One Lonely Breast - So What!?

Her memories rushed through one very special evening they'd spent together, all three of them in the back seat of John's car at the drive-in. So much seemed to have happened, one way or another, at drive-ins! John had been sitting between them, had been necking very heavily with Phyllis early on. Nobody was the least interested in the movie, and the windows were opaque with condensed lust. Sitting beside them, her thigh touching John's, Sandy had been extraordinarily excited, rather than embarrassed, when Phyllis had suddenly announced "Oh, shit! To hell with this bra!" and taken it off, tossed it into the very back of the car. Shortly, John had an arm around each of them, but was definitely expending the correct percentage of his attention on Phyllis. Just as he should.

Then the two girls had begun what turned into a flirting and kissing competition, targeted at a slightly embarrassed but completely willing John. They'd giggled and grabbed and teased, and worked off one another kissing him. Sandy had found herself monumentally aroused, without fully understanding it. Maybe it had been the "permission" in the situation, the knowledge that she could experiment a little, because there was no chance whatever for things to really get going, to go screaming out of control?

As John was kissing Phyllis deeply, and Sandy was leaning against both of them, her face practically touching theirs and studying them up close, waiting eagerly for her turn again (he was a delicious kisser, and she was learning fast), his hand had slipped utterly naturally down off her shoulder, glided gently over the top of her breast, and come to rest cupping it.

Not an accident, no way.

She had never been touched before by a man. Not that she hadn't imagined it, though! She nearly fainted when she felt the heavy, solid mass of her breast settle into his hand, felt him heft it against its own weight, run his thumb gently over her startled, erect nipple. It felt so perfectly right sitting there that it made her tongue curl. Just at that moment Phyllis had pulled away from John as if to give Sandy her turn at his mouth, and he'd looked back and forth between them. It was far too dark and confined for anyone to see what the others were doing below the dash-level, with hands or other body parts... thank God!! But the light from the screen, through the damp windshield, illuminated their faces. John watched the two girls eyeing one another, saw their expressions, understood more than they did themselves, and whispered "Go ahead! You two should kiss, too. I can tell that you'd like to! Go ahead, and I'll join!"

Sandy remembered the jolt as she finally became aware of her own enormous physical attraction to Phyllis, the only woman to whom she'd ever had such a reaction. Her belly had gone liquid-hot, and suddenly they were deeply into that single, incredibly erotic, minutes-long kiss, and in the middle of it, John's hand slipped beneath her sweatshirt, slowly, as if to give her time to protest (but she hadn't!), expertly unsnapped her bra. Carefully avoiding thinking about what she was doing, she shimmied herself free of the cups in two or three gentle, slow-motion wiggles, letting her naked breast fall eagerly into his waiting palm. The now-missing right breast. How it had gloried in that contact; how she'd needed that touch! Even in the moment, she had been, immediately, full of guilt, but she'd thought "...how could I possibly stop him? It would have given things away, and besides, I was BUSY, dammit!"

She practically giggled at the memory. A mammary-memory moment, she supposed. As his hand moved through the tangle of displaced brassier-straps and cups (he was GOOD at this!), it investigated first one tit, then the other, almost literally making sparks fly.

As she and Phyllis had continued their breathless mutual exploration, Sandy had wondered momentarily what John's other hand might be doing over there on Phyllis' side of the action, and what HE thought about all this - finally losing those thoughts as she dissolved into a genuine, squirming, throbbing orgasm - a completely unexpected phenomenon. Worries that perhaps her own wrigglings might have somehow alerted Phyllis proved unfounded.

She remembered wishing fervently that she could have his hand down between her legs, in her incredible hot wetness, but it didn't happen. Through that long kiss John gently massaged her engorged, roughened nipple, the now-displaced but not forgotten right-hand nipple, in perfect time with her pussy's contractions. Through the haze of her climaxes (YES! SEVERAL!) she was astounded: he KNEW, he knew EXACTLY(!!) what was happening to her, and aided and abetted it perfectly. Everything Phyllis had told her was right. He was dangerous! And in such a delicious way!

That was the only such event, the only time she and Phyllis had ever really kissed. When they finally discussed it years later, they found that they had both been so shaken by the occurrence that each had decided the other would have to be the first to bring it up for exploration: which had never happened. Very much too bad! And Sandy never told Phyllis about John's hands' shenanigans that night. She wondered if Phyllis ever guessed?

Her mind went "Click" as she returned to the present. A deep breath and sudden flustration. "OhMyGawd", over and over. Four hours! Twenty-eight years! Her belly churned. She looked at herself, reflected in the picture window in her "ready for yoga" outfit. Yoga! What a joke, now. Yoga required concentration, unruffled mind, a peaceful and relaxed soul. So that was OUT. She headed for the master bath, stopped and stripped almost violently, threw her clothes on the bed, stood before the big full-length mirror. It was painful. She forced herself: first time in many, many months, perhaps a couple of years.

Maybe, looking, she understood a little why Ken had left?

Oh NO she DIDN'T!! The BASTARD! She wouldn't have left HIM if he'd been burned and scarred like she was, or lost a testicle.

Oh well, submerge, squash, deal with the bitterness. Look straight ahead, full-face, bright light, worst possible conditions. "It's been a long time, so evaluate!"

She said aloud to focus her attention. Face, actually pretty good but plain (so she thought: others disagreed), not too lined. Some crow's feet - mild ones. Still the nice teeth that John had liked so much (for orthodontics, hooray!). Hair a bit unkempt now, but still thick and long, shiny. Belly remarkably flat, she'd give herself that much credit, pregnancy's influence long gone. Good legs, long-muscled, runner's legs: she'd taken up running daily, right after the surgery. It was her necessary meditation, she was proud of nearly thirteen hundred unbroken consecutive days. Sit-ups, too. Probably, she was in much better shape than ever before in her life.

She tried hard to visualize what she'd looked like back then, as a kid, with John: it was impossible, there was no good reference. She'd never really liked studying herself in mirrors, and had seldom allowed teenage pictures. To her surprise, she now wished she had a secret photo of herself back then, nude (nicely posed of course, very artistic!!) so she could compare now to then. At least, from one side. Maybe, on the other hand, it was far, far better NOT to own one? And who would have taken it, anyhow? John, she supposed, if she'd ever thought to ask. She blushed into the mirror: wouldn't THAT have been an erotic rush, posing nude for him? Maybe in the woods, with the Plymouth as a prop?

But there on her right chest, oh God, the big flat expanse of over-tight shiny skin with its tracery of slowly-fading scars and stitch-marks. How many stitches? Hundreds, she supposed, scattered about her surgeon's proud display of her dissection ability standing forlornly above the plain. She thought to herself that she looked like some survivor of a hand-grenade blast. She snorted: she was both physically and mentally blasted!

The black buzzing bee-cloud rose within her again, and she fought it down. Damn men and their insistent, all-consuming, omnipresent fascination with tits, anyhow. (Women too! Just check out any "women's magazine!") And doubly damn her body for failing her, for actively betraying her! She'd been down the "What did I do to deserve this?" route, shook herself free of it once again.

Turn: left profile rather good, devastated right side hidden away. Her remaining tit full, and hanging (she thought) nicely, still rather saucy as a matter of fact. "Saucy" was John's word for describing her tits, she remembered now! Ick! What would he think of this mess she'd become? He'd never, ever know, would he? Unless she told him. At least, she'd developed no serious stretch marks. Vanity: still there! Maybe all was not utterly hopeless? Butt not sagging, not yet. Gravity would win, that she knew. But not without a real fight.

Facing the mirror again, she raised both arms, put them behind her head. Now THAT exercise had taken some working up to! But the scarring had slowly released its grip, and she could do it easily (that meant painlessly) now, even if things were a bit taut. Her pits stared at her, unshaven lo these several years post-surgery, the bramble-patch of the right one thinned and misshapen by the surgery.

More self-study - she wondered idly just exactly why her nipples (both!) were erect? Odd.

Suddenly, she reached a decision. Lather, a new razor blade, and off came the accumulation of hair. She had to admit that she did like the silkiness of the shaven surface - always had. She pondered the implications: shaving had become too much of a nuisance for her to do to please just herself. So? What did this sudden clean-sweep mean? Well, John had always liked it, too. They'd joked about sandpapering his tongue on her stubble. She had even let him shave her pits one day, in their private bower by the lake: now THAT had been erotic!

Done with shaving and rinsing, she stared again, hefted her hair, thought about it. Just WHAT was she doing here? Into the closet. That box had to be somewhere... she found it, the hair lightener and rinse, unopened, wondered how long the chemicals might be good for, she'd bought it just before Ken left and never gotten up the courage (or felt the need!) to use it.

The instructions were simple, she decided to try. An hour later, chemicaled, rinsed, dried, set, bubble-bathed, she studied herself again.

DAMN that missing tit! How it dominated her existence! Maybe she should find a support group? Titless Anonymous? A twelve-step program to accepting breast loss?

Well, at any rate, she did like what today's exercise with the various bottled oozes had done to her hair: a little emotional lift couldn't possibly hurt, might make her much better company.

Staring at her chest again, she gently cradled her breast in one hand, touched her isolated nipple with the other, not trying to recall how that breast had felt but just searching for the sensation of being symmetrical. Hah! And men thought they were bilaterally asymmetrical just because one ball hangs low?

Try THIS on for size, guys. Or are you all scared to look? Ever hear of the prostate?

Suddenly her belly twisted deep inside her as her fingertips drew unexpected, intense feelings from her battered nipple. From nowhere, her pussy throbbed and spewed teenage moisture, her fingers automatically found her clit, and she threw herself on the bed spread-eagled, almost instantly deep in the throes of climax after climax.

Minutes later, exhausted and stunned, she surfaced slowly. Her fingers were sticky. Her belly glowed. She was grinning to herself, could feel incipient cramps in her calves from the strain. What had happened, anyway? Four years, no man. Fully two years, maybe three, no thoughts of sex, not even a tickle of interest, all submerged, gone if not entirely forgotten. And now THIS! Shaken at rediscovering herself, she stood up, wobbled into the shower. Her whole body was tingling. Damn but it felt nice.

How could she have forgotten so completely?

A long time agonizing over what to wear, how thoroughly to hide her changed chest, having to admit to herself overtly just how scared she was of John's likely reaction. Hide, hide, hide! Finally, she'd dipped into her closet and gotten out an old but actually pretty sweatshirt, loose and baggy, right back to olden times (he had said informal!). So - what to wear beneath it? She'd had a nearly cast-iron running bra made to handle her changed shape, called it her over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, but frankly it wasn't very comfortable, and besides, the left-right difference was emphasized, not smothered, by its obvious lifting and compressing.

She went without a bra, put a light jacket over the sweatshirt, and paced the floor, testing. Inside the XL, her left nipple recalled perfectly how it had felt while she was bouncing down the house steps towards the Plymouth. The bump showed, even through the heavy fabric. Too bad it wasn't deep winter, requiring heavy clothes in multiple layers. At least they weren't going swimming! 'No bra' would have to do.

At ten before six, she began to pace. Then came the somehow very familiar crunch of John-steps on the walk, and the bell. Precisely at six, just like three decades ago. She faced the door, took a deep breath, opened it.

The beard was new: she liked it instantly. Same hairline as ever, that was nice, too. Blue eyes, bright, a big grin, no increase in weight. Almost deja-vu, it was John, no doubts. He was in JEANS, thank heavens, he'd taken his own advice.

Her belly flopped hard. She recalled how he could devour her, make love to her, with his eyes alone. Still! Wordlessly, he scanned her frankly up and down, smiling broadly, warming her, making goosebumps! (But, could he tell? Could he, could he could he? His eyes gave no slightest signal.) He stepped towards her, took her hands, asked politely, insistently, "May I?" and leaned to kiss her. Her heart thundered, and she tilted, expertly twisting her body so that only her left side met him. She'd become adept at that maneuver. He didn't seem to notice, kissed her lightly, an undertone of strong interest, the old control everywhere evident.

She thought, with her crotch abruptly way beyond merely damp, about his cock pressed against her pussy and clit for so long, so close, so far away and long ago. Why hadn't they...? At this remove, she really couldn't remember her actual reasoning.

She relaxed a bit as they started down the steps. Hand in hand, too, three decades simply gone? John motioned down the street a hundred yards, said he'd parked there to let himself get a bit of exercise and calm down. (A gentlemanly way of saying "I'm really interested!" perhaps? How nice of him!!) As they started walking, she nearly panicked: all their old habits were returning, she had always walked on his right side, under his wing, his arm around her, usually with his hand cupping her now-gone breast. Before she could recognize the fear, she was tucked in against him, head on his shoulder, face burning, heart thundering.

His arm went around her shoulder, the hand cupped her shoulder only, didn't move. God but this was scary. And comfortable. What, exactly, did she want? For that matter, what, exactly, did HE want?

Into the car, another light kiss, then something more definitive. His aroma was the same: he still, after all these years, used the same deodorant! Her belly twisted violently as she recognized it from all those months of being up against his side, clothed and naked alike. He reached over the seat, brought up a single red rose. He'd remembered! He had sent her the very first flowers she'd ever received, long-stemmed red roses. Her ONLY roses, in fact, ever. Her folks had been impressed.

She blushed when she remembered the dried rose petals that she'd retrieved from her diary, then hidden among the folds of her silk handkerchief from that final night so long ago.

Enroute to dinner they chatted, necessary small talk, kids, life, events, running (him too!), tragedies. Parents all dead. Career successes. No way a missing boob fitted into the conversation. She glowed, relaxed, almost forgetting her worries.

It was getting dark when they got to the restaurant: no nearby parking, so they had to hoof it a few blocks, cutting across a little park. There, in the gathering gloom, John had stopped, held her to him, looked at her up close, and asked if he could really, truly kiss her? Told her he'd been imagining her all these many years. Mind-whirling, scared silly, she nodded, and God almighty, he was doing it exactly the old way, full-frontal, hands cupping her butt solidly, pulling her against him. She tried to engage the kiss itself, that was definitely a good idea, the kiss was, but also tried to hold her body back from his, struggled with it, fought the panic, suddenly relaxed against him and dived into the kiss with "here comes the icewater" desperation, a soul-wrenching leap of faith or just plain loneliness and horniness: didn't matter, really.

The Kiss (Capitalized: with apologies to Rodin, she thought to herself) went on a long time: her belly got to explore his hardon again, exactly like that very first time. Amazing: a time-warp. She turned him on, even now! Her soul shivered, glowed at the realization. Amazing. Unbelievable, actually. But how REAL that lumpiness was between them.

Then, when they broke for air, she retreated, and he stopped her, slid his hands up her sides slowly, from butt to waist, to ribs, and she halted him, urgently, in a breath-stopping panic. He held her like that, big hands just short of her breast(s?), he was much stronger than she remembered, her hands on his wrists, staring into him.

She had no idea what to do, she wanted desperately his touch, feared enormously what she was so sure would be his rejection and upset when he found her so changed.

Then he was talking seriously and low to her, whispering, she almost couldn't follow the words, finally they did get through, what was this, these sounds? "Sandy, do you think I can't tell what's happened? More important, do you think I care? No, that's not right... Of course I CARE, I care enormously, but what I mean is, do you think the change will affect the way I feel about you, how I react to you?"

Did he really say that?

How did he KNOW?

Clearly he did know! OMG!

Then, his hands slid down to her butt again, and she relaxed the tiniest bit. Of course he was going to know, eventually, if there was an eventually after this dinner date, but... Then she lost the thought.

Strongly he hugged her to him, rubbed his erection between them just like old times, overtly, proudly, whispered "Sandy, if either my mind or my body cared about your losing that breast, would I react like this? I suppose I was always overly enthusiastic about your breasts: God knows I loved them, but it was always the person inside the body that was important to me. I knew then, and really do know now, that externalities change. I liked your boobs, but I loved YOU, and I'm sorry I never figured it out and told you. And now you've lost a breast. SO WHAT?"

She actually stopped breathing.

It was all so incredibly simple, really!

"So what?"

The answer, the attitude. Indeed, world, SO WHAT? SO WHAT!! Sandy wanted to scream it to the universe, to Ken, to herself, to her mirrors. "So bloody goddam fucking WHAT already!?"

She was shivering inside, so violently that it showed outside. John felt it, understood, pulled her to him and folded her solidly in his arms, just held her as if protecting her from the universe both within and without, feeling her finally relax and plaster herself against him, not crab-wise but fully. What a change!

He held her, wriggled against her, tilted her head up and looked into her, finally said as his chest explored hers, "An adventure! It's nice to have something new to look forward to."