Massage 3

Section Two: My first love
's massage did indeed cure my stiff neck that very night; the skill of massage is truly magical.
Some places use massage as a front for shady dealings, while others, seemingly illegitimate, offer genuine massage techniques.
Just like society, and like life itself.
Besides feeling grateful to her for easing my pain, her figure would occasionally surface in my mind—her round breasts, her shapely buttocks as she cornered me against the doorway.
Her sweat, her breath in my ear, and her hands tracing the essential oil across my back and buttocks—those warm hands, a warmth that stirred my heart.
Perhaps it's because I'm an unmarried young man that I have a special attachment to interacting with the opposite sex.
This also reminded me of my adolescence in high school.
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I remember when I was in high school, I liked to browse bookstores, using the guise of reading to scan the chests of women. I was the kind of person who was secretly lustful, having desires but lacking the courage to act; I only dared to look, not touch.
I remember enjoying going to the market with my parents. Back then, the market in our county didn't have taller counters for displaying vegetables. Instead, vendors would mark out their own areas, displaying their produce on the ground. Shoppers would wander around, stopping to haggle with the vendors if they saw something they liked.
I'd follow my parents, wandering around, and then use my peripheral vision to glance at women's breasts. The women at the market were mostly dressed casually, some with very low necklines. With shoppers standing and vendors squatting, it was easy to create a visual distance. I saw all sorts of breasts, all sorts of exposed bra edges, and even glimpses of areolas and barely perceptible nipples through necklines. I was scared as I looked, feeling a bit perverted. I even searched online for posts about my behavior, and the answers were mostly: it's a physiological reaction during puberty, and I should read more and stop thinking like that. I remember being incredibly sensitive back then; even a sexy photo of a basketball cheerleader would make my erection run wild.
High school was incredibly tiring; I had to memorize and write so much every day, a fulfilling yet oppressive time. My understanding and knowledge of sex, especially physiologically, came entirely from pornographic books and movies. Sex education in our country is always limited to women, or teachers are too ashamed to talk about physiological matters with students—it's laughable when you think about it.
Everyone might cope with the restlessness of puberty differently. My method was to look at all kinds of breasts, through clothes, through necklines. I have a special fascination with women's breasts, and I still do. If a woman's breasts attract me, I can ignore her face—of course, she can't look like a certain woman. I think every normal man has a special fascination with breasts; some express it more, some are more restrained, some dare to speak out, and some would rather die than say it.
Later, in college, after I started dating, I suddenly unleashed my fantasies about women. At that time, I could rediscover women through my girlfriend's body.
Yes, my first love was definitely my ideal woman type. She was my high school classmate, a girl with a particularly large bust. But we didn't go from lovers to partners; we separated after graduation, for various reasons. This story, as I write it, is starting to resemble my own emotional biography. These past events can be shared freely in the village, but once they're out in the sunlight, I'm unwilling to mention them to anyone. Perhaps that's why I'm in the village—in the village, I can shed my outer layers and be my purest self.
Since I've mentioned first love, let me reminisce a bit more.
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First love holds a place in everyone's heart, whether you admit it or not, it's always there, irreplaceable. Of course, I'm not talking about a replacement in status. After first love, someone else will definitely enter your life as a lover. Normally, at a certain stage, you'll get married and have children. But first love, in a man's heart, stays in a corner, clear or vague, indelible and unforgettable. It's a life experience, the beginning of your understanding of the opposite sex, love, sex, and love and hate.
My first love was my high school classmate. Back then, she fulfilled all my fantasies about women: beautiful, intelligent, smart, and with large breasts. Of course, besides large breasts, the first three were also important. We were in the same cleaning group in high school. The cleaning duties were simple: the boys were responsible for wiping the blackboard and mopping, while the girls were responsible for sweeping. Sweeping came before mopping, so every time she swept, I would sit in the last row of the classroom reading, watching her sweep row by row. The high school uniforms weren't tailored at all; they were incredibly baggy, especially in the summer. Every one of her T-shirts seemed to have a very large neckline. She would bend over, sweeping and cleaning the trash in her desk drawers, very carefully and diligently. I would also steal glances at her very carefully and diligently. Several times I could see her breasts, about halfway down, drooping due to bending over and gravity, but I could never see anything below that. But that white, gleaming sight was enough for me to fantasize about alone in the bathroom. Ah, now, thinking back, I really miss my high school days with her.
Back then, I was the class's labor committee member, and she was the Chinese language representative.
I liked the way she looked when she wore glasses and led us in reading. The sunlight during morning reading sessions was particularly strong, and when I looked at her from the side, it seemed like there were halos of light surrounding her. Many boys in our class liked her.
Who doesn't like a pretty girl who's also good at studying? Especially in the innocent days of high school, a girl like that was simply irresistible to high school boys.
My hometown was in the countryside, while her family lived in the county town. Her father was a low-level civil servant in a township, but her parents divorced when she was in junior high school. Their marriage failed because of a woman younger than her mother, and she lived with her mother, an ordinary worker, but definitely a good mother.
So I always lived at school, while she always commuted. We hardly interacted in our daily lives. The only time I had contact with her was on duty days. So, while all the students hated cleaning duty, I especially looked forward to it. I wished I could stay behind every day to do duty, as long as I was with her.
I always thought she didn't know I was secretly watching her. But I ignored a woman's intuition. Until one time near graduation, when it was my turn to do cleaning duty, she always swept and left, and I would mop and turn off the lights last. But that night, she didn't leave after sweeping. Instead, she sat in my usual seat behind me, watching me mop. I was terrified. I'm a man with lustful thoughts but no guts, as I mentioned before, so I was terrified she'd report me to the teacher. That night, I was incredibly ashamed while mopping. I don't know how long it took me to finish; I spent most of the time trying to slow it down, hoping she'd leave the classroom before questioning me. But she waited until I finished, without saying a word. She turned off the light at the front door of the classroom, and we locked the front and back doors respectively. Then she left through the front door and exited the school gate, while I left through the back door and headed towards the dormitory.
From that time on, I became terrified of cleaning duty, not because I was afraid of the hard work, but because I was afraid she'd ask me questions I couldn't answer directly.
After that, I never dared to sit in the back row of the classroom again, watching her sweep the floor. After sweeping, she wouldn't leave as quickly as before; instead, she would sit in the back row where I used to sit, watching me mop the floor. When I finished, she would still turn off the front light and leave through the front door, and I would still turn off the light and leave through the back door.
We tacitly agreed not to speak, but her waiting for me to finish mopping, and then us leaving through the front and back doors, became a habit between us. It also became something in my heart; I thought that one day she would ask me something, and how I should answer then.
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Due to time constraints, that's all for today. I feel I've gone a bit off-topic, but this part is the groundwork for explaining why I'm fascinated by women with large breasts. Again, if you don't believe me, you can treat it like a novel.

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