I'm trying my damnedest to think of a way out of this. Honestly, I'm trying hard just to think, period--that's not as easy as it seems, not with Sophia standing there with her shirt open and those perfect fucking tits of hers practically colonizing my brain one synapse at a time with their softness and their smoothness and the way they quiver every time she takes a breath. I keep zoning out, staring at the expanse of light brown flesh capped with two stiff dark nipples that I can practically feel against my tongue, and I know that if I don't find a graceful way to exit this conversation soon I'm going to start drooling on myself. And how will I explain that?
But I also can't explain just giving up and walking away. It's not like I can say, 'Oh, hey, Sophia, I know I just got done calling you a consummate bullshit artist for claiming you have hypnotic breasts, and I know I said I could stare at them for a whole hour without being turned into your brainless boob zombie or whatever it was you were trying to say you'd turn me into, but I, um, I need to stop looking at them right now and leave. Because I, uh, I... kthxbai.' She would know. And so would everybody else. And I don't think I'd ever be able to show my face in my social circle ever again if they all thought Diana Meade was some sort of weird horny lesbian with a tit fetish so severe that just the sight of another woman's chest made her stupid with lust.
Not that. Um. Not that I am a lesbian. Not that anything would be wrong if I was. Not that my friends would really change the way they felt about me if it turned out I really do--did--um, might--have a thing for Sophia's fucking ten-pound titties. They'd probably tease me for years about it, especially if I wind up--wound up-- doing something embarrassing. But I really don't have to worry about them. It's Sophia's reaction that concerns me.
Because I can tell from the look on her face, the one I can really only see now in the very edges of my peripheral vision, that she's not doing this to embarrass me or prove a point or even just to show off to the guys in the group how amazing her fucking rack looks when she decides to show it off. No, she's doing this because she's tried it before with some other poor woman and she knows it really works, and she wants to stun me into blank, mesmerized compliance with her ginormous melons and turn me into her sex zombie. And if I try to wriggle out of this... if I can't show her, once and for all, that it doesn't really work on me....
It's not hard to imagine what might happen. We have three classes together, we both work at the campus library, we live in the same dorm. She would have so many chances to get me alone and pull down her collar to reveal those huge, pendulous breasts of hers. She'd be able to heft them in her hands, bounce them up and down, captivate my gaze with them until whatever was inside my mind melted down into blank, hypnotized fascination and I wouldn't be able to find a single thought in my brain no matter how hard I searched. I'd be... I'd be helpless.
I very gradually realize how unnervingly detailed that fantasy truly is, how very specifically I can imagine myself descending into slack-jawed vacancy at the sight of her perfect titties jiggling and quaking and bouncing between her fingers... but I can't quite seem to stir myself out of it. Not completely. Not when every time I lever myself out of daydreams of sinking slowly to my knees, my eyelids fluttering as I try to keep my gaze directed upwards at her mesmerizing rack, all I see in front of me is the exact same breasts only with a slightly more sedate sway. There's no escape from Sophia's tits, not without either somehow managing to wait out the full length of the challenge or finding an excuse to look away. And try as I might, I don't think I can do either.
