Budding Boobs

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Evidently.

If that young man were a romantic like her boy- friend Channing Bentley.

Or so Babette thought.

At first.

Babette read the lines of poetry young Channing had sent to her.

Composed on his heavy ribbed personal stationery. Ribbed paper like raw silk.

With fancy family crest embossed.

She read the poem again.

And again.

And once more-over the telephone-to each of her closest girlfriends.

Poetry about the spring.

The breeze.

Buds and flowers.

Shady trees.

Birds and bees.

Spreading knees.

Girls who tease.

Adamant pleas.

Fecund thoughts of young love.

Images tart and naive.

To make Babette's bosom heave.

And there.

Smeared along the bottom of the page.

Remains of-tears?-shed by the love-possessed writer of the lines above.

Lyrics of love that brought a rise to the insides of Babette's thighs.

Sighs to her breast.

And an itch to her clit.

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