She had perfect breasts. When Darla was thirteen, her mother’s boyfriend liked to lift her shirt and run his hands lightly over them.

“Perfect,” he said, breathing hard. Darla’s mother just laughed about it, so Darla learned to stay out of the house when he came over.

When Darla was fourteen, her mother had a new boyfriend. Darla miscalculated and came home early. The new boyfriend made Darla take her blouse off so he could stare at her breasts.

“Perfect,” he said, tearing off his own shirt and sitting in a kitchen chair. He grabbed Darla and spread her legs so she was straddling his lap while he rubbed his chest tight against her breasts. The hair tickled her nipples.

“Perfect,” he whispered again, rocking her back and forth against his erection. When his hands moved slowly down her back and into her cotton panties, she stood up, put her hands against his chest and pushed hard. Caught off balance, he fell backwards. She ran to the bathroom and locked the door until her mother got home.

Telling her mother this time earned Darla a sharp blow to the side of her face. She learned to keep advances on her perfect breasts to herself.

“Perfect,” they said, and Darla believed them. Why shouldn’t she? She saw a lot of breasts in the shower after gym class. Hers were clearly the best. Not so large as to be disgusting, like Nanette Jeffries, who had huge cow boobies. Not too small, like Susan Michaels, who was still wearing a training bra. Darla’s breasts were a perfect C cup. The skin was smooth and creamy, and the nipples were as strong and shapely as the erasers on the number two pencils they used for math tests.

When she was fifteen, Darla found her own boyfriend. He was twenty-six and sang in a rock band. He, too, thought her breasts were perfect.

“Great tits,” Jimmy said.

He taught her to dance…and to strip. “Hey, baby, show me those gorgeous knockers.”

The Fifth Dimension was singing Age of Aquarius on the radio. “Slow at first, that’s right, baby. Make them want it. Make them beg for it. Faster now, go with the rhythm, faster, faster, yeah, baby, yeah, show me those tits.”

They left Wauwatosa four days before her sixteenth birthday, going on the road with his band. He sang, she danced, and the crowd screamed, “Show us your tits.” She always did.

After two years, she finally realized the band’s mediocrity. She was tired of everything: tap beer, cheap cigars, customers wearing ripped jeans and beer-slogan tee shirts. Most of all, she was tired of Jimmy’s lack of talent and ambition. Her perfect breasts were wasted on him.

“My breasts are too good for you,” she told Jimmy, packing. He punched the wall, but she never looked back.

She polished her act and moved it downtown where she became a headliner. The customers wore silk suits, Italian shoes, smoked Cuban cigars, and they all loved her perfect breasts. Their manicured nails brushed her thighs as they filled her G-string with twenty, fifty, and hundred dollar bills. Customers who reached up to cop a feel were promptly yanked back by the muscle-bound bouncer standing at the edge of the stage.

For twelve years, Darla danced. Twice nightly, the customers chanted her name. Other girls just filled the spaces between her shows. They were second and third tier dancers, and they used gimmicks to bring in the customers. One was a snake charmer and one danced with a monkey. None had perfect breasts.

Darla was the star. She danced, and her perfect breasts filled her bank account with cash. She bought bonds and treasury bills, everything safe and secure.

Her perfect breasts were making her rich; no one was allowed to touch them. Until Sam.

One night, Sam tucked five thousand dollars into the curve of her hip. The light in his brown eyes made her smile, but it was his money that compelled Darla to finally break her rules. Sam went home with her that night and they got married in Las Vegas the next weekend.

Darla quit dancing. Her perfect breasts went on display only for Sam. Her lingerie was trimmed with sable. Diamonds and rubies grazed her cleavage. Their apartment had twelve rooms and a view of the skyline. They flew to Paris for brunch and to Chicago the next night for a poker game. Darla was Sam’s good luck charm and he always won. Except when he didn’t.

Six years later, Sam’s luck gave out the same night as his heart. Darla sat alone in the penthouse and cried until the IRS came and made her sell everything. Sam had gambled it all. Her bonds and treasury bills were gone too. Darla missed Sam, but she missed her T-bills more.

She moved to an efficiency in a run-down neighborhood. Beer bottles littered the street. People urinated in the alley behind her building. Her lingerie was polyester. Cotton trim grazed her cleavage. The IRS agent told her she was lucky not to go to jail.

Darla needed money. She went back to the club where she had been a star and was devastated to find that her breasts were no longer perfect. Sam never said anything, and Darla wondered why. Jewels and fur hid the flaws well, she thought. Neither of them had ever noticed the slight pucker around her nipples or the beginning of the overall sag.

Darla looked around the club. Nineteen-year old breasts were everywhere.

The manager took pity on her. She was his headliner for many years, and he remembered her perfect breasts with great affection. He needed a third tier dancer, comic relief between the stars. Darla knew this act, it was for losers. She shuddered, but had no choice.

When the monkey bit her breast, she screamed. The crowd loved it and they screamed back. Darla looked down and was surprised to see almost no blood. Just four small holes, already closing up. One of the new stars tried to help her clean the bites, but Darla pushed her away. The manager suggested the emergency room, but Darla ignored him. She had to go home.

“Okay,” the manager said, “but take a few days off. Come back when your breast looks better.”

At her apartment, Darla took off all her clothes and sat on her bed. She stared at the holes in her perfect breast, but she didn’t cry.

Days later, she was still sitting on her bed. Her breast was warm and the skin around the bite was red. She leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

At some point, her phone rang, but she didn’t move. Her breast was hot and swollen. Green and yellow discharge leaked out of each puncture.

Time slid by. She cupped her breast with both hands and pulled it close. After awhile, her hand felt damp. She pulled it away and stared at the pus, but made no move to wipe it off.

Now she was sleeping much of the time. She dreamed of diamonds, silk negligees, and adoring crowds screaming her name.

One night she sat up, wide awake. Her breast was burning, flames shooting out of the monkey bite. Over and over, she stroked her breasts, wincing when her fingertips grazed the bite. When the pain subsided, she closed her eyes and leaned back. Her mind rang with the refrain, “Perfect breasts, great tits.” She drifted on a sea of perfect breasts.

More hours glided by, turning into days. Slightly conscious once more, Darla noticed a nasty smell in the room. Looking at her breast, she saw the bites, the pus, the red streaks. She felt the swollen, burning pain, and Darla realized she was the bad smell. Her perfect breasts were gone forever.

Without a thought, she turned on her side, curled into a ball and followed them.

Read more about Alice here.

Read more about Anastasia here.