It was a pleasant enough summer afternoon. Twenty-five degrees, perhaps. A light breeze from the south-south-west, pushing warmer air from the Gulf of Mexico into the Great Lakes region.
Wisps of cirrus in the July sky, ever-changing mounds of cumulus piled high on top of each other, accentuating the horizon. The land lay quietly in the sun, the unobtrusive, even soothing hum of small insects hovering over the countryside intensifying, in a mysterious sort of way, rather than distracting from, the silence of the afternoon. A stand of tall trees in the distance, swaying almost imperceptibly in the breeze, their leaves glistening, sun and shade oscillating leisurely over the silver-green foliage. Hydro wires far off to the left, slicing the sky, punctuated by tall towers here and there. An atmosphere of peaceful tranquility interrupted once by the distant tooting of an invisible train and immediately restored. It was an afternoon Jonathan would not likely ever forget, absorbing, as he did, every scent, every sound, every brush of wind against his skin, every color, every shape with the intense sensibility and sensual sensitivity the afternoon invoked. It couldn't have been better, he thought.

Jonathan replays in his mind an extreme slow motion film clip of a nude man running. It's the same afternoon, twenty-five degrees, cirrus and cumulus in the sky. The man is running very slowly and deliberately with long, measured strides. His legs are pumping rhythmically, muscles undulating with each leisurely stride, his arms swinging in unison with the pace of his legs, pecs glistening in the warm afternoon air, penis and scrotum swinging freely. His torso moves symbiotically with his limbs, back and chest straining and flexing, all very slowly, purposefully, his face intense and determined yet at the same time suffused with an almost mystical air of transfiguration, with ecstasy and wonder and total absorption. His body is a finely tuned arrangement of muscles and joints synchronized by the deliberate impulses of his mind, flowing freely yet nonetheless carefully controlled. The camera rolls more and more slowly as it zooms in closer on the solitary runner moving ever so slowly now. Every detail, every muscle, every movement becomes increasingly pronounced as he runs more and more slowly, almost as if standing still yet maintaining the same rhythmic, deliberate motion, running barefoot through an endless field of breasts, soft, pliable, smooth, round breasts.

From Gray's Anatomy: "The breasts are accessory glands of the generating system, two large hemispherical eminences situated toward the lateral aspect of the pectoral region and extending from the sternum to the axilla. The left breast is generally a little larger than the right. Their base is nearly circular, flattened or slightly concave, and has its long diameter directed upward and outward toward the axilla. The outer surface of the breast is convex and presents, just below the centre, a small conical prominence, the nipple. The surface of the nipple is dark-colored and surrounded by an areola having a colored tint."

Jonathan replays in his mind an extreme slow motion film clip of a nude woman running. It's still the same afternoon, temperature steady at twenty-five degrees. She is running very slowly and deliberately with long, measured strides, her long legs moving rhythmically, muscles undulating with each leisurely stride, her arms swinging in unison with the pace of her legs. Her torso moves symbiotically with her limbs, muscles straining and flexing. Her breasts are swinging and bouncing in concord with her strides, very slowly, purposefully, her face intense and determined yet at the same time suffused with an almost mystical air of transfiguration, with ecstasy and wonder and total absorption. Her body is a finely tuned arrangement of muscles and joints and freely swinging breasts synchronized by the deliberate impulses of her mind. The camera rolls more and more slowly as it zooms in closer on the solitary runner moving ever so slowly now. Every detail, every muscle, every movement, every undulation becomes increasingly pronounced as the woman runs more and more slowly, almost as if standing still yet maintaining the same rhythmic, deliberate motion, running barefoot through an endless field.

The breasts are the most pleasant and most enjoyable aspect of the female anatomy. Primitive societies have venerated them, artists since the dawn of time and throughout the world have immortalized them, hominids and humans have admired them and caressed them since their first appearance over a hundred million years ago. They have turned the heads of male (and female) devotees over countless millennia. They have caused social and moral upheavals throughout history, have undergone innumerable fashion changes prompted by changing mores and moralities as well as by frequent rebellions initiated by their owners. They have captured the imagination of kings, statesmen, members of the nobility, giants of politics, commerce, and industry, as well as the commoners of every society and culture throughout history.

From MedicineNet: AThe lobes and ducts in the breast are supported by surrounding fatty tissue and suspensory ligaments. There are no muscles in the breast. The characteristic bounce comes from the elasticity of the matrix of connective tissue fibers in the breast.@

Jonathan turned the camera off, switched the recording speed from extreme slow motion back to normal, and packed his equipment into his bag. He sat down at the base of a tree, leaned his back and head against the trunk, stretched his legs, dropped his arms by his side, took a long, deep breath and let the air escape slowly from his lungs. His body relaxed. His mind grew quiet.
The sun was nearing the horizon, turning dark yellow then bright red on its descent, casting low rays across the endless field of breasts, the nipples throwing lengthening shadows as the sun went down.

A woman was sitting beside him, leaning against his right arm. There was always a woman sitting beside him, leaning against his right arm, sometimes against his left. He could never tell which it would be, but since he was quite ambidextrous, it didn't matter to him. He watched the full moon rise above the trees in the distance, the faint rays dancing over the breasts in eerie yet fascinating and sensuous patterns. The woman snuggled against him and he put his arm around
 her, found her right breast - the slightly smaller of the two - with his hand, and cupped it for a while. He began to caress the breast with slow, circular motions, beginning at the periphery and working slowly and gently towards the centre, ending up with his fingers circling and caressing the nipple, then working outwards again to the periphery, cupping it for a while, resuming the slow circling. His hand and fingers moved lightly over the skin, lightly around the nipple, lightly around the hemispherical shape, molding it with his hands, stroking the skin with his fingers, airily and softly, again and again. The woman snuggling against him shivered with pleasure, sighed deeply against his chest. The full moon was climbing higher and higher into the sky, bathing them in a silvery glow.

Breasts are the most precious and delicate aspects of the female body. Smooth and silky to the touch, mysterious and archetypal, softly pliable and highly responsive, they generate deeply emotional pleasurable sensations, cause long-forgotten memories hidden away in subconscious regions to surface into consciousness. At the same time, they transmit subliminal impulses rushing from the hand and the fingers through the body, through the soul, saturating the miniature universe the world becomes in moments like these with pure and total gratification and unadulterated pleasure. They deserve to be approached with reverence and gentleness. They flourish if treated with respect, subtle manipulations, careful and deliberate fondling, stroking, massaging, and gentle stimulation. Their precious nature requires caring and nurturing to trigger the physical responses which, in turn, will generate the pleasurable sensations and create the emotional rewards.

From Gray's Anatomy: "The nipple is a cylindrical or conical eminence capable of undergoing a sort of erection from mechanical excitement, a change mainly due to the contraction of its muscular fibers. It is of a pink or brownish hue, its surface wrinkled and provided with papillae, and it is perforated by numerous orifices, the apertures of the lactiferous ducts. It consists of numerous vessels, intermixed with plain muscular fibers which are principally arranged in a circular manner around the base, some few fibers radiating from base to apex."

Jonathan puts the two extreme slow motion film clips into cans and files them away. Later in his life, after several successful experimental films, one of them shown to critical acclaim at the Cannes Film Festival, he comes across the two film clips while looking for something else. He puts them into his projector and plays them for himself. The man and the woman are still running in extreme slow motion, muscles undulating, glistening, penis and scrotum and breasts bouncing and swinging freely in the air of that afternoon. He thinks of the tree, of the woman snuggling against him. He is getting old now, the film clips are getting old. His hand remembers the woman=s breast, the full moon casting a faint light over her skin.

A man, not Jonathan, this man doesn’t=t have a name, is kneeling on the edge of a bed. A woman is lying on the bed beside him. There=s always a woman lying on the bed beside him, but this is not the same afternoon. The woman does have a name, though to the best of his knowledge she has never been running barefoot in extreme slow motion through an endless field. The man takes a bottle of moisturizing lotion from the bedside table and puts a liberal amount in the palm of his right hand, rubs his hands together to distribute the lotion and to warm it with his hands. He places both hands on the woman=s breasts and starts applying the lotion, slow, deliberate circular motions starting at the centre and working concentrically outward to the perimeter, then back towards the centre again. His hands delight in feeling the skin absorbing the lotion until the woman=s breasts are thoroughly moisturized and soft and silky to the touch. The woman sighs contentedly, her breasts comfortable and warm from his hands, her nipples glowing with satisfaction.

From Beth Israel Health Care System: AThe mature female breast is composed of lobes, ducts, fat, and connective tissue. The lobes are arranged in a roughly wheel spoke pattern emanating from the nipple/areolar area. They empty into the ducts which course through the breast towards the nipple/areolar area. The glandular portion of the breast has a firm, slightly nodular feel to it. The lobes are surrounded by fat which, unlike the lobes, is almost always soft. The discrepancy in textures between the two components allows one to outline the lobes by carefully palpating the breast.@  A large whirlpool bathtub stands in a luxurious sunroom in a mansion overlooking an ocean. A man sits in the back of the whirlpool tub, a woman in front of him, scented bubbles all around them, fragrant candles all around the tub. A Himalayan cat sits beside the tub, watching intently. The cat=s name is Mrs. Kierkegaard. She has a lengthy pedigree and has won a number of ribbons. The woman=s name is Tammy Lynn. The man takes a bar of moisturizing soap in his right hand, dips it into the scented water, reaches around the woman=s arm and starts lathering her breast, gently and slowly as if in extreme slow motion though there is no extreme slow motion camera in the room. Slowly and deliberately, he lathers her breast, circular motions around the periphery, working gradually and carefully towards the centre, paying particular attention to the nipple and aureola, working outwards again to the periphery and back to the centre, again and again until the woman=s breast is thoroughly moisturized and soft and silky to the touch. His penis has been growing harder all the while, pushing against the woman=s back. Her pussy is throbbing in the water from the stimulation.

The year is 1974. It is afternoon. Robert Willington completes the work on his new invention in the research laboratory of Triband Cosmetics, takes off his white coat, walks out into the fresh air. He takes a deep breath, then brings his hands up to his face to submerge himself in the scent of his newly developed lotion designed to moisturize and rejuvenate skin still lingering on his hands. He heads out into an open field, imagining the myriads of breasts that will be his moisturizing lotion rubbed all over them and into their skin. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t=t see the extreme slow motion camera recording his movements across the field from behind a tree. The lotion he has been developing and perfecting over the past five years is a cosmetic emulsion with excellent skin moisturizing properties provided in a water-in-oil composition of straight chain hydrocarbons of desired oiliness and consistency, branched hydrocarbons to aid skin penetration, and a mixture of emulsifiers consisting of esters of fatty acids and polyhydric alcohol

A man sits in the back of a deep antique freestanding bathtub in a large attic room of a renovated warehouse, a woman in front of him. The water is pure and clear, rose petals floating around the two. The woman=s name is Eliza Victoria. Her parents are the Goodmans, philanthropic multi-millionaires who made their fortune in the moisturizing lotion business and are the benefactors of the Goodman Trust for the Arts. Jonathan once received a grant from the Trust for one of his experimental movies, the one that did so well at Cannes. The man takes a soft glycerin soap bar in his left hand, dips it into the rose-petalled water, reaches around the woman=s arm and begins to lather her breast. Eliza settles back against his chest, her long, smooth legs braced against the opposite end of the tub. She purrs contentedly, watching the hand soaping her breast, feeling her nipple harden from the careful attention, her breast rejuvenating from the cleansing, the glycerin soft and gentle against her skin. If it had been an afternoon, it would have been one of those afternoons one doesn’t=t easily forget.

The nipples are the most sensitive as well as the most intriguing aspect of the breasts. They deserve the most careful and most assiduous attention. They cry out to be touched, felt, kissed, licked, rolled around the tongue, nibbled, suckled, caressed, enjoyed. Some women, Eliza Victoria Goodman among them, are capable of experiencing full orgasms from the diligent stimulation of their nipples.

It had been raining almost incessantly for over three days. The streets were flooded, the fields were flooded, nobody was running through anything. Down by the waterfront, a lonely motorboat was chugging aimlessly around the harbour. A scraggly cat scurried from building to building, trying, unsuccessfully, to stay out of the rain. The cat didn’t=t have a name, nor a pedigree nor ribbons. Jonathan sat listlessly in his bulky chair, watching the rain run down the windowpane overlooking the harbour and the boat and the cat.

Jonathan thought of another afternoon, this one in a day full of rain, filming from underneath an umbrella an extreme slow motion clip of a nude woman running barefoot through an endless field. He remembered her breasts, glistening with rain, swinging and bouncing freely in the afternoon air. It was one of the best clips he ever made, a study in gray, rain everywhere, the woman engulfed in rain, running through the rain, droplets of water splashing against the lens despite the umbrella, he should have brought a bigger one, creating an eerie atmosphere of blurred vision, distorted perspectives. They were the nicest breasts he had ever held in his hands, sitting under a large oak tree under his umbrella afterwards, soft and smooth in his hands, wet and slippery with rain, so totally clean and pure. He should be washing with rainwater all the time, she should be washing with rainwater all the time. It would preserve the smooth softness of her breasts, the clean, watery taste of her nipples he encircled with his lips. He tasted the rain, tasted her breasts, lost himself in the sensuality of the moment. He didn’t=t want it to end, wanted to be one with the softness, with the gentleness of her offering, the primordial sensation of her skin against his, the union of flesh and flesh. The rain was all around them, the afternoon waning without a sunset, without a full moon, yet so full of life and yearning and fulfillment, so full of them.

He turned on the light and threaded one of his films into the projector. AHave to stop thinking about breasts all the time,@ he wrote in his diary later on, then immediately scratched it out again.

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