Okay so because I am asked constantly, yes, what I am about to share is true. It really happened only the names are changed. I'll go by Brittany.
For years I was what most people would consider the stereotypical, conservative, career mom. My husband was a professional, my son did well in school. I have a semi-public career in education. It was perfect; right up until it wasn't. Right up until the divorce. Maybe it was a mid-life crisis, maybe it was just that he is a male, but in cringeworthy conventional manner, he fell for a younger woman. Suddenly I was alone at 37.
I don't know why I did it. It was certainly a reaction. I don't like to admit that maybe I was changing myself to look more like "her" but whatever the reason I decided that a complete makeover would make everything right. I changed my hair color. Being of half Italian heritage, I went from light brunette to stark blonde. I changed the style to something fuller and let it grow longer. And I visited a plastic surgeon. Without going into too many details I had decided to go... big. I could blame the surgeon a little for the magnitude, but ultimately the decision was mine. Oh sure, he did mention that with the slight weight gain since my son -- I am 116 -- and even being short -- I'm 5-3 -- I could carry off going quite big, that is going from a small c cup to a DD/E was something I didn't oppose. It was only after I had undergone the whole transformation and returned to work and saw the reaction of both men -- think very long psychologically undressing stares -- and women -- judgment and catty smirks -- that I realized the mistake I had made. By then, though, it was already done.
In a matter of weeks, I went from the sort of drunken headiness of reshaping my looks to being self-conscious that I looked like "Maybe she's contemplating a career change that involves dancing on a pole or popping out of a cake" as one secretary said when she didn't know I could hear. Suddenly, I was actually trying to downplay my "makeover" by buying suppressing and minimizing blouses and bras.
At the same time I was also starting back into the world of online dating. I spent a lot of time swiping right and left and found to my surprise that in the 14 years since I got married, how people interacted romantically had changed a lot. For the longest time I was hesitant. I chatted with a few men. I met a couple, but for the most part I found that I was being extremely safe in terms of challenging romance and the feelings I had were very fairly neutral and placid. Then I met Rod.
It was his expression in his online picture that did it. It had a look of, I don't know, mischievousness, I guess that piqued my interest. I sent him a message and to my surprise and delight, less than 5 minutes later, he replied or so I thought. When I looked at it though I realized that it wasn't a response. He had simultaneously, electively reached out to me too. It was immediately flattered, delighted, and hooked. I mean, I thought it just had to be more than a coincidence, right. So we started to chat and even through the impersonal mechanism of a screen, something very intriguing happened. I became, despite my denial, instantly infatuated.
Within days we were talking on the phone, and by the end of the week, we had a real date. It was amazing. He was exactly as I had hoped, charming, attractive, funny, imaginative, and just obvious enough as he couldn't stop sneaking glances at my chest that I felt a red hot arousal that I had forgotten as even possible. Still, to his credit, when we did kiss, despite a very obvious erection he didn't try anything more. I'll confess I was a little disappointed, but to his greater credit -- as I would soon learn -- he was playing a longer game.
Another date and a week later, I was at home watching a football game. I am a huge fan of UGA. I mean why shouldn't I be? It is my alma mater. The Dawgs were winning, of course, Rod and I were talking on the phone when he made a suggestion that ultimately would change everything. He suggested a bet on the outcome. I lost I would do exactly what he said, and if he lost he would do exactly what I said. I never in my wildest dreams thought it would be anything more than loser cooks dinner, or maybe one of us would get naked in front of the other, something as benign as that.
I was so wrong.
The end came and we lost and with a chuckle he said, "Okay time to pay up."
I looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight.
"Now?" I said.
"Mmm hmmm," he crooned.
I sighed. "Okay what do you want me to do?" In a kind of concerned way I felt like some suggestive selfie might be in my future. I readied myself to protest.
That's when he dropped the bomb on me.
"Okay, here's what you have to do. Meet me out on front of your house in 30 minutes, wearing"--he paused for effect--"just a sweatsuit, running shoes, and socks. That's it."
So I am going to have to flash him or something, I thought. I was okay with that.
Still, I protested a little. I sputtered and argued. I mean, really, outside? It wasn't completely without some risk of embarrassment.
He laughed at my futile response and in a simultaneously unnerving and irresistible way, just said, "do it, Brittany." Then he hung up.
I'll confess, getting naked -- I mean I guess I should describe what I saw in the mirror- all 5-3 116 of me, blonde and hazel eyed, with my 32E boobs and their medium large slightly tannish areolas and thick knobby nipples, slight tummy, full hips and fluffy, dark brown, very trimmed bush (shave under) and REDface -- I felt a sense of complete surrender of my façade of control. By the time I was out in the driveway of my nice gated community neighborhood home, I was feeling a sense of both indecency and embarrassment. And yet, my nipples were standing out from my big, heavy, obviously braless tits under the pink cotton warm up top.
I didn't have too long to think about it, because just about the second that I was ready to run back into the house and call him to say I couldn't do it, whatever it was, he pulled up in his car. He looked me over and grinned.
"Well done," he said with a kind of musically delighted enthusiasm.
I blushed even more furiously.
"Get in," he said.
As much to be out of the public eye, even though it was almost 1 am now -- I did as he said.
He looked right at my chest and smirked. "Oh my God," he half groaned.
A surge of embarrassment went through me and I reflexively folded my arms across my boobs.
"Uh uh, don't do that," he chided.
I almost involuntarily uncrossed. Already it was like I was losing control or something.
"You know, I dated a woman once who had implants. She got them big, just like you, under the muscle," he said.
I looked shocked.
"You know how I know you did too?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"When they are that big... they tend to settle and hang some."
He had used the same term my surgeon had and he was right It had been a year and an half and they had slightly sagged from sheer weight so that they moved and wobble when I didn't have a bra on.
