I met Sammee, Samantha but Sammee to the world and to me, at a friend’s wedding. Roger had done it up, the whole thing. Well, anyway Bonnie, his bride, had. He was in a cutaway jacket in a pale grey color while the rest of us were in tuxes of the same shade. The bride was in white (something she most certainly did NOT qualify for as every one of the males in the wedding party could attest) with the long train and everything. And to top it off, it was a Catholic wedding.
So after all the kneeling and sitting and standing and incomprehensible babble, at last, we got to throw rice, well, birdseed, at the happy couple and start drinking. Which I did with abandon. I told George, the other groomsman I knew, as we stood at the bar, beers in hand, “This, my friend, is what you call a target-rich environment.”
He laughed and we exchanged high fives.
I was surveying the herd, and liking what I saw. So many girls, and so young. My taste had always run to young and skinny. I wasn’t terribly concerned about being certain they were legal if you want to know the truth of it.
I was 24 at the time and considered 18 to be over the hill. Oh, what the hell, if we’re being honest here, I didn’t much care if they had a driver’s license. And it was a target-rich environment.
I danced with a little number called Amber, so skinny I could span her waist with both hands. Then with Lois, one of those delightfully pear-shaped women with no tits, a tiny waist, and nicely flaring hips although to my practiced eye, they were still under 32 inches. Abby, who asked me to dance after giggling with Amber, was, I suspected, still working her way through puberty.
The band’s frontman started up with a passable version of Elvis Presley’s version of I Can’t Help Falling in Love when she appeared in front of me.
“Come on handsome,” she said, holding out her hand, “time to play with the adults.”
She was precisely the opposite of my “type.” She was beyond big. And she was obviously older than me. But she was a force of nature and I took the hand.
She pulled me to my feet and led me onto the dance floor. I dug into my memory and came up with her name. She was some elbow relation to Bonnie, an aunt I think.
And the thing was, she was beautiful. She had one of those round faces many fat girls do, with round cheeks, a couple of chins, and very pretty, very clear brown eyes. As we assumed the classic slow dance position, her right hand in mine, her left hand on my shoulder, my right hand on her hip, I noticed that across the roundness of her shoulder she had a tracery of stretch marks, the leftover from yo-yo dieting. She was clearly off her diet now though, with her skin taut. And her skin was absolutely flawless. It was like she had no pores. The phrase “alabaster” skin might have been written after someone had seen her.
“Oh good grief,” she said, about 10 seconds into the dance, “if you’re that afraid of a real woman, never mind.”
She started to push me away and I guess, as much as anything, I couldn’t resist the challenge. So I hung on, used my hand on her hip to close the distance between us, and said, “sorry.” She smiled and I knew, on some level, I had lost the first round even though I wasn’t sure what the game was.
“That’s better,” she said, giggling a little, and she released my hand and closed the distance, even more, her arm around my neck.
I liked it. I liked all of it. I liked the fact that I couldn’t reach around her. I liked the feel of her big boobs against me. I REALLY liked the way she giggled and then breathed into my ear, her breath warm and moist, and said, “I think I’m going to take you home tonight.”
My body surprised me by getting instantly hard.
And she felt it, obviously, the way she arched her back and pressed against me.
“Are you ready honey?” she asked.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Yes honey,” she said, “ready for a real woman rather than those stick figures you’ve been chasing all night.”
And the thing was, she had me interested. I didn’t understand why, but I not only liked her, but I wanted her. I think it must have been her confidence, so different from the girls I usually chased.
When I hesitated, again I knew I had lost although I still wasn’t at all sure what the game was.
The grin she had on her face was almost feral. “Come on sweetcakes,” she said, taking my hand, “let’s say our goodbyes and head home. I’m gonna rock your world (yeah, she actually said “rock your world”).
We found Roger and Bonnie. She kissed Roger fully and thoroughly on the mouth and turned to Bonnie. She hugged her, well, she engulfed her, and then said, loud enough for all to hear, “listen toots, you take care of my new favorite nephew-in-law or I’ll be back and take him home with me.”
Bonnie giggled, hugged her back, and said, “go on you old cougar, looks like you bagged one.”
Sammee let out her big booming laugh and called me over, put an arm around me, and said, “and a pretty one at that.”
So I hugged Roger, told him iskenderun seks hikayeleri how lucky he was, hugged Bonnie, told her how lucky she was, and headed off to my new life.
I saw George and waved, grinning at the weird little look he flashed me, but she had my hand and I couldn’t stop.
“So you have a car here?” she asked as we cleared the front door of the hall.
“Nope,” I said, we carpooled.
“Well,” she said, “I do, come on.”
I was surprised not at all when her car was a full-size GMC Yukon. It had oversize tires on chrome wheels, full blackout window tinting, and a vanity plate reading 2MCH4U. Inside the stock radio had been replaced with a sophisticated infotainment center. I wasn’t at all surprised when she turned it on and she had an “All 50s and 60s” playlist queued up. It started with Buddy Holly doing Peggy Sue and she sang along in a nice soprano voice, not missing a word or a beat.
We headed out of town, west toward the mountains, and then turned off on a road I didn’t know. I’m pretty familiar with Denver but this was a new area for me. The houses were big, on big lots, with established trees and landscaping. If not “upper class,” this was certainly an upper-middle-class neighborhood.
Evidently, she had been watching me peripherally as I looked around. She was driving as I would have expected her to, fast and competently, handing the big vehicle expertly while singing along with the radio.
“Like it?” she asked.
“Very nice,” I said.
“The divorce settlement was very kind to the wronged woman,” she said with a throaty chuckle.
When we pulled into the driveway I was kind of overwhelmed. It was a big ranch house and I had the stray thought – “at her size she doesn’t want steps” – while taking it all in. She pushed the little button on her sun visor and the door to the four-car garage opened up.
“Wow,” I said.
There was a Jeep looking fully equipped for off-road driving, a 1962 Chevy Impala with 409 badges, and a 1956 Chevrolet station wagon, not a Nomad but a four-door station wagon in Bel Air trim.
“A Chevy girl,” I said, “so glad I didn’t see a bunch of Fords.”
She laughed, that hearty booming laugh, and said, “I like getting my hands dirty as much as anybody but Fix Or Repair Daily? Not for me honey.”
We went in through a door that opened onto a laundry room, serving as an airlock with a second door opening onto the kitchen. As she was moving through the kitchen like a big cloud she called over her shoulder, “grab us a couple of beers and follow me.”
I realized that she was giving orders pretty casually but also, on some level, I realized I liked it. It was so different from any previous encounter I had had with a woman. It was exciting.
She was sitting on a big couch when I entered the front room. I went to her, handed her one of the big Sapporo beer bottles, and started to sit next to her.
“Oh no,” she said, pushing me away with amazing strength. “You go over there,” and she pointed to a small rug in the middle of the hardwood floor.
I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I was interested and not about to blow this, so I went and stood where directed.
She fiddled with a remote that looked like it had about a hundred buttons on it. Some lights went off, some went on, and music started filling the room. It was Peggy Lee’s version of Fever. Another button and the huge flat screen television came on with a man doing a striptease to the music.
“Strip for me baby,” she said, taking a drink from her Sapporo and lighting a cigarette.
I had never done anything remotely like this but watching the man on the screen I could see what she had in mind. So I picked up the beat of the music, parted my feet a little wider than shoulder-width, started my hips kind of snapping from side to side, mimicking him as well as I could, and took of the tuxedo jacket and tossed it to her. She giggled and whistled and said, “yeah baby.”
There was something about this complete reversal of roles that was getting to me already as I started doing a slow turn, keeping my hips moving in time to the music, getting the tie off, and starting on the ruffled shirt. I had the shirt completely unbuttoned as the music ran down with Peggy repeating the outro – what a lovely way to burn, what a lovely way to burn. A few seconds lapsed and Elvis Presley’s version of Frankie and Johnnie started. A slightly different tempo, that song carried me through the removal of the shirt and that awkward two-step to get out of shoes and socks. Finally, as David Rose’s The Stripper played, I turned my back, peeled out of my boxers, and turned, my erection showing my interest.
She grinned and crooked her forefinger, beckoning me.
She tipped up the big bottle, drained her Sapporo, and handed the empty to me.
“Get me another, honey,” she said.
I swear, I could feel her eyes on me as I walked out of the room.
I felt a little silly, walking back to her, my hardon pointing straight up, but I didn’t see any way around it.
I handed her her beer and she pointed to a spot in front of her so I stood there, wondering what would come next. It was almost a relief when she held out her hand, forefinger pointed down, and then she twirled it in the universal signal to turn around. So I turned around and when I felt her hands on my back, almost measuring me as they moved down to cup my ass, I almost came right then.
She used her strong hands to turn me until I faced her and smiled. I was still fully erect. She ran a fingertip slowly down my shaft, starting at the tip, right at my urethra opening, and tracing down until she had tickled the dividing line of my scrotum, almost touching my anus
She grinned up at me and stood.
“Not bad,” she said, “now undress me. I like my boys to do the work.”
I even felt a little rush when she called me a “boy.”
She turned and I unzipped her. Her skin overflowed her bra and, I noticed, the waistband of her panties. I really REALLY liked that she was wearing a garter belt and nylons rather than pantyhose.
It seemed appropriate to carefully fold the dress and lay it on the table beside the couch.
Her bra had eight hooks, necessary to hold her immense breasts. I couldn’t resist peeking when I had it off of her and was not surprised to see her bra size was 44P. She slapped my hands when I reached for them.
“Shoes,” she said, sitting and offering a foot.
It felt perfectly natural to drop to my knees and take her high heels off of her and then set them aside, carefully lining them up under her dress.
She stood again, towering over me. Her breasts were great pale pink pillows, light blue veins making a delicate map. Her nipples were small, on small areolas, a shade darker than the surrounding skin.
She moved closer, the deep core of her belly button almost touching my nose.
She patted my head and said, “don’t stop now.”
It took a moment to work out how the weird keyhole-shaped wires and the button snaps worked but I got her nylons unhooked and worked them down. God, she was sexy like that, her nylons pooled around her ankles. I worked the garter belt and panties off and, again, took a moment to fold everything and lay it carefully.
When I looked back she had moved even a bit closer and her fingers entwined in my hair, pulling me against her belly, my nose literally disappearing into her navel. She pressed harder on the back of my head and I felt like she was engulfing me. And God, she was so soft and warm. If I had touched myself I’d have cum right there.
She held me like that, my face buried in her softness and sort of cooed to me. “You like that, don’t you honey,” she said very softly, her fingers digging into my hair, scratching my scalp.
I tried to say “yes,” but all that came out was a muffled “mmfffff.”
“Come on honey,” she said, pulling my face away and helping me to my feet.
We passed through her bedroom into the bathroom.
“I know you’re wondering sweety,” she said, bending over gracefully for all of her size, and pulling a bathroom scale out of the little linen closet.
She put the scales on the floor, smiled at me, and stepped on.
They were digital scales and I watched, amazed, as the numbers scrolled rapidly higher. They finally stopped at 324. She bent over and looked down. “Well, look at that,” she said with a giggle, “I dropped three pounds.”
She smiled and took my hand and led me back into the bedroom.
“Turn down the bed sweety,” she said and it felt perfectly natural to do the domestic chore.
It was a big bed, I think they call them a California King. I had to walk around it four times because it seemed right to fold the comforter very carefully. Then I turned back the blanket and sheet.
When I turned to face her she was smiling broadly.
“What?” I asked.
She giggled and said, “I was just thinking what a sweet boy you are. Doing such a good job.”
That compliment made me swell with pride.
“Up on the bed honey,” she said and I crawled up gladly.
The bed swayed under her weight as she crawled up on the bed.
She didn’t lay next to me but moved on top, her legs straddling mine, her thick soft thighs pinning mine together. She arched her back, deliberately dragging the soft warm weight of her belly across my throbbing cock and those huge pillow boobs covered my chest and my arms.
Her eyes held mine as she slowly settled on me.
She was engulfing me with her entire body. It was getting difficult to breathe the way she pressed me onto and then into the soft mattress. She kissed me, a light kiss, more than a peck but far less than I wanted.
“Do you like my weight?” she asked.
I knew there was only one correct answer and I gave it. “Yes,” I said.
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
And, again, there was only one correct answer and I gave it. “Yes,” I said.
“Don’t move,” she said, and, oddly quick and agile for her size, she rolled off the bed. I watched her as she went to a chest of drawers and bent over and opened the bottom drawer. “Close your eyes,” she said, looking down into the drawer, rummaging around for something, knowing I would comply.
I closed my eyes.
“Keep them closed,” she said as I felt her climbing back onto the bed.
I kept them closed.
“If you open your eyes I’ll take you home,” she said.
“I won’t,” I promised.
I felt cold encircling my cock and then pressure building right at the base. The pressure kept increasing until it was on the verge of pain.
“You can look now,” she said, so I did.
There was a shiny chrome band around my cock, about a half-inch wide, and on the bottom was a thumbscrew that had been tightened enough to put the pressure I was feeling.
As I watched her hand slowly took my cock and she began masturbating me. She was quick and I came almost immediately. Well, my body tried to cum. Tried very hard but I couldn’t and the pleasure was replaced by a sharp pain that dug into my balls and deep in my belly.
She was smiling when I opened my eyes.
“Honey, around her I am the Lady of the House,” the way she said it made the capitalization obvious, “and you don’t get yours until I’m satisfied.”
She waited, watching me, and when I didn’t respond she reached down, cat-quick, and grabbed my swollen balls, and gave them a squeeze.
“DO,” squeeze, “YOU,” squeeze, “UNDERSTAND?!” SQUEEZE.
“YES!” I yelled, trying to pull away from the pain.
She released me and smiled.
“Good boy,” she said, smiling, and bending down to kiss me.
“Do you trust me?” she asked again.
By then I realized that something deep inside me had been broken and I could not say ‘no” to her ever again.
“Yes,” I said.
“Are you ready for your first lesson in pleasing me?” she asked.
“Yessss,” I said, unable to stop myself from dragging out the sibilant.
“Well then,” she said with a soft smile, “lay back and prepare to be schooled.”
So I laid back, my head on a pillow, waiting, anxious for whatever she would give me.
I guess I wasn’t really surprised when she started moving around until her knees were on either side of my rib cage, she was facing my feet and her ass filled my view. I could see her skin, so pink and smooth, and one small blemish just outside of her asscrack, a little pimple that I wanted to kiss.
I knew what was coming, and I wanted it as she settled slowly, so slowly, down onto my face. Her pussy lips were big, like the rest of her, the size of big sausages, making her pussy just a slit in a sea of pinkness. She was absolutely smooth, and her scent was strong, full of pheromones, making my cock throb even harder against the restraint she had put on it.
As she settled further, her labia covering my face now, she wiggled, gently back and forth, opening herself, pushing her onto me, pushing my face deeper into her. And I was kissing, finding her inner lips slick with her own excitement, sucking them, feeling them swell yet more and I nursed at her pussy.
And still, she let more weight cover me, capturing me until there was no air. But I kept nursing at her pussy, drinking her excitement, wanting more.
My air was giving out and my body started to panic. She must have sensed it because she lifted enough to let me take a quick breath before settling back down onto my face, her hips starting to rock now. I felt her hand on me, masturbating me, making my body try again to cum, making me scream into her pussy.
She lifted and I gasped and she was back on me, all of her weight, demanding.
My entire body was trembling, shuddering really.
She lifted and I gasped and she settled back, cumming now, her natural lubricant, the mucus that made her slick and ready filled my mouth.
I was drowning.
She lifted, I gasped and coughed, gagging, and she was on me again.
I was being waterboarded and I was helpless.
I felt my sphincter release as I lost consciousness.
I woke, well, came too is more like it, from the pain of my denied ejaculation again.
And she was on me again, denying my air as her pussy engulfed my face.
She came in waves, lifting just enough to give me a little breath before settling back for more. I was swallowing her mucus as fast as I could but I was soaked with it. My face and hair were soaked, it ran down my chin.
There was her hand, masturbating me, making me scream when I couldn’t complete.
She was fucking my face now with her pussy, grinding into me, cumming in those waves.
She allowed me another breath and this time when she settled onto me she came but also, with a hard push, I felt something warm and soft on the top of my head and the smell told me she, too, had lost control of her bowels.
Or maybe not “lost control,” it felt like something deliberate.
I lost consciousness again when she didn’t let me up.
She was laying beside me when I woke this time, smiling, tickling my cheek.
“You,” she said, smiling and tickling my forehead, “are very good honey. I don’t usually do that until the fourth or fifth time. You really got to me.”