A lovely warm summer night in San Diego. During one of my business trips, Vicky invited me to a small party at her place. It resembled the parties we'd had during grad school together, well over three decades ago. Informal, lay-about, sit on the floor, lots of talk lubricated by lots of wine -- although of considerably better quality than back then.
Since school we'd been both scientific collaborators and the very closest of friends. No topics, however personal, were taboo between us: we exchanged the goriest details of our fears, needs, sex lives, emotional entanglements, relationships. But despite our matching enormous sexual appetites, we'd never been lovers. Unless you counted an abortive attempt during year one, in which we had slept together at her place post-party, an encounter where I was too drunk to perform and she was too drunk to either perform or care. We'd turned that debacle into giggle-material, and never done a rematch despite an infinity of chances ashore and at sea. Every few years, somewhere in the world, we would explore the question of exactly why: our best answer was simply that we were too good as friends to risk the relationship by being lovers too.
Vicky has never been -- and at 58 still isn't -- a delicate-bodied creature. Attractive, intensely sexual and sensual, perpetually horny, generally lust-triggering for us human males, yes indeedy-do. But delicate or beautiful, nope. Also, although I have a truly catholic love for female bodies, Vicky's simply isn't close to my favorite cup of tea. She is short, and even shorter-waisted than she should be for her height and build. Muscular and big-boobed and big-butted to well beyond my own tastes, with work-roughened hands, runner's leg and bottom muscles, a powerful voice. ("Built like a fireplug, with a voice to match!" is her self-description.) Big-buttedness notwithstanding she has the most beautifully-shaped black-woman's booty ever found on a purely Caucasian woman. Which of course didn't please HER -- just all her male admirers and companions and casual beach-boys. Plus many a stunned black man.
The party wound down early, and by midnight it was just Vicky and me. Grad school redux -- me the last man standing, helping pick up the debris. At the sink she turned to me, grinned widely, and said "Hey, mon! You've had enough to drink so you shouldn't drive back to your hotel. I know you're not drunk, but the cops are stricter these days. You can just stay here if you want. Besides, your meeting isn't until day after tomorrow."
Then with another grin and a shrug "Of course, we'd have to sleep together since I have only the one bed. But it's a king. And solid. More importantly, I'd really, really like a warm male body to cuddle up with. It's been months since I broke up with Craig, and since then nothing, nada, zip. I'm lonely and need a long cuddle. If you wouldn't mind. You're LOTS better than any cat or even my dog! I assume we both still sleep nekkid?"
Then, after studying my face, she said with a serious expression that failed utterly to be convincing, "Hey! It's CUDDLES and NOTHING ELSE, you goddamned letcher!"
We finished the cleanup, then undressed beside the bed. My conscious intentions were irrelevant to, and utterly ignored by, my cock -- aka "Mister JT", who --alcohol notwithstanding- was at full stand by the time my jockeys hit the floor.
The reality of our shared nudity was that there was almost nothing new to be seen. We'd spent several hundred hours naked together -- often alone -- in hot tubs and saunas. And also several nights together in various beds, during visits and camping trips, all sans sex, an oddly nice "no pressure" arrangement.
Vicky stood facing me, naked and smiling, hands on her hips. She scanned me as I did the same to her, then reached out and with an index finger twanged JT just once. "Nice compliment, I guess. Thank you, JT! But you're wasting time and energy standing up like that. It's just cuddles, remember! Ask your master!"
I returned the fondle with a single friendly nipple-tweak. She nodded at my body, said "Still running! You're not supposed to look like that at sixty-three!" She, herself, still looked excellent, and I told her so. Hugely sexually attractive in a "breed me NOW!" way, no kids hence no stretch-marks, fairly flat belly, boobs still surprisingly firm for their size and provenance. The only new thing was a vanished bush, her crotch gone smoothly stubble-free except for a mountain-top patch the size of a quarter, all of which I noted with considerable approval.
Then it was lights off and into bed under a thin sheet, full spoon, me behind. The whole under-sheet atmosphere was redolent of female body (and, I suppose, male as well), and despite her being about fifteen years into menopause the air was probably heavy on the pheromones. At any rate, Vicky's up-close-and-personal scents had always driven me (and every other male downwind) to the edge of controllability. She knew it and used it.
JT of course was being far too appreciative and responsive. I got a semblance of comfort (not control!) by tucking him into the high end of her butt-crease. Vicky understood, waggled her butt, teasing gently. It was difficult to find a comfortable, non-sexual position for my upper arm, and after gentle tries at repositioning through slow-motion flailing, Vicky took the hand and muttered "Quit thrashing! It only fits right one way. Here. But don't you and JT get any ideas!" She cupped my hand around her uppermost breast, then sighed and sagged back against me. She was right about the fit.
Vicky always said that her boobs ran a VERY close second to her clit in sexual sensitivity, and it's about impossible to keep a male hand so positioned entirely still. Besides, who would want perfect stillness? Certainly not the owners of either the hand or the boob! SO - within about two minutes her nipple was appreciatively erect and nuzzling my palm -- which was in perpetual if nearly imperceptible motion.
After perhaps five minutes during which she went through a significant change in breathing and exhibited a growing squirminess, she muttered "Dammit, now that I've ordered you and JT not to have any ideas, it turns out that I can't follow my own order! If I lie down flat, perhaps I could interest you in kissing what you're fondling?" She didn't wait for an answer, just rotated onto her back and threw off the sheet. This was something unexpected, brand new, and -- frankly -- not to be refused. I simply love breasts!
Her boobs were a sensual delight -- mature and soft-firm, precisely the right texture for inhaling and completely filling my mouth, with well-inflated solid nipples to roll between tongue and palate. I didn't just kiss... instead, I made love to them, actively nursing, pretending to need milk, using strong suction and pressures, with attention to feedback -- in short, a little conscious showing off. And just for fun I rather disembodied myself, allowing not an iota of touch between us save mouth to tits.
Vicky's response was most gratifying, the whole of each boob tightening up, nipples and areolas swelling and roughening between my palate and tongue, her chest rising against my face, her breathing becoming labored. All of which was, of course, perfectly predictable. What neither she nor I expected was another result -- after perhaps ten minutes, with no real warning, she came -- hard and prolonged, with the most erotic deep-throated groan.
