Puppies

“You have to meet Carrie. She’s got great puppies,” he says, gesturing with both hands cupped around his chest.

Puppies? I look skeptical.

I wonder about the origins of the term ‘puppies’. Tits (from titillate, teats) I understand. Or jugs (milk-bearing vessels) even. Rack (hanging frame, medieval torture device) a little less so, but British people say this a lot and since they claim to be an authority in the English language, I’ll let it slide just this once. God love that (ex-) colony mindset.

But back to puppies – Daschund or Shar-pei, is there even a difference – the term suggests a certain vulnerable quality, does it not? However when Carrie’s puppies are duly presented in front of me for inspection, there is nothing at all vulnerable about them.

Springing from her chest in two smooth, perfectly-symmetrical orbs and barely encased by a skimpy lace top, the puppies are armed. And very dangerous.

“A ‘Warning: Do Not Feed’ label would have been more appropriate don’t you think”, I mutter to my friend under my breath, jabbing him in the side with my elbow.

But for all my ungraciousness, even I have to admit that the reviews are spot-on. Attached human notwithstanding, the puppies are exquisite – slightly-raised mounds on top, subtle swellings that peek out from the side and a shaded valley down the middle that appears tantalising soft.

It’s not difficult to pinpoint the tight little buttons of arousal underneath the merciless fabric and I am helpless to tear my eyes away. Its Darwinian - the long-term survival and reproductive well-bring of our species depends on puppies like these.

Of course as I barely know Carrie, etiquette dictates that I only ogle at her chest when she is not looking. When we do engage in actual conversation, I make sure to plumb the portals of her eyes and make engaging noises about her outfit and uh, intellect.

In truth, all I'm really thinking is how those puppies really need a good toilet training. A hard pinch when they've been bad, an affectionate squeeze when they've been good and voluminous squirts of cum for everything in between.

So I'll come clean. You know how there are ass-men, ab-girls and the odd stiletto-fetishist, well I am a true-blue tit-girl, which means to say I love breasts and everything about them. Always have, always will.

What variety, you ask? Unlike the male philosophy of 'bigger is better', I'm more along the lines of 'size is nice'. Carrie must have been a D at least and you don't see me complaining. But you know what they say - anything more than a handful is a waste. (Replace 'handful' with 'mouthful' depending on which you use more often of course.)

Well my take is this: I have a C-cup hand, a B-cup mouth and people are starving in Somalia. So I'm much more likely to value subtle curvature and defiance to gravity over a set of trophies from Cathay Bowlerama. I like to think so anyway.

I have an equal opportunity policy about breasts – like most people I’m usually more pleased to be granted access than anything else – but naturally, I have personal preferences: I like perky tits that spring to the touch. And I do enjoy cupping the fullness of tear-shaped tits from the side and lifting them from the bottom. Nipples, I prefer to be lightly rouged and pointing straight or slightly upwards with a little plumpness around the areolae. Cleavage should be subtle and inviting, but nothing a mamasan could lose her handkerchief in.

Perhaps what I like most of all is mobility – breasts that bounce, wiggle, attack, sway to the music and nipples that point, twist, brace and spring to attention. I want to be inspired by bouncing balls, swaying pendulums and ripening papayas...

Anyway...

These thoughts bring me back sharply to the specimens in front of me. Yes, the puppies. We are in a club now and it’s dark so it’s legal to look for as long and hard as I like. On closer observation, I notice that the puppies maintain a remarkable sang-froid while Carrie stomps up a storm in her precarious high heels and Dior hot pants.

I turn to my friend suddenly, catching him off-guard with my suspicions. It is only then that he admits – a tad guiltily – he’s known all along that the puppies are surgically enhanced, if not completely manufactured.

“They’re not great puppies if they’re fake!” I whisper, outraged. We’re on holiday far from home but coming from the continent of confident, natural small-breasted women, the Asian in me is not impressed.

"But you’d still fuck her, right…” he asks hopefully.

I shoot him a look through narrowed eyes. We head back to the hotel and say no more on the subject.