Monday:
"Geez," my brother said to me one morning, over a milkshake. "You sure are lucky..."
"Why's that?"
My brother Marty and I had never been super close, but lately we'd been hanging out pretty much every morning. I think it's the milkshakes - a couple of weeks ago, Marty got this machine that makes milkshakes. You wouldn't think that making a good milkshake would be hard, but the first few he made were somehow revolting. It's milk and flavor, right? How badly can you screw that up?
After a while though, something clicked, and he he
really
got the hang of it. I'm not kidding when I say that Marty's Milkshakes are the single best milkshakes that I've ever tasted. They're delicious, and each morning we both get up before school and he makes me a milkshake.
We've been using that time to hang out and shoot the shit. He's a good guy, Marty - two years older than me (I'm eighteen, he's twenty), but he's never been the dickhead older brother. We'd always just sort of lived our own lives, up until he got his magnificent milkshake machine.
Now? I guess we're friends. I've been telling him more and more stuff about my life, and he's been advising me...not in an over-the-top or patronising way, but just brotherly older advice. It's been super nice: I really trust him.
"Well," he said, strangely hesitant. "It's just..."
"What is it, Marty?"
"You're lucky that your tits aren't bigger."
I scoffed at that, but then saw that he wasn't joking.
"...why?"
Now it was his turn to scoff.
"Are you telling me...you haven't heard of the Big Tits Theory?"
The Big Tits Theory, according to my brother, was simple. In fact, more than simple - it was fundamental. He said it was a basic human fact: the bigger a girl's tits, the more slutty she is.
Of course I thought he was kidding, but as he went on, he managed to convince me more and more...he'd really thought this one through.
Girls with A-cups, like me, were...well, prudes. Not sexually charged, rarely sexually active, and if we did get with a guy, it would be for a reason other than sex. Like a lot of the women in Game of Thrones - they'd sleep with men so that they could have children, or power, or for protection...but they never just did it because they were horny.
And though I'd obviously never discuss this with my brother, his theory was pretty solid so far. I'd never fooled around with anyone - I was a capital-V virgin. And, honestly, I've never really felt the urge to. I mean, it would be nice to find a guy who liked you, and maybe hold hands and kiss and all that, but sex? That was grown-up stuff.
I'd heard my friends talking about masturbation and boys going down on them, and it had all...well, it had all sounded pretty gross, to be honest.
B-cup was a "normal girl" he said, not even realizing the insult in his word-choice. They got urges, they masturbated, and maybe if they were in a long-term relationship, they'd fool around. C-cup was (again, his words) like "girl PLUS". They were often horny, and it wasn't super hard to get to second or third base.
D-cups, though...according to my brother, they were the motherlode. D-cups were the kind of girls who go out on the town, looking for one-night stands. If you make eye-contact the right way, they instinctively fall to their knees and their mouths pop open...you know the girls who hang around bands all the time, groupies? They're almost exclusively made-up of D-cup girls.
"And so," he'd said, finishing the last of his milkshake, "little sis - you are extremely lucky that you're...well."
He'd gestured to my chest, and I'd glared at him while slowly sipping the milkshake that he'd made me.
"I mean, if you were any other girl, I'd want you to be a C or higher. But my little sister...believe me, I wouldn't have you any other way. You're what, a B?"
"An A," I'd replied quietly, almost embarrassed to admit it. Let's face it, no girl likes being flat-chested.
"Oh," he said sympathetically. "Well...don't worry about it. You're only 18...maybe you're just a late bloomer?"
Yeah right,
I'd thought, and gone upstairs to change for school. Looking in the mirror, I'd sighed. An A-cup. Doomed to a life of never wanting sex. The "A" could just as easily have stood for "asexual".
I shook my head - what was I worrying about? Marty probably didn't even know what he was talking about. "Big Tits Theory"...utter bunk.
But on the way to school, I started thinking about it, and I couldn't think of a single example to prove him wrong...all of the sluts in my grade: Cindy, Stella, Ruth...they were also the girls with the biggest tits.
Sure, that could have been coincidence, or it could have been self-selecting (girls with big tits get more attention, and so they just have more opportunity to fool around)...but my brother's theory held up across the whole spectrum. One of my friends I knew for a fact was a B-cup, and she'd only slept with her boyfriend after they'd been together for more than a year. Or Margaret - she was a large C, and she'd only been with Tom for a few weeks when they'd "done the deed".
Staring out across the cafeteria at lunch, I wondered if my brother was right. Had he cracked the female code? In terms of evolution it certainly made sense...it would totally explain why guys always went for the girls with the biggest boobs - because they're the easiest lays.
That night, I wanted to ask Marty a few more questions about it, but he was out on a date. I only saw her briefly, but his wink told me everything I needed to know...
He was going out with a D-cup.
Big Tits Theory
by Pan
Tuesday:
"Oh my god!" I said, for the second time that morning. "This milkshake is amazing!"
"Thanks," Marty replied with a grin. "I'm trying some new stuff. Can you taste the cinnamon?"
I nodded, even though I couldn't. It all blended together in a perfect combination of tastes - there could have been cinnamon in there, but I'd never have picked it out from the blend of everything else.
My nod caused an unfamiliar sensation on my chest, but I tried not to focus on it as I sipped Marty's latest amazing concoction.
That morning, when I'd woken up, my nipples had been strangely sensitive. They weren't sore, exactly, but there was something strange. It wasn't until I looked in the mirror that my eyes had boggled, and I'd sworn in shock.
Somehow, overnight...my boobs had grown.
I reached up and pinched them - not only had they grown, but for the first time, I understood why women let men suck on them! I wasn't rolling around on the floor with pleasure or anything like that, but the right sensations, the right touch...I could totally see myself getting off on this.
Getting off...my eyes widened as it dawned on me what this meant. I was...well, I couldn't tell, not without measuring, but...I was pretty sure that I was a B-cup! And according to my brother's theory, that meant...
I looked around to make sure that no one was watching - a strange thing for a teenage girl to do, alone in her room, but I was exploring new territory. The door was closed, and so I lay down in my bed, shut my eyes, and imagined one of the singers from my favourite boy-band standing over me, smiling, taking his top off for me...
To my delight, my vagina glistened, and my fingers naturally began stroking up and down my sensitive pussy-lips, instinctively discovering what I liked, what felt good...
I was - I was masturbating.
And I loved it!!
But before I could get too far into my fantasy, there was a knock on my door, and my eyes opened in shock as I was instantly teleported from the land of sexy male musicians touching my private areas...
"Sis?"
It was Marty.
"Sis, are you up? I've got a milkshake waiting for you!"
Reluctantly, I got up, put a top on, and joined Marty in the kitchen. Self-exploration would have to wait until later.
After the most delicious milkshake I'd ever had in my life, I went back upstairs. I found myself just staring at my tits in the mirror - they were no more than a handful, at most, but I'd heard boys saying that anything larger was just a waste...and I certainly wasn't complaining. I couldn't believe I had tits!
I was even tempted to skip school, just to spend the day exploring the new sexual feelings coursing through my body, but I knew it wasn't worth it, and so quickly got dressed and left for school.
When I arrived, something else hit me - I was a B-cup girl, which meant that if I found someone I liked, and we dated for a while...we could have sex. And it would be good!
Suddenly, all the men around me weren't just men, they were potential boyfriends, potential partners. Gary, who had always been extremely friendly - perhaps he'd been flirting this whole time, and I just hadn't noticed. Paul, who was in my home economics class...Timothy, from physical education...after a while I got so into it, I even started looking at some of the younger teachers differently.
The day passed in a blur - I barely focussed on my schoolwork. Where yesterday I'd been looking out over the cafeteria, examining and analysing the girls based on bra-size, now I was doing the same for the boys...today, I decided, I'd rank them, and tomorrow I'd start my way down the list. Perhaps I'd even learn to flirt, something that had always escaped me in the past...
After school, I raced upstairs and slammed the door. Finally, I knew what it was to be a woman - looking at all those boys today had actually managed to get me all hot and bothered, and now, alone in my room, I was going to do it.
I was going to have my first orgasm.
One hand reached up and grabbed my left tit - it actually felt larger than it had that morning, but perhaps that was just a side-effect of being turned on - and started drawing small circles around my nipple. My other hand reached down, and just like earlier in the day, started stroking up and down my pussy-lips. I hadn't taken my panties off, not yet, and when I glanced down, I was far too delighted to see that my wetness was visible through the thin fabric.
Shutting my eyes, I imagined one of the boys that was definitely in my top three - Patrick, one of the footballers. I imagined asking him out, him saying yes...us going on a few nice, chaste dates...and then, after we'd been together for a month or two, driving out to a make-out point, and kissing each other.
