by Landon Dixon
(02/11/09)

He arrived in town on May 2, 1932. Rugby, North Dakota. Tall and lean, with curly black hair and twinkling brown eyes; a gregarious manner. His name was Russell Jameson, but he called himself: the Rainmaker. And by the end of that summer, so did everybody else in Pierce County.

"Had maybe two inches of rain all last year. And not a drop so far this year," the local farm equipment dealer told him. Not that Russell had to be told. He had eyes; parched countryside, some of the richest farmland in all the forty-eight states lay cracked and barren in all directions.

He let his presence become known, chatting up the local businessmen, tipping his hat to the ladies, and tousling the hair of their tow-headed children. And in doing so, he became aware of a presence -- that of a young, blonde woman who set his pulse, and his scheming mind, to racing.

He was sitting in Ma's Ice Cream Parlor enjoying a Coney Island and a malt when she walked by the plate glass window on the plank sidewalk. Russell just about snorted his malt as he got a good look at the girl. The land might've been flatter than the devil's pancake all around, but this blonde was anything but. Tall and slim, with long, smooth limbs bronzed by the sun. The young woman's breasts bulged the front of her gingham dress like twin hams. Obscenely huge breasts that jostled and jiggled provocatively as she strolled by the window, temporarily blotting out the sun...except in Russell's heart. Her pale blue eyes briefly met his widened-to-accommodate eyes, and then looked away.

Russell flat-out gawked -- like every other man, woman, and child in the restaurant and in the town. The Rainmaker had seen some big tits in his day -- from windblown Oklahoma to the dusty Texas panhandle, and the bone-dry river bottoms of Nebraska -- but he'd never, ever seen a pair like this before. Immensely massive they were, fifty inches across, ten inches in depth, and at least fifteen pounds in heft. The seams of the girl's dress seemed ready to pop at every ripe, double-jounce, its thin cloth somehow not tearing at the nipple points that jutted from the titanic ta-tas.

Russell's eyes bounced right along with those amazing breasts. Until the pretty blonde carried them out of sight (but certainly not out of mind). He turned to the wizened sodbuster sitting at the table next to his, asked, "Who was that young lady just walked by?"

The wrinkled old farmer blinked. "Britta Lindgren," he said, wiping drooled chocolate sauce off his chin. "Biggest set of jugs outside a dairy farm."

The Rainmaker grinned, his mouth watering like he meant the clouds to do.

By the 4th, desperate farmers and townspeople had agreed to pay Russell for his services, half upfront, half on delivery.

He stated that he'd already done preliminary surveying, and determined that the best place for further pluviculture analysis and experimentation was Henk Larsen's farm, on the outskirts of town. He didn't mention that his surveying had consisted of finding out that Britta Lindgren was Henk's nineteen-year-old cousin, and that she'd lived with the Larsens since she was five.

Henk was suspicious, hostile even. But the others convinced him, and Russell drove his silver Studebaker and rainmaking equipment out to Henk's and went to work. He sized up the land and the sky and the wind, the few wispy clouds that ventured out in the searing heat. He strode Henk's arid fields, taking notes, a studious look on his handsome mug.

When there wasn't a crowd of apprehensive men and curious kids watching his every move, he scrutinized the weather charts and almanacs, scouted out a for-hire crop duster...and studied, up close, the fine, chest-blessed form of young, blonde Britta, whose clear blue eyes no longer looked away when they met Russell's.

"You'll really take me away from this godforsaken place -- to New York City?" Britta beseeched Russell in back of Henk's barn. "Honest?"

Russell flashed all twenty-eight of his natural teeth and four falsies (replacing originals that were scattered about various barroom floors across the country). He'd been spoon-feeding the heavy-breasted teenager sugar-sweet tales of adventures in the big cities, and now he gripped her brown, blonde-fuzzed arms and gazed into her sparkling eyes with all the sincerity he could muster.

"You bet, sweetheart. Why, someone with your obvious...charms deserves to be appreciated by more than just a few hicks in the sticks." Russell licked his red lips, eyeing the twin globes almost bursting the front of the girl's white summer dress. "Honey, you're too big for a place like this."

Britta clapped her hands and squealed, her skin tingling under Russell's firm grasp. The hot sun beat down on the pair of them, no shade behind that decrepit barn except directly beneath Britta's balcony. Russell slowly moved forward and touched his lips to hers, his hands sliding lower down her arms, thumbs brushing up against the swollen sides of the girl's sandbags.

Britta impulsively threw her arms around Russell's neck and mashed her mouth against his, her brain dizzy with the promise of freedom, her body buzzing with the prospect of first release. She chewed Russell's lips, hungrily consuming what the Rainmaker was selling.

Her awesome breastworks bounding against his chest knocked Russell breathless. But he recovered, wrapping his arms around as much of Britta as he could, meeting her thrashing pink tongue with his. Her overstuffed chest cushions were hot and huge and soft against his heaving chest, and his cock flowered in his flannels like a corn stalk after a spring shower, hard and insistent against Britta's warm belly.

They were both sweating, breathing heavily, urgently frenching one another, Britta inhaling the man's musk, Russell the busty babe's wet perfume between her legs. He grasped her shoulders and shoved her back, breaking mouth contact -- but not chest contact. He smoothly slid her dress off her shoulders and pulled it down. The gasping girl stood with arms at her sides as the thin cotton caressed the mountainous tops of her breasts, crested the jutting peaks, then plummeted down the breathtaking descent to her waist.

Russell gaped, mesmerized. Her breasts were as tanned as the rest of her, attesting to her irrepressibility, their bronzed nipples jutting thick as pumpkin stems from hand-spanning areolas of a slightly darker hue. Round, silk-skinned, unblemished melons that hung overripe for the picking from the slender, supple vine of Britta's body.

The Rainmaker's throat went dry in the presence of those magnificent mounds. He sucked hot air into his lungs and closed the few inches between his shaking hands and the Rushmoric boobs. Britta yelped with pleasure, and Russell with delight, as he squeezed the velvety, overflowing flesh.

His sweaty hands fell short, however: the girl's ponderous pontoons were too large for one man to fully handle. But he did his best, groping, thumbing and rolling the inch-long nipples, basking in the heated glory of the teenager's twin miracles.

Heaving up the spilling bottoms of her jugs and locking his elbows into his sides, he bent his head down and was just about to take a pull on a hardened nipple when someone said, "I thought you was after water, not milk?"

Britta's mams jumped -- along with the rest of her body -- in Russell's hands. They cranked their heads sideways to look at Grun Torsten, Henk's simple-minded farmhand. The lanky redheaded work-shirker peeked around the corner of the barn, bug-eyed at Britta's Russell-cupped udders.

Britta turned red as Grun's hair. She yanked up her dress and ran away around the opposite side of the barn, leaving Russell, embarrassingly empty-handed, to explain.

On the sixth, the Rainmaker put on a real show for the locals out in a fallow field, igniting bonfires and setting off explosions to coax the clouds. At the end of it all he promised rain, soon.

And that night, he delivered, shortly after he stepped out of the crop duster he'd used to sprinkle the promising clouds with his secret chemicals. It started as a trickle, at midnight. By one, it was pouring, coming down in big, fat, wet drops and soaking the thirsty ground, drumming the rooftops and rattling windowpanes, sweet music.

Russell reunited with Britta behind the barn. After he'd made sure the rest of the farm was bedded down for the night, lulled to pleasant dreams by the wonderful rain.

He found the topsy girl standing out in the storm, head tilted back and arms outstretched, golden hair streaming, cotton dress flush to her lush body. Her funbags heaved under the thin, saturated material, nipples nosing right through.

Russell grabbed her in his arms and rained kisses down on her damp, slender neck, her dripping chin and wet lips, drinking in the pure sweet dewiness of the girl. She shuddered and he pushed her against the weathered boards of the barn and filled his hands to overflowing, urgently kneading her succulent flesh. She whimpered when he tore her soaked dress apart; moaned when he gripped her bare, brimming boobs and swam his tongue over her shining nipples.

He licked one dripping spigot, then the other, swirling his tongue around the engorged nozzles, reveling in their rubbery taste, the pebbly texture of her rain-dappled areolas.

She twisted from side to side against the barn, her water-washed body and breasts surging like the low-hanging sky. Then she reached down under her manhandled ledges and clawed the Rainmaker's pants open and pulled his divining rod -- hot and throbbing -- out of his underwear.

Russell groaned from around a mouth-clogging nipple, thrilling to the girl's soft hand. Then he slammed her mammoth mammaries together and swiped his tongue across both pointed peaks at once, rain dancing off their trembling tops. He licked and sucked and groped for as long as he could, until the girl's insistently tugging hand triggered a climactic storm in his balls.

He kneed her legs apart and plunged deep into her wetness, bursting the dam of her desire. She cried out, heart and soul, breasts heaving in his sweaty hands. He was lost in a sea of lust, frantically fucking, fondling, filling his salivating mouth and slippery mitts with nipple and breast. His soaking cock surged with semen. They gushed together, bathing one another in steaming juice, the warm rain shimmering over them.

Henk Larsen watched from behind the tool shed, dick in one hand, axe in the other, beady eyes burning with lust and rage.

And when his exhausted, exhilarated cousin finally gathered her sodden dress together and ran for the house, he oozed around the shed and behind Russell, using the rain as cover. He brought the axe over his head, then crashed its gleaming blade onto Russell's skull, cleaving it in two.

Henk buried the body in brush ten feet from the bank of the creek that bordered his property.

Townsfolk wondered where the Rainmaker had gotten to. Britta could only swallow what she was now sure were the con-man's empty promises. But the farmers didn't care one way or the other -- they had their rain.

And more rain. All through May and into June. By late June, the fields were flooded, the struggling crops drowned. It rained all summer. By early September the normally docile rivers and creeks were swollen with brown, churning water.

On the night of the seventh, Henk Larsen had been driving across the wooden bridge over the creek and onto his land. The surging water made the bridge tremble. When he was almost to the far bank, something suddenly gave way upstream, earth and brush and trees collapsing into the raging current.

A wall of water slammed into his pickup. Henk watched in horror as the body of Russell Jameson slithered down the broken bank into the angry water, rode the crest, and collided with Henk's pick-up. The terrified farmer stared at the split skull, its jaw chattering in the torrent. He scrambled to the other side of the cab, clawed the door open, and jumped into the cold, debris-choked water.

The story of the Rainmaker's death drew national attention. Britta attended Russell's funeral with a procession of more than a dozen other magnificently endowed women from across the prairie states, who brought with them children bearing more than a passing resemblance to the man himself, a testament to the Rainmaker's 'seeding.' Britta herself was five months along, bountiful and bigger-breasted than ever.

When they laid the Rainmaker to rest in the moist earth, the sun was shining. Not a cloud in the sky.

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