!” she said. “What are you doing?”I gave that peachy flesh a good squeeze. “Sorry mom, I couldn’t help myself. Tell me you don’t want me. ...ell me stright and I’ll go.”The way she turned her head to look at me, the way she bit her lip, the way her eyes glazed over with lust, told me that was the furthest thing from what she really wanted.“Tell me,” I demanded.She said nothing.My hand cupped her mound, making her moan out.I felt the hot, damp heat against my fingers.“Tell me,” I said again.All. Suddenly I could feel how mynipples get stiff and try to drill a way through the flannel fabric ofmy nightdress.I look at my bosom, to the obvious swelling of my pendulous breasts thatmove up and down with my breathing, at this clear proof of my newfemininity, to this two humps of fat and glands that bother me andvibrate when every movement of my arms, those fleshy humps which nolonger permit me to sleep on my stomach and which obliges me to wear aharness, a so called bra, probably for the rest. More

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