He Just Wanted to Play with My Tits

I am starting this story, if it is a story, in no particular place. That's because I have no particular story. Take your chances.

I am starting with something I think about, once in a while, but it happened a decade and a half ago.

I am sitting in the living room of our two-bedroom suite at college, my sophomore year. It's a college in Providence, Rhode Island, that used to be a loftily exclusive women's co-ordinate college, but now, pursuing the worship of "equality," it has been integrated with the men's college, one big happy university.

If I don't start this story pronto, I will have no readers left.

My roommate was out, our little living room was warm and well lighted. I was on the divan beside a guy who came to see my roommate. When I had answered the door, I really smiled. A tall, lanky New England prep-school boy—not a rare species at the men's college. He had "WASPish good looks," as we said, then. And he seemed so happy and expectant.

When I told him that Kathy was out, he wilted like tomato plant at noon in August, sagged; I almost could see his leaves brushing the floor.

"Was she expecting you?" I asked. You have to say something. I am a woman at a well-bred college; I have manners. I cannot act like an Italian landlady in the South Bronx. No offense.

"No," he said, decisively, absolute rejection of my suggestion. Then, normally, "No, I dropped by."

"Kathy isn't here. The Rock, I think"—that was our library.

He nodded. He did not leave. He was casing me, though, I was sure, though with some class. I am a little tall, lanky like him, short black hair, bangs, brown eyes. My best asset is my legs, long, pale, nice shape. I dress to show them off. Otherwise, my butt is compact, my breasts, at least I think, are beautiful, but even under a T-shirt with no bra no one notices them. Too small. I've always been cute, people say, like an elf, when I was little, and now a Parisian gamin, flashing long bare legs on the margins of an Impressionist painting, maybe by Courbet.

By now, I am talking to myself, I know. Everyone has gone off looking for nudes of Polish girls with immemorial chests.

I said, when he didn't move, "Well come in." Maybe I wanted to see if a tomato plant could walk. I gestured at the divan. I am a cultivated woman; this is adult life; there is the hospitality reputation of the women's co-ordinate college to uphold.

He came in and sat down. Was I decent? No. I had come back from my run around College Hill, out to the athletic field, around it four times, and back. My sweat pants and zippered top were mauve; I wore nothing under them. I am too firm to jounce. I don't mind the slight titillation as I run when my bare nipples rub against the sweat suit; anything to relieve the boredom of jogging.

"Kathy should be back," I said, trying to be encouraging. I checked my watch. Almost 10:00 p.m. Would Kathy want this guy waiting for her? My guess: yes. Preppy, good-looking, athletic sort of, and one sad puppy with corn-tassel blond hair and blue eyes. Kathy was the busty, blonde babe with the big heart, big boobs, big smile. She wouldn't turn away the janitor. Sorry, catty remark.

I had been about to open a bottle of chardonnay and start on my Greek and Roman Literature reading. You can't have everything. "May I offer you white wine?" I asked with a tight smile.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah," and heaved himself up off the divan with a really heroic effort and held out his hand. "Brandon Mayberry," he said. Did I giggle? I did not. Did I say, "Brandon? Mayberry? Are you kidding?" I did not.

I held out my small, well-manicured hand, smiled into his yes, and said, "Ellen Melville."

"Oh, like Herman?"

"I'm from Long Island. I'll open the wine." I turned to our galley kitchen. He followed. He opened the wine. He poured just two thirds of each glass; a born waiter. Or maybe his summer job.

We went back and flopped onto the couch. Now, I can fast forward, here, skipping our conversation about classes, nice Kathy, running, and hanging out at Faunce House and reading the Wall Street Journal between classes—not me, but he seemed to have investments. And the nine-foot Kodiak bear in Faunce, in the glass display case, and how he has such a tiny penis for such a big bear.

But let me skip that. Because whenever I get to the point, you will be skeptical, at least until I explain.

Brandon Mayberry. His accent, whatever it was, maybe an East Greenwich sneer, was bewitching. I never felt strained for conversation; he served like a gentleman, directly to my racket. But he was staring. Staring at my chest. It isn't as though I would have minded at all, really, if I thought I had anything at which to stare. What was disturbing, nettling, really, was the ladylike question: "What the fuck are you staring at, asshole? There is nothing there."

I know that my lean, pretty face became frosty. I know that my pretty though not especially full lips became tight. I know that I sat back on the divan as though on the Space Mountain ride in Disney World. Christ, I'm dating myself.

And then, with a sophisticated twitch of his eyebrows, Brandon cocked his head, still staring, and asked, in the most reasonable way, "Would it really kill you to take out your tits and let me fondle them while we have a drink?" His smile never wavered.

What? What did you say, you moron? Get your ass out of here...

But I did not say that. My face, I imagine, froze stiff. But I thought: He really noticed my breasts? He wants to fondle them? He must be a serial killer, of course. But he isn't, he is a preppy from Phillips Andover—he had told me—a preppy with a lanky body, and corn tassel hair, and, well, God knows what all else he has...

"I should slap your face, for that," I said, cold. Actually, not coldly, I said it with big shit-eating grin.

"I'm asking for what I really want, Ellen. For what I crave. I think that if pleasure doesn't hurt anyone, it's always good. I'm a sexual positive."

I will explain later what that phrase "sexual positive" meant to me. I had heard of it from my friend, Pink Snow.

I smiled ever-so-casually, shrugged my shoulders, and reached for the zipper. Holding his gaze, smiling, I drew it down. Very grateful about no bra and not having to fumble with all that.

The zipper down, I gave a shrug, and my whole front down to my belly button was bare. What did he see? Well, very white skin with just the occasional very small brown mole. And my twisted-smile belly button. And my fine abdominal definition, for sure. And, of course, the main attraction, my 32 C-cup breasts, well-spaced—no enchanting décolletage—perfect hillocks with geometrically precise round nipples, and tits by this time, you can imagine, straight out.

I sighed, picked up my glass of chardonnay, leaned back in the divan, subtly pushed out my breasts, and closed my eyes. Well, he had said it. So fondle.

Of course, if he had said, "Okay, that's the way, right?" I would have punched him right in the mouth. Or maybe snatched the bottle of chardonnay and clubbed his nuts till he screamed like a banshee. I am not necessarily a nice girl.

But he didn't. He said—breathed, really—almost sobbed--"Oh, you're so, so lovely, so sexy, I'm glad I lost my head and asked you...I just knew..."

What crap. I almost died of enchantment. I couldn't believe this shoe salesman from East Greenwich, or wherever. I already was in love—love—with him. Oh, God, I prayed, kiss my tits...please, Brandon Mayberry, snap on my bait...

And he did. I gave one violent start as I felt his lips, then settled back with the longest deflating breath on record. I almost fell asleep. I only know that I pushed out my boobs for him. I, Ellen Melville, had breasts that Brandon Mayberry craved... Every suck and lick, every tug and tickle, shot like a BB to my clit. Brandon licked up there, I jerked down there. Brandon tugged up top, and down below my hips convulsed 10 inches higher.

And then, I had an image. Like the first time. You hear about a dish called onion soup and you want it.

Prick. I had heard of it, of course. Where do you think, I'm from Yemen? Heard of it. But now, I tried to picture it. I just knew I wanted it, wanted it in my hand—no further than that, just now. I reached out, my eyes closed, groping for the lower Brandon Mayberry.

My fingertips felt denim. I brushed my hand down. Wrong way. Up. Yes. Oh, my God. It was a rocky outcropping just below the surface. It was huge. Although, actually, how would I know? It's crazy how I wanted it. I rubbed, I squeezed, I dug. I had no idea what IT wanted.

I heard Brandon say, in a husky voice. "Okay, Ellen. Yes."

And a moment later, "Here...I love you.... I love you."

My critical faculties were anesthetized. He could have said, "You are queen for a day, all the appliances you want," and I would have swooned.

It was so hot. I could feel a pulse in it. I swear to God, my whole body was in a blender, whipping around, all stirred up. I didn't know my tits from my toenails.

I seized his prick. I had no idea how big they got. It filled my hand and more. What the fuck to do with it? I wanted it so badly I almost wept, but I didn't know what I wanted. Something, for sure. I jerked my hand up and down, but I was frustrated.

Meanwhile, Brandon had departed from my tits. His hand was in my panties, down in the great virgin lands. Just the fact that a hand, not mine, had slid over my pubic hair, actually not very thick or heavy, freaked me. But his fingers were inside me. All was lost. I was ruined. I wanted more.

More. I opened my eyes. To see his prick. It was huge or so it seemed to me. Its head was twice as big, raspberry red, silky smooth, now glistening with...what?

I simply heaved my body over, a flip, and my face was right there. "Oh," he moaned, a drawn-out cry. I was on the right track. I snapped his big red dick in my mouth; I could feel throbs. Not that I could do much with this dick, since I had it from the side, like a puppy carrying a bone.

Hey, everyone has to learn.

Fingers inside me, even though my body twisted, folded at my belly. Still, his hand was down there making me a crazy woman. My belly was as though a high voltage wire was jammed up there. I was flinging around, crazy.

I did know one word, though, and roughly what it meant.

So I straightened my body, now, which had managed to get stark naked, from my bangs down to my pretty nail-polished toe nails. I straightened it, so my hips even ejected his beloved forefinger, and I flopped myself back on the divan, and demanded, "Fuck me. Now. Fuck."

Very lady like. A shy virginal request from my modest lips. Nope. But, by then, I didn't care. You suck my tits, you frig my clit, you finger my pussy, you deal with what you get. Even as I demanded a fuck, my hand went out, groping for him. It must have been terrifying. Like Harpy claws seeking his parts. But my eyes were closed.

One experienced, carefully controlled small slap on my inner thigh and a commanding voice, "Spread'em." I spread them. If he had taken more than five seconds, I would have yowled at him like a cat in heat.

But he didn't. It slid in. I yelped, of course, and he stopped. My hand vaguely slid down to my pussy as though to stop him. Then, I had figured it out. I closed my eyes tight and murmured, "Okay. Now is okay."

I gave a cry. It wasn't so bad.

And then it was wonderful. I was weeping, blubbering, but I didn't care. I was flinging up my hips like a wanton. And I didn't care. And then, I was panting "Doitdoitdoitdoit..."

And eons later, or maybe at 10:45, I opened my eyes, blinked, and looked up right into Kathy's sweet, broad, smiling face, as she stood looking down, books and notebooks still under her arm, back from the library. No Brandon. Me stark-naked on the couch. Christ, all that stickiness down in my pussy hair. I yelped as though waking from a dream of falling from 1,500 feet into the ocean, my heart pounding. Bloody, bloody, bloody Ellen, WHAT had I done, this time?

"It's okay, Sweets." Kathy sitting on the edge of the divan, hips just touching mine. Her palm on my bare chest, between my breasts, gently pushing me down. "It's all okay, Sweets."

Was I a box of chocolates? Still struggling. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, Brandon came..."

"Did he ever." More delighted giggles. "I know, Sweets, I told him."

"What...?"

Giggles turning to laughter, the big, pretty, blond face so frigging NICE, so LOVING. "You really needed it, huh?" Checking out my patch, down there, with too much hair gel.

Oh, fuck it, Ellen. Give it up.

I flopped back on the divan, closed my eyes. "Did I ever."

OMG, I never told you about "sexual positives." Well, look it up in Wikipedia. Sorry.