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My name is Jerome Baxter, I’m twenty eight years old, and I have a confession to make. Ahem.
I’m addicted to boobs.
"Whatever, dumb ass, all men love titties," is what you’re probably thinking right now, right? And you would be correct. However, I’m not sure you could find a guy who loves them more than I do. Or thinks about them as much as I do. Or pulls up pictures of them on the internet as many times as I do.
I’m not real particular about size or shape, either. I love a jiggly D cup as much as I like a perky A cup. Once, in college, I dated a girl who had a lazy eye and buck teeth, but she had a rack you could take a bullet for. About a 38 C, firm, but bouncy. Yeah, I love boobs, but I also love the women they’re attached to. Women. Soft and strong, open and loving. I don’t understand the female gender very well, but I am a fan. A huge fan. Hell, I even qualify as a groupie. Everything about women makes my heart race and my mind wander. All types, tall, petite, chubby, skinny, I’m not a picky man. As long as she’s fun to be around, I’m cool. But let’s get back to the titties, shall we?
I know exactly when my mammary obsession started. High school, sophomore year, we had just resumed classes after summer break. The air conditioning broke down and everyone was feeling sticky and miserable, so many of the students started shedding layers of clothing. I remember taking off my damp socks and rolling up my pant legs, trying to get some relief from the stifling heat.
There I was, age fifteen, with a few pimples and a six dollar haircut, languishing in English 101, bored as fuck. Until the moment Sandy Higgins removed her cardigan, that is. It all happened in slow motion. Sandy began fanning herself with a spiral notebook, which caused her pencil to roll off her desk and land right against the toe of my sneaker. She turned in her seat, and stretched forward to grab it, but she couldn’t quite reach. I should have helped her, but I was too busy self combusting over the vision of beauty that was presenting itself to my joyful eyeballs. Spilling out of her neon green tank top were two of the roundest, creamiest boobies I ever had the privilege to witness.
So yes, I sat there like a horny statue, watching her struggle to pick up her writing implement with my eyes bugging out of my head. I didn’t think life could get any better, until she leaned over even further, and I caught a glimpse of something that almost made me erupt right inside my brand new Levi’s.
"Nipple!" my brain screamed. "We can see her nipple! Holy fucking shit!"
My dick joined the conversation. "Fuck yeah, I saw that too. Hot damn and Hallelujah, my life begins today!"
It was perky, it was enchanting. It was a dusky pink pearl, presented to me like a gift from the Titty Gods. I felt a tingle start in my balls, and suddenly, my jeans were really uncomfortable. Then, for reasons that are still unknown to me to this day, I nudged the pencil forward a few inches with the toe of my shoe so that Sandy’s nimble fingers could reach it. Maybe deep down inside I am a gentleman, or maybe just a dumb ass, but only that quickly, she was turned around in her seat, pencil in hand.
I gripped the sides of my desk and tried to breathe, but my dick was trying to tear a hole through my tighty whities. I tried to get rid of the impending boner. First, I thought about baseball, then dead puppies, then my parents dying in a fiery car crash. Nothing worked. Even imagining my grandparents dancing the horizontal bop could not put out the fire that was in my crotch. So, I did the only thing I could do, I raised my hand and asked to be excused. Luckily, I was sitting in the back row and managed to slip out without anyone noticing the pup tent in my pants. After sprinting to the boys room, I locked myself in a stall, and freed my trouser snake in the nick of time. Two strokes later, my heels rose off the floor as I jizzed into the toilet.
So, that was the beginning of my obsession. Fast forward, eleven years later. I was working in a cramped cubicle for an advertising agency in the heart of Chicago. Just as I was about to shrug on my coat and leave for the day, one of my coworkers peered over the wall of my work place tomb.
"Jerome."
I glanced up. It was Mindy, office gossip and secretary to the head honcho. Before she even asked, I knew what she wanted. My first instinct was to pretend that I was suddenly stricken with appendicitis and collapse on the floor. My second was to pretend I didn’t see her and bolt from my cubicle. I took choice B, but it didn’t work.
"Jerome!" she shouted at my back as I sped toward the elevator. I turned around and smiled at her.
"Oh, hello there, Mindy, didn’t see you there. What’s up?"
"You know you saw me, you looked straight at me"
"Well, see, I have this condition, sometimes my eyes suddenly stop working. I mean, I almost got hit by a bus yesterday, it’s a dangerous malady."
Mindy glared at me over the tops of her trendy horn rimmed glasses, then raised one eyebrow.
"Come on, Mindy, why me? It’s Friday night! I’m meeting a bunch of my friends over at Hooters to watch the Bulls game on the big screen."
"You’ll just have to ogle scantily clad waitresses another night. She needs help and you’re the only one here besides me, and I’m getting the fuck out of here while I can." She shoved a manila envelope into my hands, then took off at warp speed, her sneakered feet a blur as they hit the elevator.
"Shit," I muttered. I slunk over to the boss’s office and found her sitting behind her massive, glossy desk with a scowl on her face. She glanced up at me as I strolled in.
"Gerald, good, I really need another pair of eyes on this WaltonMart project."
"It’s Jerome," I said with a small shake of my head. I had worked with this woman for two years, and she still didn’t know who the fuck I was.
"Gerald, Jerome, does it really matter? Sit."
I sat in a chair across from her desk. The little metal sign said Linda Bower, but we all called her Ice Princess behind her back. She was about thirty-five, with blonde hair that was always pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her face was pretty, and would have been more attractive if she smiled once in awhile, but she never did. Ever. Linda was one of those people who always looked like she had just smelled something bad. She also had a hot body, with curves that didn’t quit. But, she still scared the crap of of me.
"Let me put these renderings up on the easel so we can study them, together."
She karup stars struggled with two large foam core boards. I would have helped, but that would have pissed her off, so I sat there like a slab of meat, watching as she tottered around, high heels clicking on the linoleum. She was around five-eight, but still wore stilettos, most likely so she could tower over everyone like a bird of prey, just waiting to sink her manicured talons into anyone who even slightly irritated her.
As she fought with the boards, I heard a light ping, and then a tiny red object rolled toward me and landed near the tip of my shoe. I didn’t think much of it until she turned around and looked at me. It was a button. From her blouse, which was now hanging open halfway to her belly button. My brain and my dick had another conversation.
"Holy shit!" my brain shouted. "Did you see that? She lost a button, and now we are getting a kick ass boobie shot!"
"I know, right?" my dick answered back. "Who knew the cold ass bitch wore such sexy bras. Can we get her to bend over a little?"
"Maybe we should tell her that we can see inside her shirt," my brain said.
"Fuck no! Hey, wait a minute, it was you! You were the one that shoved that pencil closer to Sandy that day. Traitor. From now on, I call the shots. Just shut up and act natural," my dick shouted back. In the end, I listened to my male parts, and settled back to enjoy the view. She was yammering on and on about something and I struggled to pay attention.
"Greg? Are you listening? I asked which ad campaign you thought better represents the client, A or B?"
Sweat started running down my neck and I knew no matter which one I picked it would be wrong, so I just said "A. Definitely A." Thank the good dude I didn’t say "Boobs. I pick boobs."
"A? Why?"
I squinted at the poster boards, then got up and stood right in front of them. "Well, in ad B, the whole family is shopping. See, mom, dad and kid, a typical white American family. Which is all fine and everything, but in ad A, there’s a white grandma, a black mom and twin Asian kids. I feel this better represents the new family dynamic." I almost high fived myself over my clever response.
While she stared at the posters and pondered, I took the opportunity to get a good look at her knockers. Damn, they were fine. Lush, round and perky, about a C cup. Not too big, not too small, like baby bear’s porridge, they were just right. Two creamy mounds of perfection waiting to be scooped out of their Lycra shackles so they could be worshiped for all their mammary goodness. Visions of what I could do to them poured into my head, pushing away any stream of coherent thought.
"Gerald! You’re not paying attention, go grab a cup of coffee or something."
"No, I’m just tired. My neighbor got a new dog and it barks all night. I’m not sleeping well."
"I hate dogs, too, flea bitten little beasts. I like your argument about ad A, but don’t you find it strange that a black woman would have two Asian children?"
"Maybe she’s married to a Chinese guy, or maybe she adopted them. Either way, all we have to do is add a Spanish cashier and we represent almost every ethnic group in America today. We can’t go wrong."
"Yes, I like the way you think, Greg."
Shit, I wanted to choke her. Why the hell couldn’t she remember my fucking name? Then, those glorious titties drew me back in, and I decided she could call me whatever the hell she wanted, as long as I could look at those things.
"Then again, it’s mostly low income white trash that shops at WaltonMart, maybe we should go with the Caucasian family. Damn. I have been pondering this all day, my mind is starting to shut down. We have to make a decision tonight."
"We could flip a coin," I said with a shrug.
OleanderPlume
I’m addicted to boobs.
"Whatever, dumb ass, all men love titties," is what you’re probably thinking right now, right? And you would be correct. However, I’m not sure you could find a guy who loves them more than I do. Or thinks about them as much as I do. Or pulls up pictures of them on the internet as many times as I do.
I’m not real particular about size or shape, either. I love a jiggly D cup as much as I like a perky A cup. Once, in college, I dated a girl who had a lazy eye and buck teeth, but she had a rack you could take a bullet for. About a 38 C, firm, but bouncy. Yeah, I love boobs, but I also love the women they’re attached to. Women. Soft and strong, open and loving. I don’t understand the female gender very well, but I am a fan. A huge fan. Hell, I even qualify as a groupie. Everything about women makes my heart race and my mind wander. All types, tall, petite, chubby, skinny, I’m not a picky man. As long as she’s fun to be around, I’m cool. But let’s get back to the titties, shall we?
I know exactly when my mammary obsession started. High school, sophomore year, we had just resumed classes after summer break. The air conditioning broke down and everyone was feeling sticky and miserable, so many of the students started shedding layers of clothing. I remember taking off my damp socks and rolling up my pant legs, trying to get some relief from the stifling heat.
There I was, age fifteen, with a few pimples and a six dollar haircut, languishing in English 101, bored as fuck. Until the moment Sandy Higgins removed her cardigan, that is. It all happened in slow motion. Sandy began fanning herself with a spiral notebook, which caused her pencil to roll off her desk and land right against the toe of my sneaker. She turned in her seat, and stretched forward to grab it, but she couldn’t quite reach. I should have helped her, but I was too busy self combusting over the vision of beauty that was presenting itself to my joyful eyeballs. Spilling out of her neon green tank top were two of the roundest, creamiest boobies I ever had the privilege to witness.
So yes, I sat there like a horny statue, watching her struggle to pick up her writing implement with my eyes bugging out of my head. I didn’t think life could get any better, until she leaned over even further, and I caught a glimpse of something that almost made me erupt right inside my brand new Levi’s.
"Nipple!" my brain screamed. "We can see her nipple! Holy fucking shit!"
My dick joined the conversation. "Fuck yeah, I saw that too. Hot damn and Hallelujah, my life begins today!"
It was perky, it was enchanting. It was a dusky pink pearl, presented to me like a gift from the Titty Gods. I felt a tingle start in my balls, and suddenly, my jeans were really uncomfortable. Then, for reasons that are still unknown to me to this day, I nudged the pencil forward a few inches with the toe of my shoe so that Sandy’s nimble fingers could reach it. Maybe deep down inside I am a gentleman, or maybe just a dumb ass, but only that quickly, she was turned around in her seat, pencil in hand.
I gripped the sides of my desk and tried to breathe, but my dick was trying to tear a hole through my tighty whities. I tried to get rid of the impending boner. First, I thought about baseball, then dead puppies, then my parents dying in a fiery car crash. Nothing worked. Even imagining my grandparents dancing the horizontal bop could not put out the fire that was in my crotch. So, I did the only thing I could do, I raised my hand and asked to be excused. Luckily, I was sitting in the back row and managed to slip out without anyone noticing the pup tent in my pants. After sprinting to the boys room, I locked myself in a stall, and freed my trouser snake in the nick of time. Two strokes later, my heels rose off the floor as I jizzed into the toilet.
So, that was the beginning of my obsession. Fast forward, eleven years later. I was working in a cramped cubicle for an advertising agency in the heart of Chicago. Just as I was about to shrug on my coat and leave for the day, one of my coworkers peered over the wall of my work place tomb.
"Jerome."
I glanced up. It was Mindy, office gossip and secretary to the head honcho. Before she even asked, I knew what she wanted. My first instinct was to pretend that I was suddenly stricken with appendicitis and collapse on the floor. My second was to pretend I didn’t see her and bolt from my cubicle. I took choice B, but it didn’t work.
"Jerome!" she shouted at my back as I sped toward the elevator. I turned around and smiled at her.
"Oh, hello there, Mindy, didn’t see you there. What’s up?"
"You know you saw me, you looked straight at me"
"Well, see, I have this condition, sometimes my eyes suddenly stop working. I mean, I almost got hit by a bus yesterday, it’s a dangerous malady."
Mindy glared at me over the tops of her trendy horn rimmed glasses, then raised one eyebrow.
"Come on, Mindy, why me? It’s Friday night! I’m meeting a bunch of my friends over at Hooters to watch the Bulls game on the big screen."
"You’ll just have to ogle scantily clad waitresses another night. She needs help and you’re the only one here besides me, and I’m getting the fuck out of here while I can." She shoved a manila envelope into my hands, then took off at warp speed, her sneakered feet a blur as they hit the elevator.
"Shit," I muttered. I slunk over to the boss’s office and found her sitting behind her massive, glossy desk with a scowl on her face. She glanced up at me as I strolled in.
"Gerald, good, I really need another pair of eyes on this WaltonMart project."
"It’s Jerome," I said with a small shake of my head. I had worked with this woman for two years, and she still didn’t know who the fuck I was.
"Gerald, Jerome, does it really matter? Sit."
I sat in a chair across from her desk. The little metal sign said Linda Bower, but we all called her Ice Princess behind her back. She was about thirty-five, with blonde hair that was always pulled into a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Her face was pretty, and would have been more attractive if she smiled once in awhile, but she never did. Ever. Linda was one of those people who always looked like she had just smelled something bad. She also had a hot body, with curves that didn’t quit. But, she still scared the crap of of me.
"Let me put these renderings up on the easel so we can study them, together."
She karup stars struggled with two large foam core boards. I would have helped, but that would have pissed her off, so I sat there like a slab of meat, watching as she tottered around, high heels clicking on the linoleum. She was around five-eight, but still wore stilettos, most likely so she could tower over everyone like a bird of prey, just waiting to sink her manicured talons into anyone who even slightly irritated her.
As she fought with the boards, I heard a light ping, and then a tiny red object rolled toward me and landed near the tip of my shoe. I didn’t think much of it until she turned around and looked at me. It was a button. From her blouse, which was now hanging open halfway to her belly button. My brain and my dick had another conversation.
"Holy shit!" my brain shouted. "Did you see that? She lost a button, and now we are getting a kick ass boobie shot!"
"I know, right?" my dick answered back. "Who knew the cold ass bitch wore such sexy bras. Can we get her to bend over a little?"
"Maybe we should tell her that we can see inside her shirt," my brain said.
"Fuck no! Hey, wait a minute, it was you! You were the one that shoved that pencil closer to Sandy that day. Traitor. From now on, I call the shots. Just shut up and act natural," my dick shouted back. In the end, I listened to my male parts, and settled back to enjoy the view. She was yammering on and on about something and I struggled to pay attention.
"Greg? Are you listening? I asked which ad campaign you thought better represents the client, A or B?"
Sweat started running down my neck and I knew no matter which one I picked it would be wrong, so I just said "A. Definitely A." Thank the good dude I didn’t say "Boobs. I pick boobs."
"A? Why?"
I squinted at the poster boards, then got up and stood right in front of them. "Well, in ad B, the whole family is shopping. See, mom, dad and kid, a typical white American family. Which is all fine and everything, but in ad A, there’s a white grandma, a black mom and twin Asian kids. I feel this better represents the new family dynamic." I almost high fived myself over my clever response.
While she stared at the posters and pondered, I took the opportunity to get a good look at her knockers. Damn, they were fine. Lush, round and perky, about a C cup. Not too big, not too small, like baby bear’s porridge, they were just right. Two creamy mounds of perfection waiting to be scooped out of their Lycra shackles so they could be worshiped for all their mammary goodness. Visions of what I could do to them poured into my head, pushing away any stream of coherent thought.
"Gerald! You’re not paying attention, go grab a cup of coffee or something."
"No, I’m just tired. My neighbor got a new dog and it barks all night. I’m not sleeping well."
"I hate dogs, too, flea bitten little beasts. I like your argument about ad A, but don’t you find it strange that a black woman would have two Asian children?"
"Maybe she’s married to a Chinese guy, or maybe she adopted them. Either way, all we have to do is add a Spanish cashier and we represent almost every ethnic group in America today. We can’t go wrong."
"Yes, I like the way you think, Greg."
Shit, I wanted to choke her. Why the hell couldn’t she remember my fucking name? Then, those glorious titties drew me back in, and I decided she could call me whatever the hell she wanted, as long as I could look at those things.
"Then again, it’s mostly low income white trash that shops at WaltonMart, maybe we should go with the Caucasian family. Damn. I have been pondering this all day, my mind is starting to shut down. We have to make a decision tonight."
"We could flip a coin," I said with a shrug.
OleanderPlume