Sam pays up.

“When was the last time you wore this? Junior high?” Sam quips when you don't immediately answer her question, distracted by what you see before you.

Sam's expensive and fashionable dark green bikini bottom, with gold trim, is now paired with an old worn t-shit that is several sizes too small. Made for a young teen-age boy, and not a 5'9” overly endowed woman, the shirt only partially covers Sam's well toned abdomen, her belly button clearly being visible. The shirt is completely white, except for a small faint and faded “Clinton-Gore 96” logo over the left breast. Sam is so well endowed, and the shirt is so tight, it looks like Sam's compressed and restricted breasts could explode out at any minute. Underneath the left breast is a tear about two inches in length. It isn't a simple slit, but prolate spheroid in shape, like a football.

As a cheap campaign give away made of the lowest quality material, and after seeing a decade of wear, no curve, line or feature of Samantha's pleasing figure can be hid. Her semi-erect nipples are clearly evident, even her areolas can be partially made out. If any section of the shirt should get wet, that part would immediately become fully transparent.

“I will give you this Red,” You cut your ogling short, getting to her original question, “I have seen a lot of Democrats in shirts like that, but none of them do it justice like you. President Clinton would be proud.”

“Hmpt.” Sam grins, “Thank you, I think.” Putting her hands on her hips she asks, “So Hometown are you done examining your prize? Or, can I get to work?”

“Best prize ever!” You think to yourself and give Sam one more look over. “Do you think you will be able to keep yourself dry?” You calmly ask.

“I have washed a car before Hometown.” Samantha shoots back. “Sorry to crush your teenage fantasizes, but I will be staying dry.”

“Oh, really.” You almost chuckle, continually intrigued by Sam's bravado, “Care to make that a wager?”

Sam's initial reaction is again hard to read, you're not sure if she is miffed, concerned, amused or some strange combination of the three.

“Didn't you say, you 'never' back down from a wager?” You greatly enjoy using the fiery redhead's words against her.

“I guess I did.” Sam's face turns a bit flush, though her gaze is one of intensity. “Its a deal. If I keep the majority of this dry.” Sam waves her hand down in front of her shirt, “then I win, and for payment I want you to make supper.”

“And if this turns into a wet t-shirt contest?” You question as you begin to reconsider that there might be some real advantages to gambling after all.”

“Then I lose. But only if I get wet from washing your car.” Sam insists. “Rain doesn't count, and if you get me wet, then you forfeit the wager and I win.”

“Agreed.”

“If this turns into your junior high fantasy Hometown,” Sam looks at you with amused curiosity, “what do you want from me as payment?”

Your mind races, for you have to answer. Being indecisive, even trying to extend gentlemanly charity, will not go over well with the confident and competitive businesswoman. What would be a friendly, playful wager, you ponder, that would amuse Sam? Looking over the voluptuous vixen you cannot help but to wonder how far you could take the sexual nature of a wager and still have Sam be on board with it. After all she doesn't seem to be shy with her body. She was even willing to strip her top off in front of you in your driveway. Is this bravado, you wonder, how she always acts, or is it a show she is putting on for you? As if on queue, fate gives you the answer.

Since you live in a wooded area, and on a corner lot, a line of large trees and thick brush acts as a wall between your house and the road that runs along the side of your property. Whipping her head to the left Sam's eyes grow wide at the sound of an approaching car. The trees block the car's view until it turns onto your street, giving Sam a few seconds to react before the driver will get quite a sight.

All the bravado of the shocked redhead vanishes as she quickly jumps in front of your car, trying to hide, which provides several entertaining sights. First, you will never get tired of seeing the flustered Republican bend over and having her pert little ass stick out. Second, your well worn t-shirt affords even less support than her bikini top. Sam's sizable assets bounce freely and wildly about with her sudden movement. Which leads to the most enjoyable occurrence, one not of sight, but of sound. As you wave to your passing neighbor, Sam crouches even lower, causing a distinct “rripp” sound to be heard.

“You have to be kidding me!” With the coast clear the well endowed conservative stands and looks down at her shirt. The rip has grown about twice in size, showing a good section of the lower part of her left breast.

“Well you did mention that, quote, 'a wardrobe malfunction would be a real possibility?'” You know there is a danger of taunting her too much, but the chance to again use Sam's words against her is just too much fun to resist.

“Funny!” Sam sneers and instinctively covers herself up.

The increasing exposure of her breasts is of course pleasing, but it is also comforting that the outgoing redhead has some modesty. On social issues you're, of course, very progressive, but when it comes to your own sexual morals and preferences, you're rather traditional. Besides a little modesty on Sam's part will help keep your wager private. Another thought comes to mind, one that hadn't occurred to you before. Is Sam only brazen with you? If so, maybe it's because she feels so comfortable around you? Looking at her you realize your growing attraction for the red haired beauty is more than mere lust. And just maybe, the attraction she has for you might be equally as strong?”

“Enjoying the show?” The frustrated scantily attired Republican announces, misreading the depth of your stare.

“I will leave the garage door open in case anyone else drives by.” You respond with a friendly tone, knowing that trying to call off the wager now will only infuriate the fiery redhead. “Let me get a chair and I will watch out for cars and people out for a walk.”

“Yeah, right.” Sam scoffs, “You're really going to spend your time looking out down the road?”

You cannot argue with her logic, but you sincerely answer, “I'm just trying to help. Don't worry about detailing the hubcaps and it's so sunny why don't you wax the car inside the garage.” Heading into the garage you start collecting the necessary items to wash a car.

“Alright.” Sam softens a bit. “Thank you.”

Collecting the pails, sponges, brushes, rags and soap you place them before Sam. On the little open porch next to your garage, you set up a folding chair, a small table for an ice-tea, and your laptop.

As Sam looks over the items that she will use to pay off her debt, you walk over to the front yard spigot. Turning the water on you drag the hose over to Sam, making sure she enough slack to get around all sides of the car.

“I think you're all set. Would you care for a drink?” You ask.

“No thank you, I'm good.”

“I am not sure if you should call yourself 'good' while wearing that outfit.” You joke, trying to keep the mood light.

“Are you calling me wicked?” Sam smiles, seemingly appreciating the friendly banter. Before you can respond the distracted Republican, wanting to straighten her shirt, without thinking grabs the very bottom of the old warn t-shirt and pulls down hard.

“RRRIIIIIPPPPP!”

The tear under her left breast now explodes open, easily growing to over a half foot in length. Not only is the entire bottom portion of her left breast revealed, but also the underneath and middle of her cleavage and a bit of her right breast as well. Besides growing in width, however, the opening is getting bigger in height, slowly creeping up to just underneath Sam's left aerole.

“Oh, come on!” Sam almost yells in surprise.

“You're ruining my prized t-shirt.” You say in a deadpan voice, trying very hard not to laugh, and very pleased you saved your old shirt all these years for this glorious end.

“You have to be kidding me.” Sam covers herself up again and slightly squirms in place.

“If you are going for the Powergirl look,” you cannot resist commenting, “the 'boob window' is suppose to go in the middle of your cleavage, not underneath.”

“'Power Puff Girls?', 'Boob window?'” Sam looks at you with annoyance, “What the hell are you taking about?”

“You know, Powergirl,” You try to explain to the distinguished and stone faced redhead. “From DC Comics? Justice League . . . Let me guess you didn't read many comic books in high school?”

Sam's scowl is the only reply you get.

“Then you must have been . . . Captain of the Cheerleading Squad? . . . Right?” You keep on burying yourself, “. . . Or the Basketball Team? . . . Has to be the Basketball Team. . . Track Team? . . . Salutatorian?”

“Captain of the Swim Team.” Sam finally breaks her silence, her temper flaring, “and valedictorian.”

At first you want to ask if her big boobs made her slower in the water, but you wisely decide against it.

“Well I probably should sit down, and let you get to work.” You grin.

“Yes.”

Taking your seat you try to appear to multitask. Opening up your laptop you start to check your email, while you look around for any cars or neighbors walking.

“Yeah right!” You think to yourself, situating the laptop in such a way that Sam's barely clad figure can always be seen with a quick, discreet, glace up from the screen. Watching your shapely opponent is truly exquisite. For a moment you toy with trying to take a few pictures, but you quickly dismiss such thinking as dishonorable.

With a disgusted sigh Sam drops her hands and begins the task before her. You wonder, as you drink in every second of the glorious play that is being performed for you, how could a woman be so athletically toned and yet so voluptuously curvy at the same time. Looking through the window that is the large tear you can't help but stare. They are so round and firm and yet their gently swaying back and forth is almost hypnotic.

At first Sam is able to stay relatively dry, but the faint mist from the hose, and the occasional back splash of water, slowly erodes any chance of the top heavy Republican remaining decent. Inexorably, the thin white material of her shirt dampens, revealing more and more of Samantha's well endowed chest. It doesn't help her **** cause that she has to frequently pull down, with wet hands, the upper side of the tear in a vain attempt to keep some decency.

The battle is finally lost when the buxom redhead, while leaning down to wash the passenger side door, hears another car approaching. Instinctively she presses her body against the car door, trying to make herself small.

“Thank heaven.” Samantha sighs as the car doesn't turn onto your street but continues down the side road. Sam's relief is short lived, however, looking down at her chest she realizes with horror that she has pressed her breasts against the metal she had just watered down to be washed.

Standing up the defeated redhead's breasts are soaked and ever inch of them are now on full display. This is no longer a car washing, but a wet t-shirt contest. “Damn it.” Sam's swear signals that she knows that she has lost, and you are certainly, very much, the winner.

“Oh the hell with it!”

The exasperated redhead steps back from the car and turns the hose on herself. After completely soaking her chest, the front of Sam's shirt is now thoroughly transparent. Dropping her hands to her side so you can get a good look she exclaims, “There, are you satisfied?!”

Slowly examining the essentially topless Samantha, her nipples hard from the cold water, you smile, “Yes, yes I am.”

Her eyebrows furrow and a stream of water comes shooting at you.

Jumping up while cradling your laptop and turning your back you shout, “Hey! Watch my computer!” Sam stops squirting you. “All my campaign information is on here.” You foolishly add.

A single red haired eyebrow raises and another stream of water comes firing at you.

Fleeing this watery **** on your campaign you run through the side door near the driveway into the coatroom and then taking a left you go into the kitchen and towel off the few drops of water that actually hit your computer. Leaving it on the countertop you head back out, relishing the thought of telling the drenched Republican that she lost another bet, one which she seems to have forgotten. You are about to open the side door when Sam bursting in. Slamming the door behind her, she grabs you and pushes you off to the right corner, pinning you against the wall.

“It's my new cologne,” you quip, “isn't it?”

“Someone is pulling up in the driveway!” Sam exclaims.

“Quick.” You become serious, taking Sam by the arm. “You can hide upstairs.”

Sam takes a step while looking out the window. “Too late.” She says and pushes you back against the wall.

DRRRINNNGGG. Your doorbell sounds.

Because of the windows on the door, and the window next to the door, the two of you are trapped in the corner of the room, **** to embrace each other against the wall to avoid detection.

DRRRINNNGGG. The door bell sounds again.

“I feel like I'm in high school again.” Sam giggles.

Looking down at the incredibly gorgeous buxom redhead in a ripped cutoff wet t-shirt pinning you up against the wall, you whisper back, “I don't remember this in high school.”

“Not even in your little fantasies games, playing Dragon and Dugouts?”

“Dungeons and Dragons.” You glare at Sam, “It's Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Whatever.”

“Well there was that one time,” you reflect, “Leonard Shorts, our best Game Master, had a 14th level succubus with a 25 Appearance wearing +5 Bikini Armor, and a +4 Whip of Torment, attack me from the Ethereal Plane. She had red hair too, you know.”

“You had a friend named 'Shorts' in high school?” Sam asks incredulously.

“Really, I call you a succubus, and that is what you get from the story?”

“Shh, shh! There still there.” Sam waves her hand in front of your mouth.

Sam leans closer into you, pressing you more against the wall as you see the shadow of someone from the outside looking in through your window.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Hello, John you there?”

Knock, knock.

Through the window you can hear several voices speaking.

“His garage door is open. His car is here,” A man's voice speaks, “and the garden hose is still on.”

“The lights are on too.” Says an older woman, “and his drink isn't finished.”

“What's this.” Another man's voice is heard, “It is a bikini top.”

“Pfft” Sam covers her mouth as she tries to fight back a laugh.

“Wow.” The first man says. “She must have quite a set.”

All the colors run from your face as you go pale.

“Lucky man.” The other man adds.

“Hmpt.” The older woman's disapproving grunt is loud enough to be heard.

Sputtering like she is about to erupt, Sam begins to pound your chest as she buries her head into you trying not to burst into laughter.