The Breast Way To Get the Girls
Martin — June
I awakened to that background murmur of countless breasts the next morning, with Laura’s distinct and somewhere in the mix. As I showered I had the sense of them bouncing, and wondered if she could be having sex just then. She might also be jogging or playing hopscotch or participating in trampoline lessons, and I’d have to get much closer to her location to get anything like an accurate picture.
Though distance made details elusive, I thought I could say three things about my ex’s tits with some degree of certainty: they were southwest of my location; they were bouncing; they made me feel uneasy for some reason. After shaving and dressing I stood at a window, shut my eyes and tried to tune in, like finely adjusting a radio dial to pick up a station that I knew to be there. Laura’s tits, definitely, but I couldn’t bring them in clearly, no matter how I tried.
This morning was not about capturing the flesh-frequency of my ex-girlfriend anyway; today was all about Dawn, she of the breasts that could eat Laura’s for lunch. I got to the anointed Starbucks fifteen minutes early without even trying, and shared a table with a couple of chatty Latino girls, keeping my eye on the door. In a way it was a relief that no breasts in the café spoke my new language, because I wanted all my focus on Dawn and no one else.
At ten after nine I began to have my doubts. When she was twenty minutes late I was pretty sure I’d been stood-up, which shouldn’t be surprising. The lure had slipped out of the fish’s mouth because I had to be nearby to keep it there, and it was silly to think she’d come here voluntarily to bite down again, more or less swimming up to me to hook herself.
Only she did. I had given up when I felt them approaching, not the whole woman but her big breasts. She was approaching from the south, and either running or walking extremely fast because her tits had some extra wobble inside her bra and both her heart-rate and breathing were elevated. And she had to be close, as in arriving any second.
I was ready for her when she rushed in through the glass door exclaiming, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I ran an early errand and the F train wouldn’t go, I don’t know why!”
She looked really great with all that color in her face and the deep breathing underneath the oversized boobs. “It happens all the time,” I said, totally relaxed. “Really, catch your breath and don’t sweat it. I never doubted you’d arrive.”
“I’m going to order a scone and some coffee. Want anything?”
Your humongous tits on a silver platter, I thought. For this meet-up she was in pretty much the same attire as always, only her T-shirt had faint writing across the front, something I couldn’t remember seeing before. It was essentially cream-color on white, not so easy to make out, and then it clicked into place. One word in a cursive script: REAL.
A message for me? A T-shirt someone had given her as a joke? “I might get another cup later,” I said, making a point of warming her nipples just the littlest bit when I spoke.
And damn straight they were real, every inch after inch after inch of them. She drew some stares while placing her order, which had to be a commonplace occurrence. She wasn’t flat-out beautiful; more like really pretty and uncommonly attractive, due to the big eyes, the overall trimness and the topheavy canons firing under her shirt. Unlike anyone else I could feel exactly how big they were, even “see” the perky nipples and perfectly circular aureoles, larger than silver dollars but smaller than sand-dollars. I sucked at trying to fit a cup-size to all that volume—way bigger than Laura’s wonderful pair, but by how much? They were outside my range of experience and her narrow torso further confused the issue, making them look even bigger than they probably were. It occurred to me that she must welcome that, because anything other than the ubiquitous skin-tight T’s would soften that contrast.
When she came back I never failed to give her nipples a hit of warm energy when I spoke, like her tits were two puppy dogs who just couldn’t wait to be pet through the tone of my voice. Perhaps that was why she wanted me to speak so much about my digital media studies, and what I planned to do now that school was done.
“I have a friend who says he can get me a good job at a media firm downtown, but I don’t know...”
“Why wouldn’t you?
“I’m sort of weighing my options.” Because just three nights ago I was given the ability to commune with tits, and didn’t that sort of thing alter one’s life plans? “I’m still considering it,” I said. “But what about you? You’re leaving your gig at the school supply store to do what?”
“I haven’t decided. Retail was fine for helping with tuition and all that, but I need more money to follow my dreams.”
“Tell me about your dreams,” I said, with an extra dosage that had her nipples wanting to hear, too.
She squirmed in her seat, and held my eyes with hers for an extra couple of seconds. “I like being here with you,” she said. “Something about it feels... right.”
“I like being here with you.” And I gave her breasts a good invisible heat-hug, just to prove it.
“Whoa, I... You know you really should have asked me out earlier.”
I totally disagreed—seemed to me that the timing was just perfect. But it was good to hear that language, that I had asked her out like this was a real date, not just curiousity coffee. “I’m just glad we’re here now,” I said.
“So my dreams. Maybe not original for an art history major, but they’re all Italy.”
“Are we talking Italian Renaissance?”
“Much earlier, Pompeii and Herculaneum. I visited once and want to live and work there so bad, you can’t even imagine. The wall paintings and mosaics that were preserved there tell us so much about the day-to-day life of those people, and there are fresh excavations going on as we speak. I toured the sites, and I’m on a wait-list for an internship with a particular expert. I’ve got to get over there for real, whether it’s graduate studies or just becoming someone’s assistant.”
“So why don’t you...”
She made the rubbing fingers gesture for money before I could finish. “A ton of student loans already. You know that bloodsucking deal, right?”
“The internship is non-paying and the graduate programs I know about are expensive. I might get lucky and land a great scholarship, or even an paying apprenticeship, but so far it hasn’t happened.”
I nodded my understanding, although I didn’t really understand at all. I pictured a dark-haired Italian art historian or archeologist, male, looking for an assistant. I felt like asking: Have you thought of sending these dudes a decent photo of yourself that isn’t cropped at the neck?
Without even trying to tune-in I began to feel her heart quickening under the tits, like she’d just experienced an adrenaline surge about some thought.
“So you can do photography, film and video, websites, all that,” she said, with her head lowered in a way it hadn’t been before. Like somehow we weren’t just talking, but had begun to conspire together.
“And some animation, 3D graphics, that sort of stuff. But you’re thinking about something specific, aren’t you?” And with that I streamed in the biggest dosage of nipple heat yet, because we’d become something like a team in her head, I was sure of it.
“I, um,” she began, leaning back in her chair and hugging her ribcage with her arms, just as she had in the bookstore the day before. I’d learned that this was “I’m starting to get horny” body-language in her case, and her eyes became restless and her nipples poked at the T-shirt. “I do have an idea, but I don’t want to talk about it here,” she went on. “It feels too private to discuss in a coffee shop.”
I hadn’t planned on pushing hard at this meeting. Having sex with Dawn this very morning had not been on the radar at all when I got out of bed, but maybe that was old-school thinking coming from an attitude of what had been possible before, not what might be possible now. The breast-stimulation jolts were doing the trick better than I could have hoped—some potent magic, this stuff—and the strange kind of need I’d felt ever since emerging from the jungle was bubbling hardness inside my cock like it had become a mad scientist’s test-tube.
“It’s beautiful outside; we could go to Central Park and talk there,” I said, confident she wouldn’t want anything like that. Dawn’s breasts felt alive, potent, insistent. If she listened to them, responded to the story they were telling the rest of her body and her mind, there was no way we’d remain out in public.
“There’s something I’d like to show you on my laptop. I should have brought it... Anyway it’s at my apartment, not that far away. Would you...”
Hooked, and ready to invite me into her secret lair, her spawning grounds? “Of course. Let’s go.”
It turned out to be a five block walk, and I kept fueling the energy inside her nipples the entire time. I didn’t want to freak her out with her tits going haywire on the street, but I also wanted her to receive an unambiguous message, that inviting me to her apartment made her feel sexy as hell, and in need of a good hard pussy-pounding.
I thought I was getting better at dividing my attention—I felt the summer sun on my skin and the simultaneous jiggle of her tits inside her bra with every step she took. It was intoxicating, walking normally while having part of my consciousness in there, almost like I had the breasts. I especially liked it whenever she stepped off a curb, and there was that extra bit of bounce. Maybe, if any of this worked out, I was going to have to buy this girl a pogo stick.
I had half an erection the entire time, which became full-blown when Dawn stopped in mid-motion while inserting the key in her apartment building’s outer door. Her lips were on the thin side though really nicely formed, and both the upper and the lower looked to be perceptibly swollen, like what I was doing to her breasts had given her mouth it’s own kind of hard-on.
“You don’t have a girlfriend, do you Martin?”
Just the thing I guy likes to hear when a hot woman is performing a suggestive task like, I don’t know, inserting a key in a lock? In the slot machine of my mind I could see three cherries almost lined up, and my voice cracked when I answered, “No, no girlfriend.”
She pushed the door open, never finishing the sentence. Dawn lived on the third floor and I followed behind her fine behind on the stairs, watching how it moved. She wasn’t my ideal ass-wise—I had a thing for bubble-butts and good strong legs, and while Dawn’s lower body looked like it would be really nice, it also looked like it wouldn’t do her any harm if she ate a couple of hamburgers and drank a milkshake. But really, it looked good and who cared when the bounty up above was so freaking overstated? The stairs were an even better bounce-ride than curbs, and halfway up the second staircase I took a chance by reaching into the waistband of my jeans to rearrange my business, which was as hard as it had been in the jungle.
I took another chance when she was at her door. I pictured it again as being like a drop of ink plopped into a jug of water, a concentrated hit in one spot—okay, two spots, both nipples—that uncurled organically, spreading out as the pigment, or in this case electric sexual excitement, spread throughout the larger body of the containers.
I did it when she touched her key to the deadbolt lock. She hissed, and froze, her shoulders up.
“Electric shock?” I asked.
“Or... something,” she let out softly. She put a hand to my shoulder and paused with it there, perhaps steadying herself, perhaps just wanting the contact. “Come inside.”
I did as she said, and found one of her hands touching mine, giving it a squeeze. When she let go it was either clumsily or with deliberate clumsiness, because she held my hand too long so it graced her thigh as she disengaged. I didn’t waste the opportunity, making the excitement in her breasts flare a little bit more.
“Oh my I... I’d like...”
“Maybe I’m crazy, but I want you to sit right there, and let me bring something up on my computer to show you.”
She indicated a dark grey Ikea loveseat, and I sat, not letting go of her tits in my head for an instant. We were in what was a living room/workspace, with tall shelf units crammed with art books, and a desk whose top was kept about fifty times more ordered than mine. Her laptop, a Macbook Pro, was there and already on, and she did some quick clicking while I felt my ink-drop’s effect continuing to spread all through both breasts, Her nipples were fiercely swollen and she was breathing faster than when she’d been hoofing it to the Starbucks.
She offered the computer to me with instructions. “I’ve put together a simple slideshow, fifteen images. I want you to look at them in order, and take your time. Leave the last one up on the screen until I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Three minutes!” she yelled, and was gone to some other part of her apartment.
But not really gone, or her excited bouncing breasts weren’t. I could still sense them as though she had never left the room, out of sight but definitely not out of mind. She had to be bending over right now, their weight pulled down, and suddenly they were free, no longer harnessed by a bra. I almost wanted to jump for joy, like their freedom were mine. But she was just changing clothes, and...
Whoa! My butt jumped because she pulled at them, at her nipples, pulled hard and was squeezing with fingers and thumb, and rolling them, and pulling more. Her tits rocked or shuddered several times, like odd quick breaths or even a series of pre-orgasmic tiny deaths. I had a flash of that woman at the Lima airport and wondered if I’d gone too far. How much would it suck if Dawn had a few minutes of fun in her bedroom while I sat in here, and she came back looking flushed but infinitely calmer, aglow with no fun for me.
She stopped the nipple-play, transitioned to some walking, the flesh of her right breast stretching as if she’d reached up high for something. I wanted to stay tuned to the action in there, but as I felt her breasts being fitted inside a bra again, a different bra from the way it distributed their weight, I began to worry that she’d return and I wouldn’t have looked at a single picture on her laptop.
There was definitely a ton of energy right in my lap, and so I brought my focus back to the room I was in, and took a look at what she wanted me to see.
With the very first photo I knew the face and the body, but I couldn’t remember the name. Red hair, gorgeous features, an actress mostly famous for having really great boobs. I remembered that I’d seen them the first time in the Wedding Crashers movie, shaking in bed in a brief sex scene.
The first image was an above the waist lingerie shot, with stark side-lighting that created a deep cleavage-shadow. Next came a nude, a classy photo with the same woman on her knees in an antique chair, her body basically in profile but with more of a frontal view on display in a giant mirror. A semi-nude next, in stockings and heels and some sort of draping silk garment, her back to the camera but again that big mirror providing an entirely different angle.
Diora Baird—the name came to me with the fourth image, an outdoor shot with sunlight raking across the lovely streamlined torso and the really impressive breasts.
I clicked through them faster, sort of getting it. A similar body, long in the waist, arms and legs. Also a really trim torso, the ribs under smooth flesh countable in this ninth shot with her arms raised.
Okay, so I really didn’t get it. Dawn was just about as lovely and her breasts were obviously larger—was that the point, or was this woman her hero or something? I didn’t know if looking at a sexy big-tit actress was supposed to get me horny—like that was a problem—or if this was some kind of test that I might either pass or fail. Or maybe she was just kinky in some way that I’d find out about later?
I transitioned my attention back to Dawn’s tits, felt her nipples still hard, her pulse fast. She was bending over again, one of her breasts pressed into something, maybe a knee? But not masturbating, and not on her way back, not yet.
Back to the computer, racing through the images. Finally the last one, an obvious magazine photo with bold type proclaiming “Diora Mania!” over the ankles and feet of the woman. It was an overhead shot of her lying on dark satin sheets in a black fuck-me outfit, her bra black looking especially tasty with intricate pale grey patterning. The same pattern descended in the center-front of a teeny-tiny skirt, and black semi-transparent stockings showed off her trim legs. Her face was all seduction, with about twenty pounds of gorgeous red hair curling all over the place. If there could ever be fuck-me hair, this photographer, on this redhead, had found it.
Dawn was coming back, her breasts bouncing the way they did at a brisk walk. Nipples still hard and firm, but I wanted to go for broke, and have them go close to nuclear when she saw me again. Heels clicked towards the room on hardwood, and I felt the tits bouncing with their insides pressed together, definitely a different kind of bra. I looked up from the laptop, got ready to drop a much greater amount of excitement-ink into the tits about to enter, and there in the doorway was...
Fuuuck. It was as if the woman in the last photo had leaped off the page of the magazine. The shock of it had me doing a double-take, even as I went with my program by superheating her nipples. The effect was sudden—her eyes went wide and she threw her head down, and a hand that had been poised for effect on a hip reached out to find the steadying presence of the doorframe. “Oh God!” she almost spat out.
I might have said the same thing in the same way. This was definitely not the woman on the laptop, but Dawn had fit her curves into the exact same outfit as that last photo, with the elegantly patterned black bra and the excuse for a skirt, complete with stockings and heels. And the hair—not identical, but long, red and seductively curled like she’d already had sex.
And the incredible thing, the cock-shocking thing, was that she was more like the woman than the real woman. Her trim, streamlined body was even more so; her big smooth breasts were much larger than those of the actress; the curvy cleavage-crack was longer and deeper. And when she raised her head and looked at me through the narrow opening between the red curls of what had to be a wig, the eyes had more smolder in them than an untended bonfire in a summer gale.
Her breasts were heaving—I didn’t have to see them do it to know it, and if it were possible for a human being to feel, as the words of a child’s song almost go, how the breastbone’s connected to the cunty-bone, then she was feeling it, and so was I.
She came closer with her steps made unsteady either by the heels or the heat. Sitting as I was, I had to look up at her, and was amazed by the view of her tits from that low vantage point.
“You... like?” she squeezed out.
“I like,” I said, ditching the laptop. “Only...”
She either curled or fell into my lap, legs off the floor, leaning in backwards, treating me to a down-blouse, or down-bra view for the ages. Up close like this, it was hard to believe how big these tits were, even after being inside them and knowing all I could know about their mass and dimensions. I’d gone into digital media for a reason—I’m a visual person, so for me seeing was every bit as exciting as being. I could have just stared, marveling; instead I lowered my chin and breathed on them, and made it so all the exposed flesh tingled like crazy.
“Martin, my God I...”
I ran a hand through her hair, and caught hold, and began to tug. I didn’t know how wigs were fastened and didn’t want to spoil the mood by tearing out any real hair, but it slipped off easily, and once removed I threw the red tangle across the room.
“She’s gorgeous but I don’t want her,” I said, opening my right hand wide and placing it on what it could hold of a big broad breast. I lit up her nipples from the inside before curling my fingers to pinch there, and as she hissed like the steam-fed heating pipes in my apartment I said, “I want the real you, Dawn. Only the real you.”
It might have been corny in another context, without the ability to heat up every cell in those two deeply swelling mounds. But I could, and I’d also gotten a sneak-peek at how she liked to have her nipples handled, much rougher than I would have guessed or dared. I worked my hand under one of the bra-cups and kneaded the acre of soft flesh, and when I came to the nipple I pulled and rolled it like she’d done in her bedroom, pulled it hard and far, twisting.
“Yes! Oh God how did you know? Harder, don’t stop!”
I didn’t stop, finding a way to get my other hand in on the action with the other breast. Somewhere along the way she undid the bra’s clasps and they were free again, and I fucking mauled them because they, and she, wanted them mauled.
And I felt it, or felt them, two perspectives simultaneously, the whopping tits in my hands and, in a sort of dreamlike way, inside Dawn’s breasts as they were being mauled. When I pulled hard on a nipple, stretching the skin, jolts of pleasure rippled through all the surrounding tissue, carried on nerves to other parts of her body, to her pussy and her brain. I thought it might be possible to give this girl an orgasm through tit-play even without juicing her breasts to the max like I had with the airport woman or the Asian sidewalk girl, and just seconds after that thought arrived a crackling buzzing energy spiked that I hadn’t mind-thrust into her. Her glands and nerve-endings swelled and hot blood coursed into her nipples, overfilling them and...
“Oh my G...g...g...gug!” she screamed, squirming and jerking like a wind-up toy with too much tension, finally released. Her breasts became hot in my hands and I could feel it all happening inside them, a feedback loop of an orgasm, and another orgasm, and a pause before there were other smaller ones, aftershocks that hit an already stunned system.
A glance at the gaping-mouthed face beside mine showed eyes rolled back, the whites showing. The scent of pussy was in the room like it had been sprayed from an aerosol can, and it was just too much. Dawn had become dead weight and I wriggled out from under her, probed under the tiny skirt and found soaked panties that I slipped down her legs. My cock looked huge and untamable when I freed it, and Dawn’s outward sight was back. She locked her gaze on my meat and let out a squeak of a “Yes!”, spreading her legs wide.
She was tight, so damn tight, like the interior of her vagina was like her torso, long but narrow. But so amazingly slick and hot, and as I plowed my way in to my balls I could feel the effect in her nipples, an unmistakable connection between the pleasure below and the life of these breasts above. It was all a loop, a happy meal connected system, tits feeding pussy, pussy feeding tits.
I didn’t even bother to send additional energy into her breasts, just fucked the woman, fucked her with slow gliding strokes at first, and changed the pacing when her legs wrapped around my back, her muscles pulling me in, helping, wanting. Then we were just fucking like rabbits, finding a rhythm and doing what Laura used to refer to, in sound-effect form, as the ol’ ree-rer ree-rer ree-rer, mimicking the sound of the springs on my awful bed.
Only when I could feel the change in my balls, the pre-cum tightening that marked the point of no return did I hit her tits with twin lightning bolts inside, just because I wanted to hear her voice go crazy, which it did, as a kind of soundtrack to my release.
She came again, right there with me—I could hear it and feel it around my embedded dick. I released deep inside and all was wet warmth and shocking spasms, and a sense of rightness almost as infinite as stacked goddesses stacked upon other stacked goddesses.
Sometime after her screams died down we fell or slid to the floor and lay there together, my cock inside her and her legs tight around me. She held me and squeezed hard with frequent tightening of her leg muscles, like memories or aftershocks from the orgasms sometimes vibrated in her muscles and tendons. I’m no expert on reading into the emotions of women, but I interpreted every contraction like it was a silent message, telling me she never wanted to let me go.
I learned so much about Martin that first day, and shared more than I ever could have dreamed I’d share with someone I knew so little.
The sex, to begin with—I’d known we might fool around, of course. The guy got my jets jetting and it seemed like every minute we spent together was another flashing light in a Times Square message board that said, “You Need To Get Laid! By Him!” My nipples were going crazy with lust and I’d already conceded that I would let him play with my breasts asap, about a hundred times further than I’d ever gone on a first date. But all the way, and all the way with such abandon, not feeling like anything would be out of bounds because I just needed it so badly, him inside me and even more than that his hands and mouth and eventually his cock touching my aching breasts—that I’d never planned on, although maybe I should have expected it.
He asked why I’d dressed up as Diora, and of course there was no easy one-sentence answer for that. I imagine that some guys like to hear about past lovers or the details of sexual history, while others would prefer to keep all of that information vague and shapeless. I felt like I needed to tell Martin for him to understand why I’d put on the wig and make-up, doing my version of cosplay.
So I told him about my breasts, spoke openly and without feeling the least bit self-conscious, which was almost as much of a miracle as the way I kept getting horny even after we’d done it, and done it again. After more sex I told him about my growth spurt in high school, and finding out that people called me DDDawn or Triple-D Dawn behind my back, or worse, Tits On a Stick. And how shy I became, unsure how to be with them, wearing all black or only loose-fitting clothes because I didn’t want to be the huge breasts first and Dawn Owens second, an object of ridicule or fascination or misdirected geeky lust.
I told Martin about pleading with my parents for a reduction, and making the deal that I’d be sure I stopped growing first, by waiting until my junior year of college at the earliest. And how, when I came to New York at eighteen, I made a decision and stuck with it, that I wouldn’t advertise them but I wouldn’t hide them either, and gradually got into the habit of wearing the tight tops that said, “Sure, there they are, I can’t hide them”, but showed no cleavage, did nothing to give out other messages that I was into them, or wanted others to obsess over them. And as the years went on and I got to see how so many people in the city were weird or distinctive in some way or another, I got used to them, and just went about my studies and my business as though my chest weren’t a billboard for people to stare at as they drove by.
I think I might have been coming to terms with my figure in a new way even before I met Martin, though it was slow going, one baby-step at a time. People look at someone with a figure like mine and probably think I’d have sex all the time, but technically I was a virgin until freshman year of college, fooling around with two guys in high school but never going all the way. My first year in college I started to feel like I was going a little crazy between my legs, as in horny for the first time in a way that was a problem, and though I kept myself together with some timely masturbation I decided I needed to just get over my insecurities and finally have some real sex.
It wasn’t a hard to make happen; I just needed to find the right guy, and chose Paul Battle, who shared a love of classical Roman art. It was okay, I lost my virginity at least, but we only dated for about a month. Maybe that meant sex ten times, I wasn’t counting. In bed it was okay but it made me uncomfortable the way Paul postured with me on campus, with his arm around my waist and a goofy grin like he’d won the New York Big Tit Girlfriend Award or something.
We weren’t anything epic in bed together, either, and I knew that without even being practiced. He fixated on my breasts, which came with the territory, and I would have been fine with that if he’d actually let his passion for them get the better of him. I knew from playing with myself in private that it was really good to have my nipples handled roughly, and I encouraged him to be more aggressive with his mouth or hands, to stop with the creepy gentle feeling-up and give me a good hard grope, or better yet to just manhandle them and make me beg for him to stop. He said he understood but he never really did, always too delicate or considerate when he should have been mauling me instead. It was more satisfying when I did it myself, and so who needed a boyfriend? If it had been love that might have been different, but it wasn’t, not even close.
My other two lovers came about a year before Martin, and that’s where Diora entered the picture. I ran across her in some romantic comedy film and later found her online, complete with tasteful nudes for Playboy. She reminded me of me, a little better in the face but thin like me, with boobs. Mine were probably prettier and definitely bigger, but it meant a lot to me that a woman built like she was could become a “real” actress. She was always cast as the beautiful girl with the big boobs, sure, but she was taken seriously.
I dressed as Diora for Halloween, got the exact same bra and skirt as one of her most seductive magazine photos and a dead-on red wig from a costume shop, and with the right make-up I might have been fooled myself, for a few seconds at least. I went to a school art party and I think I really broke some hearts, like people who’d wondered what my chest looked like were finally being given a pretty good show, and I had art historians and painters and werewolves and Barack Obamas and even a couple of my professors, yuck, hitting on me all night. Somewhere along the way it occurred to me that I could have raffled myself off and made a ton of money, just for the chance to see me naked, with or without actual sex ensuing. I dismissed that as a keg-inspired thought, a drunken fantasy, but the idea never really fully dissipated because it came back in another form later, and was important to how things went with Martin.
Anyway, that Halloween night sex did ensue, with Spiderman. I’m not sure why I chose him—if it was the character that got me hot then I probably needed analysis. He, or the guy being him, kept wanting to take off his mask, claiming he could barely breathe with the thing on. This may sound crazy—at my school art history majors were always considered the uptight or rational people in the arts, so this may pop that illusion, because I made him keep the mask on at all times. I wanted the fantasy of doing it with Spiderman, not some drunken sculptor or whatever that I’d see on campus and recognize, and somehow it made me feel less inhibited, the both of us not even being ourselves, like these oversized boobs weren’t what I had to deal with every day, they were just part of my costume. Mystery man had a pretty muscular body for his costume, and I used a corkscrew to puncture the crotch area—trouble if he’d rented the outfit—and pulled his thing out. It was a better thing than Paul’s and I did what you do, straddling him from atop and pulling my panties aside and fucking him. He wanted my boobs, his hands were always reaching for my boobs, and if he’d had webbing I think he would have stuck himself to them and pulled them down into his mask and sucked on them right through it. I leaned forward so I was spilling out of my bra and told him to just maul the crap out of them like they were Mary Jane Whatzit’s tits, another redhead, but he was like Paul and even with the mask hiding his expression I could tell he was more into worshiping my rack than pleasing them just right. So I did him more for my pussy’s sake than for his, and when it was done I was done, and I left him there on the floor calling after me. Might sound freaky but it’s my sexual history and I’m telling it the way it is.
I got into dressing up after that, becoming my version of different women known for their big breasts. I bought more wigs, a few outfits, and living alone I could spend an entire night working on a school paper while being Ann Margret, or Christina Hendricks after a heavy diet, or even Supergirl. I thought of these dress-up sexy times as my “maskedturbation” sessions, and even filmed a couple of them with my computer, another preview of what was to come.
One semester when school work got too crushing and I just needed to cut loose, I went to a nightclub dressed as nobody in particular, just a blonde bombshell version of me, all decked out in a skintight red dress and matching heels. I bathed in all the attention my bulging tits brought before choosing a guy to take me home for a fuck, and it was much better sex that time, like I was learning. I think it was the costume that let me relax—I could be sexy, like just flaunt what I had and not worry about it, because the guy, Brian, didn’t even know my real name. I told him my name was Helen, thinking Helen of Troy, and I became a fantasy one-night stand for him, and I knew that even if we bumped paths out on the street someday, he might see my figure and suspect that I was the one, but he’d never know for sure.
I might have been heading down a very bizarre path, studious art historian and retail good-girl by day and alter-ego sex tramp by night. I began to have all sorts of fantasies about becoming different women on different nights of the week, and going to different bars or clubs and picking up guys to fuck and discard, remaining free and ungraspable like a sudden summer storm with urges. I filmed myself more and the thoughts about actually showing my body on a website became stronger, too—I felt like I was fragmenting into more than one Dawn, or worse, in danger of losing the real Dawn to the fantasy versions. There was an element of excitement that I couldn’t let go of, but I was chewing my nails, and I knew somehow that it wasn’t going to end up well, or I wasn’t going to end up well.
And then, in the timeline of sex for one Ms. Dawn Owens, we come to the Age of Martin, which was like a renaissance of sex, a flowering of the body, a golden age of getting off.
Incredibly, it was all I could do not to maul my own tits right in front of him at the coffee shop. I’d never felt that way on an uncostumed date before, and never brought a guy to my apartment before, and when we got there I was so turned on that I just had to do him as Diora. If he thought I was a bizarro then too bad for me, but at least I’d be able to cut loose and get a decent fuck, which I almost felt like I’d sell my soul for just then. Plus I had ulterior motives where his media skills might come in handy, and showing him was a lot better than talking about it.
He probably said just the right thing, that he wanted me as me, and I was so hot and bothered that I barely even knew my own name anyway when we first did it there on the loveseat. It was like... heaven? Like concentrated sin that felt like heaven? All I knew was that my body spoke a language I’d never had a clue it was fluent in. I was pretty close to being a sexual neophyte, so almost anything would have been a new experience for me, but the way my breasts... I’m not even sure how to put it in words. They came alive, they ran the show, they took what had always bothered me, their sized, and harnessed that into energy the way the sun harnesses hydrogen. I mean it was unbelievable, like all the repression or worries about my boobs since they’d grown so big did a complete turnaround and made me pay the price for all the years of missed sex.
Instead of skin and bones and boobs, I felt like a channel of energy running free, free to be down and dirty with so much heat coursing between my legs that I thought I might spontaneously combust if I couldn’t spend the entire day in bed just doing it like an animal. I mean it, just raw screaming fucking for fuck’s sake. And when I came and was blinded by the force of it. All I could think when I could think was that me and these tits and my fucking soul needed more, more orgasms, more cum, more meat, more Martin.
He did let me put the wig back on later, and I gave him the first of many tit-jobs in costume. I’d only done that once before, with Paul, and had to wonder why I hadn’t been giving tit-jobs to someone every day for years, because the way they felt with Martin’s big cock between them, sliding effortlessly, completely surrounded by all that me, all that hot vibrating pillowy me...
I never would have thought it possible to lose count of orgasms, but that first day we made love so many times that I really did lose track. They might not have been completely separate events anyway, in the way that arms-control negotiators have to factor in the multiple warheads on missiles, not just the missiles themselves. Because they were multiple, and became a multiplicity multiplied, and I’d guess that almost half the time it happened without the need for vaginal or clitoral stimulation at all, like Martin—no problem mauling my tits there—knew how to get me going so I was cumming before I knew what was happening.
I didn’t know whose stamina to be more amazed by—I’d never had sex anything like it, and kept needing more, and he was no different. We’d be lying there on my bed, having made it there eventually, in the glow and conversing, and one of his hands would brush a nipple and I’d discover that the impossible was happening, that my nipples were all hard and stiff and desperately needing again, and I’d reach down and find him straight as a rod, pulsing with life.
We were still going at it after nine, when it got dark. At some point we ordered pizza, and I sat at my kitchen table eating in nothing but underwear bottoms, for the first time in my life feeling like it was great to just let my boobs be my boobs, conspicuously too big, disproportionate to my frame, just right.
It was over pizza and red wine that I asked about his history. He’d had more lovers, no surprise there, but he was far from being a Don Juan, which fit with my early impressions of him from the bookstore. What came through, possibly without his being aware of it, was that he had some kind of thing with his last girlfriend, whose name was Laura. When I had him describe her appearance I thought I might know her by sight, and could understand how a girl like that might be hard to move on from. He only said “really pretty face, dark hair, good figure”, but if it was the one that came into my mind, that was like saying that Fort Knox “has some gold”. I didn’t press, but fished here and there, trying to draw out whether he was still in love with her or hated her. I think I couldn’t figure it out because he wasn’t sure himself—there were definitely some conflicting emotions running under the surface, though. She’d been the one to break off their relationship, and it sounded like it had really hurt. And I wondered, silently at first, if I had placed myself in rebound territory. The girl I thought he was talking about had a pretty big chest—what if I was not much more than the even bigger set of boobs, the conquest to ease the sting of him missing Laura?
I began to brood about that, the first sour note in our brief time together, and I decided I wanted to know, and asked him, blunt as can be.
He didn’t give me a quick, “it’s not like that”. He thought about it, which I kind of liked and kind of feared. I began to regret having asked, because this had been the most magical day in my entire life by far, and my question felt like bird poop splatting out of the sky, a reminder of the realities and complications of everyday life.
“I feel like I have some unfinished business with Laura,” Martin finally spoke. “But it isn’t like I want to get back together with her or anything, truly. As for rebounding, you being a means of getting over her...”
I was holding my breath, afraid of the words to come.
“I was with Laura for months and we never had a day that’s within light-years of today, here with you. I feel like... I don’t even know how to describe this in a way that will make any sense to you. I feel like an entirely new man, with entirely new possibilities. We fit together—I can’t be the only one who feels that when it’s this strong. Which is my way of saying that you and me have nothing to do with Laura at all, and everything to do with what’s right here between us.”
I could breathe again. He might have been a great liar, but every instinct said no, that he’d taken that time to find a way to say what was real, rather than just telling me what I wanted to hear. I was glad, too, that he hadn’t blundered into the “L” word prematurely, because I wouldn’t have known how to respond. I might come to love him—it wasn’t at all inconceivable, though he’d have to want Italy the way I did, like it was as necessary as air or food. But for right thenI just loved that I could sit there with my tits hanging out, feeling completely open and almost cleaned out, like hours of incredible sex had flushed years of self-consciousness and stupid worries out of my mind.
It was that openness that allowed me to get to the other thing I wanted to speak about, my crazy idea, my wild plan, my fantasy money-making scheme. Martin listened and didn’t laugh; in fact he asked really good questions, and I didn’t even have to ask for his help, because he offered it. I was so happy I ran and planted myself in his lap, boobs to face, and just squeezed him half to death until I thought I might smother him.
And then they were on fire again, our glasses of wine and half-consumed slices abandoned, and we picked up where we’d left off in bed, and didn’t even think of falling asleep until the sun was up.