Just for Sex

It was four years since I had last seen her. Four years was a long time. Enough time to put things in perspective and for me to move on, and to somehow forget about her. But I had done none of those things, and I knew the reason: It was because of the way she looked.

Actually the truth was this: Almost humorously (or tragically) it was because of her enormous breasts. And then, of course, because of the connection we eventually found.

Finally it happened. At the conclusion of one particularly frustrating date, she had relented to some unknown force, and suddenly our awkward time together transformed. That particular date had culminated in her bedroom as I viewed her tall and over-full body move from an object of distant lust, into one I could actually possess and touch.

That night she called to me to join her in the bedroom, and as I stood transfixed in the doorway she removed her clothing piece by piece...and yet she decided to leave her high heels on. Those special shoes were items that hours earlier I had identified as made-for-sex, although I was sure I would never see them perform in their intended role. But as she finished her de-clothing act, and then walked the handful of steps to her bed, it was apparent she was keeping them on in apparent recognition of my fantasies, and maybe a few of her own.

I had followed her over to her home, driving closely behind her car so as to not let her out of my sight. I had sat in her living room, picking up fashion magazines and paging through them distractedly, uncertain but becoming hopeful as to what awaited me. I had wondered as she called me to her bedroom, a place where I would come to spend many similar nights. I viewed her standing there, already lifting her blouse over her titanic breasts, which were still hidden but defined by a super-sturdy white bra. She explained that she didn't need foreplay, just in case I was wondering.

With perhaps some understanding of how she looked (and the growing size of my erection visible behind my pants) she reached behind her back, undid the many clasps to her bra, and suddenly her shocking breasts were wobbling and jutting forward in full view. As she bent over and maneuvered the last pieces of clothing from her body, her outrageous tits swayed and relocated themselves yet again. Her skirt was removed and then her panties, but my eyes were fixed on her most astonishing assets: They were swinging and hanging heavily, suspended from her torso like an impossible fantasy. I watched, barely able to contain myself, as she took the few steps to her bed - still in those red high heels - and thus nearly to my own height; the shoes were little exclamation points that had so captured my imagination earlier, and also suggested she was a different kind of girl than I had once believed.

Positioning herself on that bed was the moment she made her final overture to me: It was time for sex. Just like the preceding few moments in her bedroom, it was a simple matter of fact. She spread her legs wide in preparation for me to mount her - and looked straight into my eyes - yet those high heels suggested some other mysterious reason we found ourselves together in her bedroom.

************

Later I would think back to that suddenly created scene and know that she had presented herself to me in that ordinary / special way because of many different urges. It was as if she needed something, and I happened to be available for just that something. The breasts that I had obsessed from a distance were now offered. Those huge mounds were spilling to either side of her torso, and her appropriately oversized nipples incredibly obvious even in the half-light of the room. Her pubic hair forming a perfect little triangle of a target.

In the corner of her room she had apparently turned on an oscillating fan before my arrival on the scene, as she would often do in future nights as a precursor to sex. It was one of those commonplace $40 standing fans that a person might find for sale in any discount store, and as it swept from side to side the slow cooling breeze anticipated what was going to follow.

Perhaps she still wore her red high heels because she didn't want to take the time to undo the little strap that bound them to her ankles. Perhaps she still wore them because (even during dinner) she was hinting to me at how much she liked to play dress-up, and as I would later learn, how much she liked to try on different versions of herself.

Up to that point she had hidden that person from me. Sometimes she was to be my slave; sometimes a reluctant school girl; sometimes a sex doll that was mine to enjoy in whatever way I wanted. Sometimes - after I decided I couldn't see her anymore - she offered herself to me as a prostitute that I didn't have to pay. Even months after that, when I had clearly abandoned all contact with her, she would still write me: I just need sex with you a couple of times a week. That's all. No conversation necessary.

Later on we would again exchange messages, and that was when she told me what she REALLY needed from me. That was when a length of rope made its memorable appearance, along with a word that made it clear what I was to do to her.

But on that first night, she was a mostly-good girl who simply needed a certain kind of straight-to-the-point-intercourse. Nothing fancy, aside from those high heels. And she needed it IMMEDIATELY. And I was the man who happened to be there. Somehow my persistence had justified this next step with her.

************

After a few dozen encounters with her as my sex partner, I had accumulated thousands of pictures of her on my phone and my computer, which continually prodded me. Pictures that were not of her face, but just of her curves. Her shape. Her XL figure. Her titanic breasts, mostly. Even these four years later, I still remembered taking the photos. Sometimes I snapped hundreds of pictures in a single night. Her breasts and nipples often reflected light differently in the photos from where I had kissed them with wet lips and obsessed them between clicks of the camera.

One memorable night when I arrived, I found her dressed up as a "Goth Bondage Pornstar." (As she termed it with a smile and a laugh.) The joke was that in real life, she was the exact opposite: Typically she had brown-ish hair, mild lipstick, and an outwardly conventional demeanor. People who knew her certainly imagined that she was a "normal" girl. Or at least as normal as she could be with those breasts. She had a conservative and responsible job, and a condo with a cute little balcony. She decorated that balcony with a hummingbird feeder, and a set of attractive wicker chairs so that she could sometimes sit and enjoy a view of a nearby lake, or in the late hours, a star-filed sky.

But on that memorable Goth Bondage Pornstar night, she had me blindfold her. She had me tie her arms together at her wrists, suggesting things she would years later ask me to do even more forcefully. She wore a too-tight black dress that hugged her shape and a black wig that completely hid her real brown hair and transformed her appearance. All of which doubled the effect of the scene.

She was playing a role, which meant she wanted me to play a role, as well.

She had chosen jewelry that was theatrical and bold. She had decided to wear a necklace that was more like a leash. She wanted me to take pictures of her like that. And later to treat her like that. So I took dozens and dozens of pictures of her to document the situation: her eyes covered, and wrists tied and placed over her head to make the fantasy perfectly clear.

And then (as always) her breasts. They started inside the black dress, but within a few moments I had pulled the top of her overwhelmed dress down, and then lifted them out the last measure. She couldn't see my transfixed expression with her eyes covered, but she still smiled, breaking character.

Before meeting her, I had never experienced such a thing with a woman: Ridiculous, mountainous, overweight yet gravity-fighting breasts. They turned heads when we were out on the town, and fixed my attention when we were alone. Sometimes I felt self-conscious next to her, especially when I saw the way various waiters at restaurants often grabbed a looooong look down her blouse. Inevitably, this was so they could glimpse the vast cleavage of those extraordinary breasts before they hid away under her bra and top, and then the way that over-full bra still pushed against her clothes with supersized effort. It was predictable: They took her order as we sat together and helped themselves to an obvious stare - they couldn't help it. Viewable at other tables was the occasional woman who frowned when she truly grasped the not so well hidden size of the breasts that I likewise obsessed from a distance.

I wondered: Were such women envious, scandalized, or maybe even disgusted? Or maybe they felt some other emotion, which I couldn't imagine. Maybe, to them, she was just a bizarre curiosity.

Her bras read 44N or 46K (and other sizes as well) and yet all of them found considerable breast material pushing out around the sides and over the top of the cups. I wondered if she was in denial about just how huge her tits actually were: I supposed bras could be found to fit her, but when she hypothetically purchased those correct fitting bras, and then located them in her dresser drawer every morning before getting dressed, I wondered if she DIDN'T want to read her correct size on that little tag. Her tits might have been simply too much. Maybe she didn't want to think about her body in that type of detail.

My hands scooped her barely contained feminine masses out (two hands for one breast, then two hands for the other breast). As always I felt their pure sensuality, and yet amazing unwieldly weight, which proved such a contradiction. Her exposed tits found their jutting forward / sagging position, erotically framed as they spilled over the top quarter of that black fabric of her dress, with nipples that looked engorged and milk-ready after I sucked on them, as if she was pregnant.

Absolute jugs of obsession were wobbling and swaying in front of me with every move she made, and so I snapped pictures, and I thrilled and quivered with anticipation. The camera's pictures made me rethink the manner in which her arms were bound together at her wrists, and I understood that fact as one of many ways she was helpless against me.

But I was also helpless: At such times I knew I could only manage my urges a few minutes until my self-control failed.

Later, reviewing the pictures, my lust was clearly evident: Her nipples were wet and even more proud from my frequent between-photograph suckling on her tits. Her black lipstick smudged from my hurried kisses, and then later from the way I forced my cock into her mouth, and used her exclusively as a blow job provider. At that point I wasn't so much acting like a badly behaved photographer, as I was a man who simply HAD TO CONSUME HER.

How outrageous she looked. How undeniably pornographic her tits were (always) because when I handled them, and fixated on them with my mouth, nothing else went through me with such a razor-sharp focus. When I had her kneel on the floor in front of me I cupped and supported them as she performed fellatio, and it meant I was on the edge almost from the start: Breast material squeezing between my fingers; her nipples enormous and clearly designed for hours of sucking could be felt beneath my hands; the incredible poundage of them as I lifted them up.

I was infatuated by them. And the fact that she allowed me to treat them as sexual objects only added to the ecstasy. In my more contemplative moments I wondered if I let too much of myself show at such times. Her tits made her an absolute fetish and a fixation for the growing sex-corners of my mind. When I lost control, pushing in and out of her mouth like I only cared about one thing, it wasn't just the feel of her lips or the pull of her mouth that sent me on a rampage, it was the sensation of holding on to those tits and fondling them as she sucked me off. I worried that I was now ruined for other women. Nothing could compare.

A frequent position of ours was her on top of me: She rode my nearly exploding cock and leaned forward, which meant those always obsessed tits wobbled and bounced like pure pornographic material in front of my face as I took turns suckling on them, and other times as I elevated them up to view them from another amazed perspective as she cried out with an "Oh-oh-oh."

Calming down, after she had exhausted herself with orgasms, she sometimes asked simply enough: "Where do you want to cum?"

She kept a bottle of scented oil in a drawer in a nightstand beside her bed, and often times I would reach over to retrieve it as she positioned herself on her back, and I spilled a small amount of that oil right between her tits (in the midst of heaven) and she would then push her huge globes together. My cock was soon to be disappearing in that monumental cleavage and her pale-white flesh would be squishing around her hands as she helped me tit-fuck her. My cum inevitably spurting on her neck...sometimes up towards her chin...towards her mouth... I wondered if she knew I was dying to (one day) simply cum on her face, and for that moment have her completely. I imagined then - in a sense - she would also own me.

Sometimes she allowed me to watch as she masturbated, and at such moments, one of her hands would inevitably find one of her tits, which she would then squeeze and fondle. And then - always - she would roll a nipple between her fingers (as if she was fantasizing about a mouth nursing on it) and her other hand would operate a vibrator and bring her cunt and body to a roaring orgasm.

At such times her self-grab of her breast (clearly an unconscious maneuver made in the throes of her self-absorption) made me melt: it showed exactly how strong the connection was between her purest sexual pleasure and her crazy, too-enormous tits. There were occasional moments I worried she wanted to get breast reduction surgery, but then immediately I recognized, instead, that she needed them in her own way.

"No one else has ever fucked me like you," she would cry as I thrust into her, using her tits (as she later described it) "for leverage." Sometimes I thought: I love this woman.

And then later, when the sex was not front and center, and we struggled to talk about life otherwise, I knew it wasn't actually love at all.

************

When we first met she was moonlighting as a waitress to make some extra money at a horrible so-called "family restaurant." (As I would learn, her credit card debt was out of control.) It was a place where the parking lot out front featured hundreds of weeds sprouting from between cracks in the asphalt; inside the décor was literally peeling off the walls. Sitting down I knew I had made a mistake...That was until I saw her.

She visited other tables, and my eyes locked onto her form. She was tall; she was definitely fat; she was dressed in some dowdy restaurant uniform.

I regarded her body, which was camouflaged by an unattractive and ill-fitting white collared shirt (that I imagined she wore with contempt) and black pants fashioned in an unflattering men's-style. All of which still couldn't hide her feminine voluptuousness. Beneath that baggy and several sizes too large shirt her tits tried to hide, but were still enormously outlined and obvious in their jutting / sagging-forward hugeness. The collar gapped around her neck; the shoulders drooped. The situation was clear to anyone with a hint of imagination: Shirts simply were NOT made to contain tits like hers, and so she had to buy those shirts oversized.

Only once, years before, had I ever been on a date with a pleasantly plump fat girl.

Again, at the time, I had been attracted to her breasts, which were simply nice and full, and on our first (and only date) I had been given a glimpse of ecstasy: Our otherwise uneventful date ended with my hands crawling under her bra, and her leaning over to give me a surprising "good night" blow job. This had concluded our date at 11:45 pm in my car. I wanted to make it a regular thing, maybe see where it went (and obsess those tits and feel that mouth) but her lucky ex-boyfriend showed up again a week later, and curtailed my plans. It was okay, I summarized, because it was merely physical. But I realized I had uncovered and nurtured some of my Huge-Breast-Lust, which congregated in the corners of my psyche.

As I sat at that sad restaurant, I watched my new fixation. I viewed her as she went table to table. I daydreamed about the woman underneath that baggy white collared shirt. I realized (again) I had a crazy need. I saw the way she unsmilingly delivered salads to tables and refilled water glasses. I wondered if she too might be gamely interested in unzipping my pants at the end of a date at 11:45 pm.

I wondered: Was the occasional fat and huge-titted girl available for just such experiences? Was it possible a few were secretly sex-driven? I clearly had a XL tit fetish, which was again roaring in my mind.

************

As it turned out, we were an incredible five dates into whatever our relationship would eventually turn into, before I deeply kissed her. As it turned out, I was starting to believe she didn't really care about sex at all.

She kept me at a distance. She was wise to my designs. She seemed to intuit that I wanted her for one reason only. She gave me that scowl on her face far too often. I gathered that she had been burned by my kind of man many times before, and she most definitely didn't want to be some man's fetish, thanks to her tits. Maybe she saw the way my eyes took her in. Or she recoiled at my over-enthusiasm about going on a date with her, and my complete lack of composure around her.

She leaned forward as we played a game of air-hockey, and I looked down the V-neck of her blouse and shuddered to see her gigantic pendulous tits. I watched in libidinal awe as she moved around to try and hit the floating puck, and I caught glimpses as her breasts (perhaps best described as udders at such times) hung from her body. They were suspended and swaying in her purely functional (and straining with the weight) white bra. Later, as we sat around and tried to talk, I gazed like a fool as she got up to leave and visit the bathroom after our drinks arrived, and I eyed those mounds, which hovered underneath several layers of fabric. (They were so temptingly close to my mouth for just a moment, that my mind went otherwise blank.) As she walked away, I saw the manner in which other eyes evaluated her as well.

I was try-too-hard on our phone conversations, and probably seemed insincere in person, because I knew we weren't anything close to soulmates. My jokes didn't make her laugh. My favorite books all had titles that put her to sleep. She described my favorite Brahms as "elevator music," and didn't seem to care as my heart fell with her dismissal of my love for it. I struggled and failed to find one thing we shared a passion for. I wanted to travel to Portugal. She was all about Disneyland. I knew my Real Girl was somewhere else. And, of course, her Real Man was somewhere else too.

When she told me about the kind of guys she really found attractive, I imagined how disappointed she was with me. Those men possessed long flowing hair, like some kind of a version of a romance novel hero, whereas I was the usual short-hair-type-of-man, and in fact, would feel ridiculous in anything else. Those were among the many times I understood how far apart we were. She wanted someone else. How much more obvious could it be?

The honest thing would have been to somehow acknowledge that lack of connection. I lusted for her, but that couldn't sustain a relationship.