Yes, they are mine. I waited a long time for them. In junior high, other girls got boobs, and I got an Itty Bitty TItty Committee t-shirt. Other girls got real bras, and I got a training bra. In the late 70s, this was a band of elastic with two triangles of stretchy material sewn to the top of it, and two stretchy straps. This item was made only to suppress the pesky nipple buds that were the only indication that someday breasts would sprout. They didn’t sprout until I was about 17, and then they were perfect high-and-tight B cups. By the time I was 19, they were C+ cups, and it wasn’t long after that that they ballooned to DD status. I want the Bs back. That was full enough to be luscious, but small enough to not be a hindrance to daily life.

Yes, they are real. I have not had breast augmentation surgery. In fact, at one time I considered seriously having them reduced. I can’t help that they are as big, round, and symmetrical as they are. My genetic inheritance just happens to be nice boobs. I didn’t get long legs, blond hair, or other features that society otherwise deems desirable. But I did get the jugs. It’s not my fault. I don’t deserve them, and I don’t not deserve them. They just are.

No, you can’t have them. I realize that it is your reptile brain telling you to stare at them, but as delicious as they are, they are not yours. Put your eyes back in their sockets and move along.

Yes, you can have them. They are mine to share as I see fit. If you treat them with respect, you can share them with me. You will find that they are, for me, generators of many a pleasant sensation. You will feel your own pleasant sensations, I imagine.

Breasts. They make the world go around. And they’re all mine.