If you’d asked me to describe my life/marriage/family one year ago, and are expecting me to say it was “perfect,” that was not my life. I’d have called it “great,” but not some upper-middle class model of perfection. I had a great wife, a good income, and two kids that were healthy and usually happy. But perfect? No.

Who gets perfect? No matter how good things are, there are complaints. My two sons, Luke and Christopher are good kids, but they were a handful. At the time “The Conversation” took place, they were both teenagers. “Handful” became “Hellspawn” in my darker moments after a bad day. Not anything to be bothered about.

In southern small town New Jersey, it’s an acceptable way of letting off steam. It’s just how we talk here. The more we rib someone, the more we love them. It’s people who are nice to you here that really don’t give a shit about you.

I own my own business, but that is as much a nightmare as a dream at times. I live in a small town with all the benefits that come from that, as well as all the distractions that come from that. My wife was the most “perfect” part. Yet not even that was perfect. We had spats. We didn’t always see eye to eye. However we always went to bed together and woke up next to each other. I really had no serious complaints and I don’t think she had either.

It’s odd how you never recognize at the time the seemingly minor thing that has dramatic consequences down the road. It’s only with hindsight you realize that one of those key moments had ramifications not recognized then. Mine came after the kids were in bed and Brenda and I were relaxing with a bottle of wine. Then out of the blue, the bomb dropped.

“Honey, how would you feel if I got breast enhancement surgery?”

There wasn’t any part of our conversation leading up to that. In fact, I don’t remember what the conversation we were having actually was. It was a total surprise.

The first thought that went through my head was, “Here there be dragons.” This was a potential trap like, “Do these pants make me look fat?” Or, “Do you think my sister’s attractive?”

My wife, previously Brenda Benson until she took my family name of Lykaios, was cursed with a flat chest. I don’t mean small boobs, I mean ... she didn’t need to wear a bra. The only reason she did was to keep those attention-seeking nipples from poking out. She had pokers. Do I like boobs? Hell yeah! Under the circumstances though, I felt, “Hell yeah!” was not a response that would go over well.

There was no question of being able to afford it. We had the money.

I didn’t grow up exactly poor, but my family never had the money to spend on luxuries that I do, and by extension my own nuclear family does. I made my own modest fortune. My secret? Choosing a career that paid well. I became a dentist. While we’re not rich, we go on vacations wherever we want, the kids are in private school, and we live in a neighborhood where you can forget to lock your door and not be overly concerned about it. All this, while still putting away enough for a decent retirement.

Sipping my wine I said, “Honey, I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

Apparently I gave a good answer. “I know that honey. Even after all these years, you still look at me in a way no other man does. Still, I notice when we’re on the beach, a pair of big boobs gets your attention.”

I knew she’d noticed that. She’d given me an elbow a time or two. I hadn’t thought it had bothered her. “Brenda, you are the love of my life. Boobs are to a man what a laser pointer is to a cat. It’s a response wired into us, we can’t control where our eyes go. They just go there. I’m sorry if you ever had the thought I loved you any less. Don’t feel you have to do this for me.”

She put her hand on my knee. “I don’t want you to feel embarrassed love, or that I ever resented it. I get it. You’re a man, men like boobs, and you are one Hell of a man.” She paused while I grinned. It wasn’t that she was shy with compliments, she wasn’t. They are still always nice to hear. She continued, “Vincent, I’d be doing this for me.”

I knew then this wasn’t a lighthearted conversation. She mostly calls me “Vince” or “honey,” but never says “Vincent” unless she’s putting me on alert that this is a serious discussion. I don’t know if she’s aware of it or not. Okay, she’s a woman. She’s obviously aware of it. I sipped my wine again, to stall while I was considering how to navigate through this minefield. “Honey, I’ll support whatever you want. I love you.” That seemed safe.

She beamed at me. “I know it sounds like vanity, but you have no idea how a woman with a flat chest gets treated. Men and women just perceive you as less feminine. I’m still asked what sports I played in high school and college.”

Given encouragement, I respond with more confidence. “Honey, I do cosmetic dentistry all the time. I do braces, implants, whitening, you don’t have to rationalize it. If you want this, or if you don’t want this, I’m in your corner.” That said, I was thinking, please want this.

She took my hand. “I heard it all in high school. I was president of the ‘itty bitty titty committee’. People would see my bra straps and ask, if I had no hands would I wear gloves? I heard it all.”

I’d heard this before. She seemed to feel it necessary to reiterate it. So I just gave her a supportive look.

“My initials were BB, so people called me Beebe, but that became BBs. It was meant as a knock on my lack of boobs. People would actually look at my chest as they said it and smile, thinking they were getting away with a joke at my expense. It couldn’t have been more obvious.”

Once again I took a sip of my wine while squeezing her hand, “Honey, high school can be a cruel time. I fell in love with the you you were when I met you. I’ll love you the same no matter what your body looks like. If this is what you want, I want it for you.”

I did mean that. I was also hoping that me saying so, wouldn’t make her cancel her plans. I needn’t have worried.

“Thank you Vince, your support means everything to me.”

We kissed, then just discussed the details. I didn’t get crazy sex that night, just good cuddling. We did have children in the house after all. Still, it was as intimate a snuggle as we’d had in a while. I felt good about the whole evening.

Life happened, as it does, while we went forward with scheduling this new thing in our lives. She had to schedule time off from work, I had to make sure I was available in case there were any complications, and I was going to have to keep the demons from putting pressure on their mother during that time. That part was the hardest, she was clearly their favorite parent. I’m not complaining. She has a measure of patience I don’t. I like a certain amount of order, teenage boys are chaos.

After working out the logistics, she went in for surgery. Our small hamlet doesn’t have a plastic surgeon, but Philadelphia is a short drive away. Many people who live in our residence commute there for work. Our neighborhood may be well-off, but most people make their money somewhere else. I was one of the exceptions.

I could have spent some time in the city and just waited for a phone call when it was finished, but I stayed in the waiting room the whole time. It was similar to when she was in labor. Sure, she was giving birth to boobs, but I felt like being there was important.

When she came out, there was a very noticeable change. She didn’t go for anything gargantuan, she had picked boobs appropriate to a person of her height. There was no way I couldn’t notice, but that was not the time to ogle. We had both read the literature about what to expect, so I wasn’t horny and am absolutely certain she wasn’t. What I did was took her home and let her have her recovery and adjustment period. I was on my best husband behavior.

I was very patient. The surgeon had made it clear there was to be no sex for two weeks. After two weeks, we could be careful. Any pawing of the boobs would have to wait until four weeks after that. I had the date circled on a calendar. That calendar was in our kitchen, and when the kids asked what that was for, I responded with, “That’s the day you’ll be out of the house.”

“Why Dad?,” Luke asked a moment before Christopher.

“Yeah, why Dad?”

I managed to say with a straight face, “We’re having an exterminator come over.”

While we did resume sex, it was gingerly and tentative. We made love exactly twice during the next four weeks. Part of it was life of course. The boys demanded a lot of attention. Part of it was also my nervousness about keeping my hands off her new breasts. It was like knowing in advance your Christmas present, but not being able to play with it until Christmas.

She spent a lot of her free time shopping. I hadn’t actually considered that she’d need a new wardrobe, as strange as that may sound. She was excited about it, and wanted me to do it with her. I did it once and it was torture. I don’t like shopping for myself, much less watching someone else shop. If I had to choose among things I’d prefer rather than watching someone else shop, waterboarding would be on the list. She understood. She was happy, that’s what counted.

She returned to work. I shared her happiness at the stories she had to tell about the effect her transformation had on those that knew her.

“Honey, it’s like people look at me as though I’m a different person.”

“Is that bad?”

“No! It’s all positive.”

“They’re just seeing you for the wonderful woman you are. It’s a shame how superficial some people can be.” I hoped she hadn’t noticed me dropping my eyes for a moment to look at her chest. That might have seriously undercut the sincerity that comment was delivered with. I just couldn’t help it.

She didn’t seem to have noticed. “You’ve always seen me as special honey. All those new looks will never replace the looks you’ve always given me.” She gave me a kiss.

The neighborhood get togethers were a bit different. Three weekends out of four, we’re at someone’s place in our community or they are at ours. Her surgery wasn’t a secret, it’s the kind of thing freely discussed. What I hadn’t accounted for, was the reaction. I have only myself to blame for that. She had told me her stories repeatedly. It just didn’t hit me until I saw it playing out.

The first event we went to, was at the home of Dexter and Lisa Evans. Casual friends with a kid friendly gathering, as were most of these get togethers. No big deal. Except this time it was, and Brenda was the topic du jour. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t overt from the moment we walked in. The hellions had already found their peers before I got a bit uncomfortable. Alcohol had been consumed by this point.

My first bit of unease, is when she hugged Stu Anderson. I should say he hugged her, and she hugged him back. I had made it a point not to hug Brenda or do anything overtly demonstrative with her new boobies. Sure, I looked at them. But I was hands-off following the doctor’s guidelines.

The Andersons, Stuart and Debbie, live a block and a half away. It really wasn’t that hard to walk, but Stuart “All my friends call me Stu” Anderson always drove. He loved to show off his new gold BMW. Projecting wealth was important to him. He owned a car dealership, but always liked to boast about his investments and the money he made from them. I also invested in the stock market, sensibly and designed to minimize risk and maximize retirement down the road. I really felt no need to discuss it. If you believed Stu’s narrative, he was some kind of Wall Street genius. I noticed he still hadn’t quit his day job though.

The hug wasn’t that unusual, Stu always liked to be touchy-not-quite-feely with the ladies, and always had a handshake for the men. Sometimes he hugged them too. It was what he said when he hugged Brenda. “Heya, Bullets.”

“Hugs to the jugs,” she replied.

Bullets? That bothered me. Hugs to the jugs? That bothered me even more. After Stu and Debbie moved away and mingled with others, I looked at Brenda and said,” Bullets? What did that mean? Also, hugs to the jugs?”

Brenda gave me the right look, I don’t know a better way to describe that look. She didn’t minimize my concern or try to laugh it off. “Honey, you know I tell the BBs story to people I am comfortable with. I told it to Debbie and Stu. You were there.”

I was. I’d forgotten about it. She does tell that story in our circle. Other people share their embarrassing teenage memories, she shares hers. It shouldn’t have been an issue, but it was. Stu had hugged my wife and she had just responded. Stu got that first hug. Rather than her saying, “I need to be careful,” she gave a flirty response. Stu was a bit aggressive tactilely, and so I could see Brenda just responding socially. I let that pass, even though I was bothered. The rest of the day didn’t help.

Nobody did or said anything inappropriate. It was just both men and women commenting on her tits. After a certain point, it seemed it had become fair game to talk about them. Brenda was eating it up. I did get the occasional, “You and Vince are going to have fun the next few days,” but it seemed an afterthought after I had felt left out of the conversation. The day ended and we went home. Brenda didn’t ask if I was fine. I didn’t act like I wasn’t. I decided this was her “coming out party,” and my concerns were pretty stupid. We slept comfortably that night.

The day I’d circled on the calendar marking the moment the boobs were no longer off-limits sexually finally came. As it turned out, we didn’t send the boys away. Brenda’s mother, “Grandmama” to the kids, “Mom” to me, was watching the boys at our place. Brenda had decided we’d do a short “staycation” for the weekend. A mini honeymoon. Helen Benson had no problem at all watching her grandchildren. She lived ten minutes away, and she often was the babysitter when Brenda and I needed a night out. Not since they were young, was having them at her home an option.

The boys hated being at her home. I understood why. Her husband had died in a car accident, and her house was like a shrine to their life. She had no interest in remarrying, just preserving her house as though she expected him to return from the dead. None of the furniture was friendly for two teenage boys. All their games and movies were at home. Also, she ran through a lot of Kleenex when they were there. It was easier all around if she came to us.

As a bonus, she always cooked far more than needed to feed herself and the boys, and that woman was a damn fine cook. She loved making things from scratch, and her pasta gravy was to die for. People outside our area wrongly refer to it as “sauce.” You live here, it’s gravy and always will be. She always made enough to last for a week.

Everything was set when Brenda and I left for the weekend. We fed off each other’s excitement as we headed out of town. We’d booked a room at one of the big hotel chains, and those weren’t an option where we lived. The sexual tension was palpable. It was there as we drove, it was there when we checked in, it was screaming at us as we walked down the hall to our room. Once the door was opened, I was ready to throw Brenda down on the floor and fuck her. The bed seemed a few steps too far away.

She had other plans. She told me to sit on the bed, then went into the bathroom. She took her overnight bag in with her. I was curious what she was doing. She was in for fifteen minutes. Was she checking her tits? Did she get an unexpected early period? Damn. I was curious and being horny wasn’t helping.

She stepped out, looking exactly like she did when she went in. No clues there. She did have her phone in her hand. Maybe she needed to text Mom about the kids? Did we need to go back home? No.

She gave me a seductive look, “Well honey, are you ready for your show?”

“Show?”

She guided me to a chair. I sat in it as she played music from her iPhone. It was Middle Eastern music. I was rapt as she started a striptease. She had a new see-through bra and matching panties that I hadn’t shopped with her to get, or even seen.

She took her time stripping, timing each move to the music. It was clear she’d rehearsed this. I’d seen those boobs since the surgery (even looked at the scars), but not like this. That night held the promise of full contact. It was everything I’d been waiting for. I watched entranced as she danced and unveiled each garment.

“Honey, you can look but don’t touch. You can touch when I say you can.”

This presentation was was a fantasy I didn’t know I had coming to fruition. The delayed touching was a wrinkle I hadn’t expected, but I was her slave at that point. I was just a passenger on this journey.

She took her time dancing. One song ended, the next one played. Brenda can dance. Once she saw “twerking” was a thing, she committed herself to doing it. My wife is both sensual and sexual. She had my full attention as she removed the last piece of her clothing. I was riveted. Every move, every gyration. It wasn’t just a striptease, it was a performance. Then she came over to me, music still playing.

“No hands,” she said as she worked on my pants. My hard cock made it difficult to undress me, but she did. She pulled my pants and underwear to my ankles. I was raging hard, I wanted to just grab her. I’d been waiting for this. Six weeks for this. Her instructions were clear though, not until she said I could. It was frustrating and erotic, and I had precum before there was any skin on skin.

Brenda took my cock and put it between her boobs. She massaged me with them as she smiled. “Do you like this?”

My brain shut down. I didn’t care about the appropriate response. “Yes!”

She gave me a kiss on my tip, then said, “Good. But I want you inside me. Do you want that?”

I wanted anything that would give me release. I just whispered, “Uh huh.” My vocabulary had exited my brain.

She mounted me on that chair. She pressed those new tits in my face. I grabbed them and squeezed them while she teased my cock by rubbing her pussy over it. It was like making love to my wife, but also having sex with a different woman. I was excited with the anticipation of being inside this new woman, even though I knew it was the same wonderful pussy I’d been in many times before. It somehow felt like the first time, even though she’d had a boob job and nothing below the waist had changed.

When she finally slid down on me, it was all I could do not to cum right then. I’m not sure how I managed to avoid it; it was like I wanted to impress a first date by not prematurely ejaculating, I suppose. As she got close to her orgasm, I let go of her tits and grabbed her ass. It’s what we’d done many times in this position. The tits may have started the evening, but in the end, we came as we always did. Except for me it was much more intense. Judging from her reaction, it was for her too. I get a bit giddy after sex, and everything always strikes me as funny. The thought that went through my head while she was in my arms was, “This is the best damn investment I ever made.”

After that night, we played a lot with those toys. We had to work it in around parenting, but we found the time. Everything we had done sexually before, took on that same feeling of newness. Missionary, I grabbed them. Doggy style, I grabbed them. Her on top, definitely grabbed them.

We even did a tit fuck. She didn’t exactly take to it the way I would have liked when we started. Brenda doesn’t use profanity, not even in the bedroom. She doesn’t mind when other people do, she just doesn’t. It happens to be part of my vocabulary when I socialize, as it is with most people in Jersey. Some stereotypes are true. Brenda didn’t fit that mold. So dirty sex talk wasn’t part of her repertoire.

“You like the way my breasts caress your penis?”

This was something I’d never done before, and I wasn’t a bit put off over the fact she thought it was ridiculous. Mostly not put off.

I tried to encourage the response I wanted, not that it mattered in the end, I was loving it. “I love the way my COCK feels, FUCKING your TITS.”

She suppressed a laugh. Barely. Then her face went semi-serious.

“You like pushing between these melons?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Slide that thing through my cantaloupes. They are yours for the taking.”

Okay, a weird compromise involving fruit, but it worked for both of us.

Our sex life had been invigorated, sneaking in fucks while parenting. It was like the opposite of having to sneak fucks as teenagers away from our own parents. It had that same intensity and thrill, aided by years of experience. That should have been perfect. As I mentioned earlier, no one gets perfect. If you asked me what I thought would happen, I would have said my wife would be pleased at the new attention, and I’d be the sole beneficiary. I was, and I wasn’t.

The neighborhood get togethers didn’t seem to have let the newness of my wife’s tits fade into the background for the new shiny thing. The hugs increased. The attention she got from men increased. The “accidental” contact with her boobs increased. One Saturday at our place, one moment showed how everything had changed.

We have a trampoline we bought with the boys in mind. They love it. Brenda loves it as well. She was proud of being agile. This time was different. Now when Brenda jumped, so did her boobs. Suddenly a common occurrence no one previously really payed attention to, had eyes locked on every bounce. It’s a miracle applause didn’t break out.

The stories she told from work were constantly about new opportunities and greater appreciation. She would mention her boss, Alan Harrison, had begun to compliment her on her work. I really tried to be accepting of it. Alan Harrison was an old coot that I knew Brenda on her worst day would never have sex with. We laughed about it. Still ... there were some moments that had me on full alert. One was when I came home early after a cancellation.

When I arrived, Stu and Brenda were there. No one acted awkwardly, as though I’d interrupted anything. It all seemed on the up and up. Still, Stu made his exit quickly. If it had been innocent, why would he do that?

After going through some normal conversation, I started fishing. “So ... what were you and Stu talking about?” I was trying to keep the suspicion out of my voice. I don’t think I succeeded.

“He was talking to me about my implants. He’s been talking to Debbie about them.”

“Why isn’t Debbie over here asking?”

“It’s an awkward subject Vince. He doesn’t want to offend her by suggesting it, even though he thinks Debbie would love it.”

I had to admit that sounded reasonable. I also thought it was reasonable that Stu was taking an interest in my wife that was no longer casual. Six in one hand, half a dozen in the other.

This was just another one of those things. It wasn’t the fact she got attention, it was the way she responded to it that had my Spidey sense tingling. She didn’t shut it down. She encouraged it. She hadn’t done anything to show it would go beyond that, but she never gave any indication that there was a line somewhere that shouldn’t be crossed. It’s not that anyone did anything questionable, it’s just that it seemed things were slowly escalating and I wasn’t comfortable.

I did bring it up, albeit not forcefully. It was awkward. “Honey, I’m happy you are getting the attention you always wanted. I am a bit bothered though, that you don’t draw a line on the flirtation. I’d like to hear you say you are loyal to your husband from time to time. No wait, not loyal. In love with your husband.” Yup. Awkward.

It was like I’d slapped her. She looked distraught for a moment, then said, “Honey, I am in love with you. I can’t believe you question that. I am yours. No flirting I do will ever go anywhere. If I’ve done something that made you uncomfortable, tell me and I’ll be sure not to do it again.”

The thing was, there was no one thing I could point to. I felt bad. I saw the look in Brenda’s eyes and knew I’d been responsible for that. I immediately embraced her, and just kissed her like it was a third date. We had a great night of sex. It was only in hindsight I realized that she hadn’t agreed to draw a line in public. She was asking me where the line was, and I hadn’t given it to her. However, she had made her case that her flirtations meant nothing.