Boob Day: Hers, not mine

These are not my breasts, but I know them well. There was a time when they pressed against my back in sleep, jutted into my face as we wrestled and kissed, pooled in my hands like egg yolks, soft and yielding, as she hovered over me in the morning light.

No longer. No.

{ this image is posted with knowledge/permission from the subject }


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