Piss On It

I had admired "Mrs. Big Tits" for over six years, ever since we moved into the neighbourhood. She was the woman across the back lane. We moved in on a Friday. Saturday was her daughter's birthday party. The pony escaped from her yard into ours, and my first glimpse of her was chasing the horse, massive mammaries trying to bounce out of a skimpy T-shirt.

We later learned that she was thirty something. Now, she was fortyish. When we first met, she still retained a bit of 'baby fat' from the birth of her son, then two. Since she was still breast feeding the toddler, her breasts were overflowing udders thrusting out through her ubiquitous T-shirts. "Those can't be real," I commented more than once.

My wife replied, "You'll never find out."

"Why don't you ask her for me?"

For some reason, she never did. But talking of the comparison between Mrs. Big Tits and my wife's slim athletic tiny titted figure always inspired her to prove the advantages of athleticism. This typically started with her stroking my cock as I massaged her tits, and then pinched her nipples. My wife would talk me through the fantasy, saying, "I bet her nipples don't get long like mine."

"Yours seem long because your tits are just puffy mounds of baby fat. On her mountains, anything smaller than a pencil would look small."

My wife almost never gave me a total blowjob to orgasm. Half way through, she would get so horny; she would push me back and climb on top, dangling her erect nipples in my face. She would milk my cock with her well maintained abdominals while muttering "I bet Mrs. Big Tits can't do this."

My wife would tease me with her nipples, brushing my forehead, my nose, then around the chin line before allowing me to savour the salty sweetness of her excitement, then she would rear back and pump up and down furiously on my cock, finally collapsing across my body and then slowly luxuriously fucking me in a sliding motion, skin to skin. I would cum twice. Her orgasms were innumerable. At the end I would always say, "Big tits are overrated."

She would answer, "How do you know until you fuck Mrs. Big Tits?"

To which I might say, "You wish. You just want to watch." She would only smile in reply.

Like most people new to a neighbourhood, with kids of similar ages, we socialized a bit with the neighbours. My wife had watched how Mrs. Big Tits flirted not just with me, but with every guest she encountered, sticking her rack almost right in our faces. Thus was born our private nickname for her.

Mrs. Big Tits had a seemingly normal miserable marriage to a hardworking guy a decade older than her. He could often be seen in the lane behind their garage, secretly smoking. On weekends, if we weren't woken by the sounds of her yelling at him, we saw him tinkering in the garage, hiding from her temper.

When we went out to the same dances, or pubs, Mrs. Big Tits ignored her husband, dancing tightly against other women's guys, or, more often, throwing herself at the nearest unattached male. Over time, her son grew, she stopped breast feeding, and the baby fat slimmed away. The tits, however, still remained huge, and cantilevered skyward by engineering miracles from the best bra makers.

Mrs. Big Tits wanted a third child, but hubby wouldn't, so after their son was in school, they acquired a dog, which became a substitute child. Hubby, a perpetual boy himself, played fetch with the retriever. Mrs. Big Tits walked it, her chest bouncing happily announcing her passage down the street.

Over time, her weirdness rubbed off on her kids, who stopped playing with mine. Though we remained nodding acquaintances sharing a lane, we no longer socialized. Peeping at her wearing bikinis, T-shirts and tight jeans became a guilty secret. My office window looked out over her back yard and kitchen window. Working from home, with a wife who traveled, afforded lots of opportunities. We had long ago agreed that "what happens on the road stays there". We later modified that, as we both loved it when she entertained me with tales of her extracurricular adventures. Many a time, we re enacted the activity. Other times, it was just great phone sex, knowing that we would come together, though we were miles apart. After a while, we added another rule, accepting that as her absences grew, I was entitled to find discrete release as well. I often wondered if her teasing comments about fucking Mrs. Big Tits meant that would be an exception to her 'no fucking people I know' request.

A chance to find out presented itself last fall. My wife was out of town at her aunt's funereal. Both our sons were at school. It was a warm and sunny afternoon. What we used to call "Indian summer" before that became politically incorrect. I had just finished lunch, and was planning a few hours work until the kids got home from school. I made a couple of fortunate mistakes, though.

First, I signed onto Literotica. 'Just to check the Boards,' I told myself. My wife had been gone a week, though, and before that we hadn't had sex for a few days, the decline of the aunt being not a turn on and all. Inevitably, I turned to the Story Index. My cock began to twitch as I read the best of the Toplist. I found a 'Loving Wives' story about a wife away at a wedding, fucking her ex-husband. My cock throbbed; gaining tumescence as I contemplated how my wife's ex was also at the aunt's funereal. Death can be an aphrodisiac, as the survivors want to prove to themselves that life goes on. Mid life particularly makes us need this assurance.

Would she fuck the father of her daughter for old times' sake? If not, would she find another hard cock with which to reaffirm life? Maybe her virile nephew, the one we met at the Christmas reunion, the water polo star. She had admired his trim V shaped torso, his solid abs, and his tight glutes. When he asked her to dance, they looked like a perfect jock couple, but for him being 18 and her forty. He tried to manoeuvre her under the mistletoe, but she twirled away. Still, she returned to tell me that it felt like about a ten inch cock surging against her tummy as he held her tight.

Surprisingly, she seemed more taken by his mother, her cousin, who dressed for the festive occasion in a short skirted elf suit which displayed her abundant cleavage, and "horny reindeer antlers". The cousin, recently divorced but with the body of a woman half her age, drank to much punch, and attacked to many husbands lingering around the mistletoe. Finally, she had passed out in the ladies room. My wife had helped the nephew carry her to her room. My wife reported her cousin tried to give her sloppy thank you kiss, but ended up kissing the great white telephone instead. I could only hope that the cousin's passions were not dimmed by the funereal.

Images of my wife, who claimed to be straight, with her face buried in her cousin's pussy while the nephew fucked her from behind danced through my brain so strongly I could see which of the cousin's garters were snapped and which had come loose. Like a slide show advancing, this alternated with thoughts of the two women, similar enough to be twins, double headering the rigid cock, each tongue twisting, occasionally twirling together. Their tiny tits would harden. Nipples would extend, brushing each other. Then, one mouth would slide over the top of the cock. The other would suckle a testicle. Female fingers would trace curves down womanly bodies, caressing breasts, a strange yet familiar sensation. They would experience similar feelings upon sliding fingers into wet pussies, so used to touch their own, so hesitant to touch another. They would swap positions, their thighs entwined. In my mind, it became a puzzle as to where one body ended and the next began. Once the nephew was hard again, he would fuck his mother to multiple orgasms as she licked cum out of my wife's soggy cunt.

Thinking of my loving wife enjoying such pleasure made my cock swell harder. Soon I was standing at the window, sipping a cup of tea held in one hand, stroking my erect cock with the other. 'Where would she fuck?' I wondered, 'will they be at the same motel? Might there even be a little incestuous mini orgy with the ex added?'

That last image caused my balls to tighten up into my crotch. My wife in a threesome with her cousin and her ex while the nephew rested would be very special. My mind flashed on images of her sucking his cock, then guiding it into her cousin's blond thatched pussy, with cuz lapping at her pussy. Visualizing what her cousin's ripe tits would look like – no tan lines, topped with thumb like pink nipples-got me very excited. My free hand stroked my shaft rapidly.

A noise outside startled me from my reverie. I looked out the window. There, standing outside her garage, was Mrs. Big Tits, staring up at my window. She was watching my prurient display. From the hundred feet that separated us, I could only hope that she was enjoying the exhibitionism. Perhaps I was not the only voyeur sharing our lane? Perhaps I only imagined that I could see her rock hard nubs tenting her T-shirt, her tongue flicking out across her puffy red lips. It was no guess about eye contact though. She held my gaze, returning it with laserlike heat. Oddly, this paused my efforts short of orgasm. The reality of my sexuality confronting this 'guilty pleasure' neighbour proved distracting and stimulating. The distraction won the first round, my handful shrinking before her eyes. Finally, still grinning she bent over to chat with the dog. Her magnificent chest wobbled invitingly. Although my cock trembled in response, she did not stay to watch, instead treating me to the sight of her taut butt flouncing into her fenced yard, the dog following behind.

I stood still, finishing my tea, images of Mrs. Big Tits alternating with fantasies of my wife acting wayward. My cock swelled to record lengths. 'Well, I guess it's now or never,' I told myself.

Gently, I placed the teacup on my desk. I paused, thinking of work, letting my cock soften so I could tuck it awkwardly into my cords. I glanced at the clock. A solid hour until it was time to pick up the kids. I set my watch alarm to remind me in half an hour.

I breathed deeply, skipping down the stairs. I paused, breathed again, took a ten count. I would have sprinted out the back door otherwise, which would have been overly eager. As I collected my thoughts, I resolved that, with Mrs. Big Tits, I would take firm control. She was a toy, not a person, merely an object to be used. The reality of her possibly resenting this, and setting hubby on me, never crossed my mind until afterwards. By then, I knew she wanted a man who treated her with rough loving.

By the time I walked out the door, down the steps and into the yard, she was wrestling with the garage door. The dog was no longer in sight.

"Can I help you with that?"

She turned, startled by my voice. "Oh, hi, neighbour. I thought you were busy. Thanks." She was grinning. I registered the glint in her humid green eyes, but inevitably, gravity dragged my gaze down to her tits. She was used to it. She liked it. Her eyes also traveled south. My cock responded to her gaze, restoring itself to rigidity. Her nipples were even more erect than normal. They seemed to be about to pierce the fabric of her shirt. I was about to discover the secrets behind her amazing architecture. Before that, she said, "Does that bulge mean you didn't finish what you were doing up there?"

"Just what do you think I was doing?"

I stepped closer, lifting the door. She instinctively backed into the garage, stepping into the vacant space left while hubby had his truck at work.

"It was disgusting, doing that at the window. What if some preschooler saw you?"

"No one can see into that window but you. You didn't look disgusted."

I reached back, sliding the garage door shut. Limited light filtered in through a pair of side windows. Dust motes danced in sunbeams, creating a romance novel atmosphere. I waited.

"What made your gorgeous cock so hard, thinking of me?"

"I knew you liked it. But don't be such a bitch. Not everything is about you. I was pleasuring myself thinking about my wife, when your peeping at me ruined the moment. Do you look in my window a lot?"

She blushed crimson, the colour rushing up from her deeply exposed cleavage to her neck and finally her face. Yet she still had spirit. "Yeah, I bet you were imagining your wife. She's such a slut I bet she's screwing half the guys at her aunt's funereal."

"I hope she is. I guess you're just jealous because she has such firm girlish tits that will respond to those guys' lips by puffing up like a teenager's, reminding them of first dates in old Chevys. Or is the reason you stare at our windows a secret bi passion, a desire to taste her yourself?"

"Oh, piss off."

"No, I think I'd rather piss on- on you that is."

"What!?"

"Never played watersports?"

"What sort of woman do you think I am?"

"A repressed wannabe tart married to a white bread guy that won't dare try anything new. Now take off that shirt."

Up to that point, water sports had never been a sexual game I planned to play. Perhaps it was her haughty attitude. Or just the hot tea finding its way to my bladder, sending confusing signals to my poor prostate, making it unsure whether to pump blood to an erection or keep the urinary tract clear.

Mrs. Big Tits opened her mouth, as if to protest. I held a finger to her lips. "Shhh. You wouldn't want your meal ticket knowing how you stare up at my cock, would you? The only way to keep the gravy train rolling is to actually taste ALL the glories my tool produces. But first, show me your tits."

She hesitated only a moment. I held my eyes on her face. Maybe the fact I met her gaze rather than shifting down back to staring at her chest convinced her I was serious. She crossed her arms, which pushed her tits tight against each other, swelling into the "vee" of the shirt, threatening to spill out. Grabbing the hem on each side, she lifted it above her melons, pausing a second as it caught on her nose, or hair, or that religious medal hanging around her neck. My first question was answered. She wore an uplift bra after all. However, contrary to what some thought, it was not padded, nor an air or gel filled enhancing job. Her erect nipples greeted me through a lovely cornflower blue lace etched in a floral design. They nodded vigourously as her breathing became panting. My nose no longer noticed the musty oiliness of the garage, instead enjoying the unmistakable scent of a woman in heat.

"You better take off those damp panties too," I added as the shirt popped over her head. Once again, there was a brief hesitation. A look flitted through her eyes as if she was about to protest, then with a sigh she dropped her shirt to the cement floor, and slowly undid the button at the top of her jeans. Her hips began undulating, in a 'strip tease' rhythm. The raw smell of her wetness now filled the garage. I registered as if from a distance, like watching a movie, that her pants had a button fly. She unfastened each button with deliberate patience, her eyes locked on mine. If she had grinned, my vow to never strike women expect in play would be shattered. Her mouth however hung open slackly, gasping for oxygen, as her brain struggled in vain to process the messages from her libido.

The waist of the jeans hung slack, revealing too cute girlish white bikini panties topped with a fringe of blue to match the bra. I was not surprised to see a few moments later that in the corner of the left groin, there was a design of cornflower blue daisies. By now, her pants were loose around her undulating hips. Her eyes stared not at my face, but at my crotch. My cock remained semi tumescent.

"Let me guess. You're hoping I'll be to hard too piss all over you."

"What?"

"If a guy is rigid, his urinary tract pinches shut. Many are the nights I lose sleep waiting for an erection to calm so I can void my bladder. On too many of them, I prolong the journey by watching out a window for a glimpse of you. I keep imagining you naked in your kitchen."

Mrs. Big Tits' pants slid to the floor. She kicked them across the concrete to a corner. Her shoes and socks were caught up in the pants. She stood before me in seductive lingerie, feet at shoulder width, hands on hips, her breathing rapid, her tits heaving heavenward.

"Heavenly," I muttered, thinking aloud.

"Show me you cock now."

"I already told you to take off the panties next."

A pout flashed across her lips, but my stare never wavered. She stuck a thumb in each side of the panties and tugged with force, popping the seams. "Do you want these as a trophy?"

"Just throw them in the corner."

Mrs. Big Tits did not shyly hide her cunt behind her hands. Her blonde bush was naturally lush, the hair darkened to the colour of caramel by childbirth. She stood with hands on hips, breathing deeply, her tits heaving, waiting for more. "Will hubby notice the torn panties, or does he create a lot of those himself?"

"By wearing them you mean? He seldom notices much about me. And I have lots of panties. One more pair in his rag bag won't matter." Her hands slid up her flanks, caressing her smooth porcelain flesh. Despite the two kids, she had the skin of a much younger woman. My eyes were now drawn by her motion to the main prize. The moment of truth was upon us. She cupped each bra encased boob in a hand, not hefting them like melons, more of a pre-orgasmic caress of close friends.

I became the aggressor. Stepping closely enough to feel the humidity of her breath, I reached behind her with both arms. Miraculously, I did not fumble at all as I held the back strap steady with my left hand while undoing the clasp with my right. Mrs. Big Tits leaned in closely, the jasmine scent of her hair tickling my nose. Her bra remained in place crushed between us. My hands caressed her back as if they had minds of their own, first sliding down to tease the top of her butt, then playing her spine like a saxophone. That made her giggle, then sigh. Our body heat commingled, her odour masking my acidic sweatiness. I released her and stepped back. Her chin was titled down, submissively. Her arms were crossed, the bra still crushed, hiding her final secrets. Silently, she slowly sank to her knees before me.

"Oh, please just piss on me. Treat me like the slut I am, she moaned.

"I want you to take my cock out and aim it where you want my piss." I knew in doing so, she must uncover those tits. I was rewarded as the bra flapped to the floor. I paid no heed to her fingers unzipping me. I was barely aware as she extracted my chubby member and pulled me a half step closer. I was still staring at her magnificent cherry nippled natural melons as Mrs. Big Tits dropped my trousers. She stimulated my prostate with a finger, causing my bladder to release a torrent of warm urine. The stream poured through her long blonde hair, anointing her forehead, nose, cheeks and mouth. Piss ran down her neck, coating her shoulders, soaking her medallion, and then cascading across the mounds of her boobs. The two tributaries reunited in the valley of her cleavage, where the stream slowed and lost strength before draining across her firm wide tummy towards the floor.

She held my cock above her head, tilting back to raise her face in supplication. She directed the final flow of urine into her open mouth. I watched her tongue collect stray droplets off her lips. The action of her fist pumping the last piss out of my organ added to the erotic atmosphere. Free from the bladder pressure, my prostate responded predictably; drawing my balls tight within their sac and stiffening my rod.

Mrs. Big Tits shook the damp hair from her face, spraying a fine golden mist into the air. She tugged me forward by the handle, her stroking now unquestionably a hand job. Her tongue snaked out, teasing the damp tip of my cock, taking a final drop. She speared the slit of the cockhead, rotating her tongue gently, then drawing back, Next, she ran the flat of her tongue along the base of the helmet, and then encircled the purple flesh. Finally, after building the anticipation, she drew me into her mouth for the first time. Her tongue did not stop moving. Once she swallowed the first few inches, she used the edge of her tongue to roll around the ridge below the head, inspiring greater girth. My balls felt so solid I was sure they were about to explode. She bobbed hungrily twice swallowing my length into her throat, and then pulled back for air.