To talk about your breasts is to ignore the total package. Yes, your enhanced breasts curve well with your body, and are a perfect complement. But your body makes your breasts.
I've noticed your activity the last few days on the board, and each and every time you have given me more than an eyeful with your never-ending posts with absolutely perfect, excessively lustful, hourglass figure. You are the embodiment of everything I love about women, which I often attribute -- and I literally mean -- of a divine design.
To me, God Herself is of a perfect form that I could never even attempt to explain. Yet we see examples of the ultimate, feminine form that approaches Her and is easily gaged by broad popularity of the women She creates in Her own image and most to Her likeness. Women like yourself. God is a brown eyed brunette for certain, probably a dark, raven, but I cannot be certain on shade, maybe God Herself has no fixed hair (or skin for that matter) tone. But She is brunette, right down to her matching apex below. She has a perfect hourglass figure, with a very narrow midsection between a billowing chest -- regardless of any natural, ampleness of the size of her bust (your enhanced size is just right) -- and a fanging set of hips. The male body and his sexual instrument is aligned perfectly with the location of the female apex, and it's because we were designed to engulf our entire bodies with each other, around our centerpieces. More selfishly for the male, this is why the female body is a work of art we can and should always enjoy in its completeness for the ultimate pleasure.
Many men have devoted their lives to describing such a woman, and trying to pin it down to these attributes as if it is some analytical puzzle that can be solved. That it's about procreation and "breeding figure" or something else. In all honesty, it's about sex, and I honestly believe it has always been God's intention to be about sex -- even procreation was added later in every, major, spiritual text. While I am an engineer and the angles and numerical thinking attract my intellect, there is no way I can even begin to set any "standard" or "reference" on a divine and heavenly figure when it comes to my sexual drive. It varies between many women, and I just know one when I see one. And, frankly, it comes down to instinct -- raw, animalistic, male instinct -- which some would say is selfish, vulgar and "thinking with our dick."
It is. Take your reference photo as an example ...
Since this thread is about "jacking off" and you so invited yourself I have to utterly agree that your and your aforementioned picture have perfected our entire, pigheaded, selfish, male objective.
BTW, guys, when I use "our/us/we" to describe the male lover (or "luster" I should more accurately say), I'm trying to not make it personal (avoiding "I" and people think I'm referring to myself), so every man here (or at least those that choose to read it) can feel involved in this fantasy (again, should they choose to read it).
That hourglass hardbody of yours, hovering just above the ground, is just one, major, never-ending lust for man. We so wish to be the alpha male underneath your presence, our member fully erect and up, spearing your womanhood, which utterly consumes our entire being and makes us desire nothing else in the world at all than to be one with you.
The experience is not merely one of slicing your soft, sodden tissue. We find ourselves meshing not only our pelvis, but our torso, our thighs, and every extension -- especially down to every appendage, around your form. Most intense is a lover such as yourself, with a hourglass so extreme that when we clasp upon your midsection, our hands are more sideways than vertical. We are men. We are selfish. We have this uncontrollable drive to profusely thrust as full and as powerful as we can, and that includes using those wide, fanging hips of yours to our advantage. The more sideways, the more we can "pull" you "down" and "atop" of our manhood. It's a completely selfish response, pure instinct, and one that even pre-empts cupping your breasts for much of our oneness with such a beauty.
Of course, men (I hope most) are also lovers who savour the moment. If we were to give in completely to the pure instinct, we would surely overload and reach a state that pleasures neither, and far too quickly. In the case of your form, we'd love to run my hands down and up that hourglass, often wishing we had many more pairs of appendages.
At the widest of the hips, when taking you from behind, thumbs would often exploring the curvature of your succulent ass before the thumbs would move to the extreme so the fingertips could dip into a tease of your overt clitoris, starting with a slight probe to test its sensitivity. Or when facing your riding silhouette from below, every man would reach around to clasp as much of your full, jutting rear as possible. Clasping not to just merely enjoy as much as your meaty flesh in its entirety as possible. But clinching your hips to aid in each lift of your bounce atop, before we relax our muscles and let gravity dictate the rate of our pleasure as you descend -- your tender cave drawing every vein to the surface our erect stem on your way back down and it to the depth of your divine cavity.
Then we might find ourselves fighting between our fingers down your powerful thighs, the same thighs delivering momentous pounce after pounce atop of us and running our hands back up your curved form. Oh how unreal it is to have a woman with that consummate arch of a figure, driving our hands up and inward to a tight stomach, and then onward, upward and outward again before "catching" the immaculate view of your protruding bust in our open hands. This latter move could prove to be too climatic of a moment, and many times men have to reposition slightly, possibly grabbing such a lover like yourself around your tiny waist to slow your movement before your flow causes the ultimate, male convulsion.
And that's when we seek the solace in your eyes. Embracing your form, we peer only what we deem is most pure, those deep brown thoughts behind the darkness in your eyes. How are we worthy of your remote consideration? Why do you share yourself, freely, with us? Why are you a gift that has been delivered for our pleasure? We may smile for no reason we could ever explain. We sometimes shy away and watch our hands run through your hair. We take that little peace in a moment we'll never understand, just long enough for the hormones and lust to built to the point we find our lips pressing against yours.
Our hand flows under your fountain of hair and reaches the base of your neck, running up and into your roots. As you arch your head back in response, we divert our soft instrument from inside your mouth to the base of your neck, and proceed to meet your ear before your goosebumps settle. Try as we might to think of something witty and erotica to blurt as we retract our tongue, it often comes out as a cliche worth of the IQ of our penis alone with that overused, seven letter adjective.
By now we've started rocking our pelvis and our lower instrument is pressuring the back then front, sometimes high at your G-spot and sometimes just right. We loosen our embrace and are back to the raw, male instinct to drive our extension as deep into you as possible. We slowly move yourself up and off ourself and pull our own hips away, motioning you to stand as we take up residence from behind you ...
You make the mistake of looking back, with that sinister smile, fingernail prying your teeth from full closure, and banter a not-so-innocent, rhetorical, "like this?" inquiry. An inquiry made foolishly to suggest you are not remotely aware of the carnal position you just presented a red-blooded male. A position you may not be fully aware may entail in short order.
Oh it may start with an innocent cusp of your buttocks and then a press of the pelvis up against your cheeks so we can engage your lips one more time, maybe even nudge our temple into your overflowing, raven topping. But it was only to press our body up against yours, as you would soon feel a leff arm reach across your piercing and a right arm brush across your breasts. Now completely restrained by a lustful, male animal, his hands preventing your escape, your left shoulder pressed hard up against the right pectoral, you feel the male pelvis swing gently, but hastily, up and into your apex one more time.
This time it is not the powerful thrust. The movement is one of more finesse, rhythm and about neither extremities in entry or exit nor speed nor forcefulness. Your body is almost still, pressed into ours, as we minimize our movement to our male pelvis and swing it like a pendulum but with an officious weight lanced into the crevasse you have offered. The friction is less, direct agitation and more fluid, as if you read our mind, and your inner sheath anointed perfectly for our glide. You glance at our eyes, which are lost, backwards, closed, as we are clearly in what we can only imagine is some astral plane we've never visited before with a lover.
Awakening to your angelic gaze, we recognize our own, selfish hoarding of your gift that we continue to consume without pause. We try to muster an attempt to forge an expression, something, anything to assert we shall not expense your endowment upon us, that we will reciprocate your pleasure. Lifting your left arm, veiling our eyes as you wrap its hand around our head, you lure our ear forward towards your lips without disturbing the oscillation of our pelvis. Like an angel who rescues every man when he is most vulnerable, without sense, in fear of his own emotions, you mutter four words that make us question if we are not inside of the almighty Herself in both form and omniscient of our every desire, concern and being.
"This is for you."
Unveiling our eyes, you greet us with a stern, but comforting smile of focus and mission. Covering each of our hands with yours, you lead us into what every man is programmed by God Herself to do. A gift you freely share with us, and we can never repay you for even with a lifetime of love and praise.
I think you guys can finish the rest, assuming you read this "setup." 
