Tits! and Other Erotic Tales
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by Jean Marie Stine
Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Gay Fiction
Description: Three Sizzling Erotic Tales! Two noveletts and a short story from a master of contemporary erotica. In Tits!, a young woman discovers through a series of sexual encounters that possessing a large pair of breasts can be oppressive--or liberating! In Legacy, a young lesbian's quest for vengence leads to an odyssey of sexual encounters around the world. And in Jenni's So Long at the Fair, a woman from the future can only save the world through one, fateful encounter!
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: September 2007
3 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [62 KB]
Reading time: 38-53 min.
My breasts have always been big. From the moment they sprouted, my first year of junior high, they were big--so that I had to bind them down, or they would have stuck out like a high school senior's. Even then, no matter how tightly I bound them, they were still noticeable enough that the boys would whistle and shout catcalls about them, every day at school. "Look at those hooters!" they would yell out. "What jugs." "Get a load of them boobs." And of course, the one that followed me everywhere even as an adult, "Hey, tits!"
Guys, especially in high school, were always grabbing them, "accidentally" brushing up against them or letting the back of their hand or arm graze them. I slapped and pushed and screamed at many, until I finally became adept at steering my breasts out of the way of their reach like the prow of a ship eluding an iceberg's clutch.
Of course, as soon as I got to high school, every boy wanted to date me. They all stopped me in the hall to talk at sometime or other. But the whole time their eyes would be on, you guessed it, the pair of twin bulges beneath my blouse or sweater or coat, so prominent nothing could hide or disguise them. I always wore my blouses buttoned up to the second from the top so that absolutely no cleavage showed (I'd have buttoned the last one too, but I didn't want to look like a prude out of some old movie)--but that didn't make any difference. My chest was still the first place guys eyes went when they met me.
When I began dating, every boy tried to get that blouse unbuttoned and my brassiere off. It was a constant skirmish between his hands and mine, with my jutting mammary glands as the prize. Even when they were kissing me, hugging me, telling me they loved me, I always knew they were thinking about my breasts; and even when I did meet a boy I liked enough to let wrestle them free, I couldn't help wondering if he would even be going out with me if it weren't for my titties.
After I was married, I gave my husband free reign of them. He, and the men who came afterward, could never seem to get enough. (And I won't say my breasts didn't like the attention, now that they no longer had to be defended for strategic reasons like pregnancy and self-respect.) They would stare at them first, when I had slipped off a bra or peignoir, until I, too, would look down at the huge, pale cones and pointed pink tips, and wonder what it was about them that made them so special in men's eyes.
My lovers would caress them reverently for hours (often sending delicious thrills through me), until I seemed to dwindle away and become two enormous globes of flesh, each with an oh-so-vulnerable nerve-ending at the apex, down which overpowering currents of pleasure or pain could be sent with equal ease.
Men would nuzzle every inch of their vastness, then bury their faces between my breasts as if wallowing in a pleasure so great there could never be enough. As for their mouths, sometimes it was love, and sometimes it was lust, and sometimes it was playful affection; but sometimes it was the determination of a baby weaned too soon from mother's breast (if any time wouldn't be too soon for men), gluttonous with a pig's blind hunger for the teat, lips and tongues attempting to suck out from my nipples by mainforce whatever nourishment it was they felt they had been denied by their mothers.
And of course, they had to rub their penises all over them. If a man wasn't erect when he started, I could feel his hardness pressing into their swell by the time he was through. Some of them, most of them, even had to make love to my tits before it was over. They would lower their swollen sausages into my cleavage, and then press both mounds together around it; I would see the dark, swollen head poking out, and they would begin to pleasure themselves there, and I could feel them sliding in and out along the delicate fabric of my breasts as if between my thighs. Finally, they came (sometimes I watched: the pale gobs shooting out, some so far they hit my face, turning slimy and translucent on my flesh like the tracks of giant snails)--and they groaned in a way I am not sure they ever groaned when they were inside me.
Eventually I was forced to let my breasts be photographed. I needed the money after I had been deserted by a man in Las Vegas. The photographer talked me into it by promising my face wouldn't be in any of the pictures, only my torso from the neck to my waist (I should have known from the way men feel about breasts that there would be magazines devoted exclusively to that part of a woman!). Even so, I was very uncomfortable about exposing them to the camera, and was conscious of every inch of bare skin thrusting forward from me while the flashbulbs were popping.