Every so often, I remembered Katie—the well-endowed hardware lady—and I would smile and wish I could relive our one-night adventure. I know that I was just another conquest for her, but I sure did enjoy being conquered. When these memories hit me hard, I would usually go on the lookout for some girl-on-girl action. Unfortunately, I was new to this game and my gaydar didn't working very well. A lot of Bear Creek girls wear cowboy shirts and tight jeans, but that doesn't mean they walk on the wild side. Mostly, they are just trying to attract manly men who like down-home girls.
Hell, I like manly men, too, but now I knew for sure that I also like to cuddle with frisky women. Call me heteroflexible.
I finally got lucky. I was sitting by my lonesome, eating a hot pastrami sandwich and drinking a cold beer at a table for two outside a mom-and-pop diner called Fill 'Er Up, when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder and a heard a friendly woman's voice, "Mind if I join you?" I smiled and said, "Sure, happy to have someone to talk to."
The warm hand belonged to a woman whose name was Sharon McKenzie but had always been called Mack—which was kind of funny because she was sort of built like a Mack truck. She was solid, the kind of woman you wouldn't want to play tackle football against.
She was wearing a pretty yellow sleeveless dress that showed off her sturdy arms and ample breasts, I noticed that her hips were thick, but I couldn't see much of her legs underneath that pretty dress. What really stood out were her two big mammas—what crass guys would call ripe melons or full jugs. They sagged a bit, but she was well past 40 and I didn't see any bra straps. If those mammas were natural and unsupported, she had something to be proud of.
Mack called the waiter over and told him that she would have what I was having. I noticed that there were lots of empty tables and I started wondering why Mack wanted to sit at my table. Yeah, I have a suspicious mind but, sometimes, my suspicions are right. She was happy to talk and I was happy to listen, seeing if I could pick up more clues about her intentions.
Every time Mack took a bite of her messy pastrami sandwich, she leaned over her plate so that she wouldn't spilling anything on her pretty yellow dress—and I got a great down-blouse peek at her tits. There was definitely no bra—just lovely plump white breasts with cute reddish brown freckles.
No matter how hard I tried (and I tried mightily), I couldn't quite see her nipples. However, just by my trying to sneak a peek, I realized how much I wanted to stick my hands down her dress and explore those beauties. I imagined that I was standing behind her and massaging her shoulders until she got good and relaxed and I could slide my hands down the front of her dress and grab two big handfuls.
I snapped out of my dream when I realized that Mack was still talking to me.
She grew up in a small never-heard-of-it town in Oregon's Hood River Valley, where her parents had a small pear orchard that they ended up selling to The Fruit Company, which is famous for the holiday gift baskets you can buy at Costco or online.
She had a pretty carefree life until she was 13 and her breasts suddenly sprouted, giving her a pair of near-perfect 34Cs—full and firm with nipples pointing slightly upward. Mack's parents had once been randy teenagers themselves, so they kept Mack on lockdown until her senior year in high school, when she was 18 and getting ready to leave home for college. They figured Mack needed to learn about horny boys before she was completely on her own.
By now, Mack's 34Cs were 34-double Ds and guys who had been salivating for years were waiting to pounce. She often stood naked in front of a full-length mirror, admiring her gorgeous body and fantasizing about what boys would say if they saw her naked. Long legs, flat tummy, and those bountiful breasts. Full and firm with light brown areolas and sweet pink nipples waiting to be pinched, nibbled, and sucked. The kind of breasts that women might pay thousands of dollars to get with plastic surgery and here she had them, all natural.
Mack decided that she would take every advantage of the considerable assets that she had been blessed with. Make the horndogs take her to movies and amusement parks and buy her food and presents, and she would let them feel her up. Fair's fair.
Guys being guys, the horndogs went along with her rules, happy to pay to play with her double Ds and hoping to get inside her pants. She let them fondle her boobs as much as they wanted, but below the waist was strictly off limits. She defended her pussy with tight jeans and firm
no
s.
Movie theaters were the boys' favorite ambush sites and Mack secretly laughed at their awkward moves. An arm casually around her shoulders, then fingers sliding down her chest, then groping her blouse-covered breast as if she was so engrossed in the movie that she didn't notice the tit massage she was getting. After a while, the guy would clumsily unbutton her blouse and then slip his eager fingers inside her bra—squeezing her tit-flesh and pinching her nipple—still acting as if she wasn't paying attention. Eventually, the guy would lift her bra over the top of her breasts, so that he could attack both of her tits.
Mack just kept watching the movie while the guy had his fun. If the guy was cute, she would get super turned on but the challenge she set for herself was to defend her pussy and she never lost that battle. If a guy's hand went below her waist, she politely pulled his arm away with a firm
no
. If a guy persisted, she said
no