My wife is a total fitness nut. She's only tiny, a shade under 5 foot but she runs daily, watches what she eats and does three gym sessions a week. And she has the most perfect little arse. Her whole body is sexy, slim and toned, but when she slips on her tight jeans, when she wriggles into a short skirt, every firm sexy muscle is visible. From her curved calves, passed her powerful solid thighs to those perfect rounded glutes, wow! Let's just say doggy is my favourite. Not that she'll let me in there. I can touch, stroke, grope, squeeze, even bite on occasions, as long as I keep away from the hole and under no circumstances is anything to be inserted there. I don't really mind, I love to fuck her pussy from behind and squeeze those globes.
Sometime she complains I don't want to see her face enough. That's not true. I love her beautiful face. Her shining grey eyes and naturally long thick lashes, her generous mouth almost always with an amused curl dancing across it, framed by short light brown hair in a cute pixie cut. She's gorgeous.
But I see that all the time. When I get a chance to get up close and personal with that arse I grasp it with both hands. Literally.
I'm not as enthusiastic about the whole fitness thing as Sam, but in the 8 years we've been together she's never let me become complacent. My main exercise is Sunday league football for my local boozer, but the social aspect more than makes up for any calories burnt off on the pitch. Sam keeps me on my toes, dragging me along to and entering me into 5 and 10 km "fun runs". They should be strung up for crimes against the English language. This is not the sort of fun of which Chaucer or Shakespeare wrote.
Latest thing is something called rough runners. Through ditches, over muddy fields, across streams of freezing cold water. At least they have the decency to leave the word fun out of it. Hate it hate it hate it.
Still, I'm 5'10" reasonable broad of shoulder and trim of waste. Yes the word buff has been used, and no, not just by me. Not 30 for another year, I'm not too shabby I guess.
I have to work shifts, some overnight. There are pros and cons to this. The biggest most immediate pro is the pay enhancement. The biggest most immediate con is you're trying to sleep when everyone else is going about their day. This includes celestial bodies beaming through your curtains and bin men noisily taking away your recycled bottles and cans. So the most important thing for me, is to get to sleep as soon as possible when you've just done a night. The first one is the worst, but if you get your head down just for a few hours the rest of the week will be fine.
I always get home to an empty flat on these mornings, Sam sets off early for her morning jog to work. I've managed to establish a routine that works for me. Firstly, a bacon butty. Cannot sleep if I'm hungry. Then I spend a little time cruising the Internet for porn while I enjoy a nice spliff. By the time my joint is gone I'm mellow and sleepy and in the mood for bed. Perfect. Not even the midmorning traffic would keep me awake.
Fed, stoned and pleasantly horny, sleep sweeps over me minutes after my head hitting the pillow.
I never sleep more than four or five hours in these circumstances, I guess that's how long it takes till I'm rested enough so as to be disturbable. Is that a word? I'm sure you get the idea. I start to come to about two-ish. No reason at all to get up so float in and out of wakefulness. Noises of the everyday ebb and flow into my consciousness. A door slams, it's sudden and unexpected. I briefly open my eyes, a grey overcast day and the room is quite murky which my pupils appreciate; there is no harsh brightness to blind me.
The significance of a slamming door sinks into my consciousness. Was that in our flat? Is Sam home? A clumsy intruder thinking the flat is unoccupied? Groggy I get out of bed, pull on my dressing gown and slowly open the bedroom door. The last of the skunk is possibly still making its presence felt, and having just been roused I'm not at my best. Our flat is quite small. There's a tiny kitchen leading into a living area of sofa and armchair facing the TV/games console and music system. Behind that a small dining table and chairs. Otherwise there's a bathroom and double bedroom. Compact and bijoux you might say, if you'd never heard the word pokey. Takes me seconds to discover I'm still alone and I let out a sigh, more relieved than I realised. Going to the front door I peer through the spy hole and notice the woman across the way. She's a big girl. Really big fat woman, in her 50's I'd say. She lives with what we always assumed was her son. He looks about 19, comes and goes.
Haven't paid too much attention to him. I've seen her about during the day so assume she doesn't work. You can tell we're not exactly neighbourly. She is standing in the hallway looking like she's just got out of the bath. Whenever I've seen her before she's been heavily made up and, well, quite common looking I suppose. Now she has a towelling dressing gown and a bath towel beneath it wrapped around her serious bulk. Her hair is long and dark, but right now it's wrapped in one of those towel turbans that only women can do. She's standing in the hall looking agitated cursing to herself. I don't know if she sensed movement through the spy hole or I made a sound but her attention switches and focuses in my direction. Involuntarily I take a step back into the flat as she strides over and taps on my door. I consider prepending I'm not here. I don't know this woman in the slightest, but I've never liked the look of her. I know this sounds odd but there is something about her knock. It's hesitant, reluctant to disturb. I've always imaged her to be abrasive and strident, but here she is in what looks like a bit of a fix and she's shy to ask for help.
I open the door and peer out. Her face blossoms with relief. Her frown is replaced by a coy smile. She looks me up and down and seems surprised I'm in a similar state of attire as she is. Her skin is pink and freshly cleansed. Without any make up she looks quite different. Her brown eyes are gentle and smile is sweet. When she speaks, the first time I've heard her I suddenly realise, she is softly spoken with a hint of what? Welsh? There is a faint regional accent, a sing-song quality to her voice.
"Oh thank heavens someone is home. I've been such a fool, I got myself locked out and, well you can see, I'm ill prepared to be out and about. Would you mind letting me wait in yours till Paul gets home?"
"Sure! Sure come in. Would you like a cup of tea of anything?"
I stand back and she walks by me and through to the living room. She smells clean and perfumed and nice and the confined space means we are very close. I watch her hips sway and her huge backside as she moves into the room, and follow her in. She sits on the sofa and reclines a little. I pop through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Our conversation through the open gap is stilted and awkward and generally revolves around quantities of milk and sugar.
I bring through two steaming mugs, place hers on the small table by her and take my seat opposite her. Inside I'm congratulating myself on a job well done. In my current state making two cups of tea and delivering the right one to my guest is a gargantuan task. Maybe I should have brought biscuits.
She is clearly struggling to maintain control of the towel under her dressing gown. It is slipping and gaping slightly as she sits down, no doubt tugged down by those generous buttocks. She wriggles somewhat trying to pull sufficient to cover the ample bosom now on display and in doing so has to lift her bottom. This in turn causes her large thighs to be exposed as the gown comes undone. I try not to stare I really do. I avert my eyes and want to protect my guest's modesty but my eyes are drawn back, time and again to those large expanses of pink flesh. Exasperated she stands, excuses herself and turns her back. Opening the gown she removes the offending towel, draws her gown close and ties the cord. Turning back to face me she smiles and retakes her seat.
"That's much better, I stand a chance of controlling one garment, but I'm powerless against two!"
Turns out her name is Georgie and she's a widow. Paul is her 18 year old son and is a bit of a tear away, but a good kid. He works for a supermarket chain, as does Georgie and like me Georgie has to cover 24 hour work patterns, which is why she's home in the day. Just like me. She's rather nice and her face is quite lovely. Her humour is as gentle as her dark brown eyes. I actually feel quite bad about judging her. As I listen to her talk I realise there is still a good proportion of leg and bust visible. My attention is drawn back to her massive cleavage time and again. When I'm not straining to see more of her tits I'm ogling her huge flabby thighs. Had I not smoked a rather potent joint earlier or if I had had a proper night's sleep I would have had more self-control or at least been a bit cannier about it. I should be repulsed, obese people have always been objects of scorn as far as I was concerned, but I'm not. I'm fascinated. This is so different from my toned, hard bodied wife. I'm trying to be subtle and I'm fairly sure I'm getting away with it until Georgie throws me completely. Without missing a beat in the flow of her conversation she casually tosses a bomb in my lap.
"Does she know, your wife?"
Mention of Sam makes me jump internally and my focus is back on her seductively smiling face.
