I informed my coach that I had never had any complaints about my God-given endowments–or lack thereof. But upon thinking about this, I realized that once my size had been shown off in the “natural” sort of way, the gentleman viewing these two peaks of interest was not in any position to complain. This was probably because the naked truth was being revealed about both us at the time.

Being a willing sort of lady, I went on an excursion to purchase a pair of tantalizing and more projecting boobs. This lady “Victoria” had some secrets to show me. So, feeling a bit like I was betraying two rather private parts of me, I ventured to this “secret” place to purchase lingerie to give me a more noticeable chest.

Silently apologizing to my appendages of long-term, but not large, standing, I told the sales clerk at “Vicky’s” place that I was looking to buy a pair of tits. She was laughing so hard, she almost fell over. I did notice that her own front points looked as if they could easily bear her weight and a steamship or two as well. She must get a store discount, huh?

Correctly fitted and filled out, I now can don a truly wonderful “prow” that divides the masses as I sally forth! After much adjusting and tucking, I am finally getting used to my “stage” appearance. I can actually drop a key down my front and it no longer “plinks” on the floor. This is kind of cool. I always did want to do that little trick.

I have discovered some interesting things about my new bodacious bosoms. There is a definite “separation anxiety” that occurs when fastening my seat belt. I have also noticed a decided eye wandering going on with men. This does have me a tad worried at times, though. I want to make sure that my much-adjusted hooters don’t include a nipple or two staring straight up at them as they ogle my now curving cleavage. How interesting that would be to explain.  Or, it might be kind of fun to just let it ride and see how they handle it.

My staff has found the entire “beautiful you” bra thing more than hilarious. Now, when they show up in the morning, they give my dressing of the day a once over and decide among themselves whether what I am wearing is a T.T. or not.

“T. T.” stands for “tit top.” Oh well, all in a day’s work!