A Pyjama Party guest writes...
(all becomes clearer if you listen to podcast ep 3)
By Sarah Reid
Last night my chest
Fell out of my dress.
It wasn't intended
My breasts weren't upended
When I bended
But suspended on a shelf with struts
Where it ought to all my bust.
Called a balconette
For the pertest breasts yet
For cleavage with heavage
For hoist appeal
To steady the reveal.
When suddenly the struts went!
And I failed to prevent
The descent of my chest
As it dropped to my waist
And then stopped.
I felt rather robbed
Of their comforting fullness
Bereft of breast,
And as I drew breath,
My nipples showed absolutely through my dress.
I wouldn't wear this dress without a brassiere
The fabric was sheer
My breasts would poke clear
Embarrass everybody speechless
[Yes they really are THOSE kind of breasts].
I had no friend in whom to confide
The dire split in my under-wires
But I wasn't terribly embarrassed
Because the waiters were serving carrots,
And all the guests were reaching over
Instead of gazing below my shoulders.
I kicked my discarded bra
Whilst pulling my shawl
Across my front assemblage, all
Being disguised in the manner of a stole.
It complemented my outfit no end
Just so long as I didn't bend
And kept my arms by my sides
So I didn't propel my beauties up
Or slice them into individual cups.
A guest was focused on my frontispiece,
My over-elaborate swathed chemise.
Perhaps he thought if he stared hard enough
He'd pass through the weave of my clothes
To appraise me in the buff!
And when I got the hiccups and my top lifted
With every 'hic,' and then shifted,
He must have thought his luck was running
But it was running out - not in.
At least I wasn't out of luck
Fumbling to conceal my cups
My shawl now swathed in a generous loop
Tied back of the neck to mitigate droop.
I turned my shoulder and flexed my neck,
Spoke briefly with the lady on my left
Who then surprised me by asking
"Would I like a lift?
A lift, I thought, well some of me would.
"Thank-you I've got a car sorted".
As I turned my breasts swung out like clanging bells
Striking the hard table edge
[Giving my soft nipples hell]
And juddering into my chest.
I noticed as I turned, the interest of the leche
Who was taking a picture with his phone cam!
It was the glary hairy staring man.
I quickly manoeuvred the condiments
Into my line of fire,
With the soup tureen and anything higher;
A flower display, all dried bits, holly and candle.
There was no man I couldn't handle
At arms length to avoid a tangle.
They blocked me and my lush breast canopy
And I was just on the point of looking about,
Of settling my deliciously squashable rounds
When I noticed a chink in my armour;
A slit up to my armpit like a door.
I was pulling and tugging to cover the distance
As dessert made an impressive entrance
On a silver trolley with two handsome waiters.
Dessert - ah yummy!
I always go for something crumbly
With pouring cream to make the bottom soggy.
At the end of the meal I looked below
Thinking if I was quick I could stow
The bra into my bag
And no-one would know.
But a strap had caught on a chair leg
And the chair's occupant was nodding his head
Winking saucily, giving me the eye.
He raised the leg, twanged the strap and let fly
Like an elastic band and thwack!
Shot the bra straight into my lap.
I thrust it into my handbag gladly
Grateful it hadn't landed badly
On the table, in front of all the guests.
I made ready to leave, in haste in case
Of further embarrassment when...
I found I couldn't leave just then.
My shawl had caught on the table centrepiece
A candle and flowers, a floral display
That added further to my dismay
And worse I found I couldn't release
My breasts from the itchy prickly piece.
The only method of withdrawal
Was to undo the knot at the top of my shawl.
I looked about, the hall was emptying.
To undo the shawl was very tempting
When who should come in than....
The Head Teacher at the school.
And she was no fool.
She quickly apprised
My strange frontal disguise
And said she was happy to oblige
With a pair of nail scissors dragged
From an enormous carrier bag.
She emptied the bag, turned it inside,
Pushed the carrier under my stole
Cut the knot and nudged the whole
Of my punctured bosoms into the bag,
Where they sank like submersibles in a tank.
I held the bag up about my under arms
Made my exit covering my generous charms.
My bosoms jostling against the plastic carrier
I squealed and squeaked across the tarmac to my car
Like the euphonium playing a tirade
In an Oompah band marching on parade.
Once home I had to unpeel my boobs
Which had affixed as if with superglue,
The humidity of plastic combined with being nude
Having caused the bag to bleed black and tawny hues
All. Over. My. Breasts.
Now embellished with stripes like a zebra
With patchy patterning where should have been bra
They looked as though run over by something worn
A big fat tyre perhaps, closely shorn.
I wetted, wiped, rubbed, and scrubbed with a cloth,
Desperate to force the impression off
But all it produced was speckling, freckling,
And a flaring crimson rosacea rash.
By now I'd had enough of misfortune and dramas
Dug through my nightwear for something to soothe....
Rather than settle in my loose 'lush lips' pyjamas
I slumbered in my 'snuggle down' sleep-suit.
Copyright © 2019 Sarah Reid