Ramya: I meet Claire

Tanner nearly ruined me. I came so close. I almost bled for him.

Lesson learned. Now my panties stay on. No exceptions, no almosts. No more playing "just the tip."

Fast-forward three months. I’ve added another dozen loads to my tally, always white strangers, far from Indian eyes and office whispers. I’ve perfected the art. I’m the best cocksucker for miles, and I know it.

They plead for seconds, and if they know my secret, they're **** to find out if the virgin pussy is worth the hype my mouth promises, begging for the honor of breaking me in.

I swallow their cum and leave them aching for the pussy that's sealed up tight for my husband who'll kiss me on our wedding day and never know how many cocks have already ejaculated between my filthy lips.

I feel zero guilt every time another load slithers down my throat. It’s my secret edge. I'm building my resume for my future wife role without popping my cherry and disqualifying myself. I’ll be the best damn virgin bride my husband could ever dream of.

It's been long hours at work, suffering in the gym for my health, and dating and sucking dick to fill in time I have left. No Netflix, no social media. I’m 23, a second-line manager, and today I said yes to the offer that changes everything: senior exec at a crosstown firm, VP title, and a salary that I never dreamed of this early in my career.

It’s bittersweet. Success can be a curse in my world. Indian men want a high-status wife who still earns less, who doesn’t make them feel small. I'm now an intimidating corporate executive, and I'm over six feet tall and can squat more than most men.

My parents have already paraded two prospects past me. I have veto power, thank God. The first was six inches shorter, barely spoke English, and looked like he wanted to hide behind me. No thanks, I'm virgin enough for both of us. The second suggested we “test compatibility” in bed before deciding. I walked away with tight pussy that's still intact for a better suitor that may never come.

The new VP job starts in a month, which means I can loosen up around the office without HR whispers.

Enter Claire. She started on my team three months ago, fresh out of college, tall and shy, always hiding in those baggy clothes like she’s afraid someone might notice her.

I’ve watched her change, though. She’s dropped weight steadily and carved a body that’s quietly spectacular: long legs, round ass, heavy breasts that poof out the loosest shirts when she leans back. Her tits look even bigger now as the rest of her shrinks in all the right places. She's easily one of the hottest girls in the building and doesn't know it, because her confidence hasn’t caught up.

She still walks like she’s apologizing for existing, shoulders curved, eyes on the floor. The fragile, untouchable vibe she gives off repels men in our office. She's probably still a virgin. Although as a senior manager, I might not be "in the know" due to our strict HR dating rules. Someone is probably already fucking her.

No, she's a virgin. The thought lands with a little jolt I wasn’t expecting.

I see a younger version of me in her. The girl who was heavier, who hid under layers, who thought no one would want her until she fixed herself. I lost the weight, built the body, found my confidence with men, and turned myself into the woman who can make a room full of executives shut up and listen.

Claire’s halfway there. I should also mention she's pretty amazing at her job. And that's what brings a rare visit from her second-line manager to her desk today to ask about a project.

Most days I'm sharp with dress pants, blouses that don't give too much away, a good bra keeping everything high and controlled. But today I’m casual like the troops. Jeans that hug my hips and make my ass look killer. I'm waring zero makeup with my hair in a ponytail, and the men have been eye-fucking me twice as much as when I put in more effort.

It's the extra button I've left open on my top that draws Claire's eyes first, though. I notice when I have to lean over her desk to point out a line of code she needs to adjust. I'm barely showing any cleavage, but my leaning posture definitely improves her view. Her cheeks flush pink, and I pretend not to notice. Then I stand to address a coworker that walked by and greeted me, and I notice her eyes flick down to check out my ass.

She turns back to her screen when I return my focus to finish our technical discussion. I don’t know if Claire’s gaze is out of envy of my body or curiosity, but I know that I want to find out. And now I see one big clue: Claire's nipples are poking through her shirt! And it's definitely not cold in here.

Something stirs. I’ve never been attracted to women. Not really.

But Claire’s wide-eyed curiosity, the way she looks at my body like it’s both intimidating and beautiful, lands differently. It makes me feel seen in a way no man’s stare can.

I’ve fantasized once or twice about a woman on her knees for me. She's obedient and submissive, making me feel powerful while I grip her hair and come on her tongue. I suddenly feel a strong urge to **** my power with Claire. I linger in her personal space. I mention we go to the same Crossfit gym.

"I usually go in the morning, but I saw your car parked there when I drove by the other day. Plus I can tell you've been working out, it shows."

"Yes, thanks for noticing," she replies.

I smile softly and glance back at her screen as she looks at my breasts again. I don't think it's just a reflex from the shy girl to avoid eye contact. I'm nipping out now, too.

"Well, I will be there with you tonight if you're going. I couldn't make it in early today," I say. "Thanks for the project update, you're doing a great job."

I see Claire that night in the gym, but we don't talk much. A ton of shit goes down that day at work, and my mind is occupied.

The real magic starts Friday. We have a quarterly all-hands meeting in morning, and my departure is announced. I end the day at the gym with Claire again. This time the shy sexpot has the courage to greet me with an unexpected breast-flattening hug. "Congrats, well-deserved," she says, referring to my promotion.

She's in an an oversized tee and athletic shorts that hide her awesomeness through the warm-ups, but the sexy body underneath shines when she starts to sweat. Her heavy chest heaves in her bra during kettlebell swings. Long, toned legs and a trim waist show when she does handstands and her shirt rides up. And she's beautiful when her face glistens, no makeup, effortless beauty.

The workout is a circuit that includes squats. I load my bar heavy just to feel her eyes on me, which I validate using one of the many mirrors. My gym attire is much more revealing. Tight legging shorts cling to every curve. The fabric crawls into my pussy. I can't even hide the cellulite dimples that flare up when I squat, and I don't care. I'm not wearing a shirt, and while my sports bra does a mediocre job at concealing the sag of my breasts, it fails miserably at hiding my erect nipples poking through.

Claire is a sweaty mess on the floor, groaning like everyone else at the end of the circuit. When she stands, I take a chance. It's a small class on Fridays, and nobody is looking. I playfully smack her ass like a guy would to a teammate playing football. Her butt jiggles with the few extra pounds she has to lose. "Good workout," I say then walk away before she can object.

We have a small women's locker room. My sagging cow tits hang free in relief as I pull my sweaty sports bra over my head. I take a deep breath and look up, and I'm shocked to see Claire standing five feet away, staring at my breasts!

"Claire?" I ask with a grin.

Her white cheeks flush red instantly. "Sorry," she says as she raises her gaze to meet my eyes.

I could let her off the hook, but what fun would that be? I cup a breast and lift it, pointing the engorged, gaudy nipple at her. "Do you want a closer look?"

She's mortified, and she looks around helplessly, making sure we're along. "I..." she stammers.

"I'm just fucking with you," I say with a disarming grin and release my breast, then I playfully smack and jostle the distended fleshy orbs. Even the bad lighting in the locker room can't hide the stretch marks. I just have to own it. "I used to be chunky. I lost a lot of weight, and my breasts show it. I have to get fit. Time to find a husband, you know."

"They're beautiful," Claire replies, saying the most awesome thing I could hear at that moment. "That's my motivation here as well. I'm perpetually single."

We both laugh, bonding over mutual struggles to find a man while dancing around the same-sex attraction blooming right in our faces.

I remember I went home before coming to the gym, so I don't have a dry bra. "Shit," I joke as I grab my sports bra again. "I can't go outside with these heifer jugs hanging down."

We discover we live in the same complex. I mention my lease is up soon, and we bond more about how successful, single women worry about where we live. Where is that husband we know is right around the corner that will ask to merge our households?

In the parking lot, credit to Claire for taking the next step. She asks, voice small and brave, if I’d mentor her. Be her friend. She's nervous and underconfident, so the wording is vague.

"How about both?" I offer. "I have your number."

I hug her one more time, then leave her wondering if I will call.

I know I will. I want more time with the girl who blushes when I breathe near her. I want to know what that soft, shaky voice sounds like when it isn’t nervous anymore. I don't know where this will end, but I realize there really isn't any down side.

I don't have close female friends nearby. Worst case, Claire and I can bond like that. I have a ton of social and career advice I can share with her. And I'm not sure yet I want us to be lovers, but so what if we do? Scissoring thighs won't pop my cherry. I've found another arranged-marriage loophole.

Grade 3 ptosis. Official diagnosis: my tits gave up. I blame the weight loss. They blame gravity: