Downtown was boiling under the night sky.
Everything smelled thick -- sweat, beer, fried meat, asphalt pissing heat back into the air.
Marla sat in the passenger seat, heart beating against the tight band of her black tube top.
No bra underneath.
Just her fat, freckled tits spilling upward, nipples stiff and aching.
The inside light was switched on, soaking her bare skin in dirty yellow.
Every freckle, every jiggle, every pulse of heat between her thighs was undeniable.
She kept her face turned toward the window, chin high, pretending not to see the men gathering outside.
She didn't need to look. She could feel them.
Eyes scraping over her.
Cocks getting hard.
Breaths getting shallow.
Her thighs stuck to the leather seat, slick with the wet heat soaking through her shorts.
Her husband drove slow, one hand on the wheel, the other creeping across the center console to tug her tube top lower.
He peeled it under the weight of her tits until the fabric bunched at her ribs.
Her tits dropped heavy into the open air, wobbling with every bump in the road.
The car rolled past clusters of men outside bars and gas stations.
Conversations stopped mid-sentence.
Phones jerked up, fingers fumbling to take pictures.
Some men just stared, mouths open, grabbing themselves through their jeans, not caring who saw.
Her husband slipped a hand between her thighs, pushing the wet cotton aside.
Two fingers pressed against her soaked pussy lips, dragging the slickness up to her clit.
"Fuckin' dripping already," he muttered, voice low and full of pride. "My nasty, filthy girl."
Marla whimpered, squeezing her thighs together, trapping his hand there.
The car crept forward.
The crowd thickened.
The night pressed harder against the windows.
At a stoplight, a group of guys walked close enough to smell.
They leaned in, heads cocked, drinking in the sight of her thick, naked tits jostling every time the car idled.
One of them jerked his chin toward her, laughing low, grabbing the thick bulge in his pants without shame.
Her husband rolled the window halfway down.
The humid air rushed in, smelling of beer and cigarettes and summer sweat.
The men leaned closer.
One of them -- tall, neck tattooed, drunk off his ass -- chuckled. "Goddamn, baby... look at those fuckin' things."
Marla's nipples puckered harder.
She didn't move.
She didn't blink.
She just sat there and let the heat in her veins take over.
Her husband grinned. "We're parking over off Main Street," he said, voice loud and casual. "Feel free to stop by if you want a closer look."
The men laughed, clapping each other on the back, shouting promises to come find them.
The light turned green.
The husband eased forward, giving them one last long, slow view of his wife's bare, bouncing tits under the cab light.
More men on the sidewalk caught sight of her and whistled, pointed, one even running to keep pace with the car for a few feet, hands cupped around his mouth, shouting filthy praises.
Marla's pussy leaked faster.
The cotton of her shorts was a lost cause, soaked through, clinging to her skin.
Her face burned. Her breath came hard.
Her heart twisted in her chest.
The husband pulled into a half-abandoned parking lot a block off Main Street, behind an old pawn shop with a crooked, blinking OPEN sign.
He turned off the engine.
Silence swallowed them.
Marla sat trembling, tits heaving, thighs slick and glistening in the low light.
The tube top was nothing now. Just a useless strip of fabric scrunched under her tits.
Her husband leaned over, kissing her shoulder, sucking a freckle into his mouth.
"You ready to be a good little street slut for me?" he whispered.
She nodded without hesitation.
He smiled. "Good."
She tugged her tube top back up with shaky hands, barely covering her nipples, just enough to pass in the dark for a girl wearing something respectable -- from a distance.
They climbed out of the car.
The air outside hit her wet skin like a slap.
Voices drifted down from Main Street.
Laughter. Catcalls. Heavy footsteps.
The night was waiting for her.
And she was ready.
•••••
The bell over the pawn shop door jangled sharp and ugly when they pushed inside.
The place smelled like old cigarettes, motor oil, and desperation.
Dim yellow bulbs buzzed overhead. Shelves crammed with junk leaned at crooked angles.
An old radio crackled out rock music nobody was listening to.
Marla stepped in first, tube top barely clinging to her tits, nipples stabbing against the thin fabric.
The heat and filth of the place wrapped around her, dragging more sweat from her skin.
Her thighs were already slick from the ride over. Her pussy was already leaking into the crotch of her shorts.
Her husband trailed after her, calm, confident, owning the room without a word.
He let her wander through the aisles -- pretending to browse, touching useless broken tools, chipped guitars, greasy fishing poles.
With every step, her tits bounced heavier.
The tube top kept slipping lower.
The tops of her pink areolae peeked out over the stretched black cotton.
Marla tugged it up once, twice, but her husband shot her a warning glance.
She dropped her hands to her sides and left it alone, cheeks burning.
From behind the battered glass counter, the owner watched.
Big guy. Thick arms. Round belly under a sweat-stained tank top.
Dark hair slicked back, heavy gold chain around his neck.
Italian, maybe. Half muscle, half gut. Rough but not ugly.
There was a hunger in his eyes that made Marla's knees soften.
He finally walked over, wiping his hands on his jeans.
"You folks looking to pawn somethin'?" he asked, voice rough, heavy from years of smoking.
He looked her up and down, slow and obvious, eyes catching and sticking on her tits.
Her husband chuckled.
"Maybe," he said. "What do you figure she's worth?"
The big man grinned, slow and nasty.
"Fuck... fifty bucks for those tits alone," he said, nodding at her chest.
Her husband shook his head, laughing under his breath.
"Fifty? Shit, buddy. Those tits are worth triple that. But you can't make a real offer without a sample first."
The owner licked his lips, gaze glued to her chest.
"You offering?"
Her husband didn't even hesitate.
"Go ahead. Pull 'em down. Give the man a show."
Marla's whole body flushed deep red.
But she obeyed.
Hands trembling, she hooked her thumbs under the tube top and peeled it down.
Her tits spilled out heavy, pale, freckled, nipples so hard they almost hurt.
The owner groaned under his breath, stepping closer, heat pouring off him.
He bent his thick head and latched onto her left nipple without asking twice.
Mouth hot and greedy.
Big fat lips sealing around the swollen bud, sucking hard, slurping her into his mouth.
Marla gasped out loud, no chance of hiding it.
Her body betrayed her instantly, hips rocking, pussy clenching in the soaked mess of her shorts.
The owner shifted to the other nipple, slurping, pulling, rolling it between his teeth just enough to make her knees buckle.
He came up for air, face flushed.
"Fuck, that's good," he panted. "But if I'm really gonna make a good offer... I gotta know what the rest of her's like."
He reached out, thick, grubby hand hovering just above her belly.
He looked to the husband. "Can I?"
Her husband nodded once. "You gotta ask her."
The big man turned his gaze on her, thick with need. "You mind if I feel you up, sweetheart?"
Marla's voice came out wrecked, shaking.
"Yes, sir... please."
