Try your breast not to stare

While Jordan lists her accomplishments, despite your best efforts, you're drawn forward by her her bare breasts. They exert a gravitational pull, warping time and space. No matter which way you look, or move, it all leads you closer to Jordan. One step after another, till you're standing directly beside her.

Your eyes fall inexorably to Jordan's breasts, back up again to her face. It's rude to stare, but... as Jordan talks, your entire world becomes focused on their slightest twitch, jiggle, and movement.

It'd be rude to pop one in your mouth without asking, right? Even if you were curious how it'd feel?

"-bench 180 and I've got a six-pack..." Jordan trails off. She averts her eyes, embarrassed.

Fuck, it's obvious where your attention really is, isn't it.

"Here, why don't you feel 'em?" Jordan grabs your hand and pulls you forward. "Check this out."

Heat courses through your body as you stagger forward. "Huh?" You can't believe your -

Jordan drags your hand straight to her abdomen, beneath her boobs. You miss her big hanging melons entirely.

You're baffled until she flattens your palm against her flat, washboard navel. Her skin is hot, smooth at the surface, but hard as a rock beneath. She's ripped. She flexes her stomach for your benefit. The muscles go taut just beneath the skin.

Her muscles aren't the only things flexing. It feels like steam's coming out of your ears.

Jordan grins, her confidence restored. "Cool, huh?"

You have no contextual experience of how to behave in this situation. You're groping a hot, topless woman's abs - your cock throbs hard against your shorts, straining for release.

You nod dumbly. "Uh, yeah, cool," you say, the canyon of space between Jordan's big fat tits once again swallowing your vision.

Jordan stiffens and shoves you off her. "I know I have big boobs, all right?"

Startled, you backpedal, trying to look somewhere, anywhere, not Jordan's hypnotic tits. You find a safe point on the locker room ceiling, between buzzing fluorescent lights. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare, I-"

Jordan gathers her boobs up in her arms - a real chore - and clutches herself to her chest. She glares at you with dark eyes. "Everyone stares," she snaps, her voice harsh. "Whatever I do, however hard I push myself, nobody sees anything but these. It was supposed to be different with you."

Her eyes brim with tears.

"I don't understand," you say, totally at a loss. What did you do wrong? "Why'd you take your bra off if you didn't want me to look at your boobs?"

Jordan lifts her chin in defiance. "I've been waiting for this moment ever since I knew what a tomboy was. My body's not perfect, but like hell I'm going to hide it. This is the one chance I have to find out how I did - to find out if it was all worth it." Her expression darkens. "I won't risk messing that up by holding back."

A line from the Tomboy Code comes to mind. VIIb. The Master Trainer may offer advisement, direction, and feedback regarding an Adherent's body...

"You wanted my feedback," you realize.

Jordan's lip quivers. "Apparently, it's the same as everyone else's."

The strip show is hot to you, but to Jordan... she's a tomboy to the core. This is her once-in-a-lifetime shot to prove her mettle. And here you are, reinforcing every negative sentiment she's ever had about her body.

Mom's voice floats through your head: your name isn't just another cute piece of trivia. It comes with baggage. It comes with responsibilities.

You curse yourself. How could you be so blind? So arrogant? This is what she meant. Every action you take, conscious or not, means something now.

Jordan stripped down to grant her Master Trainer unhindered access. She didn't strip her top off on a whim, or for fun, or to flirt. Jordan baring herself like this is an act of devotion. Of faith. Of supreme trust, in you. God knows you don't deserve her trust. You've done nothing to earn it. But right now, she's giving it to you, and it's insane, but doing nothing is the worst possible thing you could do in response.

You came to Jordan for help figuring out if you were the Master Tomboy. Now that you know, excuses won't cut it. However crazy or unbelievable it sounds, like it or not, to Jordan, you are the Master Tomboy.

You can't hide from it anymore. The only way forward is to reject it or embrace it.

And you can't reject Jordan.

Wavering in resolve, you muster yourself for what you're about to do. It's not what Marshal would do, but Jordan doesn't need Marshal. Jordan needs the Master Tomboy. You set your insecurities and disbelief aside.

You hold your breath and plunge in.

"If this is what you want..."

Feigning confidence you don't feel, you boldly reenter Jordan's personal space. The Master Trainer is free to touch, manipulate, and examine a tomboy's physique or musculature in whatever way deemed fit...

"... then let's start here." You brush your fingertips over Jordan's abs.

She sucks in a breath and lights up. Not with shock, but hope. Whatever script she followed by coming here with you, this is nearer to how it was supposed to play out.

Ignoring the two fleshy, naked sirens attempting to lure you to disaster, you look higher to meet the tomboy eye to eye.

"Jordan, you're incredible, and you look incredible," you begin slowly, assuming the tone of a counselor, of a confidant. "Anyone who sees you sees a powerful, confident woman who never backs down from a challenge." You rest a hand on her solid shoulder. "You epitomize everything a tomboy can be. Adventurous. Dedicated. Bold." Sexy. "If a person can't see your commitment to the Code etched in every inch of you, they're blind."

Jordan goes misty-eyed but blinks through it. Vehemently, she shakes her head, gathering her bosom into the crook of one arm so she can remove your hand with the other. "You only saw me after these," she says, motioning to her chest. "Once somebody gets a good look at them - my friends, my boyfriend, even the freakin' Master Tomboy - it changes everything."

You sag. "Jordan..."

"People should take one look at me and go, 'Now there's a tomboy.' Half the time, it's all, 'There's the bimbo with the tits.' I thought I could be something you'd be proud of. Instead..." She presses her lips together and turns away, downcast.

Goddamn, you're bad at being the Master Tomboy. This mountain of a woman has one insecurity, and you managed to blunder straight into it. You've got to fix this - Jordan can't leave this room believing that however hard she tries, she'll never be a real tomboy.

"I can touch you anywhere?" you ask, gently.

Mutely, Jordan nods.

You reach out and run your hands down her muscular shoulders. "Are these the arms of a girl who sits inside all day inside, knitting?"

She doesn't answer.

"And these." You tap the fronts of her thighs - her powerful quadriceps - leading her attention there. "Have you ever met a bimbo with legs built like yours?"

She gives a barely perceptible shake of the head.

You touch Jordan's toned stomach again. "What about these? I thought you were proud of these?" Jesus, you could shred a block of cheese on her.... "Whose are they? Some random girl's off the street? Or a tomboy's?"

Jordan's reply is ****. "A tomboy's."

"If your whole body is a tomboy's body," you say, "then logically..." you pull Jordan's arm away from her chest "... these are a tomboy's boobs."

"If anyone could see past them," she says, broodingly - but she lets her arm come away from her chest. Her breasts spill free again, where they tempt the eye and cause your mouth to water.

Wow, okay. Keep your cool. Don't stare.

"I may be new at this," you say, carefully keeping your voice even despite Jordan's total disregard for her state ofof dress, "but I did read the Code. It never mentions size."

"It says to stay in shape," counters Jordan. "They get in the way. They're a distraction."

This isn't working. You need a different approach.

"In the Code... a tomboy, by definition, has to be a woman," you say. "Do you agree with that?"

"Except for you," she says, stonily. "So what?"

"Women have breasts," you say, indicating hers. "If you didn't have boobs, it wouldn't matter how strong or fast you were. You wouldn't be a tomboy."

Silence.

You can work with silence. That means Jordan's listening.

"You told me you've been active since you were a kid," you remind her. "But in the face of everything you do, your chest never gets any smaller. And I bet you wished it did, didn't you?"

Jordan doesn't react.

"No matter how fit you are, or how many rocks you climb, or how many muscles you have," you continue, leaning in close, "you're unmistakably a woman. No one could think for a second you're a guy."

She frowns.

"So anytime anyone looks at you - ever - those boobs, on your body, guarantee that person sees a tomboy."

"A tomboy with big boobs, maybe," mutters Jordan.

You lift your eyebrows.

Her eyes widen as it dawns on her. "Tomboy boobs...?"

You smile.

Jordan reconsiders herself, looking down at her chest, but also the rest of herself in context. Confused, she holds up her boobs, as if to prove a point. "But you couldn't take your eyes off them?"

It's a struggle not to stare again. You laugh instead - what the heck is she doing? "Big boobs by themselves don't do anything for me, I'm only attracted to tomboys," you admit, chuckling and trying (not very hard) to shield your eyes. "Only a tomboy has muscles like that, with curves like those. That's why I was staring."

And it's why you'd like to continue staring. Weirdly, it doesn't embarrass you to admit. With how open Jordan's been with you, it's hard not to be open with you in return.

Jordan broods, deep in thought. "You don't think it'd be better if I had smaller boobs." It's not a question. It's an observation. Jordan's puzzling through your thought process.

"Believe me, I wouldn't change a thing about them. Not a thing." You try to relax, despite the flummoxed blonde tomboy now not even attempting to conceal her buxom figure. "You wanted feedback, Jordan? That's it. You should be proud of your body. All of it." You risk another glance. Your groin pulses in appreciation. "You have... a lot to be proud of."

Jordan nods determinedly to herself. It finally makes sense. You got through to her.

"So if my body's a temple, then my boobs are like... the neon sign on the road," she says.

Uh. What?

"I was so worried about my boobs being a bad thing, I never thought about how they could be a good thing." Jordan slaps her forehead. "Geeze louise, I'm dense." She smiles at you, grateful. "Thanks, Marshal. I should've known you were going somewhere with all that yammering."

Yammering? Yammering?

"So should I get dressed now or -" Jordan stops herself, misreading your expression "- shit, sorry, assumed we were done for some reason."

"Oh, no, it's okay," you say, waving your hands. You immediately regret your irritation.

"No, really," says Jordan, anxiously wringing her hands. "I know you've never done this before, but neither have I. So if you've got anything else for me, please. This," she motions between the two of you, "has been awesome - more awesome than I thought it would be. So I'm here for it. If there's anything you need to know, or anything you need me to do, just say the word, okay? Don't let me step on your toes."

You struggle to reconcile the tough Jordan you were climbing with ten minutes ago with this nervous, giddy, obsequious, half-naked Jordan. Stepping into the role of Master Trainer really made an impact on her. You hope you didn't bend your whole dynamic out of shape. She's just on edge because of this 'review' thing, right?

Maybe you should quit while you're ahead. Then again... you steal another glance at Jordan's fit, powerful body.