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Subject: {ASSM} Too Much Of A Good Thing
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Date: Mon, 09 Apr 2007 13:10:04 -0400
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Semi-realistic Medical erotica - M/F, F/F



   TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

   Hi there - I'm Jane.  I'm a State Registered Nurse, and that was my job,
in standard fashion, for a number of years.  I've moved over, however, into
the "private and recreational" sector; which suits me very well, because
I'm one of those odd people who get a quasi-sexual thrill out of "rude
medical doings", both as perpetrator, and victim.  This stuff - including
thinking about it -- bulks large in my life; in fact, I admit to its having
been my principal hobby, ever since childhood (could be awkward, in the
unlikely event of my ever making it into "Who's Who?").  It was this trait
of mine, which caused me to go into nursing (well, lots of people choose
their jobs for selfish and un-admirable reasons - don't see that it
matters, so long as they perform their duties reasonably well and
properly). I'd have become a doctor, if I could; but am well aware that God
didn't endow me with enough "little grey cells", for that to be a
possibility.

   Talking of hobbies, a former boyfriend of mine - a keen amateur
naturalist -- once remarked to me, "A very quick look at you leaves nobody
in doubt that you're a mammal." Plenty of other people have made similar
observations to me, often expressed more bluntly: to put it in the plainest
English possible, I have very big tits.  They began to sprout when I was
just twelve (a little before I started having periods) and they grew, and
they grew - bloody Topsy wasn't in it.  In my holidays from boarding
school, my mother kept a watching brief on what was occurring, and when I
was twelve-and-a-small-bit, superintended the fitting and purchase of my
first bra.  Come the summer holidays that year, interim growth required a
"repeat-andupdate" of that exercise; and when the Christmas holidays came
round, same again.  I loved this whole business - being taken into the
appropriate department-store areas and stripping to the waist and having my
boobs felt and assessed, and various undergarments tried on me, by the
resident experts.  Mum was perhaps a fraction less delighted with it all.
She remarked in jest, "You're becoming an expensive hobby for us."

   "Ah, but I'm worth it," I said, with supreme self-satisfaction.

   "I suppose," she muttered; but it was all a don't-call-us-we'll-callyou
comedy act.  I was my parents' only offspring, and they adored me
immoderately; they had reluctantly sent me to boarding school for fear of
my becoming, otherwise, a totally and hopelessly spoilt monster.

   A year later, I had just turned thirteen, and they were still
remorselessly getting fuller and bigger.  One bedtime, when I happened to
be bare above the waist, Mum had made a snap judgement on the situation. 
Her conclusion was, "I think we should make an appointment with Dr.  Bell,
just to have him make sure nothing's happening out of order.  Goodness,
you're only just thirteen, and you simply keep growing and growing up
here."

   "Before they're dragging along on the floor, you mean?" I quipped, to
try and cover up how my heart was leaping with delighted anticipation.

   "Silly," Mum chided, but I thought she was trying not to smile.

   A couple of months previously, I had had my second-year medical at
school.  At your "annuals" pre-the age of sixteen (after which they became
altogether more thorough), once you had breasts, our school doctor would do
a brief and non-exhaustive feel of each one in turn usually, at any rate.
When he'd recently done the biz on me, I had thought that he'd attended to
mine at surprising length, and I'd fancied raising of eyebrows on his part.
Now I was to be taken to our family doctor to have the phenomenon looked
into.  A vision passed briefly through my mind, of a forthcoming career in
a travellingcircus sideshow as the Amazing Colossal-Titted Youthful
Schoolgirl me being me, I could imagine worse fates.

   Mum set up our visit to Dr.  Bell, for the following-but-one morning,
and come departure time for the appointment, I cheerfully and briskly got
into the car with her.  I think she found it a blessing to count, that I
never made a fuss about having to go to the doctor; whether she'd have been
so happy if she'd known how much more it was for me, than just being
relaxed about it, was another question.

   So, Mum and me in the surgery, with Dr.  Bell; like so many family
doctors, nice, considerate to patients though no doubt overworked and
harassed, early middle-age.  I didn't fancy him in the romantic-passion
department, but being the way I am, I much enjoyed his attentions,
especially when they got into "rude" realms - which had very rarely
happened, I being a robustly healthy individual.  But my word, this was one
of those rare occasions, for very sure: here I was, bare to the waist,
while for a couple of minutes, Dr.  B.'s hands explored the organs which
were running riot.  First one, then the other, was squeezed and pushed-into
and moved around, including areolae and nipples being fingered, and each
nipple taken between finger and thumb; and a few questions were asked about
aches and tendernesses; and he finished by lifting my breasts up with a
hand cupped under each.  I was loving what was happening, and a phrase from
the hymnbook, "transports of delight", popped up most inappropriately in my
mind.  A couple of minutes was all it was; Dr.  B.  indicated that he was
finished, and that my bra and the rest could go back on.  He reassured Mum
and me that there was no cause for anxiety: I was just an early and
plentiful developer.

   After we'd left the surgery, Mum said to me, "you were very good about
that; thanks".  ( I thought, my lovely mother, that's all you bloody know
about it).  "Well, it's just the way it is; so off to the bramerchants
again, I reckon - let's get it all sorted in one day.  If you'd been a boy,
we wouldn't have all this hassle."

   "Plenty different and worse hassle, if I had been," I countered.

   "You're probably right," Mum conceded, and off we went to upgrade my
babyfeeders-support-gear yet again - further stuff with me
top-halfindecent, which would be fun, if less exciting that what had just
taken place at the doctor's.  This wasn't the last episode on the
"underwear-dealers" scene, which Mum and I went through: but I'll forbear
from recounting any more - I think that by now, you get the drift...

   And still they grew and still they bloody grew, and so far, I was
entirely happy with developments.  I was obviously going to be, head to
toe, a big, strapping lass, so let's do that whole thing to the max.  The
more they grew, the floppier and more pendulous they got.  That's the deal,
I thought; suits me.  The male sex likes tits, and overall, I'm going to
like the male sex.  Tits needed considerable management, including
bra-fitting and-purchasing sessions; but there you go: all pets need care
and maintenance.  For the present, I figured, my parents pay for the
underwear concerned - when I'm self-supporting, I'll need to.  O.K.  - I'll
need to buy tampons as well.  Part of life; men are supposedly lumbered in
equivalent ways which we're free of, though boil me in oil if I can think
of any off the top of my head.  (We have to shave, too.)

   And the bigger my tits got, the more pendulous they got.  We'd like, a
fair number of us, to have enormous ones which were nevertheless perfectly
taut and firm and didn't droop and wobble at all; but if we rely on what
God gave us, and eschew surgical intervention and silicone, the great
majority of us are in no position to both have our cake and eat it.  (And
how we hate the very few who are naturally lucky that way - but that's
another thing.) Sometimes I feel that I'm floppy, without ever having borne
and nursed a child, to the point that I could patent it.

   I knew about floppy, in my early-ish teens; and my mother kept her eye
on the matter.  I was home for the Christmas holidays, a couple of years
after my described visit to our doctor.  The majority of girls get very
exercised about privacy and modesty vis-à-vis their mothers, when they hit
puberty or before; somehow, this was never a very big deal for me, what
with one thing and another on both sides.  It fell out that one evening, I
was naked and Mum was present.  She took hold of my large, and quite likely
not-done-with-growing, boobs, and I wasn't offended (my being an incurable
exhibitionist no doubt had a lot to do with that).  "They flop around," she
said.  "Has its uses if you're feeding a baby; but for any sakes, you're
not fifteen yet."

   "Will be in March," I said, trying for the surly-teenager bit for form's
sake, but not really meaning it.

   "It's fine to have a good pair of breasts," said Mum (hers are very much
on the small side - what I have, I sure didn't get directly from her), "but
with you, it's threatening to go crazy.  I think a trip to Dr.  Bell is
indicated."

   Fair enough, I thought, I'll never say no to a rude doctor session. 
"O.K.", I said to Mum.

   The day after next, there we were at the surgery, and - like not quite
two years previously - there was Dr.  Bell, and Mum, and me bare above the
waist.  "You're becoming a seriously big girl, aren't you, Jane?" he said,
as he commenced feeling and inspection of the things that made me
demonstrably big.  A couple of blissful minutes for me, ensued, as he
explored my top-half womanly charms.  I'd hoped in my previous appointment
with him in this context (I being such a healthy wench, I'd had almost no
others with him of the intimate kind - my routine medical examinations had
taken place at school), and I hoped once again in this one, that - with
ladies' bodies, "up top" often being closely linked with "down below" -
tit-inspection might lead to my being required to undress below the waist
and having my holes "down there" probed; and my already plentiful (and
much-appreciated by me) pubic hair being struggled through, to achieve that
objective; but this time as last time, no such luck.

   In the end, it was approximately as I'd figured - the doctor could do
pretty well what his two-thousand-years-previously counterpart, could have
done: he concluded, "you've got large and pendulous breasts;

   nothing health-threatening in that, it's just how things have fallen out
for you - if you're not happy about it, we can talk about things again in a
few years' time." He doesn't want to spell out anything about cosmetic
surgery, and put ideas concerning that into my head at my age, I thought;
bless!  he's got no need whatever for worries on that score.

   Mum said, as we drove homewards, "we learn over again, it's nothing to
be troubled about, it's just the hand nature's dealt you.  Sorry if I seem
to fuss so over this; but I'm your mother, I can't help but worry about
you."

   "Honestly, it's all right, " I replied.  "I keep telling you, I like
having them big; and they've got to stop growing some time ...  haven't
they?"

   "Please God, they have," she answered.  "If they do end up down to your
knees, we'll go back to seeking medical help, and I shall want something
done about it."

   Happily, that crisis point was never reached.  I hit fifteen, and from
then on they stayed with the dimensions and attributes they'd reached -
plentiful, and all-over-the-place, believe you me -- but I didn't quite
attain Abominable Snow-Woman status (reputedly, her tits are so long and
droopy-and-then-some, that when she runs, she throws them right over her
shoulders).

   Overall, I loved, and love, the whole set-up which I've got - guys like
big boobs more than otherwise, and that's a "plus" which I have, but very
good.  I'm one of the rather few women who are physically so made that
they're able to suck their own nipple.  For a while I had a boyfriend who
took pleasure in having me close my eyes, and suck one of my nipples while
he sucked the other, and we fantasised that I was breastfeeding twins.  I
don't want even one child, never mind two; but fantasies don't hurt anyone,
and this one delighted him.  We broke up, nothing to do with wanting or not
wanting kids - but anyway, this is an item in my repertoire, and people are
variedly full of strange stuff, and it may well turn on big-time, some guy
in the future.

   "No cross, no crown": being ample (to put it in a restrained way)
titswise, brings with it certain practical annoyances.  When sleeping
alone, I do so naked, except for having to wear a bra - if I don't do that,
they follollop all over the place and I can't get at all comfortable and
have a good night's sleep.  (If I'd been a militant feminist in the 1960s,
I'd have had to get a dispensation to go on using a bra - backed up by a
doctor's note, if necessary.) Still, everything has its price, and this is
one I'm happy to pay.  I like men (allowing for the occasional
"other-side-of-the-street" temptation - well, nobody's totally 100% the one
or the other, whether they admit it or not), and the majority of men are
turned on by big knockers the bigger, the better.

   And my big boobs make me feel sexy, even when I'm alone.  I'm lucky, in
these neurotic times when most women feel wretched about how their bodies
are - if they're one thing, whichever, they want to be the other...  it
became clear to me early on, that I was a big, hefty girl, with no remedy
for that even if one were wanted; so I decided that I'd go with the flow.
More men than not, fancy girls like me, even if fashion tries to dictate
otherwise, and I've done fine with those whose tastes run in that
direction; and those who don't feel that way - well, there are only
twenty-four hours in the day, and some of those you have to spend earning a
living, or sleeping.  I don't want to boast, but I've had no shortage of
men wanting me, and a fair number of those, I've found fanciable or at
least acceptable.

   With the personal oddity which I have, of taking pleasure in
embarrassing experiences of the clinical kind when they befall me, the size
of my baby-feeding-gear has worked to my advantage on that scene.  I've
enjoyably undergone numerous medical examinations during my life to date
(my choosing nursing as a career, saw to it that that would happen and
continue).  All that I've experienced, would indicate that doctors and
nurses are usually highly proper in their conducting of medicals; but
people are only human, and at times, those doing the business can't resist
saying things which could get them in bother if addressed to the wrong
person.  Now and again, when bare above the waist (occasionally, when I've
been lucky, bare below it too, pending investigation down there) the
administerer of the exam has remarked, while checking my tits out, things
in the general line of "You're topheavy up here, aren't you?" , or - trying
for humour --"If only I were paid by the square inch, or the half-pound..."
Some women might be offended by comments of this kind; but not me, nor a
good many others -- usually, the examiner can suss out pretty well, which
patients will take such jocularities in good part, whether it's about being
reassured, or about having outright fun.  I've always revelled in hearing
stuff like this, in such a situation: it intensifies my feeling at once
humiliated, and proud and delighted - in short, what this nonsense of us
med-fet participants, is largely about.

   When breasts are being examined, comments sometimes get made about their
primary purpose, and on how well the lady would be equipped to feed babies
which she bore.  (According to strict medical protocol, uncalled-for; but
what a boring world it would be if everyone always solemnly refrained from
having fun, except when the "time for fun" sign was officially displayed.)
Remarks along this train of thought, have been addressed to me a time or
two, by medical practitioners who were assessing the condition of my
mammary equipment, and though I'm probably the least maternal woman on
earth, I've loved hearing this stuff from them - it's only words and
opinions, which have never got anyone pregnant -- and it's stoked up my
getting wet and sticky between my legs (re that particular part of this
situation, I always feel: come the pelvic examination, the medical bod
conducting it will be glad to have Mother Nature assisting them in
lubrication of the area to be digitally investigated - so, no problem).

   Once I started my nursing training, aged seventeen, at a big London
hospital, throughout my time there I and all the nursing staff were given a
routine medical every six months.  These were pretty memorable affairs:
every part of us, "ordinary" and "intimate", was given an unrestrained
going-over, and little effort was made to minimise the indecency of it all.
From the very beginning of the exam, we either had to take everything off
except our knickers - those to be shed too, leaving the examinee completely
starkers, when the stage of examining our orifices down below was reached;
or on some occasions, we were made to strip totally nude right at the start
of proceedings.  For many of my comrades, this aspect of our job was
something to endure, rather than to enjoy (nobody actually protested about
it - our attitude on this point, was comparable to that of soldiers with
their contempt for wimpish, easily-upset civilians; and I think everyone
felt - without needing to express it out loud -- that since we dealt it
out, it was only fair that we had to take it too).  I, with my personal
kink, loved the "half-yearlies" - nearly always did, anyway -- and
sometimes wished that they could have been quarterly.  Another bit of icing
on the cake for me as a student nurse, was the injections to inoculate us
against various things, which we received, especially in our earlier days
at the hospital - most of them in our bottoms.  I don't actually enjoy
being stuck with needles, as such (even I am not that weird), but I seem to
be blessed with a fairly high tolerance of pain, and I've always found the
pants-down element in injections a turn-on.  And there were times when a
necessary injection or two, were administered in the course of our
"half-yearly": I revelled in the indecency of

   getting a jab when I was stark naked - either having it done as I lay on
my front, in the nude, or being obliged to bend over for it.  From
childhood up until today, I've always felt cheated when I've received an
injection any other way than "bare-bum".

   At our six-monthly medicals, we were questioned about various
healthrelated matters in our lives, and this was a thing in which the
examiners didn't spare our feelings - questioning could get highly
intimate, and rebuking fierce.  Our superiors who checked us over, got
particularly exercised over the health-and-life-endangering folly of
smoking.  It was, I learned, a distressing experience to have to sit there
naked or almost so, while a doctor considerably your senior, tongue-lashed
you about your idiotic and irresponsible habit, and treated you to a vivid
and ugly word-picture of the horrors of lung cancer.  This experience had
some girls in tears, and I knew of one or two who packed in their training
over this issue.  (We suspected deliberate policy, here, on the
authorities' part - an element in the general thing of culling out the weak
ones.)

   Never having smoked - I fail to see the point of it (though I'm not
fanatical about the matter: I have many smoking friends, whose friendship I
don't wish to risk losing over anything ideological) -- I didn't have
trouble on this particular head.  At my medicals I did, however, receive
some gentle chiding about my weight.  Nothing too savage: I'm not obese,
but there is undeniably plenty of me.  I don't get in a tizzy about this
matter - I like being Ms.  Ample, and reckon I'm reasonably fit.  I've
always refused to buy into the widespread present-day hysteria whereby
women think they're too heavy and fat, and get horribly grieved about it,
quite regardless of what they actually weigh or what dress size they are.
Have been lucky, I suppose, in being spared the worst of peer pressure on
this thing; my closest friends have always accepted me the way I am, end of
story.  In my time at the hospital, when my mentors / examiners got into
(fairly mild) admonishing of me about losing excess poundage, I looked
attentive but let it wash over me.  You should do a stint in the South
Pacific, I thought, where bulk is reckoned to be the key factor in female
beauty; there, I'd be regarded as borderline anorexic.

   On one occasion, however, the hospital's "health police" hit me with
something totally out of left field.  It was my half-yearly exam, early in
my second year of training.  A new doctor had lately joined the staff of
the hospital, in a medium-senior position, and it fell out that it was him
who did my examination.  According to the grapevine, this Dr.  Bleasdale
was reckoned a rather chilly individual; but this was the first contact of
any kind that I'd had with him, and I was ready to keep an open mind.  Come
exam day: after I'd taken everything off except for my knickers, and the
nurse had done the preliminary stuff, I went through the connecting door
into the next room, for session with doctor (clothes to be retrieved when I
was done with him).  However laid-back and used to it you as a healthcare
person may be, you feel a little bit at a disadvantage meeting someone for
the first time, when they're fully clothed and you are wearing nothing but
your pants, and your breasts are completely exposed and, if they're like
mine, acting as though they had a life of their own whenever you move a
muscle.

   Dr.  B.  must have been fifty-ish: mostly-grey hair, long, thin, pale
face, thin lips, small gold-rimmed spectacles.  In situations such as this,
the "torturer" usually tries for some sort of faintly-normal both-way
dealings with the victim, despite what "t" is shortly going to be doing to
"v": even the Asperger's Syndrome sufferers (and there

   are a few of those in the medical profession) can, in my experience,
manage a "hello".  Not this guy; it was just "sit down on the couch,
please".  I tried to be positive - at least he knew the word "please".

   Normal routine got going.  He started at the very top (eyes, nose, ears,
mouth), and proceeded southwards therefrom.  Many examiners, I'd found,
chatted abundantly while they did increasingly rude things to their subject
- the usual "take" was, it made a potentially awkward situation less so,
and in the setting which we were in, the one who did and the one who was
done to, had their job in common, giving plenty of talk-fodder.  Even the
interactionally-challenged usually to their credit - did what they could in
this matter.  I've had some splendid conversations with gentlemen or ladies
who were, the while, doing extremely indecent but clinically necessary
things to my bare body (though on occasions, my side of the dialogue has
probably been a bit random, owing to my feeling highly turned-on by what
was happening to me).  This chap, though, seemed to take his cue from
chapter 5 verse 37 of Matthew's Gospel - in a work situation, anyway. 
Terse instructions to me, to move the appropriate bits of me to facilitate
his inspection; otherwise, silence.  He moved on to neck and armpits, and
stethoscope front (certainly no awful lisping-related puns on the "big
breaths" theme, from this guy) and back.

   Then, his list of things to do, got specifically to boobs.  Concerning
those items, he did the "full monty": felt them first, with me standing up,
arms up above my head; then had me lie on my back on the couch, and same
again.  Most times, I find this pleasing - twice the blissful humiliation,
perceived and scrutinised from different angles, for medically perfectly
valid reasons; and also, that much more fun if that comes into the picture
- for the disher-out-of, and the takerof.  But this gent seemed a totally
cold fish (metaphorically, and literally too - he certainly hadn't thought
to warm his hands), and the erotic aspect was there for me (concerning this
particular oddity of mine, I must be past praying for), but for sure, it
wasn't dominant.

   "Sit up," he said, when he'd finished kneading my tits while I was
supine.  Then, for the first time, he came out with more than a niggardly
couple of words together, and I quickly had cause to wish that he hadn't.
"You could be in trouble in years to come," he said.  "Your breasts are
large and heavy to the point that they're liable to put a severe strain on
your back.  I'd suggest that you have an operation to reduce them;
otherwise, you could find yourself permanently in a wheelchair later on in
your life."

   I felt as though I'd been kicked hard in the belly.  This was something
totally and insanely new to me.  So far in my life, I'd heard various
basically jocular comments about the size of my tits: nobody had ever made
the slightest suggestion that they could harbour dangers of the kind just
suggested.

   I struggled to find something to the purpose, to say to this guy.  What
I came out with was, "I like my breasts the way they are."

   "In my opinion," he said, "you're bordering on deformed.  Reduction of
them will be beneficial in all ways."

   Hellfire, I thought, when this bloke is seeking to pull someone, let's
hope he's able to be more complimentary than he's just been to me.  If not,
then whoever he'd want to have it off with - women, men, little boys, sheep
- the guy's doomed to permanent lonely frustration.  Not having the bottle
to say that to him, I remained silent.

   He stopped nagging me about the tits issue, and went on with his
examination of me.  Shortly, he told me to take my knickers off, and began
probing of orifices, variously.  Normally, I'd love this part of the
business, reckoning it mind-bendingly rude and, with a basically benign
person doing it, more than a little erotic.  This time round, I noticed
little about what the doctor was doing to me; I was just plain seething,
about his opinions concerning my tits, and his implied threat of having the
surgeon's knife taken to them.  Over my dead body do you force that on me,
was what I was thinking.  This isn't Dickens not that he was allowed to put
this kind of stuff in his books - nor the bloody Middle Ages.  There must
be ways for me to fight my corner on this, and I'll set about finding them,
quick-march.

   He finished; let me sit up on the couch, bare as a newborn; and
harangued me a bit about my being heavier than I should be, and once more
about my tits.  I thought, I wish I smoked, and drank to great excess, and
did drugs, and had unprotected sex to the nth degree (in actual fact, I was
obsessive about condom-use); let's have a situation of total war, and with
any luck, this tosser will lose.  If he were to win, though...

   It was over at last, and I was permitted to get dressed and go about my
business; which I did, churning with anger and with worry that one fine
morning I might find myself -- with no say of my own in the matter - hauled
off to the operating theatre, put under, and filleted of a fair quantity of
breast tissue.  Common sense told me that this couldn't happen, not in the
1990s, an era when people, including even student nurses, had rights; but
the way things happened in the establishment where I was training, often
seemed to have little to do with common sense.

   The likes of me have, in Britain, a trade union, the RCN - which I had
joined at the start of my course -- and right after I'd undergone my bad
time with Dr.  Bleasdale, I sought out my appropriate union representative
and asked to speak with her.  She was a ward sister in the hospital, and
very approachable.  I told her my tale, and she went a long way towards
reassuring me.  "They simply could not do that," she said, "it would be a
gross violation of human rights.  If they tried it - well, they wouldn't,
but suppose they did, it would land them in unimaginable trouble."

   "Thanks," I said.  "You'll think I'm being completely foolish; but you
hear about such a lot of outrages against people, by medical and
social-work types who sincerely think they're doing what's best for their
victims."

   "They won't try this outrage," she said confidently.  She went on to ask
me whether I wanted to make a formal complaint, via the union, re Dr. 
Bleasdale's words and attitude.

   I thought for a moment.  "I'd rather not," I said.  "Call me a coward,
but the bloke will be around here for a long time, presumably: I don't like
him, but I'd rather not be at daggers drawn with him.  I don't really mind
what he says, just so long as I won't be relieved of a large amount of my
breasts, without my consent."

   "Fair enough," she replied.  "Nobody finds the guy to be Mr.  Charm; but
this matter of yours, is the first time anyone has actually brought to us
something to complain of, concerning him."

   "Perhaps he has a really negative thing about big hefty girls with
enormous floppy tits," I mused.  "A trauma from his youth, I wonder? ... 
humiliating rejection by a girl answering to that description?"

   "Hard to imagine Dr.  B.  enjoying much success in the love department,
that's for sure," she said.  "Anyway, just to see you right, in the very
unlikely event of heavy pressure being put on from high up..." And she had
me make a written statement of what had passed between me and Dr. 
Bleasdale on the issue at my examination; the statement was endorsed by
her, and she undertook to pass it to the union's site secretary.  She made
a photocopy of the document, on the spot, and told me, "It might help put
your mind at rest, to keep this copy on you at all times; so if those set
in authority over us were to raise this business with you again, in an
unacceptable way, you could produce it -- just to remind them that you've
let us know about the thing, and that we're ready to fight for you over
it."

   I thanked her, very sincerely; but being a woman, I greatly wanted to
"air and share" this thing which was troubling me, vis-à-vis close friends,
and converse - both ways - in depth with them about it.  Under most
circumstances, my best friend (and fellow-fan of clinical doings) Annabel
would have been my obvious willing victim for this exercise.  She had,
though, very lately begun her first term at university, and that would be
giving her plenty to contend with - this was a time when she didn't need me
lumbering her with my tits-related troubles as well.  We carried on a
frequent correspondence, however (personal computers and e-mail were then a
few years down the road for both of us), and some weeks after the event, I
mentioned the boobs-reduction issue in a letter to her, playing it down and
putting a humorous slant on it - my greatest anger had subsided by then. 
She was, naturally enough, full of her own stuff about what was happening
with her as a brand-new student, and about her first serious boyfriend, met
there; but her letter in reply to mine included the brief comment, on the
mammary matter, "this bloke must be mad - take no notice of him.".

   With Annabel immediately out of the frame, I had unburdened myself about
the slur on, and perceived threat to, my tits, to Pam, my best friend and
nearest kindred spirit among the trainees of my year.

   "You did the right thing," she said.  "It isn't the Dark Ages any
longer: they can't lumber us with anything radical, without our consent -
but you've got the whole thing on record, and you've got a transcript on
paper, to keep with you against the thousand-to-one chance."

   "That's what worried me above all," I said.  "I could sue them for a
million pounds afterwards; but that wouldn't bring back my truly genuine
annoying and inconvenient and perhaps potentially
quality-oflife-threatening boobs, which despite everything I'm very fond
of, and wish to keep."

   "Right on," said Pam.  "To be honest, I wouldn't want tits as big as
yours" (just as well - hers were tiny), "but you've got them, and you like
having them, and more power to you."

   "Even suppose there's something in what Dr.  High-and-Mighty said to
me," I continued, "I'm happy with what I've got, and I'm ready to take my
chances on perhaps spending the last quarter of my life in a wheelchair
because of the boobs-on-back effect.  I don't know that I'm going to live
that long, anyway."

   "Of course not," said Pam, "none of us do.  Nuclear war could happen; we
could get AIDS ; we could die in childbirth..."

   "Cheerful little thing, aren't you?"

   "I'm just trying to put the bloke's nonsense into perspective," she
said. "Quite a lot of these berks high up in the profession think they're
God, and act accordingly."

   "We need to remind them that they're not," I said.

   "Or just to sodding disregard them," she replied.  "Every half-yearly I
get, I'm hauled over the coals about smoking.  It's counter-productive; it
just makes me more determined to tell them to get lost, and go on doing it,
and stuff the health risks.  No arrogant dickhead in a white coat orders me
about as regards what I may or mayn't do, in a matter of personal choice."

   This is my kind of lady, I thought; and said, "I don't smoke, but I
applaud you.  What was it the guy wrote - one of the rights of man, is the
one to go to the devil in your own chosen fashion?"

   "On the button," said Pam.  "Illegitimis non carborundum."

   I'm foreign-linguistically-challenged, and at school they never tried to
put any Latin into my head -- but I got Pam O.K., on that one.

   "What with your experience, I'll watch out for this wanker, myself," she
said.  "A century or so ago, people like him were ordering clitoridectomies
right, left, and centre; and their victims didn't have the means of
redress, that we do nowadays."

   "Bloody hell," I said, "I'm glad I wasn't around then.  Why were they so
hot on that procedure?"

   "Way of dealing with over-horny girls."

   "Oh, my," I said, "back in Edward VII's time, I'd have been in danger of
losing half my boobs, and my clit as well.  Thank Christ we're living now,
not then."

   "Mind you," Pam added, "if you'd come to the notice of Edward VII, he'd
have exercised his royal influence to have you kept as you were, so that he
could enjoy you in his bed."

   "What a f***ing choice," I said.

   At the time of my exchange of letters with Annabel, she'd had a good
deal on her mind; but it proved in time, that my tits-related worries had
registered with her.  She and I arranged that at the end of her first term,
she'd break her journey from her university up north, to her parental home
in the west of England, by staying a night with me in London.  She duly
arrived at the house which I shared with several other nursing trainees,
and - introductions made to those of my housemates who were present, and
refreshments dealt with - I took her up to my tiny bedroom, and she parked
her luggage there, and we settled down to catch up on each other's news of
the past few months.  When the bulk of this exercise had been accomplished,
a couple of hours later, Annabel made a suggestion which met with my entire
approval.  "O.K.," she said, "shall we take a look at these organs which
you've been threatened with surgical reduction of?"

   "Dr.  Walker wants to add her two-pennorth of informed opinion to the
debate, does she?"

   "Just a bit of lay-person's common sense," said my friend, "and a breast
exam probably wouldn't come amiss, anyway."

   Ever since being instructed a few years previously, about the wisdom of
regular breast self-examination, Annabel and I had diligently, indeed
pleasurably, performed this monthly ritual.  Furthermore, at such times as
we were together, after doing the business on ourselves, we had each in
turn inspected the other's breasts.  We rationalised this on the basis of
"two heads are better than one" - the one might pick up some abnormality
that the other had missed; but what it was really about was that we both
revelled in indecencies of the medical kind, and were very fond of each
other (on my part anyway, for quite a while it went further than just
"fond") and loved - in both directions - fiddling with each other's bare
boobs.  Our last opportunity to do this had been quite some months back; so
it delighted me that Annabel was floating the idea now, especially with the
implication that before we were done, her mammalian charms would get
exposed and explored too.

   "Right, then," I said, "prepare to deal with the menacing monstrous
alien life-forms," and shed my cardigan, shirt, and bra.  The menacing
etc., leapt out of their white linen confines and joyously flopped around,
celebrating their release.  Annabel watched them, seeming entranced.  "You
are just so bloody big up here," she sighed.  "It's not right.  I'm the one
who wants lots of babies - I should be the one with the huge tits."

   This had given rise to a bit of disharmony between Annabel and me, ever
since we'd first become acquainted.  She'd never managed completely to
forgive me for having undergone (though I'm three months younger than her)
dramatic physical development a couple of years before anything at all
happened for her in that department.  Once it at last started happening for
her, it did its stuff rapidly, and she quickly grew a substantial and
beautifully shapely pair of tits of her own; but she's never quite got over
her initial envy of me, for being well-endowed way before she was endowed
at all.  I've frequently complimented her on her own lovely breasts (true),
and in the interests of trying to make her feel better, have said
derogatory things about my grossly huge, wobbly ones as opposed to her fine
firm, taut items (eyewash, which she sees right through - practical
inconvenience aside, I greatly like mine the way they are, and any
pretending otherwise, I can't make stick).  Plus, her maternity obsession,
thanks to which she can't help feeling that she should have had what was
assigned to myself, who do not want children, full stop.  This isn't a big
enough issue to blight our friendship, but it gives Annabel the occasional
twinge of feeling that she's the loser.

   "Complain to God," I suggested now.  "If He chooses to miraculously swop
over your tits and mine, I won't be totally pleased, but I'll have to
accept it."

   "He's probably got bigger and more grievous things happening on Earth to
worry about, than your and my breasts," said Annabel.  "Sorry about the
things I say - I just get carried away sometimes.  Anyway, let's do this
properly.  You kick off, examining them for lumps or anything funny - after
that, I'll follow up on you -- fair enough?" (Scrupulous about a "level
playing field", she removed her clothing above the waist too.) I examined
mine, the process taking some minutes, while Annabel observed and
commented. She then took her turn.  She felt my boobs most thoroughly, and
also heaved them to and fro, and pushed each one in turn, back in the
toward-my-shoulder direction, and pulled them apart and felt in my cleavage
while she had them thus parted, and squeezed them, and digitally inspected
my nipples and areolae, giving a running commentary all the while, on how
wondrously and beautifully and enviably equipped I was, and (Annabel being
Annabel) now and again slipping into the theme of how I should have
children because of being so marvellously kitted-out to suckle them.  She
was evidently enjoying "doing unto another"; and "being done unto" was
greatly pleasing me, and starting off delicious sensations for me further
south.  While doing the business with my left breast, she remarked
heatedly, "That idiot who told you that you were bordering on deformed -- I
should have such a deformity - I should be so lucky ; " and blow me, but
she was shedding tears onto my left tit.  I put one arm round her and
stroked her hair, saying, "easy, 'Bel, easy ; you have a most beautiful
pair of 36Bs.  We know girls who really have been sold short - we've got a
couple of totally flatchested friends."

   Annabel had got into a pretty emotional state.  Her period wasn't far
off (after half a dozen years' close friendship, we were each as familiar
with the other's menstrual cycle, as with our own - though hers tended
towards the chaotic), and in those circumstances, she was apt to get
wrought-up.  She performed a rational-mind-over-gutfeelings feat, plus a
mind-over-matter one, and got back to an approximation of calm.  "Sorry,"
she said, "you know how it is."

   "Who'd be a woman?" I returned.

   "We would," said Annabel, "despite all the disadvantages."

   Her breasts were then attended to, first by her, then by me.

   " We both seem to have a clean bill of health tits-wise, thank God," I
said.  I'm hungry again- what about you?"

   So we re-donned our upper clothing and went downstairs and improvised a
bit of "second supper", and resumed the conversational catch-up bit.  As it
happened, by then all my housemates were out, which I was glad of on this
occasion, much though I liked them.  At one point, Annabel said, "I keep
having trouble getting my head around what that moron of a doctor said to
you about your boobs."

   I replied, "I've found, in the time between then and now, that he's not
unique: instances are respectably medically documented, of ladies

   with very large breasts being ultimately crippled, because of having
them - but do you know, I'll damn well take my chances on that."

   "That's my Janie," said Annabel, "and as you've told me, you've got
things sorted in the rights-and-legalities line, to stop any preemptive
strikes.  But - well - this idea is totally new to me, as from when you
first told me about it.  To me, it still sounds crackers.  I feel that if
this doc of yours is not sincerely off his trolley, he must be into some
kind of money-making scam involving needless breastreduction jobs.  It's
sort of like Douglas Bader gone wrong : have 'em off, old girl - they're
only a bally nuisance anyway."

   "Absolutely!" I said.  "They get in your way when you're trying to fly
your Spitfire, and dodge Jerry's bullets."

   Annabel declaimed dramatically: "There isn't room in this cockpit for
the three of us," and we both dissolved in giggles.

   Sometimes, fate is kind.  It fell out that Dr.  Bleasdale wasn't on the
staff of our hospital for very long; plainly a man for whom furthering his
own career was of the highest importance, he found another and preferable
post in a distant part of the United Kingdom (not in the city where Annabel
was studying, I was relieved to learn), and duly took himself off to,
presumably, torment examinees there - but thank heaven, he was out of our
hair, before it was time for my next "halfyearly".

   When that came round, the following spring, it was conducted by a doctor
who'd been at our hospital practically since the Flood, and whose services
I'd had earlier on in my training.  He was thoroughly sane and on an even
keel, and jovially and forthrightly male, with the foibles which go with
that condition.  For this exam, I had to take all my clothes off right from
the outset (more than fine by me) and while the doc's conduct was,
technically, perfectly correct, I picked up on his appreciation of my
breasts in - though I say it as shouldn't - all their glory; and of
everything else I had, being fully on show, as he felt and palpated and
squeezed up top.  This kind of appreciation from an examiner usually
pleases me rather than bothers me, and that applied with particular force
this time.  It was lovely to be put through it by a guy who was more human
and (nicely) mischievous, than "strictly-by-the-book" recommends; far
rather that, than old Bleasdale from his distant alien planet where total
cold logic ruled, and kindness and tact and humour were unknown.  As my
this-time examiner attended to my tits, at fairish length, and both of us
relished the experience, I thought, how nice to be "done" by someone who
thinks them an asset, not a health threat.  As his hand, having worked
round and round, approached the nipple of the left one, he remarked, "You
could feed quads from these, no problem."
   "God bloody forbid!" I replied; and we both laughed.  

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