Darling, I suddenly really want you to squeeze my breasts, I say out of the blue. We are lying side by side on the bed. We’ve been talking, but this wave of longing has swept over me. I am envisioning him sitting on top of me, massaging my breasts. This isn’t something we normally do, but since the desire is there, I am trying to communicate it.
Harold is game. He straddles my waist and gives my breasts a good squeeze through my shirt. His hands are very warm. I start to feel turned on. He pushes my shirt up and I think – no, no, I want it through the shirt, it feels awesome – but I don’t say anything. He starts to focus on my nipples, which is normal foreplay for us, but not really what I wanted. Still, it feels pretty good. He peels off my panties and goes down on me. Harold is very skilled with his tongue and I am torn. This isn’t what I wanted. Do I stop him and explain again what I was hoping for? Do I let him keep going, trying to let go of my disappointment and resentment and lose myself in the pleasure?
He senses that I am not fully present and stops, gazing up at me. I take a deep breath and decide that trying to explain the type of connection I am lusting after is going to be best for both of us. It’s obvious that Harold can tell I’m not so into what we’re doing. I know he wants to know what is going to drive me wild, so I direct him back to my breasts. Not my nipples, full breast massage.
After a few awkward instructions, we are starting to get the hang of this breast squeezing thing. I am writhing in ecstasy, just feeling his hands cup my breasts. I kind of lose control, moaning, back arching – I am on the verge of orgasm with just his palpating. I watch his face. His eyes are closed and the look on his face is good. He looks very young, around 13 or 14, and maybe like a boy who has been given permission to do something he’s always wanted to do, but didn’t want to be bad.
Now he adds some nipple stimulation and I’m ready for it. I’m incredibly turned on. I think I could come just like this, but he’s pulling off his pants as fast as he can and sliding his cock into my super wet cunt. He keeps squeezing my breasts while we fuck. It all feels perfectly right.
I don’t quite manage to come before he does, but I can feel him throbbing inside me while he yells in the throes of his orgasm. As soon as he finishes, he digs around in the bedside table for the vibrator. He makes sure that I have a happy ending.
We bask in the afterglow, holding hands and talking about squeezing breasts. It’s funny that this hasn’t come up in all our years of flirting and fucking. I really enjoy attention paid to my breasts. I ask why he never grabs my boobs the way he grabs my ass when we are messing around. Don’t they appeal?
No, of course, he says, my breasts turn him on like crazy. He thinks a little, puzzled. He realizes that he had early experiences where women had strong negative associations with having their breasts handled. Grabbing breasts was what disrespectful boys did. Considerate boys, apparently, only touched breasts with exquisite delicacy. On some level, without realizing it, he had adopted this as a universal preference, and it took me very explicitly requesting fondling and squeezing to even be aware of his preconceptions.
I’m glad that I did. It can be so hard to speak up about sexual desires, even in an open and accepting relationship like ours. It takes practice to say no to the things you don’t want. I find it even harder to insist on the things I want, but it seems to pay off big time. Harold stands ready to squeeze my breasts whenever I desire it.