Mrs. Coppersmith Pt. 01

For over two decades, I've dreamed about Joyce's breasts. Or, I should be respectful and call her by her married name, Mrs. Coppersmith. She was my first employer's wife, and we formed a kindly friendship based on mutual interests in the arts, music, and theater. I would often see her at events, dressed to the nines and looking stunning for an aging wife.

Mrs. Coppersmith is tall and trim enough for being in her mid-sixties and for having grown children. She has jet black hair that she confided is touched-up to hide the natural gray. Her eyes are sparkling, and her outlook is always positive and cheery. I felt a desire for her years ago, but out of courtesy for her and her marriage, I have been content to observe from afar and enjoy the unfulfilled desire.

Her most apparent enticing features are her breasts. She wears fashions that accommodate and flatter women with generous endowments, but she is modest and never draws attention to herself. However, that is impossible for a women of her looks and endowment. At least not for me. When we are together, I always take a moment to look at her carefully, up and down, and compliment her on her attire.

Over the years, I have also taken advantage of our friendship and her trust to cross the bounds a few times. To take a few liberties. For instance, when she wears a blouse or sweater that has a distinctive design with swirls or images, if no one is observing us, I will comment on it and point out what I like about what she is wearing, allowing my finger to touch her breast gently but only to trace the pattern in the fabric. "That's lovely," I might say as my hand moved to her chest and a finger outlines the design as it curves over her breasts.

On one occasion, I reached out with both hands and deliberate touch both breasts ever so gently. Each time I've done this, I imagine what her nipples must look like and how they would change as I touched them. Even through layers of fabric and her bra, I hoped that she felt a little zing. But I would quickly change the topic so that she might not know what I was truly thinking.

Once we sat next to each other at a concert. Mr. Coppersmith sat on the other side of her. I would often whisper to her, and each time I would place one hand on her arm and draw her ear nearer to me. As I did, I allowed one or two fingers on that hand to gently stroke the side of her breast. I did it in a forward and natural way, as if I always made that hand motion when speaking softly in a close situation. But I wondered if she was aware of my intention. If so, she did not object. As I repeatedly felt up Mrs. Coppersmith, I wondered again if her nipples were responding involuntarily and growing larger and more sensitive.

While holding her in this way and while two fingers were ever so subtly stroking her breast, I leaned over and also spoke to her husband. He smiled and we exchanged a few words as I felt the soft curve of his wife's breast.

This sort of thing has gone on for years, and I rather suspect that Joyce thinks of me as a valued friend who is just affectionate and naturally takes a few liberties that are within her bounds of acceptable behavior.

Last month, things changed. While having coffee with her, I mentioned that a friend told me about his daughter who was having trouble nursing. I suspected that Joyce had nursed her children, so I brought up the subject hoping that she might volunteer something intimate. Sure enough. I said, "I hear that new mothers have to toughen their nipples." As I said the word "nipples" to Mrs. Coppersmith, I felt my cock squirm in my pants.

It took no further encouragement. Mrs. Coppersmith said, "Oh yes, that's important."

I asked, "Well, did you nurse?"

"Yes, I did."

"And did you have to prepare your nipples?" As I asked the question, I felt a small touch of wetness. My cock was beginning to leak.

Our years of mutual friendship were working to my advantage. Mrs. Coppersmith apparently did not feel hesitant or reluctant with me, "Oh yes, in those days they recommended using rubbing alcohol."

"What?" I asked as if startled.

"But that dried them out and made them sore," she said.

"Them?" I asked, hoping she would say the word "nipples."

She did, "My nipples, of course." I did not detect any hesitation on her part, but I knew I had to be careful.

"My goodness, did anything work better?" I asked.

"Yes, lanoline oil, and..." she stopped herself.

"And?"

Mrs. Coppersmith's eyes darted around to see if we were not being observed before saying, "A toothbrush."

My eyes widened, "A toothbrush!?" I exclaimed. My imagination exploded as I imagined Mrs. Coopersmith's naked breasts with her holding one and using a soft toothbrush to gently massage her nipple.

At this point, she did register a little embarrassment. I think she realized that she had revealed to me something a little too personal.

"Did it work?" I asked.

"Well, not really. It made me more sore and sensitive."

We sat in silence for a few moments. I sipped my coffee and smiled and finally broke the quiet. "Mrs. Coppersmith, I must tell you that you have given me quite an image I my mind."

She blushed. I could tell she knew she had crossed a line with me.

I continued, "The thought of you brushing your nipples with a toothbrush is giving me a problem in my pants."

Although I had never said something so forward to her before, she knew me well enough to smile and try to take it as a joke.

I shook my head from side to side, "Whew, I'm going to have a hard time getting that image out of my mind."

She smiled and I could tell that she might want to change the subject, but I also wanted to exploit this opening. "Have you ever tried that again?" I asked.

"Oh heavens no!" she said.

I let the subject pass. We talked about other things until it was time to go. On the sidewalk outside we hugged as we always have done and kissed on the cheek, but this time I looked at her face and smiled and she let me kiss her on the lips. Not a romantic kiss. Just a clear sign of trust. But it was a first.

The next time I saw her was at a dinner party at her home. I dressed in a suit and tie, and I brought a surprise for Mrs. Coppersmith.

After the dinner, I stayed a bit later to help clean up in the kitchen. Mr. Coppersmith was talking with some of the men in his den while I was with Joyce in the kitchen. I reached I my pocket and took out a toothbrush and placed it in my suit pocket. A few minutes later, Joyce looked over at me and saw the toothbrush.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed. And then she laughed out loud.

"Ha, I thought you'd laugh," I said.

She was in stiches. Mr. Coppersmith came into the kitchen, "Is everything all right? What's so funny?"

His wife made up a fib and told him to return to his friends.

Emboldened, I took the toothbrush and stuck he handle down between her cleavage, "I thought you might want to use this again some time."

Joyce was red-faced and clearly put on the spot. "I don't think I want to use it again, but I think you do."

She drew closer to me. This time our kiss was more romantic and passionate. I removed the toothbrush and drew her close to me again. As I did, I reached down and upped her skirt allowing the soft bristles of the brush to look for her pussy crease. I massaged her pussy with the brush as we kissed.

At that moment, I intentionally broke off the embrace and looked her and smiled. "It was a lovely dinner, Mrs. Coppersmith. I've got to run along now, but perhaps we will meet again soon."

I returned the toothbrush to my coat pocket, as if it were a pocket handkerchief, and smiled. "Ta-ta for now." And I left the kitchen, walked to the den, and called out to Mr. Coppersmith in a voice that Joyce could hear, "I enjoyed myself more than you know. Thank you for a lovely evening. I hope your wife enjoyed it, too."

Just outside their front door, Joyce ran to stop me, "Can we meet tomorrow? Anywhere you want."

It was the invitation I'd been longing for all these years.

"Are you sure?" I asked her. "Because you know that the next time we are together, I will fuck you."

She was breathless. All she could do was sigh heavily. So I spoke again, "You must know that I've desired you for a long time, and this is the moment when you must decide to be a faithful wife or to let me fuck you."

My language was having an effect. I could tell she was swooning at what I said. So I went on, "If I fuck you tomorrow, then I'll insist that we fuck often."

Her eyes were glistening with desire. She probably could not think straight at that moment. I stood in silence just looking at her. She wanted to draw near for an embrace, but I insisted, "Tell me you want to be fucked."

Mrs. Coppersmith was the vision of the proper well cared for wife, mature and accomplished and trusted in her community. And here I was asking her to tell me she wanted to be fucked.

And she did, "Oh please fuck me!" she told me.

With that, I allowed a goodnight kiss. I kept my hands to myself, letting her imagine how it would feel to have me touch her in her intimate places.

I was off.

Almost immediately, she was texting me about the next day. I made a reservation at the best hotel in the city, and she set aside her entire day. I told her to meet me there at noon.

I was rather sure that Mrs. Coppersmith had never had an affair and had never considered such a thing happening. But such was the power of our sustained friendship over the years. She trusted me and had allowed me to get away with little indiscretions until she herself gave me the opening to do as I wished.

At noon, Mrs. Coppersmith tapped gently at the door of the hotel room. She looked divine, dressed conservatively as usual but in a way that invited male gazes anyway. I took her hand and led her into the suite. She looked around and burst out laughing when she saw dozens of toothbrushes placed here and there all over the room.

I smiled, "In case we forget why we're here," I said.

She wrapped her arms around me and kissed, kicked off her heels, and said, "I'm here to be fucked."

My cock was already puffy, but that sent it into full blown extasy.

"Yes, I will help you with your wish, Mrs. Coppersmith, but first..." I said as I removed her jacket and began to unbutton her blouse.

In no time she was stripped to the waist and only wearing her bra, a lacy delightful item that supported a pair of swollen mounds. I stepped back to enjoy the sight. Hidden behind the nylon were her nipples, but a pronounced bump announced their location. I paused and gently traced her breasts from bottom to top and around the sides. My finger slipped over her nipple area again and again until the bump extended and enlarged.

Then I turned around and took a toothbrush. "Aye," she gasped as I gently brushed over her nipple region. Up and down, from side to side, pushing and playing with them. Even in her bra, the shape and contours of her nipples were clear to see.

"Show me," I said.

Mrs. Coppersmith reached behind and unclasped her bra. Once the shoulder straps slid aside, I myself took the pleasure of lowering the last barrier. Their they were, just as magnificent as I had imagined for many years. My little touches and stolen feels seemed quaint now that they were exposed to me and ready for my full inspection.

Naturally, on a woman of this age, her breasts sagged without a bra, but they were still what I had imagined. And on top of each was a perfect dark and very swollen nipple.

"I'm glad you told me about the toothbrush," I said while admiring her nipples. I carefully pushed her nipples back and forth with the soft bristles. "I hope that doesn't hurt" I told her.

Mrs. Coppersmith didn't reply. She just stood there and took what ever I wanted to do to her. Soon my tongue and lips were on her nipples and my hands were full of her mounds. She moaned as I toyed with her tits. I fooled with them for a long time then asked, "Oh I forgot what we were here for. Can you remind me?"

Mrs. Coppersmith replied, "You're going to fuck me."

"Oh, yes," I replied.