Tit-watching was a hobby I shared only with my fellow students in the junior common-room. It wasn’t an interest I felt able to share with my closest friends out of school (half of whom had tits of their own). We were all devout chapel-goers and boy- or girl-scouts - “pure in thought, word and deed”. Well, that was the theory of it. My hobby did not become an obsession until I finally got my hands on Emma’s budding breasts. One beautiful afternoon, we were lying in the park, kissing. One of her arms was trapped under me. With my arm round her, I took hold of her other wrist, and then placed my hand tentatively on her chest. There following an exchange which I carefully recorded in my diary:- Please don’t.
- Why?
- It goes right through me.
- It’s supposed to.
- Okay. But let go of my hand.
And the rest is history.
