Chapter 2 can stand alone as a separate story since it's seven years later, but you'll have a much richer experience if you read Chapter 1 first.
Thanks to my volunteer editor SilviDoll whose contributions made this a much better read. Also many thanks to vibes for his detailed corrections and improvements to my piecemeal Italian translations as well as his help with shaping the Italian-American female main character's dialogue.
* * *
INTRODUCTION:
Allora chi è questa Gina?
(2001)
So who is this Gina, the woman who got me to the altar and made me (almost) forget about Darcy O'Dell?
Born Luigina Ferretti in Brooklyn to an Italian-American family. Spoke Italian as a young child before learning English. Her parents moved to Los Angeles in her tweens where she quickly grew a world-class pair of boobs. Considers herself a Valley Girl.
She married an older, domineering, possessive, rich jerk; got divorced. Ex-husband was killed in a hang gliding accident in the throes of a midlife crisis. She finds out later he was fucking one of the young blonde instructors. Post-divorce she returned to her job at Macy's in Sherman Oaks. Selling women's clothes. Yep, I see a pattern developing here.
PART 1: How We Met (1998)
We were introduced by mutual friends at a party. Neither of us knew it was a setup at the time. One look and I was in. I wondered why someone like her was single, and I wondered if she was thinking the same about me. She had that way of dressing that appealed to me, the effortless enhancement of her best features—in this case, her breasts.
Gina's style contrasted with Darcy's, although I couldn't say I preferred one over the other. I'd say it was a West Coast versus Midwest comparison. Gina knows how to operate close to the line where classy could turn into tacky. Her forte is the noticeable (but tasteful) cleavage, the breathtaking down-blouse peek when bending over, and the controlled bobbing and swaying when she walks. All made possible by just the right bra for the occasion.
I
loved
her lingerie, but let me clarify. I'm not into what most fetishists prefer: elaborate bustiers, garter belts, stockings, corsets, bodysuits—particularly the frillier and tarted-up items pioneered by Fredrick's of Hollywood. All that just gets in the way of things. What I want is a simple, classy (preferably European) bra and panties—but no thongs, please. The sweeping curvature and deep cleavage Victoria's Secret promises to their customers, Gina had naturally.
I swooned seeing Gina's underwear when I bedded her the first time. I had her keep it on which aroused her considerably. Most men want it on the floor as quickly as possible. She has bras that allow ample breast exposure while staying fastened, providing some support for her big ones. She likes receiving cunnilingus and penetration with her panties pulled aside. It all comes off eventually during our lovemaking when things turn aggressive or messy—like the tit fucking.
* * *
When Gina and I started getting serious and talking about our future, she said she needed to reveal something from her past. My worried mind spilled out a parade of horribles.
"Jeff, I want you to know about some things when I was younger that could be an issue. The main way I paid my college expenses was baring my boobs."
That was it?
"Why would I have a problem with that, Gina? I would say that 99% of the female breasts I've looked at have been on the printed page or computer screen or in a movie. Those belonged to somebody. Nothing wrong with getting paid for having a nice body. You can tell me as much or as little detail as you want. I'm completely OK with it."
Her expression hinted that her ex was very
not
OK with it.
She smiled. "I don't mind talking about it. It's fairly wholesome—no peep shows or stripping. I don't want you to be blindsided if someone tells you later or recognizes me from back then."
"Even that wouldn't stop me from wanting you. For the record, I've been to one peep show and about a half dozen strip club visits. Not really how I want to spend my money—or get my rocks off. But continue."
"When I was a freshman at UCLA, I was one of the girls picked to model school logo sportswear in their campus catalog. That triggered calls from agents promising other work. It was no surprise when it turned out to be mostly brassiere modeling for store catalogs and newspaper ads. I was a star of the full-figure bra world. My main work was for the major department stores like The Broadway, Robinson's, and Bullock's.
"It wasn't long before my agent had me up for racier lingerie shoots. The money was a lot better, and I was happy to share. The sessions that paid the most were on/offs for the classier magazines. Those special issues like
Playboy's Book of Lingerie
.
"I did some full nudes for fine art photographers. A lot of those didn't even show my face. All of it seems positively innocent by today's standards. No spread beaver shots, wanking, or other people in the picture. I went by the name 'Colleen Collins' back then. Ring any bells?"
"No, I don't think so. What's with the Irish name?"
"It was primarily to throw off relatives or neighbors that knew me as Italian. It could give deniability to family and friends that disapproved. They could always say 'That's not Gina'."
Boy, all those times I tossed off to busty babes in those magazines—I never would have imagined having one as a girlfriend years later.
"Gina, let me tell you a little about my background. As soon as I got to college, I grabbed
Playboy, Penthouse
—whatever I could get my hands on. Jacked off to nude girls in those magazines all the time. Bought a lot of lingerie-oriented publications. I've seen the content in dozens of other girlie mags, including the raunchier stuff.
"I went to X-rated movie theaters back in the day, often with dates. Bought a few porno videos. I think I've seen just about every possible sexual combination and kink there is out there on the Internet. Never have done chat rooms or phone sex. I would be happy to walk you through the entire contents of my hard drive and show you what I've saved, including bookmarks to all the websites.
"The magazines and videos are all gone. Out with the trash—anything that was tangible. All the erotica I have now is on the computer. I want to be as open as possible about all of that. Anything sex-related."
"So you had some of those special lingerie issues? Do you remember around what time you were buying those?"
I couldn't remember precisely, but I narrowed it down to a range of years. She asked which titles I had bought. It seems I may have had some of the ones she was in. I didn't specifically remember a Colleen Collins, but it's possible I did see her.
"So you might have jerked off to a picture of me. Years before you met me. Aw, that's cute."
"Did you save any photos from that era?"
"No," she said wistfully. "My ex made me destroy my entire portfolio. That was so childish and insecure. I wouldn't make you go through all your photos and trash the ones that have other women in them. He thought my keeping them would increase the likelihood of someone embarrassing him about my past."
What a tool! Don't these guys get it? That's part of the deal when you marry a hot babe with big boobs, especially if it's one who's made money showing them. There's always going to be a stranger somewhere who's whacking off to her picture. What do they expect? Of course I didn't say anything about the 8x10 of Darcy O'Dell I had come across during the scanning project.
"My modeling years were fun, enjoyable times. I felt like he was trying to erase my youth. I did keep one old photo. From a Macy's lingerie shoot. It was my favorite of all the pictures. It was my little way of fighting back. My token act of defiance. But it's gone."
"What happened?"
"You know when you try to hide something? And each place you pick seems too obvious. So eventually you find the perfect place that no one will ever find. I picked such a good hiding place that I forgot where I put it. I've looked and looked. I think I must have inadvertently thrown it out during one of my many moves after the divorce."
I hugged her and assured her I loved her more than ever. I took her to our bedroom and proved it. All that talk about lingerie and nude photos got me hot—and her, too.
* * *
We had a lot of fun reviewing all the erotic images on my hard drive. Her preferences, dislikes, and kinks were virtually the same as mine. She was like a man as far as visual stimulation. We couldn't look at that material for more than fifteen minutes before starting in ourselves. She liked getting ideas for our sexual repertoire from the videos.
Busty women were cool with her since she never had to feel inferior to any of them. And classy lingerie, of course. She loved cum shots (face, tits, body, ass, mouth), swallowing, dirty talk, tit fucking, hand jobs, light bondage, prostate massage. When the mellow "glamcore" videos intended for women and couples arrived, they became her favorite. Even so, she was always ready for some raunch now and then, just for variety: bukkake, nipple and pussy pumping and slapping, bondage where the women are tormented with vibrators, clothed female/nude male masturbation domination. She never wanted to do most of it but got hot looking at it.
We even got subscriptions to several erotic websites, mostly amateur. I looked at her hard drive eventually. Not that extensive, but I was surprised at the amount of female nudes. That last encounter with Mink crossed my mind. Gina swears she's never even thought about eating pussy—she just likes looking at well-photographed women's bodies. Also lots of big dick pics, usually with no faces visible. She assured me it's only a visual fetish—like guys looking at large breasts.
"I've had first-hand experience with a few like these, and they're too much for me—pussy or mouth. I don't want to even think about something like that approaching from the rear. They're painful, not sexy. And the guy who's attached to it is typically, well, 'cocky'."
An interesting dynamic evolved from her looking at my hard drive. Gina is no different from other women when it comes to having doubts about how her body looks—even lingerie models aren't immune to those feelings. She's self-conscious about what she thinks are flaws: low-riding tits, big nipples and areolas, protruding clit, and meaty pussy lips.
I think most men are tactful enough to not push those buttons, even when they privately agree that their wife's [
body parts
] are too [
adjective
]. But what did Gina see when she clicked through all the erotic photos, videos, and websites I had saved? Lots of images of women with pendulous breasts, thick nipples, wide areolas, prominent labia, and large clits. She never had to wonder if I was just being nice when I said I had a preference for the things she thought men didn't like about her body. My hard drive was full of visuals that had one or more "flaws" in common with her nude physique.
PART 2: The Day We Found Out (2001)
That afternoon was an emotional one for me. And especially for Gina. A pall of anxiety hovered over our marriage. One that had been there for more than a year. Ever since Gina got the results from a breast biopsy. It wasn't good news. Let's skip over all the sad details. I was sitting in the waiting room of her doctor's office. I'd been there way too many times. I always offer to go in with her, but she prefers to do it alone.
It was the day when we would hear if she's clear, out of the woods, in remission—or fall back into the abyss of another lengthy course of treatments and anguish and expense. Treatments that were almost certain to involve disfiguring surgery.
During her earlier chemotherapy, when she was at her lowest, I heard her crying. We'd both done a lot of that. I walked down to our home office to comfort her and saw she was looking at post-op mastectomy pictures. She closed the browser quickly; but I sat down, put my arms around her, and told her to open it back up.
"We should look at these together." I think that was the best decision I ever made in our marriage.
They were shocking images, rarely seen by men—or women. Some had one breast remaining, others had none. All races and body types. Some didn't look too bad, but most were downright scary. I let her choose the pace of how long we lingered on each image. Occasionally she would comment in a quiet voice; I didn't say much.
Something happened, though, as the number of images accumulated. I'm almost too embarrassed to write it down. We looked at so many of them that the blank chests and ugly scars became commonplace. Then Gina made a catty remark about one woman's belly fat. I was shocked, but I realized a corner had been turned. The surgical damage had momentarily lost its shock value. A few more remarks about hairiness and stretch marks. She asked me what I thought about one woman's nose. I was reluctant to participate, but there we both were—making snarky comments that sensible people would recoil from. I felt guilty, but she seemed to have a catharsis.
Gina turned her head and looked at me with a silly face. "We're
so
bad."
When she'd had enough, Gina closed the browser and took my hands. "Will you still love me if I look like that?"
"Gina, you don't know if this is your fate. Let's be patient. I know the treatments have been horrific. I'll still love you. In sickness and in health, remember? We're both going to be in bodies we don't recognize eventually.
