She Wants Back the Tits They Ruined

I go through experiences with people. I mean, I go through their experiences with them.

But how does this keep happening? Here in Sag Harbor on Long Island Sound, where mega-yachts dock and fashionable women shop and flocks of summer tourists mate, we are a small town--for all our allure to New Yorkers. So, in a sense, the street and restaurants and bars and natural foods stores are swarming with the lonely seeking connection.

I connect. I connect with men because I am svelte, cute, and a sucker for a nice smile and a pleasing tone of voice. I connect with young women (we are getting to the point, now) because they seem to study me, glance and glance away, frown, shyly smile...Why?

That is how I met Darlene in a bar on the wharf at the harbor with the big yachts nodding gently at their own reflections in the still waters. (You can't imagine how often I've been invited to "come aboard" for a drink. Dangerous.)

I was on a bar stool, as always, Darlene was at a table. It happens that that Friday evening in July I was airing my 32B bust in a three-buttons-open silk blouse with no bra. I always can do that; I am firm and they are spaced apart. Darlene stared and stared and stared from her side view of the bar, until I turned, smiled, and waved her over.

"Oh, Jesus!" she sighed at she swung onto a stool. She was a bit shorter than I am, fuller bodied (like everyone), with an adorable love-doll face framed in shortish blond hair. What in hell was she doing alone on a Friday evening in Sag Harbor?

I waited. She tragically said, "I was staring, wasn't I?"

"You were looking, but that is why we all come to bars."

"But at..." She waved at the expanse of pale skin and the modest suggestion of hillocks in my decolletage.

"Oh, were you?"

She would not look at me. She nodded.

"I don't mind. What are you drinking? It's on me."

"Oh, no! Please, please! On me."

"Dutch treat," I said. "Why were you studying my breasts?"

"Could we go somewhere private?"

"You have a place?"

"Studio. Summer rental just over the bridge. Want to come?"

"I guess. Sure."

It was cute. View from one window toward the Sound. Nice and clean. Easily $2,000 a month in the summer. Obscene. She sat on the floor. I sat on the couch. By now, we both held a glass of Pinot Grigio. The more I looked at her, the more I saw the sensitivity in her face.

Vulnerable blue eyes and the lips full and sweet, but set in defiance.

I waited, smiling. This is what I do in Sag Harbor. A new adventure into secret lives. Especially sex lives.

"I was staring at your boobs, back at the bar, and feeling sick. Mine are a disaster."

I took the invitation to study her. Seemed like a pretty full bra under that blouse.

Darlene shook her head morosely. Her fingers came up and unbuttoned her blouse. She shrugged it off. Arms went into the usual contortion for unhooking the bra. She looked on the verge of tears.

Oh, dear God save us.

"See?" she said.

They once had been jumbo boobs. Full, probably pendulant. With big, pale pink nipples to fit. Now... How to put this? Someone had let all the air out of them. Pale skinned flat flaps with big flat pink nipples hanging straight down from the bottoms.

Darlene was crying, now.

"What happened?"

She nodded and nodded, gulping, trying to get composure. I tried not to look at the deflated ollas.

"I had a boyfriend, Benny. I thought he loved my boobs. I know that is why he dated me. Every guy wanted to! Every guy stared--and some girls, too. At first, Benny crushed them everytime and sucked my tits. And then, we would have sex and I gave him everything. I sucked him. I let him ream my ass while he reached around and felt me up like crazy. My nipples would stand out an inch. Everything!"

I nodded. Darlene was gulping, tears on her cute face, shaking her head so her blond mane bounced a little.

"Then..."

A long pause for getting a grip.

I nodded.

"Benny said one night that my boobs were 'ridiculously big.' He loved me and all that, but I needed a boob job to be as gorgeous as I could be. He said he would pay. But I would have to fly to Puerto Rico where a boob job was cheaper."

Oh, dear God. I slipped down onto the floor and put my arm around her, hugged her. She turned her face to me. "Will you touch them? No man will pay any attention when I'm naked."

I took one in my hand, gently. A kind of thick flap of flesh, thicker than a dog's ear but just as limp. I felt a little arousal because this was a woman's intimate part, and to touch it was exciting. I rolled one between my thumb and fingers, massaged it, especially the big flattened pink nipple.

"Awful, right"?

"No, less gorgeous than I know you could be. You got incompetent surgery in Puerto Rico. Did you ever pursue a malpractice suit?"

She shook her head. She pressed her check harder into my shoulder.

"And I'm sure you are just gorgeous..." she said tenatively.

"I'm firm," I said. "Much smaller than you would be naturally."

"You think..."

"Sure." I took off my blouse and bra. Turned to grin at her. "Go ahead."

She could not stop playing with me. I don't know if my tits (too small to call "boobs") ever got such a sensual workout. She finally was sucking one nipple with exquisite finesse. She seemed starving.

Finally, I put my hand on her face and pushed gently, grinning at her. I asked: "So what happened with Benny?"

"Took one look, shook his head, said 'Sorry,' and I never saw him again."

I nodded.

"Of course, I still get tons of dates--when I'm dressed. No problem. But, you know, we will be on the couch, the kissing will start, then feeling my up, dying to get off my blouse and bra..."

This was painful.

"And then, they see them." She gave her flat boobs a contemptuous slap. "And zoom... they turn right to undoing my belt or unbottoning my skirt."

She nodded to herself for a moment, then said: "Sometimes I ask: 'Why don't you play with my breasts for a while?' But they never do. I give up and say, 'Okay, we may as well get into bed.' And once we're there, I try to make up for turning them off. I rip like a mad woman at their underwear, suck dick, pant and groan and heave my hips as they fuck me. Scream as I pretend to come. Next morning in the shower, I'm down on my knees the whole time."

I nodded. My tits were still bare. The story had made my nipples stiffer. Darlene said, in amazement, "You're getting off on this?"

I said, "Darlene, you are such a woman! Sensual, brave. So desirable."

Again, she was entranced. I let her play. Getting very aroused. But where was this going?

The beautiful blue eyes were wide, the full red lips parted. She asked: "Could I suck your cunt, Ellen?"

"Is this to make up for anything, right now, Darlene?"

"No, not this time. First time in a long time that I'm honestly hot."

I sort of rolled back on the floor and she yanked off my skirt and panties. She asked just one thing. She straddled me and leaned foward so her breasts swung forward. She asked: "Ellen, will you slap my stupid tit bags really, really hard?"

"No one needs to be punished, Darlene. Not you, not your boobs. Just the dip shit plastic surgeon in Puerto Rico."

"I want you to slap me, so I can get off."

I swept my hand across the wide, flat, hanging boobs, not hard. They swung back and forth.

"Yes," she hissed. "But hard. Murder me!"

I gave it to her again.

Finally, they were bright red, Darlene was panting, gasping at each blow. I had to stop. I could not do this.

She said nothing. She slid back between my leg, on her tummy with her cute face buried in my black pussy hair, just the blue eyes peeping over to hold my gaze. She was the mistress of the tantalizing tongue. Before long, I gasped and screamed and flipped my loins to the side, beggging her to stop, pushing her head away. My cunt lips felt as though they had been inflated with a bicycIe pump. I gave a mighty heave, flipping onto my side, my legs pressed together, my hands thrust down there to nurse my throbbing clit.

Darlene's was caressing me all over. She was cooing, "Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful Ellen." Her crooked fingers found my thick pussy hair and she groomed it with her fingernails for what seemed hours.

Then, she was on top of me, kissing my lips.

I expected to hear from Darlene every day after this intimacy. I could handle her dependency for a while, although I fend off being consumed by one lover. You know the technical term for having a single lifelong partner: monotony.

She did not call. I called her a few times, though, to be sure she was all right. No answer. I thought of going over to her apartment across the bridge.

Before I took that step, she appeared, as though in a well-planned novel, in the same bar, again on a Friday night. No glance and smile from afar, this time. She was behind my bar stool before I knew she had come in the bar. I felt something firm and soft suddenly pressed against my back. I whirled around. She had a mad grin on her face.

I glanced down and saw immediately what I had felt. She wore a low-cut red dress, showing off a lot of cleavage and bosom. In her brassiere, her breasts were thrust up and pushed together; it was a sensational sight. It could not be hidden. Any man glancing at Darlene was guaranteed a jolt down there.

"Oh!" I cried. I threw my arms around her, hugging her and kissing her. "Oh, Darlene!"

She nodded, grinning. She stood with "them" between us and no more needed to be said.

I raised my eyebrows, questioning. I also noticed notice that about eight guys around the bar were staring at "us."

"I met a guy!" she whispered. "His name is Eliot. He's a hedge fund guy. Really handsome. He went for me, and I thought I might have to kill myself before it came time to show him my bags.

I still had my arms around her. "To hell with boobs," I murmured. "Baby feeders!"

"But he did get my bra off, Ellen. We were sitting on the couch in this gazillion dollar penthouse on Fifth Avenue. The whole city, Central Part, spread out in lights. I was tipsy on $400 a bottle French wine. And I thought: shit, Darlene. Shit, shit, shit. This is the end of the fantasy."

"But no?"

She shook her head. "Eliot is a problem solver. He held my flat flaps in his hands--such perfect hands--held them so gently, looking at them."

I live for stories like this.

"He just said that they could be the breasts of his dreams. He knew what had happened. The best plastic surgeon in New York City could make my boob bags into every guy's dream. He would pay, of course."

"Then you made love?"

"No, Ellen, no! I tried. But he said: 'Let's fix you so you can be the woman you are. So you can make love as you were meant to make love.'"

I admit I frowned. Was this another line of a different kind?

"He went with me to this famous plastic surgeon. He was there when the doctors projected on a screen different shapes and sizes my boobs could be. Lot's of choices. When we got my future chest where he wanted, he said, 'Yes, go ahead with that. Do it.'"

I could not say anything.

"Ellen, they were spectacular on the screen and now they are spectacular. Please! Come see them!"

"Back to your place?"

"No! Right now! In the restroom!"

They sent me into a brief tailspin. They were monumental. They were firm. They swooped down forward like perfect ski jumps, then up, so each big firm boobs ws topped with a nipple jacking straight up. Defiance of gravity.

Right there in the girls' room, I threw an arm around her, the other squeezing, crushing, teasing her magnificent right boob. I couldn't let go!

And then, Darlene said, her face serious looking right into my eyes: "Ellen, I am his sex slave for one year. The was the deal. He can order me to do anything. With anyone. Say anything. Pretend to be anyone. That was his price. Ellen! I did it to buy back my boobs!"

I know there will be future episodes to report.