Porn Star Tits

Sure, I knew that I had taken advantage of her. I had manipulated her. I had used her. I had made her the subject of a twisted experiment, of sorts. But did I really deserve those final words from her?

She always had some sort of thing for me. That's how it started. I was just in that particular time in a guy's life when it was easy to see myself as a hot commodity. I thought I was important. It was easy to feel that I really was worth all the adoration and affection thrown my way by girls like her.

Even now, I remember her on the bed in the hotel room. It's three in the morning and she still wants more. I get up and go to the sink to pour myself another glass of water. When I return, the light on the nightstand is turned on. It casts a pornographic glow over her skin. She wants me to see what she's offering me. The sprawled, rumpled sheets tell a story of their own.

If I could glimpse her face, I would know that it shows that same expression I've been wondering over all night: her mouth just slightly open, her eyes full of craving, and strands of her hair stuck to her forehead from perspiration. She's stopped worrying about how she shows herself. She's stopped worrying about whether or not I find her attractive.

That's why when I come back from the bathroom I discover her on all fours on the bed, and her high heels are on again. She's wearing them like some sort of sex-kitten who's been waiting for nothing other than me to notice her all night. I see her round, beautifully plump butt facing me, legs slightly apart. There are no words from her. No face to look at, no cue to tell me what she wants. There's nothing other than her shadowed rear and her moist pussy lips, which she's offering to me, and I can't help but gorge myself on after just standing there a moment, taking in the scene, committing it to memory. I made this, I think.

Truthfully, it helped that I was from the good side of the tracks, and she from the bad. She said I looked like a Greek God, while she -- at the time - was just a plain, forgettable someone. She had a stupid boyfriend who could barely tell her she was beautiful; I once took her to a five-star restaurant and made her laugh over a bottle of wine and lobster. His friends thought the world revolved around TV; my friends at least acknowledged her. She was one of several girls whose orbit crossed mine on occasion. I remained what I imagined as tantalizingly unavailable to her and others like her.

She married her boyfriend. Less than a year later she filed for divorce. Emotionally, she was crushed and predictably her self-esteem had bottomed in some dark place. I had a plan. I had an experiment to try. She had an insurance settlement from an old accident that she used to pay her bills. In a moment of arrogant surety I convinced her to take a chunk of the money to get her breasts enlarged -- it was her idea to use the rest to liposuction the fat out of her little belly. It all worked, in its own way; it transformed her.

I just blurted the words out: I think you should get your boobs fixed. Incredibly, she listened. I saw her face fall in a demoralizing show of self-loathing and then the idea took hold and I recognized how much my fractured opinion mattered to her. I could tell she thought it was a way out of where she was. Within hours, she had the names of doctors she would call the next day. Any guilt over my ruse passed in an instant. Get 'em big, I said. Really big.

On her diminutive frame, I wondered over the logic of that, but it was part of the plan. I pictured how obvious they would be, how she might be pigeonholed the rest of her life. It didn't help that she was blonde and came from a trailer park. The world can be an unkind place. To a poor and naïve girl with huge boobs, it was probably brutal in a sugar coated way. I did know - at least - that her naivety would fall away - replaced by what, I had no idea.

The insurance money was sitting in the bank because she said she had slipped in a restroom and twisted her back. I wondered about that. It seemed like a scam, especially when she never complained of pain or lack of movement. I was savvy enough by then to recognize that she was a 'user' of sorts, as my older brother would say. She was a good person, just somehow shorted in life.

There was a hole in her, and I could tell how she fixated on trying to fill it. When we all went out and she knew I was picking up the bill - which was always - she would order a desert or extra side dish and just ignore it - let sit without a single bite. It was as if she were taking perverse pleasure in neglecting a kindness. There was this feeling she gave that said 'I'm broken'. I imagined sleeping with her -- she telling me she was on the pill -- and then nine-months later being hit with a paternity suit. It had happened to my best friend in high school, and his messed-up life was like a shipwreck that warned people of the jagged rocks just beneath the surface.

Still, I was drawn to her. She adored me. I could see that if not love, it was borderline obsession. She found me hilarious, chivalrous, sophisticated, and stunningly handsome. Perhaps she thought I was her way to some other life she assumed was just beyond her reach. I was her window on a better world that included trips to Europe, fancy cars, a life of leisure, and all the unwanted, uneaten chocolate cake she could ever order. Maybe though, all she wanted was a husband that adored her and a house that she wasn't embarrassed over. If she thought that husband was going to me, she was wrong, but I never told her.

She showed me the bras that she bought at Foley's. The date was still weeks away, but she found these and stuffed them with Kleenex and was putting them on under her clothes to see how she would look. Her doctor had the implants on order and she had taken my advice. They were big - in fact her doctor tried to talk her down a few sizes for aesthetic reasons. Did she think I would be disappointed otherwise?

It didn't seem to matter; she emerged from her bedroom with a giddy smile. Her sweater stretched tight over two stuffed voluptuous peaks and she made a show of half-serious teasing. I laughed with her, but I wondered over what I had put in motion. For the first time when I looked at her I felt an ache for what would be and for what was fading away; she was finding a signature that was lusty and now overtly sexual.

She knew that soon it would be easy for guys to objectify her, to think of her simply as the chick with the huge tits. She was naïve, not dumb. They would try and maneuver her and position her for seduction. I imagined she didn't care, or perhaps welcomed the coming attention in whatever form it took. She pursed her lips in an exaggerated kiss, found a flashlight sitting on a table and pushed it between her tissue-filled cups. She did this awkwardly, self-consciously, as if imitating something she thought a stripper would do at a bachelor party. We laughed. For better or worse, after those implants 'forgettable' would never figure in her description.

Already, she had made a pile of clothes that she could keep, and those that would need to be given away. A couple of borderline tops sat in another pile, and she put them on and asked my opinion. None of them would fit, not even close. I told her so, but she playfully argued back that she didn't want to hide her new figure. It occurred to me that her natural breasts were probably very nice. She turned around, smiling, looking at herself in the mirror, imagining. It was the first time I knew of that I had seen her wear her hair up, accenting her neck.

THE DAY came and went, and she called me the next morning. I asked how she felt. A little sore and groggy but otherwise fine; she was just going to spend the next few days hanging around her place. Then the inevitable: You want to see them? I said, no. Not yet, anyway. Soon, though. The line was silent for a few seconds. We hung up after a few pleasantries and after I told her to drink plenty of water.

She suggested we go out to dinner the next night, and I said sure, that would be great. The night was cold and she had a coat on, but I could immediately tell the difference. As she stood in her doorway she was smiling like I had never seen. In the car she made a gesture to show me, but I said no, don't worry about it. I could read confusion in her face, was I somehow disappointed? Even I didn't know how to answer.

The restaurant was thankfully empty and we slunk into a darkly lit corner. She pulled off her coat, revealing that same sweater I had seen her wear before, in her practice assessment. Her new breasts pushed impossibly against the material and she studied the way I studied her. The first words from my mouth were, Good Lord. Then I muttered, is that all you? Somehow I was still thinking of the tissue-stuffed bra. She nodded yes, it was all her. She said, its okay to look, this is all new to me, too. She laughed. She said, I keep on touching them; I can't believe it's actually me! None too subtly, she moved to show me in profile. She looked like a bombshell, a cartoon pinup, a sex-kitten, an adolescent fantasy-scribble come to life.

Oddly, I suddenly missed the times when she had been hanging around me at a bar. She was there, but never the focus of anyone's attention, and certainly not mine: just a girl that was part of the group. I could barely picture her like that. Now, unless she made great pains to camouflage her breasts with carefully considered clothing, or just hid under a big coat, she would be very much a part of the foreground and not the landscape. That was just the way things worked. I imagined stupid frat boys circling around her, trying to make her laugh, and laughing too loud and too long at her own silliness.

They're still a little numb and tender, she said. The doctor said that all the feeling should come back within a few weeks or more... Don't you want to see them? Sure, I said, gulping a glug of water. We finished dinner, and then she ordered an extra orange juice that she only sipped. I noticed as I paid the bill, she had left it sitting there, almost full.

We drove back to her place, and she talked about the new tops she would have to buy and how it was strange sleeping now; she had to sleep on her side or back, but she thought that would pass with time. I asked how she felt going out in public, but she said aside from tonight and earlier today going to the store, she hadn't really been anywhere yet.

I sat on her dilapidated couch. She had disappeared in her bedroom. I laughed to myself, and made a joke about the unveiling, and she made a polite laugh back through the closed door. The lights were dim and I flicked on a reading lamp and started to peruse a magazine on her wobbly coffee table. My reading was nothing more than attempt to distract from the fact that I now had the most enormous erection of my life.

I kept my eyes on the magazine article -- something about the re-development of Union Station -- as she walked out from the bedroom. She was wearing a long robe, which she held tightly closed with a hand near her neck. I noticed that she was now wearing heels and black stockings that shown from the ankle down. I made a show of putting the magazine down, as if I could barely tear myself away from the Mayor's thoughts on downtown architecture.

She stood in front of me, noticeably nervous, her eyes making contact with mine for a moment and then darting off. You're the first person I've shown, she said. I'm sure they're lovely, I said. And then I added, you don't have to do this, you know? It's okay, she said, and then she moved her eyes from mine and looked somewhere into the distance. She opened her robe at the top, exposing one and then the other. They look perfect, I muttered, beautiful.

I chose a kind of natural looking implant, big -- she laughed again -- but with that teardrop shape. Can you tell? Now she looked at me. Yes, I said. Well, I mean, they look incredible.

She stood there, probably feeling a little ridiculous, as she studied my face. She took two steps closer. Are you sure they look okay? Amazing, was all I said, my eyes meeting hers. Do you want to touch them? She sat down beside me on the couch and without waiting for an answer took my hand, and pushed it to her breast. You don't have to be delicate, she said in a changed voice, it's all part of me now.

I put both my hands on her then, cupping the lower part of breasts, lifting them up, feeling their weight as she inched closer to me. I want to thank you, she said. I saw her eyes and wondered if the bulge in my pants was now completely obvious. I tried to say that I didn't deserve anything, and in fact I felt guilty over my presumptions about what I thought she should do. But all I mumbled was, you don't need to thank me. Nothing other than 'porn star breasts' circulated in my mind.

It was incredible to think she had done this for no other reason than sex, and all that idea encompassed. Those huge breasts - her choice or my choice? Either way it was audacious. Those lusty, wonderfully curved, pendulous tits were the straightest line possible to a living, breathing wet dream, and I felt the pull of lust for her overwhelm me.

But I suddenly snapped back. I imagined that all of her so-called friends and acquaintances would shun her, especially the girls. I imagined the looks. You'd be able to read it in their expressions the first time they see her. They would talk behind her back, and I would be expected to join in... If the guys paid attention to her, they themselves would be chastised. You didn't pay attention to her before, why now? I could hear the comments already - it's the boobs - you're such an asshole, grow up.

They would imagine their boyfriends fantasizing about her. They might think she was ridiculous, and yet at the same time feel secretly envious of the attention she received. Down deep, they too perhaps wanted to be a sex object as daring and unashamedly sexual -- a fantasy come to life. Recognition of their hypocrisy would make them push the offending article away. She would be abandoned. Yes, the world can be an unkind place.

That night, I left her sitting on the couch. I made a hasty retreat. I'm not sure what she actually thought of me as I said a quick goodbye, and tried to joke about throwing away the tissue now that she had the real thing. At home, I flipped on the computer and looked at porn. One girl melded into the next melded into the next. I tried to find someone her equal. They looked anonymous. I tried to be scholarly and searched Google Images for '34FF implants' and found nothing that looked like her. I imagined how her breasts felt in my hands and how she had gone through the operation because of me - or perhaps for me. It didn't matter. She wanted to be a busty fantasy girl, and transfigured, she had become that and something else as well.

The next night, I called her, for a change. I made up a story about wanting to do something special for her, in honor of the new you, I told her. I made reservations at the best Italian place in town. But when I reserved a room at the Brown Palace, it wasn't because I wanted to surprise her with a romantic gesture. It was because I was afraid a friend would stop by, see her car, and know exactly what I was up to. Surely then my orbiting girls would find out all about my experiment.

That was the last time I ever picked her up at her place; the last time I would ever knock on that rusty, woefully decrepit door. We walked down to my car, and I opened the passenger door (a first for me, when it came to her). I walked around with a hurried pace and got in the driver's seat. She looked at me with the expression I would soon start to wonder over. She said, I've always wanted to do this. I knew what would happen next. She unzipped my pants and put her lips around me. I let her. I said nothing. My car sat in front of her place. It was dark. I kept the engine running and the lights on. She sucked on me like she wanted desperately to pull the cum from my cock and into her mouth. She moaned and lost herself in the act. I pushed up into her as much as I could, thinking of her mouth and her breasts, which I felt moving and pressing against my leg.

We joked through the appetizer. I got moody during the main course. I asked, are you on birth control? She said yes, I don't have to worry about periods that way. After dinner, we drove to the hotel. I was self-conscious as I checked-in and asked for the room key. There was no luggage. Her tits we pressing against her coat like a solicitation for an all-night session of the most carnal sex I had ever had. They were obvious, at least to me, and I assumed everyone else, particularly the night manager who must have known my whole story.

She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me into her mouth. I literally thought to myself: I had no idea she loved to give blowjobs so much. I nearly scoffed out loud. Why would I have known? She was slow, and I felt like she was savoring the moment, which crushed me with guilt. She kept her heels on and striped her dress off. She threw the bedspread on the floor. She lay there, legs open in an invitation, her beautiful, bushy pubic hair with a taste of wetness, and her breasts huge and pornographic and inviting. I couldn't help myself, I said, you're like my own private porn star.

I devoured her all night. It was as if I had years of pent-up passion and lust with no focus and no recipient. Her breasts seemed as much an obsession of mine as for her, as she begged me to suck on them, always offering them to me, particularly while she moved on top of me. She pulled my head forward, and placed a pillow behind, just so I was that much closer, and her nipples would be that much more likely to find their way into my mouth. In the morning she rolled me over, and started at me again with her mouth. I fondled her breasts, holding them and feeling how sexy they were - just like the busty star of a masturbation fantasy, dripping with lust, they jiggled and moved and urged me on. I murmured - Again? She said yes, I don't know when the next time I'll be able to this to you will be.

I knew then that she knew, or at least suspected in some part of the brain that can read the future.

The next time we were all together, I made it clear. I wouldn't trade the orbiting girls for her. I couldn't, for some reason. I wanted to. I wanted to take her and have her sit on my lap. To show everyone that easy familiarity I felt with her. My creation. I wanted to wrap my arms around her waist. Share in the confidence she had to be that audacious sex-queen.

I wanted to hold her tight, squeeze her middle and try and fill that hole with whatever I could give her. But then they would look at me. My hands and arms just beneath those massive breasts, and they would know something about me that I didn't want them to know.

I ignored her worse than ever. She took the hint. She saw me kissing another girl, and I saw that look flash across her face. It was that same self-loathing that I had caused before, only this time there was no recovery, no way out of where she was. I did nothing to convince her otherwise. She retreated. She disappeared and the rest of us barely talked of her. The breasts I thought would cause a rift barely rated more than a mention. I wondered if she would ever show herself again. It never happened.

There were girls and other girls. Inevitably, however, my mind would drift to that night, and suddenly I would be thinking not of the one I was with, but of her. I was ashamed of myself in secret, thinking not of the girl who was writhing beneath me, but instead of those pendulous breasts and that insatiable mouth, and only then would I be able to finish. After, I would think too, of the unfinished orange juice, the untouched desert.