The Cafés of Town

The Cafés of Town

There were towns, here and there, that Tomek would stop in, to buy goods in the market, speak with the folk thereabout, and inquire of her whereabouts.  

Their long, lacey, light skirts would swirl all around them, as their hips sash-shayed their way down the street.   Their bosoms bounced happily, merrily, joyfully, from side to side in front of them.   Then their long, long, locks of hair would swirl like mist-clouds around them, alternately hiding and revealing the varied, bouncing parts of them.  You couldn't separate the swirls of skirts from the swirls of hair, or bosoms.   Like they were all spirit-beings of twirls and curls and colored, spinning dust, — little etheric dust-storms spinning by him.   

The long lines of bosoms bouncing and meandering and bullbing their way along on the front of crowds of women advancing up the street seemed like the waves at sea, so many and oncoming, gently lapping up to their crest and falling, one after the other.....

It made him almost seasick.   

Or maybe lovesick.   Funny feeling, anyway.   

Theirs is the kind of bounce that makes men pounce.  

Tomek wandered on, in a daze like a hypnotized tiger, silently stalking the streets of women.   The man with the hood over his head.

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He sat in the cafés, and watched the lovely women of the isle parade by.  

Why, he wondered, do all the women here seemed to have such nice bosoms?  Though they were different sizes, they all seemed to be noticably prominent, exceptional, with an extra lovely bounce about them.   

Why was that....? He could not think of a place he'd ever been where all the women were so beautiful, with such noticably lovely curvatures.   He mused over this and tried to analyze it and ponder all this.  

After awhile, he REALIZED that it was partly because he hadn’t seen or been with a woman in so long!  When a man has been without a woman for a long, long while, then any women starts to looks awfully, awfully good.  Like a tempting piece of fruitcake that life has set down in front of you.  

But then he began to realize that it was something more.   About these lovely bosoms.  These breasts were liberated...!    They were free.  Freed breasts.   Liberated breasts.   Braless.  The island women followed quite literally the 'ban the bra' movement.  

And the lack of brassieres underneath their blouses meant that all the island breasts bounced and jiggle-swayed and moved freely, happily, joyfully, bountifully.   They caught your eye.

There's something sad about trapped breasts.   Kept frozen inside a bra.   They are mummified.  Constrained.  There's something dead in them.   They're stuck in a coffin.   In a mummy's white bands.

But breasts set free, ‘liberated’, bouncing gaily under their blouses, are happy and lively, and cuase the spirits of all around them to soar.  

It didn't matter what size they were.   Even the smallest ones had nipples that poked and protruded and jiggled the Tshirts of their owners as they promenaded.   They were very lively, noticable, whereas that’s not the case if a woman is wearing a 'bosom mummy'.   A ‘constrainer’ of breasts.   

And the women with humungous ones just seemed to bounce all over the street like paddleballs.  

Either way they were lovely and lively, and the variety just added to the enticements.  You couldn't really decide which you liked best.   

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Cinderella’s Panty Slippers   

Tomek spoke to villagers in passing, asking about the moon maiden he'd seen, telling of his quest to sniff her out, and showed them her panties.  Her 'dainty feminine hankerchief'.  He said they were like Cinderella’s white slippers.  And how he must find the maid that 'fits' them.  

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Folks told him, that, in the old days, a prince would go out at night to choose his maiden, when he could not see her.   He would follow only his nose, led by the smell that arose from her flower.  When he found her, he then would pluck her from the ground she grew from, from her parents, and take her home with him.       

The villgers told him about the famous 'pantie-readers' who could read a woman’s panties, and the floral, nectar residues she’d left in them, like the gypsies read tea leaves at the bottom of a cup.   They reveal all the secrets of a woman; who she really is.

He thanked them, and resolved to seek such a reader.

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