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The skinny girl, the one with the bony hips and the tits that looked like they got stuck on afterwards with modeling clay, just read you a list of your faults – I mean, like a list written on one of those long sheets of yellow paper with the blue and red lines for Pete’s sake – and you tell her to go to hell, as politely as possible. And as you walk down her stairway and out her front walk and start up your car, you realize that the big girl you met at your old friend Fred’s the other night, the one with the incredible green eyes and the big bouncy boobs and the little green shoes that looked like slippers, has been walking around in your brain, and now and then one of those little green shoes twangs the nerve that runs from your head to your dick. Laurie. Like a damn fool you didn’t get her phone number.

On the way home you drop by Fred’s place. Fred looks like a large bear. His house looks like where you’d expect a large bear to live. Stringy furniture. Not very much light. Books everywhere. Longnecks empty of home brew. Peanut shells on the floor (or are they acorn hulls?). Fred must have one of every computer Apple ever made. He does something with cars and computers for a living. You and Fred pop a couple of home brews. They say PHREDZ BIG BEAR BRAU in sort of fake German letters, done with a computer. You never forget your first Phredz. If you survive it, anyhow. “Yeah, Laurie’s something else. Teaches high school. Phone number.” He does something with a computer and her name and address and phone number eventually pop up on a screen. While the computer disks whir, your mind wanders back to Fred’s party the other night. Fred loves to roll back the peanut shells and turn on the old time rock and roll. You boogied with Laurie and watched her feet move in those little green shoes that looked like slippers. She wore a soft purple sweater and when her huge boobs bounced to the music her big nipples showed right through her bra and poked the backs of your hands. The skinny girl glared. The backs of your hands are still burning.

The computer prints out Laurie’s address and phone number. You gulp down the rest of the longneck. You go home and call Laurie. You feel like a high school kid. Even her voice has big boobs. Sure she’d like to have dinner at your place tomorrow evening. Her voice bounces “bye” and you put the phone down not quite believing it. You’ve got a date with Laurie. You fall into bed worn out. Suddenly your dick’s as hard as the nozzle on a fire hose. You think about those crazy nipples on the backs of your hands and you cry out “Laurie, Laurie, Laurie” when you cum. That’s all you remember.

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Sarah dressed as the doctor left the room. She couldn’t believe it! That bikini shoot in Malaysia had given her a rare tropical disease. At first she was afraid she would die from it, but the doctor said it was easily curable, but when he told her the cure and it’s side effects, she wished she could die. The cure was simple enough. A small incision into her neck and remove the infected portion of her pituitary gland and she would be almost as good as new. The ‘almost’ part was the killer. With part of the gland missing, her metabolism would slow down and she would gain weight — A LOT of weight. This wouldn’t do for a model. Actually, she was now a former model since the medication had already put 13 pounds on her. She rubbed the soft belly that had once rippled with muscle. The surgery was tomorrow. Soon this barely noticeable tummy would balloon into a basketball of pure flab. A tear slid down her cheek.

Sarah came to a groggy consciousness after the surgery. She could feel the bandage on her neck. Oh no! as groggy as she was, just moments after major surgery, she was hungry! RAVENOUSLY HUNGRY! Sarah stayed in the hospital for only 2 days. As expected her metabolic rate was slowing rapidly. She found she was sleeping more, but also she had this delightful feeling of peace, and inner calmness she hadn’t known since she was 13 and had begun her career as a model. She went home concerned, but oddly hopeful of her future. She was glad to be off the medication but she had still put on 5 more pounds in the 2 days since the surgery. Her clothes were tight; too tight. On the way home she stopped in a mall to get some new things. Sarah was shocked. The only things that fit were size 8! She had been a petite 6 only a month before! Even more surprising was the fact her bra was now too small. She needed a 36B. The off the rack clothes and the added fullness in her hips, chest and face totally changed her look. She was still pretty, of course, even beautiful, but that ‘something special,’ call it glamour, that makes a top model was gone. In an instant, she knew what she had to do. She went to a beauty shop and had her hair re-styled and returned to its natural color. The effect was astonishing. Gone was Sarah Lane, model. In her place was Ann DeMarco, her real name.

It felt good to be Ann again. Her last stop was the supermarket. She filled her kitchen with all of the sights and smells of an Italian kitchen, that she had known and loved since she was a child. She prepared Veal Picante with pasta she made herself. The meal was a transitional experience for her. She had no financial worries, she had only had this lose of power that came with leaving modeling, but she would find a new way — a new life that would be more fulfilling than the old one. She looked around. This was a big house and she was determined to fill it with love and children.

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We’ve gone over to Jon’s one evening. Susan is out of town, and we decided to keep Jon company. He made dinner for us, and we brought some good German beer. I’ve had a few glasses of wine with dinner. After dinner, we’re sitting in the living room, just talking, some about art, some about people you and Jon know. It was a long week for all of us and it’s nice to chat with friends and relax. Everyone feels very calm, although you suspect there is some undercurrent of sexual tension. You had teased me before we left home, and now, after dinner, you notice my nipples through my shirt. I’m a little flushed, but it could be from the wine.

I’m sitting at your feet and your hand is on the back of my neck, sometimes stroking my head, almost petting me. I am drifting off a little as you and Jon start to talk about some esoteric part of history that doesn’t interest me too much. I am content to let my mind meander and not worry. I lean back, now, between your legs, and put my head on your thigh. As you lean forward, you reach down and stroke one of my breasts very gently.

At first it is very natural and not conspicuous. Jon may not even notice because he is very intent on the discussion at hand. But as time goes on, you become more and more purposeful, obvious about what you are doing. Your fingers occasionally stray over my [tag]nipples[/tag], even pinching the right nipple, once. I close my eyes to concentrate on the feelings, so I am pretty unaware of how much Jon is noticing. You start fiddling with the buttons on my shirt, and almost casually undo the first three or four. Reaching into the opened shirt, through my bra, you take hold of my ring firmly and suddenly.

“Jon, Alice’s breasts are really very beautiful” you say, almost quietly.

Jon looks confused for a moment about Alice, but then realizes. You or I must have told him that Alice is my bottom name, and your signal that we are playing. It clicks in his head with what you have been doing for the last ten minutes.

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Augusta is a JAP (jewish American Princess) by definition only. She is Jewish and very spoiled, yet she has strikingly blonde hair and soft facial features. She is very petite with small hands and very tiny feet. Five foot tall with a proportional figure that fits her height and well-shaped breasts which are small yet round and firm. She is also very [tag]pregnant[/tag]. Her husband is off on another of his so-called business trips leaving her to fend for herself this last month before the baby is expected.

I dropped by one Saturday afternoon to check to see how she was doing and I must admit I found out.

“Hi there, what brings you here?”

“I came over to see if you were alright.”

“Fat, tired and sore, but other than that I’m okay.”

“You’re about ready to have the baby aren’t you?”

“Yep, next month, and if he don’t come out I am going to have a fit.”

“How do you know it’s going to be a he?”

“Oh I don’t know.”

“Maybe it’ll be a she and she be as beautiful as her mother.”

“Well right now I don’t feel so pretty, I feel fat and my sides hurt. It hurts when I sit or lay down and it definitely hurts for me to walk.”

“Here this will help.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to massage your sides. They hurt because you aren’t quite used to carrying all that weight around and it makes your muscles sore and this will make them feel better.”

“Oh God! that does feels good. Where did you learn that?”

“I do have a few kids you know.”

“Yes and I’m sorry you and Toni split up. Do you see the kids at all?”

“No, she has them in Ohio,” I said massaging her sides.

She fell silent to enjoy the massage I guess. I stood behind her chair with my hands rubbing her sides. Standing there looking down at her I could see her breasts through the loose open-necked maternity top that she had on. I reached around cupping one small breast in each hand.

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My throat was dry as I approached the door to the clinic. I wondered what it would be like, would it be cold and clinical or warm and sensual, would there be a lot of people around, would I be alone, what would it be like.

I opened the door, and stepped inside, I was in a reception area that was empty except for a receptionist. I hesitated a moment and then she looked up from her work and asked me if she could help me. I told her my name and she looked in a book and said that the doctor would be with me shortly and would I please have a seat. I sat down and picked up a magazine and leafed aimlessly through it, my mine racing on what lay ahead, I could hear soft music playing over the speakers, and the air was heavy with the usual scent of a doctors office. As my mind wondered I was startled to hear my name being called… I looked up and a young lady in the white uniform of a nurse was holding the door open and asking me to follow her. I stood, took a deep breath and followed her down a hall, walking past several examination rooms, finally she stopped, told me to go in,and sit on the table. She took my blood pressure, asked me a few questions about my past [tag]medical[/tag] history, then said the doctor would be in shortly.

I sat there for what seemed like the longest time, when finally I heard a soft knock at the door, the door opened and in stepped a young man, in his early thirties. He introduced himself as Dr. Snyder, we exchanged a few pleasantries and then he asked me what I knew about the research they were doing, I said not much, just that the ad had alluded to research into feminine sexuality. He said that was correct insofar as it went. He said more specifically they were doing research into various methods of women achieving orgasm, and measuring the speed, intensity, and subjective feelings the woman was experiencing during the buildup to [tag]orgasm[/tag] and during the actual orgasm. He went onto explain that the various methods they would be comparing were [tag]masturbation[/tag] by the subject, masturbation using a vibrator, induced by the doctor using clitoral massage, plus a new method they were testing called [tag]electro-stimulation[/tag]. He must have seen my reaction when he mentioned electro-stimulation, because he said, ” I can see you have a question about electro-stimulation.” I said yes, and that I had never heard of it before. He said it held great promise in their studies so far it appeared to be a very pleasant and efficient way to induce an orgasm. He told me that if I decided to proceed, he would explain it in greater detail to me at that time.

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