Marie’s Breasts


Marie’s breasts were incontestably the most beautiful I had ever seen, including those I have seen since. By every measure of beauty they were unsurpassed: size, firmness, shape, the space between them and the cleavage that offered, the way they held firm when she lay down, the slight bounce and vibration when she walked, the size of her nipples. Everything.

So, when did I first encounter them? Well, my introduction was inauspicious. It was a dark, wet January morning on a commuter train rattling into London. Everyone, at 7.30 in the morning, was already in a foul mood. Seats were limited, passengers dripped water from raincoats and umbrellas on to sitting passengers. I managed to find a seat. Opposite there was a spare seat which a woman soon occupied, rather breathlessly and to the annoyance of the other two occupants. She was compelling but it is hard to explain why: thick winter coat, scarf, hat. All that was visible was her eyes. Every love affair with a woman begins with her eyes. But if she has beautiful eyes and beautiful breasts, you are in trouble. Serious trouble. In fact, it is a measure of the beauty of Marie’s breasts that they even cast a shadow over her beautiful eyes.

So really, on that first occasion, there was so little of her to see. I kept throwing her furtive glances hoping she would not notice; I was only caught out once. She was engrossed in a book which, at one point she put down; on the front cover was a picture of a vase of roses and the book was simply entitled ‘Roses.’ Well – a whole book about roses!

The train stopped at a small, suburban station outside the city and she got off. I was very close to following her but could not get my thoughts together quick enough to respond. As the train pulled away I feared I would never see her again; I had been doing this journey for seven years and had never seen her before. Still, I could not wholly rationalise the compelling attraction. But the eyes, the clue was there. I sensed they were an hor d’oeuvre before a sumptuous main course. How right I was. I had to see her again. Soon.

The following day I broke with my normal, commuter’s routine and got on the rear carriage, that way I could walk the length of the train after her station in the hope she would be there. She got on at the same time as I walked into her carriage. As usual there were only a few seats and once again she sat down opposite me. It was one of those awful days when the rain was relentless but it was warm as well. She moved to occupy the seat immediately opposite me and began to remove her coat. There was very little space between the opposing seats or between the passengers sitting either side of you. To remove your coat without hitting someone in the face was a fine art. To do so you had to pull your shoulders back so that the coat slipped down your arms; in doing so you had to thrust out your chest. That was when I first saw them, only inches away from me: two very large, perfectly rounded beauties, pressing hard to escape from the confines of a v-necked red top. I was enraptured. She sat down and those big, beautiful creatures obediently settled in their appointed place on her chest. They seemed to have an identity, a life of their own; they stared at me defiantly, arrogantly and I cowered; even her beautiful blue eyes and rambling blond locks seemed to pale in their wake. The power of womanhood, at that moment, seemed limitless. I felt no more than a mere man compelled to worship at the shrine of the most magnificent bosom I had ever seen. Even the woman herself seemed secondary to those spherical gems. Would I ever see anything like this again?

At the next stop the man sitting next to me got off and she took his place. Very soon, however, we approached her station. As she bent forward to put things in her bag her top moved fractionally outwards and I glimpsed, momentarily, which was enough, a merest sliver of the black lace of her bra. To the outsider this may seem merely a piece of coloured material. Not to me: it ignited an irresistible sexual charge.

I could now sense the early symptoms of infatuation. The following morning I got off the train where she did and followed her. Five minutes from the station, she stopped at a florist, took keys from her bag and went it. She owed it or ran it; it would explain the book on roses. I noted the closing time at the end of the day and left work early enough to get there before she went home.

I entered the shop and selected a bunch of her most colourful and expensive flowers. I had no idea what they were. I watched her as she carefully wrapped them. The proximity of her breasts to the flowers had some kind of symbiotic significance: two different but extraordinary forms of beauty. She walked to the other side of the store to find some tape to secure the flowers; on her return I noticed the almost unbearably erotic sight of her breasts gently vibrating against her blouse. Was there, I wondered, in all the wide world, anyway that I might one day see them unfettered, unrestrained and free? I was awakened from this dream as she finished wrapping the flowers and handed them to me.

“There you are”, she said, “I hope she likes them.”

So engrossed in my erotic imagination, I failed to pick out her witty comment.

“Oh yes, yes, my wife,” I said, so unconvincingly that she would have instantly assumed it was for a mistress.

As I left the shop I wondered what I could do now. I could not go there every evening and buy flowers. Somehow I had to engineer something that would allow me to meet her properly. Somehow I had to see those breasts. But for the time being I was suddenly left with a huge bunch of flowers. If I gave them to my wife the shock could kill her; or worse, make her suspicious. I had to throw them away. But infatuation was simmering nicely inside me and I suddenly turned around and returned to the shop. I walked in at great speed, marched up to the counter where she was arranging flowers in a vase, took out one of the flowers I had just bought from her put it on the counter and said, “That one’s for you.” I walked away as fast as I could before I had time to see her reaction or say anything. On the way home I concluded that at least that would be the end of this absurd fixation because I could not possibly return to the shop after that little incident. The next day I did.

The moment I walked into her shop she laughed.

“Hello! Have you come to give me some of my own flowers?”

She smiled and was good humoured about it.

“No, I haven’t. The truth is…..I didn’t want any flowers in the first place.”

She said nothing and waited for me to explain why I had come to a florist without any intention of buying flowers. So I told the truth, well part of it.

“Well, the truth is….I came to see you. I’ve seen you on the same train as me in the morning. And the truth is I think you’re absolutely….gorgeous. There, now you know the truth. Some people like to look at beautiful flowers; I like to look at a beautiful woman. There, that’s my confession.”

I turned round and walked to the door but stopped there and turned around. Her face was a picture fascination about what I was possibly going to say or do next.

“Actually,” I stammered, “that’s not the whole confession. The truth is…


“The truth is I think you have the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen.”

She squealed with laughter, not offended or angry at all.

“You’re amazing! Do you always tell women you don’t know that sort of thing?”

“No, I’ve never said or done anything like this in my life.”

“Well, I am flattered! Actually I’ll tell you something, which I noticed yesterday when you came in and again today, that you’re one of the very few men that I encounter who talk to my face rather than my chest.”

“Well, it wasn’t easy, I can tell you!”

Her laughter was entrancing.

“Look,” she said, “why don’t you buy me drink?”

We adjourned to a pub across the road and continued a conversation that was becoming increasingly arousing. It was hard enough concentrating with those breasts looking at you but I was beginning to have reservations about my ability to control my own lustful momentum. After a few drinks our inhibitions were beginning to weaken.

“The other day on the train,” I began, “you were wearing a black lacy bra. Are you still wearing it?”

She did not even ask me how I knew. The drink had loosened her more than me. She looked across the room to see if anyone was looking and, without taking her eyes of me, undid the first button on her blouse and pulled a small part of the bra upwards so that it was just visible. She did not bother to fasten the button afterwards.

“It’s black,” she said, “but not the same one.”

At this point whatever ascendency I once had in this brief relationship had vanished. She knew that male desire was a malleable thing.

“Actually,” she continued, “this is one of my favourite bras. It gives a lot of support under here.”

She demonstrated by putting her hands underneath her breasts and gradually lifting them.

“Also it keeps them together, as it were.”

And pushed her breasts together to demonstrate.

“Obviously with my size it’s difficult to find a well fitting bra, as you will appreciate I’m sure.”

I knew she was playing with me but now but I was wholly in her power. I uttered a barely audible, “Yes.”

“It’s also very fine material.” At which rubbed her hands circular fashion across her breasts.”

“Do you know.” She said, “I don’t even know your name?”

Given the discussion that was taking place between us, this seemed a rather superfluous detail.


“I’m Marie.”

At this point we both fell silent, unsure where we went from here. She eventually broke the silence. I was too in awe of her to break the silence.

“So, tell me, Simon, are you a connoisseur of breasts? You said mine were the best you’d ever seen so I take it you’ve seen a few.”

“Well a few, I guess.”

“I see. You know, you might be disappointed if you saw me, you know, in the raw, as it were.”

“I doubt it.”

The silences in our conversation were getting longer. Like chess players we were considering our next move and the move after that. Finally she went for check.

“Above my shop is a small flat although I never use it. Why don’t you come along tomorrow just after I close the shop and maybe we could finish this conversation in private?”


As never before I felt wholly in thrall to desire. Whatever reservations a more rational individual might have had about the ensuing meeting never touched me for a moment. My surrender was unconditional.

When I arrived at the shop she took me upstairs to the small but beautifully decorated room. She was resplendent in a brightly coloured dress cut alarmingly low at the front. Those breasts, the twin objects of my infatuated desire, were pressed together and seemingly suspended in mid-air.

A small table nearby held a bucket of champagne and two glasses. As a seduction this was close to being a rout. She popped the champagne cork and poured two glasses. We barely spoke. Then before I had finished she took the glass from my hand and put it back on the table.

“Now, to finish our conversation,” she said and turned around, “Unzip me.”

The zip extended almost down to her backside. She pulled the dress off and stepped out of it but kept her back to me.

“Go on then, finish the job. Unclasp me.”

Nervously I fumbled at the thick strap of her bra. When I finally released it she brought her hands up to her shoulders to pull it off but I placed my hands on hers to stop her.

“No! I want to do this.”

I turned her round, put my hands under the loosened shoulder straps and pulled the bra free. They were finally revealed. Now unadorned, they were even more beautiful than I imagined. Certainly they were large but had retained a youthful firmness. I put my hands underneath them and was struck by how heavy they were. When I placed my hands over them they were more than my hands could hold. The nipples, large and erect by this time, cried out to be sucked.

She took me to a chair and sat me down. Straddled me. Took her right breast and directed it into my mouth and I sucked like a baby, which at that moment is precisely what I was. When I had my fill of this she offered me the other breast.

At last, when all my claims to be an autonomous human being had wilted, she took me by the hand and said, quietly, “Come on, the bedroom’s this way.”

The following morning I left for work late so that I could visit the shop and see her but when I got there it was closed despite being well past her opening time. Deeply disappointed, I went to work but left early enough to catch her before she left but the shop was still closed.. The following morning I went again and as I approached the shop there was something ominously different about the front. When I got there I saw it was a ‘For Sale’ sign.

She was gone.

Maybe, I thought, she had never been there at all…

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