As a teenager I would fantasise over my Aunt Dorothy’s mountainous tits – huge melons that jiggled under her jumper as she walked.
She was a mature and imposing lady in her late forties, and had a shapely figure, cinched at the waist with wide patent leather belts, which she often wore with flared floral frocks, and taffeta petticoats. And then there were the v-necked sweaters, accentuating her huge, cone-shaped breasts, through which I could occasionally see the circle-stitching of her brassieres.
The swish of her petticoats as she walked, and the click