It was four years since I had last seen her. Four years was a long time. Enough time to put things in perspective and for me to move on, and to somehow forget about her. But I had done none of those things, and I knew the reason: It was because of the way she looked.
Actually the truth was this: Almost humorously (or tragically) it was because of her enormous breasts. And then, of course, because of the connection we eventually found.
Finally it happened. At the conclusion of one particularly frustrating date, she had relented to some unknown force, and suddenly our awkward time together transformed. That particular date had culminated in her bedroom as I viewed her tall and over-full body move from an object of distant lust, into one I could actually possess and touch.
That night she called to me to join her in the bedroom, and as I stood transfixed in the doorway she removed her clothing piece by piece...and yet she decided to leave her high heels on. Those special shoes were items that hours earlier I had identified as made-for-sex, although I was sure I would never see them perform in their intended role. But as she finished her de-clothing act, and then walked the handful of steps to her bed, it was apparent she was keeping them on in apparent recognition of my fantasies, and maybe a few of her own.
I had followed her over to her home, driving closely behind her car so as to not let her out of my sight. I had sat in her living room, picking up fashion magazines and paging through them distractedly, uncertain but becoming hopeful as to what awaited me. I had wondered as she called me to her bedroom, a place where I would come to spend many similar nights. I viewed her standing there, already lifting her blouse over her titanic breasts, which were still hidden but defined by a super-sturdy white bra. She explained that she didn't need foreplay, just in case I was wondering.
With perhaps some understanding of how she looked (and the growing size of my erection visible behind my pants) she reached behind her back, undid the many clasps to her bra, and suddenly her shocking breasts were wobbling and jutting forward in full view. As she bent over and maneuvered the last pieces of clothing from her body, her outrageous tits swayed and relocated themselves yet again. Her skirt was removed and then her panties, but my eyes were fixed on her most astonishing assets: They were swinging and hanging heavily, suspended from her torso like an impossible fantasy. I watched, barely able to contain myself, as she took the few steps to her bed - still in those red high heels - and thus nearly to my own height; the shoes were little exclamation points that had so captured my imagination earlier, and also suggested she was a different kind of girl than I had once believed.
Positioning herself on that bed was the moment she made her final overture to me: It was time for sex. Just like the preceding few moments in her bedroom, it was a simple matter of fact. She spread her legs wide in preparation for me to mount her - and looked straight into my eyes - yet those high heels suggested some other mysterious reason we found ourselves together in her bedroom.
************
Later I would think back to that suddenly created scene and know that she had presented herself to me in that ordinary / special way because of many different urges. It was as if she needed something, and I happened to be available for just that something. The breasts that I had obsessed from a distance were now offered. Those huge mounds were spilling to either side of her torso, and her appropriately oversized nipples incredibly obvious even in the half-light of the room. Her pubic hair forming a perfect little triangle of a target.
In the corner of her room she had apparently turned on an oscillating fan before my arrival on the scene, as she would often do in future nights as a precursor to sex. It was one of those commonplace $40 standing fans that a person might find for sale in any discount store, and as it swept from side to side the slow cooling breeze anticipated what was going to follow.
Perhaps she still wore her red high heels because she didn't want to take the time to undo the little strap that bound them to her ankles. Perhaps she still wore them because (even during dinner) she was hinting to me at how much she liked to play dress-up, and as I would later learn, how much she liked to try on different versions of herself.
Up to that point she had hidden that person from me. Sometimes she was to be my slave; sometimes a reluctant school girl; sometimes a sex doll that was mine to enjoy in whatever way I wanted. Sometimes - after I decided I couldn't see her anymore - she offered herself to me as a prostitute that I didn't have to pay. Even months after that, when I had clearly abandoned all contact with her, she would still write me: I just need sex with you a couple of times a week. That's all. No conversation necessary.
Later on we would again exchange messages, and that was when she told me what she REALLY needed from me. That was when a length of rope made its memorable appearance, along with a word that made it clear what I was to do to her.
But on that first night, she was a mostly-good girl who simply needed a certain kind of
straight-to-the-point-intercourse
. Nothing fancy, aside from those high heels. And she needed it IMMEDIATELY. And I was the man who happened to be there. Somehow my persistence had justified this next step with her.
************
After a few dozen encounters with her as my sex partner, I had accumulated thousands of pictures of her on my phone and my computer, which continually prodded me. Pictures that were not of her face, but just of her curves. Her shape. Her XL figure. Her titanic breasts, mostly. Even these four years later, I still remembered taking the photos. Sometimes I snapped hundreds of pictures in a single night. Her breasts and nipples often reflected light differently in the photos from where I had kissed them with wet lips and obsessed them between clicks of the camera.
One memorable night when I arrived, I found her dressed up as a "Goth Bondage Pornstar." (As she termed it with a smile and a laugh.) The joke was that in real life, she was the exact opposite: Typically she had brown-ish hair, mild lipstick, and an outwardly conventional demeanor. People who knew her certainly imagined that she was a "normal" girl. Or at least as normal as she could be with those breasts. She had a conservative and responsible job, and a condo with a cute little balcony. She decorated that balcony with a hummingbird feeder, and a set of attractive wicker chairs so that she could sometimes sit and enjoy a view of a nearby lake, or in the late hours, a star-filed sky.
But on that memorable Goth Bondage Pornstar night, she had me blindfold her. She had me tie her arms together at her wrists, suggesting things she would years later ask me to do even more forcefully. She wore a too-tight black dress that hugged her shape and a black wig that completely hid her real brown hair and transformed her appearance. All of which doubled the effect of the scene.
She was playing a role, which meant she wanted me to play a role, as well.
She had chosen jewelry that was theatrical and bold. She had decided to wear a necklace that was more like a leash. She wanted me to take pictures of her like that. And later to treat her like that. So I took dozens and dozens of pictures of her to document the situation: her eyes covered, and wrists tied and placed over her head to make the fantasy perfectly clear.
And then (as always) her breasts. They started inside the black dress, but within a few moments I had pulled the top of her overwhelmed dress down, and then lifted them out the last measure. She couldn't see my transfixed expression with her eyes covered, but she still smiled, breaking character.
Before meeting her, I had never experienced such a thing with a woman: Ridiculous, mountainous, overweight yet gravity-fighting breasts. They turned heads when we were out on the town, and fixed my attention when we were alone. Sometimes I felt self-conscious next to her, especially when I saw the way various waiters at restaurants often grabbed a looooong look down her blouse. Inevitably, this was so they could glimpse the vast cleavage of those extraordinary breasts before they hid away under her bra and top, and then the way that over-full bra still pushed against her clothes with supersized effort. It was predictable: They took her order as we sat together and helped themselves to an obvious stare - they couldn't help it. Viewable at other tables was the occasional woman who frowned when she truly grasped the not so well hidden size of the breasts that I likewise obsessed from a distance.
I wondered: Were such women envious, scandalized, or maybe even disgusted? Or maybe they felt some other emotion, which I couldn't imagine. Maybe, to them, she was just a bizarre curiosity.
Her bras read 44N or 46K (and other sizes as well) and yet all of them found considerable breast material pushing out around the sides and over the top of the cups. I wondered if she was in denial about just how huge her tits actually were: I supposed bras could be found to fit her, but when she hypothetically purchased those correct fitting bras, and then located them in her dresser drawer every morning before getting dressed, I wondered if she DIDN'T want to read her correct size on that little tag. Her tits might have been simply too much. Maybe she didn't want to think about her body in that type of detail.
My hands scooped her barely contained feminine masses out (two hands for one breast, then two hands for the other breast). As always I felt their pure sensuality, and yet amazing unwieldly weight, which proved such a contradiction. Her exposed tits found their jutting forward / sagging position, erotically framed as they spilled over the top quarter of that black fabric of her dress, with nipples that looked engorged and milk-ready after I sucked on them, as if she was pregnant.
Absolute jugs of obsession were wobbling and swaying in front of me with every move she made, and so I snapped pictures, and I thrilled and quivered with anticipation. The camera's pictures made me rethink the manner in which her arms were bound together at her wrists, and I understood that fact as one of many ways she was helpless against me.
