In Defence of Small Breasts


When I was 18 and first got my driver’s licence and was allowed to take my father’s car on unsupervised solo social outings, I met a girl called Anne. She was a friend of my best mate’s girlfriend; a workmate actually – a dental nurse, to be precise. All these years later I can still see her face vividly. Her smile, her laughing eyes … I can hear her giggle and I can recall the sound of her voice. She was a diffident person, quiet, even passive, inclined to go along with other people’s opinions and ideas rather than asserting her own (assuming she had opinions and ideas of her own).

I remember my immediate reaction when I first met her was liking her, and my second was to check her out. After all, I was an 18-year-old male, what else was I going to be interested in but her body? I confess I was a little bit disappointed. She was by no means fat, but her hips were probably broader than what I considered ideal and her breasts were smaller, I was disappointed to note. I don’t know why it is but I suspect most teenage boys equate large boobs with sexual appeal and Anne just didn’t come into that category. Compounding the problem, since I clearly thought of it as a problem, was her habit of wearing oversize sweaters, jumpers and shirts that disguised her bust altogether. I suppose she was self-conscious. I don’t know what her measurements were, I never asked her, but I guess we’re talking an A or a B cup.

Anyway, disappointed as I surely was, I still liked her and was happy to go out with her, to be seen with her in public – although I don’t recall ever suggesting we went to the beach where her shortcomings may have been more evident.

Our first dates were joint affairs with my mate and his friend Gail. Nothing spectacular or particularly memorable, I don’t think, just movie and pizza nights, that kind of thing. And when we went back to my mate’s place afterwards I don’t think I was in any hurry to put any moves on her.

Once we’d got comfortable with each other we risked going out together on our own. I remember going to Anne’s house, which was in a semi-rural area featuring large blocks and designer built homes, very different to my own ordinary suburban family cottage. Anne’s father was an airline pilot, a very dominant character who made his opinions known to all and apparently listened to no-one. Meeting this authoritarian head of the family was nerve-wracking, but I minded my p’s and q’s and tried to make a good impression. I prided myself on being able to hold a conversation with anybody – parents of friends, the elderly, little kids, even girls my own age. On this occasion, even though I didn’t think I’d made much of an impression, Anne’s mother gave me a nod of approval afterwards. She was a tall, slender woman who wore a scarf around her hair and had Anne’s small breasts, I observed, which put paid to any hope I might have had that Anne was still developing – at 18. Anne herself was on edge and nervous having me in the home. I got the distinct impression she didn’t bring a lot of boys home and when she did it didn’t always end well. I guess that had a lot to do with her father. Anyway, we went off for the evening. I don’t know what we did, I honestly can’t remember. It can’t have been that spectacular, I suppose.

On the way home, driving czech sharking porno along a dirt road in my father’s Ford, the headlights cut out. Suddenly I’m driving in pitch black. I jammed on the anchors – and fortunately we didn’t skid off the road. I got out to investigate. I’m not terribly mechanical but I did manage to figure out it was a fuse and nothing more sinister than that. When I replaced it and the lights came on again I felt like a hero. Suddenly Anne was warmer to me than before. I guess she was thinking maybe I wasn’t a total dickhead after all.

When we got back to the house her parents had gone to bed and we were able to entertain ourselves at the other end of the huge house in relative privacy. Of course all I wanted to do at that point was kiss her and fondle her, but even though we were isolated from her parents, she was reluctant. Something about the taboo of the family home, I suppose. Or maybe just sensible caution. But I didn’t get much further than kissing her and grazing a hand over her small left breast. I can still remember Anne’s reaction to that. Her body went tense and she froze. She wasn’t anybody’s fool, she knew I was going to go the grope and she was dreading it. Whether she enjoyed me fondling her left boob or not wasn’t the point, she clearly had breast issues. I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere that night and so I said goodnight and drove home – where no doubt I went to bed and masturbated myself silly.

I confess that at this point part of my brain was saying, “Dump her, this is no good, it’s not going to work out, we’re not going to get anywhere here.” But the problem was I liked Anne; she was a nice person, she was funny, she had a sparkle in her eye and I enjoyed her company. So I was prepared to forgive her, go a little slowly and maybe mount a longer campaign to get inside her clothes.

Following our next date (which again I have no recollection of), I remember when I took her home I parked on the dirt road outside the property rather than driving in, and tried to molest her there. On this occasion when we kissed she was undoubtedly more relaxed. That is until I tried to feel her tits again. Yes, she froze again. By now I had figured out what her problem might be, but how was I supposed to put it into words? “Don’t worry, I know you’ve got small tits but that’s okay, I’m not fussy”? Even a clumsy 18 year old knows that that approach is not going to go down too well, so I did the only thing any self-respecting young guy could do, forgot about trying to get my hand up her jumper and inside her bra and put it between her legs instead. She was wearing trousers, I remember (she always wore trousers in fact, so it wasn’t quite as intimate as it might have been), but to my chagrin she didn’t respond any more positively – just slammed her knees shut and said she had to go inside.

Driving home that night I thought, “That’s it. I’ve given it my best shot. I’ve been courteous, I’ve been restrained, I’ve been a perfect gentleman. Bugger her – she’s dropped.” But I couldn’t get her out of my head. Even though I left it a week or two or three before I called her again, I did call her again. “Hey Anne. How about a movie?” She sounded surprised I’d called but pleased. I guess she thought I czech streets porno had dumped her the way other boys before me no doubt had dumped her. Now I do recall that next date. I thought the only way I could achieve my goal was to treat her with respect – or at least pretend to – and impress her with my sophistication and generosity. So I took her to a restaurant I knew of in the district. I’d never been there but my older brother recommended it. It was a curry house run by a genuine Jamaican. Now the only problem with tat was this genuine Jamaican gent served up genuine Jamaican hot curries, which meant Anne and I sat there eating lamb so hot we had to drink about a litre of water each. But she saw the funny side of that, and I found myself liking her even more. God, if only she was a C cup!

Anyhow, when I drove her home that night and pulled up in the road outside her property she said, “Drive on up to the house. Come in for a coffee.” I thought “You beauty – I’m in here.” The house was dark, her parents, it transpired, were away for the night. We had the place to ourselves. Now Anne was nervous, there’s no question of that, but also determined. There was something resolute about her. Thinking back now I suspect she had decided that if I was going to persevere with her, then she needed to give me some sort of encouragement in return – and she had a pretty good idea how to achieve that.

While she made us coffee I wandered around that huge house – so unlike my own – marvelling at the furnishings and wondering just how much money her old man made in a year. When we’d had our coffee we found ourselves in the family room sitting on the floor chatting, laughing, actually enjoying each other’s company. Then I tried to kiss her, which she accepted and returned with interest. I liked the way she kissed. Her mouth was so compliant, moist, warm and pleasant tasting. I was content to kiss for a little while, just kiss, but I was wondering What happens when I go for the tit? I’m pretty sure Anne was thinking the same thing. Then I thought, What the hell? And cupped her right breast – perhaps imagining that maybe the right one had a mind of its own and would enjoy it. Anne kind of held her breath but she seemed to be okay with it so we kissed some more, me rearranging myself on the floor to get a better balance so that I could launch a proper assault.

She was wearing a hand-knitted pullover and I knew how easy it would be to slide my hand underneath and get to the real business at hand. The trouble is we were having such a good time I thought it might ruin things, so I held back, demonstrating commendable restraint for probably a minute, perhaps two. And then I went for it. I slid my hand under the waistband of the pullover, up over her jeans and touched bare skin. I could feel her intake of breath but she didn’t stop me. I went further and found the warm little mound I sought inside what I imagined to be a pretty sensible bra cup. Again, she didn’t stop me. She let me cup her breast and squeeze it a little bit. Nothing rough, certainly nothing too erotic, but certainly intimate.

Then I tried to slip my fingers inside the cup in order to discover her nipple and give it some good old tweaking, but she pulled away from me and I could czech super models porno see the worry and apprehension in her face. I apologised, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought we might, you know …” I thought the evening had come to an end, but I had misjudged her.

Anne rolled away from me, got to her feet and walked to the other end of the family room – which had very little in the way of furniture. Rich people weren’t afraid of minimalism, I realised. Then she turned to face me, shrugged her pullover off and stood there in front of me in just jeans and bra. She had a look of defiance on her face, plus that funny goofy smile of hers. Then without saying anything, she reached behind her back, unclipped her bra and threw it on the floor. The light level in the room was low but nevertheless I had a perfect view of those small breasts I’d been wondering about for weeks. I’m not sure why she needed a bra – it can’t have been for reasons of support. Her breasts were small, pointed cones crowned by large pale pink peaks. “I’ve got really small boobs, see?” she said, ‘You might as well know, now you can stop wondering about it, okay?”

I didn’t know what to say to her in return. The truth is they were smaller than I thought. They simply didn’t figure on my scale of acceptable tits. I was embarrassed for her and for myself. How could this girl live with herself? Obviously she wasn’t a proper woman at all.

Perhaps part of Anne’s strategy was to provoke me into acknowledging how pretty she was, small boobs or not, but I doubt that. I don’t think she was a games player. I think she wanted to give me the opportunity to get out while the going was good and save us both the aggravation. I know I mumbled something about how she looked fine, but I didn’t believe it and she knew I didn’t believe it. So after a couple of awkward minutes she got dressed again, slumped in a chair hugging her knees, head down. We both knew I’d failed the test. I said something about having to get the car home to my father and left, and I never saw Anne again. I didn’t dare call her again even when I missed her and wanted to see her goofy smile. I didn’t have the nerve, didn’t have the balls, and I still didn’t know how to cope with these inadequate tits of hers. I mean, what could I tell my mates about my adventures with this girl? I had barely got to first base let alone bases eight, nine or ten. I hadn’t even got my hand into her panties, couldn’t even tell the guys what kind of bush she had. That is, unless I lied.

So I moved on, looking for the perfect girl, a girl that a prince like myself I deserved. Had a couple of affairs with older women (much older in one case), and finally got very lucky and met the woman I’m still married to today. But the strange thing is, as the years rolled by I found myself thinking of Anne from time to time and, stranger still, thinking of her small breasts. And as I’ve grown older I have begun to appreciate the aesthetic beauty of that girl and her imperfect but beautiful body. Her exquisite small breasts and those strange, pale nipples. On occasions I have found myself fantasising about kissing her breasts and sucking those nipples to erection, treating them – and Anne – with the respect and care and love they deserved. What a fool I was. What a disrespectful, hormone-driven, crass, ignorant little turd I was when I was 18. How she even tolerated me pawing at her I’ll never know.

Why am I recalling all this now? Because I heard from friends of friends recently that Anne contracted ovarian cancer at the young age of 45 and died.

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