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Summertime in the Great Mid-West, a decade ago: first meeting of the Outside Board of Review for the Division of Biological Sciences at my alma mater. I was the founding chairman by default, not expertise — I’d merely happened to be first to arrive. Sitting at the opening session, around a long aircraft-carrier of a mahogany table with twelve others, I made some obligatory comments, passed around a suggested agenda. The woman across from me was about my own age (early fifties), quite attractive, and somehow disturbingly familiar — but there’d been no time yet to play the “Where were you when?” and “Do you know X?” games. She sat there with a slightly odd expression and carriage, kept looking at me as if she expected me to recognize her. I thought she might have been the returning woman runner I’d passed last evening at my hotel as I went out for my own evening run — but with such a fleeting glimpse I couldn’t be sure.
The usual round-robin of introductions. Her name on the table-top card was “Dr Judy Johnstone, MD, PhD, Philadelphia” — nothing familiar there. But she kept looking at me, now with a tiny but obvious grin. Something — apparently about ME — was quite amusing.
An hour into the meeting she picked up a marker pen, turned her table name-plate over, and scribbled on it, then replaced it so that I could read the new text – “Kellerman”.
The penny finally dropped. Head cheerleader at my highschool! Two years ahead of me, hopelessly out of my class, gorgeous beyond belief, my own never-revealed crush, the lust object of every one of my male classmates (me, too!) — and a National Merit Scholar, to boot. Valedictorian, of course. Brains and beauty. My expression must have been priceless, because she actually laughed out loud, then apologized to the speaker of the moment: “Mister Chairman Colin over there, he finally recognized me, folks! We were in high school together, right here in town!”
By the end of morning coffee break we’d set a dinner date for that evening at the hotel: the fancy welcoming dinner was scheduled for tomorrow so we were free. We met as planned, six-thirty sharp in the lobby.
She was much shorter and smaller than I remembered, perhaps five two? — and what a lovely, sexy figure she still had! I gave her a hug: there was something slightly sharp in her response, a tinge of discomfort, and not much hug in her hug. But then, we’d hardly actually known one another.
We had a nice table, very private. Dinner was excellent – a good French chef, and a bottle of good wine, yet, in the deep Midwest! What a change from the early sixties! We found plenty to discuss, were instantly comfortable with one another. We lingered, working the wine. Dessert was selected and appeared. I was twiddling with mine in a conversational pause, looked across at her.
She smiled — GOD what a smile! – and said softly “Penny for those thoughts?”
I turned beet red — I’d been mentally revisiting my extensive high-school fantasies about her: intensely physical, highly detailed fantasies. Gotcha! She giggled: “Colin, you just turned the most beautiful shade of fuchsia! I’ll up the offer to a dime!”
I shrugged, cleared my throat. “Shall I be absolutely honest with you?”
She eyed me seriously for a few seconds, then dropped her hand down atop mine: “That would be delightful. And incredibly rare in man-woman conversations. Vanishingly rare. If you can do such a thing, please do! What is it?”
“I was just remembering the impossible crush I had on you back then. Teenage hormonal insanity. YOU were the only reason I EVER went to a sporting event. I, and every other male in the school, lusted after you. You were my absolutely number one fantasy, you with that luscious figure and all those brains: what a combo! I used to wish we could be in class together, which wasn’t possible, so I watched you in the halls — you had two personas, you know.”
“That’s very sweet of you to tell me about the crush. And the lusting, well, I guess I knew about it in general, not you in particular, though. Men! I always assumed ataşehir escort bayan it was my body and nothing more that attracted them. It’s nice to know otherwise, even thirty years later! But what about those two personas?”
“In the hallways you always walked with your notebooks clutched to your chest. You were hiding yourself, your body, behind them: nobody could possibly see your breasts. But then when you were cheerleading, blooey, it was like you were throwing them at the audience! I was fascinated — both by your body and also by that change.”
“You asked for honesty. I have had the most incredible day and night dreams about you naked. Making love with you. I hope the revelation doesn’t embarrass you? You had the most beautiful boobs I ever did see, even if I never quite saw them.”
She sighed, stiffened slightly, looked off towards somewhere behind and above me. She murmured, barely audible, “No, Colin… that’s a lovely compliment, not embarrassing at all.” There was a long pause. “Sorry to disappoint you, but your teenage fantasies are no longer fulfillable.”
I must have looked puzzled. She got a wan little grin, straightened her spine fully, set her head square atop it and looked right at me. Her eyes were brimming, unblinking. “I suspect, Colin, that fantasy boobs always come in pairs. I’m not that way any more. Ergo, fantasy non-fulfill-able. Sorry about that!”
I was stunned — it didn’t show at all. She had to be wearing the world’s best prosthesis — it was utterly undetectable. But it certainly explained the little sharp recoil from our hug.
It was my turn to reach for her hand. She was studying me, waiting. I smiled at her and said, carefully, “So? Give me some credit, please, Judy. And yourself as well. No matter how beautiful they may be, your breasts are not YOU. I couldn’t care less, so long as they got it all and you’re safe now. You’re just as beautiful as ever, and just as sexy — more so, in fact. Trust me — I haven’t watched any of the last 30 years’ slow changes, so I know! My idea of ‘sexy’, Judy, has precious little to do with boobs per se, whether single or paired. And as to fantasy fulfillment, well, going from two to one just means that the remaining one would be eligible for twice as much attention — all of my mouth and both of my hands. You are one spectacular, gorgeous, stunning woman!”
She sagged slightly as I finished, and finally blinked, sending a tear down each cheek. I wiped each tear away onto a separate finger, put the fingers in my mouth. “Not quite the same as making love, but it has its elements, Judy. Truly!”
She took a long, ragged breath, then managed a smile. Two more tears, which she let me collect without complaint. She took my hand again, in both of hers. “So –are you trying to tell me that even back in high school you weren’t totally taken up with ogling women’s bodies? Mine included?”
I laughed. “Of course I ogled… everything that had a vagina, I suppose. Especially you and some of the other cheerleaders, Gaylene, Sandy, Sharon…” She nodded in surprise at my remembering the names. “But however fogged my brain was with hormones, I was attracted to you for plenty more than your tits and ass and legs — powerful though they were! I was raised to appreciate brains, and nobody in high school could hold a candle to you; we all knew it, too. That’s where the lust really lay.”
I shrugged, “Bet you don’t remember, but during that idiot study-hall in the cafeteria I whipped up enough courage once to ask you for some help with chemistry, since you were the acknowledged school whiz.”
She smiled, squeezed: “Oh yes, in fact, I DO remember that! You looked a bit like a lost and frightened puppy, but your question was pretty good. I was happy to help.”
“Yeah, but there was more to it from my point of view, Judy. You were sitting at a cafeteria table, I stood beside you while you helped. I got a five minute stare down your blouse. It was a peach-colored boat-necked thing that buttoned in the back. You were wearing a black lace bra. escort kadıköy I bet you were the ONLY girl in the school who either owned one or could have gotten away with wearing it to class! I had the loveliest view of your boobs. I have no idea at all how I managed to pay attention to your explanation!”
“Jeez, Colin, what a memory. Mammary memories! I’m impressed — and I do remember that blouse. It was the favorite of lots of male students.” She pinked again and muttered “I’m sort of embarrassed to say so but I’m glad, now, that you got that view of me ‘intact’, as it were!”
We managed first bites of our dessert. She looked at me speculatively, and asked “Will you continue being honest with me for a minute if I ask you something to which I want an absolutely straight answer?”
I said “Of course. Honesty you want, honesty you get. Ask away.”
Another long deep breath, a moment of eye-roaming and then eyelock again. “Knowing what you do now, do you find me at all sexually attractive?”
I was utterly stunned, and really didn’t know how to even begin an explanation of how much… so instead of starting down the verbal road, I just took her hand down beneath the table and laid it atop my perfectly ferocious erection. “Any more silly questions, Lady?” I grinned at her. “Why do you even have to ask?”
I released her hand, but she didn’t move it. Level-gazed, she answered coolly, “Because, Colin, some men — probably most men — and particularly my husband, find my not having a matched set of tits disturbing in the extreme. Hubby hasn’t touched me sexually in the last six years, beginning the day I was diagnosed! Quit even touching, before the goddamned surgery! We used to have at least a reasonable sex life, but now we sleep in separate beds with a nightstand between them! Losing that boob has meant no sex for over half a decade already.”
I caught her chin in one hand, covered her hand in my crotch with my other, and said “Permission to keep speaking honestly?” She nodded.
“We can easily fix that. If you’d like to. The Force only knows how much I would like to!”
Time froze while she stared deep into me, as if boring down through layer after layer. I waited, absolutely transfixed, breathless.
Finally a tiny crinkle of smile appeared at the corners of mouth and eyes.
“I do believe you actually mean it! After all, you have provided me with some hard evidence of your interest!”
She squeezed my cock. My heart was going to burst.
She replied instantly – “Do we absolutely have to finish dessert, or can we leave here right NOW?” She paused, giggled, blushed her own shade of pink: “That is, if my skirt isn’t glued to this seat. I thought I was incapable of such a response nowadays!” She squeezed again, firmly.
I managed to drag out a business card, wrote on the back “charge to room 1369, add 20% tip” and signed it. I dropped the card at the Maitre-d’s station.
We were alone in the elevator: in those forty seconds we established that our kissing styles were totally compatible. In the room, she was suddenly nervous again. “You’re sure?” she asked. “We can turn off the lights if you’d like. Besides, there’s something else you might like, or maybe not, about my body.”
I started in on undoing the skirt. “Not a chance on darkness, Judy — I want to SEE as well as touch. You are just going to have to get used to that, and to me seeing the damage. What’s the other thing?”
She giggled as the skirt dropped away: naked legs, runner’s legs (she turned out to be a marathon runner, like me), perfect skin, no underwear (!) and not a hair visible — a perfectly shaved pussy. My libido, already in overdrive, went berserker.
“I LIKE! The heck with boobs, Judy, naked pussies like your beauty are the world’s biggest turnon for me! How nice of you to anticipate my personal fetish. But why?”
She shifted her shoulders slightly and the blouse fell away: the bra and its artificial cargo were complex, but straightforward. “I shaved right after the mastectomy, trying to get my husband’s bostancı escort interest up — and other things. Nothing worked. But I like the feeling, all extra-naked and sexy, so the shave stayed. My turn now.”
She stripped me nude in half a minute, hesitancies all apparently in abeyance. When she tugged my jockeys down over my hardon it hung up, then popped free — every bit as solid as ever it was in high school — probably a lot more so! She goggled: I always keep my own crotch baby-butt clean shaven.
“No wonder you like pussies naked! I’ve never seen a shaved man before.” Her fingertips investigated, then her lips and tongue ever so delicately, all the while looking up at me as if for permission or approval. I didn’t withhold either. “I like it! No Brillo Pad!”
The prosthesis-bra had a front closure. I knelt before her on the carpet, cupped her bottom in my hands, and buried my face where her real cleavage should have been. She tugged on my ears, pulled my face up so she could see me.
“Truly, Colin, it’s a bit of a wasteland under there. Not a pretty sight.”
I said nothing, just worried at the snap with my lips and teeth until it came open. “Do one of those mysterious woman-things for me Judy, and shrug it off. Please? And QUIT it with the worrying, dammit!”
She took a final deep breath and visibly steeled herself: later when we discussed the evening, she told me that this particular instant, this final revelatory motion, was the single most difficult of her entire life — and also the single most important emotional moment, bar none whatever.
She shrugged for me, per request.
One absolutely magnificent boob appeared, paired with a perfectly smooth expanse of skin edged by two long almost-invisible scars. The skin had an underarm delicacy and translucency, begging for touches and kisses. I told her so, then muttered “Your surgeon was an artist!” I stroked the plain with my fingertips, then my tongue. I nibbled my way across it left-right, up-down. She shivered violently — some nerves were still operable in there!
I looked up, bit firmly at the spot where there had once been a nipple as proud and upright and sensitive as the other. I grinned at her. “If your surgeon had left the nipple here, you’d have as much boob on this side as many of my women. Madam, I do not make love to the body you are wrapped in, but use that package to make love to the real you, to the person between the ears. But it is VERY nice to encounter YOU wrapped in such a nifty package. Lovely! Now… about the double-dose of attention your breast seems to be screaming for… just look at that big nipple sitting up, begging!”
She was undoubtedly the most voracious lover I have ever encountered. Six years of abstinence certainly hadn’t damaged either her desires or her abilities. I did my utmost to match her one for one, but of course couldn’t even get close… as it should be.
She and her hubby may have had a “reasonably good” sex life, but most of what I consider regular parts of any lovemaking expedition were unknown to her — prolonged pussy-eating, bottom-fucking, extensive nursing on nipples and armpits and backs of knees, mouths on cocks and fingers in various orifices, all of that was missing – initially.
But she was an amazing and enthusiastic pupil. Each time I would suggest something she wasn’t personally familiar with, she would grin happily and say, in essence, “I like everything so far, and I’m completely at your disposal. Let’s do it. Show me!”
We spent that entire night in my bed, the next in hers, the next back in mine. We were mutually insatiable, and quick to bounce back from exhaustion.
In the middle of the third night, she was sitting atop me, rocking, when she paused and said, “Hey! You down there! Have you noticed in the agenda that our little group is supposed to convene here again in 6 months and then again after a year? And probably yearly thereafter? Remember the old movie, ‘Same time, next year’?”
I slid one hand to her clit, pinched it gently, just the way I’d learnt most pleased her. She shuddered. I replied, “Yes, of course. The only question is, can we wait a whole six months between bouts?”
That was ten years ago: so far, we’ve never had a full three months of continuous separation.
We intend to keep it that way.