Barbara made her way down the aisle of the plane, already gritting her teeth for a less-than-comfortable ride. As much as she loved traveling, and had for most of her thirty-eight years, airline seats were simply not designed for someone with her natural build. The woman had been described as “buxom” more than once, though Barbara disliked the term; she didn’t ask to have a bust and caboose this bountiful. Her ample and wide-set hips had to do a little cramming between the armrests, and more significantly, the sheer enormity of her juicy, hulking breasts ensured that rolling down the tray table was nigh-impossible.

            While they’d boarded, an announcement was made that the plane was experiencing some technical difficulties which would delay takeoff. Barbara wasn’t pleased at that. But no matter. The flight would be over before she knew it, and then soon after she’d be relaxing on a sandy beach.            Barbara combed her fingers through long, chocolate-brown locks and re-checked her ticket when she arrived at the correct row. There was her aisle seat; the window was already occupied by a lanky, acne-faced teenage boy gazing through the glass.

            “Hello,” Barbara greeted him as she snuggled into her seat.

            “Hey,” he muttered, barely glancing at her. Once he looked at her longer than a second, though, his droopy eyes were wide as tea saucers. His jaw hung ajar. “Hello to you, too.”

            “Don’t mind me,” Barbara said, clicking in her seatbelt. She could tell he was gawking at her cleavage, which wasn’t unexpected. That happened most places she went.

            However, even as she got settled in, retrieving a magazine and tinkering on her cell, she could still feel the kid’s gawping attentions in her peripheral vision. He was even leaning in closer all the time, his eyes magnetized to the valley between her doughy breasts. Usually bystanders had the courtesy to disguise their stares, but not this guy. Barbara took a deep breath. No big deal, she told herself. He was just a dumb teen; this wasn’t a federal crime.

            “Are you headed for the beach, too?” Barbara pleasantly asked. She didn’t really feel like engaging him, but hoped that conversation would startle him enough to stop leering.

            “The beach? Hell yeah, I am,” he said. However, his unblinking eyes never stopped exploring the rotund geometry of his seat neighbor’s cans. He swallowed, causing his Adam’s apple to bobble. It was hard to tell, but his breathing had changed as well. “I go as much as I can.”

            Barbara self-consciously pinched the neckline of her colorful blouse and tried to pluck it up a little higher. She’d purposefully worn one of her more modest garments, specifically because of the close proximity to passengers on the plane. Of course, there was only so much she could do when her breasts expanded the fabric so far.

            “Oh? Are… you a surfer?”

            “Just a little. I don’t really go to play in the water, though.”

            “No?”

            “No, there’s way too much to see on the beach.” The boy wasn’t even turning his head now. He had outright shifted in his seat to study Barbara’s chest from a matter of just a few inches away, so close that he could’ve bowed his head and grazed his cheek along a wide flank of her pale flesh. Though he didn’t elaborate, Barbara didn’t have to guess what exactly he was “seeing” while on the beach.

            “What, um… what’s your name?” she asked, getting more uncomfortable all the time. She’d easily take a seat twice as cramped as this, if it saved her from such predatory people-watching. This presumptuous adolescent just had to be undressing her with his eyes, mentally x-raying through the thin veil of her blouse and bra to make out the meaty volume of her breasts inside.

            “Gabe,” he said dreamily, clearly only half-listening to her. “Say, there’s something I’ve always kind of wondered. Maybe you’d know?”

            “Oh. Sure…”

            “Is it true that real tits float in water, but fake ones sink?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Well, I was sort of thinking from seeing yours. Like, if they’re really big, they must sink a little bit even if they’re not real, right? And, I mean, yours probably aren’t real.”

            Flabbergasted, Barbara had to search to find the words. She couldn’t even wrap her mind around what this snot-nosed teen had just said to her. Fully regretting attempting to start a conversation with him at all, she unsuccessfully tried to raise the neckline again.

            “I don’t know,” Barbara huffed, doing her best not to answer with the kind of snark that would elevate the situation. Promptly, she took up her magazine and buried her face in it, ending the exchange.

            Still, the minutes ticked tortuously by, and Gabe showed no signs of ending his hungry fascination over Barbara’s boobs. They still hadn’t even begun to taxi on the runway. Why were these technical difficulties taking so long? Worse, the cabin had grown stuffy while parked, and though Barbara tried to fan herself, the combination of anxiety over her seatmate and mugginess in the thin air was getting to her. She could feel perspiration forming on her forehead and neck, and from there, it was only a matter of time. Even before she chanced a look down into the thick valley of her cleavage, Barbara could feel the lubricant of sweat glossing over her skin.

            Gabe’s jaw seemed to hang even wider now. Not only did he have a clear close-up of her massive breasts, but now he was seeing them moist and shiny, like they were straight from some cheap porno. The magazine wasn’t enough to block his view, either; the kid was getting a real show over there, staring at Barbara and making her feel used. As though it was his assumed privilege. She’d even heard him lick his lips a few times. And though she couldn’t be certain, for it was too disgusting to visually confirm, Barbara was fairly sure the boy’s basketball shorts were now tenting, and he was doing nothing to hide it; in fact, Gabe was jutting his hips forward just enough to proudly display the awkward shape of his boner through the mesh. Showing off. It made the woman sick to her stomach.

            “I don’t think it’s bad, you know,” Gabe said after a while.

            Surprised, Barbara peered over her magazine page.

            “Hmm?”         

            “I don’t think fake tits are a bad thing,” he continued. Even as he spoke, his gaze was undeterred. The boy was likely on the verge of drooling at her twin masses of flesh and mammary. “Like, it’s probably the coolest thing doctors ever did. There’s a lot of girls I know at school who should probably get them done when they turn eighteen, or even sooner maybe. They might get laid more often.”

            “No offense, but I’m trying to read here,” Barbara said through gritted teeth. The last thing she felt like doing was arguing with this punk, no matter how much she wanted to shout at him, public space or not. Despite his youth, there was no justifying this behavior.

            “Ooh. Sorry,” he chuckled, clearly only mocking her. Gabe leaned closer, squinting at the cover of the magazine. He read aloud: “Increase Your Bust Size By Two Cups With These Simple Steps. No Surgery, No Fuss.”

            “Ahem.”

            “Is that what you’re reading in there?”
            “No.”

            “Cuz, I mean… you probably don’t need them to get any bigger. Like, seriously, you couldn’t even be the “after” picture in the before-and-after thing. You’re already, like…”

            “-would you please stop-”

            “…like quadruple-D. Holy shit,” Gabe said, and with that, he reached out and jammed his bony index finger directly into the spongy crevice between Barbara’s tits. He jostled his wrist and drove his finger hard, getting several inches down into the deep well of heavy, sweat-glazed flesh before the owner of those breasts grabbed him by the arm.

            “ENOUGH!” Barbara hissed, ripping Gabe’s finger out of her violated bosom. She was trembling now, fired up by this stranger’s unbelievable gall. “Shut up.”

            “Woah, sorry, I didn’t mean to make you PMS.”

            “Listen to me closely,” she uttered in a violent hush. Barbara turned the tables and leaned over into Gabe’s seat, uncaring of how much he was probably enjoying the fact that her breasts were now awkwardly sagging an inch away from his elbow. “Do not touch me for the rest of this flight, young man. Understand? And I’d rather not carry on conversation after all, if that’s all right with you. I’ve been patient, but frankly, you’re being very rude. I’m asking you now to just leave me alone.”

            “That’s cool,” Gabe droned; predictably, his eyes were lost again in the roomy vortex of the V-divide between Barbara’s puffy, hanging boobs. At that moment, as the woman shifted positions in her seat, a gleaming droplet of sweat careened down from the nape of her neck, over the hillock of her left breast, and descended into the shadow between. Gabe licked his lips again. Then, smirking with the devilish glee of a boy who’d never in his life faced consequences for his actions, brushed his fingertip along the neckline of the blouse, ticklishly caressing the skin, then ended by prodding his thumb directly over Barbara’s areola through the bra.

            “Whoops.” He grinned. “My bad.”