Tits!

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.

Finally the photographer told me that I could make a lot more money if I would let people see both my face and my breasts. He had a friend who owned one of those topless clubs, where the pay was good and the dancers made fabulous tips.

I thought about it for a while. I mean, all my jugs had ever gotten me in the past was grief. Why not come out ahead on having them there for a change? Even though the thought of letting people see them (might as well be honest and make that "letting men see them"), made me flush with shame -- after all, that's what I had been fighting to keep them (men) from doing since junior high. But in the end, I gave in, I needed the money so badly.

I can not tell you what I felt like the first night in that little room behind the stage, while dressing in my costume. I trembled ... I couldn't breathe ... there was so much pressure in my head that at times I became so dizzy I thought I was going to faint -- I was so afraid of walking out there on stage with what sometimes seemed the biggest and most vulnerable part of me bared to the world. My breasts seemed to cringe and want to be covered up and taken home.

I started pulling on the fishnet tights I had thought would at least give concealment, and some measure of comfort, to the lower part of me. But then I decided "no, if I am going out half-naked, I might as well let them see all of me (or at least all the law would allow)." I slipped into high heels and a g-string, and forced myself out of the room, knowing I was about to experience the greatest mortification and degradation I had ever known.

I heard the music blaring from a loudspeaker, then I saw all those male eyes stop whatever they were doing and shift their attention and focus to my big hooters. Their vast expanse felt so vulnerable, exposed brazenly before these men's eyes, all swelling flesh save for tiny pasties that barely covered the areoles, and seemed to advertise rather than conceal them. It was as if each man there had his grubby little hands all over my breasts. I took a hesitating step out, knowing it was too late to turn back, surrendering my nakedness and my breasts to them.

Then I saw how their eyes glazed, their breath caught in their throats; their whole being seemed centered on my overabundant boobs. There was no other thought in their minds -- not their wives or girlfriends or jobs or bills or aspirations or concerns -- just my tits. They had surrendered themselves to me, would do anything I wanted -- bestow big tips, lavish me with gifts, leave their wives, even shoot their parents -- because I had these breasts.

Suddenly everything reversed itself. My boobs felt like an enormous, powerful weapon. It was my tits that controlled men's eyes -- not men's eyes that controlled them. The flesh of each jutting cone felt so strong and solid it seemed as if I could batter any of the males before me unconscious with them. I wanted to slap their faces with my breasts, they way they had slapped them so many times; I wanted to plug their mouths with my teats and make them suck until they choked, until they never thought of sucking teats again; I wanted smother their faces in my cleavage until they struggled for breath, and feared the very sight of breasts; I wanted to ravish their bodies and penises with my jugs, the way men had ravished my jugs with them.

And I knew I could do it all to them and more -- because of those huge mounds of alabaster flesh bulging from my front. (I know some women would say that's wrong, that a woman shouldn't exploit her body to make a living, if she happens to have been gifted with a sexy one. But, I notice those are women who have been naturally gifted with intelligence, athletic ability, or the kind of education that smoothes the way -- and they don't seem to see anything wrong with exploiting those natural abilities. I can't see what's wrong with we women who haven't been gifted with any of these other abilities exploiting whatever ones we do have!)

These thoughts only took a moment, between one heartbeat and the next, but they changed my life forever. My first step out onto the stage had been wavering but my next (in the ultra high heels that seem to throw you upward and forward like a goddess hovering nude and resplendent over her adoring subjects), when it came down, was a firm, confident stride. The weight of my breasts went before me, commanding attention, compelling obedience, thrusting the gates of the world wide. As I let the music take them, they shook, they bobbed, they wiggled from side-to-side like mammary tsunamis, sending shockwaves through every male in attendance.

It wasn't necessary, but I did it anyway, tottering naked and free in winged-heels, my scepter and orb raised high above my own adoring subjects. I pointed both thumbs at them, gestured and yelled proudly. "Hey, tits!"