A Guide To Titty Worship
Everyone wants to tittyfuck me. Not enough people want to worship my titties.
This thought had been rolling around in my brain for a few months, but it really implanted during a recent breast ultrasound. Ultrasounds are necessary when you have very dense breasts, which I do. Does density correlate to size? I don’t know, but I know I have big, beautiful tits.
This isn’t a brag. They are as much a burden as a gift. Depending on the day and how I’m feeling in my body.
I’m a 30GG—a size that doesn’t exist in standard sized stores. I have a small frame, so my breasts appear even larger, cartoon-esque, exaggerated.
Even when I have no intention to draw attention, I do: my breasts are the first things people notice about me, all genders express awe, envy, feeling entitled to share an opinion on my body.
I had noticeable breasts by age 13, and was noticeably sexualized at that time as well. I have often wondered if my interest in sex was put upon me rather than sought out by me—my identity formed by my body rather than my body shaped by my pursuits, like that of an athlete.
My breasts are like piano fingers—I was destined to become a sex prodigy. Easier to play the role assigned, sometimes.
I came of age in the era of Varsity Blues, so I had my fair share of whipped cream licked off of my breasts in high school—sticky, messy, accessible—but it was more a novelty act than one designed for my pleasure. Boobs were ogled, not worshipped.
Traveling abroad, the first time a masseuse began to massage my breasts I wasn’t sure if I was being violated, the feeling was so foreign. Ayurvedic oils in India made my breasts glisten in low light. But the intestinal massage that inevitably followed made the feeling more clinical than personal.
Which is partly why I was amazed to feel turned on in the ultrasound room. I was lying on my back. The room was dark and cool but not cold. The nurse applied a heaping amount of warmed up lube to my breasts and slowly, with gentle but firm pressure, rubbed the probe around. My nipples instantly got hard. My whole body relaxed. I closed my eyes. Listened to the whoosh whoosh of the machine.
And wondered, really wondered, why no one had ever lubed up my boobs this way. So lovingly.
In my vast history of lovers, only one stands out as a breast worshipper. I remember our hook up so distinctly: it was early morning light in my bedroom after a long night out, and I told him I didn’t want to have sex, but still wanted to hook up. He was amazingly sensual and in our rhythm of undulating and rubbing against each other he continuously would swoop my breasts together and rub his face, his lips, his eyelashes against them.
There was a reverence involved. It’s hard to pinpoint. A respect that doesn’t register with tittyfucking. There’s something so juvenile about that act for me—it feels like something a boy who first encountered boobs would want to do. There’s something disembodied about it—unless it is fully earned. Unless the tits are given adequate foreplay.
In my guide to titty worship, I provide instructions on how to achieve the above. Step by step, in exacting detail. Read below + listen to the audio.
Optional accompaniments: Massage Butter, Vibrator, Nipple Clamps, Restraints, my favorite vibrator
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Worship, to me, means to revere something so much you’d almost not dare touch it. So, if you are given consent to touch, you should do so with such care and appreciation that the receiver can feel your gratitude radiating through your fingers, your lips, your tongue.
Worship begins before we land in bed. Pick me up and carry me like a queen, like a bride, like your fresh kill. Carefully lay me down, letting all my limbs settle. Eye contact. Tell me what you’re planning, telepathically.
Then undress me. Slowly. Like I might bite or break.
You stay fully clothed, for now…
The juiciest stuff is behind the paywall.
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