her breasts were no more than a small gentle bulge on her chest. I reached out and took five years or so from the father.“Lay down Ellen,” I said, “lay still now and have no fear.” I pushed the years to her bit by bit, watching her breasts swell and her hips widen. When she looked to be a young woman of seventeen, I stopped and removed my clothes. She looked at me curiously, knowing, perhaps, what was to come, but without experience. I lay beside her and began to gently slide my hands along her ripe form. She shivered under my touch. I leaned over and kissed her, she returned the kiss clumsily. I traced around her breasts, making her breath catch, then cupped one breast gently then the other. She arched her back slightly, pressing her breasts against my hand. I gently ran a finger across her nipples causing them to spring erect.She was.
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