Everywhere we would walk, your lovely petite mounds would bounce up and down so fetchingly. Stairs were always a welcome adventure. Cresting every curb was always a buoyant little triumph.
What I always loved the most, however, was watching them defy gravity any time you took to a trampoline. I’d be captivated, counting my lucky stars that I’d get to share my life with the owner of such exquisitely rounded delights. Up and down. Up and down. I was besotted.
And then you’d snap me out of it: “Come on! Get up here!”
His balls were huge, so she’d cut them off and stuffed them down the front of her blouse to appear bustier. Unfortunately, she now also looked hairy-chested!
On the other hand, he was admiring himself in the mirror. Her boobs—so small and smooth with a cute mole on the left one—looked appealing in place of his crotch. He couldn’t believe she’d given him permission to cut them off!
But she was dissatisfied. When asked to swap everything back, he refused. “We had a deal,” he said. “No backsies!”
And he walked away, throwing out his crotch with pride.
That boob was rather more tangible than my eyes had led me to believe.
No mere shadow, it yielded beneath my boots when I jumped on, and as I catapulted away it sprang back into perky, domed perfection. Actually, I don’t know for a fact that it did. I was rocketing at such speed that I was physically unable to check behind me.
No bother. I was more interested in the giant, fiery nipple in the sky. If I could reach that then the Areola Belt wouldn’t be out of the question. Good thing I was wearing my space suit!
I stopped and took another look. An endless strip, double bulged on one side and even on the other, stretched to the horizon like a runway. I imagined the disturbed artist who frenetically draws tits on roads. Then I imagined how he runs on that strip, dives off the last boob, and flies away into the sky.