When I entered this world my mom said, "The Mahabharata Hindu Epic toured the world, European Commission was born, an extra second was added to the calendar year." I interpreted this to mean I oozed originality and specialness. Somehow, by creative imagination, the calendar year's extra second transformed into two seconds and both lodged themselves within my flat tits when I turned eight.
When the Information Freeway (Internet Superhighway) was born the following year, a strange and wonderful awakening took hold. This self-awareness dislodged those two seconds, and like the Internet, started processing 45 million bits of binary digital energy a second. I knew. Oh boy did I know. Somehow and someway at least 45 millions pleasing tit nerve endings begged and barraged themselves to blast and flash energy all throughout my lean and fit body.
I stayed a good girl you should know. When I entered high school, I oozed my specialness all over those boys. I played volleyball. Even my beach volleyball size B tits looked huge and original to those boys. I wasn't taller than the boys. No way, at five foot six inches, I was just right. My almost round conical boobies filled that space a boy must gaze in order not to stare like he's some a desperate nerd. He can't maintain eye contact 24/7 with me. And I made those boys, Sergey, Luca, Leonardo, feel like men, too. Either I successfully seduced them or they found my shoulder's back straight posture an RSVP invitation to easy street. Let's face it, you mauled my tits and I was your new girl. I'd do a guy's homework, if he tweaked my constant swollen buds of joy. I unashamedly climaxed from nipple stimulation. And I heard only one of ten girls can tit orgasms!
In fact, I used more lube--on my tits than on any boy's cock while in high school. My reputation--the future hottest tits on any college campus in 2002. Heck, I was hotter than showoff Irene Lovinna, who sucked her own tits.
Summer arrived. I took our college tour orientation. I love summer games. Beach volleyball being my favorite spectator sport. Beach volleyball brought me love--Brad Storm. How to explain it? College is a blur. I did graduate. I don't know what happened the entire first year 2002 because before I knew it Bard Storm was my guy, my tits stood up, quivering, all natural fruit under my red cotton bra top. My clit crushed against my wet pussy lips in my cut off jean shorts. Brad knew how to set the ball for his partner. And we girls like team players. Brad chased volleyballs down across hot sand. Anyone capable of chasing one large babble, would certainly be more enthused chasing two chest-high baubles. Anyone capable of avoiding carrying the ball over the net obviously knew how to carry quivering titties to orgasms. I begin going to the volleyball intramural tournaments. Sometimes I dress like a slut, but it's all good because the boys know I'm not one. I'm just a ordinary girl whose tits got as many nerve endings as her coochie down below her topping of triangle patch.
Brad found my tits the moment the volleyball ricocheted off his strong meaty hands and pounded my chest. I blushed. I came. My olive tan skin hid that fact. But Brad stared at my tiny jewelry door knockers pressing against the soft fabric, he wanted to open those doors. I bit my lower lip. I whiffed his wood scent. I coolly handed him back the volleyball, lower than I should, down near his crotch. Dark hair Brad Storm, his heavy eye brows knit together into a soft directional arrow. His dark blue eyes understood and asked me out right away.
High school was for tits as college was for cunnilingus, for us girls anyway. Blow jobs always topped the popularity list for boys. I love licking and sucking organic candy cane. And what hot girl wouldn't want a stud licking up her cunny pie slit?
I know this sounds scandalous, but pardon me while I pull one hand down from tit and the other out from my sopping crotch. Whew! What an orgasm? Seems even when a man's sensitive and supportive, possessing a summery personality, he can still lack awareness. Brad used to be a great tit man--nine years ago. All those fraternity pie eating contest corrupted him though. On instinct, Brad swept me off my feet, carry me to bed. His fierce heavy eyebrow stare creating puddles between my legs. He wanted me again--to eat my cunt. That stare always tightened my tits. That stare made my pussy grope for his eight-inch cock.
I got up to stretch, leaving the white rumpled sheet stained. The obvious wet spot seeping and spreading on his side of our double bed. I like the smell of his side. What can I say? I grabbed his white baseball cap and put it on. I wore white socks. I sauntered to our full length mirror. I know what you're thinking! Is getting your taffy licked a bad thing? Like, double yes, when your overdrive knobs are neglected? That's when! What girl wants her titties erogenous zones ignored? "Look at these twenty-six-year-barely-legal 34B tits, Brad. I'm here practicing nearly naked before our full length mirror, in our house. I'm wearing my messy sunshine ponytail you adore." I cupped my bauble treasures." Play with my high swinging love fruits this week or our relationship is over--finished!"
Noooo. I did not tell Brad yet. See he's recovering. He's realized he's an alcoholic. I am here supporting him. Rian, the 35DD gorgeous redhead AA counselor said, "When one of you is sick the entire family is sick." I laugh. When I told Mom this, she said, "That's probably more truthful about sex." I go out of politeness. It's Saturday afternoon. The meeting room is clean, a white tile floor reflect as good as a mirror. Positive quote pictures in ritzy frames focus the AA members thoughts. Each person sitting in the circle stands up. They confess like my Beau Brad did, "My name is Brad Storm and I am an alcoholic." Nice polite praise and acceptance followed. A verbal group hug. I gave Brad a love stare, before turning to my left, signaling for the next AA member to begin. Tonight, though, I sprang from my chair and confessed, "I'm Silky Montgomery, and I am a breast orgasms alcoholic!" Silence didn't fill the room fast enough before more silence followed. Everyone stared. Everyone turned to someone else seeking the right response. Brad stared. Rian blinked, a first for her. Rian, the gorgeous redhead, who has heard everything twice. I stammered. I turned to Brad. "I--want my tits--mangled, pressed down and rubbed hard like in our college days or this love relationship is done."
I didn't wait for any comments. I reached down and grabbed Brad's hand and led him from the AA meeting. We got into my car and drove home.
In our living room, Brad said, "Silky, what was that about?" Brad pulled off his green white stripe polo shirt. His charcoal pants showing the bulge in his pants as he stretched.
I lowered my black A line skirt, showing my tiny triangle of pussy patch over my clit. But Brad didn't lower his eyes. He walked into the bedroom. I followed, unbuttoning my crisp white blouse. "Brad, I need you!" I cried.
He sat on the clean fixed bed removing his pants. I sat down beside him unbuttoning my blouse. "Look at my tits," I said, slowly revealing my 34Bs in a white stretch bra. "My nipples are like pebbles." My flat belly hardly moving, nervous with sexual anticipation. "You used to always love my breast what happened?"
His boyish face reappeared. I hadn't seen that face in nine years, the playful Brad was back. He put his charcoal pants aside on top his green-striped polo shirt. "First, I became a darn good salesperson. I followed that by becoming an cunnilingus connoisseur for you. You said you always wanted that--"
"Brad--"
His Tanzanite blue eyes didn't sparkle like normal when his boyish face appeared. "I then realized I was an alcoholic."
I started to speak.
"Aught. Aught. Let me finish." He picked up my hand and fondled my ring finger. "Next, I thought about marriage. But I needed to cure myself first."
My neutral listening face turned to chagrin. Brad has no clue what the problem wa in our relationship. "Brad you'll be pleased to know." I placed my slender hand on top of his massive fingers. "Marriage is not the problem. We can do that any time. Your alcoholism isn't the problem. You neglecting my horny sensitive tits--that's our problem."
I got up. I paced around in my white, practically transparent, stretch cotton bra. My breasts and nipples pointing pushing the soft fabric into a miniature cone bra from the 50s. "I went through a phase, in college, wanted a cunnilingus connoisseur. Every girl does, Brad. But I always wanted someone to hug, massage and suck on my tits. I want cuddle love, all girls like cuddle love Girls never forget cuddle love."
