The Bosom of Desire

1.

Okay, I admit that I saw how horny he was. It's just... well, he just seems so demanding sometimes. Frankly, I just don't want to mess with it all the time. So when he began coming on to me—you know, caressing my hips and butt, giving me a hug every five minutes... Hey, I want to know, why is it that he is so hesitant to give me a hug when I want comfort and yet when he wants his own kind of "comfort", he's all over me? If he really loved me, wouldn't he want to help my emotional need? So, maybe I was irritated at that today and decided to give him a dose of his own medicine. Well, not really. I just wasn't interested. And he seemed so demanding. And he never really asked. So in the midst of one of his "hugs" (and he was SOOO hard, I mean I could feel it even if there were a steel plate between us) I told him that I was walking up to the store. By myself. Cause I needed some time alone. Boy, did he give me puppy dog eyes. He knew I was rejecting his advances. But a girl should be shown respect, not just pawed all the time!

I turned away from him and quickly walked out the door and down the street before I changed my mind. But it was too late. For my agenda, anyway. He really did seem pathetic. All sad and pitiful, just because I wouldn't let him play between my legs. I kinda felt sorry for him. All by himself with only that monster, Desire, to keep him company. It wasn't really my intention to punish him. I just needed some space.

So I walked around the block and then came back to the door. I opened it carefully, slid through and closed it silently. Just as I thought, he wasn't in the living room anymore. I heard movement on our bed. Just what I figured. He was taking care of himself. That's okay, I don't mind. He needs sex more than I and I don't want to discourage him from helping himself out, just as long as he's ready for me when I want some. He's never failed me yet, so his masturbation isn't a problem, as far as I'm concerned.

I crept into the bedroom and saw him on the bed, pants around his knees, right hand around his stiff penis. It's kinda weird seeing him this way. Really, I know all men do it, but they look like one of those weird animals when they masturbate—like a platypus, or something. One of those creatures that seem as if they were created from extra parts. A woman masturbating is still a woman with all of her shapes and curves. A man and a woman together is beautiful, harmonious, visually perfect. A man masturbating suddenly has this odd appendage sticking out of his groin and he's reaching down to stroke it—wow, that's weird.

Interesting, though, in a biological sense. I mean, what drives men to do this unseemly act? Are their passions so deep that they don't care about their pride or honor anymore? Are they willing to accept this humiliation to just slake their appetites? I suppose the desire must be great, if they are so willing to put themselves in such a position. And what about the spirit world? Do angels find such actions disgusting? Do they avoid men that masturbate a lot? Do they avoid sexual acts altogether? I am sure that if aliens did come to earth, the last thing they would want to look at would be human sexuality. That'd be kinda morbid for them, I figure. I mean, as if they would care. They'd write the function down in their books and then go on to more interesting subjects, like why we scratch areas that have no physical itch.

So there he was, working hard and I ceased my study and whispered, "Want some help?" I never knew a guy could jump so high laying down with pants around his knees. When he dropped off of the ceiling, his face was red and he was breathing hard. Was he angry? REAL angry? Or just embarrassed and breathless from his exertions. Certainly he acted embarrassed. "Uh... um... I'm sorry." I bet no one had ever seen him masturbate before. I don't blame him for hiding it, really. But, you know, for all of my mocking of how it looks, it's still... cute. Especially seeing him on the bed, totally vulnerable, completely under control of his lust. Just like when we are together. And I felt something, too. So I may not want him all the time... certainly not as much as he wants. But, seeing him release his desire I realized that I wanted that desire. I desired his desire. It would make me feel good, just to be a part of his emotions, his release.

"Nothing to be sorry about. It looks like fun. Can I help?"

"Uhhh..." This is obviously a new idea to him and his shame at being caught in the act has caused his stiff appendage to droop and fade into his scrotum.

I sit on the bed next to him and scratch his inner thighs softly. I begin softly singing, "It would sure do me good to do you good, let me help..."

He grins as he recognizes the old tune and says, "I guess so. But I'm not sure what you could do..." "We can work it out," I hum as I caress his scrotum and kiss his pelvic bone sticking out at his hip and then move my lips across his sensitive skin below his tummy. Slowly, almost reluctantly, his penis emerged from its shelter, and he shifted his back down on the bed again, relaxing in my care.

I lay down next to him and caress his chest under his shirt and I kiss his closed eyes and his lips, pursed in his re-emerging eroticism. "So what are you thinking about?" I whisper.

"You," he replied, "touching me with your lips and fingers."

"I mean, what were you thinking about when I came in?" His eyes opened wide for a moment, and then relaxed and his lips curved, "I was thinking of you sitting on the bed, stripping for me."

I smiled, "Is that all you want?" "For now," he teased, grabbing my boob.

I sat up in front of him and took stock of my clothing. It was evening, so I had on a light jacket, but beneath that I had a tank top that I just wore around the house. I realized that I had forgotten to put on a bra this morning, so every time I bent over some cleavage showed. No wonder he was so hot! I'd been teasing him all day and I didn't even realize it. I had on some jeans as well, not too tight, but they weren't hiding much either. This could be fun...

2.

I was not just ashamed, I was mortified for her to find me like that. Honestly, at this point, I wonder if she didn't plan to walk in on me that way the whole time. Obviously she didn't walk to the store, she wasn't gone near long enough. But if she did plan it, as bad as I felt when she walked in, she made up for it with her "help". Wow, I could do with visuals like that every day. I can't remember when I've been so excited. I've never been to a strip show. I won't say I haven't seen other naked women, but her show beat anything you could get for a cover charge.

She zipped up her light coat and got on her knees. Then she made an announcement with a silky voice, "Welcome, gentleman, to the T and A club. We show everything for nothing! Tonight, we will give you a chance to witness exotic Esss, who will snake right into your pants and never let you go. Of course, for some of you more exposed sort, the pants are optional." She grinned and touched my bare thigh. "Gentlemen, are you ready? Then start your engines!"

She began to unzip my jacket slowly and my eyes peered through her clothes, as if I had x-ray vision. Of course, I didn't, so I just visually followed the crotch of her zipper all the way down, lingering at her mounds as her hand slowly continued down. Her hands ascended up the side of her torso, pushing her breasts together for a moment. She tucked the cloth of her tank top under them and I could see her gorgeous shape, created in cloth, outlined by the words, "BIG" with "TOP" hidden beneath the landscape. This seems like a terrible joke, but really, she isn't that huge on her chest. Probably medium size. But the word accentuated her figure, and made it true. Post modernism at work, right here in my bedroom.

She grabbed the bottom of her jacket and slowly began to lift it up. Her belly showed as the shirt lifted up with the jacket and with her upper torso fully covered and shapeless in the jacket, she wiggled her hips slowly and lay down on her back, putting her legs in front of her, knees up. As she dragged the jacket over her torso, from my perspective I could see her shirt lift up and expose the lower curve of her breasts. It was gazing at this sight, continuously that I could feel my blood coursing again and my penis stiffening.

What is it about women's breasts? How could two fatty lumps resting on a woman's chest cause such passion, such drive? Wars have been fought over beauty, and I do not doubt that the women who were the focus of these wars were dressed in tight shirts—or possibly no shirts at all. This woman, my wife, could, at this moment ask anything of me at all and while I might not answer with enthusiasm, I would probably grant her request with a grunt or nod without even understanding what she said. "Dear, could you please drive off a cliff?" "Sure, just a minute." What are these creatures, who are pure sexual entities in a man's eyes, but to a baby symbolizes nutrition? Of course, no matter how many women protest that their breasts are just about babies, the fact is different. Every mammal has the ability to suckle their young with mammary glands—but only human women have breasts. Animals' mammary glands swell a bit when nursing. Women's breasts develop long before pregnancy and remain long after all other pregnancy fat has disappeared. No, let's be honest about them. They are man-nets.

In a sense, the breasts are like the penis when aroused. They are both meant to draw attention to themselves sexually. They both stand out in their respective ways. With all of the architecture and geography that is named "phallic", there could also be a set named "mammary:" hills, the Appalachian mountains, the St. Louis arc. Both sets are created not because they are sexual in nature, but because they stand out, they are explicitly noticeable. Even so, the penis and the breast. But the penis is almost alien, an object of curiosity. Few women are excited at the sight of the erect penis, even of their beloved. The breast, however is not only elegant, a perfect object of beauty, but it is also a sexual enthusiasm, an aphrodisiac without par. For most men, simply the daily glance at the variety of womanly chests walking down a street is enough to drive them mad with desire. No wonder that a woman with a perfect figure (the proper ratio between bosom and waist) is not believed by male humanity when she says that she is not sexually interested. The desire that she stirs, it is assumed, is flowing out of her through a man's eyes straight to his hormones. Men out of sexual control cry, "She did it to me!" and while they are still wrong, they are not far from right. The cry could just as well be: The bosom made me do it!

Yes, breasts are enticing, erotic and entrapping to the male. The proper location of them within a blouse or sweater with a good ratio of light and shadow is "cute" to a woman. Even infants are attracted to a chest-waist ratio, and not because of a longing for milk. It is a human standard of beauty. One that can be changed, evolving over time (Helen of Troy was probably "fat" by our standards), but an issue in the exemplification of human beauty. Ultimately, this is why men will never make the cut for beauty—or perhaps this is why the over-muscled man is attractive, due to their development of pecks that resemble muscled female breasts?

But if I walk down the street and glance, even longingly, at women's breasts, they would never cause me the excitement that my wife's do. No matter how scantily clad, no matter how seductive the hooker, no matter how excellent the sexual actress in porn, they cannot compare to the simple woman I have before me, and the seduction she provides me in stripping the jacket over her head, raising her mounds up, floating in space. Because she gives herself totally willingly. She is stripping off her jeans, slowly, exposing her beautiful ass before me, not because it's her job or she's going to get something out of me, but because she loves me. She loves me enough not just to give me sex, but to be there in my need, to be my comfort, to work with me, to put up with my bad moods. She is willingly open, willingly expressive, willingly committed to me, no matter what disasters befall us. Our sex is based in relationship and our relationship is deepened in sex.

Look at her now. She is straddling my thigh and her thick hair rubs coarsely against my skin. Her vagina is damp, but not really wet as it rest on me, yet she is vamping me as if she was just waiting to stuff herself with me. She whispers to me how she wants to touch me with her chest heaving. Such beautiful lies. And I believe them, I really do. I must. Because both of us now are committed to one goal: the fulfillment of my sexual need. Every second it grows more urgent as she leans down on my chest, pinching my nipples, allowing the shadow in the midst of her top deepen. She is here for me. No one else in the whole world loves me in this way. She is giving me this time, and I love her for it. No other woman can cause me as much satisfaction as she.

Laying on my chest still, raised just above me so that only the tip of her breast through the shirt touches me, she shifts to take one hand and lower the strap on her left shoulder to her arm. Then the right. Her nipples remain hidden, although she has expose both the top and bottom of her breasts to me. She crawls up my chest until the seductive curves hover right over my face. "Kiss me," she moans, so I brush my lips against the delicate skin, licking the salt from my lips, savoring the taste. My mouth opens and caresses the surface of her chest, hypnotized, engulfed in her shape, her touch, her taste.

She sits back up and lifts herself off of my leg. She sits with her butt resting against the side of my chest and I can't help but stroke it as I watch the back of her tank top slip down to her waist. Immediately, before I can get a glimpse, she covers the front of her breasts with her hands. Completely nude before me, yet my deepest desire is still hidden from my reaching view. She shifts around to face me, giving me the runway view of her chest—all sides exposed except the front. She presses her hands upon herself, flattening her mounds so the give her hands a halo of flesh. Then she bends before me, so I can see straight through the center of them. Every move of her hands and body adjust the shape and movement of her breasts—every change a startling new development in my desire.

Still covering herself, she stares me straight in my eyes, which I cannot lift above her chest, as much as I long to look her in the eye and let her know it is her I desire, and not just her boobs. Somehow, she managed to crawl between my legs without me noticing. Her hands lower, and there they are, hovering over my painfully erect penis. She gently takes my hand away from my throbbing member and she lowers herself so that the flesh of her hardened nipple scrapes against the tip. I gasp and she floats the other breast over to caress my entire shaft.

"This is the end of the race, gentlemen. Esss is going to surround you, and you are going to fill her with your appreciation and love." Her hands are on either side of my hips. She is above me, poised to collapse her breasts upon my penis. "Esss wants you in the midst of her beauty. She wants to drown you in her flesh. One taste of her and you will never want anything else. Are you ready?"

I cannot speak, for I fear I will offend her with the graphic language on my lips. I just nod. She smiles and lowers her breasts upon me...

3.

Awakening from his fantasy, he opens his eyes and really looks at me. I was wondering what was going on in that head of his. He takes my hand off of him and says, "Please, I need to have more of you. Would you lay down?" I half-smile, not expecting anything. I take my tank top and pants off and lay down. Touching him has got me a little stirred, maybe we can make something of this. We'll see. I'm certainly willing to try.

Surprisingly, he touches my scalp. An entirely nude woman laying before him and he touches the top of her instead of her top. That's pretty impressive. His fingers massage my head for a few minutes. Then he softly touches my checks, caressing them with the back of his hands. My nose, my lips (I lick his finger!), my ears. He is touching each part of me as if they are precious, a valuable commodity, a gift from this most loved. I am not beautiful by anyone's imagination. Except, perhaps, his. I don't know how he can see me as such, but he certainly treats me as if every bit of me is as desirable as the most beautiful woman in the world.

He touches my neck. Interestingly, he is sitting around my head, with his knees spread out to my shoulders. It must be uncomfortable. I ask him and he says, "I am perfectly content."

I chuckle, "I doubt that. You still haven't gone yet." "Plenty of time for that." Then he moves to my shoulders, stroking my collar bone.

And then my breasts. Honestly, he tends to move a bit quickly to my nipples usually, as if to say, "Come on, girly, let's get this show on the road!" But today, he takes forever to reach my nipples. Frankly, I wanted him to go there, to harden my flesh and move on to sex. But that didn't seem to be his mood. As if the tips of his fingers were paintbrushes, and he had to cover all the top of my chest with the most exquisite colors, he touched my body. My upper chest he stroked with the back of his fingernails—not to discomfort, but with a gentleness I didn't know he possessed. Such self control he held at the heavy curve of my lower breasts—he did not cup them, nor press his fingers deep into their flesh. His were the strokes of the sculptor who takes the fine chisel to rub off any roughness.

My eyes closed, I need imagine nothing. His caress was touching, almost not sexual. But every once in a while, he would circle all of one of my breasts. Encompassed by his lingering touch, I felt a stirring in my groin, and I longed to have more. He then moved on to my stomach, having finished with my breasts and the disappointment we deep within me. I had to interrupt his caresses to complain, "What... what about my nipples? Don't you love them too?"

"Oh yes," I could hear his grin in his voice. "Do you want me to love them now?"

"Yes please," I moaned softly.

He got up and moved to my side. Then nothing. No touch, no caress, no sweetness. I felt nothing from him. His body was heavy in the bed next to me, but he wasn't touching me. I opened my eyes and saw his face hovering over my breasts and his tongue wet his lips. He moved his head down, and I closed my eyes, but all I could feel is his hot breath breezing over my nipples, teasing my nerves. Then, there it was. His wet lips gently smothered my nipple and his tongue tasted me. I could feel my nipple harden, being drawn into his mouth, and his tongue surrounded me. I tensed with sexual energy and pushed my soft flesh into his mouth. In response, his tongue stroked me, firmly, fingering my erect sexuality, and smothering it with wet desire. I could feel that desire, I was in him, and he was drawing on me, we were feeding off of each other's lust and the pulses I received from him I could feel in the pit of my stomach, in my groin, a stirring in my legs. How I wanted him.

I cannot believe how long he stroked me with his tongue and lips. I cannot imagine receiving all of that without being too sensitive. And when he moved to my other breast, giving it the same treatment, the same length, I was so ready for him, I almost grabbed him and stuffed him inside me. Rather, I wet my fingers, placed my hand around his length, and stroked him just beneath his tip. His breathing became more difficult, and soon he had to stop tonguing me. I reached down inside me and stroked the wetness around. "Now, now," I moaned, and he climbed on top of me.