By the time she turned nineteen, she knew she wasn't like the other girls. It happened when a group of men seeing her on the street called her "sweater-meat." She should have been angry or blushed with shame. Instead, she felt a thrill. They'd noticed. Her tits were phenomenal. Men WANTED her. They wanted her TITS. Not just boys her age, and at 19, they really were "boys." But these were men, older, knowing about a woman's needs and how to handle a woman.
She could tell by their expressions they wanted to put their hands under her blouse, tug at her bra, "feel her up." She knew what the expression meant. It was about what she had come to learn was an important part of Rough Sex. She WANTED it. NO, she CRAVED the idea of men sinking their fingers into her lush breasts and making them hurt.
She understood then, it was why she had been given such oversize breasts. The only reason was for Men to get pleasure.
The eager girl heard other comments on the street. "Look at the knockers on that bitch!! She must really be a slut to show them off like that."
And, "Did you ever see a pair of tits that big on such a skinny little whore? Bet she gives a real tit fuck."
She could hear them talking among themselves, not caring who heard or if SHE heard them. They were confident men, in their 40's and 50's and 60's. The older ones looked at her with hard faces, rubbing bulges in their crotches. She could see their hunger for her and it made her wet. Her pussy was leaking excitement fluids.
The men were talking as if she didn't exist, ten feet away at the bus stop. "We need to find where she lives. Pay her a visit. Let the slut know we've got what she needs. We'll turn her out to even mild sadistic men. They'll PAY to get at those tits and bust 'em up for her."
"bitch with tits that sway like those do is out "looking for it." She knows what her tit-meat is doing to us. Bet it turns her on to see we got hard ons. She looks like a hand-job whore. She's going to spend a lot of time jacking off all of us."
"we get her in some proper hooker tops and skirts and she'll be turning tricks in the back alleys down by the factories and strip clubs. We can watch 'em play with her, listen to her cry when they get too damn rough. Jeezus, would you look at the size of those tits. Watch 'em wiggle and sway."
She knew they meant "improper clothes." And she had a closet full of them. She had crop tops, button up blouses with half the buttons ripped off, flirt skirts." and, OH, if they could only see her skimpy tease-bra collection. Oh...the bras with open fronts and the special ones with alligator clips around the cup-rims, ready to be fastened to tender tits and nipples.
Two hours later the four men rang her doorbell. She was waiting. She KNEW they were coming. Against any good judgement, she said "Hi" and stood back from the opened door. The girl didn't know exactly what to do, what to expect. She relied on instinct and she just sank to her knees on the hard stone floor. She was breathless, light-headed. She had "dressed" for them.
Her sleeveless black vest laced up the front. Her tits bulged against the leather laces. Under the vest she had put on a 28 AA cup quarter-cup bra. The straps had been tightened so severely, it lifted her 32 EE cup tits to a nearly impossible position under equally impossible pressure. It hoisted her tits high on her chest, nearly under her chin. No one could mistake them for exactly what they were. Advertising!
They projected outward 10 or 12 inches. Her tits were jammed together they made a cleavage line of well over a foot. She had accentuated her cleavage with a dark blue makeup, brushed on. The vest had been laced tightly enough it put the big tits on display, eye catching from even a block away.
The thin 10 inch long flirty skirt hung from her prominent hip bones below the girl's 16 inch waist and perfect belly button. The black thigh high hose had runs and were ripped at the knees, as though she'd been groveling in front of men. She wore 5 inch stiletto heels.
And nothing else, except liberally painted on eyeliner and mascara, gold sparkles dusted one her fluttering eyelids and more on the fringes of her long cleavage. A dark magenta lipstick, over applied, made her look like some kind of blowjob queen.
She almost whispered to the four men, " I've been waiting for you. I knew you'd be here. I almost begged you to, didn't I?"
She stood in the living room, tottering on the heels while they sat on couches and leather chairs.
" Ask me," she said.
They wanted to know if she'd been into the S&M scene and if she knew what kind of whore she looked like. They wanted to know the sensitivity of her tits and nipples, for they were all what she thought of as "breast men."
If she wasn't already into the S&M scene, she was GOING to be very soon. The men were going to move into and stay at her house for a weekend and probably longer.
"Touch me and hurt me a little. Please? I...I've..waited so long for it. I knew you were what I needed when I heard you talking and calling me 'sweater-meat.' Cause it's what I am."
"Time to grope up this piece of fuck-meat," somebody said.
They swarmed on her. Feeling, pinching, trying to hoist the rack of chest-meat higher and tugging at it. Fingers and fingernails probed between the vest laces and traced the incredible line of her cleavage, scratching her tits.
The girl sobbed, half in pain, half sexual excitement. She had crossed a line and she knew it. She was joining the scene. (there will be additions made as her time with the rough men continues.)