Tits Like Texas

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The sex stories I've told here thus far, like my other personal stories, are experiences I recall with some frequency. I've confessed that my sexual fantasies for some time have been populated almost exclusively by memories of females I have NOT had intercourse with: the fantasy taking the memory one step further to the point where I DO do something that either is or will immediately lead to the THING. Hmm: I guess the majority of my fantasies actually fade away one step short of actual penetration. I'm more likely to dream of first putting it in than of being in and erupting. And more likely than that, I'll imagine kneeling before the girl, holding my cheek against her lower belly, embracing her buttocks with my hands, and once I've got a good gripping caress on her twin mounds, I lower my cheek to her Venus mound, I place my lips there, I maneuver my lips till her lips part just ever so, all through her clothing, and I begin to hint to her where my tongue, my kisses, will go as soon as we've gotten that clothing off. Meantime, my erection, so erect it hurts, whether still in my pants or not, finds its way toward her ankle, her calf, the cuff of her slacks, the hem of her skirt ... and tugs at her. If the girl lets me do that, we'll be sucking and fucking for real within minutes: certainly within days.

(My all time favorite to have done that: I was saying goodnight to a date just as she prepared to go home: to her suburban castle on a hillside, her daughter, her husband, her new home business. A few days later she was back for another date. We had dinner, we saw the movie, we returned to my apartment, out came the wine, and we shed our clothes to slip frictionlessly into a marvelous sixty-nine. My dick no longer tugged at her pants leg, it went straight down her throat. And once I couldn't stand it any longer, her pussy was as delicious to fuck as it had been to suck on. Boom. The coming was something neither of us will ever forget. And we repeated it many a time over the coming few years. When I remember this woman, first putting my mouth on the front of her slacks as I gained a good grip on her ass is what I'm most likely re-experiencing. She was the perfect Westchester woman. Clean. Neat. Sweet-smelling. Well, but not obsessively, groomed. And what a butt! Sleek. Elegant. Far from zophtic, but sooooo perfect. I've never seen anything more beautiful than a Malibu Beach dawn through the reddish gold of her public hair. And her breasts, once I got around to them, were sensitive, adorable, oh-so-sweet--however normal in size.)

But I didn't mean to go on with that memory--I think I've already told that memory. I start with that memory as a Type: in order to say that the new story I now wish to add is different: it is not a frequent memory. Indeed it's untypical in that it's of a girl I Did Not Lust For! For one thing, I may have been too young. This memory is from the eighth grade. A couple of years had passed since I had a female friend I regularly undressed with: and that had occurred a couple of years after the period in which I'd had a LOT of female friends I'd regularly undressed with. I call "all" of them "Bonnie" here; but this girl I'll call Tex: because even though she was only in the seventh grade, her tits were the size--or at least the scale--of all of Texas. I truly don't remember her real name: neither the first nor the last.

So: I'm in one of my periods of relative celibacy. I must have been going through puberty. I'd had erections since the sixth grade on. I don't remember when the hair first came: only, as I've already narrated, that intimacy with girls came easily before puberty, then again after, but not so typically during. Maybe puberty made me shy, confused, I don't know what; maybe it made the girls shy, apprehensive, more private ...

Ah: I just thought of another thing. I was forever learning--long after the fact--that mature seeming classmates may actually have been older: Lenny who seemed so developed in the fourth grade (despite being perhaps an inch shorter than merely normal me) and who disappeared after the fifth grade, could well have disappeared because he had reached age sixteen and could drop out of the farce of the school system. Last time I saw him he was with a road construction gang: repairing the road to the new high school! In the fourth grade, Lenny, with his iron biceps, could throw the football seventy-five yards, could play pass with the varsity team! But he can never have grown much past five foot four. (One last word about Lenny: this Italian was an Irish tenor! His Danny Boy made the teachers swoon.

So one day I'm just poking around my neighborhood: North Forest Avenue, only a few doors north from Lakeview Avenue in Rockville Centre, Long Island, and I see a girl, a stranger, walking on Lakeview. Two things were instantly noticeable about her. It was autumn, cold, and she wore no coat. And, va-voom, the girl had tits like Dagmar. Later I heard she'd just moved: from Texas: that she was in the seventh grade. (It didn't occur to me till now to wonder whether that was actually her age group: hell, we all started out sorted by age: no explainations about exceptions: the exceptions just add up over the years.) Someone speculated that they might have been poor: couldn't afford a coat. Who knew what they were running from? or toward? inadequately financed for it. I didn't follow the girl, didn't yell hello, didn't even watch after her. I just noticed her: and went about my business. But somehow, over the following weeks, she sought me out, went out of her way to be friendly: invited me over to her house, introduced me to her mother: where the two of them tag teamed me: Oh, you're so smart, the mother said: What a painful life you must have ahead of you. I'm sure glad we're just ordinary. (I remember arguing with her: I didn't deny that I was smart: funny 'cause I don't recall thinking that I was at the age; I denied that being smart would be painful. I argued that even though the society persecutes the intelligent, the intelligent have pleasures, passions, gratifications, that the tormentors know nothing about: Einstein, in prison, can have ecstasies unknown to others. Oh, you're so smart, the mother repeated.

OK, that's the background. Now here's the story: one day Tex is with me at my house. I don't remember how she got there. I mean, I don't doubt that we walked there together. But I don't recall inviting her. She could have suggested it herself. Or it could have just happened. Two kids wander around together: then they're at the home of one of them.

My memory begins on the landing of the stairs to the cellar. One door from the kitchen led to the basement. Three steps down, the stairs leveled at a door to the back yard. When we first moved, I think there was outdoor cellar entrance: two doors that folded upward and back, the doors lying at an angle from the rear wall: the opening being neither vertical nor horizontal: in an architecture that was otherwise from two-dimensional geometry. So we must have had that changed: because those doors were gone and now there was a normal, vertical, rectangular door between the back yard and the basement: and that door was located three steps below the kitchen floor. We were on our way down to the cellar so I could show here something: I don't remember what.

Very suspicious. Does it sound like I was planning a seduction to you? I certainly believe it of myself. But I don't remember it that way. Maybe she asked to see the basement. Maybe isolating us further, though we were already alone in the house, in darkness, away from windows, was her machination. Regardless, there we were. Paused on the landing: Tex wearing a skirt and blouse, just as she had been when I first spotted her on the street: her boobs stretched the shiny fabric: and then some. She touched my arm. I looked at her. In a lowered voice, private, right into my face, she said, "You could command me to do anything you wanted." I looked at her. "I would do anything you told me to do," she said.

I remember speculating about her putting me in a dictatorial role. She didn't say she'd do as I asked; but rather what I commanded. Little Christian SybaRight was experiencedly heterosexual, but not dictatorial. Her offer didn't appeal to me. It made me uncomfortable: something I'm sure she hadn't intended. And I didn't enlighten her. I gave her no response at all. We waited a beat or two, and resumed our descent to the cellar. And there my memory of it ends. If I'd gotten at her tits at the bottom of the steps I'm sure I'd remember it: and this story would manifest very differently: mostly by being neither recalled or told at all.

I was looking at her. What I was seeing--was her huge expanse of three-dimensional bosom: four dimensional, since they were there ... and still there ... and moved--and her funny shaped mouth: where her front teeth kind of protruded narrowly: like on a rodent.

What was wrong with me? The last girl to want to do something sexual with me, a Bonnie of a year and a half earlier, I'd also left unsatisfied, and then abandoned: didn't encourage her to come by any more. That Bonnie had wanted me to steal a Kotex from my mother so she could try it on: me watching over the fitting: as she placed in on, over, or in her pussy. (I still don't know how a woman wears one of those things. I now presume it just lays there within the underwear: held in place by the drawers.)

Did I get a raging hard on as Tex empowered me over her? No. I'm sure I'd remember it. My Bonnie of the summer after the sixth grade never found me without a hard on: never saw my dick as anything but yearning vertically. I guess I just wasn't attracted to Tex. Or my attraction was canceled by my repulsion. Maybe I never liked big tits much. Maybe I was just shy. Whatever we did in the basement, whatever we did in the house afterwards, it didn't include playing doctor: or playing pirate king degrades captured princess.

So why am I telling this story now? Just to brag that some girl once offered to be my slave? presumably my sex slave? Well, that's part of it: a small part. I tell it for one reason because nothing happened. My fantasies are about girls where nothing happened: either they were too young, or the craps just didn't fall that way ... But also because I regret some of my rejected opportunities. I've told how decades later I was sorry not to have made a fuss over the older woman who came up to me and shoved her tits under my nose. [link to be added] Now I regret not marching Tex straight back up the stairs to someplace comfortable: the couch, my bedroom ... and testing her compliance. And now I have a new fantasy: one I never had prior to writing these personal stories: a fantasy which is itself a spin-off of having told other fantasies: but which is a new species of fantasy for me: one where I'd rejected the girl in real life and now accept her offers in my imagination. But: it hasn't worked well yet. I put my mind, at sleep time, into a position where it can fantasize a little exploratory petting with Tex: the girl who'd be my sex slave. ... The next thing I know I've been asleep and the fantasy never went anywhere. So I write this module to force it as it were: Dammit, Give Tex her due. Let her show me her tits at least. And if you do that, then having her take you out of your pants is an easy next step. So is having her take her pants off. ...

Tex, I wish I remembered your real name. I wish I hadn't been so naïve, so inexperienced, at the time. I wish I'd given you what ever you wanted. I'm sorry I was so young. I hope you've had a good life. I hope you've had a great sex life. I hope you find this and recognize yourself: and recognize me. If we ever saw each other again, I'd treat you better this time.
I should have taken you to a soft place. I should have put you to your own test. What does it matter whether or not I wanted to dominate you: if you wanted to see it that way, I could have let you. I could have "ordered" you to take your blouse off, to remove your bra (to go wash your tits if they were dirty).
(note)
... I should next have had you strip to your panties. I should then have had you undress me completely. I'm naked: you're ass and pussy are just barely veiled by something of nice smooth texture: cotton panties, please: clean cotton panties: no crotch stains, please: (and certainly no stains from the other place!) I should have kissed your tits. I should have had you explore my dick with your fingers. I should have shown you to just ever so outline my balls with the tips of your fingers.

But I myself didn't know those things then. Ah, but this now is the fantasy of a sixty-four year old! I should have articulated my kiss of your breast to isolate and emphasize the nipple. I should have stimulated your areola, rewarded your nipple as it stood firm. I should have shown you how to articulate the head of my penis in the same way. Outline the glans with your tongue. I should have gulped at your nipple, sucked at it, hard, urgent: make a vacuum around it and Suck! You could have seen by analogy with to do with my penis. I should have shown you how very gently to treat my balls, how you could go fairly crazy with the penis, but please be ultra respectful of the balls ... And eventually it might have been right to slide your panties off. To explore, to articulate, to kiss, caress, and adore your private places.

So long as we didn't actually fuck. Children shouldn't fuck. Not unless the adult society has made it clear that any resulting children will be cherished and cared for by the society as a whole.

Imagine a world in which the young, the most highly sexed, the most sexually interested, get to fuck to their hearts content. Teens shouldn't be in school. They shouldn't be made to work. (Their work should be welcomed but not demanded.) Teens should be fucking and sucking to their hearts content. The girls, as they get pregnant, should be sheltered, pampered: by the tribe as it were. The babies should be welcomed, cherished.

The young would have the healthiest babies, the easiest parturitions. Thirty year olds should not have pregnancies: teens and twenty years olds should. And then, once the girls have had a couple of kids of their own, then we should offer them birth control pills, diaphragms, creams, gels. Then we should make them study, learn, work.

The kids should fuck. And bear.

The young adults should study: and learn: after they've given the group a few healthy babies.

And everyone should cherish and protect and nourish both breeders and bred.

Which one in the nursery would be your kid? My kid? They'd all be your kid, my kid.

Note

Cleaned her Tits:
There's a sex story from my seventh grade or so that I'd already told elsewhere, before this sex story section was started. Bonnie had her parents plan a birthday party for her. She got her parents out of the house. But she invited only two people to come: me and my buddy Joe. Bonnie was hot for Joe, not for SybaRight. SybaRight was invited only to get Joe to come. Once we were there, trapped by her, Dick also showing up by rude mistake, all dressed up and bearing a present, Bonnie accepting his presence though she hadn't invited it, she was all ready to be ravished by Joe. Joe wanted none of it. I offered myself in his place. No. She said.
I've told that. But I don't think I included the following details: I said Do you have any idea how nice and big my dick is? I want quality, not quantity, she said: destroying me: for all of two seconds. Anyway, she wanted to show us her tits. She opened her blouse. I came in real close. Her tits were dirty. Your tits are dirty, Dick complained. I came in real close to kiss them. That's OK, she said, SybaRight will clean them. Damned if I wasn't doing just that.
Before that evening was over, Bonnie had reached into my pants and given my nuts a pinch. Oh, Jesus. And I suppressed my pain, my utter unmanning, tried not to blame her, to defend myself, to demand revenge. How can girls be so crass?