A Set Like That

“I wanna set like that,” Brendan said, pointing at the image of Scarlett Johansson that Rebecca had pulled up on her computer screen.

She smiled to herself. The man may have the mental capabilities of a severely retarded cat, but he knew a cracking set of tits when he saw one. Or two, she supposed.

And you couldn’t deny the life-affirming awesomeness of Johansson’s lady pillows. You could just put your head in between them and drift off, she thought. Or you’d just sit her on your lap and spend hours gently cupping them, weighing them in each hand, gently stroking the nipple until it hardened and you feel her urgent panting in your ear, aching for your touch in other … God, no, no. Gotta stop that. Gotta stop thinking about her holiday south of the Border with Caroline. Its Chris now. Chris.

She was brought back to shuddering reality by the realisation that Brendan had his hand in his pocket and was making a repetitive movement while staring intently at Johansson’s enormous yet undeniably firm funbags.

“Um, Brendan, what are you doing? You’re not … touching yourself are you?”

Brendan looked at her with genuine hurt in his eyes.

“Nah! I’m just scratching my nuts. Geez,” he said.

“Look sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m just a bit nervous at the moment.”

“Is that why you were having a wank yourself the other day? I always toss one off when I’m nervous. Before the game, last thing I do before we run on it is knock out a dicksneeze in the changing room dunnies,” said Brendan.

A beat passed.

“Ok,” said Rebecca, swiftly changing the subject. “So you’re decided on these ones then?”

“Yep,” said Brendan, “They’re fucken awesome. If I had a pair like that, I’d just it and home feeling myself up all day.”

You’re not the only one, Rebecca thought.

“So where do we go from here?” the big forward asked.

“I’ll pop up to the Titology Department and have a word with my pal Narelle. We might be able to get you in for surgery in a few weeks.”

“That’s brilliant. Look, thanks loads for your help with this,” said Brendan, before heading out the door with a spring his step, dreaming about the enormous milky mammaries that would sitting on his chest sooner rather than later.

Sadly for Brendan, a certain sour-faced talentless bitch pretending to be a journalist was watching him go. As he pulled away from the carpark, she followed him into traffic.

Sam was on the story.