“I love these old photos of you,” I told her. “Look how cute you were.” Then I caught myself and added, “Oh, I mean you still are cute, of course.” I looked directly into her face and said, “Once beautiful, always beautiful.”
Mrs. Kaufman blushed. “Oh, you’re so nice to say things like that, but I’m afraid you’re too generous with your compliment.”
She had looked away, but I kept looking at this stately lady who was somewhere between two and three times older than me and said, “No, I’m serious, you have a rare beauty that hasn’t faded.”
Again, a blush.
She opened a new package of photos of herself as an older teenager, and that’s when I decided to take a step toward the undressing of Mrs. Kaufman. It was a long shot, but with care and patience I might convince her to bare her breasts to me before I left that afternoon.
The photographs showed the young Mrs. Kaufman as she was just beginning to develop. In the first photos she was a cute new teen with small tips barely tenting her shirt to reveal the first phases of womanhood. Later photos showed a teenager with fuller and fuller breasts, even a few in bathing suits that left less to the imagination.
I couldn’t resist.
“Mrs. Kaufman,” I asked, “do you mind my asking you a personal question?”
“Why no,” she replied.
“Well, I don’t know how to put this,” I hesitated, “so I guess I’ll just say it.”
“Go on,” she encouraged me.
Sitting next to this perfect specimen of aging womanhood, still very attractive and still with large breasts that I would give anything to see, even though I was sure they sagged now and were only held erect by well-selected lingerie, I asked, “What did it feel like then?”
Mrs. Kaufman looked puzzled.
I continued, “Well, you were a girl, like all girls, with a body that was a lot like the boys, and then all of a sudden…”
“Oh!” she exclaimed as she probably understood what I was asking.
I decided not to wait for her to speak, and I added, “I’ve always wondered what it would have been like to go through such a change and what it must have felt like to go from having a flat chest to these.”
As I said, “these,” I reached out with both hands and very gently rested the tips of my fingers under her two breasts, touching them ever so slightly.
My heart was racing a million beats a minute, and I was nervous about making such a daring move, a move I had no intention of making when I arrived at her home that afternoon. To the touch, the underside of her breasts were firm, and I didn’t know if she could feel the gentle pressure of my fingers as I let them trace the curve up to where her nipples must be.
I withdrew my hands.
Mrs. Kaufman sat still and erect with her chest thrust out toward me, and she did not react in any way but instead she became calm and pretended not to have noticed my touches as she stared at the old photos and considered my question. Had I gotten away with a little feel?
Actually, when I touched her, I tried to do it in a way that seemed natural and matter-of-fact. We were sitting so close and looking at photos of her as a teen in a bathing suit, and it just seemed like it was part of my question when I touched her breasts so casually. It was as if she might not understand what I was asking if I didn’t use some “hand language” to make myself clear.