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.
