Really, darling readers, what could be more delicious and delightful than a big, beautiful, bouncy BOOB?
What on earth could be more titillating? Why I remember the first time I gazed upon my own massive melons, the sheer joy that filled my heart was indescribable. Just indescribable. I will attempt, however, to describe it for you at length today.
You see, as I continued on my wayward journey to womanhood, the one thing (or should I say two things) that I yearned for the most were beautiful breasts. I wanted bazoombas, baby, and I must say, I certainly got them.
(First of all I would like to thank everyone at the academy, my plastic surgeon, and my bank…)
My plastic surgeon was a dream come true. She was kind, she was patient, she was gentle and sweet. And she let me try on every prosthetic bra in the drawer!
It was the brilliant Dr Patricia who murmured sotto voce into my pearly pink ear, “Really, Rosamond, you could probably go up a cup size, you know….”
It’s thanks to her that I have the marvelous mammaries you see today. The doctor was a firm believer in Go Big or Go Home.
Some say she was a genius and I tend to agree. Sadly, my dear Patricia has departed this mortal coil and gone to augment the angels in heaven; some of those robes were looking quite flat in the front apparently.
Now I must tell you all that plastic surgery is not for the faint of heart or the hairy of chest! By the time I got onto that table, I was neither.
You see, the hair can cause infections après the surgery, so you want to be well plucked before you get well stacked. I, of course, was pink as a newborn when I went under that blessed knife.
Some people, and I use the term loosely, may tell you that a boob job is not a painful procedure. Ha! They are LIARS, every one of them. It hurts, to put it quite crudely, like stink.
You wake up on the table with bountiful bosoms wrapped up, just the delectable cleavage peering out over top of the bandages. Your first thought is, “How stunningly beautiful!” Your second thought is not actually a thought at all, it is more like a screeching, unladylike howl of agony.
Whatever you do at this point, try to remain calm. Any agitated jiggling motion may send you into positive paroxysms of pain. Don’t get the house a-rockin’ or the knockers knockin’ or however that ghastly vulgar expression goes.
I don’t mean to be negative, darlings. My boob job truly was one of the happiest, most joyous events in my happy, joyous, event-filled ultra chic life. There can be no beauty without pain, after all. And I haven’t even mentioned one of the many perks of having had my holy hooters installed.
You see, after breast augmentation, one of the daily chores prescribed is massage. That’s right duckies, you’ve got to rub those babies, (or those Dow and Cornings, as I so wittily called them), three times a day. THREE TIMES A DAY!!!
I had bottoms lined up around the block, begging to be my masseuses. I had to beat them off with a stick, so to speak.
While this may not have been a good time for nipple clamping or anything too kinky, I would have to say it was still quite a good time in many ways. Often those naughty boys would not get their massaging technique exactly to the strict standard my health required. Well! Sometimes boys need a bit of a paddling now and then, just to keep them respectful, you know.
One more thing that I want to mention to all you gals who may be contemplating le job de boob: watch out for the evil eye of envy! I had one dear, dear friend who simply could not get over herself when I enhanced my figure.
“Went a little large, didn’t you?” she would sneer sulkily, staring at my magnificent mama bears.
“Hope you don’t fall over, what with the extra weight and all,” she’d snipe every single time I ran into her.
I discovered later on when this particular friend got her 50-inch Double D cup mega chest, that this was cattiness, pure and simple. Envy. Jealousy.
Call it what you will, as you become more delectable, you had better believe some of your girlfriends are going to get a little snippy. (What I actually mean to say is that they may turn into total bitches, darlings.)
It’s human nature. You must rise above it and gloriously carry on. Every time I encountered a mean or catty comment, I would simply trot on over to the nearest shoppe de lingerie and purchase another brassiere! Tra la! Me and my girls just wanted to have fun!
And now, devoted readers, I must gloriously carry my glorious self along to a delightful little dinner party I’ve been invited to attend. I don’t know what’s on the menu, but I certainly plan to whip the cream for dessert…
Super-duper love and bye for now!
This enchanting bedtime story is brought to you by Mistress Rosamond who is varnishing her paddle collection at the Kink Klinik while Hedy practices breast massage.
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