All of my stories I've submitted so far, have been inspired primarily by something I've read on Literotica in either stories or comments. This is my first one where the inspiration came from conversations I'd had throughout the years.
I like to write stories for this site that are different in some way from other stories I've read here. I don't know that I'm always successful, since I certainly haven't read every story. When I do write it though, it's at least novel in some way to me. I have no interest at the moment in writing a version too similar to something I've already read, since the only reason I can think of for doing that would be to write a better version of that story. I'm not delusional enough to think I could pull it off.
While the stories I write deal with common themes and tropes addressed by other writers, my goal is to do something with those differently enough that it feels like a fresh approach at least to me, and hopefully to others. It was after I got the idea for this one that I realized the catalyst for the events in this story was one I hadn't run into before.
For readers who've read my other stuff, you can expect the usual this time around as well. For new readers, a little suspension of disbelief goes a long way to increasing your enjoyment of what I write. To both sets, I hope you find something to like.
If you'd asked me to describe my life/marriage/family one year ago, and are expecting me to say it was "perfect," that was not my life. I'd have called it "great," but not some upper-middle class model of perfection. I had a great wife, a good income, and two kids that were healthy and usually happy. But perfect? No.
Who gets perfect? No matter how good things are, there are complaints. My two sons, Luke and Christopher
are
good kids, but they were a handful. At the time "The Conversation" took place, they were both teenagers. "Handful" became "Hellspawn" in my darker moments after a bad day. Not anything to be bothered about.
In southern small town New Jersey, it's an acceptable way of letting off steam. It's just how we talk here. The more we rib someone, the more we love them. It's people who are nice to you here that really don't give a shit about you.
I own my own business, but that is as much a nightmare as a dream at times. I live in a small town with all the benefits that come from that, as well as all the distractions that come from that. My wife was the most "perfect" part. Yet not even that was perfect. We had spats. We didn't always see eye to eye. However we always went to bed together and woke up next to each other. I really had no serious complaints and I don't think she had either.
It's odd how you never recognize at the time the seemingly minor thing that has dramatic consequences down the road. It's only with hindsight you realize that one of those key moments had ramifications not recognized then. Mine came after the kids were in bed and Brenda and I were relaxing with a bottle of wine. Then out of the blue, the bomb dropped.
"Honey, how would you feel if I got breast enhancement surgery?"
There wasn't any part of our conversation leading up to that. In fact, I don't remember what the conversation we were having actually was. It was a total surprise.
The first thought that went through my head was, "Here there be dragons." This was a potential trap like, "Do these pants make me look fat?" Or, "Do you think my sister's attractive?"
My wife, previously Brenda Benson until she took my family name of
Lykaios
, was cursed with a flat chest. I don't mean small boobs, I mean ... she didn't need to wear a bra. The only reason she did was to keep those attention-seeking nipples from poking out. She had pokers. Do I like boobs? Hell yeah! Under the circumstances though, I felt, "Hell yeah!" was not a response that would go over well.
There was no question of being able to afford it. We had the money.
I didn't grow up exactly poor, but my family never had the money to spend on luxuries that I do, and by extension my own nuclear family does. I made my own modest fortune. My secret? Choosing a career that paid well. I became a dentist. While we're not rich, we go on vacations wherever we want, the kids are in private school, and we live in a neighborhood where you can forget to lock your door and not be overly concerned about it. All this, while still putting away enough for a decent retirement.
Sipping my wine I said, "Honey, I think you're perfect just the way you are."
Apparently I gave a good answer. "I know that honey. Even after all these years, you still look at me in a way no other man does. Still, I notice when we're on the beach, a pair of big boobs gets your attention."
I knew she'd noticed that. She'd given me an elbow a time or two. I hadn't thought it had bothered her. "Brenda, you are the love of my life. Boobs are to a man what a laser pointer is to a cat. It's a response wired into us, we can't control where our eyes go. They just go there. I'm sorry if you ever had the thought I loved you any less. Don't feel you have to do this for me."
She put her hand on my knee. "I don't want you to feel embarrassed love, or that I ever resented it. I get it. You're a man, men like boobs, and you are one Hell of a man." She paused while I grinned. It wasn't that she was shy with compliments, she wasn't. They are still always nice to hear. She continued, "Vincent, I'd be doing this for me."
I knew then this wasn't a lighthearted conversation. She mostly calls me "Vince" or "honey," but
never
says "Vincent" unless she's putting me on alert that this is a serious discussion. I don't know if she's aware of it or not. Okay, she's a woman. She's obviously aware of it. I sipped my wine again, to stall while I was considering how to navigate through this minefield. "Honey, I'll support whatever you want. I love you." That seemed safe.
She beamed at me. "I know it sounds like vanity, but you have no idea how a woman with a flat chest gets treated. Men and women just perceive you as less feminine. I'm still asked what sports I played in high school and college."
Given encouragement, I respond with more confidence. "Honey, I do cosmetic dentistry all the time. I do braces, implants, whitening, you don't have to rationalize it. If you want this, or if you don't want this, I'm in your corner." That said, I was thinking,
please want this
.
She took my hand. "I heard it all in high school. I was president of the 'itty bitty titty committee'. People would see my bra straps and ask, if I had no hands would I wear gloves? I heard it all."
I'd heard this before. She seemed to feel it necessary to reiterate it. So I just gave her a supportive look.
"My initials were BB, so people called me Beebe, but that became BBs. It was meant as a knock on my lack of boobs. People would actually look at my chest as they said it and smile, thinking they were getting away with a joke at my expense. It couldn't have been more obvious."
Once again I took a sip of my wine while squeezing her hand, "Honey, high school can be a cruel time. I fell in love with the you you were when I met you. I'll love you the same no matter what your body looks like. If this is what you want, I want it for you."
I did mean that. I was also hoping that me saying so, wouldn't make her cancel her plans. I needn't have worried.
"Thank you Vince, your support means everything to me."
We kissed, then just discussed the details. I didn't get crazy sex that night, just good cuddling. We did have children in the house after all. Still, it was as intimate a snuggle as we'd had in a while. I felt good about the whole evening.
Life happened, as it does, while we went forward with scheduling this new thing in our lives. She had to schedule time off from work, I had to make sure I was available in case there were any complications, and I was going to have to keep the demons from putting pressure on their mother during that time. That part was the hardest, she was clearly their favorite parent. I'm not complaining. She has a measure of patience I don't. I like a certain amount of order, teenage boys are chaos.
After working out the logistics, she went in for surgery. Our small hamlet doesn't have a plastic surgeon, but Philadelphia is a short drive away. Many people who live in our residence commute there for work. Our neighborhood may be well-off, but most people make their money somewhere else. I was one of the exceptions.
I could have spent some time in the city and just waited for a phone call when it was finished, but I stayed in the waiting room the whole time. It was similar to when she was in labor. Sure, she was giving birth to boobs, but I felt like being there was important.
When she came out, there was a very noticeable change. She didn't go for anything gargantuan, she had picked boobs appropriate to a person of her height. There was no way I couldn't notice, but that was not the time to ogle. We had both read the literature about what to expect, so I wasn't horny and am absolutely certain she wasn't. What I did was took her home and let her have her recovery and adjustment period. I was on my best husband behavior.
I was very patient. The surgeon had made it clear there was to be no sex for two weeks. After two weeks, we could be careful. Any pawing of the boobs would have to wait until four weeks after that. I had the date circled on a calendar. That calendar was in our kitchen, and when the kids asked what that was for, I responded with, "That's the day you'll be out of the house."
"Why Dad?," Luke asked a moment before Christopher.
