Just for Sex

In one perspective, it was clear that we were simply wasting time with each other. I called her up, struggled, and then finally managed to get her to agree to yet another date - or more accurately, one more allowance of time spent in each other's company. I tried, but I couldn't fake the mental-joining I also so incredibly desired.

She must have been bored with me. She must have found me a chore that she was somehow expected to engage with and tolerate. I knew a date with me was almost nothing; it was just a little better than staying home and watching TV.

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

Yet I was persistent, because of the possibility of sex. Because of those monumental breasts. The kind of breasts that dominated the way I thought about her, so I set aside that vacuum where other things were supposed to reside.

I made myself accessible. I acted like a gentleman most of the time, although my designs were anything but respectable. My eyes and my stumbling voice surely told her everything. Still, I had a number of social advantages - tall height, a decent job, a good education, a handsome face, and an athletic body - all of which offset the basic wrongs of our attempt at coupling. And, eventually, I wore her down. I supposed those advantages were just barely enough to move ahead one small l step at a time.

At the end of a date night out with a group of her friends (an odd time, in which she perhaps wanted to collect "Yay" or "Nay" opinions about my potential) she finally said: "Follow me home."

Maybe it I had finally caught her at the right moment? Maybe I had paid my dues? Maybe she just needed some sort of a physical coupling, no matter her ambivalence about me otherwise? That night, as she and her friends sat down to dinner I had caught a wonderful view of her red high heels, which included delicate straps around her ankles. I had tried to seem only mildly interested, as I noted to her: "Those straps...I bet they keep those heels on your feet through all sorts of things." Maybe my face had shown a certain expression as the words left my mouth?

She made doubly-sure I was going to come over that night, with asides and hints: "You don't have to get up early tomorrow morning, right?" She texted me her address, just in case I got lost following her on the way. Little did she truly understand how hungry and desperate I was for her; I would have missed work for a year to spend one hour in bed with her, just to taste those breasts.

But time wasn't being counted. I couldn't say, but perhaps it was less than three minutes after she opened the front door to her condo and I followed her in that I was viewing a scene I would see many times again. I didn't even have to cajole her blouse off, or undo her industrial strength bra. We didn't kiss, at first. In the semi-darkness of her bedroom, she called me in. A fan was blowing gentle air from the corner and sweeping side-to-side, with a mellow hum.

Even as I joined her in that little space, she was already stripping down as she invited me to think of her differently. "Just so you know, I don't need much foreplay," she announced, setting the stage. She called attention to her red high heels by ignoring them, and also to those straps around her ankles, which bound them to her feet. (Just like a fantasy-vixen, she was telling me: I keep my high heels on for sex, of course... doesn't every girl?)

I glimpsed her naked body in full, as her skirt fell away and then as she wrestled her panties down her plump legs. She bent forward to manage the fabric the last bit lower, and her breasts hung and swayed. Her panties caught for a perfect moment on the heel of one of her shoes, and she fought with it for a second or two, showing me everything about the sheer poundage of her tits.

Had I imagined her jugs were huge? They were even more gigantic than I had believed. As she took the few steps to her bed, I glimpsed her in profile; I was able to finally correspond that boxy-white-restaurant-look-collared-shirt I had first seen to her now sex-ready body. I suddenly understood that white shirt clearly needed to be MANY sizes too big, even to allow her breasts the merest chance to fit inside; the collar had been far too big for her neck, and the shoulders cut far too wide, and the waist giving room where it wasn't needed.

Now exposed, her fantasy-tits urged forward and cantilevered side-to-side, and her nipples formed at the absolute peak of the mountainous shape. The areolas obvious and beautiful, as if they were directing attention to the climax of that experience-defying slope. She lay down on her bed, and spread herself wide, and her tits found a different position and even greater erotic appeal as they heavily sloshed to either side of her body. Their overwhelming movement was completely inelegant, and it suggested the problems her breasts might cause her as she managed them in day-to-day life. Yet those delicate high heels on her feet were giving me another glimpse of the secret "other girl" she was capable of being, which I would later reveal in full.

It was simple: she wanted the two of us to have sex. At that moment it seemed that even titanic-breasted, masturbation-material-fantasy-girls, such as herself sometimes had to compromise (and go to bed with unamusing men who had short hair, and hated the very idea of trips to Disneyland) all because they needed sex so bad.

It was like a bizarre impossible dream. Her tits were - yes - too enormous. Unbelievable. Nothing in my experience could compare. Her nipples sticking out, like fat erasers on the end of a pencil. Even in my late night contemplation of her I hadn't truly comprehended the eroticism as her globes moved as she laid on her back, and then - as I began to fuck her (because that was definitely the word to describe what I was doing) - continuously reoriented themselves with each of my ecstatic pushes into her.

"Oh my god," she was moaning. She felt my ecstasy. I hooked her plump long legs around my arms and spread her wide and disarmed her, because I didn't care about anything other than this moment. Immediately I was taking her for my own. I managed glances to the side to see her high-heeled feet dancing in the air, which perfectly represented our desperate joining. I sucked on her tits and consumed them, learning what it felt like to have tits like hers at my disposal, all the while thrusting and losing myself in the feelings she brought.

Within what seemed like mere seconds her pussy was nearly gushing with heat and wetness. All at once she made herself clear: "You have a huge cock."

Suddenly I understood: That changed everything for her. "You should have told me," she sighed. My mouth and hands obsessed her tits, but I still heard that voice of hers. I listened for every last bit of nuance as she spoke. "Why didn't you tell me you're so big?"

I panted back through my obsession. I was completely honest in my expression, and for perhaps the only time since we had first exchanged words I said something completely truthful to her: "You make me like this. You make me this huge. Keep those high heels on. I want to fuck you all night."

"God-yes-I-will," she sex-cried. From that moment, it seemed our relationship was always going to be centered around sex. Because elsewise, there literally wasn't much to talk about.

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

Thinking back to our time together, I also remembered that little balcony her condo offered. How she would slide the glass door to the side and walk out on to it, and refill that hummingbird feeder. And how the robe she often wore in the morning barely hid her body at such moments. There was the way she had to gather it up with one hand, to keep her breasts from spilling into view, giving anyone who might have happened to be looking up towards that balcony a sight to behold and talk about for years afterwards.

But what I really remembered was her bedroom. And what we did in there.

It was in that room where that normal girl faded away. It was where that hidden vixen first revealed herself. It was the time I told her to keep those high heels on, and the way I didn't even need to say that particular thing, because she already planned to do what I wanted... She liked dressing up. She liked pretending to be different people. She told me she thought about sex all the time. Maybe that scowl I had first seen on her expression was because of how much she wanted to be somewhere else - or someone else. Or in the company of other people. It might have been because of the way she let her personal finances get out of control, and stacked on debt buying clothes and a car she couldn't afford, and then had to work another job to pay all of it off. Maybe it reflected how the available men in her world never captured her imagination. I reminded myself that included (in most respects) me as well...

In the thousands of pictures I took, clearly visible, were these various versions of herself. Over Christmas she was Santa's Little Helper: a cute elf-hat, breasts threatening to burst a red bra, and long green gloves that looked even more colorful when she crossed her hands over her fair skin. In the spring she was a pinup-girl: pink and white lingerie straight from 1955...hair in a beehive-like mass. She was a school girl; a naughty librarian; a slutty mom; a Pretty Woman-style hooker. She would take selfies and send them to me, as if I needed any cajoling drive that distance to her condo.

I had pictures of all of it. And afterwards, when we recovered before starting again, she would turn on her TV (so, I supposed we didn't need to talk) and she would recline against me. And I would wrap my arms around her and still handle those tits, because I could never get enough.

Later, when I traced my eyes down over those images, I noticed the few beautiful and faint freckles starting just below her neck. Whatever she was wearing would always be removed one step at a time, and so it was inevitable that I would see the freckles first, and those subtle changes in her skin's pigment. Then, lower down, a little spot that had received slightly too much sun over time, and which reached - dramatically - to a point just above her breasts. And then, as always, when whatever was covering or obscuring her breasts was removed I would see them, simply enlarged beyond expectation and outrageous.

Fat-girl, breasts she called them, because of how they sometimes embarrassed her. They were far beyond mere fat-girl size, but I didn't correct her.

"Too big," she said. "I'll bet these are the biggest breasts you've ever seen," she said. And she didn't mean just nude and exposed - she meant the breasts of any girl I'd ever seen in any situation, clothed or not. And I was sure she was right.

Of course, I DIDN'T say: "Your breasts are an essential reason you and I are together." Of course, I DIDN'T say: "The rest of you is more than a little fat, as well... so your breasts are beyond perfect for your body."

But when she looked at the many hundreds and hundreds of pictures (flicking through them on my camera) she noticed a very definite trend. More tit pics? - she laughed. She truly knew my unvarnished and completely obvious predisposition for one part of her body (finally) but was still impressed at my focus. We sat there half-dressed on her bed; the same night of her Goth Bondage Pornstar act. The blindfold lying to the side, the piece of rope now curled and unused on the bed. Hopefully she was flattered with my certain preoccupation with her. But I wondered if she was sometimes worried about the way I obsessed her body. Particularly those two wonderfully formed, and excessive, feminine parts.

In reply I took the camera and aimed it down, at my crotch. It was an attempt at humor; at deflecting the uneasy truth about the foundation of our relationship, which was revealed every time we were together. We didn't go to museums together. We didn't spend time taking care of errands together, or go shopping unless it was an emergency. (She was, of course, also trying to stem her spending.) We definitely didn't get new tires for our cars together, and enjoy the hour in the waiting room sitting next to each other, and having a memorable conversation.

To find a better perspective for the camera, I stood up on her bed, my full height nearly reaching to the ceiling of her bedroom, but the camera still facing down to capture that picture. Now filling the screen was a selfie-view of my stomach: me in my boxer shorts. I pushed the button and the shutter clicked open and then shut. The protuberance she and her pictures had caused, pushing against the fabric had been caught.

But she wasn't interested in my humor, or my deflections. "Take your cock out," she said, speaking directly, as she often did.

Following her directions, I pushed it through the opening. She watched. I got a thrill from the way her eyes just went straight there. "Help me make it bigger," I fumbled. Without missing a moment, she moved closer and I felt her lips envelop me. It was THAT feeling, maybe more amazing just because, in her company, I knew it so well. A minute later, satisfied with the response her mouth had achieved, she withdrew.

"Now some pictures for me," she said.

She took the camera from my hands and snapped away. Viewable was also the slight wetness her mouth had left on my cock. Even a hint of her black lipstick was there on the tip, where she had kissed it like she loved it. I noticed that she didn't even try to capture my face in the pictures. She just wanted that particular sight, captured: My now massively erect cock launched from the little opening in my shorts. Like it was an accident. Or like it was on display, hopefully to encourage whatever further response a woman like her might feel like giving.

Later that night I took pictures of my cock buried in between her tits. And then a few minutes later, my cum on her neck, reaching up to her chin, and mingling with her freckles. "God, that's hot," she said - again wanting to see the pictures. I mused that in a slightly different life she could have been a pornstar. Maybe, then, she could have found her long-haired man. Or at least someone that would have taken her on that coveted trip, which was definitely not to Portugal.

Sometimes I wondered if her work-friends (or others) knew what she was REALLY like. (I barely met them.) I wondered if they could imagine what she had done with me on that particular Saturday night. I wondered: Might they even guess she owned a black wig and black lipstick? Did they have the slightest imaginings about the way she thrilled with the pictures of my orgasm decorating her body?

Many things about her were a mystery to me and surely to other people. In my post-orgasm haze I laid down beside her. I spent the next 15 or more minutes simply sucking on her tits and soon enough we both fell asleep. Those were the times we had found an equilibrium.

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

I suppose we eventually reached a juncture. Take the next step, or call it off.

She sometimes sent me pictures of wedding dresses, copy and pasted from online bridal stores. I ignored the pictures and didn't comment. She said I could have a key to her place. But I resisted. I refused even to leave a toothbrush in her bathroom. I knew the next steps she wanted to take - but we weren't there. I wasn't there. It seemed so obvious. How could she not know this?

"Wow," my friend said after meeting her, "she's got HUGE tits." I tried to wave his crass and completely incisive observation away, as if (of course!) she and I shared a deeper connection than sex.

"She's a really sweet person," I said, which was occasionally true. "She's fun to spend time with..." Which was mostly true, as well, considering of course, that we mostly spent that time having sex.

But, I thought, she and I never actually talked...shared ideas. The sad fact was that I had deeper, more meaningful conversations with the girl who stood in front of the cash register and rang-up my 7:35 am coffee purchase on my way to work every weekday. That seemed like a pathetic thing to observe, but it didn't make it any less true. When it came to my voluptuous sex-partner's stories - about her friends, about her life - I could barely remember anything, and I wasn't sure she even wanted to hear mine.

Sometimes, we did the conventional things that couples do. Dinner. A movie. Picking up her brother's birthday present. We shared meaningless banter to fill the time. It was just like our struggles when we first met. My mind migrated. But then - later - she would write me notes.

'I masturbated to your pictures last night,' she wrote like a confession, which was also intended as a one-dimensional seduction. 'God, I need you. You look sooo huge in those pictures. I need you to fuck me over and over. Can you come over this weekend?'

I never had a girl speak to me like that. It drew me in, but made me wonder: What else is there between us? Doesn't she notice that missing part?

Sometimes, I had her sit on her couch conventionally, as if I wasn't even there with her. I had her run through the channels on the TV till she found something she could happily spend an hour or more watching. It might be a house hunter show, or a movie that was set in the middle ages (when men had long hair, I noted). And I would cozy up to her, pushing up her blouse, undo her bra, expose her breasts, and spend that whole time obsessing and consuming her. Obsessing her tits, I tried to tell her, was heaven.

She bought lingerie that exposed those massive tits. 'They're cupless,' she explained in a message. 'That way you can suck on my tits as I ride you.' The elementary obviousness was perfect. She sent several pictures of herself wearing the item in question, as if I needed any more enticement: Her enormous XXXXL beyond-fat-girl-tits in the bathroom mirror, framed and presented with lingerie that made the attraction even more focused. It was like she understood - perfectly - my skewed passion with her. And she accepted it, for the time.

Of course, like she offered, we otherwise spent that weekend in her bedroom. The cupless lingerie adorning her body. At the close of each session she asked: do you want to cum in my pussy, or in my mouth... or between my tits? I chose her mouth, because - in part - I was going to lick her pussy, later, and feel her pulsating orgasm. I chose her mouth because it was more pornographic, and more blatantly X-rated.

But mostly, I chose her mouth because it was more-crazy-memorable to watch as she sucked on me, bringing me to a buckling orgasm. It was that, now, brown hair (her real hair, not a goth pornstar wig) which I held in my hands. It was her cheeks pulled in, as she as offered her mouth, even after I had spent a long while - as she might say - simply fucking her. And even then, at that amazing moment, I knew that she and I couldn't last together as a couple. I chose her mouth for my orgasm simply because I wanted to store it in my vault of memories for when that type of sex-occurrence was no longer a part of my world. Something was changing in my thoughts. I was ruined for other girls in one way, but not in another.

In the middle of the night (as I supposedly slept) I was handling her devastating tits, and feeling the way they were presented. They were like erotic gifts, which sent me off the deep end, and which made me wonder what I was going to do: Stay with a girl, just for sex and her tits? It was far past the time when I should have made a serious commitment. Or was I to try and find my Real Girl?

In truth the debate was over but I didn't realize it.

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

The moment of reckoning was our second Christmas. Whatever divide was between us, was suddenly insurmountable. I didn't invite her on a vacation with my family. She didn't go back to Missouri, to see her own. She spent the many weeks alone, she said, to save money.