Award Winning Boobs

Editor's Note: this story contains illustrations.

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It's hard to believe. Three of my usual go-to stores and none of them have chocolate chip ice cream? Was it a conspiracy? A consequence of the new tax bill? Did aliens with a fetish for chocolate chip ice cream arrive and gobble it all up?

I'm not that easily frustrated. I bought vanilla and a package of micro chocolate chips. I took it home and made my own, rather primitive, chocolate chip ice cream. There was an advantage; the ratio of chocolate chips to ice cream was improved. Traditions die hard, and I always eat a massive amount of chocolate chip ice cream when someone breaks my heart.

It's not that frequent of an event, so I'm not as fat as a house. I do however eat a hell of a lot of ice cream when my heart is broken.

It was a hot day, so I put on my bikini, my shades, and I brought a bowl of my freshly made chocolate chip ice cream out to my backyard chair. I brought a novel, and sat by my imaginary pool. I wished I had an iTunes recording of the sounds of splashing in a pool, but I didn't. A girl does what she can.

I was eating too slowly, and the ice cream was melting in the heat and the sun. Too bad, but I guess that's why I brought a spoon rather than a fork. Finally, I took the bowl and brought it to my mouth, drinking the liquid that remained, laced deliciously with chocolate chips. Being careless, I noticed the liquid escaping and dribbling down onto my chest. Damn.

What I needed was a lover to come up to me and offer to lick the ice cream off my chest. My lover might have done that, and happily, had he still been my lover. This was the current emptiness in my life, having just broken it off with an abusive, cheating boyfriend, the asshole. I rose, and returned to the house to make myself another bowl of hand constructed chocolate chip ice cream.

I removed my top, and made the new bowl while I was topless. I rinsed the ice cream off my bikini top, and myself, and I was letting it dry before putting my top back on. That was the moment, of course, that the doorbell rang. I walked, topless, to the door and peaked through the little hole to see who it was. Jessica was standing there with a pint of chocolate chip ice cream. It's good to have friends.

I threw open the door, smiling widely as I saw the ice cream pint, and almost died as Jessica said, "We heard about you and Brad." I almost peed in my bikini bottoms when I heard her say "we" and tore my eyes away from the ice cream to see Jessica's boyfriend Troy standing there, staring at my bare boobs, and my mostly naked body. Only my skimpy bikini bottoms were giving a tiny dollop of privacy.

"Come on in," I said, "I'll be with you in a sec," and I rushed back to the kitchen and put on my bikini top, no longer caring that it was wet. I returned, apologizing, saying I had spilled ice cream on my suit and my chest.

"I wish I had been here," Troy said, "I could have cleaned you up with my tongue." Jessica playfully slapped him, as I blushed. No way he could have known I had been wanting a man to do exactly that a few minutes earlier. Sometime things happen that way, I guess. Well, now Troy had seen my award-winning boobs, I thought to myself.

I'm proud to have award-winning boobs. The story of how they became 'award-winning' is perhaps amusing. Arriving at college Freshman year I was placed in a triple. Both my roommates were named Jane, and that's my name, too. Supposedly the selection of roommates is random, but we all thought some mischief was involved in making our room all Janes. My last name is Baccarelli, but the other two were Jane Smith and Jane Jones, I kid you not. We all quickly ended up calling ourselves Smith, Jones, and Baccarelli. It's now years later, and we still do.

Smith had a high school friend Neil who was rushing a fraternity. They had been friends since early childhood. He told her he could be a shoe-in if she would cooperate for a contest. This was not an ordinary contest. The fraternity was holding a competition for the best boobs on campus. Participants were to submit a naked full frontal, and a naked full profile. The heads were to be digitally removed. Each pledge needed to submit pictures of at least one woman, and the more women, the better. There would be nice monetary prizes for first, second, and third place: $1,000, $500, and $300, respectively.

Smith arranged for the three of us to give Neil pictures of our bodies, minus our heads. It took some persuading, not only for me to do it, but especially for Jones. Jones had boobs to die for, but she's black and therefore easy to identify in the mostly white college. She would have at best quite limited anonymity.

Neil promised anonymity, unless we won, and Jones laughed derisively, but she ended up entering, nevertheless. Although she would never admit it publicly, I think that secretly she was proud of her boobs, and of her body in general. She was right to be proud. I'd never seen a hotter hard body than hers.

The winning pictures would be posted on the web, at a secret link, so that the school administration would not find it. Every man on campus would soon know of the link, however, I'm sure. The prizes were to be awarded on stage in front of the full fraternity.

"How will the winners be decided?" I asked, and apparently this was the big issue. The entry pictures, identified by numbers, were to be posted on the wall of the main room of the fraternity. Fraternity members would choose the ones they liked the best, and vote. It was a complicated voting system, something like 'single transferable voting,' and I did not even try to understand it.

I did not admit it, but secretly I loved the idea of my body being on display to a fraternity full of men. I had no doubt many of them would be beating off to pictures of my body. I hoped I would win. I saw the pictures of Smith and Jones. Both also had nice boobs, but different than mine. Jones was Black, probably the only Black girl whose boobs were in the contest. I felt sure her boobs would take first prize. Her boobs were drop dead gorgeous.

I had entered college a virgin, but I wanted very much to change that status. Smith's friend Neil noticed me right away, on the very first weekend of the term. He asked me out. We had fun, and I let him kiss me goodnight. The second time, we kissed a lot, and he felt me up under my clothes.

Our college had a train connection to New York City, so for our third date he took me to the city, and to a club in Greenwich Village. I thought we would take a late train back to our school, but he had reserved a hotel room. I knew what that meant, of course, but I had a lot of fun teasing him, pretending I would not give him sex. In the end, I let him talk me into it, and then I could not get enough! I made him fuck me three times, and again a few times the next morning. I felt I had now become a real college girl.

After Neil and I had fucked the second time, he asked for a blowjob to get him hard so that we could fuck a third time. I was all for a third fuck, but I was inexperienced with blowjobs, and when I tried to give one to a boy in high school, he said it hurt. So, I had never done it again. I told Neil this. I was embarrassed to tell him, but I felt very close to him, since we had made love together, and for me he was my first and my only, at that point in my life.

Neil and I discussed it, and it turned out my mistake had been using my teeth. With Neil's help, I learned how to give a man a good blowjob, one he would love. I was happy to be learning these life skills, if you will. Since we had established a teacher-student relationship, Neil asked me why I did not moan during sex. I told him, "People might hear me, if I were to moan."

Neil replied, "So what?"

I said, "Well, it would embarrass me, and it might make them feel uncomfortable," I said, "as if they were invading our privacy."

Neil replied, to my surprise, "Baccarelli, I want them to hear your moans. Your moans would make me feel like a stud. How about you try moaning, and if you do, moan loud, okay? Nobody knows you at this hotel. Do you even want to moan?"

"To be honest, Neil, I'm not sure. It's not as if I am suppressing an urge to moan. I don't really have the urge to moan. It does not mean you don't feel wonderful when we're, you know, when we're..."

"Fucking?" Neil helped out.

"Yes. But let's do it again, and I'll try to moan, and we'll see what it's like. How's that?" I was trying to keep Neil happy, and pleased with me. I was feeling insecure. Now, much later, I realize he was loving it as much, or even more, than I was!

Neil was hard again after our little discussion, and he decided to try doggy style, and I moaned while we did the deed. I loved it when he held my hips, just before he entered me. I felt kind of submissive, as if I were giving myself to him. It surprised me, but I discovered I loved having a man take charge, and doing with me what he wanted.

This submissive aspect of sex was a strange feeling, and I knew I would need to think about it, and work it out in my mind, but later. Right then, it was all new, and wonderful, and I was simply going with the flow and enjoying the endorphins. As for Neil, well, he was clearly thrilled. Apparently, I did a good job with the moans. I actually enjoyed moaning, especially because when I did, Neil fucked me better!

I quickly learned I could guide his fucking with my moans. When he did something especially nice, I would let out an impressive moan, and then Neil would keep on doing it. The third time we fucked, with me moaning, I had my first orgasm given to me by a man. That alone cemented moaning as my modus operandi!

Our massive sexual romp in that New York hotel had not been Neil's first time, but almost. He told me he had had sex with a girl in high school, but it was awkward, in his father's car, and the girl was terrified someone would see them, so it was rushed. He also had sex with her a few more times, in similar circumstances, before she told him no more sex. Now she was history. Sex with me, in the hotel, however, he said was amazing, better than he could ever have imagined. That pleased me, of course.

That was my final lesson with Neil, even if it had been inadvertent on Neil's part. I learned that sex can get you a man, and withholding it can get rid of the man, too. I filed that away for future use, and it turned out to be one hell of an important, and highly useful, lesson!

Anyway, back to the contest for the best boobs on campus. I was happy because I took second place! Jones came in third. Jones was happy, but I felt she should have come in first. I idly wondered if she did not come in first because she was black. I guess that's impossible to truly know.

Taste in boobs, however, is an individual thing. I could imagine some men going for size, for example, while for others it might be all about the nipples, or the areolas, or perhaps all about how pert the girl's boobs are? I think that most men just like to see a girl's boobs, to feel them, and to squeeze them. They like any girl's boobs, maybe because it's a preliminary step towards fucking the girl, and they all want to do that, I'm fairly sure. Had I been a man, I like to think my taste criteria for a girl's boobs would simply have been about beauty. Had it been that, simply about beauty, Jones should have won.

The winner, amazingly enough, was also named Jane. Her full name was Jane Dutton, and she was a sophomore. We all three went to the event where Dutton was crowned. Jones and I got wreaths of flowers, and small engraved medals. Since it was an engineering fraternity, we also had a formula engraved on our medals. The formula was

-(3xlogx-0.1exp((-30x-12x^6)), 0≤x≤1

This made no sense to any of the three of us, but we took our medals happily. I had a friend plot it for me, and this is what he got:

Then of course the formula made sense. Rotate it clockwise 90 degrees, and it looks pretty good, actually.

We also got ribbons, and of course mine was silver and Jones' ribbon was bronze colored. Since around 35 girls entered, I was mighty flattered winning second prize. I never put it on any job resumes, however.

At the ceremony, we were all three asked to flash the assembled men, so they could see our boobs in the flesh, so to speak. We were warned of this beforehand, so none of us wore bras. We just lifted our tops, jiggled our boobs and giggled. I ended up doing this several times. So too did the others. We didn't think much of it, since the fraternity brothers had been looking at pictures of our naked bodies for weeks already.

At the after party, I got drunk, as did Jones, and towards the end we were both flashing frequently, and letting all comers feel our boobs. Mine were sore for a few days after, and I became a minor celebrity. It felt like every man in the fraternity tried to date me, and Jones experienced the same. When it comes to enjoying a girl's great boobs, fraternity men are equal opportunity gropers, it seems.

I could relate my adventures immediately following the contest, but it might suffice to say I could have handled it better. Jones did a much better job than I did. I found that I was a girl who had trouble saying no. This is not a good way to be, after having won second place in a contest for best boobs.

It seemed like every man in the fraternity wanted to date me. As word spread about my "accomplishment," lots of men not in the fraternity also wanted to date me. This was dangerous, because after the memorable sex with Neil in the New York hotel room, I wanted sex all the time. Also, I just did not want to disappoint the men, who earnestly tried to show me a good time, each and every one of them, but then they also wanted sex in exchange, each and every one of them.

I ended up, of course, letting them all undress me above the waist, and they all -- every single one -- loved playing with my boobs. I figured that's why they were dating me. It was not due to me, Jane Baccarelli, and my sparkling personality. No, it was due to my status as having the second-best boobs on campus.

It did not surprise me, however, that they were also interested in my other principal feature, the one below my waist, which lubricated at the speed of light, it seemed. Kiss me well, and I would get wet. If you cannot kiss well, then fondle my boobs the right way and I would get wet. If you can't do either, finger me nicely, and I would get wet. If you can't even do that, well my friend, you are just shit out of luck. Go back to the fraternity and take a course on remedial seduction techniques. I'll just bet they offer such a course, too. It's a college, after all. It's all about learning, right?

I knew that I simply could not fuck every man who came after me. Imagine what would have happened if I had! No, that was not realistic. I needed a way to control the demand for my sexual favors. I became inspired by my probability and statistics class. I was taking it to satisfy my math distributional requirement, and I came up with a truly original application of probability. I was tempted to tell the professor (who, after all, was quite cute and sexy, at least to my eyes) of my creative use of probability theory, but of course I did not.

I hate math, but the college required me to take some science. Everyone raved about the probability and statistics class taught by Professor Stevenson, and when I saw the professor, I thought I knew why. I could imagine going to class just to gaze dreamily at him. Actually though, he taught a wonderful class, and I learned a lot despite myself.

In Professor Stevenson's class, we were using the free computer high level language known as "R," it being a rip off of the expensive language known as "S." I kid you not. I used the random number generator of R before each date. If it gave me a 5 or a 7, and if the man could kiss well, or fondle my boobs well, or finger me well, then he got to fuck me as much as he wanted. If R gave me any other number than 5 or 7, he had to stay above the waist. I made no exceptions, since in reality, I actually wanted to fuck all of the men.

The range of the generator was the integers 0, 1,2,3...,9; so, 5 and 7 were two numbers out of the possible 10. Consequently, I ended up fucking only around 20% of the men who dated me. I felt this was a respectable percentage. I was careful never to make exceptions, because damn it all, I wanted to fuck every single man who took me out. I knew this was not normal. Thank goodness for my random number generator!

When I got a 5 or a 7, I showed the lucky man the sexual romp of his life. Nothing was off limits. He could fuck me as much as he wanted, spend the night and fuck me the next morning, even invite his friends over to watch, although that last item never happened, unless you count a roommate. It was only a fantasy of mine. I asked for nothing, I just gave the man what he wanted. I gave and gave and gave, until he was thoroughly sated. In contrast, I was never sated, it seemed to me.

Most of the men did not realize I was up for all different kinds of kinky sex, and they just wanted straight missionary position sex. That was therefore what they got. In contrast, I was hyper turned on, knowing what they could have had, if only they had had the imagination, and the desire.

Most of the men just wanted a sexual conquest, and I was happy to play the role of the sexually conquered. They wanted to brag how they had laid me. They'd also tell stories about how gloriously I fucked. I know, because I heard all about it. Some men, however, fell for me. That's when things became tricky.

I was not ready to have a steady boyfriend, but I was also not ready to hurt these men. I loved them in some sense, all of them. I tried telling the men that I loved them, too, but I did not want to be theirs exclusively, and that I wanted to date other men, too. That went nowhere, fast. This was simply not an acceptable concept for the men. One guy stopped being able to get it up, when he thought about how the previous night I had slept with a different guy. I did not want to ghost them; I thought that was cruel, but I needed to get rid of them, somehow.

I ended up using the lesson Neil had inadvertently taught me. I told the men I loved them, but I wanted a vacation from sex. Instead, we should have fun together, and enjoy each other's company. Reactions were different. Some men would argue, some would beg, and some would pretend to be accepting, but all would eventually dump me, and of course that is what I wanted them to do.

One reaction was truly not good. The man in question, whose name was Bill Simons, got so angry that he beat me up. I was black and blue, and very sore. I still went to classes, but I looked as if I had just walked away from a near fatal traffic accident. One of my eyes was swollen shut, and while I could walk, I could only do it if I limped. Everyone noticed. When people asked, I told everyone the truth: Bill Simons did this to me when I refused to have sex with him. I just said it, as a matter of fact.

Bill Simons became a pariah. My girlfriends wanted me to press charges, but I felt making Bill a persona non-grata on campus was punishment enough for him, and my role in it had been doing nothing but telling the truth, and only when asked. I knew people wanted to know if he had raped me, or if he had tried to rape me. Everyone's minds work in the gutter. I simply kept quiet on that score, and I told nobody about what, if anything, happened sexually. I'm not even going to tell it here. I know what happened, and Bill knows too, and we both have to live it.