This morning, shortly after I got out of the shower, my old friend, who recently became my husband, snuck up behind me in the bedroom. I had just put my arms through my bra straps, but his hands snaked around me and cupped my breasts. Almost immediately I could feel his warm breath, and then his lips, on my neck, and then his manhood pressed against my naked back.

If it had been even a little later, or if I had been a little farther along in getting ready, I might have laughed it off. But the timing was perfect, and without a word we had the most delightful quickie ever. He left me feeling warm and satisfied and safe and loved.

As I got out of bed again, he looked at my breasts.

“They seem bigger.”

“I think they are. My bras are fitting tight again.”

He got a strange look on his face. “Do you still like all that?”

“What? Having a tight bra?”

“No, just having breasts. I mean, wearing a bra. Every day.”

It was a funny question, and took me all the way back to the time before I had started hormones.

I remember that wearing a bra was one of the most exciting things I ever did. Sometimes I stuffed socks into the cups, and eventually I created a set of falsies for myself out of old socks filled with popcorn seeds. But sometimes I just wore them without any fake boobs, and enjoyed the feeling of the fabric against my skin, and the straps surrounding me like an all-day hug.

Shortly after I started hormones, and my breasts started to grow, I started needing to wear a bra every day, mostly to deal with sensitive nipples at first, but eventually to support my girls, which came in nicely after a fashion.

Even now, though I wasn’t especially big, the act of putting on a bra had become so routine that I almost couldn’t remember why it had ever seemed like a thrill. It seemed like just a piece of underwear now, one that I sometimes cursed a little under my breath.

“I love having breasts. You know that.”

“Right. And I love that you have them, too. The bigger the better!”

Such a boy. My bra was on now — flesh-toned lycra, with a touch of lace along the tops of the cups, and a bow at the center where they meet. He was still looking at them with that look.

“Cut it out! You already got some today!”

“But they look so great. C’mere. Let me have another little squeeze.”

I had to be getting to work, so this time I did shut him down. Well, I gave him a little peck, and made sure he could get in one last caress. Even through the fabric of my bra, his hand touching my breast felt amazing. As I pulled away to button my blouse, I made sure he got a good view until the very last second.

“I love needing a bra, and I love wearing one. There. Are you happy?”

“Oh, yeah,” he leered.

I carried the memory of that gaze with me all day, and felt a new appreciation for something which had become routine. For the first time in a long time, all day long I felt like I was embraced again in an all-day hug.

When I got home, he was already there. He got up and greeted me not just with a kiss, but with a hand on my left breast. I would love to tell you what happened next, but a girl has to keep some things to herself, doesn’t she?