NOTE: For adults.
It started in sixth grade. That's when my boobies started swelling. No other girl in my class had any breasts at all, but there mine were, and they seemed to get bigger every day.
"Sherry's only twelve, but she looks about twenty in some places," said one of the boys. "If you know what I mean."
And I did, too. Boys and girls called me cow-names, like "Bossy" and "Elsie". Later, they moved onto things like "Chesty" and "Miss Hooters". I hated it until about eighth grade. That's when boys figured out what to do with them.
But you know what? I almost liked it better in sixth grade, when everybody talked about my boobies. At least they didn't pretend they weren't there! All through high school, that's what guys did. They loved feeling them through my sweater, and later, sucking them naked in the back of the car. But they never, ever talked about them. At least not to my face.
The girls, either. Oh, I know they talked about them when I WASN'T there. "Can you believe that Sherry?" they'd snap. "She thinks she can just point those big knockers at any guy she wants!"
Well, I could. They just didn't like to be reminded of that fact.
But when they were around me. "Hi, Sherry, how are you?" Not looking at my chest, not making comments... I suppose it was more... well, polite.
But it's less honest!
In adult life, it was the same. My big boobs enhanced my social life, sure, but my boyfriends pretended it was a secret. Even the guy I was currently seeing, Jerry... I know how much he loves my titties, but it's not from what he says. It's only from what he does when we're in bed. To hear him talk, you might think I was a double A-cup. I didn't get it.
And the same was true of my girlfriends! The less-endowed NEVER made any reference to them, and any friends with comparable chests would talk about them the way you would eccentric relatives. If you don't talk about them, maybe they'll go away.
"Well, you know, girls like us can't wear tops like that."
Girls like us? Why won't you just say girls with big tits?
So all that fed into how I felt about my big breasts. I liked them--I thought. But I understood that they made many people uncomfortable. Everyone seemed to prefer to pretend they weren't even there.
Until last Tuesday.
Tuesday, all of that changed.
Now maybe it was because of what I wore. Nearly all of my bras were in the wash--except that one Jerry bought for me. No, it wasn't a sexy one...at least it wasn't supposed to be. Jerry just thought he might buy me a bra one Christmas, along with my other gifts. Naturally, he was too embarassed to ask me my size, so he tried to check a bra in my drawer and get me one the same size as that. It was really kinda sweet. But as luck would have it, he checked my 'cleavage' bra. The one I wore on those rare occasions that I go to a party, with a low-cut gown. Whenever I do, I want to sort of 'spill' over the top, so I wear a bra that's a little small. I squeeze my triple Ds into a regular D. And that's the bra that I pulled out of the drawer. An ordinary white bra...but two cup sizes too small. I put it on and covered it with what would have been a fairly modest white top with a slight scoop neck and a pair of tight white jeans that showed off my bottom and slim waist. I looked at myself in the mirror.
"Damn, Sherry," I said out loud. "You got yourself some big tits."
Well, it's a fact, and it can't be helped. I sighed and left my apartment on my way to work. So far, a Tuesday like any other Tuesday, really.
"Miss Sherry, you lookin' good," said the doorman at my apartment building.
I grinned. "Thank you, Donald," I said politely, and my good mood probably made me stick out my chest a little. Maybe. And maybe not.
I walked out the door and headed for the bus stop. Construction workers on a site across the street started hooting and clapping. I'd heard it before, but this time, it seemed different. Usually I hear stuff like "Looking good!" and "Yo, mama!" Today, it was more specific.
"Hey, Big Tits!"
"Bounce those suckers over this way!"
"Shake those milk jugs, baby!"
I wasn't sure how I felt about this kind of admiration. But I went on my way.
The bus driver opened the door for me, and his eyes immediately focused on my chest. I bent over a little to get the fare from my purse and he began to sweat...even drool a bit. His eyes never left my bust. I think I even caught him casually fingering his crotch as I handed him the money.
As I walked into the bus looking for a seat, a young man leaped up and offered me his.
