Confessions of a Breastibitionist


The first time my friend Karen ever saw me I was sucking my own nipple. On the back seat of a car. In a photograph… taken by her boyfriend.

It's a good job that Karen is the tit-tastic lady that she is, as the sight of my contorted head clamped around a naked breast left her determined to meet me. We've been firm, erect friends ever since.

Anyway, that particular self-sucking episode was just one of many. Ever since I first discovered that I could lever my left bosom into my mouth it's not taken much to persuade me to show others how it's done. Any excuse, and my tits are out. I confess - I'm a breastibitionist.

The trick for getting them in your gob is to have big nipples but small boobs. The fried egg look does have its advantages, and the further your yolks stick out, the better. As they tend to come in unmatching pairs, you may find one mammary more malleable than the other - Mrs Left has always been my flexible friend.

On one occasion, after drinking silly amounts of vin blanc in a Soho restaurant, I even managed to insert a substantial portion of the aforementioned knocker into a glass of Sancerre. Now how classy is that? (Not as classy as Blue Nun, I know, but the performance was such a crowd pleaser.) Tasted rather nice, too.

Now before you start tutting at this brazen attention-seeking, understand that my balcony scene is not just a party piece. Oh no - I do have some morals you know. Yes, my topless tactics have in fact become a strategic tool in one of my other hobbies - political protest. Direct action doesn't come much more direct than my pert nips saking their thang in the face of the police, and it's quite the best way to 'get busted'.

A few years back, at the May Day protest in Oxford Street, I confronted an officer who was illegally filming me by flinging my top off and offering him a better look. This caused consternation (for him) and merriment (for us), but not quite the tabloid-friendly furore that I spawned at a demo in support of the striking Liverpool Dockers a few years ago. On that occasion I had sprinted in front of a line of riot police with my baps bared. I did this because, after a peaceful kinda march, the fools had cordoned us all off into Trafalger Square and were closing in from every angle. Unsurprisingly, tensions were starting to rise, so to quell the unease I thought I'd cause an amusing distraction.

As it turned out, the boys in blue didn't bat an eyelid, but the paparrazi went beserk, screaming 'Come back this way for the papers, love!' Oh go on then, I thought, and selflessly ran back facing the cameras. As they flashed, so did I. The next day a photo of my base-chested self appeared on page 3 of the Sunday Sport, under the immortal heading: DOCKERS - KNOCKERS! Aah, Denise Van Outen eat your deflated heart out.

Like a little boy delighted with the possibilities of his penis, I am unfailingly pleased by my boobies. I sit on my sofa and cup them in my hands, comforted by their presence. Breast is best, and mine are my bosom buddies, my love handles, my twin peaks. They like hanging out with me and I like chewing their fat - it's a win-win situation.

As for auto-inhalation, I know I'm not alone in this fetish - my ex-boyfriend could suck his own penis. (Well, he could get the end in, and yes, it was a rather long schlong.) As we didn't like each other very much, it was the perfect arrangement - the pair of us would sit in bed ignoring each other whilst lavishing attention on our soggy selves.

Put simply, tits are the dog's, well, tits, and the only bad thing about them is that a sorry 50% of the world's population haven't got any. But that's ok, because I'm here to help. Hello Boys - wanna see what I've got?



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