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Bit Tit Story:
In the end, it was always Anne’s tits that I adored, of course.
Thick and plump and so inviting, her succulent breasts were what started me down this slippery slope, they were the true origins of my fantasy.
Although, perhaps fantasy is not the right term, perhaps obsession might be
more apt.
It's odd for me to be enamored of Anne’s breasts, having never been much
of a tit man. Not much of an anything man, really, although I’ll confess to a
bit of a fondness for ripe, round butts.
Odder still when you consider that I’ve known Anne for years, always
as a friend, although I’m not entirely sure why we left it at that . And in
all those years - all those late night conversations at the diner, all that
commiserating over love and loss - not once did I ever notice anything but
the sweetness of her nature, the easiness of her smile, the sheer generosity
of her laugh.
Well, that and her extraordinary beauty, of course. Few who frequent
the diner could miss her engaging looks, after all. Curly reddish brown
hair cascades past her shoulders, framing a face that manages to look both
impish and all-knowing at the same time. Personally I had always been
drawn to her eyes - long lashed and large, they sparkled green every time
she smiled – it was what had endeared her to me early on.
Endless cups of coffee had, over the years, endeared the diner to me as
well. A place who’s era has long passed, it’s remarkably old fashioned,
with revolving stools set in front of the cracked counter and faded. The
mugs are chipped, the coffee thick, and the half and half, poured from
little metal pitchers, warm and sinfully creamy.
It’s the kind of place that can become a home away from home; here is
where you eat good, plain food, drink scalding hot coffee and reflect on
your life. Which is how I found myself that fateful evening, slumped and
brooding over the state of the universe and the recent demise of my
relationship.
Quite without warning, as I watched Anne pass me, coffeepot in hand,
I had the thought that was to change my life.
Why... Anne has, quite simply, the most beautiful breasts of any woman
I’ve ever known.
It wasn’t the thought itself that was most surprising - after all, surely a
man can notice such a thing. No, it was that I’d never noticed it before. For
it was true, in my suddenly enlightened state, I saw that Anne’s tits were
quite obviously a work of supreme beauty.
Encased as they were in her pink blouse, I was amazed to see how gloriously they swelled under the flimsy fabric. Leading the way as
Anne went about her work, they sat firm and proud atop her narrow waist,
held unnaturally still by the constraints of bra and too-tight - but so
appealing - bodice.
As if that weren’t enough, I became suddenly aware of the beautiful
expanse of flesh that was Anne’s cleavage. A great crevasse - created by
the twin globes that bulged erotically from the uniform and pressed
deliciously together - seemed to pulse with every breath she took. One
small pink button was all that held the massive creatures at bay, another
having already succumbed and popped open, unable to contain such
bounty.
