A Guide: Maneuvering 50K's into Bed

She REALLY is interested in the fascinating Anne Boylene. She's read several books; they are on her bookshelf. She loves board games. They are sitting in a closet, gathering dust. Remember that treacly sunset picture? Socially acceptable romantic feelings and such.

Except right now, there is this man holding her head steady while he enters her mouth; his other hand is pushing down her dress so her embarrassingly huge breasts will spill out and go all cantilevered and massive, as if her best use in life was merely to serve as a milk producer / blow job provider. He's moaning and lifting her tits up -- sometimes with both hands -- to inelegantly weigh them and consider their heft. She kinda' accepts this.

Okay, but right now she's not just a pair of tits; his sighing voice lets her know she also a pair of lips. Her body is everything to him. His porn star cock is right there, and making this very clear to her, taken out and brushed against her face. And then reinserted into her mouth because he sometimes must take a brief break from the sensations - but then he can't resist her in this role and so he demands more from her.

She thinks: Is this a good sign? Now he wants to 69 her and then do it more and more? And more. She hasn't done this in years -- and never with her last BF. She's fat. Fat girls don't 69. And now they're doing it almost right away. And it's not stopping. And she's on the bottom, so she really can't moderate his insistence and yet -- God -- his mouth is burying itself into her most closely held secrets and he must be tasting and discovering just how much she is okay with this. Maybe a little more than okay. Finally, that sound / voice from her between forced-sucks: "Ohhh." She's starting to show him EVERYTHING.

When he turns her over and rearranges their position for classic fucking, the pink bridesmaid dress is defiled and now living its best life. It is pushed down and pushed up, maximizing the amount of her body on display and getting sex-wrinkles in the fabric that will be difficult to iron out. As intended by him, it is completely pushed down so that her udders spill out / over and slosh to the side and back and forth with each plunge into her pussy.

Those freckles are there in the light. Her fat milk delivery nipples are perhaps the height of sex -- even considering the rest of her massive bosom. "God, your nipples," you blurt out. You suck one and she rises a little bit more. You whisper into her ear: "I love how wet you get." That only seems to make her gush more. Now you can tell her things: "I want to cum in your mouth."

She nods her head: "Okay."

50K's:

The third time you cum in her mouth is the last orgasm of the night. It's the time you manage to keep your eyes open and watch as her lips stay fixed around your shaft; the idea, apparently, is that she is a receptacle for your cock. But also, it is an embrace, which she gives and that you can't resist.

There's no talking, or complaining, or maneuvering now. She's suckling on your cock the way you've suckled on her tits. So maybe a balance has been found in your mutual lust.

That is, until you fall asleep and then awake perhaps an hour later. She's still wearing that dress, you think. Amazing.

You're groggy and see that the morning sun is not yet hinted behind the window's blinds. She's sleeping under the covers, and the air-conditioning is making a gentle white noise hum in the background. The Weather Channel is no longer providing a radar-map-glow to the room, nor is that awful / wonderful nightstand light both revealing and hiding details. It's all a dark mystery.

Until you gently remove yourself from the bed and walk past that open suitcase of hers. You want to get a drink of water from the bathroom sink, but there is another need holding sway.

There, in the mess -- because of course it's messy -- you rifle quietly through the debris that she has brought with her. You turn your head and double-check: She is still asleep, right?

How would you explain this in a way that seems reasonable? As if this fixation could actually coexist within a sensible and stable guy? And then you glimpse that bra tag when you return your attention to the open vault. And then you read that size. You read it again, just to make sure. Holy hell. Udders.

And when you climb back into bed with her, you wrap your arms around her dress-wearing midsection, in a sort of relationship-style sleeping hug. You think to yourself: Tomorrow, you'll want to contemplate her up there standing alongside everyone else. Somehow, you didn't screw this up.