Just one breast held. This is the dream. Just one breast eased out of the nest of fabric it is settled into. One breast exposed, the nipple hardening, the tug of it echoing in my groin as if the two are connected through my gut and the tightening of the nipple pulls the muscles there, a quick contraction.
In the dream it is just this easing out and then a cradling, fingers curling around the weight of it, thumb rubbing against the nipple, and after this a pained sigh because why does this have to end?
But you are easing my breast back into my dress and the disappointment is the sound that a story makes when it rings true. The sound of a novel slowly closed after a perfect ending.