#pillowgirl

“Girls like her are everywhere now. You can tell them by their…”, she gestures, stretching her hands far out in front of her chest, rounding her fingers to grope invisible spheres, and only then whispering the word. “By her hooters. But it’s not just the size. It’s the bouncing. And the playing. And the sweet words she says. And all of the things she does to make you think she’s a nice girl to…”

Another stumble. Again the strain of old-world prudishness overrides his mother’s tongue.

“…to go to bed with. But never forget she wants something from you. And if you give it to her, you’ll never get it back.”

His mom had once warned him about a certain kind of girl, but that had been a long time ago, back in the days before his mom had grown into that kind of girl.

“But I’m just saying, what if you really enjoy it?

“Because sure, there’s a chance it might turn into some kind of ‘eternal dick torture’ where you spend the rest of your life begging me to let you out of my boobs. But there’s also a chance you might really enjoy it.”

roastieswiththeboys:

Mountains of mammary meat

With pillowgirls there’s a thin line between bouncing and masturbation. For the first hop or two she was trying to get a better look. Everything after that is just her jugging herself off.

“A guy wandering around all alone? No girlfriend in sight? Not even a boobysitter to look after you? I’d almost think you want to get boobed.”

It might seem a bad idea to cram 15 lbs of sweating tit into a skintight latex dress. But fashion is a harsh Mistress and plastic is more popular than ever. Though, naturally, changes had to be made.

First the release valves—consider all the cream and lubricants, pheromone-laden sweat, and other more exotic fluids churned out endlessly by her boobs in their endeavour to create just the right environment to hold and torment a cock. And then on top of that you have whichever lotions, massage oils, and perfumes she decided to drizzle 4over her breasts that morning. The excess slowly dripping down deeper into her cleavage with each rub of tit against tit as she bounces and jiggles about her day until finally these fluids join her natural ones, pooling in the warm darkness beneath her boobs.

Without a literal release valve, her breasts would be left to swim and swelter in their own sexual fluids. With a valve, these spurts and secretions become someone else’s problem—as they should be, as far as she’s concerned.

And then there’s the zippers, their use obvious enough. For when a girl gets a little too hot under the collar and just needs that emergency escape. Positioned haphazardly anywhere she might want to release some boob, because she grew too hot and excited and wants to feel some cool air on her tits, or perhaps because she because she grew too hot and excited and wants to play with her nipples, or maybe for no other reason except she feels like getting her boobs out.

And finally, not pictured, is the customary warning label, carefully affixed to the chest of each rubber dress and then just as carelessly ripped away after purchase, barely ever read:

“Before airing breasts, please ensure the vicinity is clear of men and other weak-willed people”.