![]() was wearing a basic cotton bra, and I grabbed breast, then both breasts. What was important was that I was finally feeling those human mounds of flesh that I had stared at and thought about for so long. happened to have pretty large breasts, but that wasn't important. In my mind, I could almost hear a rousing rendition of "We Are the Champions!" Having made a soft landing, I slid my hand up her shirt. This contact was, of course, hugely thrilling, but I was already craving more.Īfter a bit of time groping her above the shirt - I wanted to be romantic, after all, and take my time - I let my hand float down to T.'s midsection, landing it at the bottom of her tank top with a tentative confidence that I can best liken to Captain Sullenberger landing Flight 1529 in the Hudson River. We started making out on the sofa in the living room, and feeling that I had to "be cool," like I'd "been there before," I reached out and placed my hand firmly on a breast and gave it a little squeeze like I was gauging the ripeness of an avocado. The place was dim and quiet perfect for the solemn and powerful event that was about to take place. ![]() My mom wouldn't get home from work until late. was wearing a cotton tank top and denim cut-offs. It was springtime, and I still remember that T. One Friday, after a study group at a friend's house, T. We had made out a few times, and the chemistry was building. ![]() As a freshman in high school, I had been dating T., who was 14, for a couple of weeks. I was 15 years old when I first felt a woman's breast. ![]()
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