I had always been absolutely fascinated by Amanda’s breasts. Amanda’s ample chest was the one thing that stood out most about her. They were large and full with an ever so slight sagginess to them. If I had to guess, I’d say they were E-cups. Then again, I’ve always been terrible with guessing cup sizes. What made her tits so attractive was how good they looked under her shirt. Amanda never wore a bra, so you could easily make out her nipples. Keeping your eyes to yourself was a challenge whenever Amanda was around.
Her breasts may have been the cherry on top of the cake, but the cake itself was a hateful creature. Amanda was a textbook trashy milf. The type you fucked in the ass behind a dumpster outside a dodgy nightclub. A divorced, alcoholic mother of two, Amanda’s drinking had entirely ruined her life. Over the course of a few short years, her husband had had left her, she had lost custody of her children, and the bank had taken her house.
I first met Amanda at a rehabilitation facility where I was working as a counsellor. This particular rehab had a pretty bad reputation. So bad, in fact, that no qualified counselors wanted to work there. Despite the fact that I had no official training, the facility was more than happy to take me on as a counselor of sorts.
One day I was having a group session with the addicts. The ‘guests’ of the facility were gathered in a semi circle around a small whiteboard on a stand. I was in the midst of drawing a diagram of the neurological effects of crystal methamphetamine when Amanda walked into the room. She plopped herself down into a plastic chair at the back of the room. Everyone went silent and stared at her.
“Would the newcomer mind introducing herself?” I asked.
Amanda mumbled her name and sank deeper into the chair. I stared at her, and she stared back in defiance. After a few moments I shrugged and continued my lecture.
“So it’s not the drug itself that causes the withdrawal, it’s actually your depleted serotonin stores that make you feel terrible. The more you use the drug…” I drew a long arrow across the board, “The more your brain thinks it doesn’t have to produce serotonin and dopamine. This leaves the addict feeling chronically depressed, and eventually leads to a craving for more of the drug.”
Amanda and I exchanged few words over the next few days. I was somewhat disheartened – I loved receiving recognition for my hard work from the guests – but I had grown used to their childish attitudes and lack of gratitude over the years. The one thing I enjoyed about the patients was their love of juicy gossip. Rumour had it that Amanda had nowhere to go once she left the facility. I pitied her. The woman had no family to go back to. No job, no life. Nothing.
Of course, Amanda’s unfortunate situation created an opportunity for the predators and perverts in the facility. Unsurprisingly, Amanda befriended men in the rooms in hope of finding some support, financial or otherwise. To everyone’s surprise, she befriended a guy named Jimmy, an on and off pill addict who hung around the rehab all day, supposedly part of the non-existent outpatient program.
Jimmy was an interesting character. At thirty-eight, he was still unemployed and living in his mother’s basement. I found him particularly repulsive, as did just about everyone else who knew him. His shirt was always covered in Cheetos crumbs, and he had a thin film of slime around his mouth that never seemed to go away. I cringed whenever his watery blue eyes were fixed on me. I knew that Jimmy was a high-caliber pervert. He always joked with the younger women in the facility, usually laying a hand on a thigh. I always pictured him licking his lips, spreading that film of slime around his mouth.
Amanda gave him more and more attention as the weeks went by. She was good at playing the seductress, striking up small talk whenever they met, listening to his boring life stories, and occasionally overtly flirting with him. Needless to say, Jimmy quickly started becoming ecstatic whenever Amanda was around.
Seeing her play her little games in the facility started to anger me. Perhaps it was because she was disrupting the recovery of the addicts, perhaps I was frustrated because she didn’t show any interest in me. Either way, I can’t tell. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed by her skilful seduction. The subtle hints were hard for the untrained eye to spot, but I always noticed the deliberate look of disinterest on her face, the slight arch of her back when she knew someone was watching, and the gentle curve that crept onto her lips whenever she was chatting to one of the guys.
One day Jimmy cornered me outside the lecture room and excitedly told me that his new buddy, Amanda, was going to be his roommate. I wasn’t surprised. Nor was I particularly surprised to hear that after only a week Jimmy’s mother had kicked Amanda out of the house. Poor Jimmy. I would bet that was the closest he had ever come to losing his virginity. Harsh as it may sound, it would probably have been better if the poor man just ended his misery with a fistful of painkillers.
Once again, Amanda had nowhere to go. Fortunately for her, the owner of the rehab, Ronald, allowed her to sleep on a couch in the facility and eat with the other guests. In return she had to do the filing in his office every day. Ronald was a morbidly obese man in his sixties. He was a terrible manager, but he was a very shrewd opportunist. I remember giggling to myself when I saw the boss’s eyes glitter as Amanda thanked him for his generosity. To this day I wonder whether the boss-man washed his crumby old knob before he made Amanda suck it.
It didn’t take long for Amanda to relapse, and the boss, tired of her drunken sluggishness, kicked her out of the facility. Amanda was on the street again, and this time she was truly fucked. I was delighted. It looked like an opportunity had arisen for me.
At the time, I was living in a worn down two bedroom flat. I used the spare room to store old things I never used: musty blankets, my late aunt’s cheap piano, and a collection of hideous second hand ornaments my family had given me over the years. Perhaps Amanda would make a good flatmate.
Living alone could get lonely at times. With Amanda here I would have some company, and at the same time I’d be helping a down and out addict. Once she got a job I could also make a small income from rent. I set out the next morning and drove around the neighbourhood, looking for her. I found her sitting on a curb close to the local church, a worn duffel bag at her feet. I pulled up next to her and rolled down my window.
“Hey, Amanda!”
She looked up at me with a tear-stained face. I pitched my offer out of the car window: She had to stay sober, she had to get a job, and she had to help with the household chores. Eighty dollars rent a month until she found a job. She hesitated for a moment, then accepted and got into the car. Poor woman, I thought. She didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter.
On the way home I glanced over at Amanda’s chest. As usual, she wasn’t wearing a bra. My God, how trashy could a person get? My heart started beating a bit faster, and I felt a stirring in my pants. Of course, I knew that Amanda had no sexual interest in me. I was just another pawn in her game, another object of manipulation. To be perfectly honest, I was probably just a notch or two above Jimmy in the social hierarchy. No matter. At least I could revel in the idea that I was truly helping another human being, even if it was just for today.
We arrived at my house. I was taking a big risk by letting her stay with me. In my years of working with addicts, I knew how dangerous a relapsed addict or alcoholic could be. I helped Amanda carry her bag into her new room.
“Welcome,” I said. “Make yourself at home.”
I fried some eggs and noodles while she freshened up in the shower. She looked much better when she came out of the bathroom. Kind of hot. I sat her down at the kitchen counter and served her dinner on a paper plate. “Bon appetite,” I said, smiling.
I asked her how she felt. “Alright,” she said. I knew that wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t want to prod her too much. The woman had been through a lot. I stood across the kitchen counter from her and watched her eat. Jesus, I thought. She eats like a pig.
“Amanda.” She looked up at me with a mouthful of noodles. “You understand that there are rules in this house, don’t you?” She nodded and went back to her plate of food. Of course, knowing how an alcoholic thinks I had devised a test for my own protection. I drew a bottle of vodka from the drawer and placed it on the kitchen counter. Amanda froze.
“Amanda, I have to make sure you’re not going to start drinking again.”
She gaped at me. Rule number one of addiction or alcoholism is never have any drugs or alcohol around the victim. Everyone knew that.
“Do you want it, Amanda?”
She stared wide-eyed at the bottle, her mouth still half full of food. A rush of adrenaline surged up my spine. They say an addict can’t refuse another hit. Their brains go into autopilot and they zone in on getting that next fix at any cost. Same goes for alcoholics.
“You can have it if you want, Amanda.”
She looked up at me, an expression of confusion on her face. I remember thinking how beautiful she was with that look of dread in her eyes. Tears started welling up in those big, brown eyes.
“Why are you doing this to me?” She choked.
I pushed the bottle towards her. “You have to prove that you’re strong, Amanda. You want to be sober and happy, right?” I watched in anticipation as she stared at the bottle. Her one hand started trembling.
“Fuck you,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
I twisted off the cap and help it to her face. The smell of alcohol was enough to do the trick. She grabbed the bottle from me. Never in my life had I seen someone down pure vodka that fast. I was impressed. She drank like a thirsty animal, liquid spilling down her chin and rolling down her throat. I watched as a thin stream of vodka pooled up between her tits.
“Shame on you” I said, “Shame on you Amanda.”
She gagged and put the bottle down, then started sobbing uncontrollably. The look of devastation on her face made my spine tingle again. Amanda knew she had once again ruined her life. Thank God she was in a safe environment. Had she been on the street she could have been raped or killed.
It didn’t take long for Amanda to get drowsy. The crushed up sleeping pills I had put in the vodka were starting to work their magic. Amanda slumped sideways in her chair. I walked over to her and slipped an arm under her shoulder.
“Up you get young lady. We don’t want you getting sick on the floor, now, do we?”
She nodded a vaguely. I half dragged her to the bathroom where she collapsed on the floor. I helped her kneel over the toilet.
“You okay? Feeling a little sick, Amanda?”
She nodded again. I gently drew her hair back, then pushed her head down into the toilet. I kneeled down behind her and pushed my hips into her backside, thrusting her further into the toilet bowl. I felt my penis rapidly swelling against her tight jeans. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pushed my fists hard into her belly and shoved my hips deeper into her. She vomited and let out a moan. I did it again, this time placing my hands on her hips. I couldn’t help myself anymore. I pushed my hands up under her shirt and ran my hands over her chest.
“What… what are you doing?” She slurred.
I pulled her bra down and squeezed her tits hard. They felt incredible. Huge, soft, and silky with big, hard nipples. I was in absolute ecstasy.
I had Amanda right where I wanted her. Tonight was going to be the best night of my life.