Jasmine's Breasts

I had bought the local newspaper because I wanted to look at the small ads for massage parlours and prostitutes and probably masturbate to them, but without any thought of calling one of the numbers, let alone paying for sex. The name of my high school crush was bound to jump out at me though. It was in slight contrast to the usual style, with that headline promising access to one particular area of Jasmine.

Most ads included names, but also measurements, ethnicities and usually, unlikely epithets in the first few words. "Bubbly dark Portuguese beauty 38DD". "Petite Asian masseuse eager to please gentlemen." Not just the format of the headline, but also the word 'breasts' seemed out of place. Breasts were either 'tits', 'bust' or alphanumerically encoded by size.

Jasmine and I were never friends. There were maybe a few weeks when we talked to each other more often than we had done but never quite found enough to say, and we nodded to each other semi-awkwardly from that time onwards. We might have been flirting if either of us knew enough to identify flirting from other types of nervous joking.

But both before and after that period, Jasmine made her mark in my private sexual history. As a 13 year old I fell in love all the time and jerked off all the time thinking about the girls I was in love with. By the time I was at the school where Jasmine and I got to know each other, this had changed. The objects of my romantic love were placed on a special pedestal and designated for chaste devotion. If I fantasized over them, it came as a guilty relief when I couldn't keep myself from indulging. All other women, however, joined a sordid parade of imagined body parts and exaggerated acts which loomed over my thoughts all day, and came alive each evening in my bed as I played with myself. Teachers, strangers and classmates rolled around me trying to show off everything they could, grasping and groping, sucking and fucking. The day's mundane encounters would be translated into the opening scenes of porn films, with the heads of every adult female who had spoken a single word to me that day superimposed on the few naked bodies I had could remember seeing pictures of. Center stage was plump, smiling Jasmine, pulling up her top to show me her braless breasts, pushing her ass into my crotch, sitting with her pussy over my open mouth as I frantically beat my meat.

She was the first girl I felt a violent lust for, but no love. Something about her shape, the impossibility of hiding that much curviness under her clothes in a school half full of adolescent boys, openly ogling and committing to memory each young woman's body. The way she walked was distinctive, too gracious and too full-figured not to shake and jiggle despite herself.

Was this the same Jasmine, at last sufficiently aware of how splendid her breasts were that she placed an ad merely mentioning them by name and sat at home waiting for the phone to ring? Unlikely. But my cock responds to the possibility immediately though. Memories of my serial daydreams come back to me, almost as vivid as memories of real high school events -- first kisses and first dates. The time Jasmine asked to see my homework essay plan in the library, and then pulled down her navy jeans so that I could penetrate her ass between two rows of shelves. The time she crouched under the lab bench and sucked my cock while I kept a straight face and manipulated a Bunsen burner. The time the school nurse undressed us and initiated mutual masturbation under the pretext of teaching us how our bodies worked. When I came up with these scenarios, I had no idea what it really felt like to fuck someone in the ass, to get a blowjob or a handjob. Now I do, and the real memories add extra depth to the obsolete fantasies.

I weigh up my options. I can jerk off right here and now to a sheet of small ads. I could phone the number, and maybe pretend a little longer that my former classmate is available to me immediately for a couple of hundred dollars. But if the person that picks up says she's Jasmine and doesn't sound a bit like the original, the bubble gets popped straight away. Maybe I should call one of the other ads. After all I am lonely, horny, and I have money. The kind of place where you turn up at a 'sauna' and take your pick from a bunch of different women seems more advisable for a first-timer like me than booking an appointment with a single woman I know nothing about, in her flat.

Fuck it. "Ring."

"Ri-iing."

"Ri- Hello?"

"Hi."

"Can I help you?"

I guess no-one picks the phone up and advertises herself as a prostitute without knowing that it's not a wrong number. "I saw your ad in the '****town Recorder'."

"Yes darling." A lower, more practised voice.

"I would like to come over, maybe tonight?"

"Of course darling. How long would you like to come for."

"Well, maybe half an hour, or.. are you Jasmine?"

"I'm a friend of Jasmine's. My name is Tatiana. Have you visited Jasmine before?"

"No, it's just I... I'm really interested in Jasmine's tits." Couldn't quite bring myself to say 'breasts' -- what if the exact phrase is some kind of code? Or a joke?

"Well, Jasmine will be here tomorrow. You can come tonight anyway, and I make sure you have a good time, how about that. Or you can come tomorrow night, any time after nine, and you see Jasmine."

"Uh, I think I'll come tomorrow at nine. I mean, you sound very nice..."

"No problem darling. You come tomorrow and see Jasmine, maybe next time you see me."