In high school, my sister and her best friend April would sit out in our backyard in their bikinis and sun tan. I'd use any excuse to go sit and chat for a while, sitting at the best angle to strategically steal glimpses at April's breasts. They were not large, but for what I had seen, they were full, firm, and perfectly shaped. If a cloud slipped over the sun, sometimes her nipples would pinch hard and poke through the thin fabric. On sweltering days, beads of sweat would slide from her collar bone and trickle down the valley of her cleavage.
The thin fabric of her top barely seemed to cup them. And if she moved, if seemed the round of perfect flesh could spill out. And the thin ties that held the thin fabric seemed more taunting than practical. This became even more painful if she'd lie on her stomach, and slowly, gently, tug ever so slightly on the string and the top would fall to her sides, and her angular shoulders would be perfectly bare. In my mind -- so juvenile then -- I double dared myself to wander close with a garden hose, pretending to water the flowers, and accidentally spray cold water on April. She'd ach her back with a squeal --just a split second, but just exactly long enough to finally she her breasts exposed.
It has been years since these memories. Married now, my fantasies range farther than spraying my sister's best friend with a garden hose. But this summer, while sunning with my wife on a river beach, I could not help but catch a glimpse of sweat trickling between her breasts. I stared at her curving skin and the rise and fall of her breathing. I don't think I have a breast fetish, per se, but I was suddenly and undeniably aroused.
Maybe my wife caught a whiff of my pheromones suddenly in my sweat, or maybe she just felt that sense when someone is staring at you. She turned and met my stare and then glanced down at the sharp bulge in my swimsuit. She could see my body straining for release.
"Whats got you so keyed up?" she asked.
"I was just checkin out your boobs, sweetie," I said playfully.
She smiled. "You've seen them."
I knew that she knew there was a story. She has that way of not letting me off the hook. So I told her all about my teenage crush on April. She nodded as she took it all in.
"You were how old?" she asked.
"I was 15, a freshman, April was 18, a senior."
My wife nodded sagely. "That seems about normal." She thought for a while. "But when you were checking me out, were you thinking of me or of her?"
Ughh. Talk about a loaded question. In such situations I have learned only one technique, and it rarely, if ever works. I turned the question back to her. "Who do you think I was thinking about?"
"Humm," she said, caught off guard. "I'd say probably her."
I had to nod, and look at her sheepishly to see how deep in the doghouse I was. But marriage is funny. It can go either way. This could have sent her into a pissy mood where all her insecurities mixed with all my faults mixed with the last four arguments we can comes out all mushed up and ugly. Or she could brush it off and say, "you're a lecherous old man, but I guess you're harmless. Let's go get some sandwiches"
She must have been thinking all the options through. The one she picked still surprises and astounds me today. She reached over and grasped my cock that had gone half limp and rubbed it back to full. Then, glancing quickly up and down the stretch of deserted beach, she positioned herself directly in front of me. Without even taking off her bikini top, she dropped her chest to my groin and pushed my cock up between her breasts. Pressing her cleavage together, she began to give me a steady rhythmic tit fucking until I came between her breasts.
She slipped off, tucked my body back in my shorts, and looked out at the slow turning river. From far off, we could see another couple walking this direction, but they were far to distant to see clearly. We didn't talk for a while, waiting as the couple eventually neared. I could see globs of my cum on the round flesh of my wife's breast. They were not large, but they were full, firm, and perfectly shaped. Still aroused, her pinched nipples poked through the thin bikini fabric. Beads of sweat slid from her collar bone and trickle down the valley of her cleavage and mixed with the white salty globs of my cum. She did not wipe them off, now the couple was about 200 yards away.
I had cum a lot and the couple was now about 100 yards down the beach. My wife still made no motion to wipe her chest clean, and I was frozen with wonder. I didn't dare reach over and brush it off. The sun shone down. The sweat and cum mixed and more salt flakes glistened. And even though we were totally clothed and looked innocent enough and were pretty sure the couple could not have possibly seen us from the distance, but as they approached, the cum was still clear between my wife's breast, and spattered on her bikini.
I stared transfixed at her breasts as the couple neared. Slowly they wandered closer and my wife sat facing the sun, her cum-soaked breasts rising and falling with her breathing. Then, just as the couple were just about to pass us, my wife rolled over on her stomach on the beach towel. She unfastened her bikini top and let the sun warm her bare back.
The couple passed with a slight wave and a smile. I thought I could detect a bit of that knowing look of understanding and approval. But I couldn't be certain. They passed and continued onward up the river beach. I knew that it would be a while before they were out of eyesight again. I knew if they walked that far, it would mean that much time to walk back. I glance down at my wife, the line of her spine and her round butt, the fabric clinging, sandy and damp with sweat.
"Well," she said, not lifting her head. "Now when you think of breasts in a bikini, maybe you'll think of mine."
I have ever since. I cannot possibly think of April without then shifting into the beach. My wife knew this then and I know now.
