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I am sixty-two and have the joy of being Smitten’s wife.Please read his story “Your Breasts Our Memories” before reading mine.We were teenagers, wonderfully intoxicated by our love for each other.

As we drove away from my house, fully intending to go to the diner, there were a couple miles of awkward silence.

Then he turned and gazed at me and our eyes met: our destination had changed without a word being said. He turned his gaze to the road again and I noticed that his cheeks were flushed and his breathing rapid as I became aware of my pounding heart and butterflies swarming in my stomach.

Another mile went by in silence and he turned the car into a lane that surrounded a fully grown cornfield that was very concealing.

He stopped the car and we stepped outside on a soft grassy patch.

We looked up and down and all around, hesitating, unsure of what to do next.

The sun was setting and amber rays reflected from feathery clouds and illuminated his strong stature and tender expression.

After a long moment of looking around, threading fingers, and shifting weight from one leg to the next, he lowered himself on his knees in front of me, his eyes locked on mine, his wanting expression inviting me to follow, and raised welcoming hands that I gently grasped and then sat down. I began to relax and–feeling sexually excited and a little bit mischievous–I raised my arms over my shoulders and pretended to stretch. His eyes were wide with his gaze locked on my protruding breasts.

After a long moment I relaxed with my arms at my sides, hoping he had taken the bait.

He leaned toward me and gently lowered me on my back.

His hands were trembling as he raised my dress above my breasts, wrapped his arms around me, and had some difficulty unhooking my bra.

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