‘I can’t go.’ She said as she came from the bedroom in the burgundy dress I’d bought her the day before.
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‘Why not. You look great, what do you mean?’
‘No I don’t, look!’ and she pointed down towards her breasts.
Now I’m familiar with many things when it comes to tits, I mean I like them, I love the feel of them, love the warmth of them, the weight of them, the softness, the firmness, the bounciness, the perkiness, the texture, the shape, the skin, the curve, I mean, all in all, I had a very favourable view of tits in general, and specifically my girlfriend’s at this point. So as I looked at this low cut space where her cleavage should have been and was faced with a space between two disconsolate milk jugs I slowly realised that for all my carefully nurtured research into the subject of tits I was sorely lacking in the less well known theories, at least to young blokes, of the mechanics of tits.
We were all set to go, at least we should have been. The coach was due in about an hour and this coach would take us to the big hall where we were having my Christmas works do this year, but we’d hit this shit tits situation and she was not going to go unless she could wear something else. I walked up to her and cupping each tit in each hand just nudged them together to where they should have been, ‘Well, that’s better.’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but you can’t stay like that all night, but a padded bra might do the business.’
‘Padded?’ I asked, ‘big enough as they are.’ I finished to the empty room for she’d flung on her coat and gone off to get herself a padded bra at whatever shop she could get one at that time on a Sunday evening.
She returned triumphant and wriggling herself out of the dress and changing one bra for this new one snaked herself back into the dress and looking down with an air of expectation which was immediately punctured by the presence of frills. There she was with this wonderful cleavage, but the cut of the dress revealed the thing that made that cleavage work because these frills were showing.
‘We can’t go.’ she said, ‘no time to change now.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘but we’re going.’
‘No we’re not.’
‘Yes we are, put your coat on, button it right up and start off and I’ll catch you in a minute.’
‘What do you mean, what you going to do?’
‘Trust me.’ I said, and she went.
I popped through to the bedroom and rummaged around till I found her sewing kit and the very thing I was looking for, and went off to catch her up. She did not look happy, and as we boarded the coach and she sat down I brought out the small sharp pair of scissors I’d found in her room. ‘Trim dear?’ I asked in mock seriousness.
‘You can’t do that’ she said, horrified.
‘I can, now open your coat.’
She opened her coat and I bent to the task in hand, whilst she, assuming a completely stony face that I caught in the dark window, only her eyes showed her mortification at the thoughts of our fellow travelers wondering just what I was doing with my head in her breasts. Carefully placing the scissors in my hand I proceeded to trim this bra and began to snip, snip, snip, away. Now this was one delicate operation for these scissors were sharp, mind you they had to be to do the job, but there was always the possibility of a bump in the road and this blade would plunge into the milky white tit of my girlfriend and spread a colour that would surely clash with the tone of her new dress, make me feel bad, and Maggie even worse. Then there was the elastic problem, you see this trimming was to hide the elastic so once again, one bump, one slip, and the elastic goes and the show is over. I had about fifteen minutes to clear the cleavage, to pare the pair as it were and on and on I snipped and snipped and snipped and as I snipped I collected the snippets like a growing collection of confetti.
As we approached our destination, she began to try and glance down but my head was in the way, and more and more urgent whispers were coming in my direction as we pulled into the car park, but then just as the coach came to a stop, I reached down and kissed her breasts and blew the final vestiges of frills from sight.
‘Done.’ I said.
She pulled her coat tight around herself and got off the coach, and went to the left and leaning back against the coach I saw her look down and give a small cry of pleasure mixed with relief and then she looked up and over at me with an ever widening smile. It was winter and it was cold but she spun herself out of her coat, took one look down at herself and marched triumphantly into the hall with her coat nonchalantly thrown over her arm, her other hand beckoning me to follow, which I duly did.
We sat down at our table and ordered our meals and the chitchat was burbling as the starters arrived and we all went quieter as we approached our first bites. Three of them had ordered segmented grapefruit but they hadn’t been segmented too well and suddenly three wedges of grapefruit stalled between dish and mouth due to fibrous strands refusing to let go and I suddenly realised that I could reach all three and I reached into my pocket and brought out those scissors and quick as a flash, snip, snip, snip, delivered the free fruit to those who wished for them and all smiled in gratitude and laughter was started and as that died down and we started to eat again, Ian just asked just what I was doing carrying a small sharp set of scissors in my waistcoat pocket for.
Maggie looked over with a don’t you dare look, but the moment had come now, the tale bucked and strained at the reins for the telling and the next thing I knew I was describing the trimming of the bra on the bus. The ice had been well and truly broken now, and the strange thing was nearly every tale that night involved tits in some way or other and the women at the table were the main ones doing the telling. Well, we had big tits and small tits and wet tits and soap sud tits, jam on tits, chocolate tits, creamed tits and wet tits again. We had peeking tits, squeezed tits, heads in tits, and tits in tits and those tits just kept on coming assisted in the telling by the heaving tits around the table as the shoulders of the ladies shook free all inhibition and for me Maggie’s tits heaved best of all. Magic: there was no other word for it, just magic. You know, it wasn’t the talking of tits that made it magic though they surely did not get in the way. It was the tale that had taken us there; a tale that they all could relate to, with the tension of the elastic and the tricky operation of the trimming and the uncertain environment of the coach on a country lane. It truly was magic.
On the way back she was nestled into my chest and she murmured softly, ‘Thank you so much, I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.’
‘You did’, I said, ‘trust me.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Yes you did, you came.’
Yes, but…’
‘Never mind but, you came because you wanted to trust me and it worked and now you do. Trust deferred can be developed; full trust can only be lost.’
A long time after that full trust was lost and we grew apart and separated and lost track of one another, but I still remember that night.
I still remember Maggie leaning against the side of that coach and watching her change that night. She had been shy, lacking confidence, and the transformation was from the disconsolate milk jugs to the cleavage to kill for, for that night I think she finally recognized that she had something that was a part of her that was desirable, and that night I was the one who wanted and she wanted me. We went home and I showered her with the confetti I’d kept for the occasion and we laughed and we tumbled and we talked and we loved and we slept.
It was a long time ago and yes it was magic, and magic is great, but it does have a downside; you can’t keep a hold of it, but at the same time, it won’t let you go.
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