Braless Quotes

Lemme guess," Regin said. "You had your introductory spiel all planned, but rational thought deserted you when you saw me stroll in braless.

I want to write a book called, "Bonfires and Bras," which follows around a young, braless feminist who struggles to adopt in air conditioned rooms, as her hardened nipples cause her excess embarrassment.

But me, my jeans, tank, boots and socks, commando and braless, walked right out the door and, like we had many, many times before, we took on the night.

Regin to Declan: "Lemme guess," Regin said. "You had your introductory spiel all planned, but rational thought deserted you when you saw me stroll in braless."-- --"For the record," She continued, "it's not my fault I came in here looking like Chesty LaRue. You caught me on laundry day, so I have no undergarments on. Though I will cop to a little extra spring in my step for your benefit.

For the love of God, woman, please put on a bra,” Gannon begged. “If I know you’re braless under there all day, they’re going to have to pixelate my crotch in post-production

My most brazen behavior: going braless one day under a silk camisole, but then I’m disgusted when he stares—so what is it that I want? I don’t know, I don’t know.

I really, really, really would be forever indebted to you if you just revealed how you did one trick. Just one, that’s all I’m asking for.” Jay wipes his mouth with a napkin, his lips forming a smirk. “When you say ‘forever indebted,’ just what are we talking about here?” Jessie makes a foreboding sound. “No way, sweetheart. You don’t want to do that. This fucker’s a slave driver when you owe him.” “Okay, well, maybe I won’t be forever in your debt. Perhaps I was getting a little carried away with myself. If you tell me one trick, I’ll owe you one thing in return. You can decide, but it has to be reasonable, like washing your car or something.” Jay leans forward and steeples his fingers in front of him. “Will you wash my car topless?” he asks huskily. My cheeks colour, and Jessie lets out a bark of a laugh. “Oh, now, that is a good idea.” “Okay, let me amend my offer. I will owe you, but it can’t be sexual.” “Topless isn’t sexual,” says Jay. “Topless is natural.” “I second that,” Jessie adds. “How about braless?” Jay goes on. God, these two. Why do I even bother? “Fine. I retract my offer,” I huff, sitting back in my seat and folding my arms.

Hey,” I say, taking a seat on an island stool. “Did anyone call for me?” “Your dad and I had a great day; thanks for asking.” Mom smirks. “How was your day? Did anyone call for me?” I smile. She dumps a gob of coconut oil into her raw-ful mixture. “Anyone meaning Ben?” “Am I that transparent?” “It’s just that I was sixteen once, too.” “Right,” I say, shuddering even to think of her pre-forty, pre-me, pre-Dad, when it was just her hippie self, burning incense, going braless, and dating poets.

She started shaping the face, using a wire loop to gently carve the slope of the strong forehead and brow, then the nose and the lean angle of the cheekbones. In little time, her fingers were moving on automatic pilot, her mind disengaged and gone into its own flow, her subconscious directly commanding her hands into action. She didn’t know how long she’d been working, but when the hard rap sounded on her apartment door some time later, Tess nearly jumped out of her skin. Sleeping next to her feet on the rug, Harvard woke up with a grunt. “You expecting someone?” she asked quietly as she got up from her stool. God, she must have been really zoned out while she was sculpting, because she’d seriously messed up around the mouth area of the piece. The lips were curled back in some kind of snarl, and the teeth . . . The knock sounded again, followed by a deep voice that went through her like a bolt of electricity. “Tess? Are you there?” Dante. Tess’s eyes flew wide, then squeezed into a wince as she did a quick mental inventory of her appearance. Hair flung up into a careless knot on top of her head, braless in her white thermal Henley and faded red sweats that had more than one dried clay smudge on them. Not exactly fit for company. “Dante?” she asked, stalling for time and just wanting to be sure her ears weren’t playing tricks on her. “Is that you?” “Yeah. Can I come in?” “Um, sure. Just a sec,” she called out, trying to sound casual as she threw a dry work cloth over her sculpture and quickly checked her face in the reflection off one of her putty spatulas. Oh, lovely. She had a slightly crazed, starving-artist look going on. Very glamorous. That’ll teach him to do the pop-in visit, she thought, as she padded over to the door and twisted the dead bolt.

I was never one of those girls who could go comfortably braless; there was too much jiggle in my wiggle.

Joanie’s treatment of me wore me down, so I started to gravitate toward her cousin Robin, who was alpha like Joanie but in an entirely different direction. Robin was a full-on flower child and lesbian, a beauty with cocoa-brown skin, hazel eyes, and natural hair down her back. In fitted Levi’s jean suits and boys’ shoes, she turned people’s heads with her braless breasts pointed out like little missiles.

I cross my arms over my braless tits. No way is he getting more of a show from me today. He’s seen my dildo and now he’s seen me in my underwear.

I cross my arms over my braless tits. No way is he getting more of a show from me today. He’s seen my dildo and now he’s seen me in my underwear. He’s not getting a glimpse of the girls too.

With no proof whatsoever, just somehow knowing as 1,000 percent fact - I come from a long line of women who stayed in bed all day. Or who dreamed about it when society forced them to a luncheon or crop event. I can see in the pictures of the women on either side of my parentage that their eyes were searing fuck this into the camera, both in the fun-wink and the yikes-Reaper ways. I've always had a little postpartum sheen to my style, a little matted tangle and stained Henley for your nerve. There is a constant low voice encouraging me to untie the raft and drift out to sea. To float through space braless, the day's only assignment pretzels, porn, and regret.

I had big tits. Sure, sometimes they made finding clothes difficult, and going braless was damn near impossible, but in situations such as this, they were a hell of an asset.

The car bounced up and down along the dusty ground like the tits of a jumping, braless fat lady.

Apparently, it was Braless and No Undies Night at Bacaro Jazz. It was funny to see bras and panties dangling above a dance floor. Ubaid’s party seemed to find this fun as the models started unhooking their bras. Many stared at their voluptuous bosoms and ogled as they took off their underwear, while leaving on their mini dresses. Ubaid, the extrovert, dropped his jeans and then dropped his briefs, in full view of every one. All the patrons were oohing and aahing, cheering them on.

Protected by the Pill, women felt as sexually entitled as the men, and our short skirts and sometimes braless tops only added to the boil.

The beauty of braless Fridays is that we get to free-boob it without the awkwardness of y’all being around,” Dolly explains.

We call Friday nights braless Fridays. We binge guilty-pleasure movies, eat high-calorie food, and drink wine in our pajamas, no bras allowed. Sometimes, Dolly comes over to my apartment when we want a true girls-only night, but in the winter, it’s drafty and cold. It’s hard to beat the warmth and crackle of a real wood fire, even with the occasional testosterone-filled interruption.

Do you want me to come out there in only my gym shorts of or boxer briefs with no shirt?” “Ah! No!” “Excellent. Go put on a fucking bra and an outfit that won’t make me hard and we’ll survive this trip.” A pause. It’s heavy. “I’m not sure I like your level of honesty. For the record, I’m wearing a sports bra and cropped yoga pants. And I didn’t know my braless state made you hard.” … Honesty is how we’ll get through this unscathed, and I plan to start now. “I’m a straight guy. Boobs are our thing, especially my thing. Any boobs. Your braless state makes me hard. I don’t like it. I fucking hate it. So let’s not encourage it. In fact, how about both of us wear clothes this week? Then neither of us will be tempted to look at things we shouldn’t.

Why are women forced to wear a bra anyway? I miss old African days whereby we could roam our land with our breasts free. The world has mastered the best ways of suffocating a Woman. It's heartbreaking.

in strolled the most beautiful blonde I have ever gawked at. I do gawk at blonde women. I absolutely love them. She was wearing the tightest micro-mini I’ve ever seen. Her legs were long and lean, with powerful thighs. Her ass really stuck out in that material. I’m not a boob man, so while her big, round, firm, braless jugs fit her perfectly, that’s for the men who yearn for that to look at. In

I spent the weekend braless, sitting around my house reading dirty novels, icing my nips with the tiny gel packs Dad gave me one year that are meant for under my eyes. Which is a detail I plan to take to my grave.

my braless state was extremely noticeable.