I’m eagerly awaiting the arrival of a new quartercup bra. Pointless things, really, unless like me you enjoy falling out of things to the degree of it being a kink in itself. I don’t know if this kink has a name; I guess it’s just a very, very specific form of exhibitionism. If we’re mining my past for psychosexual clues I’d hazard a guess it’s connected in some way to Carry On Camping. That’s a weird thing to admit, perhaps, considering how problematic those films are, but I dunno, there’s quite a large corner of my brain that just wants to be standing in a field with my hands over my tits, surrounded by shocked onlookers, feeling excruciating embarrassment because I’ve just bust out of my bra after a bout of over- enthusiastic callisthenics.
Wearing a quarter cup bra makes me very wet for a number of reasons. Any movement at all and my nipples are on display- if I bend over they will be free as the breeze, and that makes me want to bend over. It makes me desperately want someone to tell me to bend over. I’ve worn a quartercup under a sheer faux- silk shirt to a fetish club before, which was absolutely maddening in the best way: the tease of the silk against my nipples as they peeked out, the impulse to tuck them back into cups they would inevitably fall out of again within minutes, the fact that my Dom at the time told me I was only allowed to make myself decent three times over the course of the evening and that otherwise if they fell out they stayed out.
The moment when he handed me a fiver, undid my blouse, lifted my breasts out of the quarter cups by the nipples (pinching them hard between thumb and forefinger and twisting until I winced) and then sent me to the crowded bar to buy drinks. When I returned he let me put the drinks on the table and then slid his hand between my legs to do a wetness check. ‘I thought so’, he smiled to himself, before slapping my tits pink with the palm of his hand.
When your breasts are as large as mine it’s really easy to believe that they need to be hidden away. Hiding them makes for an easier life- you learn far too young that showing off tits this big will render them public property to a hideous degree. In my late 20s I spent entirely too long in a relationship with a man who, one beautiful Summer’s evening, took one look at my cleavage in a dress with a deep- cut bodice and said ‘when you wear things like that I worry that people will think you’re a slut’. In my head my response to that was ‘But I am a slut’. I don’t know, maybe I said it out loud. Guess how many times he worried about how much of a slut I was when we were in bed. Go on, guess.
So there’s something beautifully contradictory about a quarter cup bra. I’m deliberately wearing something that my tits will accidentally fall out of. You can’t help but look, and I want you to. I’m trying to hide these preposterous, beautiful, embarrassing fucking things, to keep them decently hidden away like a good girl would, but I can’t. I can’t, because I’m not a good girl; I’m a shameless slut who wants you to look at her massive fucking tits, and the quartercup bra refuses to cooperate in the lie that I am anything else.