Broken Bra Strap

You've heard of the straw that broke the camel's back – well this is a story about a broken bra strap that finally ended a marriage.

While in many ways I, Denise, was an ordinary thirty one year old woman at the time of the broken bra strap, I did, and still have, two distinguishing characteristics. One, I'm in good physical condition and exercise regularly including jogging. Two, I have big tits. They're not just big; they're dense, and heavy, with hard distended nippples. I have to wear specialty bras at all times in order to function normally.

I met my husband Jack when I was twenty two. He's six years older than I am and very good looking – almost too good looking for his own good. He also can be charming, although my father – a prominent attorney – always considered him "slick" as opposed to charming.

Jack really, really loved my tits – and I think that he grew to love me too, at least it seemed like it. He always was anxious to please me, especially if it got him some nipple sucking, and he'd kill to titty fuck me, which he did often. I enjoyed pleasing him and even though my orgasms from titty fucking were mild compared to vaginal ones, he was so appreciative and gratified that what I lacked in orgasm intensity from a titty fuck was made up for by emotional contentment.

Since my dad considered Jack "slick," and since in my experience my father was proven to be right 99% of the time in his evaluation of people, at my father's urging Jack and I kept our finances separate – including filing separate tax returns – after we were married when I was twenty four and he was thirty. That turned out to be really fortuitous when Jack was arrested for fraud after we had been married for about three years. Nothing that he had done could be traced back to me in any way, although it seemed like the local cops wanted to involve me. After my father got through beating on the D. A., however, the cops actually apologized to me for anything that they had done during their investigation that was insulting to me.

I graciously accepted their apology – and then made it clear to them that if they subpoenaed even one more of my records that I was filing suit against the city, and them personally, for harassment.

Because of his cherubic face, seemingly heartfelt expressions of remorse, restitution, saving the State the cost of a trial, and a female judge, Jack got sentenced to only four years, with parole available after two. The restitution and attorney fees cost him all of his money – mine remained undisturbed except for what I insisted my father's law firm take for out-of-pocket expenditures in protecting me. That left me responsible for the mortgage on our house.

My parents wanted me to divorce Jack, but I did really love the guy, despite his troubles, so I had a heart-to-heart talk with him rather than immediately filing for divorce.

"Jack, give me your sales pitch as to why I should stay married to you?" I asked him after his conviction but ten days before he had to report to the white-collar prison where he'd be serving his sentence.

"You're my rock, Denise; I need you to survive. I love you so much, and I'll be a new man when I get out. Please stick it out – I know that you love me too," he replied with his big sad beguiling eyes.

"Yeah but love might not be enough. How am I supposed to keep the house just on my earnings, and what am I supposed to do to satisfy my needs while you're in stir?" was my retort with folded arms.

"Look, I know that it's a lot to ask, but I guarantee you that I'll be paroled after two years. Wives wait for their husbands going off to war for longer than that under more stressful situations. Please Hon, you've got to stick by me."

"It's got to be only two years, Jack. I can't take four, and I won't. You have to do whatever is necessary to get out after two. If you do, and if you'll agree to sign papers for me to sell the house if things get too tight monetarily, I'll stick with you."

"Thank you, Denise – I love you so much," he actually gushed. He then lifted me up, carried me to our bedroom, and gave me the best oral of my life up to that point, followed by one of the best vaginal fucks, and after a really quick recovery a truly enthusiastic, zealous, and satisfying – for both of us – titty fuck.

We had sex at least twice a day until I had to take him to report to prison. It was going to have to sustain us for two years because I had no intention of cheating and he wouldn't be able to. I cried when I dropped him off, and almost got in several accidents on the way home because of the tears in my eyes. Fortunately my best friend Jill was not only keenly aware of my situation but committed to helping me, so when I got back to my house I was greeted by Jill and two other friends. They took me to a late lunch and a stage play, and I was able to get my mind off of my troubles for a while.

_____________________

The time that Jack served in prison was harder for me than I had even contemplated for several reasons. Not in any particular order (except where indicated otherwise) the things that made it hard were:

First was the loneliness at night, and when we would normally be doing things together. I dealt with this in part by becoming even closer to Jill and two other friends, but primarily by upping my exercise regime. I was a regular at my health club and on the local jogging and bicycle paths. Even though before Jack's incarceration I was always in at least decent shape, in view of my new workout regime and the time that I devoted to fitness I was clearly not only in the best shape of my life but – according to my female trainer – in the top 2% of females in the entire country.

The second one was finances – I did end up having to sell the house. Fortunately we had about $100,000 in equity in it so after costs, commissions, and the like I was able to put $35,000 in my brokerage account, and $35,000 in Jack's bank account, and the condo that I bought I could afford quite easily on my earnings alone.

The third was the temptation. Guys had always found me attractive – I don't think that it was only because of my big tits, but that certainly was a factor – and there was no exception now even though I always wore my wedding and engagement rings. In fact, my exercise regime had made me the most attractive that I ever was in my life, and even though I dressed conservatively I got hit on constantly; the grocery store, the health club, at work, at the mall, even just walking down the street. I was constantly horny, and only with a good vibrator and all the will power that I could muster was I able to avoid cheating on Jack.

The fourth – and worst – thing was how Jack changed. While Jack had always been protective, he was never clingy or overly jealous. That changed dramatically while he was in stir. It started shortly after the first time that I visited him. Even though he was about 150 miles away I went every other Sunday for at least two hours. I – and undoubtedly my tits – was clearly noticed by the other inmates when I met with Jack in the common room where families visited. It was clear to me that some of the other prisoners were telling him that there was no way that someone who looked like me could avoid all of the guys that were sure to be hitting on me.

Jack became more jealous and accusatory with each stopover. It got so that I was completely stressed out by the end of each visit, and I no longer looked forward to them. Finally, after he had been in jail about fourteen months I had had enough. When he made some snide remark about how I must be getting "serviced properly" because I looked so good, I laid into him.

"Listen, asshole; I'm fucking sick and tired of your snide remarks, baseless accusations, and perverted brain. It's been really, really hard on me to remain faithful and if you will recall I wasn't the one who defrauded people and got put here – you were the one. So the next time that you make some overt comment questioning my fidelity I'm going out and fuck an entire football team!"

With that I knocked my metal chair onto the concrete floor and stormed out, creating as much of a scene as I could.

In the next weekly phone call that Jack was allowed he apologized to me – although it rang a little hollow since it was in terms of "pity poor me," but I accepted it. I made it clear that I wasn't going to put up with his shit again. The remaining visits until he was released (after twenty two months, even less than the two years) he basically stayed on the wagon, although at times I could see him biting his lip.

When Jack got home, we had some really passionate lovemaking for about a week straight. I took off work several days, and we spent them fucking and sucking almost the entire time that we weren't eating or sleeping. My pussy and nipples were so sore – as were his cock and mouth – that we finally had to cool it.

Jack was not in the best place mentally, however, after our first week of fucking. His job options were now limited. He was used to making close to six figures and now – in view of his fraud conviction, which most potential employers were obviously concerned about – the only work that he could get he considered way beneath him. His ego was having a hard time with me making four times what he was even though I was paying for the condo mortgage, taxes and fees all by myself (we still kept our finances separate, and as far as I was concerned that never was going to change).

Probably because of his stressed financial condition, bruised ego, and lingering jealous and accusatory thoughts from his days in prison, six months after he got out he was unpleasant to live with. It got to the point that only the sex – which was still very good – was making it bearable; I started to seriously consider divorce.

Then came the bra strap incident.

__________________

I was out jogging on a Saturday morning, wearing one of my older substantial strapless jog bras with just a sleeveless shell over it, when I sprinted for about a hundred meters, trying to purge my mind of thoughts of divorce. My boldly bouncing hefty boobs apparently became too much for my old bra, and the strap snapped. It was sudden and startling, and hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. The snapping of the bra onto my back and sides raised welts, and my tits hurt from their sudden release, when a flopping nipple almost put my eye out too (ha, ha).

Then there was the embarrassment of my naked left boob completely popping out of my sleeveless shell. Of course this happened at the most crowded part of the jogging trail, and I almost ran over a guy coming the other way when I was startled and became fully cognizant of my predicament.

Fortunately the guy I almost ran over – and did run into – was big enough that I didn't flatten him, and he was a gentleman besides.

"Oh shit – sorry!" I exclaimed as I banged into him. "I just had a serious wardrobe malfunction."

"I can see that," he chuckled, seemingly making eye contact with me while simultaneously admiring my left boob. "It doesn't look like you can continue with that outfit without becoming the object of attraction for every guy around. Can I offer some help?"

"What would that be?" I skeptically asked as I popped my naked left boob back into my sleeveless shell (for all the good that it did since my tits were still exposed almost up to the nipples) and gingerly removed my now useless bra.

"I just started my jog about half a kilometer ago. Take my shirt," he said as he removed his not-yet-sweaty T-shirt with "Northwestern University Volleyball" proudly displayed on it along with a college seal "and put this on, and I'll give you a ride back to your car if you want since I'm not sure that you'll be jogging anymore right now."

He obviously had gotten a good look at my tits to make that assessment because, in fact, if I continued to try and jog without a sturdy jog bra it would not only be uncomfortable and exhibitionist, but painful since I was a long way from my car.

"You know that's nice of you," I said as I reluctantly took his crew-neck T-shirt and quickly put it on – primarily because two guys slowed as they jogged by and were ogling me, "but I don't know you and I'm not stupid enough to hitch a ride with someone I don't know even if he appears to be a real gentleman."

"You're wise beyond your years," he chuckled as he guided me by my elbow off to the side of the jogging path. "But I have a solution. Do you have your phone with you?"

"No – only my ID and car keys," I replied, now finally noticing just how big – and really good looking – this guy was since I was virtually swimming in his shirt and it hung down to my knees.

"Well then use mine," he said, reaching into a small fanny pack that had been hidden by his shirt and was abutting his really nice six-pack abs – not that I noticed. "Call a friend and tell him or her that you're getting a ride with Bill Vanderbeek," he said handing me his phone with one hand and flashing me his driver's license with his name on it with the other. "You also can tell them the license plate number of my car when we get to it."

His words made sense; his big smile on his handsome face gave me a trusting feeling; and his big hard body – well, I was still married so I wasn't going there.

"OK Bill Vnderbeek," I smiled in reply as I latched onto his driver's license to make sure that that was the name on it. "You're very kind – and chivalrous; a real paladin!"

Of course I wasn't going to call Jack with this information – but I did call Jill. When she started with twenty questions I cut her off. "I'm just calling in case he turns out to be an ax murderer so at least my spirit will know that the guy who offed me gets put in jail," I laughed in Bill's smiling presence as I ended the call and then handed the phone back to Bill.

We chatted as we walked – I didn't jog for the aforementioned tit-flopping reason – to his car which fortunately was even less than half a kilometer away.

"Call your friend again and give her the license plate number," he smiled as he pointed to it. I pretended to call Jill again, but saw no need for it, then handed his phone back to him.

Bill was very friendly and talkative as he drove me to my car, at a point along the jogging path about three miles away by road. He didn't pry, and was forthcoming about information about himself, so I probably revealed more about myself than was appropriate – including my full name, Denise Richards.

"Related to the famous one?" he inquired when I told him my name.

"No, I'm not good-looking enough for that to be true," I chuckled.

"Don't sell yourself short," he seriously responded, then lightly changed the subject.

When we got to my car I thanked him profusely and started to take off his T-shirt.

"Just keep it on; you may have need to get outside your car on your way home and you don't want to cause any heart attacks," he snickered.

"Thanks, I think," I snickered back, "but I don't want to steal your shirt. What will your wife or girlfriend say?"

I regretted that last question as soon as it left my mouth – obviously it was a "fishing" question.

"Not presently attached," he grinned. "If we run into each other again you can return it. I jog this same path almost every Saturday morning starting at about ten," he said.

"OK – thanks again, Bill Vanderbeek," I smiled as I closed his car door and got into mine. Gentleman that he was he waited until my car started up before he pulled away. I saw him remove another T-shirt from his gym bag in the back seat just before he left.

I was disturbed that my crotch was wet as I drove home, and then even more disturbed when I anticipated what Jack's reaction would be, causing me to hope that he wouldn't be home when I got there.

Unfortunately he was home.

When I walked into the condo wearing the knee-length "Northwestern University Volleyball" T-shirt his eyes got big.

"Where'd you get that shirt?" he snipped.

"My bra strap broke while I was jogging and a guy was nice enough to stop and give it to me to cover up with so that I didn't put on a show," I replied, trying to smile.

"I'll bet that you gave him a real show, though," he snarled, and then continued with questions and comments suggesting that I went jogging with prearranged plans to meet and fuck guys. I got livid. I slammed the master bedroom door shut and locked it, and took a long shower hoping to cool down.

While I did cool down the time in the shower also helped me to put things into perspective.

Jack was not anywhere close to the guy that I married. I had stayed true to him while he was in prison, was now essentially supporting him, and what I was getting in return was jealousy, unfounded accusations, and shit in general. I realized for the first time – or at least admitted it to myself for the first time – that I wasn't in love with him anymore, and that my thoughts of divorce were justified. The broken bra strap was just like the last straw on the camel's back.

After a frosty weekend I went to see a divorce attorney, Susan B. Law (that really is her name – no shit). As always, and to be expected, it was bad news for the spouse that wants out and makes the most money, whether you be man or woman. Even though Jack and I kept our finances separate, and I bought the condo and had paid all of the bills, he would be getting half of everything and I'd have to pay him maintenance for at least two years.

That scenario did not appeal to me.

My wheels in my brain were spinning full time on a way out even after Jack gave me a token apology. I pretended to accept it, and actually let him fuck my tits, and then my pussy, once the next week. That was more bad news; I only got with the program and orgasmed by fantasizing that it was Bill fucking me, not Jack.

The next Saturday I got to the lot where Bill's car was the previous week when he gave me a ride home. I was doing stretching when he arrived at 9:52 a. m. He smiled widely when he saw me. I handed him back his washed shirt. He took off the one that he had on – exposing his great upper body again – and put the Northwestern Volleyball shirt on.

"I didn't want to tell you last time, but this is my favorite shirt – the only one that I have left from my collegiate volleyball days – so I'm really pleased to have it back," he smiled.

"How could I not return it when you were so gracious," I smiled back.

"Say, could you join me on a jog?" he asked as he did a little stretching of his own.

"I couldn't keep up," I replied.

"You looked like you were going pretty fast before your wardrobe malfunction last week – and you do have a sturdy jog bra on now, don't you?" he laughed.

"Yes, dipshit, I do," I fake snarled. We both laughed.

"Look, let's start out and if one of us is too fast for the other we just split – no big deal," he responded.

I was extremely pleased that even though it was highly unlikely his comment was polite enough to allow that I might be faster and in better shape than he was.

We jogged together for my normal six miles, chatting most of the way. I really liked this guy. When we got through with the six mile loop he said "I'm going to go another couple of miles – will I see you here again next week?"

"Maybe," I smiled. "Thanks for the company, and I hope that I didn't hold you up too much."

"It was perfect," he smiled before he took off.

Actually it was perfect. He knew that I was married and clearly respected that, so he didn't actually hit on me during our run. He also didn't ogle my boobs – although he did "notice" them – and he was a great conversationalist. He was all of smart, interesting, and personable and had a good job besides. He was an administrative law judge (quite different than a released felon).

I met Jill for lunch once I showered after my Saturday morning jog. I told her my predicament – no longer in love with Jack, but not wanting to get burned in the divorce.