Anything for Mrs. Titball

Gasping and clutching the grass—tearing at its roots—I felt the final pulses end. Other than my rapid chuffs of air, silence and stillness ensued. The hot peak of energy left me.

Feeling her move, I glanced down.

I heard Mrs. Titball slosh the fluid in her mouth once and then swallow it. Her face was pink as she slid from my cock and opened her mouth. A short, satisfied gasp burst from her, and she smiled with joy or pride, I couldn't tell.

To this day, I don't know how I got from the lawn into her house. I can't remember walking there. I don't recall setting my rifle against the wall beside her front door. I can't recollect Mrs. Titball inviting me inside or even saying a word. Yet, for some reason whenever I dream of that day, I dream that she carried me into the house in her arms.

I don't think she couldn't have, of course. I was 165 pounds at the time.

What I do remember is sitting on the edge of the bed in her guest bedroom, still dizzy from the blowjob and naked from head to toe. Mrs. Titball stood in front of me, unbuttoning the front of her dress. Halfway down, she stopped and, reaching inside the top, scooped free one of those massive tits.

The areola looked like a milk chocolate disc about the size and shape of a circular drink coaster. Large as it was, it was dwarfed by the heft and breadth of the flesh around it. The coloring of her skin changed from light bronze around her neck to creamy white at her breast, from sparsely freckled to clear and unblemished. I reached for the huge tit, but Mrs. Titball gently deflected my hand.

She stepped toward me, backing me onto the bed with a slow, unrelenting charge. I collapsed prostrate. She climbed over me, and before I could settle underneath her, she fed the nipple into my mouth. I grunted in surprise, but I sucked on it for her. I had no idea nipples could be so large; it was like the crinkled end of an Italian sausage in my mouth.

Mrs. Titball issued a long, satisfied sigh that finished with an airy laugh. Her body relaxed, and the flesh of that enormous breast began smothering my face in downy warmth. When I needed air, I licked the nipple and turned my face to the side, snatching oxygen in gasps.

I felt something underneath me. Glancing, I saw she was supporting her body with one hand. The other worked feverishly out of sight, but I felt the movement.

A moment later, she pushed herself up, off the bed, and stood like a tower over me. Smiling with excitement, she put a hand on the bed for support and raised one foot. A pair of white lace panties stretched there. Mrs. Titball's fingers slid the waistband over her ankle boot, and then she raised the other foot, slipped the panties free, and dropped them on the floor.

I pushed myself to a sitting position.

Mrs. Titball leaned forward and kissed me. Our tongues met. Her lips were soft and warm like her homemade bread. Her tongue was delicate and feminine in its gentle caresses of mine. She massaged my chest and explored lower, and soon her long fingers wrapped around my reawakened cock.

I heard a satisfied gasp, and she stroked me several times.

When she stopped, she pulled me to my feet. Stepping around me toward the bed, she bent over and put her hands on the mattress. She waited there without looking back.

I stepped behind her as if in a daze. Reaching down, I began to pull the ankle-length dress up, revealing those long legs.

They were only slightly less bronze than her face and equally dotted with dark freckles. Like her breast, the higher I drew her dress the fewer the freckles and the milkier the flesh. Her legs were shapely, strong, and endlessly long. They were as smooth as the skin of her neck.

I hiked the rest of the skirt and tossed it onto her back. Then, I drew back.

Not in shock. Not in revulsion. In awe. I needed to back up for the same reason a person sitting too close to the movie screen might find a seat further back—to take it all in.

From hip to hip, Mrs. Titball's ass was wider than my shoulders. The creamy skin shined, showing not a single blemish. Everywhere one looked, it curved—the waist, hips, cheeks, and thighs, and the only straight line was where the two globes—like two overfull balloons—met to form a thick and dark vertical line.

I put my hand on it. It was downy and warm. It yielded to my touch without being squishy. Bending lower, I snatched a breath when I saw a plume of impossibly red hairs surrounding her pussy.

That red against that white, fuck it was beautiful. My exploration of women's bodies on the Internet had led me to grow accustomed to—if not expect and prefer—a clean-shaven pussy. I changed my mind at the sight of those stunning red curls. I even liked the sparse wisps that peeked from the cleft of her ass where her anus lay hidden.

Mrs. Titball purred at my touch, but she didn't move. She remained bent over, waiting and letting me relish in the sensory overload of the moment.

I went to my knees behind her, craning up because she was so lofty. Slipping my hands around her smooth thighs, I drew myself in. The hairs tickled my face as I breathed in her scent. Stretching up with my tongue, I found her and dragged over it like a child lapping up the rich filling from a pie plate. The lips parted and my tongue delved inside, tasting her fluids. The tip found her little rigid knob and the gap underneath. I heard Mrs. Titball's deep, sensual breathing while my tongue explored her.

Consumed with burning, refulgent need, I rose behind her.

My cock seemed dwarf-like beside her ass. I didn't care. I clutched it and placed the tip in the spot my tongue had first touched. Her body parted for it, and the knob sank into her vagina as if by magnetism. I waited there, enjoying the stunning sensation.

Mrs. Titball quit breathing. She froze, it seemed, in anticipation.

Holding her bare hips, I thrust. The passage was slow. She was tighter in there than I expected. I felt her fluids paint my cock with lubrication. When my stomach bounced against her ass and my cock recoiled, Mrs. Titball grunted—a deep, feminine burst—as if stricken by some awful blow.

It is impossible to capture everything I felt, heard, smelled, and saw during this, my first time fucking a woman. I remember feeling supercharged, like a black-powder rifle whose owner has put far too much gunpowder in the chamber. I also recall the feeling that there was too much of Mrs. Titball to enjoy—as if I had sat down at a banquet where the table was so full of goodness that I would never be able to try everything I wanted.

I will never forget how gratifying it was to give her pleasure. I didn't think I could because her body made mine seem small. I thought I was pretty normal down there. Still, I wondered how I could ever please her. I needn't have worried. Every thrust of mine was met by her sweet, aching gasps.

I had to nudge her feet further apart to give myself a better angle to plunge into her. Once, I tried reaching for her exposed breast, but her body was so lengthy that I couldn't reach it. I held her hips and caressed her big ass, fucking harder.

Panting, Mrs. Titball's body began trembling. Her arms, like pillars supporting her heavy chest, collapsed. Bent almost in half, she cried out as my thrusts slammed home. She grunted and hollered to me where my cock was and what it was doing.

Hearing her words, I don't know what came over me. I drew back my hand and smacked her ass. Even in my most reckless and unhinged sexual fantasies I never imagined doing something like that to a girl, much less to Mrs. Titball.

She cried out in something like shocked joy, so I did it again. And again, and suddenly, Mrs. Titball's voice unleashed. She sang and cried out while I rammed into her.

She hollered my name, and I went dizzy with the uncontrollable race toward a climax.

My body urged me to be still, to quit fucking and let the cum flow, but I didn't want to. I liked hearing Mrs. Titball scream in pleasure.

Pinching my eyes shut and holding back the flood with every muscle, I fucked her even harder.

It did not last long. As she shouted, Mrs. Titball's pussy began milking my cock, squeezing me down there. The bliss of that feeling froze me solid. I stood stock-still behind her, cock hilted in her pussy, and I came. The satisfaction I earlier felt being inside of her suddenly seemed like boredom compared to the exultation of my climax. My mind seemed to explode with it.

I gripped Mrs. Titball's ass like a wolverine. I grunted with each spasm, feeling my seed fire into her. She moaned, and between those sounds and her panting, Mrs. Titball told me what my cock was doing inside of her.

When it ended, she collapsed forward, lying prone on the bed. I went to my knees on the floor and fell backward, panting.

I couldn't speak. I wanted to tell her that I had no idea, that it was incredible.

Mrs. Titball, chuffing air, began laughing. The sound was replete with exhaustion and happiness, so I started laughing, too.

Through her mirth, Mrs. Titball wheezed, "Oh, Mark, I needed that. My word, I needed that."

***

We dressed. Finishing first, I gave her privacy and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she emerged and came to me with a kiss—a simple one.

"Now, Mark, you're not the kind of young man who needs to kiss and tell are you?"

"No."

"Good, because a story like this has a way of getting around, and people might get the wrong idea. I've got a business to run and a good reputation that I don't want to see sullied."

I nodded.

"And as far as you're concerned," she continued, "while I don't think your father would mind it too much, I know your mother would raise a mighty stink if she knew the things I'd done with her son's penis."

I blushed at the thought, assuring her, "No. No way I'm telling anyone, Mrs. Titball."

She hesitated for a moment, and then she smiled, saying, "I'm not used to hearing the man who just made love to me call me 'Mrs. Titball.'" Thinking about it for a second, she added, "And I suppose I don't mind it too much from you. Yes, I think I'd like you to keep calling me that-a-way."

I grinned.

She added, "And I'll keep calling you 'Mark.'" Leaning close to me, she whispered, "And if you come back to my bed, maybe I'll call you 'Venom.'"

I smiled sheepishly. She laughed with gusto, fanning her face as it turned red with mirth.

When her laughter subsided, she petted my hair, preened a bit at my clothing, handed me my rifle, and shooed me out the front door, saying, "Best you be in the cabin when your brother gets back."

***

Sam returned frustrated, telling me that he'd just as soon head home rather than go back out tomorrow. I argued for another day—just one more—but he wasn't having it. I even told him about the enormous doe but to no avail.

We packed our things, loaded them into his car, and walked over to the house to say our thanks and goodbyes.

Mrs. Titball opened the door as we mounted the steps.

We chatted in the kitchen for a few minutes about the hunting, and then Sam rose. Mrs. Titball hugged and kissed our cheeks as we thanked her. She told us how much she'd miss us, and as Sam headed out, she said, "Sam, I'm going to borrow your brother for just a minute to talk about his lemon bar recipe."

Sam nodded and left for the car.

She turned to me, saying, "Thank you, Mark, for bringing me such joy as I haven't felt in years."

I shrugged and thanked her shyly.

She added, "I certainly do hope to see you again next year—or sooner, maybe?"

I looked at her. Catching on, I said, "I've never done any other types of hunting, but—."

"But, you could learn," she said, finishing my thought. "You could practice here, couldn't you?"

Nodding, I said, "Archery season is a lot longer than rifle."

She smiled. "It is, and there's waterfowl and small game, too."

"Yeah."

"You wouldn't even need to rent the cabin, now would you?"

I smiled, and she kissed me full on the lips, deeply. It was a woman's kiss that foreshadowed many, many things. Good things.

*****

End Note: Thanks for reading this story. I apologize for the errors I missed. Always nice to hear from thoughtful readers. -FS/Mr. Squeeze