Shepherd's Pie Ch. 03

I forcefully arched my back, thrusting my giant hooters toward his bewildered face.

For a moment, it felt like Fort Lauderdale in '96, when I'd reluctantly entered a wet T-shirt contest during Spring Break, only to claim first prize.

His eyes instantly bugged out, as he stood there holding his empty glass. Then he reached his hand out, holding a white paper towel, apologizing profusely, as he quickly began dabbing it against my tits.

"Shit, I'm really sorry," he said. "I didn't realize you were home. Your husband told me I could come in and get a glass of water. Honestly, I'm so sorry."

At the moment, I almost felt worse for him than I did standing there with my nipples poking through the front of my shirt, which was rendered practically invisible as Byron stood there with his eyes zooming toward the soaking wet cotton vividly clinging to the broad surface of my large, glistening, upright breasts, as I stood there shivering, spine perfectly erect, aiming a pair of watery torpedoes at him, while pointed back was a large, visible hard-on, ready to shoot back at any second.

Weeks later, with the renovation well under way, something happened that changed the course of my marriage from that day forward.

I'd been struggling to work off my extra baby weight, with little to no success. Like most married couples, our sex life had dwindled down to almost non-existent, especially after the birth of our first child. To fix this, my husband and I agreed to try therapy. Through various contacts in the industry, I came across a well-known, highly-respected expert in behavioral medicine and clinical psychology, Dr. Megan Sinclair. After downloading one of her books on my Kindle, then reading it all in one night, I immediately came to the conclusion that this brilliant, insightful visionary was clearly the perfect counselor for us.

Physically, our new therapist was beautiful enough to be a Hollywood actress, with the same formal, dignified manner of Rachel Weisz or Elizabeth Hurley, and a low, sultry, resonating voice like Kate Winslet or Catherine Zeta-Jones.

For an older woman, she'd aged gracefully, with clear, glowing, ivory-colored skin; deep, calming, focused brown eyes; and subtle laugh lines barely visible around her smug, tight-lipped, rarely seen smile. Her comely figure looked healthy, but not overly fit, with soft, feminine curves played down seemingly on purpose in her high-class, custom-made business suits, in muted colors, with basic accessories, as if she intended to distract people from noticing her conspicuous boob job, with implants set high on her chest, both the size of my baby's head, odd for a British woman nearing fifty.

At our first session, she admitted that her methods were, as she put it, "somewhat unorthodox." She treated her patients using a theory designed to release their inhibitions. Within five minutes, she looked me square in the eye and laid out what she believed was the key to every successful relationship, enunciating each syllable like an audio-version of Psychology Today.

"My dear, you must learn to embrace your inner slut," she stated flatly.

This wasn't an easy thing for me to hear, not when I felt like I'd already been doing that all my life. Still, Joel and I figured we pretty much had nothing left to lose, except maybe our marriage, so we graciously went along with her initial instructions, in which she advised us to track all of our sexual activities for one week, reporting back everything to her at our next visit.

One sunny Wednesday afternoon, I walked down into the basement, where Joel had been kind enough to set up a treadmill, there among all his scattered tools and various building materials thrown everywhere.

As I walked down the creaky stairs, Joel and Byron were already there, discussing the merits of vice grips and socket wrenches, or whatever the hell guys talk about.

I laid down my yoga mat, fully expecting some sort of basic greeting. Yet, Joel barely acknowledged me, which I'd come to accept as standard behavior, whenever he was focused on a task.

On the other hand, Byron's face instantly lit up from the moment I appeared in front of them in my skimpy workout ensemble.

My tits were so big that my sports bras had to be custom ordered, since nothing ever came close to fitting off the rack. The afternoon sunshine inspired me to wear yellow, which right after pink had always been one of my favorite colors.

Of all times, as I started stretching, my boobs decided to pick that moment not to cooperate. After laying down the mat, I sat down and spread my legs in either direction, uselessly struggling to keep my huge tits from flopping almost completely out.

Sitting there, with my legs covered by pair of royal blue leggings, it was hard to ignore Byron's frequent glances, as I continued having to sit up and yank down my stretchy yellow sports bra, which insisted on riding up over the lower half of my large, unwieldy breasts, each time I leaned forward.

Finally, Joel led Byron back upstairs, allowing me to finish my workout in private.

Twenty minutes later, I was walking steadily on the treadmill, where I turned to the sound of heavy footsteps, loping down the wooden stairs. As Byron surprisingly reappeared, he gave me some lame excuse about needing to grab a box of nails or some other bullshit like that. I rolled my eyes and shot him a playful smirk, certain he'd come back purely for a second look.

I asked how things were going and he answered that everything was right on schedule. I nodded back, pressing one of the buttons to slightly increase the pace.

For two minutes, he hung around, lingering for no reason, watching me jog at a medium pace. From a short distance, his eyes faithfully continued tracking the tumbling motion of my pendulous breasts, bouncing in time to the whirring rhythm of the belt churning beneath my feet.

Soon, I began sweating, beads trickling down my stomach, staining the Lycra spandex firmly hugging my shapely hips, leaving dark patches in the sheer, skintight, pantyhose-type fabric of my full-length, royal blue leggings, technically footless tights, yet no matter the name, leaving nothing to the imagination as the moisture generated by my ever-increasing perspiration glued the material to every curve of my meaty hips and broad, fleshy thighs.

Meaning the hit the stop button, I reached forward, turning my head, when Byron apparently dropped his cell phone on the floor. Suddenly, the treadmill started racing beneath my feet. The belt nearly threw me off as it started whizzing beyond control. Byron quickly rushed over as I called to him in a panic, trying my best just to hold on and not fall down. He instantly came to my aid, slowing down the machine, as I desperately struggled to catch my breath.

For a second, I stood there with my eyes shut, clutching my sweaty forehead, waiting for the room to stop spinning. With a deep breath, my eyes slowly opened, as I looked over and noticed Byron staring down at my chest. In all the commotion, my sports bra had slid up exposing my tits completely. I instantly tried to holster them back inside, while Byron remained speechless, watching me stuff them back inside my bra.

Trying to contain my embarrassment, I struggled to think of something of appropriate to say, without directly explaining that my eyes were a bit higher up.

"Um, thank you," was I could manage at that moment.

"No problem," he said. "It was my fault. I didn't mean to distract you."

"Actually, I think you were the one who got distracted," I said, making him blush, even with his dark complexion.

"Yeah, I guess that's true," he admitted, looking a bit worried. "You won't tell your husband about this, will you?"

I paused for a moment, quietly considering how hard it had been for Joel to find such a talented partner.

"We'll just pretend it never happened," I said, patting his arm. "Have you had lunch yet? There's some leftover pot roast in the fridge. Why don't you go up and fix yourself a sandwich? I need to go hop in the shower."

With that, Byron walked back upstairs, where I soon followed, passing him in the kitchen, on my way to the bathroom, where I quickly undressed, peeling off the damp sports bra, dropping it down to the floor, before slowly peeling down the blue leggings, then piling them over the yellow bra, both of which, unbeknownst to me at the time, ended up stuck between the door jamb and the door itself.

Minutes later, I was calmly enjoying a warm, steamy shower, lathering foamy bubbles over each one of my large, supple breasts. Though I hadn't intended to leave the door open, from inside the misty, glass stall, I looked out and noticed that I'd somehow left it slightly ajar.

The angle of the ceiling high mirror above the sink provided me with a clear view into the main hallway. I'd just begun rinsing out my favorite tropical scented shampoo, when I noticed the shadow of someone standing there just outside the door.

Clearly, it was Byron, since Joel had already seen me naked a thousand times and certainly would never attempt to spy on me in such a bold manner.

In hindsight, maybe I should have made another choice. Yet, in that moment, the seeds of a budding exhibitionist had already taken root, especially after exposing myself to Byron in the basement.

Miles hadn't woken from his afternoon nap. And Joel was most likely too busy laying tile for our new tenants in the upstairs apartment.

Seizing the moment, I decided to amuse myself, and hopefully Byron as well, as I reached up and detached the removable shower head, twisting the outer ring, changing the setting from a light mist to a hard, surging pulse.

Watching Byron through the mirror, I leaned back against the porcelain wall, where I spread my legs, aiming the nozzle at my swollen clit. I moaned under my heated breath, feeling the jets rapidly sputter against my hard, sensitive, love button. I looked up and almost gasped, when I saw through the mirror that Byron had shockingly taken out his cock. Clearly, it hadn't occurred to him that I could just as easily see him standing there, staring at my nude reflection, as I savored the sight of an impressive hard-on gripped inside his right hand.

This was no ordinary cock. Even from a distance, I found myself staring at it in disbelief. He held it through the open fly of his comfortably loose-fitting jeans, where it looked to be just as long and hard as the brown wooden handle of Joel's trustiest hammer.

I'm not sure exactly what he was thinking. The risk of getting caught may have been every bit as exciting for him as the thrill it was for me to show off my big, wet, soapy tits, all covered with glistening suds, rolling over my swollen nipples, pink, hard and throbbing like my clit, all the while knowing he could clearly see me through the mirror, holding the shower head, letting it spray between my legs, shuddering in pleasure as the surging water steadily drove me to toward the brink of orgasm while he watched.

Neither I nor Byron needed much longer to get off. I quietly stood there glued to the sight of him rapidly stroking his cock. I firmly bit down on my bottom lip, starting to cum right at the moment when his sperm started pouring out like foam from the head of shaken beer bottle.

He then walked off, with no effort to clean up his mess, as if he'd wanted me to find his expended load, which he'd freely splattered all over my blue spandex leggings, the volume of which I only realized after exiting the shower and slowly lifting my wet, sticky, yoga pants off the floor.

* * *

Later that evening, wracked with guilt, I took Miles into the bedroom, where I sat down and quietly began feeding him from my left breast. I gently cradled him in my arms, enjoying the sound of his peaceful cooing, as I sat there in front of our bedroom window, swaying back and forth in the rocking chair next to his crib.

My husband could always tell when something was bothering me, as he entered our bedroom, noting the somber expression on my face.

He asked what was wrong, as he calmly sprawled out on the bed, sensing we clearly needed to talk.

I stood up and set Miles down in his crib. Then walked over toward the bed, where I climbed up and settled down next to my husband filled with distress.

Slowly, I then explained that I'd caught Byron watching me in the shower. I held back the fact that I did enjoy letting him watch, though I did stress the point that I wasn't particularly angry or upset.

Instead of yelling or making any direct accusations, the longer I spoke, the more I could see my husband getting visibly turned-on by what had happened. My pussy was still extremely wet, when before I knew it he suddenly mounted me, driving his cock between my legs, shoving it roughly inside me, vigorously thrusting for no more than a few seconds, before suddenly releasing all his aggression with a surge of warm semen, making me cum as well, as I felt his cock rapidly shooting off inside my pussy, upon which he lazily slumped against my naked breasts.

The following Monday, Joel and I returned for our second therapy session, glad to report all that had happened to our new therapist, Dr. Sinclair.

Seated in front of us, she stared blankly through the oval lenses of her studious, dark-rimmed glasses, speaking once again, with the rigid inflections of her perfectly enunciated, utterly refined, Standard English.

"Very interesting," she mildly replied, with not so much as a blink. "Mrs. Hanson, I believe that your husband has what we call in England a cuckold fetish."

As if she'd spoken a foreign language, I quirked my head slightly to the right, prompting her to continue.

"What this means," she explained, "is your husband is basically a masochist, someone who reaches their highest level of sexual gratification by suffering through various acts of humiliation, in his case, the act or thought of you engaging in sexual activity with other men, typically without his consent, and normally with someone whom at least one of you would deem a complete stranger."

"Hmm," I replied, nodding my head soberly, as if she'd pronounced something far worse like Joel had cancer. "So, umm, what do we do?" I said, fumbling for words. "I mean, is it curable?"

With a sound like a muffled sneeze, the doctor quietly laughed under her breath, apparently amused that her new patients were so naïve.

"It's not an illness, Mrs. Hanson," she answered condescendingly. "It's a fetish...something most likely stemming from a deep-rooted sense of inadequacy, often triggered by childhood trauma, though fetishes do often develop later in life."

I sat there riveted by her shocking diagnosis, while Joel quietly sat next to me, never uttering a single word.

"I think it would be healthy for the two of you to explore this further with each other," she continued. "In my years of practice, I've found that couples who learn to be more open about their desires often grow closer together, no matter how taboo or forbidden their desires might be."

"Okay," I said, nodding again, after taking a moment to think it over. "And how would you suggest we do that?"

"Well," she said, as she sat up behind her desk. "I actually know someone who'd be willing to help you," she told us, as she reached over and quickly began typing on her laptop. "However, I should tell you that the gentleman I have in mind does happen to be African American. I'm assuming this won't be a problem for either of you."

Hearing this, Joel and I turned to each other, neither of us knowing what to say, the wheels already fully in motion.

"Um, sure, that's fine," I said, turning back, making the decision to answer on his behalf.

The gentleman, as she called him, was a tall, chiseled, devilishly handsome black man named Dante Lavelle. I sharply inhaled when the doctor described his lurid occupation with the wildly intriguing title of "professional cocksman."

The session ended after downloading some of my better pictures from Facebook, which Megan forwarded to Dante, along with my cell phone number.

The plan was for Dante to think that I was recently divorced. We never gave him my last name. He called me on Tuesday, thoughtfully taking five minutes to make me comfortable with his charming small talk. Stirred by the rousing tone of his voice, we set up a meeting on Friday night, asking him to meet me at the same Irish pub where Joel and I spent our first date.

"Not the friendliest place for a brutha," he said, before we hung up. "But for you, I'll make an exception."

I spent the whole week obsessing over the perfect outfit. I considered everything, from a simple tank top with tight jeans, to a sexy, low-cut blouse with a short leather skirt. Or, even something more ladylike; possibly a sundress; or a light, sleeveless top, with a plunging cowl neck, paired with a wide belt and a straight black skirt, slit up the back.

I drove myself nuts going through all my options. Thankfully, once again, Joel was my hero. He didn't show it, but evidently, he was just as excited about the whole idea, if not more. While I was busy tearing through my closet night after night, Joel went out and bought me a whole new outfit just for the occasion.

"This is what you're wearing," he said, in no uncertain terms, after laying everything out on the bed.

For this one evening, I'd already spent over $300 dollars on hair, nails, perfume, and make-up, all of which had magically transformed my pasty white, chunky exterior into a bright, sparkling, sexual theme park of radiant blonde hair, starry blue eyes, and a fabulous array of head-spinning, robust curves, offering more breathtaking thrills than a speeding roller coaster, virtually screaming for any man with a nice, hard, throbbing cock to jump on and go for the ride of his life.

Finishing my hair and make-up, I then proceeded to wrap myself up like a Christmas gift, fighting to pull down constricting Lycra over my stubbornly boundless tits, just before tugging the resistant fabric down enough to barely cover my wide, bulging hips, binding my shapely figure into the narrow sleeve of a skintight, two-tone, halter dress, white on top, purple on the bottom, with six-inch, purple, Loubitton heels, perching my ass into a round, elevated rear bumper.

I entered the living room, where I then presented the outfit to my husband, spinning around slowly.

"What'd you do with the pantyhose?" he said, frowning at me.

"What pantyhose?"

"The one's I left on the bed, next to the dress."

"I didn't see any pantyhose," I said, frowning back. "Why do I need those anyway? Is something wrong with my legs?"

"Of course not," he said. "I just thought it would finish off the outfit...make it look more complete."

"Hmm, okay," I said, smirking a bit. "I guess I could wear them if you want. But this isn't another weird fetish thing, is it? I'm not sure I could handle more than one."

Joel shook his head. "No, it's not like that," he said. "Though I do like it when you wear those white ones to work sometimes. But that's probably more because of the whole nurse thing."

"Well, yeah, I can see that," I answered, nodding back at him. "Anyway, let me go look. Maybe they fell under the bed."

Sure enough, when I went back to the bedroom, I found the package laying right there on the floor. I was so busy hurrying to get ready that I didn't even notice they'd fallen off the bed.

I picked up the package and read the label, curious to know what they were. The label read "Silkies." The style was sheer-to-waist. The color was premium blush -- a light, creamy, neutral pastel, with violet undertones, perfectly matching my purple heels.

Removing my shoes, I slid my legs into the hose, with no panties underneath. Even in dim lighting, the nylon shimmered invitingly as I gave in to temptation and slowly ran my fingers down my thigh. The tingling sensation felt wonderful against my fingers as I found myself sweeping them back and forth.