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The Soft Globes of Life

By Bandit with Images from Sam Burns

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Editor’s Note: We’ve stared at wonderful boobs with longing and allure all our lives. We’ve become aroused by the sight of tender nipples showing through a shear blouse. We could be in the worst imaginable conditions, on a sinking ship, in a blizzard or a war zone, and the sight and notion of touching the golden orbs transforms us. Suddenly we’re in a warm and tender place away from all the chaos life throws at us.

Sam Burns inspired me the other day, when he sent me a magnificent assemblage of beautiful women images. We couldn’t let them linger in a file without showing respect and love. Enjoy.

The Boob Transformation

Jimmy worked in a Junkyard. Scruffy and filthy, his boots covered in grease, he mounted his Sportster and rode home, where he cleaned up the best he could. Partially balding, with a slight beard and the same flannel and vest he wore for 20 years he mounted his scooter. With a pocket fulla ones he road to Ship Wreck Joey’s the only titty bar in the industrial port town.

With one beer he sipped all night he sat in front of a curtain-wrapped stage and waited patiently for Rosa, the Hispanic goddess to move with old R&B tunes around her polished brass pole. Jimmy was her biggest fan and not only for her magnificent round, soft as silk boobs, but she smiled with those big dark eyes at him like she was his long lost love and he had just returned from war.

From time to time on slow nights with limited action they would find themselves in a booth under dim pink lights. She leaned back against the faux leather interior and let him touched her softness. He could cuddle against her warmth, smell her Chanel perfume and know all was well in a world where milk and honey seemed so distant. Always enough to keep him going until the next time, he rode home with a smile on his face.

The Cure for Violence

Snake, rode a fast FXR. Every day of his life was on edge. He dealt drugs for a cartel he never saw, but if they didn’t like how he did something he paid a heavy price.

As paranoid as a black lab crossing a wide, unlit, asphalt highway, Snake went about his business running drugs to various bike clubs along the coast. Everything about his trapped existence smelled of treachery. No one trusted him and he trusted no one.

Daily he rode to the ghetto for his stash and to turn in the profits. Every day, his life was threatened by the cartel. Menaced while splitting lanes in bumper to bumper traffic, he watched closely for the Man and then his club guys customers. With narrow shades, a black leather vest, black long-sleeve shirt with pearl buttons, he packed constantly, rode fast and tried to keep his club connections to one man per MC.

Everything about his life was hard, fast and packed with deceitfulness, except for her. No one knew and he didn’t dare mention her to anyone, but when times were tough and he was forced to pull his stiletto, there was one room filled with solace, comfort, warmth and love.

Only with her could he nuzzle against her mounds of joy and forget his life completely. Her softness, those golden nipples, her warmth and her lips so precious each kiss took him to a world of peace, warmth and trust. Her baby blues locked with his dark eyes and he was transformed. They spoke little, he held her close and hope returned.

A Woman’s Understanding

Laurie moved around her apartment in a daze. Her life wasn’t packed with security or even a modicum of joy. She worked a minimum wage job and struggled with her faltering health. Her little VW bug coughed and sputtered on her way to work. She attended her evangelistic church twice a week, once on Sunday for the half day of barking sermons and Wednesday nights for bible classes. Even though she strained financially, she tithed and prayed constantly.

But once a week, she caught the rumble of a motorcycle entering her street. Loud and powerful the Shovelhead chopper sounded like a locomotive and her life suddenly changed. Here religion made her question her involvement with this biker as she listened for his engineer boots against the wooden steps. But she couldn’t deny the sensation, the tingle or her hardening nipples.

She freshened her make-up, tossed her hair and unbuttoned her blouse. Her boobs were large magnificent orbs of heavenly softness and as soon as he touched them her world changed for the better. Her large amber nipples called out to him erect and tingling.

The dichotomy was amazing as his rough exterior stood before her, long shaggy hair, full beard, rough black leathers and filth. His hands calloused from oil field work, his boots grimy, but his eyes were clear and warm. He looked at her angelic softness, her dreamy gaze, her rosy cheeks and kissed her deeply. It was as if he had no business being in her glowing heavenly presence, but as he removed her blouse and ran his hands alongside her magnificent softness and touched her nipples, she nearly climaxed.

For long moments they were both transformed from the struggles of life and the violence of the streets to the most natural Nirvana on the planet.

For days after he left, she could shower, close her eyes, run her hands down her mounds of joy, touch her stimulated nipples and remember that there really is heaven on earth.

The First Touch

A small baby boy was born on a mattress in the basement of a tenement house in East Prussia, Poland in September of 1939 as Germany invaded.

From September 1 to October 5 Germans shelled Pomerania. Polish soldiers were out gunned and held no chance of fending off the attack from the Nazi reign of terror. Natalia stood 5’6” tall and slim, she cleaned herself, grabbed her new baby and fled to the streets barefoot wearing a silk slip and a tarnished cotton dress.

Several local women helped her and insisted that she stay, but Natalia refused, made a satchel of torn garments and scarves to hang the baby around her neck in a sling nestling between her boobs. She made her way into the streets, not knowing where to go or where she would find their next meal.

Tanks rumbled over cobblestone lanes leveling homes and buildings at their whim. Rubble stacked as buildings crumbled and burst into flames. Screams and explosions filled the air, but the baby remained silent wrapped securely and tucked between her breasts. She moved quickly away from the action into alleys and side streets hoping to escape the melee.

At one point as the sun set, she untucked the child, kissed his forehead and looked into the smoke filled sky as the fleeting sun glimmered through the plumes of black soot. “I’m naming you Alek from Aleksander the defender of mankind,” she muttered, covered his face and pressed him to her ample breasts.

Less than three weeks passed and a 150-pound bomb collided with the building where Natalia attempted to sleep with her newborn. Leaving everything behind she scrambled out of the rubble surrounded by flying debris and clouds of concrete dust, her baby nestled carefully between her bouncing boobs. Covered in dirt, scratched and torn by the shrapnel she finally discovered a clearing in the rainy muck where she unleashed one of her massive boobs and allowed Alek to suckle his breakfast.

His meals, constant and unwavering came right on time, then he closed his delicate eyes to the turmoil and fell asleep in the torn satchel between the unchanging warmth of her boobs. Another month passed as she attempted to avoid capture by the Nazis.

Natalia finally found herself hidden by a family in their barn. For a few days she experienced meager comfort and regular food. A warm new-to-her sweater hung on her shoulders. Hand-me-down shoes secured her feet and she was afforded a place to bathe along with Alek.

He didn’t understand the wetness, the warmth or the smell of smoke, but for the first time his mother smelled different, delicate and even softer as he touched her bare skin. Two days later, in the barn, gun-fire exploded. Screams filled the air with angry barks from men. Suddenly he was torn from his mother’s grasp and flung onto a pile of hay.

He heard her scream, then plead, but then more gunfire, groans and quiet. He wondered, barely two months old what had happened. Wrapped, unable to see, for the first time the warmth, the touch of her soft flesh and the beating of her heart was gone.

His mind whirled with emotion but he dare not scream. He attempted to reach, and then he heard her sobbing as she picked him up, pushed the hay particles away and hugged him close. She uncovered his face and he could see her tears. Saved from potential rape, she placed the satchel strap over her head once more and cupped him in her secure cleavage.

He reached out and touched the soft flesh of her boob and felt the warmth. Her beating heart slowed and once again he was at peace.

Prison Blues

Prison officers pushed big, buffed Samson in shackles into his new home in cell block number 9 at Folsom Prison. It was all a mistake but he knew it was the unrelenting condition of his outlaw life.

Samson 6’4” and 240 pounds of solid muscle took Knock-Out, his babe for life to an upscale restaurant in Downtown San Francisco. The town switched from romance and seaside views to a mini-3rd World country overlooking the San Francisco Bay.

Why anyone voted for destruction of one of the most picturesque cities in the world was beyond the big guy as he led his petite girl behind the guiding matri’d to their table.

Knock-out also trained and looked as hot as a smoking pistol in a form fitting, black, silk gown that hugged every elegant curve as if spray painted with a pearlescent touch enhanced every delicious shape. Every guy in the joint noticed. Her soft as satin boobs spilled over the split neckline cut to the edge of her tender areolas.

Their perfect evening interrupted by homeless and drug addicts in the streets calmed in the soft, candle-enhance dining room as she slipped into the booth. Samson sat down across from her, when a tall slippery sort stepped up and opened his white sport coat to reveal a .45 Ivory-handled, semi-auto in a hand tooled waist band holster.

“Man, she looks fine enough to eat,” Ricky the 6-foot mafia sort, with slick black hair and polished pointed shoes said.

Samson began to get to his feet.

“Not a good move,” Ricky said and pressed on Samson’s massive shoulder with his right ringed hand and started to reach for the Colt in his waistband with his left.

“You failed your homework assignment,” Samson said, grabbed a polished silver fork and drove it into Ricky’s thigh.

Rick the scumbag from Chicago, who thought he could move to Frisco and take advantage of the open drug scene didn’t know the history he faced. Samson, an ex-1%er for over two decades held Knock-out’s hand in High School. They were meant for each other.

As they grew, trained, fought, built and moved forward in life, they became like a team for good and against evil. Samson stood abruptly. Rick stumbled back, grabbing for the semi-auto, he looked down at Knock-out’s succulent cleavage. Big mistake.

Samson blocked the weapon with his right hand, rolled his palm until the pistol turned into a Judo move breaking Ricky’s thumb. Samson dropped the weapon and hit Ricky in the neck with an open palm.

Usually, that was it. Ricky would fall to the floor and crawl back to his table, but he was dead before he hit the carpet.

Samson recognized his wide eyes and motioned for Knock-out to follow, but before they reached the bottom stairs for the exit, cops surrounded the building and Samson was ultimately convicted of 2nd degree murder.

Unshackled, and given a manilla envelope he sat on his cell bunk and opened it. It contained his sentencing materials signed by the judge. A few personal affects, like his watch, a pen, a pad of lined legal paper and an 8-by-10 shot of Knock-out. He smiled and set the photograph above his stainless steel mirror.

The black-and-white photo of her smiling face and those magnificent boobs were all he needed to survive five years in Folsom, fighting punks, drug addicts, slippery sons-a-bitches, anything and anyone. He’d survive and her nipples would wait for him on the outside. It didn’t matter what they threw at him, her image would remind him of the soft warmth in her arms.

The Bad Boob

As a teenager, mentally badgered in youth, Vickie acclimated to more tomboy characteristics and dodged the female code of softness. An angry countenance enveloped her being. Constantly on guard, she grew up tall and angular, but then recognized the power of her fine feminine side and her own unrelenting sexual desire. She couldn’t get enough.

She trained and worked waiting tables for enough cash to buy a set of bolt-ons. From that day forward her life changed. She used those torpedo boobs to her advantage, although the rest of her wasn’t much to shout about. She tried Botox lips, but then couldn’t kiss passionately.

She enjoyed sex, often but mostly for personal gain. She worked men into a boob frenzy then took from them and moved on.

She banged her way through several relationships, fucked her bosses then extorted from them, destroyed their families and got them fired.

She missed the mammary memo at a young age. As she matured her looks waned, her wanton slipped and her emotional well-being was left without the cherished love her boobs were capable of enhancing in her life.


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