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I met my girlfriend Tara about midway through college and we’ve been together ever since. I love her. She’s an amazing person and she’s easily the smartest girl I’ve ever dated. When we first met there was the usual hot and passionate hookups. I’d call her up at 2 in the morning while I was taking the El back from downtown Chicago and she’d meet me at the Purple line and take me home. We’d fuck each other’s brains out and that would be that. The next morning I went to Davis and she took the train to Columbia.
It was not the greatest sex I’ve ever had. Again, I say this with full love in my heart for her, but it’s one of those things that sooner or later in the relationship you have to confront. It wasn’t that she wasn’t eager to learn or as horny as I was. We were just coming from different sexual backgrounds. Tara and I settled into a fairly regular sleeping/fucking pattern after we moved in together our Senior year and, to be completely honest, it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t ever exciting, but it wasn’t bad.
So I was faced with a dilemma that Senior year: do I stay with Tara and get another apartment with her after college, or do I end the relationship and pull up stakes? We both had job offers in the city and things were looking really good. I loved Tara and I could see myself marrying her. She read four or five different newspapers every morning, she was a journalism major with a social policy minor, she had a great sense of humor. There were few annoying quirks or neuroses but it was your usual gender nonsense. But the one thing I had to grow to love were her breasts.
Obviously Tara was not my first. The girls that made up my pantheon of exes ranged in personality from the frigid and uptight to the wild and nymphomaniac. I’ve been lucky to know all of them and each of them taught me something new, whether about myself or women in general. Their bodies ranged as diversely as their personalities and one thing I learned – that movies and imagination had never taught me – was that all women are built differently. Not even vaginas look or behave the same. And when it comes to breasts women are the practically snowflakes. Large breasts do not always equal better breasts, sacrilegious as it seems. For example, I was once falling over myself to get this beautiful dark-skinned girl into my freshman dorm. She had breasts that looked like they were ready to burst from her bra. And once we got into bed and the clothes came off, I saw that they were. But as large as they were, her breasts had no real shape, reached for her knees, and were covered with stretchmarks. Don’t get me wrong – they were fascinating. But not what I’d fantasized about.
I love boobs. It sounds basic, but there it is. I love legs, I love a tight ass, freckles, an unconscious smile, I love women. But there is no comparison to having a perfect nipple pressed against your palm and your fingers happily squeezing a woman in the throes of lust. Or naughtily in an abandoned parking lot. Or surreptitiously while the two of you are waiting in line. You get what I’m saying.
Tara had very small breasts. At first I was into them just for their novelty. They weren’t so small that she was flat-chested. She was at least half a cup size away from that. But they were smaller breasts than I’d ever encountered before and left, unfortunately, much to be desired while we were going at it. If they’d been a little rounder, or maybe a little fuller, this would be a different story. But instead they sort of just stood out from her chest, beautiful in their own way but, well, not the locus of my erotic fantasies.
We had a great time together nonetheless and there were very few complaints on this end.
Enter Tara’s younger sister, Courtney. Courtney was almost the opposite of her big sister in nearly every way. Their faces look strikingly similar. In the right light they could be fraternal twins. Tara in most ways was more delicate. She was petite, several inches shorter than Courtney. Courtney was only a few inches shorter than me. She had very dark skin compared to Tara’s “Chicago tan,” she talked a lot more but had a lot less to say. Courtney had opted out of going to college and instead had her and Tara’s parents put up the money for her to become a beautician or something, I was never very clear. She swore frequently but tried to curb it around her family. The girl was boisterous, loud, and petulant. So what am I getting at?
Courtney had amazing breasts. She was only a little taller than Tara but the similarities in their faces made her sometimes look like a trashier, sluttier version of her sister. You can see where I’m going with this… Where Tara dressed in her own style, Courtney always dressed predictably and provocatively. How do I know her tits were top-class? Because she never failed to wear shirts that ensured any passerby could get drunk on her cleavage. Courtney did tanning booths all the time and those puppies were as unconvincingly brown as the rest of her. Tara’s younger kırklareli escort sister had the kind of breasts that you can practically taste. I haven’t been a teenager for at least five years but catching a glimpse of Courtney abusing a shirt that was never meant to withstand such springy sweetness felt unfair in a way that bounded and resounded from my brain to my balls and back again. It brought back the same dire longing that hormones extrude from a kid just trying to do his homework and ignore the erection waiting for just the slightest provocation from the outside world. Watching the way Courtney moved, the way she’d reach across the table, a man could get a sense of how soft she was, yet how firm and pliant she might be. And, yes, she did catch me more than once following the several dangling necklaces she wore down into the warm recesses of her body. She was never amused.
As for the rest of her, she wore skintight black pants one afternoon to her sister’s graduation that showed with a few extra inches comes a luscious bottom. Whenever I was alone enough to fantasize, Courtney was never far from my mind. Yet I wanted to be with Tara. She was my girl and we had gladly decided to get another apartment together after college. Her sister was just some physical fantasy. But there it was: the fantasy. In the darkest places of my mind I imagined what it would be like to sneak into Courtney’s room during one of her frequent visits and have my way with her anonymously. That was patently ridiculous. Yet being in a steady relationship with Tara meant close contact with her family, and having those succulent globes so near at hand was a maddening thing.
But I tried to put it out of my mind.
One Saturday night, about a year after Tara and I had graduated college, I was roaming the apartment looking for something to do. We’d gone out with friends that evening to celebrate something – somebody getting married or a promotion or maybe it was just an average night of indulgence – and come back on the El pleasantly drunk. Tara made an omelette and then fell asleep before she could eat it. I turned the burner off and helped her get her shoes off. Then I returned to the kitchen, ate the omelette, and retired to the living room. The doorbell rang.
I got up and checked the clock. It was 2:20 AM. Curious, I went to the door and sidled up to the peephole. Courtney was standing outside the door in ripped jeans and a tank top. I took a moment to admire her small but upturned nose with its light sprinkle of freckles. I unlocked the door and greeted her. But before I could get “Hey, how’s it going?” out of my mouth Courtney had pushed past me and made a beeline for our kitchen. I hastily locked up and followed her, just in time to see her bend over our sink and heave. Several of my lustful fantasies were given a sharp kick in the groin. While I stood awkwardly in the hall Courtney raised her arm and waved at me angrily.
“Get over here,” she muttered.
I let out a dumb, “What?”
“Hold my hair back!” she hissed.
Right. I came up behind Courtney and grabbed the bunched hair she had gathered in her right hand. I turned on the faucet and let it run. Courtney seemed to react to the sound of running water and sighed, bending over the sink and pushing her ass into my crotch.
“If you think you can make it,” I said, ignoring the warmth of her behind, “I can take you to the bathroom. I don’t want you to clog the sink.”
She gave an annoyed groan.
“Fine then,” I said, sweeping more of her dark hair behind her ears as we both leaned over the sink and waited for her to get sick again. “Busy night?” I asked.
“Oh fuck you,” she grumbled, putting her hands on the rim of the sink and relaxing a little.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” I said. A few months earlier Courtney had moved to Indiana to finish her training in a salon.
“Stop talking,” she grunted. I realized that Courtney was drunk, and it probably took as long as it did for me to realize it because I was slowly sobering up. I realized, however, that she was probably more drunk than I’d thought and I reminded myself not to let her fall asleep with us in this precariously impolitic position. Courtney heaved. The strain on her body drove her ass backward into my groin and forced me to reach out to keep from tipping off my feet. I grabbed, unsurprisingly, at the most prominent curve of her anatomy, her right breast.
Courtney must have been too drunk to be bothered because she didn’t shrug me off. I used the handhold to get myself back on my feet but then, failing to be slapped, I kept my hand where it was. Courtney just leaned over the sink, ass straight out, and groaned. I realized too late that I was unapologetically copping a feel. Was it worth it? I could hardly fit the whole thing into my palm. It reacted against my fingers with a springy vitality, its swollen roundness so elegantly pronounced on so inelegant a woman. afyon escort I squeezed. Here this poor girl was trying to barf in my sink and I groped her like any drunken frat boy. I regret nothing.
I gave one more tentative squeeze before she slapped my hand away. My dick stirred in my pants and I hoped that she didn’t feel it, or was too far gone to care. “I’m fine!” she barked. She must have thought I was trying to keep her on her feet. “Keep your hands off my tits,” she told me. Maybe not.
“It was an accident.”
“Yeah,” she said with a smirk. We waited together for her to vomit again but after fifteen minutes she finally asked to be sat down in the kitchen and given a glass of water. I had brought her a blanket and was all set to retire when she grabbed my wrist and told me to get her her purse. She had left it on the kitchen table when she smashed into the kitchen. I picked it up, handed it to her.
I sat down next to her on the couch and watched her cross her legs. There were so many holes and rips in the jeans that I could easily see the muscles in her thighs flex against each other. She was wearing black topless shoes that flopped limply from her toes. She searched for something inside the purse and I saw no harm in taking the opportunity to stare right down her cleavage while she had her head bowed. I had never had such an unobstructed view of her chest and after leaning over the sink for so long her breasts were now fully in view. I imagined that her left nipple was just a quarter of an inch from peeking over her haltertop. But I was satisfied with the sight before me, her chest expanding greatly as she regained her breath from the awkward crush of bending over the sink.
Courtney pulled her hand away from her purse and pressed something against my forearms. I fumbled to collect it and immediately found a wad of several hundred dollars in my hands.
It was a fat fold of bills. “What is this?” I asked.
“It’s money, stupid,” she said.
Of course. Courtney snapped her purse closed and put it on the ground at her feet. She kicked off her shoes. Then she laid her fingers over her bare knees and finally looked up at me. Clearly the girl was pissed, but she wanted me to see her anger, not the fear behind it. I saw both and was curious, not to mention still buzzed enough to want to take my new mental images with me to the bathroom.
“I need you to hold this for me,” she said.
She gave me an annoyed grimace. “Are you fucking retarded?”
“Hey,” I said, handing the money back, “if that’s the way you want to be.”
She shoved her hands against mine. I was instantly aware of how hot her skin was. It was the first time our fingers had ever touched. “No, sorry, God. Just take the money.”
“Don’t!” she hissed. She looked scared now. “Don’t let Tara know. Put it someplace she won’t find.”
“Um,” I said, trying to put my thoughts into words. “I don’t-“
“Please,” she said. That was new.
“OK,” I said, more from exhaustion than common sense.
“And I won’t tell Tara you touched my tit.”
I laughed. “That was an accident.”
“Whatever. You stare at them all the time.”
I made sounds of protest.
“Whatever,” she repeated.
We left it at that and Courtney curled up on the sofa. I took the money and hid it in the same panel of my toolbox where I hide my cigarettes. The next morning Courtney was gone. According to Tara she was staying with their parents for a few days. I actually forgot about the money for a few weeks until I tried to sneak a cigarette the next month and was shocked to find two-thousand dollars in cash. Courtney called her sister a few weeks after that to invite us to her new place in Indianapolis.
We drove over during the long Presidents Day weekend. Tara hardly spoke the whole time and I realized that she’d actually been fairly distant for the last week. I asked if there was something the matter.
After some cajoling she told me that a few weeks back several hundred dollars were stolen from her grandmother’s house. The money had been saved for a rainy day. Instantly I thought of the cache of bills stashed in my toolbox. “Do they know who took it?” I asked.
Tara shook her head. “Nothing else was taken so whoever stole it must have known it was there. It was in a little box in the linen closet.” She stopped talking for a moment. “So that means it must have been someone in the family.” Tara was visibly shaken.
I wondered if I should say something but decided to hear the rest first. “Who?” I asked.
Tara sighed. “They’re not sure. The last time they had anyone over was weeks ago and they just realized the money was missing this week.”
It had to have been Courtney. I wasn’t sure for what, and I definitely didn’t know why she thought she could get away with stealing something so conspicuous, but there it was. Yet a shred of doubt clung to my mind. Maybe it amasya escort was a complete coincidence. Maybe last month Courtney had just come into a fortuitous quantity of money and wanted to unload it somewhere without telling her sister. Yeah… Right.
We were on our way up to Courtney’s apartment when Tara suddenly stopped. “I forgot the champagne,” she said.
I myself had forgotten we were here to celebrate Courtney’s birthday.
“I’ll go,” I said. “Just tell me what to get.”
“No, no,” Tara was already putting a list together in her head. “I also need to get a card and that chocolate she likes.”
“Alright, well, let’s go.” I started heading back towards the car.
“No,” she said. “Stay here. I think Courtney’s setting up for the party later.”
I didn’t relish the idea of spending time alone with Courtney. She had never been my biggest fan. But it might give me a chance to find out what was going on with the enigmatic cash. After Tara gave me a quick kiss and sprinted back to the car, I walked up the slightly damp stairs to Courtney’s place.
When she opened the door she was beaming. She really was a cute girl, upturned button nose, broad smile (bigger mouth overall than Tara’s cute, demure lips), shining eyes. But the smile vanished when Courtney saw it was me alone. “Where’s Tara?” she said flatly.
“Had to go pick up some things. She asked me to help you set up.” I followed her into the apartment.
“Everything’s already set up,” Courtney said distractedly. As she crossed to the kitchen I got a look at her swiveling bottom. The party was not for several hours and she had yet to get fully dressed. Courtney was wearing gray gym shorts and a thick blue cotton top. She trod barefoot through the small but welcoming apartment. Banners and streamers hung from the ceiling and a table stacked neatly with cups and an assortment of alcohol was pushed against the wall. When I closed the door behind me Courtney was all business.
“Do you still have the money?”
“Uh-” I started. “Yeah.”
“Is it with you?” she asked.
“Why would I have it with me?”
Courtney rolled her eyes as if somehow it was her great misfortune to be partnered with so inept a criminal companion. Her lips, which were pressed together in a firm arc of disapproval, were a deep red. She began to speak again but I volleyed first.
“Say, Courtney, where’d you get that money anyway?”
She narrowed her eyes and placed her hands coolly on her hips. Even half-dressed she was a knockout. The prickliness of her character made it impossible to like the girl but that worked in its own devious way. Her black hair was a little longer than shoulder length and straight and shiny as leaking oil. Her skin was darkened by frequent use of a tanning bed (which looks ridiculous anywhere but especially in Indiana in the middle of January). And while this did give her a slightly burned out appearance, it made the stark paleness of her teeth and eyes pop with a vibrancy that drew your gaze to her long lashes and full lips. Then of course there was her chest, amply stacked below her round shoulders and giving that blue cotton top a helluva job to do. Courtney’s painted nails tapped against her hips, probably wider than she liked but undeniably curvaceous. She had thighs that looked like they could wrap around a man’s back with dire consequences.
“Before you ask if that’s my business,” I said, raising a finger to staunch her bubbling protest, “bear in mind you did leave the money in my care.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” she spat. “‘Bear in mind,’ ‘in my care,’ who the hell talks like that?”
“Are you angry because I’m choosing my words carefully or because you’re trying to figure out an excuse?”
Courtney gave me an icy glare. “It’s just money,” she said. “I started a new bank account when I got to Indianapolis and I hadn’t withdrawn all the cash from my old one. I didn’t want to be walking the street with that much on me so I wanted Tara to hold it for me.”
I regarded Courtney for a moment or two. “But you told me not to tell Tara.”
Courtney’s lips twitched.
“You were a little drunk, maybe you don’t remember.”
“I didn’t want Tara to see me drunk,” she said quickly. “That’s all I meant. You could have told her about the money.”
“Should I tell her when she gets back?”
Courtney swallowed hard. I could see the gears working overtime behind the sharp white of her eyes. I wanted to see how much Courtney would admit to before I brought up their burglarized grandmother.
“No,” she said slowly. Then, “Where is it?”
“The money?” I asked.
Courtney nodded. A few strands of bangs fell over her eyes fetchingly. I couldn’t help notice her breasts jiggle slightly too. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“It’s…safe,” I said. A strange but powerful notion peeked from within the dark recesses of my brain.
Courtney wiped the hair back from her face and bit her lower lip. We were standing roughly ten feet apart from each other, she at the counter of her kitchen and I very close to the front door.
“It’s not my money,” she said.
She narrowed her eyes again. “You prick.”
I held up my hands. “Hey, I didn’t take the money. And I’m pretty sure I know where you got it from.”
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