I am a successful businessman, a partner in a large consulting firm. Unfortunately, where I was blessed with a sharp mind and good business sense, my physical appearance is lacking. I am a stereotypical business nerd. At thirty-seven I am prematurely balding, slightly overweight no matter how much I work out, and reliant on a set of coke bottle thick glasses.
Married to my job, I have led a sheltered sex life. Twelve-hour days at the office leave little time for dating, and a hot night for me is a bottle of wine and a few hours of surfing porn on the Internet.
I do enjoy outdoor activities; gardening in my yard, fishing, motocross, and tennis. It was a result of these activities that I became good friends with my next-door neighbors in Wichita, Scott and Allison Snow. We lived in an upscale neighborhood on a quite cul-de-sac. I owned a sweet bass boat and Scott often joined me for Saturday morning trips to the local lakes. Allison wasn’t much of a fisher, but she would tag along and lay in the sun while Scott and I caught dinner. On many a hot Kansas afternoon, ogling Allison’s bikini clad body was more fun than fishing.
Visions of her long, lithe body, barely covered by the Lycra of her string bikini stoked many a late night jerk-off session.
The Snow’s had met at the University of Kansas, where he played college football and she was a Jayhawk cheerleader and volleyball player. They were your typical all-American couple; great looking, athletic, and successful.
Though Allison didn’t care for fishing, she was an avid tennis player. Scott thought tennis was a ‘sissy’ sport, so I often joined her at the club to play a few sets. We even teamed in mixed doubles for several club tournaments. Scott clearly was not threatened by the nerdy consultant next door spending time with his knockout wife. I wasn’t a threat, besides we were all good friends.
Allison was in her early thirties, a perpetual tan from lounging around the couple’s pool. She spent several nights a week in aerobics classes at the club, even teaching a spinning class. She was tall, maybe 5’10” and towered over me in a pair of heels. She had long blonde hair and the most gorgeous deep blue eyes. Unlike most southern girls, she wore almost no make-up and was still the prettiest woman in the room.
As Scott had often confided, her only setback was her flat chest. He joked that in college she used to wear a padded bra, and it was her fake tits that had made him originally take notice of her. The first few times they had done the deed, she insisted on lights-out before she would strip. Only after Scott had become addicted to her sweet pussy, did she confess that her ‘public’ tits were the figment of a water-filled bra.
I once asked, “Couldn’t you tell in the dark that her tits were smaller when she took off her clothes?”
In typical Scott fashion, he responded, “Tits are for show, Wayne. When we were getting down to business, my dick was either in her mouth or her pussy. Foreplay for me was the cash I spent on flowers and a fancy dinner.”
Scott was your typical ex-jock. A strapping middle linebacker in college, he stayed in shape playing hoops and lifting weights. He flirted openly with women, although I never saw him actually consummate a deal. The couple often joined me in my backyard hot tub, and Scott packed an awesome punch in his wet bathing suit. A time or two I had caught sideways glances of his exposed dick as he pissed off the side of the boat, draining his lizard after a few too many brews. He was very well endowed and I often observed Allison’s dreamy gaze glued to his package, a look of lust and longing in her bright eyes.
After a few beers around the pool one night, Scott confided that he was planning to give Allison a tit job for Christmas. She would have the big jugs she always craved and he would have his trophy wife.
I had to admit, next summer’s fishing trips would be that much sweeter.
Unfortunately, around Thanksgiving, my firm transferred me to San Francisco. We said our goodbyes and Allison mentioned that she would be in San Francisco in the spring for a fashion show. She was a buyer for a big retail chain and traveled a lot with her work. We made plans to meet for dinner and I promised to show her the town.
Scott, in his usual crass manner joked, “And she can show you her new sweater meats.”
I blushed and Allison whacked Scott on the arm, “You’re such a pig!”
Several months passed before I received a call from Allison, “I’ll be in SF on Friday. Let’s meet for dinner before I have to fly to Los Angeles on Saturday for another show.”
I had a healthy jack-off that night, thinking about seeing Allison and her new tits. I couldn’t wait until Friday.
She was staying at the swank Hotel W across from the Museum of Modern Art. We agreed to meet in the lobby bar for a drink after work before hitting the town.
I arrived early and ordered a martini to sooth my nerves, positioning myself at the bar so I could watch for Allison’s arrival. The place was full of A-class talent, all way out of my league but great eye candy.
Every head in the place turned to watch Allison as she walked through the door. She wore a tailored navy pinstripe business suit, the jacket low-cut in the front revealing a lacy undergarment barely concealing her new cleavage. The suit’s short skirt almost covered her tight ass, her long stocking-clad legs sitting atop a pair of 4-inch heels. Her hair was down and a look of renewed confidence shone in her face, her posture tall and proud as her new tits steered her toward the bar. She owned the room, and she new it. Allison was never shy, but her new and improved breasts had instilled a sense of invincibility in her persona, and she walked into the bar like she owned the place.
“Oh Wayne, it’s so good to see you,” she smiled, hugging me tightly, her new rack pressed against my chest. I was in heaven. All the men in the bar stared in envy as Allison pulled up a barstool next to me and ordered a drink.
“You look great, Wayne, have you been working out?” she asked. Her physical appearance revamped, she was still the sweet Kansas girl her parents had raised.
“Some,” I answered. “Just trying to stay in shape. I’ve gotten into mountain biking and my posterior has firmed up considerably.”
“Nothing like a hard set of buns,” she giggled, slapping my butt a playful swat.
We chatted for an hour, downing a couple of drinks, getting reacquainted and enjoying each other’s company. While I had a tough time keeping my eyes off her cleavage, wondering how those magnificent new boobs would look in one of her skimpy bikinis, we never mentioned her surgery or her tits. I guess it’s just not something two adult professionals work into a conversation.
We grabbed a cab and headed to North Beach for dinner at a little neighborhood Italian restaurant. After a couple of bottles of red wine and a fine meal, we were feeling no pain. After staring at Allison’s new rack for several hours, the only thing I was feeling was a rush of blood to my pecker.
As we emerged from the restaurant, Allison implored, “I need to find a souvenir for Scott, any ideas?”
It was getting late and all the tourist shops were closed. “We can walk through North Beach and head for Broadway,” I suggested. “Maybe something will be open down there.” Yea, all the sex shops I thought. Maybe she could get Scott a leather thong or a new cock ring.
To my surprise, the first sex shop we came too Allison said, “Let’s try in here.” I didn’t know if it was all the booze talking or just Allison’s renewed adventurous spirit, but what the hell.
We browsed the magazines and DVDs, Allison with a clinical inquisitiveness, me trying to keep my semi-erect penis hidden from her view. Television screens played endless loops of various sex scenes; orgies, interracial, gangbangs, lesbian, gay, bisexual. Allison would watch a scene briefly before turning her attention back to the shelves, filling her basket with odds and ends. What is it about women and shopping?
“So do you have any gonzo tapes with Briana Banks?” she asked the clerk.
“Right over there ma’am,” he responded.
Turning to me, Allison explained, “Scott loves Briana Banks.”
Well who fucking doesn’t, I thought to myself.
This was a new side of the Snow's with which I wasn’t familiar. “So you and Scott are into porn?” I asked.
“It’s one of the few hobbies we share,” Allison answered, matter-of-factly.
