20 comments/ 95365 views/ 25 favorites Rebecca's Tits By: cloacas "Jesus, those are big tits." They certainly were, especially encased in a tight white t-shirt that made them appear impossibly round and luscious. I assumed that when released from their holder, they'd droop or drape, but the fantasy these babies presented was impeccable, amazing and intimidating. My normal me, the old me, would have avoided looking at them, a task made more difficult because Rebecca is an inch or so taller than me. They were directly in my line of sight, which placed them smack in the middle of fantasy central. My old me would force myself to look into her eyes. I'd command my eyes to make them invisible. Ah but the new me looked at those big boobs and said, "Jesus, those are big tits." Then I looked into Rebecca's eyes. "I know you're not your boobs, but those really stand out and if I pretend they don't then I'm not being honest with you. And I really want to be honest with you because I like you. I just don't want to pretend I don't notice those," and I pointed. The old me would not have pointed, gestured or in any way indicated my urgent desire to grab hold, squeeze, evaluate and otherwise enjoy those tits. "They are huge," Rebecca said in a neutral tone. "You probably don't know any other way, but - well, let me tell you my theory about beautiful girls" - note that I called her beautiful indirectly - "My theory is that beautiful girls get looked at by everyone they meet in totally different ways than ordinary people like me. I mean guys look at you and all the time they're thinking sex, sex, sex and girls look at you and evaluate your looks, find flaws, hate you because you're beautiful, all the stuff that women obsess about with other women. You don't know what it's like for the rest of us. But you know what?" She looked at least a little interested to see where I was going. "I think that's too bad." I leaned toward her. "I think that's one reason beautiful girls often end up with jerks. Think about it: the jerks are the ones who have the guts to try, who'll tell lies, who'll say whatever they need to say to get the beautiful girl and the beautiful girl has trouble seeing the truth because she's been getting all this fucked up feedback from the world that only sees the way she looks." I stopped. Even if this date didn't go anywhere, I was enjoying making my speech. I am normally uptight on dates. I worry whether she'll like me. I worry what I should do, if I should make a move, if I should back off, and all that worrying means I don't really enjoy the date - and because I don't enjoy the dates, I don't ask out more women. My life has been full of vicious cycles like these. Take Rebecca's tits. My normal me would be figuring out how to avoid being absorbed by their gravitational field. I'd start to find fault with them - maybe they're big floppies, maybe the nipples are really odd, maybe she has a tattoo of a sailor on one. See? In trying to be a nice guy, I'd be ruining my whole image of her without actually ever really knowing her or seeing and feeling her tits. That's plain stupid, but that's what I do. My normal me would also have a fantasy goal. I want to fuck her. I want to get her on top of me so I can play with those babies and then fuck her without a condom so I can feel her inside and then cum in her. It doesn't happen because I'm hung up on the worries associated with treating this living centerfold like she's plain and flat. It never happens because I would freaking freeze or misread the signals and make a wholly inappropriate move. And then I'd compound the problem by not knowing at the end of the date if she wanted to see me again or if I wanted to see her or whatever and God it all confuses me. All I know right this minute is that I want to tell Rebecca that she's got fantastic looking tits and that I want to know the real her so I can see what else she has going for her. So I do. "I guess what I'm trying to say is I want to know more about you. I can see what you look like and that's fantastic, but you know I want to . . . I want to . . . I'm looking for the right words here." I looked to her for help. "I don't want to say I want to get to know you better. It's a cliché." I indicated with my hands that I meant more. "It's true but I mean more. I mean . . . I think there's something special about you. I don't know what it is exactly, but I get that feeling." A tremendous amount goes through your head at every moment. Most of it never reaches the surface; it gets cut off somewhere below, subsumed into another thread, rendered irrelevant and consigned to the depths of your unconscious self. But every now and then, the full realization of a moment floods over you. You are gripped by a vision of the all-encompassing complexity, the texture of all your thoughts, everything in that one moment perfectly aligned - and then passing once more into the chaos of the ordinary. I may sound like a guy who can't get a woman, but the opposite is true. I get women all too easily. The problem, my problem, is that I'm not happy with myself, with my looks, with my personality, with my whole way of being. I don't feel like I'm ever in control of what I'm doing, so I don't feel comfortable. I shy away from some women - usually the ones I want the most - and end up with others and then find that I don't really want to be in bed with them, not if it means they want more from me than a night or two of purely physical exchange. For reasons that have never been clear to me, these women do want relationships, almost every one, and that has confused the heck out of me, as though life is there for the picking if only I could understand a little better. I see this girl and she is really cute but for some reason my whole mind locks up in her presence. And that girl is so incredibly sexy but the thought of actually mounting her makes my insides quiver not in anticipation but fear. What if I can't satisfy her? What if I fail? What if the woman I find sexy finds me repulsive? Women tell me I'm very good looking, even gorgeous, but I've never bought it. I used to look in the mirror and call myself "the dog-faced boy" and I still feel that way. My skin is too pale. My hair is a weird color. I have wide shoulders and a small waist, but I don't have big muscles. I've measured my cock at a hair short of seven inches but it looks so damn small to me. I'm not tall. I'm not short either, but I always feel small. Friends in high school used to mess up my hair because they said it always looked too perfect. I had no idea what they meant because I wouldn't even comb it in the morning. Other kids' mothers used to take snippings from my shoulders in the barber shop, saying "I'll match this color." I felt like crawling under a rock. Why am I this insecure? I've always been shy, painfully shy. I sometimes think it's because I was very aware when I was young, that I could see too far into what was happening around me before I was ready to put it in perspective. I'm deathly afraid, but I don't know what I'm afraid of. It's like I'm still that little kid seeing the world, being confused and frightened by it and then retreating from it, hiding in my room whenever I can, getting lost in my thoughts - half of which are about why I'm so afraid. I long ago decided that you have two choices, but you really don't have a choice at all. You can try to do things naturally, going with the flow, or you can try to think it all out, following your thoughts down every wrong turn in the hope that one of those trails will lead you out of the forest. Two choices may exist, but I was never able to choose the first. As much as I wanted to relax, I couldn't. I wanted to let life take me so I could experience without worry, without always having a voice in my head saying "no", but I couldn't get past my need to analyze every aspect. That was old me. New me doesn't give a fuck. New me is the old me who maybe, just maybe finally put the pieces together. It came on me in a flash. I was playing pool with a friend, talking about nothing, playing with Harry and Lucy, his Rottweilers. I almost lost a leg in an accident when I was young and, while I'd recovered thanks to extraordinary luck and a very good surgeon, I'd always felt weak and damaged, crippled in an undefinable but real way by the experience. My leg would never be good. It could never stand up to real punishment. It would let me down. So I avoided giving my leg the chance to fail. I turned avoidance into an art. When it was my turn to shoot, I had to lean way out over the table, lifting one leg high in the air while balancing on the other. One of the dogs, in a canine fit of affection, pushed hard against the leg holding me up, my bad leg, and all the thoughts shot into my mind, flashing like a giant warning beacon: "It's weak. It's going to crumble." But at the same moment, I'd instinctively reacted by stiffening my knee and pushing back at the dog. My leg held and in that moment of insight I knew the only difference was that it felt odd, that my leg was strong, perhaps stronger than the other, but it didn't feel the same. I made the shot and ran my hand over the ridge on my hip where I could feel the scar line. Some of the nerves had been damaged, not the deep ones for function but those nerves that tell you on a superficial level how things feel. That was not the moment of true learning. I went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and told myself I should accept that my leg is not weak, that it just feels different. I'd noticed this a hundred times before, but now I felt like I might actually understand what that meant. My leg felt different and that was all. There was nothing wrong with it. I was not weak. My leg would not fail. I would not fail. The question then immediately popped into my head: then why do I see flashing lights every time I think about my leg or try to do something with it? The answer entered me, not just my mind, but every part of me. The flashing lights, I realized, were there to attract me but I'd interpreted them as a warning not to look. When I thought about my leg, I'd turn away from the light when the light was actually intended to get me to look. I'd reversed the meaning. I felt a relief that can't be described, though later I felt stupid for not understanding the obvious. I decided to look for flashing lights and move toward them. If they flash, I told myself, I must reverse my instinct to run and instead do the opposite. It just so happened that a lot of those lights were connected to women. Oh God how I love women, the way they look and walk and feel and sound and the way their bodies fit to man's. My instincts were so ingrained to turn away from the flashing light that my shyness at first grew worse. I was now more aware of the flashing light so instead of simply trying to ignore these women, I was now actively fighting the urge to do something, which made dealing with them more painful. I don't know what pushed me over the edge. I know the moment, but not the why. I found myself standing on the train next to a particularly beautiful girl, a girl I'd seen getting off at my stop before, and just started to talk to her. It wasn't hard at all. It was easy. I commented on the book she was holding, offered an interesting (to me) opinion on that author, and we conversed. We walked out together, made plans to meet that evening and ended up in bed that weekend. We went out off and on for three months and we'd probably still be seeing each other if other girls hadn't entered the picture. She was a girl far too pretty for me, far too sophisticated in dress and manner. I may be smart but there's a huge difference between holding one's own in clever conversation and feeling at home in the world. Over our time together, what amazed me most was that exact sense of comfort, that I did belong in her world. As long as I was relaxed, everything went smoothly, as though I had the master control knob in my hand and had turned it all the way to easy. We didn't go further because she wasn't right for me in a deep way, like I couldn't see us having children and raising them without them being extremely screwed up. My sex life continued to get better as my self-image improved. I picked up a girl in line at the market. It was easy. It involved talking to her. We discussed our food choices. I pointed to a picture of Jennifer Aniston and wondered aloud if people think she's prettier than she is because she's famous or if fame is actually a form of being pretty, no different than great legs or sultry eyes. She cooked me dinner and we had sex that evening, less than four hours after we met. I saw her off and on, too. I had decided to say what was on my mind and do what I wanted, not without care or regard for feelings but in the general context that I'm a reasonably nice guy who tries to be sensitive to a girl's needs. I was finally able to choose to go with the flow. Women attracted me and I went toward their light. With each conversation, then with each caress, I realized that the key for me was to find each light and move toward it until it went away. Then I met Rebecca. If a beautiful girl is a flashing light, then Rebecca is one of those high intensity searchlights they use at movie premieres. Her face, her figure, she was every sexual fantasy bundled in human form and the light she gave off in my head was so intense I literally turned and almost ran away. It took three solid exposures to her before I could stomach the intensity of the light playing in my brain, before I could venture speaking to her. Our first conversation was not up to my usual standards. I fumbled for words, felt panic stricken and almost bolted when something powerful told me to go with the awkwardness. "Did you ever," I paused. "Do you ever get tongue-tied? I don't usually, but I am now. I think you intimidate me." I started to laugh. "It makes me wonder if I'm supposed to talk to you because, I don't know, maybe it means more somehow. Or maybe it means I'm supposed to run and hide. It's pretty silly, isn't it?" She could only nod. Let's be honest, no matter what I said, she could turn me down. She could find me unattractive if I had developed the greatest line of bullshit since P.T. Barnum. When you understand that, what difference does it make if you're smooth or not, as long as you cover the basics, like actually showing interest and not leaving the issue in doubt. I asked Rebecca out with perhaps the lamest lines ever used, that we should go on a date and if I can't talk then we'll agree I'm an idiot and leave it at that. That takes us back to the beginning of this story. Rebecca and I went out the next night, which was a Thursday. I prefer a Thursday date because it isn't a real date night; the restaurants aren't crowded and you don't absorb that tension from the air of a Friday or Saturday when everyone is out looking for a catch and sexual tension and frustration is all around, usually fueled by too much alcohol. When you go out Thursday, if the date doesn't work, you can use work to get out of the date early. It's the same idea as meeting for lunch or coffee but with a little more risk. If the date does work, then it's not so bad to go in tired on Friday with the whole weekend ahead to get farther along with her. Rebecca and her tits, those magnificent tits. She wore a tight top, which set off lightning bolts in my head. I followed her to our table, watching her long legs stride languidly as her hips swayed with a completely natural and sensual ease. Her hair was down, a blonde cascade that draped over her shoulders and led my eyes right to her nipples. I wanted to leap over the table on top of her or excuse myself to go to the bathroom and never come back. I'm going to cut to the chase here. I fucked her that night. Without a condom. Which was her idea. And those tits. Oh my Lord, they were firm, with a lot of heft and shape. I'd felt tits like that only once before - natural tits, that is - on a topless dancer in Tampa. She was older, late 30's, a little hard around the face, trying to earn what she could from the big bags attached to her chest, when it was obvious the alternative was giving head and spreading her legs. For the standard $20, she gave me an illegal, full contact lap dance, but no touching below the waist. As I was squeezing and bouncing those juicy boobs, I realized they'd kept her ass off the pavement, that another woman just like her but with a flatter figure would have had to use her mouth and pussy as her money makers. The old me would have been worried about my morals. Truth is Rebecca was a nice kid, but not the deepest pool or sharpest quill and I would have wondered if the entire evening weren't my salesmanship in action. We had a great date, a wonderful time full of laughing and sharing and an obvious physical connection. Did she pull me into her bed because she really liked me or did I just hit the right notes? The old me would have done it but not enjoyed the experience to the fullest. The new me banged her brains out and had a great fucking time. Who the hell am I to judge this girl on one date? So she's not too brainy. So she's not the most interesting person I've ever met. She's nice. I like her. She's incredible looking. Maybe she'll grow on me. Maybe I'll be so frigging happy that we'll get married and have a dozen kids. I'll never know if I don't give her a chance and if she's going to invite me between her legs then I'm going to have a great time. Let's take a minute to discuss what having a great time means. I'm not an asshole. Well, I'm not a total asshole. I'm probably an asshole in some ways but I'm definitely not in every way. I get pleasure from taking my own and from giving it. When Rebecca got so hot that she asked me to take off the rubber, that made me feel great. When she moaned and whimpered, when she asked me to suck her nipples, when she cried, "Oh God" and "Yes" and "More", that made me feel fantastic and made me want to put out even more for her. I was on top. Her legs were spread so far apart she was almost doing the splits on her back. Her pelvis was pushing against me as I pumped my cock inside her. Our cheeks pressed together - I wanted her to feel the closeness of making love while having hot sex. "I wish you could come inside me," she whispered, her lips reaching for mine. "You mean without a condom? Can we do that?" Rebecca paused as I did. She licked her lips. She nodded. "You're sure?" I really wanted this. The old me would have been quiet but the new me said, "I really want to feel you. I can try to pull out if you want." She swallowed. I pulled out, reached down and took my extremely hard cock in my hand. "Should I take it off?" She said yes. I slid the rubber off and lifted my cock to line up with her opening. "In?" She nodded. I entered her and to let her know I appreciated it said, "God, you feel absolutely perfect." She did, too, firm but wet, tight and lively. I concentrated on enjoying the next strokes, then realized I still had the rubber in my hand. I raised myself on one elbow, stroking into her all the time, and touched the rubber to one of her massive boobs. I drew it in a circle around the outer rim and then again, closer to her nipple. I wanted her to feel that we were sharing this moment of unprotected sex. I wanted her to get into the fantasy of the banging, not to put it out of her mind or to be worried. When I was sure she was relaxed seeing the rubber against her beautiful white tit, I cooed at her, "Baby, it's just us." I put the rubber on the bed, lowered my face to hers and kissed her. I like being on top. I like grinding my hips in a circle, finding the connection between my pubic bone and her clit, driving her wild, making her make sounds, mixing soft strokes with deep hard pushes. On top, I can feel my own hardness. She can feel my balls slap against her. Rebecca's Tits Rebecca has long legs and a small butt. If I were to design her myself, she'd have a slightly larger ass in the more voluptuous tradition. But she's in that tall mode of small shoulders, small hips and absolutely huge jugs, the kind of woman you look at on the street and wonder if you're man enough. You see that body and every part of your maleness twitches its genetic "I want that" beat. It's not that she's a beautiful woman. It's that she's so fucking sensual, so fucking fuckable, like sex incarnate, a piece of ass to die for. You see her in a tight top or, God forbid, a bathing suit and your cock just about screams even as your mind is telling you she's out of your league. I banged her. I banged her and made love to her at the same time, scooping her tits together to watch them fall, running my tongue over the line of her jaw, pressing my lips to her eyebrow, putting my hands on her sides and running them over her ribs so she felt hugged and fucked. She made noises, fantastic, sexy noises and I encouraged her. "Let me hear you. You're sexy." I looked at Rebecca's tits bouncing beneath me, then looped my arms over her legs, pinned her beneath me and fucked her to a conclusion that had us both gasping. She didn't want me to roll off her. I could feel her pussy and her thighs throbbing. Her arms held me for long minutes, my soft cock still tucked in her. The new me lay next to that incredible body and looked at those huge tits. I flicked her nipples and brushed my fingertips over their soft expanses. "They're not that sensitive," Rebecca said. Other girls had said this to me. Usually, no always girls with bigger breasts. I wonder if they're uncomfortable with them. Big tits are out in front, in public, the things that men see, the reason you see their eye's either moving up from them or down to them. If they're sensitive, maybe that would be too much, maybe you'd get off when some disgusting bastard rubbed into you on the train or when they brushed against the door frame. With tits so big, maybe you'd become over-sexed, a complete slut unable to stop touching yourself, fucking everyone you meet. Maybe you fear your own rampant sexuality. The old me wouldn't have known what to say. This kind of sexuality was simply out of old me's league. New me took some of her flesh in my hand and said, "Let's make them sensitive. Focus on what I'm doing. Here, feel my hand touching you. Trust me." I cupped her boob - well, cupped part of her, with the rest spilling generously over. They don't call it petting for nothing. Ever pet a dog? Ever have a cat that liked being rubbed? People are just like that, only you need to break them in so they like being rubbed - just like some cats and dogs. We may call it making love, but a lot of it is just petting, just rubbing the body with a soft or firm hand. A cat or a dog learns to like the feeling and begins to crave it. I taught Rebecca to crave my touch. I petted her tits until she learned to rub them against me to get herself off. I'm going to skip ahead here. It was early afternoon. I like fucking in the afternoon when you can do it in natural light so shadows are part of the act and you're bringing sex out of the night and into the day. I pulled a dining room chair into the middle of the room. Rebecca straddled me, wearing only a tight white t-shirt. I sat there as she moved up and down on my cock. Her attention was locked on me and mine on her, our eyes wandering and then locking, then wandering and then locking. I watched her watch me watching her nipples through the fabric. She pushed it at my mouth and I pulled it with my teeth. Our eyes locked and she gave me a hard push with her pussy. Rebecca started to take her shirt off. I stopped her. "Only if you're giving them to me." She knew what I meant. "Turn me on. Turn me on." She swayed and undulated her hips. I put my hands under her shirt, hefted her tits, squeezed them gently, put my thumbs on her nipples and twiddled them. "Think with your tits." She kept fucking me. "Come on. Think of these big boobs and think of that tight pussy and make that your whole world." "Oh yeah," she moaned. "You have big, beautiful tits and a perfect, tight pussy. When I take off your shirt, I want you to be my sex machine, fucking my cock with your pussy, making my cock hard with your tits." I began to squeeze in rhythm with our fucking. "Every time you feel your tits, every time you feel them move or you feel a breeze on them, every time your nipples get hard, I want you to think sex, fuck, baby, think of me. Think of me and my cock in your pussy, my hands on your waist, my mouth on your mouth, your nipples hard in my hand, me sucking on your big tits. I want you to come. Every time you feel your tits, I want you to think about coming with me, about my come inside you." I began to move her tits in circles. "I want you to touch your tits and think about making love with me. Go on, do it." I took my hands off her breasts. Rebecca put her hands on them. She pinched her nipples through the t-shirt and moaned. "Rub them gently, like you would if you were in a store and you needed to touch them but you didn't want to get caught." She paused for moment, then brought one arm forward then the other so they rubbed in turn against her tits. She then reached below her and moved her tits with one arm to the side and then back. Then she leaned forward and drew a circle on my chest with just the very tip of her nipples. She kept them there and fucked my cock only with her hips. "Are you ready to take off your shirt?" "Yes." She reached down, lifted the front edge and pulled it up. She stopped as it passed her nipples and the weight of her boobs popped them out. "Touch them like you were wearing clothes." She took the side of her wrist and rubbed it against herself. She moaned. "You know what you are?" I grabbed her tits and shook them. "You know what you are?" "Tell me." "You are a big boobed goddess." I could feel her reaction. "You are my cock riding, tight pussy, big boobed goddess fucking machine." "Oh God." "You want that? You want that? Huh?" "I want to be your big boobed fucking machine." "You left out goddess." Rebecca started to laugh. "I want to be your goddess." "May I worship your magnificent orbs? I want to leave an offering in your pussy altar." Remember that Rebecca isn't the sharpest tool in the shed. She's not stupid but she's not exactly a rocket scientist. What she said surprised me because it revealed depths I hadn't reached in her before. She put her hands on top of mine and pressed them into her mounds. "I want you to turn on every part of me so I can give everything to you." Hot stuff. Not a request you get every day, especially not from a girl who looks like centerfold Barbie. She caught on to me quicker than I thought she would. The secret, she told me in her not completely articulate way, is to keep you turned on by keeping myself turned on - then you do me until I can't walk and I want more of you. A big boobed goddess indeed. She's learned to use those babies. She'll put on high heels so she towers over me then she'll raise her tits to my face - or she'll push my head into her cleavage. She'll take a glass of wine or a margarita and dribble it onto her tit and into my mouth. She'll put her nipple in her mouth and then kiss me as we suck together and she moans toward orgasm. The sexiest thing she does is "the jiggle". She stands fully or partly clothed and jiggles for me, her breasts brushing against my chest, my back, any part of me, in the most subtle and suggestive manner imaginable. It's the kind of movement that makes men throw women over their shoulders and ride off with them into the hills. Rebecca had told me she never wanted to realize the effect her tits have on men, that it scared her too much. Now she loves to watch me get hard, the knowledge she has that effect on makes her feel powerful. She loves to rub against me in a store or at a table in a restaurant until my cock hurts. I'd been balling Rebecca for a while when my instincts started telling me to dig in, to stabilize our relationship for the long term. My instincts fucking terrify me. I had no idea whether this was the relationship I really wanted. That started me worrying - is it right? is it enough? can I really be happy with her and she with me? Old me had awoken. New me kicked in while we were lying in bed. He had become quite a handful and I didn't know what he would say or do. Rebecca was on top. My hands cupped her round ass. I told her that I'd love a threesome. In particular, I would love to watch her show off her amazing sexuality to another beautiful woman. Show another woman what you can do. Show her how turned on you get. You bet she said yes. She not only said yes but while we were still fucking she came up with a name. Her very good looking friend Julie had just broken up with her long term boyfriend, meaning her first boyfriend, meaning she'd only had sex with him unless she was lying. To my very pleasant surprise, Rebecca wanted to show Julie how great sex was. "Lesbian feelings," I asked. She sat up on my cock and rocked her hips. "You make me think so much about my body, I think about hers." She shook her tits. "I wonder how turned on she is." The answer was not very. Julie has long brown hair, fairly big tits though not in the same league as Rebecca's, beautiful dark eyes and a mouth to die for. She was used to giving head but it wasn't a great pleasure. She fucked her former boyfriend a lot but only came when he ate her and she was never that comfortable having her clit licked. Most of the rest of her body was sexually awkward, if that means anything, almost gawky like an adolescent who can't quite control the movements. Old me actually turned down a threesome because it created too many problems. New me looked at Julie, looked at Rebecca and said that we could fool around and get comfortable and all relaxed and then try fucking or we could just get some fucking out of the way so we can relax and have a great time. I said I didn't want to focus on the act of fucking so I didn't want everything to feel like a buildup to the big moment. Julie naked was something special. She had bigger hips than Rebecca, rounder thighs and a furry dark triangle that she'd trimmed. Her pussy was genuinely beautiful and the angle of her open thighs was awe inspiring. Rebecca has thinner legs and the best view of her pussy is when her legs are not spread as wide. Julie spread was like an invitation to heaven, as though the lines of creation had gathered together to define the space that led to her pussy. I decided the new me would simply put my cock in Julie. So I asked Rebecca to suck on me while Julie lay back. "Might as well get this over," I said, and entered her. "This is a really nice pussy." It was too, even tighter than Rebecca's, though not as responsive. "This is so weird," Julie said, with her hands half-raised in that unsure, almost icky motion. She didn't know if she should laugh or freeze. "Concentrate on the feeling of me in you. When you're able to focus on it, tell me and we'll stop." She knew what I meant, that I intended this as an intro. She focused, which meant she started to enjoy it, which meant she fucked me back. We rocked together. Her hands went around my back and her mouth turned to my cheek. "Ah, that's good," she sighed. I took that as my cue and pulled out. One look at those spread thighs and I knew that Julie's clit was the key. I took control of her focus, the same as I had with Rebecca. I ate her. Rebecca ate her. I put my cock in her mouth and we both ate her. I fucked her from behind as Rebecca ate her. Her clit was under siege and eventually it surrendered. Julie came, once, twice, four times, more. "I want you to fuck me now," I told Julie. She mounted me. Rebecca sucked on her tits. To my delight, she had apparently become so trained to find sexual delight that she got off on Julie taking my cock. I pounded Julie's pussy as Rebecca urged her on. I really pounded her and Julie fucked back. After I came inside her, I rolled her on to her back and Rebecca and I sucked on her clit and pussy lips until she was totally helpless. I really liked fucking Julie. I mean I really liked fucking Julie. So the new me decided it would be great if Julie became my mount. I decided that Julie would learn to give it up completely if she were mounted all day at any time of day no matter what she was doing. I mounted her in the kitchen, bending her over the sink. I mounted her in the hallway. I mounted her in front of the TV. I mounted her in the doorway. I mounted her every time I got an erection, not to finish each time, but enough each time to make her feel that she'd been penetrated. One day, 30 penetrations - usually just a few strokes to keep her on edge - 3 times coming inside her, 2 times coming inside Rebecca. I felt like a champion and my cock felt like it had been put through a wringer. A few days later, after Julie's pussy had recovered, Rebecca put on a strap-on and I tried to show her how to move her hips like a guy does when he fucks a woman. It's not easy for a woman to get that. Julie got the hang of it first and when it was her turn to wear the strap-on, she drove Rebecca wild. You know where this is going - double penetrations, first Rebecca, then Julie. I'd been fucking Rebecca's ass regularly but I wasn't prepared for the sheer sexiness of her putting out with both holes, the feeling of me in her ass feeling the hard dildo in her pussy as Julie's beautiful face and body pressed against Rebecca's huge tits. I nearly blew my load at the start. Old me would have kept worrying that I was going to lose it, but new me merely said "Yeah," let a little of the pressure out and enjoyed the ride. I banged her from behind, with Julie underneath in a sitting position. Then Julie got on top and Rebecca sat back on my cock, slightly off to one side so I could kiss her and hold her jugs and watch Julie fuck her pussy as the three of us kissed. Rebecca came unbelievably hard. Getting my cock up Julie's ass for the first time was one of my great sexual experiences, on a par with my first time for the sheer intensity of the moment. Yes, she has a lovely ass but what made it great was that she really wanted it even though it hurt. We did it standing and she stamped her foot and cried "Ow" even as she yanked on arm to keep fucking her. Maybe it shouldn't be a turn on but a beautiful girl enjoying the pleasure through the pain can be magnificent. They say the first time hurts, the second time is uncomfortable and the third time works. It took Julie four times, four ass fucks before she got completely off on being fucked by me and Rebecca at the same time. Julie asked what she would be, since Rebecca is a big boobed goddess. That took some thought. Her clit is the center of her sexual universe. The more sensitive she became, the more she liked sucking cock or fucking or just kissing. When she's being eaten, she writhes, her pussy rising and falling in a powerful natural cycle of excitement. She has learned to spread almost anywhere. She needs to spread her legs, to get a mouth or a hand up between her legs. She invites you between her thighs. At dinner, she'll sit on the edge of the table, rubbing her clit. She really is the ultimate spread and that of course is what I told her. I never imagined - this is so very true - being with a woman like Rebecca. We walk into a restaurant and the men shuffle slightly in their chairs as a sudden bout of stiffness makes sitting a tad uncomfortable. One guy at a pool party actually fell over a chaise lounge - which was occupied at the time - at the sight of her in her pink bikini, and it wasn't a particularly small suit. She does have one that could get her arrested, a tiny bottom and a top of two small triangles, but that's for my eyes only. Picture her - over six feet in heels, long blonde hair, massive tits with a small waist over a round ass - as she glides across a room, the men with the balls to stare salivating and the rest wishing they had the balls to gawk. When I was still with one of the big investment firms, you should have seen the looks on the faces of the other wives and girlfriends at the parties. He's with her? Is she for real? Those have got to be fake (they aren't). Guys I worked with would ask if she'd posed naked anywhere, hoping I guess to download her for some hot one-handed action. One really tactless asshole asked how much I'd paid for her. Don't get the wrong idea. Rebecca doesn't wear skin tight pants or lots of make-up, like one of those "I'm trying so hard to be beautiful" types. She accepts and glories in her sensuality. It's not her fault that God made her so outrageous looking. Yesterday, she wore her hair in two long braids, with a simple white v-neck t-shirt and plain blue shorts. She looked like a Viking princess or a nordic goddess - which she is - only thinner. It was hot and humid and in the evening we sat on the terrace, drinking a pitcher of margaritas, watching the city turn from day to night, the sunlight fading as the windows lit up. I touched my cold glass to her t-shirt and rubbed my free hand against her fabulous breasts. Rebecca leaned into me. "There's something wrong with this leg." She lifted her right leg and touched a spot near her thigh. "Here. And here." She flexed her knee. "It may go all the way down my leg." "A problem, huh?" I put down my drink and bent toward her. "Let's see what we've got here." I gently kneaded her upper thigh, then slid my hands over her knee, then down her smooth calf. "Looks like you need a tune-up." "Hmm, hmm," she moaned. Rebecca moans a lot in my arms, not loudly but softly almost like a cat. "Maybe a complete diagnostic." "Hmm, hmm," she moaned as she put her lips to mine. "Definitely need some work." Here's the truth, God's truth. It takes a while to work your way all around a gorgeous woman's body, making sure every part is properly turned on, because you see once you've made a complete circuit you have to go back and check the parts you've worked on to make sure they're still in tune. Damn fucking body never stays completely in tip top full working order. Every time Rebecca has her period, I have to rewire some part of her sexual apparatus. Her tits work fine most of the time, but even they need a good polishing every now and then. Her thighs need to be reminded. The undersides of her wrists need to be caressed. Her lips need to be kissed, to be made soft and willing. Her shoulders need to be rubbed, her ribs examined, her legs outlined by my fingertips, until her entire goddess body of sex purrs. One night at dinner, I asked Rebecca to tell me her fantasy and I promised that I would do anything to make it real for her, no matter what it was. She came around the table, motioned for me to scoot back my chair and sat in my lap, one arm draped over my shoulder. "First," she said, "I have a confession." She curled her fingers in my hair. "I knew you were the one a half hour into our first date." "I kind of figured that out already." "You did, huh?" She kissed the end of my nose. "And here I thought it was a secret." She ran her hands over my chest. "I think you're ready to hear my fantasy." "You know I'll do anything for you." I meant that. She leaned closer. "Ready?" "Let me have it, baby." "I want us to be together, just the two of us, without anyone else, forever and ever." A promise is a promise. So I gave her fantasy to her.