She finds Candy

The sun was warm on Tiffany's bare midriff as she walked. She'd chosen a pink crop top — the stretchy kind that clung to the lower slopes of her extraordinary chest and left a strip of flat, smooth stomach visible above her high-waisted jeans. Her auburn hair was down. She had her bag over one shoulder and the focused, purposeful expression of someone on an important professional errand.

Dan's instructions were clear. Young. Busty. Back by two.

She walked a slow loop around the perimeter of the high school, watching the lunchtime scatter of students on the steps and the surrounding pavements. She approached two girls near the gate — pretty, tall, pleasant — but they were clearly twenty or nineteen at the youngest, and while their figures were perfectly normal and lovely, they were not, by any stretch, what Dan had described. Not the same challenges. Tiffany smiled at them anyway and moved on.

She tried another cluster near the corner shop. Same conclusion.

She was beginning to wonder if she'd have to widen her search when she noticed the bushes.

They were thick and low, set back from the footpath along the school's side boundary, tucked into a natural alcove formed by the corner of the fence and an overgrown hedge. The kind of spot that said, very clearly, I specifically chose here because I didn't want to be seen. Tiffany wouldn't have looked twice except for the sound — a soft, wet, rhythmic noise, and underneath it, a low masculine grunt of concentration.

She peered through a gap in the hedge.

A man — older, considerably older, wearing clothes that had clearly been slept in for some time, his grey hair matted, his face unshaven — was crouched forward with his face buried in the most extraordinary chest Tiffany had seen since the last time she looked in a mirror. The girl he was attending to was completely naked, her clothes — a little denim skirt, a tiny white top, a pair of white socks still on her feet — folded in a neat pile beside her, and she was staring thoughtfully at the middle distance in the patient way of someone performing a necessary task. Her breasts were colossal. Shockingly, structurally implausibly large — the same impossible scale as Tiffany's own, pale and full and high, the man's weathered face pressed deep into them as he sucked with focused, medical dedication. The girl's small hand was wrapped around his exposed, unwashed penis, working it in a slow, helpful rhythm.

Tiffany stepped through the gap.

The man's head snapped up. He saw Tiffany. He was on his feet and through the hedge and gone in approximately four seconds, his trousers still partially undone, vanishing around the corner at a speed that suggested considerable practice at rapid exits.

The girl looked up.

She was — Tiffany's first thought was beautiful, her second thought was young, and somewhere in the vicinity of her third thought was a faint, nagging something she couldn't quite locate before it drifted away. She had enormous blue eyes and a small, soft face dusted with freckles, her blonde hair in two loose plaits that had come slightly undone. Her lips were naturally pink and slightly parted. She was sitting completely naked in a bush and she looked, somehow, like a Disney character.

And her breasts — sitting high and round and shockingly large on her small frame, the nipples reddened from the past fifteen minutes of enthusiastic medical attention — were, as Dan had specified, exactly the same impossible scale as Tiffany's own.

"Oh!" The girl grabbed her white top from the pile reflexively, held it against her chest, then seemed to decide Tiffany wasn't a threat, and put it back down. She didn't get dressed. "Hi!"

"Hi!" said Tiffany. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to — are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" the girl said brightly, as though Tiffany had nearly bumped into her at a supermarket. "Did you see where he went?"

"He ran off around the corner," Tiffany said. "He was really fast."

The girl's face fell with genuine concern. "Oh no. I hope he's okay. He was in such pain." She looked at Tiffany seriously. "He had this really rare medical condition? Where he needs breast milk or it gets really bad for him. Like, he could collapse and stuff."

"Oh, that's awful," Tiffany said, sitting down cross-legged on the grass opposite her without really thinking about it, which was just the sort of person Tiffany was.

"I know! And most girls don't believe him, which is so sad, like, just because you haven't heard of something doesn't mean it isn't real." The girl shook her head. "I told him I didn't have any breast milk — obviously, I'm not, like, a mum or anything — but he said with breasts this big, if he just worked at them long enough, they'd produce some. So." She gestured to her chest with a philosophical shrug. "He'd been going for about fifteen minutes. I was really hoping we were getting somewhere." She looked at Tiffany's chest. Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. Are yours the same size as mine?"

"I think so," Tiffany said, looking down at herself. "I've never met anyone else with—" she gestured vaguely.

"Same," the girl breathed. "Nobody ever understands. Like, do you know how hard it is to find a bra?"

"Impossible," Tiffany confirmed.

They looked at each other with the immediate, warm recognition of two people who have found the only other person on earth who knows exactly what they mean.

"I'm Tiffany."

"I'm Candy," said the girl, and smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made you want to smile back immediately. All dimples and trust and openness. She began, unhurriedly, to pull her little white top back on. It fit her the way Tiffany's tops fit Tiffany — heroically, improbably, doing its absolute best. She wriggled into the denim skirt. "Do you go to this school?"

"I used to," Tiffany said. "Well, not this one. But. I'm actually — I'm an actress now."

Candy's blue eyes went perfectly round. "Are you serious?"

"Only just started," Tiffany said warmly, "like literally two weeks ago. Two weeks ago I had no idea what I was doing with my life at all. And now I've had two proper auditions. A TV drama and a film."

"That's incredible," Candy breathed, pulling her knees to her chest. She had the quality of someone to whom the world was in a constant state of being incredible. Everything was incredible. The actress sitting in the bushes with her was incredible. The morning had been incredible. Existence, broadly, was incredible. "How did you start?"

"My manager," Tiffany said, with the fond warmth she always brought to the subject of Dan. "He's called Dan. He's just — he spotted me and believed in me straightaway. He's been training me every single morning." She smiled. "I was at his place this morning actually. We did a scene."

"What was the scene?" Candy asked, with the attentive interest of someone who finds everything genuinely fascinating.

"It was a romantic drama," Tiffany said. "I was playing a loving wife — we've been married ten years — and the scene was me and Dan on his couch. I was riding him, so like, I was on top? And we were making out. Really committed to the intimacy, really going for it. He came inside me, and then I used my mouth to get him ready for the second take, and then we ran the whole thing again." She said all of this with the even, professional tone of someone discussing a particularly good rehearsal. "Dan is very thorough. He likes to do more takes when we have the time."

Candy nodded slowly, processing. "So... riding him, like—" she tilted her head.

"Like sitting on him," Tiffany confirmed. "On his cock. While kissing. The physical commitment is really important for the authenticity."

"Right," Candy said, in the voice of someone who is nodding even though the maths is coming out a little strange, but who has decided to trust the equation anyway. "That sounds like a lot."

"Acting is a lot," Tiffany agreed sagely.

Candy was quiet for a moment, picking a small piece of leaf off her plait. "I've never actually kissed a boy," she said, in a small, thoughtful voice.

"Really?" Tiffany said, not unkindly.

"I mean—" Candy squinted. "There was this one time? When this older man walked past me in the street and he said he was going to a job interview and he wanted me to check if his breath was okay. Like smell it." She looked at Tiffany. "So I leaned in, and he just sort of... pushed his tongue into my mouth. And it was there for a few minutes? Like, going around." She demonstrated vaguely in the air. "But I don't think that counts as a proper kiss, does it? Since he was just doing the breath thing."

"Completely different thing," Tiffany agreed.

"That's what I thought," Candy said, relieved.

Tiffany looked at her — sitting in the warm sun, barefoot now because she'd slipped her shoes off at some point, her extraordinary chest straining cheerfully against her tiny white top, her enormous blue eyes open and trusting and bright, her whole face arranged in an expression of contented, uncomplicated happiness. She was so young. And so open. And so — Tiffany searched for the word.

Exactly what Dan described.

Tiffany felt a warm surge of professional satisfaction. Dan was going to be so pleased. Finding a scene partner with the same physical challenges, the same warm energy, the same committed openness to new experiences — this was exactly the kind of casting instinct Dan was teaching her to develop.

"Candy," Tiffany said, leaning forward, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course!" Candy said.

"Have you ever thought about acting?"

The blue eyes went wide again. Then wider. Then Candy pressed both hands over her mouth and made a sound that was almost entirely composed of vowels.

"Only like my entire life," she said, through her fingers.

Tiffany beamed. "I think you should come and meet Dan."

"The Dan? Your manager Dan?"

"He specifically asked me to look for a scene partner this afternoon," Tiffany said warmly. "Someone with the right energy, the right look. Someone younger than me — which you are, obviously — and someone who..." she glanced briefly at Candy's chest, "...understands the particular challenges."

Candy looked down at herself. Then at Tiffany. Then she let out a small, wondering laugh. "This is the most insane Tuesday of my entire life."

"He needs us back by two," Tiffany said, standing up and brushing grass off her jeans. She extended her hand.

Candy took it and stood — her colossal breasts bouncing once with the movement, her plaits falling forward, her whole face arranged in the expression of someone who has just been told the dream they'd barely dared dream is available immediately and the bus leaves at two.

"Should I get changed first?" Candy asked.

Tiffany looked at her outfit — the tiny skirt, the heroically strained white top, the white socks, the small bare feet now sliding back into her shoes.

"You look perfect," Tiffany said honestly.

They walked together out of the bushes and into the afternoon, two extraordinary figures side by side — Tiffany's pink crop top and jeans, Candy's little white top and denim skirt, their combined chest measurements representing a genuinely unprecedented event on this particular pavement — chatting easily, already laughing, already warm.

Tiffany felt a deep, glowing happiness. She had found exactly what Dan needed, in under an hour, completely on instinct. She was getting good at this.

She took out her phone and texted Dan: found her!! omg she is PERFECT!! her boobs are literally the same as mine!! back by 2 promise!!

Dan's reply came in eleven seconds: Good girl.

Tiffany showed Candy the message. Candy pressed her hands together in delight.

"He seems so nice," Candy said.

"He's the best," said Tiffany, and meant it completely.