One Lonely Breast - so What!?

Right in the middle of Sandy's preparations for her long, Saturday afternoon yoga-at-home session, the phone rang. Of course! Just some annoying advertiser, she was sure. Normally, she would have ignored it, but for some reason she picked it up this time.

It was a male voice: "I'd like to speak to Sandy B. if she's there." It didn't really sound familiar, but there was this funny edge in her reaction, as though her body knew something she didn't.

"Speaking. But to whom?"

The pause nearly contained a chuckle. WHERE did this growing, disturbing bite of familiarity come from? Sandy waited a moment, and the voice picked up again: "So. You don't recognize me instantly? Perhaps if I called you "Squeak" it would help!?"

The word triggered simultaneous explosions deep in her mind and down in her belly: "Squeak!" Good GOD! The last twenty-eight years evaporated, instantly. Only one person had ever given her a secret nickname, and nobody except he and she knew it.

John!

Back then, she a barely-legal late-teen vs his 22 years, her first boyfriend. No, not just first boyfriend but the very first boy (man!) she'd ever dated at all. In milliseconds, she whipped through intense memories.

She'd known him well long before they got together as an item. Liked him a lot, but he was totally taken. Then, suddenly, he had become available, on the rebound from a nasty and unexpected jilting by her own best lifelong friend. Sandy had gone after him immediately, with a vengeance and intensity that totally surprised her.

He responded perfectly, almost too strongly: she had hooked into something she wasn't really prepared for. After all, she was the hyper-conservative, super-shy girl whose eternally flat chest had finally blossomed overnight into real, bountiful, big-nippled breasts. Boobs had happened way too fast, scaring and embarrassing her to death. When she discovered how much attention they attracted, she'd disappeared into the wonderful, covering bagginess of XL sweatshirts and stayed there permanently, strapped herself down with one-size-too-small brassieres to stop the bouncing.

Parental overprotection didn't help. No makeup. No dating. Magnificent daydreams, though, partly fueled by her friend's very private tales of adventures with John.

John had changed that, and fast. God almighty, but she had been ready: transparently so! Their first date was in his old station-wagon, at the drive-in movies of all places, very polite through the movie, her heart gradually returning to more or less normal, then off to the boonies in the Plymouth. He'd actually asked if they should stop, was it okay for them to park in the moonlight? She'd taken her life in her hands and said yes. An arm-in-arm moonlit walk, and suddenly they were kissing, his knowing, experienced hands cupping her bottom, pressing him scarily-hard against her. Want it or not she was investigating his major hardon trapped between them. What a mind-whirl!

Back at the car, suddenly eager to be touched, she'd allowed (Encouraged? Demanded perhaps?) him to explore her breasts beneath the XL, and suddenly brassiere and sweatshirt were both gone into the back seat and she was naked to the waist. Mammal-in-heat-sweat drizzled down her sides. Her beautifully sculpted breasts were wide open and available to his view and touch. They petted: in the near-blue moonglow, the whole event simultaneously insanely scary and wonderfully sensuous, him loving her "embarrassments", especially her erect nipples, telling her so. Just being TOLD was almost as erotic as being touched!

He laid her down on the seat and nursed on her nipples, left, right, back and forth, until she hyperventilated and soared and finally climaxed from the excitement and fear and strangeness and intensity and wonderfulness of it all. TIT-CLIMAXED! No girlfriend had ever told her THEY could do that just from their man's touching their tits!

God, how he'd loved her tits!

And she'd learned from him. FAST! She shivered at the thought of how, from date number two, she would always shimmy out of her bra enroute down the stairs towards his car, putting on a show for him from a distance, watching his appreciative eyes and smile, loving how the whisking of her nipples on the fabric raised those twin BBs into solid marbles eager for his mouth, how she would pull the now-hated bra from under her clothing and toss it into the back seat, or even hang it on the mirror as they drove off, a flaunted symbol of something not well defined but very important.

Then came the summertime months of being together nearly every night, her folks worrying but not intruding, John such an incredible gentleman, carefully respectful around her folks, so much control of himself that both Sandy and her Mom quickly came to trust him completely - although on very different topics.

She hadn't wanted to "surrender" her virginity, and he understood her hesitancy, but together they got as close as humanly possible, she on her back or astride him, absolutely wide open and vulnerable, his erection slithering up and down across her slippery slit, embedding itself just head deep, never further, into her aching pussy-entrance, the head massaging her drooling clit and inner lips until she would come over and over.

She recalled, painfully, her absolute inability to touch him, touch his cock, for ever so long, utterly scared to death, loving watching him masturbate himself (and, sometimes, doing her at the same time!), watching his cum spurt into the air, splatter and fill the car with its odd aroma. Wiping it up with paper towels from the roll they replenished regularly at Kroger.

Eventually she bought the rolls for him - for THEM, really- her personal contribution.

His mouth, right from the start, sucking on her clit, incredible, and the unbelievable double sensations of tongue on clit counterpointing his middle finger deep inside her butt. Jeez, how that had scared her the first time: then afterwards, she'd felt so wickedly perverted.

It had been difficult to rationalize her feelings of "nice girls don't!" naughtiness, but she had managed. Oh yes, indeed, to keep those feelings coming she had rationalized perfectly!

His ability to honor their unspoken "no-penetration" agreement was astounding. And every time they were together, he had with him contraception, rubbers, foam, just in case, always available but never presented with any pressure to "Use them NOW!"

Her disappointment, both then and later, that she'd never been able to bring herself to touch him with her lips, always being urged to try, never being censured for not quite managing to do so, lips passing just above the vein of his cock, unable to touch it, her long hair dangling and draping across cock and balls and crotch as she moved. God, what a tease she'd been, without meaning to! And he'd taken it so well. How? WHY? She could never parse out his motivation. Showing off, perhaps? Maybe he'd really cared about her feelings?

Long time ago, hazy but wonderful memories.

Then that last night together, him off next day to Marine Corps bootcamp, she headed for Grinnell College a few days later. They'd never seen one another again, actually. Very much way too bad: lots of things had intervened. But that final night! There in the back of the wagon, both of them naked on the blanket, she'd been wetter and more desperate than every before, horribly, insanely conflicted as she lay spread wide beneath him. He held his cock in hand, the head half-wrapped in her pussy lips, resting against her, just beyond the entry both of them wanted so badly. She kept her eyes closed tight, knowing they were separating after this night, worried, sad, lonely, incredibly hot.

She'd lain there after her first string of powerful orgasms with her eyes still closed, enjoying, felt him move above her, sensations very different, felt her insides swell and something move gently deep inside her like when her secret big red wax candle bottomed out. The motion stopped, John cradled her in his arms, kissed her.

She knew he was fully inside her, virgin no more, knew that if she opened her eyes to look at him she'd finally have to acknowledge what they were doing. Frightened, unwilling to accept the idea, she waited, studied herself, realized just how comfortable and wonderful and satisfied it felt to be filled this way, how complete and good it was, finally made her decision, opened her eyes.

John's eyes were closed! Her own snapped shut again. No contact, no contract.

There was the slowest, gentlest withdrawal and intense sense of loss and he was kissing her again deep and hard, and teasing her clit from his normal position, driving her into yet another frenzy of climaxes. Afterwards, they stared at one another. It hadn't happened. Not really. He wouldn't have entered without permission, she wouldn't have, couldn't have, and therefore hadn't, invited him in. Nope. Never. Therefore a 'did-not-happen'.

Then, finally, lying there, John had thundered hotly into her ear, urgently asking, suggesting, and she responded by not saying anything, passive (active passivity?) acquiescence, just letting him roll her over and arrange her up on her knees, him kneeling behind her, hands cupping her tits, cock pressing gently, insistently, her face against the folded, rough blanket, heart hammering, breathing nearly stopped, shaking over what she had agreed to do.

Both of her hands in her crotch, fingers blocking her pussy and guiding him, each with a hand on his hot, hard cock still greasy with her secretions from the event that didn't happen, only moments ago.

The sudden swelling and first yielding of her bottom as he pressed against her most secret spot, his tenderness and care and slow patient pressure, her hands leaving their protective position to instinctively grip and spread her buttocks to give him maximum access with total acquiescence in the invitation... Eventually, when he paused for entirely too long, she had gathered herself beneath him, making him think for a second that she was about to pull away, but no... she generated her own powerful push backwards that made him finally slide deep, oh GOD so deep inside her butt, filling her totally and wonderfully.

The astounding sensuality and satisfaction of finally, actually having him deep inside her! Then his slow-starting but increasingly urgent strong stroking, that cock of his so unbelievably-hard and long and hot and bowel-stretching, soul-filling inside her, making her feel on the edge of bursting like a water-balloon. He held her there until she nearly screamed with pleasure and pent-up need for release.

Clearly, oh so clearly, she recalled him pounding harder and faster, somehow getting even deeper, then his whole-body spasms and the hot semen spraying deep inside her bottom, she had pinched her clit hard to bring on her own crisis, sagged into his breast-cupping hands and shoved her bottom up to get him as far inside her as humanly possible, seeking greedily for that last possible millimeter of joining.

What a way to finish. Both the night and their relationship, as it turned out.

Later that night, after the required tearful goodbyes and promises to re-convene at Christmas time, she'd gone all butt-glowing and hard-titted into the house, past her parents' silent bedroom, wondering if tomorrow morning they'd be able to tell what she'd been doing?

Sitting on her bed in the dark she'd suddenly farted out the air John had filled her with during their pumping, and discovered her ass crack was wet and slippery, realized it must be John's sperm. How wonderful! She found one of the good silk handkerchiefs Grandma had given her, used it to soak up the slippery, then drove the silk up inside herself, deep inside her ass, to be sure she got it all. (How small her finger seemed then: had that cock of his, that huge hard thing, really fitted up inside her butt? She marveled at the thought.) Exquisitely slowly she had pulled the damp cloth out, folded it, hidden it away. She still had it somewhere. (No, not just somewhere, she knew EXACTLY where it was, after all these years!) She recalled her sudden panic, there were sperm loose near her vagina! Not inside it (not yet!) but jeez those little suckers could swim! The frantic, thorough washing and rinsing. Was there always a negative for every positive?

Back in the real-time present, John's voice was continuing. She'd only lost a millisecond to those memories. Amazing. The memory-lane junket didn't even interfere with the rhythm of the conversation!

Then, it was John rushing through an explanation of how he'd found her, that they were actually living in the same city now, that he'd gotten a copy of the new "all-years" high school directory. She wondered at the time why she'd paid $25 to be listed!

John's initial simple question, how had she been all these years?

Simple question, complex answer.

How, indeed. Another rush. Not so nice, either. Off to Grinnell, found herself pregnant in the second semester, by Ken, a good-looking graduate student much too old for her. Scared and innocent, they'd gotten married, him reluctant, she nearly panicked.

He'd made love to her tits, too, reminded her of John. What was it, she wondered, this thing of men and tits? She'd never figured it out, and apparently neither did they.

Pregnancy turned into twins. Full time work for her, fading interest and passion in the marriage, and utterly plain vanilla sexually right from the start. Mister unimaginative. Low-quality, low quantity vanilla. Vanillin, really.

She winced at the remembrance of Ken's genuinely horrified reaction when, in an effort to revive his interest, she'd suggested he try her bottom. And when she had finally worked up courage to try to touch him with her mouth, what instant, almost violent rejection! Apparently in his world, which she'd made the terrible mistake of not exploring before marriage, those things were absolutely not done, except by perverts, homos, and whores.

In a nutshell, Ken's reactions were "Where the HELL had she gotten such ideas, anyway? One of her old college friends?" She'd shut up, stopped trying. The kids finally off to college themselves.

Staleness.

Then the black fury and anger and fear she'd tried so hard to suppress, or at least to handle, welled up and flowed over her, threatening to kill her ability to talk. Four years ago, a Thursday, the sense of panic when she'd found what she immediately recognized as a real lump in her breast, the rush to her obstetrician, the first exam and doctor's worried look, an instant biopsy, her worst fears realized, a virulent breast cancer, the second opinion on Friday, the third to confirm it.

So SUDDEN!

Options, options being closed down one after another, data, confusion, continued panic, and such a hurry!

Were there any uglier sounds in the English language than this concatenation of terrors, "rad-ee-kal mas-tek-tow-mee"? She doubted it.

Sunday came, operation time, and sedated on the gurney she had this insane conversation with herself about how one says goodbye to a breast. So long, old buddy? Sorry to see you go? Write if you get work? Been nice knowing ya!? What would the hospital do with a spare breast, anyway? Should she say goodbye to her armpit, too?

She had sacrificed the whole right-side assembly to that tiny bit of glittering steel. Steel didn't care, she supposed. What, she wondered, had the blade become since the operation, recycled into what? A bomber? A bumper? Fish-hook, maybe? Or a spacecraft. That would be better.

At least, the surgeon had been a woman: that, she supposed, had helped. Lady doctor, proud of her dissection ability ('dissection': ugly-word runner up?). She'd managed to salvage the nerves and the nipple, re-implanted them on Sandy's chest in about the right spot, said she would eventually get some sensation back - perhaps even a good deal of it.

How nice.

She'd gone home in serious, major pain several days later.

Ken couldn't, wouldn't look at her. It went on forever, no looking, no touching, him utterly helpless in the face of her injury. No more beautiful tits to love, Ken? She'd practically screamed at him "I'm still me, dammit! And I still have ONE tit if they're so goddamned important to you!"

She healed, physically, much more slowly than she'd expected. Perhaps the chemotherapy didn't help the healing process, as opposed to merely killing bad-guy cells? At any rate, the docs agreed they'd really gotten it all, thanked her for her cooperation in letting them be so thorough. A perfect patient.

Too much scar growth, three more increasingly minor operations to loosen up the leather developing across her right front quarter. Yeah, the nipple could feel things sometimes.

"Hooray", she supposed, was the right reaction.

Not from Ken, though.

Then, one day, he was gone. Just like that. No warning. Like morning mist, poof!

A good divorce settlement, maybe even a relief to be alone rather than with someone who couldn't face her disfigurement. And since then, nothing in the way of men in her life. Nothing personal guys, but fuck off! Back to pre-Ken scared, ("scarred"?), for very different reasons, just the perfect inverse! First, too much unwanted chest, now, too little much-desired chest.

God but she was achingly lonely, suddenly! And she hadn't even THOUGHT about sex for over three years. Took it out in running, mostly.

John's voice penetrated again. Still instantaneous, these flashbacks. Was it possible she could get free for dinner tonight? If she was in a position, that is, to accept such an invite? He didn't push, but rather left her multiple escape-routes, should she wish. She could just be busy already, turn him down without rejecting the idea or him. Smooth. Very polite, still the gentleman. Wonder what he looks like now? She pondered briefly, almost refused, finally slapped herself mentally and managed to accept. John's enthusiasm and happiness poured through the wire, warming her. Dinner at six, his treat, his favorite restaurant, she'd like it if she hadn't changed too much, informal. Yes, he could find her house; he'd pick her up there if that was OK, which it was.

And, she volunteered, NO, there wasn't any problem with a husband or kids or significant other, not any more, not just now, John would NOT be embarrassing her... or anyone else. They could talk about all that later, over dinner, if they decided to. Big "IF". It ended quickly: John had always been a no-nonsense caller.

Ye GODS! Holy SHIT! She had only four hours till he would arrive. She sat down on the cold floor beside the phone, and let her memories continue to flood. They unreeled as if inside some other, alien mind... she wondered if they were accurate, if all these things had really happened to her. To them. With HIM! Accuracy after decades was no real concern, though. It was fun, recalling the important things. Weird how things had started, between them. John had been dating Sandy's closest, lifelong friend, Phyllis, for a couple of years. Since the two girls had turned fifteen, as a matter of fact, four years ago. Sandy was Phyllis' only confidant about how that relationship was going: she knew everything (and John never knew that she knew) - she knew in exquisite detail just exactly what the couple did together, how they did it, how it felt. Sandy was both scared and happy for Phyllis, and envious too, living on vicarious thrills and her fine imagination.

All through that time, Phyllis had tried to get Sandy to date, someone, anyone, so the two of them could put together a foursome with "their guys".

But no, Sandy had been too shy, not ready yet. That hadn't stopped the trio from occasionally going out together: the two of them had been wonderful about including her. They'd never resolved what to call such a date. Not single, not double, perhaps "Date-and-a-Half?" But who would be the "half", then? Certainly not a "ménage a trois": they wouldn't have understood the term anyway!