There
is nothing purer than the love between a little boy and his gramma.
There's a gramma around here who walks with her little boy in the cool of
the day. Her breasts are legendary. They are mountainous. They slope down
at an angle of 45 degrees. She looks grossly obese until you realize
those are her breasts down there at her waist. Then you are full of
fascination of a different kind. They are easily 50, 60 pounds all by
themselves. She could make a fortune in the big jugs magazines, but
that's not the point.
This gramma walks about
with her little boy in the cool shade of her huge
breasts. They wander along the green grasses. She leds him beside the
still waters of the gutters. He's her satellite, orbiting about her in a
meandering, capricious way. She's the mother ship and he's the little
scout craft, zipping to and fro on reconnaissance errands, to get the
mail, pick up that stick, examine this stone, and so forth.