She Doesn't Pt. 07

I felt myself stiffen. After a moment’s hesitation, I asked, “Do I have to?”

He nodded. But I still hesitated. He had his arm around me, but he didn’t move.

I realized that he was completely naked, while I had on my blouse, bra, panties, and a sweater. I still didn’t want to. I was afraid.

“Do I have to?” I asked again.

“Do it for me,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Do it for me!”

After a long hesitation, I finally sat up, and my hands moved to the bottom of my sweater. But I just couldn’t do it.

“Please help me,” I begged.

He sat up beside me and gently lifted my sweater up over my head, and up my arms, then the sweater joined his pants on the floor.

I dropped my head, and crossed my arms across my chest, utterly dejected.

He came from behind me and kissed my neck, as his hands cupped my breasts.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why won’t you let me take off your blouse?”

“I don’t want to!”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t!”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to see me.”

“Why?”

“What difference does it make?” She pressed my hands to her breasts, then she turned around me and threw her arms around my neck. “We can make love as much as we like, I’ll do anything you want. Is it such a big thing for you to take off my top?”

“Why?”

She lay down on her back, pulling me over her, and whispered, “Just love me. Please, make love to me!”

I responded, “We can make love. But first, please tell me why.” My hands passed over her mounds, seeking her nipples. She looked away and wouldn’t answer. My hands went up to her neck, then down her breastbone and found the top button of her blouse. Her hand came up and covered mine, not resisting, but begging me to stop. I saw tears in her eyes.

“Please don’t make me,” she begged.

“Why?”

“I’m afraid!”

“Afraid of what?”

“I’m afraid you won’t like them.”

“They’re yours! I love YOU! Why wouldn’t I like your breasts.”

“They’re big and floppy!”

“Maybe I like big and floppy.”

“But not these. Nobody can like my breasts!”

THAT was the answer to my question!

I was astonished by this statement. Then suddenly I saw the problem.

“Who told you that?” I whispered.

She hesitated. “Skip Wheaton. . .”

“Who is Skip Wheaton?”

And the story came out.

Cathy hadn’t been particularly popular in high school. She had been a little short and a bit chunky, but her breasts were bigger than most of the other girls in her school. Skip had been an athlete, and had the adulation of his peers, although Cathy always considered him a bit crude and unrefined.

During Cathy’s junior year, he had asked her out, and she had felt enormously flattered that someone so “popular” would take an interest in her.

The date ended up on lover’s lane where, at Skip’s urging, they both moved to the back seat of his car.

If he had been patient and persuasive, Cathy admitted she might have eventually done whatever he wanted. But he was filled with teenage male hormones and grabbed Kathy, smashing her lips with his kisses and mauling her breasts, squeezing them like exercise balls. When she resisted, he had become more insistent, eventually ripping open her shirt and forcing his hand inside of her bra.

Cathy had scratched him and fought her way out of the car in terror. Skip had yelled epitaphs at her, screaming that he really didn’t care, that nobody would ever want her big, floppy tits, and he drove off, leaving her crying, in a torn shirt.

His actions had hurt her, but his words had hurt her even more. And they still hurt her as she relived them with tears streaming down her face. “Why did he treat me like that?” she burst out. “Why did he hurt me? And why did he just leave me there?” She cried into my shoulder and I held her tightly.

I let her cry it out, and eventually her body stopped it’s wracking. Skip had spread stories about her at school, and boys had teased her mercilessly. They gave her the name “Headlights”. She dated even less after that event, and had never allowed any man to become remotely intimate with her again. She chose a small college halfway across the country, and studied costume design so she could learn how to dress in ways that would flatter her, but conceal her large breasts, and eventually became a rather successful costume designer. To her distress, her breasts, which had been fairly firm as a teenager, lost their tone in maturity and did, in fact, be come “big, floppy tits”.

She was drained after telling her story,

“I need a tissue,” she said, sitting up and pointing to the nightstand on my side of the bed. I handed her the box, and she blew loudly, in a very unfeminine way. Looking around, and realizing the wastebasket was on the wrong side of the bed, she threw the tissue on the floor, and hung her head, still sniffling.

I sat up beside her and put my arms around her waist.

“May I ask a few questions?” I asked.

She nodded her head.

“Did he love you?”

She shook her head.

“Do you love HIM?”

“No!!!!” she spat out, venom dripping from her voice.

“Do you love me?”

She turned and threw her arms around me and whispered into my neck, “Oooh, Yes!”

“Do I love YOU?”

She exhaled a deep breath and responded “I hope so!”

“Cathy, look me in the eye,” I instructed. She did. “Cathy, I love you. Now, do you believe that?” She nodded. I repeated my question. “Do I love you?”

She studied my eyes. “I think so.”

“Cathy, I LOVE YOU. Now, one more time. Do I love you?”

A smile slowly appeared on her tear streaked face. “Yes, I believe . . . no, I KNOW that you do!” She hugged me.

“Do you TRUST me?” I whispered into her ear.

She nodded.

I held her for a long time. Eventually she said, “I must look a mess. Let me wash my face!” and she went into the bathroom.

I found my pants piled on the floor and took a condom out of the pocket and found a place under the pillow where I could get it when I needed it. Then, I turned down the sheets, and sat on the bed, pulling the sheet over my legs, and waited for her to return.

She returned to the room, still wearing her blouse and panties, and smiled slightly when she saw the turned down bed. She sat beside me, and said, “I’m not sure I feel like it, but can we make love now?”

“Soon,” I answered. “Cathy, do you trust me?”

“Absolutely!”

“Do you trust me enough to let me unbutton your blouse?”

The same terror filled her eyes. She hung her head and a shutter passed through her entire body. She whispered, “Do you really want to?”

I nodded. “I REALLY want to!”

Tears started to form in her eyes. Then she crawled under the sheet beside me lying on her back with her hands outside the sheet by her side. And whispered, “I will do whatever you ask. But . . . .”

I leaned on my elbow beside her and put a finger over her lips, stopping her sentence. She kissed my finger.

I told her I loved her, and I slowly unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. She closed her eyes tightly as the button slipped through its hole.

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