MYCROFT'S MUSE :
THE CHESHIRE CAT'S GRIN
PART 2 - THE BRIGHT RED YEARS
b y    M Y C R O F T    (text)    &    T R A X     (illustrations)

If I recall aright, I was all alone at the end of Part 1, with my girlfriend Irene just having been sent home from that folk dance festival ‘cause she was found stark naked, entertaining the French delegation. Well, worse things happen at sea, but not too many. I made a vow that morning, I swore that nothing like that would ever happen to me again. That’s the way kids are, they’re the only rationalists who really believe their stuff.... Later that day, François, one of the French dancers, told me why my no-longer-girlfriend had taken off her voluminous bra: "Because we were not eenterested, n’ est-ce pas?"
Drove her crazy, no doubt.

What followed were years of pretending to be "not eenterested" in tits. I had exceptionally skinny girlfriends, and avoided contact with succulence of any form. According to the Frog’s textbook this should have drawn the attention of every red-blooded full-breasted girl in town towards me - but it did not. My dreams and my reality were as different as can be. I dated a raven-haired girl named Gabriella, a small and slender little beauty who, I’m sure, won’t ever wear a bra during her entire lifetime, and all my dreams were about girls with Uschi Digart’s build...

Various Dreams from DD to FF

When I was 18, the French tactics finally bore fruit. There was a new girl in town, a breath-taking statuesque blonde with an hourglass figure and an incredible rack - firm and perfect in size and structure. She was a little shy about looking like a woman amidst her girlish classmates. Did I mention she was in my class?

After a few months, on a summer excursion, we happened to be trotting behind the rest of the class - she had some sort of problem with her shoes - and then, when we were out of sight of the rest of the party, and aware of that fact, she asked me, "D’you think I’m too fat?" I blushed - I was still capable of that at the time - and asked her where she believed herself to be "too fat". She sighed - she knew Gabriella - and lifted her tits with both hands - and she really needed both hands - and, looking directly in my eyes, started unbuttoning her blouse. I’ll never forget that blouse, it was a striped Cacharel model, damn well filled, and the more buttons she opened, the more cleavage popped out.
Open-mouthed I watched her bra come into view, and then I beheld, for the first time in my life, a front-opening bra. Plus, at some distance, our mathematics teacher approaching.... 'Twas all hushed-up later, but in the few seconds until Herr Schwartz started shouting, I managed to utter "That’s about the best thing I’ve seen in my life". Which was the sheer truth. She had perfectly shaped giant breasts with rather small, upward pointing aureolae, and her nipples were like wild strawberries.

I'll never forget those swaying orbs...

Helga solved the potential disciplinary actions by resorting to hysterical techniques: she fainted expertly, and managed to close that bra - don’t ask me how - and two or three buttons of that Cacharel thing. Math wizard Schwartz , impressed by the remaining cleavage, almost excused himself for suspecting whatever, and so, after recourse to principles of first aid, my friend Wilhelm and I were ordered to bring Helga home or to a doctor. Wilhelm left us at the next junction, and I lost what was left of my virginity that afternoon...in the company of ants, mos- quitoes and foxes.
I’ll never forget those swaying orbs.

Unfortunately Dad was promoted a few weeks later, and we had to move again. Maybe that saved me from being expelled - we were really careless, and more or less insatiable. I recall leaving for the loo in the middle of a Latin test, meeting Helga on the way, ending up in the teacher’s toilet. We must have had beginners’ luck...

Another town, another school. I had my first fist fight, my first car accident, and a steady girl my family used to call the "little witch". She was, you guessed it, a tiny slender gal with long legs and a beautiful young body. We loved to seduce each other over a few months, carefully preparing the final act, buying "the pill", choosing the place, getting the necessary camping equipment. Neither ants nor mosquitoes this time. As for foxes, I’m not sure. She was so beautiful, over the next year I managed to make plaster models of almost all of her body. Even now, as I write this, I still have her hand on my desk....

Another sort of crew cut...

She had the brain-twisting habit of trimming her pubic hair to some weird crew cut length, a sight and feel that I have ever since found devastatingly attractive. I finished school some time later, and went to university. My dad - but who listens to his dad when he’s 19? - was sort of relieved then: he never liked the "little witch", and foresaw the developments. Me, I could not even imagine a future without my Maren... We promised to meet every weekend, and did so for almost a year. Then I decided to move from my landlady-observed room to a community a few streets away.

It was 1969 then, and communes like the one I moved to were very highbrow political institutions. Half a day of political discussion per week, plus one hour every evening... Sounds awkward nowadays, but we tried to re-invent the world, then. I did not have any problems with that - my problem arose when I carried the frame of my second-hand brass bed to my room along that long floor. The door to one of the other rooms popped open, and for what seemed an eternity, a naked goddess stood in the opening, her lion-maned head still bent backwards, talking to someone in the room .

"Can I help you with that bed?..."

Lucky Golo, as I later found out, a semi-god out there at the historical seminar...and then she turned towards me, her massive cones swinging around like something only loosely attached to her body, and her eyes widened, and she said, "Hey, let me help you with that bed of yours..."
Which she did, and when we dropped that bed frame, she reached over, took off my specs and said something about my eyes... Did I mention I can’t hear a word when my spectacles are off? Anyway, we compared our time-tables and found we had a course in common, an evening course to be precise, in the political science department on floor XVII of building G.

Seventeen storeys in a slow-motion elevator. Seventeen storeys. On the third evening she made a remark about artificial gravity, and how strange the elevator’s acceleration felt on her breasts. I must have stood open-mouthed as usual, as she took my hand to demonstrate the effect. She wore one of those soft bras without wiring, and indeed, the starting acceleration of the elevator almost tore the bra to pieces, while the deceleration at floor XVII almost lifted her mammaries out of their prison. My memories - foggy as they are, she had that habit of taking away my specs - are that we did not go to our seminar that day. We tested that elevator effect for what seems hours now, and then we went up to floor XIX, where we found an empty classroom....

I always wondered what sort of massage she gave...

When we returned to that cozy little commune of ours, things became very, very complicated. The commune’s official philosophy was that nobody owns anybody, and thus everybody is free to have sex with anyone whatsoever, but, after all, Golo had to get his special massages by Sybille, my goddess, and, as it turned out, he needed those massages whenever we tried to retire to her or my room. I wasn’t criticized for sleeping with Sybille, I was criticized for depriving Golo of his massages...

I was a really horny guy at that time, but I really couldn’t stand the idea of poor Golo suffering from multiple cramps while I fondled his girl friend. And, after all, he whimpered and sighed outside her door whenever he was in need of those massages....

After three months I left that experimental commune and moved into a beautiful little hag-house in a suburb. At about the same time Maren - the little witch - discovered a little fetish of her own, and decided to come to terms with her obsessions. I’ll never forget our last conversation, when she blushed all over and held her hands about 12 inches apart... Who am I to disdain a size fetish? I’ve ever since followed the diverse discussions on medical, herbal and surgical means of penis improvement. If it’s any improvement to have a tool that hardly ever fits....

Again, as seems to be my pattern, I dated the slender but active kind, and longed for succulence. All this came to an end when one day in a law seminar I met Steff, better known as r2d2 in and around the BEA. He had everything I wanted to have, including that incredible Austrian girlfriend which he tried to get rid of.
I’ll call her Petra here, and for two years she was my dream-come-true instructor of all things sexwise.

...there were millions of ways to make love to her...

She was a blond valkyrie, broad-shouldered, with slender hips and incredible long legs, but her main assets were her head-sized, soft, natural...errrr...ears. Very unusual for a big-breasted woman, she had big, dark aureolae, and when she was aroused, they contracted around those long protruding nipples. In my imagination, there were millions of ways to make love to her, and we must have tried a few thousand. She even trimmed her hair as Maren used to, and she’d wear stockings and garters for me - very exotic, the 70s were the decade of the pantyhose....

She was some years older than me, and after those two years she finished varsity and disappeared. She’s a teacher somewhere in the region of Klagenfurt in Austria now. I’ve been there a few times over the years, but it’s always been reminiscence, not passion.

Ah, passion - all my passion went into rebellion those days, discussing university reformation, fighting repressive society, insulting my dad...sounds foolish today, but it kept me and a large portion of my generation busy. Part of that rebellion was our preference for feminist women, who by law tended to be rather boyish, and not only breastwise.... Anyway, the style of those years was sexually direct behavior, which had its own merits...and a certain tendency towards promiscuity as a rule. It just wasn’t cool to go to bed with the same girl or boy too often. Remember: we had the pill, and there wasn’t any AIDS around.

An evening by the sea, 1973.

And then, at some meeting - I forgot what it was about - I was literally nailed to the ground by Amor’s arrow - the cute little guy must have used a mortar that day. When I saw that small slender woman go up to the microphone, I was struck. I might even say stricken, once she turned round to reveal a perfectly symmetric pair of breasts, incredibly high-set, honeymelon-sized, slightly moving bralessly under that politically correct pullover....

Six months later we got married.

(to be continued...)

Kudos to St Stephan, my k.u.k.Carpathian proofreader, who finds the time to add little highlights to my stuff in between his kleptomaniac visits to the neighboring nunnery's laundry. Yes, better try e-bay, Saint... 400 bucks per month is ridiculous. (Christ, nobody reads text of this size! - If you did, have a look at StS's interview with Serenity...)