CAILLE, LUMINAIRE, ESSENCE REGION

When it came down to it, all men liked tits and ass, but there was always a stigma attached to preferring one over the other. Being an “ass” man could automatically find you kindred spirits, sad pathetic souls with nothing better to do than compare women’s asses.

Reducing women to the mere objectification of body parts was uncivilized, sexist, insulting and just wrong.

In my experience, it was always the fat, ugly, and/or older women that couldn’t fit into an Achura’s form-fitting latex body suit that held this opinion of objectification. Not once had I ever met a young, hot, firm piece of meat that didn’t enjoy strutting her stuff, tantalizing, teasing men, intoxicating them with sensuality, making them pay for every moment of fantasy and hopeful pleasure they would never receive.

Me? I was a breast man.There was just something primal about a nice rack. Some scientists had theorized it was instinctual from our long distant evolution, and that breasts looked like ass, and cleavage was arousing to men simply because as animals “doggy style” was the most natural of sexual positions and after millions of years still held that same hypnotic affect on our loins.

Others postulated it was survival of the fittest, and our unconscious brain selecting the healthiest traits in potential partners, and since breasts meant life for our young, we were naturally attracted to women with nicer tatas.

Whatever the reason, I enjoyed everything about them: the way they bounced and swayed, the feel of them like large, ripe melons at the grocer, the smoothness of them, the scent, the taste while sucking on them like a hungry infant.

I became greedy when it came to breasts, grabbing at them, fondling them, holding them with the hope of never letting go. I could easily fall asleep in their warmth after several hours of marathon sex.

I was definitely a breast man.

When I first was accepted into the Capsuleer program, a few of the other candidates and I decided to party it up, to celebrate our good fortune. At the time, I had no idea becoming a capsuleer would lead to the neverending misery of being immortal.

Typical of a pack of males with far too much alcohol in their systems, we were loud, obnoxious, ready for a brawl, but mostly just out and about the city of Caille having a good time.

Why Caille, the shining jewel of the Gallente Federation? Aside from the crystal walkways and other unparalleled attractions the city had to offer, there was a darker side to Caille where only the finest of whores would be found.

You seem surprised in reading this, I can tell.

The group of guys I was with were incessant in their praise of Achuran hookers. I had never been with one, having only ever experienced intercourse with the love of my younger years as a slave. This, of course, was seen as a challenge, and my cohorts were hellbent on getting me laid by an Achuran. I was too drunk to argue.

I told them what I liked in a woman as we trolled the late night streets. Breasts.

It wasn’t long afterward that I found myself in a cheap hotel with a cheap Achuran, passionately making out on a filthy bed. My hands molested her chest, my tongue licking every inch of her skin from neck to nipple. I was drunk. I was horny. I was an aggressive animal. To her credit, she gave as good as she took, and I found myself consumed with the need to fuck this woman. The painful throbbing I felt needed to be satiated, and I began undressing her.

Her shirt quickly found the floor, and I was reaching under her skirt to violently yank off her underwear when I felt something poke at me. You heard correctly.

To my credit, I hesitated for a moment, and you really need to understand what was going through my head at the time.

As I said, I was drunk. Have you ever been so drunk and so horny that you’d stick it in a wall just for the sweet release it would bring? Sure, you’d regret it the next morning when your manhood was nothing but ground beef, but that’s the thing about men, we weren’t great thinkers of consequence.

Penis want. Penis gets.

She looked nervous on the bed. Or he. Or whatever. I could understand why. I wasn’t even sure what expression I wore on my face at that moment, but I knew if it was one of grimace, far greater men had withered beneath that scowl, let alone a confused trans-gender hooker.

Whatever.

I shrugged, leaned forward, and kissed her, continuing to make out, filling one hand with luscious perfection.

Hey, she had fantastic breasts.