Saturday, July 31, 2010

The whence and wherefore of my breast obsession...

To begin, indulge me a qualification, a caveat if you will, I love women. And nothing here is intended to offend. I make no apologies for my sexual antics and am unabashed in my desire to bed women—especially those of the well endowed variety.


As mentioned in my profile, I have rediscovered my libido and exult in my ability at this stage in my life to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. I know full well that I will eventually and probably fairly soon return to a more conventional lifestyle and apply myself to the more civil pursuits of career, money and so forth in anticipation of my eventual retirement.

For now…let the games begin!

Well, as to the whence and wherefore of my obsessions with female breasts.

Let me say right off that I enjoy my fetish, yet like most such obsessions, this focus carries a downside—as Jung might say, that which we seek to possess, possesses us until we attain it, which is rare…thus, we spend our lives searching and obsessing and thus being owned by the object of our desire…whether the Holy Grail, the Golden Fleece, the fountain of youth, the gold of El Dorado or, in my case, large breasted women…lol.

Not long ago, and this is not by any means the first time, a friend of mine and I were enjoying an after work adult beverage at one of our local establishments in mid-town Houston. The bar was filled with the usual cast of neck-tied, white-shirted twenty and thirty-something professionals, and a wide array of women. My buddy, Larry, once more observed my predilection for the big busted ladies. Double D is his nickname for me, in reference both to my initials and to my weakness—a neat, crisp double entendre.

He asked how I thought I had come to be so obsessed with breasts.

I’ve thought about that over the years. The biological and I suppose the anthropological reasons are fairly easy to discern. But I know lots of guys who, while they would never turn down a big breasted woman and leer with the best of us when one bounds into the room, they actually prefer a more compact presence, slender, some times even Twiggy thin.

Freud would say I was never truly weaned. That I was never able to develop beyond a purely base approach to women and am always striving to return to the comfort, the physical security of the breast. Hmm.

Jung would refer to the archetypal shape of the breast and that for me the fertility goddess represents my own subconscious, perhaps pre-conscious or unconscious, desire for immortality…to carry on. Hmm.

But for me, in a more practical, experiential way, my launch into the never ending search for the big breasted female form is clearly marked in time, in my own personal history. I can name the day and the woman and the circumstances with great clarity. My world turned on that day.

My friend Larry asked when was the first time I actually “slept with a big tittied woman.”

We didn’t sleep I told him

The summer between my sophomore and junior years, I was sixteen. I had started high school a few months younger than my classmates. Three of my friends and I started a lawn/pool service for the summer and we did pretty well. We called ourselves the 4 Squared Lawn and Pool Service because, frankly, we were all academically gifted, but on the athletic side we left much to be desired.

However, after a month of this, we were all quite tanned, muscled up and if not buff at least beyond the pale, bony, stumbling boys of old.

At the time I was dating a vibrant, intelligent and when naked quite attractive classmate. She would be my first lover, a memorable one as it turns out, but, alas, not the subject of this story.

During that summer, the guys and I worked our lawn accounts together to save time. It was more cost effective to handle our pool accounts separately if we did not take care of the lawn at the particular location.

One of our first pool accounts was with a husband and wife who were close friends of my parents. They socialized quite often together, even taking weekend trips together. I had always had something of a crush on her—let me call her K—in a subtle reference to Franz Kafka—she turned out to be a maze for me.

There had been rumors about K and her husband, their marriage somewhat at risk. He was a paving contractor who specialized in state contracts. This mid-west state being a particularly corrupt one, he made a lot of money fast. My father, with political ambitions of his own, began to distance himself from K’s husband. But K and my mother maintained their regimen of weekly shopping trips and long lunches.

I took that pool account myself and for the first several trips to their house in the country I had the grounds and the pool to myself. Then, one hot, humid day it all changed.

The first time I went there when K was home, she was sporting a tight t-shirt and denim cut-offs. I knew she was busty, but the t-shirt and the loose fitting bra displayed a pillowy presence I had never seen before. The shorts were, well, short. Her ass cheeks squeezed out of them and the legs were mesmerizing. Her long, billowing black hair, wild curls and waves blew about her pretty thirty something face as she worked in a little flower garden she prized. We chatted a while before I began work on the pool and I think it was right then that the seed of thought was sprouted in her—she could not have failed to notice my total and complete and very juvenile response to her body, the heat of her presence. I’m sure she must have been flattered, maybe bemused is more like it.

The very next time I appeared, she was there as well. K had returned from some meeting…she sometimes worked in her husband’s office but because of the strain in their marriage, K was spending less time there. On this day however, she was wearing a wool skirt, white blouse, sans shoes. I worked the pool and when I was about to leave, she came out onto the patio with a couple of large glasses of lemonade. She handed one to me.

Well, I remember the top two, maybe three, buttons of her blouse being unbuttoned and the rolling, tanned terrain of her breasts showing through the wide Y of her blouse. I thought about that cleavage for several nights in a row during my teenage nocturnal fantasies.

In the interim, between that visit and the next, my high school girlfriend and I came across K, her husband and another couple at a restaurant. My girlfriend and I had a very tumultuous relationship. Both of us were very gifted students, and well regarded by our teachers. I was destined for politics and my girlfriend was determined to be along for the ride. She was brilliant, very pretty, very volatile and very exciting. We argued like little Hitlers on a terror, and then made love like the last couple on earth. Our relationship in our little town was taking on the proportions of a minor legend.

One of my friends, dating a close friend of hers, once told me—my friend she is either going to kill you in your sleep with a pair of scissors, or fuck you to death. In retrospect, I feel lucky to have survived…but at the time I was so horny I was willing to take the risk.

At any rate, in this restaurant, after we all had exchanged greetings, my girlfriend and I found a booth in the back and sat together on the same side. At some point during the evening, as K and her party were leaving, K comes over to us. K politely asks about my mom and dad and then she preens her breasts. I don’t remember exactly what she was wearing, but she stuck them out there, reached over, yes, ruffled my hair and told me to be a good boy, she’d see me next time I took care of her pool.

Well, girl friend was a bit non-plussed to say the least. We had an evening of our usual, albeit condensed, cycle of intense arguing, and equally intense fucking.

The days between then and my next visit dragged on in the infernal summer heat. I forgot things. I became moody. I was sullen. Then I was euphoric. Then, I was miserable.

The day came and I pulled my pickup truck up to the side of the house, grabbed my tools of the trade, chemicals and made my way to the back, half hoping she wasn’t home I was so afraid. And then, to my horror, she wasn’t there. I honked my horn and I knocked on the door, silence. I kept a few items stored in the tool sheds, garages of some of my customers, things they would buy directly and then ask me to use.

Well, when I went into the back building, a tool shed where K’s husband stored his four wheeler, fishing boat and some of the pool supplies, I heard her come out the patio door.

From where I was, I could look through a four paned window. She was incredible looking in her white bikini that accentuated her tan. She could easily see the front of my truck and the pool net I had left on the tarmac. She knew I was somewhere on the grounds.

I watched her, totally transfixed by that wonderful body. She was more than twice my age and this of course added to my excitement—a real woman. K took her time with her particular ministrations, applying tanning lotion, sipping her drink, all the time her ample bosom bobbing and bubbling up in the bikini top. I was rock hard.

I was surprised to find that I was stroking myself at the sight and when she stood up to spread a beach towel on the lounge chair; I had a great 30 degree angle from the back. I could see her right breast hanging down and her bottom aimed my way. I nearly lost control.

Finally, I decided I had to do something. I couldn’t stay in the increasingly hot garage. I came through the door, calling out hello, trying to hide my evident arousal.

I went about tending to the pool, all the time casting furtive glances her way. I remember those delicious looking breasts graded a bit to the sides as she lay on her back. Then, in a breathtaking sequence she sat up, lowered the back of the lounge and spread out on her back.

Now, most of you have read my oft repeated theory that while not all buttmen are breastmen, all breastmen ARE buttmen. K went on all fours for a moment, smoothing out the blanket and I was awestruck, standing there across the pool from her. I prayed for spillage.

Well, she caught me. And I will never forget her little coquettish wave. I know I must have looked downright stupid in lust—because she laughed and asked if I was okay.

A while later, she gave me a glass of her pink lemonade and I sipped it, trying very, very hard not to look at her glorious breasts, bulging up and out in that top. She donned a little camisole type wrap, but K had left it open.

For the next several dates with my high school girlfriend, our sex was raucous and wild. I couldn’t help fantasizing about K while I was with L…but L never complained, but was in fact a bit baffled as to the change in pace and increased ardor.

But I was miserable. I dreamed about K, I fantasized about her, I wanted her.

One afternoon, I came in from work for lunch and saw her car parked in our driveway. K and my mom were just leaving to go out for lunch. K. asked me if I might be able to clear my schedule on the following Saturday to help her expand her flower garden. She said she would pay me well.

Well, that Friday afternoon, I loaded up my truck with the tools I thought I might need, although K’s husband keep a pretty well stocked garage. That evening, before I left to pickup L for our usual Friday night date, I heard my dad tell my mother that K’s husband was out of town, on a trip to the state capitol, presenting a new bid on a stretch of highway.

I couldn’t sleep. Early the next morning I make my way to K’s house. They had a very nice, almost palatial home pretty far out in the county. I pulled up the side of the house, as usual and began unloading my shovel, hoe and so forth. She came out from behind the house, greeted me and asked me in for coffee.

K was wearing this cute little sundress, flip-flops and had her hair tied up in a pony tail, with just a hint of makeup. And, it only took a couple of movements of hers for me see she was braless. With our cups in hand, we walked outside to survey the work ahead. K had sketched out a plan and we talked about what she might need to buy from the hardware store, while I broke ground.

As we are walking back into the house, it suddenly dawned on me, and I remember this realization like a slow wave of heat washing over me, we were going to fuck. I know K flirted with me. I know I fantasized about her and masturbated to the thought of having her to myself. But as she moved through the doorway into the kitchen I just knew we were not going to do any gardening that day.

Well, I pour out more coffee for the two of us and as she takes her cup, her hands briefly brush over mine and I was lost.

Right before that very first kiss that would send me on a lifelong search for women with large breasts, right before her rich lips pressed against mine, she said, whispered, huskily, no one must ever know.

And I remember so very well, I can smell the coconut scent of her shampoo and I can see them—as she pulled the sundress over her head, hefting up her breasts as she did so—how they sprung free and plopped down in that lush titty tumble. I still sometimes groan as I did those lo many years ago to that memory.

She stripped me down there in the kitchen, knelt down and gave me a mind blowing blowjob, cupping my balls in her hand, tongue-tickling me, sucking and kissing me. We went into the bedroom and didn’t leave for a couple of hours. We fucked like proverbial minks. Then, we spent a good part of the day naked in the pool or poolside. I still recall how nice it all was—taking her from behind, watching our action in the mirrors on the closet door, how her huge honey’s swung about, galloped even, when I—in my huffing and puffing, grunting and groaning lust—hammered at her gorgeous ass. I recall how nice it was with her riding me, her big titties hopping and flopping, sometimes grazing over me. I remember her turning me over on the bed, and again once on the patio, rubbing her big beauties all over me, from my feet, up my legs, over my ass and along my back—the rolling me over and doing the same, from feet to face.

And, of course, there was the titty fucking. She was one of those women who truly seemed to enjoy watching her man cum…and I did not disappoint her. K got me worked up and over the top so many times that day. I remember one of her sweet little jokes: oh honey, if I had you around here, imagine how much I’d save on batteries.

Thinking back on that torrid, wild affair, I am amazed at the risk I took so I could enjoy that big busted, healthy hipped, ample assed beauty. Her husband of questionable means—hell, I could have ended up in the grade of one of his roads. In that small town, my poor mother would have been truly humiliated. My father? I don’t know whether I would have preferred to face one of her husband’s bulldozers or my father.

My career would have ended before it began. And of K? Well, what she was doing was flat out illegal.

But no one discovered us. Not even my girlfriend L. In fact, years later at a high school reunion, a group of my old classmates and spouses went out drinking. I remember L’s husband, in his cups as we Irish say, sidled up to me, bleary eyed and said, so you’re the guy who taught my wife how to titty fuck. In truth, K taught me and I just handed on the lesson.

K and I kept going at it well into my senior year in high school. The summer between my graduation and college was particularly memorable as we were able to get away for days at a time.

I started college as a sophomore and was quickly engrossed in classes and newfound co-eds. Although my university wasn’t that far from my hometown, I tended to stay away from home for longer stretches as time went on and K became a more and more occasional experience.

I will, however, never forget her. She was an avid and eager lover, quite experienced and at once gentle and demanding in right measure. K taught me how to make love and how to fuck, and how to gauge a woman’s need for one over the other.

While my obsession with big breasted women is deeply seeded and it is unfair to blame—if that’s the right word—K for my fetish, she unlocked this passion for me and provided a great outlet. She helped me come of age—no pun intended.

I don’t, of course, have a photograph of her, but a few months ago I came across a picture of a splendid set that seem almost identical to K’s heavy hangers….it gives a good sense of what I enjoyed during my sixteenth summer.




Yes...K's were about that big...and just as beautifully shaped...

4 comments:

  1. Wow, what a fantastic write-up. Thank you for sharing. I'll be watching this blog, as it seems that you and I might see eye-to-eye on breasts, if you will. :-)

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