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During the summer that I turned eighteen, I worked my butt off at a burger hop ? you know, one of those places where the girls all wear short-shorts and roller skates ? with one goal in mind: to buy a car. I came from a middle-class family with two older brothers in college, so my parents didn't have enough money to afford a car for me. But, my dad made me a deal: if I came up with half the money for a used car, he would pay the other half. But I had to do it by the end of summer.

Talk about incentive to work! I pulled every shift I could, working days and nights over that scorching summer just so I could have my own transportation when I went away to college. Thankfully, my managers at the burger hop were pretty relaxed in their interpretation of the company's uniform standards (we were popularly referred to as the 'Hooters of car hops'), so I let my tits work as hard as I did.

I'm not the prettiest girl in the world (I think my nose is a little too big and no matter what I did, I always had a couple of pimples here and there on my face), but I do have, as one boy put it, 'the world's most perfect breasts.' Despite being D-cups, they are firm and lusciously teardrop-shaped and don't droop one tiny bit. Throughout high school, I was called 'Bag Lady' because of my fun bags.

Well, I wore my work polo unbuttoned all the way down, showing off my mouth-watering cleavage, and tied my shirt under my mams, showing off my well-toned tummy as well as the little kitten tattoo on my abdomen. I used to tease boys after I got the tat; *quot;hey, wanna see my pussy?*quot; Then I'd show them my kitten. 'Course, a few lucky boys got to see the real thing . . . .

Some of the other girls hated me because I was so shameless about flashing my boobs. But they were just jealous since the most they could ever hope for were little 'B-stings.' When they counted their twenty or thirty bucks in tips at the end of the shift, I'd gloat as I showed them my wad of cash that equaled twice what they made. And I saved just about every single penny.

***

By the time mid-August came around, I had saved up fifteen hundred dollars. I went to my dad, and we agreed that, when I found the car I wanted, all I had to do was call him up, and he would give me the money for the other half. But he cautioned me to be careful, especially with 'shady salesmen.' I assured him I would be fine; after all, my boyfriend Tommy was going with me.

That morning, I was giddy with excitement as I waited on the curb before my house for Tommy to show up. That day, I wore the tiniest little denim shorts that really showed off my camel-toe and long, slender legs, and a tight white tank top that might as well have been invisible for all the good it did covering my breasts. Hey, my tits had earned me good money so far; now they were gonna help me get a car.

Ten o'clock, and no Tommy. Ten-fifteen. Ten-thirty. I was starting to panic. I wanted to hit as many places as I could in one day. I was not about to let Tommy screw that up. God! Why did I have to pick the laziest, most irresponsible moron in school to be my boyfriend?

I headed back into the house to call him (this was back in the day before cell-phones were as common hanging off people's ears as earrings). No answer. I waited another fifteen minutes. Still no answer. I was getting pissed off.

Finally, I figured, fuck it. I jogged down to the corner bus stop, caught the Number 8 just in time, transferred to another bus, and arrived in the middle of a busy avenue lined with over a dozen little used car dealerships on either side. They had names like Shadow Car Sales, Henry's Car World, and Pick-N-Drive. Maybe not the most reputable of places, but I only had a three-thousand dollar budget.

My anger toward Tommy was replaced by hope as I headed into the nearest place. Thanks to my jog and from walking out in the sun, I had a light sheen of sweat and my nips were all but clearly visible. Guys in the lots stared at my tits as I checked out the cars. Now, thanks to my two older brothers, I knew a thing or two about cars. I knew that a cam shaft wasn't some guy named Cam's dick, and that an air filter wasn't a hand-rolled cigarette.

I checked out various cars and indulged in some Q