The Legend of Carole

Carole Gallacher's tits were the stuff of local legend when I was at College. Perfect in every way, they were the reference point to which all other tits would be compared by the guys in our accommodation block. In the winter, these enormous breasts would protrude majestically from Carole's figure-hugging roll neck sweaters; in the summer, they would jutt out spectacularly from beneath her tight T-shirts. Like a National Park, their appearance changed with the seasons but always remained picture postcard-perfect.

I was particularly lucky as I could see the window of Carole's dorm room from my own and on two wonderful occasions – albeit rather distantly – I had seen her stand close to the glass in just a skimpy vest, her huge tits defying the laws of gravity by remaining perfectly upright despite their inordinate volume. It was a tantalising thought for all of us men that on some nights, with the curtains closed, in the privacy of her room, Carole's boyfriend might be enjoying that beautiful pair of breasts in all their naked glory.

A lot of guys in the year would spend time flirting with Carole, although never in a sleazy way. We had too much respect for her for that. But she knew how much attention she got and even though she was wonderfully free of self-importance, she was also very confident and enjoyed the fact she was considered so notoriously sexy by all the lads.

Of all the men in the year who might fancy their chances with her, I was one of the least likely. Not that I was wholly unattractive myself - and I was popular enough - but rather like her, I was spoken for. I had a childhood sweetheart I had left at home. Carole’s boyfriend had met her at College. He was a flash economics student who drove his own convertible and clearly had a wealthy family supporting him. Not that I wish to suggest Carole was mercenary or only interested in him for his money. The guy was also, much to Carole's admirers' dismay, very good looking. The idea of this attractive young couple fucking was a fine one and something most of us (including a few of the lecturers) would have gladly parted with their savings to witness. Simon – I think her boyfriends name was – was one lucky man who got to see her infamous chest in the flesh. This made him something of a hero by my standards.

On the particular night I wish to tell you about Simon was not around however, which turned out to be most fortunate for me. It was the evening of the formal dinner at our Hall of Residence. This sounds glamorous but in truth it was little more than the same mass-produced canteen meal we had every day followed by a cheap disco, for which we took the opportunity to dress up in formal wear. (Students can be such ponces). Carole always looked mighty fine on these ocassions in a red shoulderless dress that showed off her sublime chest.

These nights would always be enjoyable enough, fuelled as they inevitably were by heavy drinking, but the only permitted attendees were residents of the Halls themselves. The College campus consisted of a dozen or so different Halls of Residence and each would have its own similar formal event once a month or so. Although I had a few friends in my Hall, my closest buddies were all students I had met in class. None of these happened to reside in the same Hall as me and this meant that such nights, although fun in themselves, held limited appeal. I didn’t drink much at this one, not feeling in the mood for a heavy night, and ate even less of the low quality tray-baked food.

Towards the end of the evening virtually everyone was embarrassingly inebriated; their smart formalwear looking less smart or formal by the minute, with men having loosened their ties and some of the women’s dresses crumpled by the heat and dancing. I was left alone by a friend for a moment on a seat near the bar and I spotted Carole approaching me on her way to the Ladies toilet. She was clearly pretty drunk herself in an over-excitable, smily sort of way. She spotted me looking glum on my own at this table in the corner.

“You look like you would rather be anywhere else but here”, she laughed.

“Oh dear, is it that obvious?”, I replied.

“Do you want me to get you another beer?”

“To be honest”, I said, “I was just thinking about going back to my room”.

It was not far off last orders and I wasn’t in the mood for what seemed like childishly drunken frivolity. At this point an especially loud male student stepped into the bar with a traffic cone in his hand and started to use it as a loudspeaker to sing along to the cheesy Eighties music that was playing. Carole watched this display too and despite her own drunkenness, even she seemed to have had enough.

“You know what?", she said, "I think I might do the same. Do you fancy a cup of coffee?”.

This sounded like a much better idea than sitting any longer in the smoky zoo of intoxicated students. I waited for Carole to return from the Ladies and collect her scarf and bag. She told her friends she was going and stepped with me outside the bar into the central courtyard that was surrounded on three sides by the tall accommodation blocks that made up our Hall.

“Your place or mine?”, she asked.

“Well mine has got less stairs”, I replied (it was on the ground floor, unlike her own which was on the fourth floor of the building opposite). I made this remark after noting the difficulty Carole was finding in walking in a straight line for any distance. It was a cold night and she pulled her scarf around her bare shoulders.

“Oh but hang on I’m out of coffee”, I suddenly remembered.

“Oh you’re useless” she said laughing and taking my arm, turned me around and marched me in the direction of her block instead.

She took her heels off to climb the stairs and wavered back and forth as she rummaged in her bag for the key. She was drunker than I had previously thought, unable to find the key inside this tiny bag not much bigger than a purse. I helped her locate it.

Once inside she immediately filled and switched on the kettle and offered me a seat on the age-battered leather armchair beside her bed. She turned up the radiator, the room was not big but it took a long time to feel less than freezing.

“Oh, you don’t mind if I just change out of this dress do you?” she asked me.

I politely averted my gaze and listened to the rustling sound of her dress being removed. It sounded like her tipsiness was making the act less straightforward than it should have been, but when she finally said “That’s better”, I looked up and saw she was now wearing a pair of grey jogging pants and a zip-up hooded sweatshirt.

She carried on singing and making little jokes as she poured the coffee and her unsteady hand passed me a cup which she proceeded to pour over the carpet. I took it from her before there was none left and she sat down cross-legged on her bed, with her own cup in her hands. It was most amusing behaviour.

I had never had that long a chat with Carole before and it was interesting to see her so animated and excitable, which I figured was partly the drink but partly also a mischevious personality I didn’t know she had.

We talked about a number of things including her boyfriend (who she was surprisingly casual about) and then got on to the subject of some of the other people in the Hall. She told me that one guy – Tim – was drunk earlier in the eveing and had “accidentally” touched her chest. She had told him to fuck off and still seemed irritated about it.

“That’s Tim for you”, I said, knowing that the student in question was a bit of a fool, “he probably just wanted to report back to his mates that he had touched the one place they are all desperate to go”.

She seemed rather delighted by this explanation but expressed an ironic distaste. “What do you mean the one place they are desperate to go?”, she exclaimed, obviously flattered but pretending to be offended.

“You know”, I said, trying to respond diplomatically, “your er… chest is kinda infamous among the guys”.

“Is it?”.

I wasn’t sure if she was genuinely surprised by the fact or simply enjoying the attention she was getting by dwelling on the matter.

“Oh God, yeah. They rarely talk about anything else!”

“Are you including yourself in that?”, she asked me tongue-in-cheek.

“Well, I er… may have been known to make a polite comment or two” I said, trying to be diplomatic. Carole squealed with delight at this response, so I added: “I suppose you could say I am a member of the Carole Gallacher’s Chest fan club!”

She roared with laughter at this: “Do you get a badge with your membership?”

“Yes”, I said, “and a monthly newsletter”.

"With a competition where you can win a personal meet-and-greet?”, she added.

“I should be so lucky” I laughed.

“I don’t know why you say that”, she said, “you’re pretty much having one now. You’re here in the same room as them!”

“True” I said, starting to rather enjoy this candid chat about her biggest assets. “Although everyone gets to see them like that”.

“Yes…”, she said and hesitated, “…but not everyone gets to see them like this” and suddenly she unzipped her sweatshirt to the waist, revealing a skimpy tight fitting vest. The shadow of her cleavage was clearly visible and the delicious outline of her firm, large breasts stuck out from beneath the thin white cotton. I felt like a scientist confronted with proof of a theory he had long suspected. No further evidence would ever be needed: Carole really did have one hell of a pair of tits on her. I had never seen them this clearly before, not even in their revealing ballgown.

“Wow” I said, my tongue probably hanging out, “no, not everyone has seen them like that”. Jees, I thought to myself, this girl is really sexy (and really drunk!)

“Or like this” she said, kneeling upright now on the bed and opening her sweatshirt wide to stick her magnificent chest out proudly in my general direction. I could make out the round shape of her nipples from beneath the flimsy material. The new position also afforded me a better view of her stomach beneath the cut-off vest. Her waist was surprisingly skinny in comparison to the vast breasts she was sporting. It was as though whoever made her had first assembled a tall, slender teenager and then accidentally added some huge breasts that were intended for someone else. Now this was certainly a more privileged view than I had been lucky enough to have before, and a devastatingly erotic sight.

She hadn’t finished yet and next peeled off her sweatshirt, sitting back on her knees in the little vest. The cold temperature of the room specked her skin with goose-bumps and her nipples hardened and appeared more clearly beneath the material. She was so playful and tipsy. Her body looked gorgeous in the light of the bedside lamp.

It suddenly occured to me that she was so drunk she didn't have much idea what she was doing. The opportunity to take advantage of her in this free, joyous state was growing by the second.

“I hope their not disappointing”, she giggled, knowing full well it was like asking someone if they were disappointed about winning the lottery.

"Disappointing is not quite the word I would use", I replied. "Could I see them in the flesh?". For the first time I was confidently laying my cards on the table.