I had admired "Mrs. Big Tits" for over six years, ever since we moved into the neighbourhood. She was the woman across the back lane. We moved in on a Friday. Saturday was her daughter's birthday party. The pony escaped from her yard into ours, and my first glimpse of her was chasing the horse, massive mammaries trying to bounce out of a skimpy T-shirt.
We later learned that she was thirty something. Now, she was fortyish. When we first met, she still retained a bit of 'baby fat' from the birth of her son, then two. Since she was still breast feeding the toddler, her breasts were overflowing udders thrusting out through her ubiquitous T-shirts. "Those can't be real," I commented more than once.
My wife replied, "You'll never find out."
"Why don't you ask her for me?"
For some reason, she never did. But talking of the comparison between Mrs. Big Tits and my wife's slim athletic tiny titted figure always inspired her to prove the advantages of athleticism. This typically started with her stroking my cock as I massaged her tits, and then pinched her nipples. My wife would talk me through the fantasy, saying, "I bet her nipples don't get long like mine."
"Yours seem long because your tits are just puffy mounds of baby fat. On her mountains, anything smaller than a pencil would look small."
My wife almost never gave me a total blowjob to orgasm. Half way through, she would get so horny; she would push me back and climb on top, dangling her erect nipples in my face. She would milk my cock with her well maintained abdominals while muttering "I bet Mrs. Big Tits can't do this."
My wife would tease me with her nipples, brushing my forehead, my nose, then around the chin line before allowing me to savour the salty sweetness of her excitement, then she would rear back and pump up and down furiously on my cock, finally collapsing across my body and then slowly luxuriously fucking me in a sliding motion, skin to skin. I would cum twice. Her orgasms were innumerable. At the end I would always say, "Big tits are overrated."
She would answer, "How do you know until you fuck Mrs. Big Tits?"
To which I might say, "You wish. You just want to watch." She would only smile in reply.
Like most people new to a neighbourhood, with kids of similar ages, we socialized a bit with the neighbours. My wife had watched how Mrs. Big Tits flirted not just with me, but with every guest she encountered, sticking her rack almost right in our faces. Thus was born our private nickname for her.
Mrs. Big Tits had a seemingly normal miserable marriage to a hardworking guy a decade older than her. He could often be seen in the lane behind their garage, secretly smoking. On weekends, if we weren't woken by the sounds of her yelling at him, we saw him tinkering in the garage, hiding from her temper.
When we went out to the same dances, or pubs, Mrs. Big Tits ignored her husband, dancing tightly against other women's guys, or, more often, throwing herself at the nearest unattached male. Over time, her son grew, she stopped breast feeding, and the baby fat slimmed away. The tits, however, still remained huge, and cantilevered skyward by engineering miracles from the best bra makers.
Mrs. Big Tits wanted a third child, but hubby wouldn't, so after their son was in school, they acquired a dog, which became a substitute child. Hubby, a perpetual boy himself, played fetch with the retriever. Mrs. Big Tits walked it, her chest bouncing happily announcing her passage down the street.
Over time, her weirdness rubbed off on her kids, who stopped playing with mine. Though we remained nodding acquaintances sharing a lane, we no longer socialized. Peeping at her wearing bikinis, T-shirts and tight jeans became a guilty secret. My office window looked out over her back yard and kitchen window. Working from home, with a wife who traveled, afforded lots of opportunities. We had long ago agreed that "what happens on the road stays there". We later modified that, as we both loved it when she entertained me with tales of her extracurricular adventures. Many a time, we re enacted the activity. Other times, it was just great phone sex, knowing that we would come together, though we were miles apart. After a while, we added another rule, accepting that as her absences grew, I was entitled to find discrete release as well. I often wondered if her teasing comments about fucking Mrs. Big Tits meant that would be an exception to her 'no fucking people I know' request.
A chance to find out presented itself last fall. My wife was out of town at her aunt's funereal. Both our sons were at school. It was a warm and sunny afternoon. What we used to call "Indian summer" before that became politically incorrect. I had just finished lunch, and was planning a few hours work until the kids got home from school. I made a couple of fortunate mistakes, though.
First, I signed onto Literotica. 'Just to check the Boards,' I told myself. My wife had been gone a week, though, and before that we hadn't had sex for a few days, the decline of the aunt being not a turn on and all. Inevitably, I turned to the Story Index. My cock began to twitch as I read the best of the Toplist. I found a 'Loving Wives' story about a wife away at a wedding, fucking her ex-husband. My cock throbbed; gaining tumescence as I contemplated how my wife's ex was also at the aunt's funereal. Death can be an aphrodisiac, as the survivors want to prove to themselves that life goes on. Mid life particularly makes us need this assurance.
Would she fuck the father of her daughter for old times' sake? If not, would she find another hard cock with which to reaffirm life? Maybe her virile nephew, the one we met at the Christmas reunion, the water polo star. She had admired his trim V shaped torso, his solid abs, and his tight glutes. When he asked her to dance, they looked like a perfect jock couple, but for him being 18 and her forty. He tried to manoeuvre her under the mistletoe, but she twirled away. Still, she returned to tell me that it felt like about a ten inch cock surging against her tummy as he held her tight.
Surprisingly, she seemed more taken by his mother, her cousin, who dressed for the festive occasion in a short skirted elf suit which displayed her abundant cleavage, and "horny reindeer antlers". The cousin, recently divorced but with the body of a woman half her age, drank to much punch, and attacked to many husbands lingering around the mistletoe. Finally, she had passed out in the ladies room. My wife had helped the nephew carry her to her room. My wife reported her cousin tried to give her sloppy thank you kiss, but ended up kissing the great white telephone instead. I could only hope that the cousin's passions were not dimmed by the funereal.
Images of my wife, who claimed to be straight, with her face buried in her cousin's pussy while the nephew fucked her from behind danced through my brain so strongly I could see which of the cousin's garters were snapped and which had come loose. Like a slide show advancing, this alternated with thoughts of the two women, similar enough to be twins, double headering the rigid cock, each tongue twisting, occasionally twirling together. Their tiny tits would harden. Nipples would extend, brushing each other. Then, one mouth would slide over the top of the cock. The other would suckle a testicle. Female fingers would trace curves down womanly bodies, caressing breasts, a strange yet familiar sensation. They would experience similar feelings upon sliding fingers into wet pussies, so used to touch their own, so hesitant to touch another. They would swap positions, their thighs entwined. In my mind, it became a puzzle as to where one body ended and the next began. Once the nephew was hard again, he would fuck his mother to multiple orgasms as she licked cum out of my wife's soggy cunt.
Thinking of my loving wife enjoying such pleasure made my cock swell harder. Soon I was standing at the window, sipping a cup of tea held in one hand, stroking my erect cock with the other. 'Where would she fuck?' I wondered, 'will they be at the same motel? Might there even be a little incestuous mini orgy with the ex added?'
