Little Miss Big Tits

Once upon a time, so some time in the past and somewhere you've never been and involving people you've never known or ever are likely to know in your tiny world, there lived a young beautiful woman. Naturally, she was beautiful, well, not totally naturally since she was known to use a bit of make up to accent her face, and wore clothes that pulled in here and pushed out there to show off her good points and detract the eye from her less adorable areas. Her hair flowed in long golden tresses that were mostly from her own genetics but also from being out in the sun, enough for a healthy glow but without premature aging to her skin, and slight hints of highlighting for an incandescent aura, but that didn't scream "I'm a blonde." Of course, those amber waves had no split ends or bad hair days, and never frizzed even in high humidity. Her skin was perfect, as was every other part of her body: eyes, ears, nostrils, fingernails, knuckles ... well, you get the idea.

She was young, not so young that there were laws against being intimate with her or that male relatives were likely to pummel you for it, but certainly not old or close to it. She hadn't yet hit that abhorrent age to men when women want to have "meaningful conversations" and to be loved for "who they are not what they look like." As many women are apt to have, but not all since clearly women stem from all sorts of diverse ancestry and cultural habits, she had an hour-glass figure that was quite early in the hour, so she still much more in the upper portion than in the lower portion. Age changes that, but again, she was young so there were no worries of sag yet.

In fact, she was so well endowed in the chest that she was called "Little Miss Big Tits." That wasn't her real name – out of delicacy her name is being changed to conceal her identity, and not that it's easy to conceal with those big knockers. Her bosoms were massive, not just large or huge but gigantic, as in they would be of healthy proportion on a giant but she was just a petite gal, that is, in all ways but this. Men flocked around her just to look at those breasts, eager to touch them and suckle them.

Not one of them consciously knew this, having not yet studied Freud, but each loved her jugs because they reminded them of the comfort, nourishment, loving affection, and earliest sexual arousal from their youngest infant days. They associated big tits with all things good because their mother's breasts when they were tiny seemed so huge – they had no clue why Mom's tits seemed shrink as they grew up – and they got both lost and found in them. Boobs gave these men a sense of rapture unknown anywhere else so they assumed that the bigger the tits the better the inner sense of peace and more developed sexual release. Some, unconsciously, still felt embarrassed at how tiny their penises were when they were boys, but of course their entire bodies were smaller, but they forget that aspect. In some twisted internal logic they equated big tits on women with a larger penis on themselves and even bigger erections. So due to their infantile memories and perhaps too early weaning, men adored Little Miss Big Tits (LMBT) because on first sight she created in them, well actually they created in themselves but they credited her, a heightened sense of well-being, virility, and an almost out-of-body mega-powered feeling of superiority. Some felt both like an all-mighty god and yet concurrently like the not-at-all-worthy humble worshipper at the altar of mammary glands.

LMBT very often enjoyed the attention she got so easily from men, although women seemed to be colder to her the hotter she was to men. That wasn't so good because she knew that her women friends had always been and always would be a strong support network for her, whereas the men would leave her should they ever find any woman more beautiful, younger, and/or bigger busted. The latter attribute she doubted was possible but since she retained her wit and intelligence with her beauty, she had to consider all these details. Mostly, those huge boobs were a nuisance, and not just because everyone – even the kids – at some time would point and/or stare. No, those things weighed, it seemed, as much as all the rest of body, and that weight hanging her strong pectoral muscles – she exercised often to be strong enough just to stand straight – and pulling on her back caused her to ache at the end of each day. She continually hoped for a lover who would have outgrown the babyish need to suck hard, pull on each breast as if it were bread dough to be kneaded, and bite on the nipples to show they now have their baby teeth. She tired of the assumption some had that all of her identity was somehow locked inside her breasts simply because the "men" could look no further to see the rest of her. For that matter, even when she tried she couldn't remember a man looking for long into her eyes, or seeing a man's eyes that weren't glazed over from a hypnotic trance and/or endless, silly, tit-centered fantasies chasing through his mind. They often unknowingly hunched over to get a better look at her boobs, and while their posture may have been bad around her, they were nearly always erect in other ways.

Sadly, the size of their "package" seemed almost as important to them as a woman's breast. She figured a big penis to men was akin to having their own milk-engorged tit, and therefore there was the extra pleasure of getting someone to suck it, to swallow his "milk" that at times flowed from it. Finally, after all those years, the boy could be the life-giving mother. It seemed an insult to them that the recipient of this great prize would not enjoy the flavor – not exactly "mother's milk" in most cases – and would get angry if any dropped from the recipient's mouth or other orifice. Perhaps they felt that, just as they so loved their mother's milk, others should enjoy theirs. Of course, the irony is that few seemed to want to suckle one another, and those who did generally didn't stare at and drool over her. Such was her fate.

Men wanted to not only nestle into that happy infant state of "all boob" but, having grown up, wanted as much of the connection as they had felt when suckling their mother's teats. It wasn't enough for them to be chewing on them, rough-handling them, bouncing them around as they did their baby toys, but all while she had to endure that hard penis in her mouth or nether regions acting much as a butter churner does and with about as much enjoyment. Even with three choices there were times they wanted yet another place to thrust, so out comes some lubricant and pushed together go the tits, which was not only uncomfortable in itself but resulted in some rather disgusting views for her when she would forget to keep her eyes tightly closed.

All of that was in the relatively good times, but because these overgrown children would become so overwhelmed with her breasts, especially when a few or more of the cretins got together and multiplied their lust, she was too often taken by force. She had become frightened of going to the theater, even with trusted friends, or working in any job, or responding to any letter, or opening any door no matter where she was. Living normally was made impossible because of all the kidnappings, blackmailing situations, and brutal uses of her body. Her regular doctor now made bi-monthly appointments "just in case" as had her therapist, but weekly. Her aggressors always validated their behavior with their responsible use of condoms – if only once she could think it was for her protection – and that very often she became sexually aroused at some point, even eager for more. Yes, she could not deny the billions of years of evolution that caused a living entity on Earth to do whatever was needed to reproduce, create offspring, continue the species. In mammals this genetic motivation often included intentional or unintentional sexual pleasure to encourage the frequency and effectiveness of the act of coupling. The whole goal, from a biological standpoint, was for her to get pregnant, something the condoms prevented, fortunately in these cases. The intelligent brain in humans took millennia longer to develop than the obviously critical urge to copulate, and she had to wonder if in some males the brain had matured at all. With her, even though her body betrayed the fact that she was a result of thousands of generations of successful evolution, she hated how those "men" belittled her, used her, denied her rights as a person just so they wouldn't feel guilty about abusing her physical self. She sometimes wondered if they would think their actions so fair were they the target, the victim, rather than the dominant one or group.

It confused her now how to behave to anyone. If she was a warm, friendly person it was seen as a flagrant appeal for sensual attention and sexual play. If she tried to remain neutral she was seen as being cold and heartless, and an extra challenge. Were she downright mean then she was seen as being a shrew needing all the more roughness to be tamed. She wished she could flick a switch to deflate her secondary sexual organs just as men can deflate their primary one when not needed for sexual gratification. Or perhaps if all the other women had breasts as large then men would stop getting so stupid around large breasts. No, for one thing the physical discomfort and pain she endured she wouldn't wish on anyone, but she also knew well enough that many men are boys and remain so till the end of their days, no matter how many decades on the planet.

So, Little Miss Big Tits continued to care about her health and appearance because she respected her body, society's customs, and her future welfare enough to do so. She continued to enjoy the attentions her youthful body gave her, but still, deep in her thoughts, she looked forward to menopause, or as she called it "men won't pause." The end.