Mammary Serendipity
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
It started innocently enough, the way so many of my greatest triggers do. I had been riding hard for an hour, thighs burning, sweat pooling at the small of my back, when I came around a leafy bend on the Riverside Greenway and saw her: a flash of sun-browned muscle and pale, pendulous flesh, peddling toward me with the kind of focus reserved for either Olympians or the severely obsessed. Her racing bike was expensive, the kind you only see on TV or on the Instagram stories of people who use the word “gravel” as a verb. She was even more expensive, which is to say: she was priceless, or at least her body was, and it was displayed with a lack of self-consciousness that bordered on exhibitionism.
She wore a pair of threadbare running shorts slashed so high at the hips I could see the reflective lining flicker with every downstroke. But it was her tank top that cemented her in my permanent spank bank. The material—the color of faded pistachio shell—was so thin that it clung to her skin like a second, lazier skin, and it was cut so loose at the chest that every time she leaned into her handlebars, her breasts swung free and clear in the open air. No bra; not even the pretense of one. Just two spectacular, natural, and utterly unconstrained globes, heavy enough to seem almost weightless, like the way a balloon floats but never escapes gravity’s leash. Her nipples pointed straight ahead, the left one ever-so-slightly higher than the right, and they ringed out through the fabric like punctuation marks at the end of a very emphatic sentence.
As she approached, the path narrowed between a brick wall and a tangle of honeysuckle, and she dropped her head, really hammering the pedals. The effect was to make her breasts do this synchronized part-and-slap motion: with every upstroke, they’d pull apart, and then on the downstroke they’d collide again, the impact sending a visible ripple across her chest the way a perfectly timed belly flop will ripple out a still pool.
My eyes were glued to the display, and she caught me staring. Not just staring, but ogling with the kind of rapt, full-face attention that would be considered a hate crime in certain parts of Brooklyn. When she smiled—because yes, she actually smiled—it was a micro-expression, one corner of her mouth twitching up for a millisecond before she zipped past, leaving only a gust of sun-dried sweat and the faint, ghostly echo of her chest reverberating in my corneas.
The entire encounter lasted maybe three seconds. But I was ruined. By the time I made it home, I was so hard that I couldn’t even get my bike back into the rack without nearly coming in my shorts. I locked up one-handed and ran up the stairs, fingers already working the buckle on my belt.
I collapsed onto my bed, shoes and helmet still on, and yanked my shorts down just enough to free my straining cock. I didn’t even bother to line up any porn—a rare testament to the sheer power of the moment’s mental imagery. I squeezed my eyes shut and replayed the scene, her tank top bunched up just above her nipples, her breasts knocking together like a pair of prize-winning melons at a county fair, the sweat darkening the fabric until it was nearly transparent. I imagined her stopping ahead on the trail, pretending to re-tie her laces, and catching me watching her stretch. In my mind she’d smile again, this time broader, and give me a deliberate, lingering look before arching her back and letting her breasts point straight at me, bouncing and jostling as if to say: I know you want it. Go ahead. Watch.
It took less than a minute for my orgasm to overtake me, wild and messy, the kind that pulses all the way up my spine and leaves my thighs trembling. But that was just round one. Because the vision didn’t fade. If anything, the absence of any digital artifact to dilute it made her stronger, sharper, more insistent in my memory.
By midnight, I’d jerked off to her at least four more times. The fantasy evolved: she’d race past me, then slow, then stop and let me catch up. Or we’d both re-route to the same secluded turnaround, and she’d beckon me into the shade before pulling her tank aside to display her tits in the dappled sunlight. Sometimes I’d imagine her as a kind of sexual outlaw, the master thief of male attention, and I was just the latest mark to fall victim to her chest-based confidence game.
Sometimes I’d imagine her waiting for me on the trail, tank top peeled off and thrown in the wildflowers, her nipples hardening as I approached. Other times, I’d fantasize about us biking together, the rhythmic slap of her breasts matching the rhythm of my pumping thighs, the two of us locked in a race to see who could make the other come first. I’d dream up entire dialogues, her voice low and teasing as she described in exquisite detail all the ways she liked to have her breasts touched, sucked, bitten, worshipped. My own hands became proxies for hers, for mine, for both of us, and the line between masturbation and mutual pleasure blurred until I was never sure who was getting off more.
The fixation didn’t fade with time. It only intensified, looping endlessly in my mind like a GIF of her breasts swinging together in perfect, slow-motion unison. Sometimes, in moments of particular weakness, I’d ride the same route at the same time, hoping to catch another glimpse. I never did. But that absence only made her more powerful: she became less a person and more a myth, a totem, a permanent icon in my private hall of arousal.
Even now, months later, just thinking about that day is enough to make my cock twitch in anticipation. The memory has been edited, enhanced, perfected by constant repetition. When I masturbate, I don’t need porn. I just close my eyes and conjure her up, her tank top always a little looser, her nipples always a little harder, her chest always a little heavier and more impossibly mobile than the last time. The effect is Pavlovian: one flash of that first encounter and I’m right back where I started, helpless and horny and absolutely owned by the memory of her.
I still masturbate to that image.