Gabby and I have been best friends since we were both 7 years old, when I hid her lunch box, and she threatened to pee in my thermos if I didn’t return it. That was the subdued beginning of a very long—and at times, odd—friendship. We’re both second year at community college now, and—well, she’s the one person I would unquestioningly trust my life with if I needed to.
I’ll just go ahead and say: of the two of us, she’s definitely the smarter one. She always did better at school, and helped me pass several courses I would not have otherwise. She also always came up with better plans for us to try or do or get stuff, and then to dodge trouble if there was any.
That’s why—well, this latest plan of hers—I mean, I wanted to trust her, but—
“Gabby, you want me to just go up and ... grab her boob?!”
“I mean, won’t that get me slapped? Or arrested for rape?”
She shrugged. “It might.”
I made the “well, there’s the obvious flaw with that plan!” gesture with my hands. It didn’t even faze her.
She sighed. “Kevin, I think there is something nefarious going on.” She planned to be an investigative journalist, so used lots of four- and five-syllable words like “nefarious”.
“And this relates to me grabbing boobs ... how?”
“I caught my father feeling up his secretary at work, and thought I’d just hang around long enough to listen to what the asshole thinks he’s doing behind Mom’s back. And ... the girl sounded like she was in a trance or something. And my dad repeated suggestions to her, slowly and repeatedly, to wear skimpier clothes to work, and she just kept ungh-hunghing him, but slow, half aware. You’d have thought he was programming her.”
“It could also be just that you dad pays her salary.”
Gabby held up an index finger to pause me. “Then a few days later, at the college, Professor Akins—”
“The chemistry professor?”
“Yeah. I went into one of the back supply closets—or I was going there, but halted. He had one of the girls from class back there with him, with his hands on her breasts, squeezing, while he ... kept repeating suggestions over and over, like he was programming her. He told her she should come over to his house later, and she fidgetted some at first, but then seemed to dully come around and agreed.”
“Gabby,” I sighed. I know, I said she was the smart one, but sometimes her smarts work against her, and make her see patterns—or newsworthy conspiracies—that don’t really exist. “Listen to what you’re suggesting. Somehow those two women were—what? programmed to go into a trance when their breasts are grabbed? So that ‘nefarious’ guys can take advantage of them?”
“First, I called whoever or whatever did something to them to make them go into a trance—those guys are ‘nefarious’. The two taking advantage of that—Akins and my dad—are just ‘creepy,’ not ‘nefarious’.”
I nodded. Minor point, but Gabby gets hung up on those.
“Second ... yeah, I guess I AM wondering if something like that is going on. The student that Akins was pawing—she’s a grounded girl, has her feet planted firmly on the ground. She’s not the type to ... go to a professor’s house after hours.“
“Still, that seems pretty ... flimsy on the evidence side. Especially for me to be putting my reputation and even life on the line by grabbing breasts.”
“On the other hand, if someone or some organization HAS done that to some of the women in town—that’s major. Major news, major ethical—hell, it’s an ethical nuclear bomb.“
We sat and looked at each other a minute.
“What?” Gabby asked finally.
I sprang toward her, both hands going for boob.
She side-blocked both my hands off to the side, then used the heel of her other hand to drive my nose up into my brain. Okay, my nose didn’t actually go up into my brain, but it felt like it did. I would up on the floor clutching my face, sure my nose was broken.
“I knew you were going to do that, asshole!” she chastised me as she went to pull a tissue for me to use to blot my bleeding nose. “And MINE are too small for ME to get programmed. Nothing much there to squeeze, hmm?“
I’d reassured her times before that she was a small B-cup or a large A-cup, and that was plenty big for anyone that cared about her, and that she’d probably boost a cup size if she ever got pregnant, at least from what everyone said. Of course right now, I didn’t give a damn about boosting my attacker’s self-confidence, even if she WAS my best friend—I just wanted the tissue to dab at my wounded nose. And hoped no bone-particles had gotten lodged in my brain during her merciless attack.
She got me up sitting on her bed and told me to lean my head back. I did, and pinched my nose until the bleeding stopped.
“I was just trying to help you with your theory,” I moped sullenly. Of course, since I was pinching my nose, that came out, “heb you wid your deery.”
She ... elbowed me. Gently. “I know.”
Slightly mollified, I kept pinching my nose.
“Actually,” she sighed, sitting beside me on her bed, “I DO believe that SOMEONE has done SOMETHING here. I heard those two girls talk while their breasts were being squeezed. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t. Kevin, I DO think something is going on.
She stood off the bed and stepped in front of me. “I DO believe it enough. So—we are going to do this once, exactly once, so I know if I have to watch out for danger. And you, Kevin,” she wagged her index finger in my face, “you are going to suggest I take that stack of books on my dresser there and carry them to the closet. You will NOT suggest I cluck like a chicken or anything other than carrying those books. Understood?“
She grabbed my hand by the wrist and brought it up to her blouse over her breast. “Squeeze,” she ordered.
I, uhm ... squeezed.
“Well, give me a suggestion!” she rolled her eyes.
“Gabby ... you will carry those books to you closet?”
“Don’t ask me, moron,” she grinned at me, “Order me.”
“Gabby,” I declared in my best macho voice, “you will always cluck like a chicken whenever Kevin asks you to.”
“You want more bone fragments in your brain, comedian-boy?”
The smile fell off my face, and I got back to business. “Gabby, you will carry that stack of books to the closet and leave them there.” Then I just met her gaze in a staring contest. Would she? Would she submit and—
“Nuthin’,” she declared. “And you can stop squeezing it now.”
“Nothing? No urges to walk across the room? Nothing?”
“Nothing at all. And you’d better quit squeezing my tit if you want that hand to come back with all the fingers still attached to it.”
I voluntarily pulled my hand back from her breast. Voluntarily and rapidly.
She sat back on the bed beside me. “So I have not been treated. That’s good to know.”
“God, what a concept,” I chuckled. “I can’t imagine a Gabby that would take orders!”
She elbowed me again, with a grin on her face.
We settled into a silence, sitting there on the bed.
“It wasn’t right,” she sighed finally. “The way those two girls talked wasn’t normal. And if those two assholes are ... exploiting something, that is just not right.”
After a minute, I sighed, “We could jump your dad, tie him to a chair, then apply thumbscrews until he talks.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she made a chuckling noise that wasn’t real chuckling. “Trouble is, I’d get too enthused to stop, and the thumbs wouldn’t be salvageable. And then the man would have to go around the rest of his life with no thumbs.”
“There’d probably be some repercussions on you, too, for torturing them off.”
“Yeah, there is that.”
“Okay,” I sighed finally, “I’ll do it.” If Gabby thought it was likely that something was amiss, then there was something amiss. And if she thought people were exploiting and abusing that, well—“I will TRY. Do you think that Mrs. Jordan would be a good ‘subject’?“
“Your neighbor? Good as any.”
“I am going to get into so much trouble for this ...” I predicted.
Don’t hyperventilate ...
Don’t hyperventilate ...
If you pass out on her front porch, I told myself, she’ll call an ambulance, and it will be really embarrassing, and we still won’t know anything more about Gabby’s conspiracy.
So don’t hyperventilate ...
Mrs. Jordan answered the door. “Oh hi, Kevin,” she smiled. “What’s up? Does your mom need something? I still have her wok, but I planned to bring it back to her next week.”
Mrs. Jordan was really pretty. If Gabby was right, well ... I’d fantasized about Mrs. Jordan a lot over the years, and really wouldn’t mind squeezing her breasts. But if Gabby was wrong ... oh man, my next door neighbor would tell my mom that I attacked her, and I would be grounded forever (no, I’m not kidding—with my mom, it would be literally forever; new species would evolve, and continents would drift, and I’d still be grounded).
Or Mrs. Jordan would call the police on me. Or her husband would kill me. Mr. Jordan was old—like 30 or 31 or something—but he still worked out and stayed buffed. Probably just so he could beat up any punks making eyes at his young 29 year old wife. They might be elderly muscles that he had, but they could still punch my lights out. And then strangle my unconscious body to death. Elderly bastard!
Or ... all three: grounded, arrested AND dead ...
My eyes focused on my pretty neighor. “Hmm?”
“I asked if you were still with me,” she chuckled. “You zoned out on me for a few seconds there.”
My hand reached out and grabbed her breast.
Crap! I wasn’t ready yet! What was my hand thinking?! You need to worry about things before you do them, and then what you worried about doesn’t come true. I hadn’t worried enough yet!
Double-crap! I hadn’t thought to ask Gabby if Aikins and her dad used one-handed or two-handed grips. In an instant of panic, I figured that I’d receive the same sentence whether I used one or two hands—twice dead is still dead—so I reached the other hand out to follow the first to the other boob.
Then I squinted my eyes shut and prayed.
And waited ...
The blast of thermonuclear indignation did ... NOT come ...
I opened my eyes.
She was standing there, eyes a little unfocused, while I ... held her. Tits. Held her tits. A little shiver ran through her, and her eyelids were easing towards half-mast.
Barely breathing, so that I didn’t jostle this surreal reality over into the hysterical screaming reality that I had expected, I asked in a whisper, “Mrs. Jordan?”
“Hmm?” she breathed, a faint content smile on her lips.
Well ... I couldn’t ask, “How ya doin’?” That would just be silly if she was in a trance; and absurd if she wasn’t.
I squeezed both breasts gently through her blouse a few times. If she was going to blow, that would trigger it.
She just ... sighed contentedly.
Holy ... fuck ... holy holy fuck ...
Gabby was right!
And here I was, gripping the breasts of an entranced woman. A pretty, entranced woman. And we were—shit! we were right out on her front porch! Where her husband—or my mom!—could drive by and see at any moment!
“Mrs. Jordan, let’s step inside.”
“Mmm,” sigh, “kay ...” She turned slowly to reach for the door handle, and I moved along with her to keep my breast-grips.
We stepped into her house, and I breathed a little easier.
She seemed content to stand there patiently while I held her breasts, but I guessed Gabby needed more investigating. Okay, so programming. What to program her with? Well, here goes ...
“Mrs. Jordan, you want to take advantage of your neighbor’s 20 year old son, and give him the wildest sexual experience of his life!”
She tensed, and fidgeted. “Nnngno,” she shook her head.
Hmm. Was that ... resistance? Squeeze, squeeze. “Mrs. Jordan, you want to have a quickie with Kevin. Right now.”
“Nnnnggo ...” she fidgeted her head no.
Squeeze, squeeze. Squeeze, squeeze. “Mrs. Jordan, you really want to strip all your clothes off right now.”
“Nnnngg!” she fidgeted again, then shook her head. “No,” she pulled my hands off her breasts, shaking her head, then her eyes widened a little.
“I—I’m sorry!” I tried proactively. Visions of prison stampeded through my head again. Damn, and I thought I might avoid that!
“Kevin,” she shook her head like she wasn’t sure what had happened or was happening, “Kevin, you need to go. Now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I offered immediately.
“Kevin, what—I mean, did—no, never mind. Just leave.”
And hurried home. If I got off her property quickly, she couldn’t prove I’d grabbed anything. That wouldn’t stop my mom from grounding me, or Mr. Jordan from throttling me, but I shouldn’t have to worry about the police arresting me. Right? At least that’s what my excited brain said as it marinated in anxiety at the moment.
Holy shit! Gabby was right! SOMETHING was going on!
So somehow ... Mrs. Jordan DID slip into a trance when you grabbed her boob ...
I called Gabby and told her that I’d confirmed her theory with Mrs. Jordan.
She muttered a few words about what creeps her dad and Prof. Aikens were. But ... overall I think her indignation gave way to her curiosity. This was a big mystery for her to solve—and she planned a career in investigative journalism. What better way to start a career than to expose a malevolent conspiracy?
We hung up—I think she was eager to get started planning her investigation.
I had dinner with Mom and Dad. Mom’s best friend, Deborah stayed for dinner as well, as she sometimes does. I think there’s nothing the two of them don’t share. Deborah’s five years younger than my mom, but she babysat my sister and me when we were little; and the two have consulted on parenting issues so many times that I think Deb almost considers herself a second mom to my sister and me.
My sister Anne skipped dinner to go out with friends. She had actually married a guy from school and moved out of the house and in with him two years ago. But then over the months he came to realize that my sister is Satan dressed up as a pretty red-haired girl (I coulda told him that years ago ...), and they split this last spring, and she moved back in. Alternatively, I’ve also considered that she may have split from her husband and moved back simply because she realized how much she missed antagonizing me and making my life hell.
After dinner, I tortured myself until bedtime that Mrs. Jordan was going to think I’d betrayed her or something, and never speak to me again. After I went to bed, I tortured myself from falling sleep, fearing that Mrs. Jordan would realize I had done something not quite right with her, and go to the police, and the cop cars would be waiting outside my house tomorrow morning.
The next morning, I did look out the window, and did not see police assaulting the house to take me. Whew.
I got dressed, wished Mom a good day, then headed out. But instead of going to classes, I ... headed over to the Jordans’ house.
When Mrs. Jordan answered the door and saw it was me, she pursed her lips and sighed. “Kevin, it’s best to—”
Without hesitation, I reached out and grabbed boob.
Mrs. Jordan let out a sigh, and shivered slightly, then lowered her eyelids halfway and put a contented half-smile on her face.
“Mrs. Jordan, let’s step inside.”
“Ssssure ...” she sighed.
I’d thought about what caused yesterday to go wrong. Maybe I had just pushed her too far too fast. Maybe we needed to take baby steps instead of long strides.
Right now, my goal was just to make her not be forever uncomfortable around me. Gabby complains that I want people to like me, and maybe she’s right. But I definitely did not want things to be tense and weird between Mrs. Jordan and me forever.
“Let’s go sit on the couch, Mrs. Jordan.”
I sat behind her so she could lean back against me, and I could comfortably reach around to massage boob.
Start with baby steps ... “You’re okay with this, Mrs. Jordan. You like it when I play with your breasts and tell you things.”
She just sighed contentedly.
“You like me to tell you what to do while I play with your breasts. As a matter of fact, you look forward to it.”
Another contented sigh.
Now to the main part of her suggestions. “You feel really comfortable around me, Mrs. Jordan. You trust me. You really value my opinion, and you really like being around me.”
“Nnnng-hnng ...” she sighed
“Was that a yes?”
“Yessss, Kevin ... I like being around you, and I ... value what you tell me when ... you play with my ... titsss ...” she burrowed back against me like she was snuggling in.
“You really like me, Mrs. Jordan.” Forgive me—what guy DOESN’T want a pretty woman to really like him?
I massaged breast for an hour or two, and by the time I left, I was pretty sure Mrs. Jordan wouldn’t be forever uncomfortable around me.