A Better Place

Literotica can be a bizarre place for honesty.

I've been visiting the site for years, mostly reading the stories, which I found vicariously erotic and a sexy diversion from some personal trials I was facing at the time. A few years later, covid lockdown still an annoying feature of life, I discovered the chats. Although wading through the onslaught of greetings at any given sign-on moment, I actually managed to make a few what I consider to be close friends. People I have chatted with for years. Over that time, I have explored a lot of personal turn-ons, sexy kinks, fantasies, and some more-than-expected deeply personal experiences.

I am in my mid-to-late-40s, divorced, mom of one, and in a new relationship--a same-sex relationship with a woman named Alyssa I happen to be deeply in love with. I am healthy, modestly happy, I have a nice home with a pool, and a Jeep Cherokee that runs like a tank. Lots of things in the win column for me at the moment. I like my life, truly, and I feel very lucky to have the support cast around me right now that I have. Life is, at least in the very general sense, very good.

But it hasn't always been a bed of roses, and I experienced more than my own share of "downs," even well before my depression-inducing divorce. If you've read any of my other stories, you may have picked up a bit of my history here and there, but I'll throw some texture and context out just so there's some understanding of where I came from and how I got here.

My mom moved out when I was still in grade school, and I spent a few formative years without anything resembling a strong female role model. I was also an exceptionally early bloomer very much on the "top heavy" side of things which created a plethora of body image issues that I sometimes, even now, contend with. Transitioning to high school was tumultuous and I swung wildly from childish naivety to spiteful rebelliousness at the drop of a hat. Looking back, it was pretty clear I had no idea who I was, which I suppose isn't the worst thing because I doubt I'd have liked myself if I did. I like myself much better now.

My transition to college life wasn't much easier, but I took it as a challenge to change, develop, find myself, and put a lot of my damaged self-esteem behind me. I moved into my first dorm, managed to make friends with the random person the University paired me up with, and I felt the freedom that came with being able to become anyone I wanted to be. A new start. A new world. I was always a pretty good student, so I was never really worried about the educational experience at college. It was the personal growth that came with social acceptance I craved most. And, much to my surprise, my Freshman year went wonderfully.

Sure, I was always a bit of a wallflower, but at least I was going out. Making friends. Doing something other than laying in my bed worried everyone might stare at me or talk about me. I felt like I was finally growing into my womanly physique, and although I was forever miserably ten to fifteen pounds overweight, I no longer felt like a sexual aberration with E-cup breasts without a nickel with which to buy a clue. I was no longer revolted when a guy, particularly an older guy, stared lustily at me the way I was revolted in 8th Grade through my high school graduation. As most young women are supposed to do when they enter collegiate life, I was, dare I say, finding myself. And for the first time I could remember since innocent childhood, I didn't hate myself or how I looked. Maybe it took a few years, but I could actually feel myself growing beyond my self-confinement. And it felt good. It felt healthy.

The following summer, going into my Sophomore year, I was actually giddy to get back to my life on campus. Michelle, my roommate from Freshman year, had become a very good friend, and we decided to invite another mutual friend of ours, Marni, to move into a triple suite in one of the nicer campus dorms. We moved back in the last weekend of August, threw ourselves a little mocktail party (ok, maybe a few actual cocktails), and laughed and giggled as we talked about guys, classes, guys, the social scene, and guys some more. Marni was a little more socially connected that Michelle or me, so we were excited to plan our party calendar those first few weeks. It felt...amazing. It felt like I was living in "College"...like the postcard, dumbed down for television, prototypical consequence-free college experience. And oh my goodness I loved it.

I don't remember which party it was...the third or fourth we attended in those first few weeks, but I do remember it wasn't the first. It was midweek, and we were all doing the annoying "what should we wear?" dance in our suite, trying on outfits, trying on each other's clothes, accessorizing, pretending like we were invited to some Oscars after-party in Beverly Hills instead of a crowded, sweaty kegger at a grimy fraternity house. But that was our world, and we were loving it, giggling and teasing and posing in the mirror together.

At one point, I tried on one of Marni's ivory tennis sweaters. Dramatically v-scooped in the front, it was meant to be worn over a turtleneck or polo shirt or--clothing of any kind. Not realizing the cut when I grabbed it from the pile on the bed and slipped it on, I was immediately drizzled with uproarious "oooohs!' and whistles from Michelle and Marni, and when I looked at myself in the mirror I could see why. The front v-neck was so impossibly low that I was baring flesh inches below the front-clasp of my bra. I looked like a country club stripper. My cheeks reddened hot with embarrassment until Marni cheekily suggested, "Oh my god, you should totally wear that to the party."

At first I thought she was joking, Marni was kind of like that. When she urged me with enthusiasm a second time, I thought she had lost her mind. How in the hell could I wear something so revealing? Me? I looked back at the mirror again--still getting a major Playboy vibe from the figure looking back at me, all I needed was the soft lighting and a fan on my hair.

"You're crazy," I laughed it off. But then Michelle stood up behind me and tugged the sweater down from the back to create a bit more of a demure fit in front. "You could pull this off, Kristi," she smiled with a bit of mischief. "You look hot, and this party is going to be full of hot guys!"

Were they actually serious? Was I not seeing what they were seeing? I put up one last defense." There is no way I can wear this sweater like this, you can see my bra clasp for goodness sake." Marni parried, "so don't wear a bra." Oh, yeah, sure. That will happen. Was she bonkers?" But she continued, "I'm not saying wear nothing under it, but maybe you can wear a scooped bodysuit or a teddy with support or something and not ruin the look. Girl, you would slay with that cleavage."

I started to feel a little tingle, I admit. Maybe I could wear something under it so that I wouldn't be giving a peep show any time I bent or turned my body. Pair it up with a nice pleated tennis skirt and it would surely be a look. And hearing the excitement in Marni's voice about the "hot guy" quotient had set my mind aflame a bit. I thought back to a few years ago when I would wear sweatshirts two sizes too big, or a pile of scarves layered to my chest to avoid unwanted glances from leering guys. I started to wonder...I was 19, feeling the freedom of college and living on my own, and I started to wonder whether those glances, which were surely bound to come with such an ensemble, were still, in fact, unwanted. I closed my eyes for a second and felt the possibilities. The adventurous rush of danger felt sexy. I agreed to wear the sweater to much cheering from Michelle and Marni. I was so excited.

About a year ago, I met a chatter here on Lit named Nate. He was about my age, married--an interesting and passionate man who I felt a real connection with. We talked about all sort of things, including a few erotic fantasies, and it became quite clear early on that Nate was a dyed-in-the-wool breast man. When we recounted stories or experiences to one another, he would always take an enormous amount of pleasure knowing he was chatting with someone who was very busty. I liked how that felt. I could feel his lust. He had read some of my previous stories here on Literotica and admitted that it turned him on a lot to know that I had my nipples pierced after my divorce. It excited him to talk about "tits," and I was very willing to cater to his desires in that way. It excited me as much as it did him.

At one point, Nate asked me if he could see a photo of my piercings. We had already had what I considered a friendship when he asked, so I definitely considered it. I had already shared a photo with him (clothed, normal, just me having a drink in a bar) and he confessed that he had mentally removed my top when he looked at it. Knowing that excited me a lot. If I took the photo of my bare breasts, I could simply crop out my face, and nobody would be the wiser. I agreed to take photos of my pierced nipples for him. And he was quite appreciative when I made good on my delivery. And I liked how it felt knowing he was staring as we chatted.

Nate never said a peep about wondering whether the topless photos were actually of me (of course they were), but since I've had more than a few experiences on the site with people who, let's say, "embellished" their physical attributes, I wondered if it was a lingering thought in his head. We were playfully chatting one night after I sent him another photo of my breasts taken on my phone, and he joked, "do you know what would be amazing?"

I was all ears. He went on, "what if you wrote my name on your tits and took a photo."

Well, that got my attention. I was wondering if he imaged that I was a fake, or if I might actually be as daring as he'd hoped. A few times here on Lit, I actually held up a piece of paper with my partner's name on it with my face clearly visible to prove they were talking to who I claimed to be, but I admit this was the first time someone asked for something this racy. I think he was shocked that my immediate answer was yes. I'd do it. I loved the idea, actually, and I knew what kind of reception it would get from Nate. I looked forward to it.

So here's a little behind-the-scenes notes for anyone planning on something similar in the future. Hey, if nothing else, I am here to educate the masses! First, writing anyone's name on your chest is a pain in the butt. Forget trying to be neat, just be satisfied with legible. Second, I change the names in my stories for privacy, and "Nate" had several more letters in his real name. When I started writing on my body, I scolded myself for not connecting with a guy named "Ed" or "Al." Ugh, the things I do for love. Last, and most important--if you don't want to spend the better part of two days scrubbing your body with every soap and exfoliator in your bathroom, for the love of god do not use a Sharpie. Speaking purely from experience here, I can recommend the Crayola Broad Line Markers. They are rich enough to write on skin without immediate blurring, and they come off without the need for a sandblaster in the shower. And, hey--fun colors!

When I posted the photo for Nate, he was over the moon....and in fact, recommended I write some other things for him on my bare titflesh, which I eventually did, and shared. He loved it. He's rather addicted to my tits, and I love how that feels. And it was he who was the first person I decided to share my experience about the college party and what I decided to wear to it. And my instincts were correct. As I related each detail to him, he became more and more aroused. By my outfit. My sense of dangerous daring. And the whole context of it all. I hadn't planned to tell him everything--just enough to have him panting on his side of the laptop.

As we talked about that night, he asked more and more questions. Did I enjoy the party? Did I get a lot of stares? Did I hook up? I honestly hadn't planned on giving him my lengthy diary version, but we both felt so close that night, I decided to go on, but with the prerequisite that he hold me tight while I told him the rest of the story.

It was every college party you've ever been to. Dark, musty and dank in the wrong corners, full of kegs, crowds, and eyes. I had psyched myself up to attend wearing this incredibly sexy and revealing outfit, but I was reconsidering it from the moment I walked in. I mingled, talked, had a few drinks, and every five seconds adjusted my sweater to prevent myself from falling out of it unwittingly. I was instantly paranoid and very self-conscious. I didn't say it out loud, but I knew this would be an early night.

At some point in the night while I was talking to a rando guy, I looked around and realized I had lost Michelle and Marni, either to the bar or a pair of guys of their own. Either way, at least temporarily, I was on my own. A sudden fear of that hit me, so I began to talk a bit more earnestly to the attractive guy who had been making conversation with me, and was at least being coy and inconspicuous enough about the way he was eyeballing my chest in that top every few seconds. I didn't want to wade through the crowd by myself and have other girls thinking, "pfft, look at that loser slut with her tits out" So I kept the conversation going, and said yes to a few more drinks.

His name was Adam, and he seemed harmless enough. He was a friend-of-a-friend, so I was ok killing time with him until Michelle and Marni came back to collect me, but Jesus they were taking forever. Finally Adam asked if I wanted to see his room (he was in the fraternity that was throwing the party) in a way that felt polite enough for me to agree. Besides, it was a party, right? I was young, free, looking damn good, and wasn't this what college life was supposed to be all about? We snaked through a dark hallway of couples making out, and I was actually happy to step into his room, away from the crowd. It was clean, nice, not what I expected.

I knew I was rolling the dice being alone with Adam. All these lame after-school-specials sounded in my head. But he was cute, handsome, athletic...not the worst guy in the world to be getting a guided tour from. We sat on the floor at the foot of his bed together and he played some bands he thought I might like. I pretended to, but...bleh.

After a few more minutes, predictably, Adam leaned over and started to kiss me. Even though I told myself he might, it still felt surprising. Have you ever been kissed suddenly? You have about a tenth of a second to decide whether you want to return the kiss or make a fairly profound and potentially embarrassing rejection and the uncomfortable conversation that would surely ensue.

I kissed Adam back, and the kiss grew quite deep and intense before I realized it. It felt like I was like riding a roller coaster I never bought a ticket for.

For his part, Nate kept reminding me in the chat that he was holding me tight and listening to every word. Should I even be continuing this story, I wondered, knowing the ambiguity and confusion that followed? Nate asked me to keep going, and so I did. I felt my heart pounding, and even the "cyber" version of being held tight by Nate helped.

Adam kissed me deeper and deeper, and maneuvered his body over mine. I tried to stay calm, and surely never said no or anything like that, but--my god, this was way fast. I barely knew this guy, and here he was now, slipping his hands inside my sweater, peeling my teddy open, and pawing my bare breasts? What do I do, I wondered? What happens now? Part of me felt like I should run out, and another part--the part that was suddenly breathing faster from Adam's thumb rolling my exposed nipple, convinced myself, "this is college. This is what we do. This is what freedom feels like." I talked myself into staying. And kissing. And...more.

Nate told me the story was making him hard. I regained some measure of my current reality, and snapped back to our conversation. I liked knowing Nate was hard...and stroking. It excited me.

I won't get into too much detail here, but...I found myself scouring the depths of my memory and psyche that night. I can't say that I exactly wanted what was happening, but I do remember feeling a bolt of lightning when Adam slipped his hand up my skirt, peeled my panties to the side, and entered me in one clumsy motion. I had had sex before, and my high school boyfriend wasn't exactly small, but Adam penetrating me felt like I imagined what giving birth must feel like. I felt so filled that I couldn't prevent myself from squealing and sighing. My sounds only unintentionally egged Adam on, and I squinted my eyes closed hard. Maybe it was the setting, or the drinks, or something else entirely, but I could almost feel myself leaving my body--as if I was watching the scene rather than living it. The sounds of grunting and whimpering were filling the room, and I had to remind myself that they were mine. I'm embarrassed to say I climaxed harder than I ever climaxed in my life up until the night of that party, but somehow never actually "felt" anything beyond instant regret and shame.

Nate pulled me even closer as I continued, expressing to me that he also ached to be inside me in that moment. And as he described how he was sliding inside me, he asked, "how big was Adam?"

I winced and tingled at once remembering, and answered as honestly as I could. "He was like a soda can, Nate."

That sent Nate into a frenzy, and I didn't have to describe too much more to him to make him cum messily. I felt like I accomplished something. I wanted Nate to cum. I started masturbating myself, hard and intense. I needed to climax also, desperately, all of a sudden. I needed it...so badly. When Nate reminded me he was still holding me tight, I felt the missing sense of safety and purpose I had never felt that night. A sort of residual feeling that I realized I craved from that experience itself. I realized that even with Adam with me...inside me...what I wanted most from that night was to be taken care of. To not be abandoned by my two best friends. And to have someone to go home to. Someone real who cared about me--for me. Someone I meant more to than one drunken night in a fraternity house bedroom. Someone who thought more of me in that moment than where it would be most selfishly satisfying to ejaculate. Someone, not like regrettable Adam, but more like Nate.

And I suddenly wished it was Nate's hand pulling my sweater open roughly at the party. The weight of Nate's body on mine. Nate's hands pinning my wrists above my head expressing this real connection--even love--that we were feeling in that moment. I imagined my entire memory of that night with Nate's face in my mind, and suddenly felt myself reaching a screaming, very wet orgasm, with Nate's cock relentlessly pounding inside me instead of Adam's.

I don't think Adam ever set out to be a faceless, irrelevant, appendix to my college life--one that I'd never talk to again. I don't think he saw himself in the dustbin of my memories when he was thrusting inside me in a way that made me scream my orgasm far louder than I would ever imagine at a party, and way more than he deserved. I almost wish I could remember his last name just to tell him the only thing I value about the memory of that unplanned drunken grope was how I got to share it with someone so much better than him that actually cares about me.