You've heard of the straw that broke the camel's back – well this is a story about a broken bra strap that finally ended a marriage.
While in many ways I, Denise, was an ordinary thirty one year old woman at the time of the broken bra strap, I did, and still have, two distinguishing characteristics. One, I'm in good physical condition and exercise regularly including jogging. Two, I have big tits. They're not just big; they're dense, and heavy, with hard distended nippples. I have to wear specialty bras at all times in order to function normally.
I met my husband Jack when I was twenty two. He's six years older than I am and very good looking – almost too good looking for his own good. He also can be charming, although my father – a prominent attorney – always considered him "slick" as opposed to charming.
Jack really, really loved my tits – and I think that he grew to love me too, at least it seemed like it. He always was anxious to please me, especially if it got him some nipple sucking, and he'd kill to titty fuck me, which he did often. I enjoyed pleasing him and even though my orgasms from titty fucking were mild compared to vaginal ones, he was so appreciative and gratified that what I lacked in orgasm intensity from a titty fuck was made up for by emotional contentment.
Since my dad considered Jack "slick," and since in my experience my father was proven to be right 99% of the time in his evaluation of people, at my father's urging Jack and I kept our finances separate – including filing separate tax returns – after we were married when I was twenty four and he was thirty. That turned out to be really fortuitous when Jack was arrested for fraud after we had been married for about three years. Nothing that he had done could be traced back to me in any way, although it seemed like the local cops wanted to involve me. After my father got through beating on the D. A., however, the cops actually apologized to me for anything that they had done during their investigation that was insulting to me.
I graciously accepted their apology – and then made it clear to them that if they subpoenaed even one more of my records that I was filing suit against the city, and them personally, for harassment.
Because of his cherubic face, seemingly heartfelt expressions of remorse, restitution, saving the State the cost of a trial, and a female judge, Jack got sentenced to only four years, with parole available after two. The restitution and attorney fees cost him all of his money – mine remained undisturbed except for what I insisted my father's law firm take for out-of-pocket expenditures in protecting me. That left me responsible for the mortgage on our house.
My parents wanted me to divorce Jack, but I did really love the guy, despite his troubles, so I had a heart-to-heart talk with him rather than immediately filing for divorce.
"Jack, give me your sales pitch as to why I should stay married to you?" I asked him after his conviction but ten days before he had to report to the white-collar prison where he'd be serving his sentence.
"You're my rock, Denise; I need you to survive. I love you so much, and I'll be a new man when I get out. Please stick it out – I know that you love me too," he replied with his big sad beguiling eyes.
"Yeah but love might not be enough. How am I supposed to keep the house just on my earnings, and what am I supposed to do to satisfy my needs while you're in stir?" was my retort with folded arms.
"Look, I know that it's a lot to ask, but I guarantee you that I'll be paroled after two years. Wives wait for their husbands going off to war for longer than that under more stressful situations. Please Hon, you've got to stick by me."
"It's got to be only two years, Jack. I can't take four, and I won't. You have to do whatever is necessary to get out after two. If you do, and if you'll agree to sign papers for me to sell the house if things get too tight monetarily, I'll stick with you."
"Thank you, Denise – I love you so much," he actually gushed. He then lifted me up, carried me to our bedroom, and gave me the best oral of my life up to that point, followed by one of the best vaginal fucks, and after a really quick recovery a truly enthusiastic, zealous, and satisfying – for both of us – titty fuck.
We had sex at least twice a day until I had to take him to report to prison. It was going to have to sustain us for two years because I had no intention of cheating and he wouldn't be able to. I cried when I dropped him off, and almost got in several accidents on the way home because of the tears in my eyes. Fortunately my best friend Jill was not only keenly aware of my situation but committed to helping me, so when I got back to my house I was greeted by Jill and two other friends. They took me to a late lunch and a stage play, and I was able to get my mind off of my troubles for a while.
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The time that Jack served in prison was harder for me than I had even contemplated for several reasons. Not in any particular order (except where indicated otherwise) the things that made it hard were:
First was the loneliness at night, and when we would normally be doing things together. I dealt with this in part by becoming even closer to Jill and two other friends, but primarily by upping my exercise regime. I was a regular at my health club and on the local jogging and bicycle paths. Even though before Jack's incarceration I was always in at least decent shape, in view of my new workout regime and the time that I devoted to fitness I was clearly not only in the best shape of my life but – according to my female trainer – in the top 2% of females in the entire country.
The second one was finances – I did end up having to sell the house. Fortunately we had about $100,000 in equity in it so after costs, commissions, and the like I was able to put $35,000 in my brokerage account, and $35,000 in Jack's bank account, and the condo that I bought I could afford quite easily on my earnings alone.
The third was the temptation. Guys had always found me attractive – I don't think that it was only because of my big tits, but that certainly was a factor – and there was no exception now even though I always wore my wedding and engagement rings. In fact, my exercise regime had made me the most attractive that I ever was in my life, and even though I dressed conservatively I got hit on constantly; the grocery store, the health club, at work, at the mall, even just walking down the street. I was constantly horny, and only with a good vibrator and all the will power that I could muster was I able to avoid cheating on Jack.
The fourth – and worst – thing was how Jack changed. While Jack had always been protective, he was never clingy or overly jealous. That changed dramatically while he was in stir. It started shortly after the first time that I visited him. Even though he was about 150 miles away I went every other Sunday for at least two hours. I – and undoubtedly my tits – was clearly noticed by the other inmates when I met with Jack in the common room where families visited. It was clear to me that some of the other prisoners were telling him that there was no way that someone who looked like me could avoid all of the guys that were sure to be hitting on me.
Jack became more jealous and accusatory with each stopover. It got so that I was completely stressed out by the end of each visit, and I no longer looked forward to them. Finally, after he had been in jail about fourteen months I had had enough. When he made some snide remark about how I must be getting "serviced properly" because I looked so good, I laid into him.
"Listen, asshole; I'm fucking sick and tired of your snide remarks, baseless accusations, and perverted brain. It's been really, really hard on me to remain faithful and if you will recall I wasn't the one who defrauded people and got put here – you were the one. So the next time that you make some overt comment questioning my fidelity I'm going out and fuck an entire football team!"
With that I knocked my metal chair onto the concrete floor and stormed out, creating as much of a scene as I could.
In the next weekly phone call that Jack was allowed he apologized to me – although it rang a little hollow since it was in terms of "pity poor me," but I accepted it. I made it clear that I wasn't going to put up with his shit again. The remaining visits until he was released (after twenty two months, even less than the two years) he basically stayed on the wagon, although at times I could see him biting his lip.
When Jack got home, we had some really passionate lovemaking for about a week straight. I took off work several days, and we spent them fucking and sucking almost the entire time that we weren't eating or sleeping. My pussy and nipples were so sore – as were his cock and mouth – that we finally had to cool it.
Jack was not in the best place mentally, however, after our first week of fucking. His job options were now limited. He was used to making close to six figures and now – in view of his fraud conviction, which most potential employers were obviously concerned about – the only work that he could get he considered way beneath him. His ego was having a hard time with me making four times what he was even though I was paying for the condo mortgage, taxes and fees all by myself (we still kept our finances separate, and as far as I was concerned that never was going to change).
Probably because of his stressed financial condition, bruised ego, and lingering jealous and accusatory thoughts from his days in prison, six months after he got out he was unpleasant to live with. It got to the point that only the sex – which was still very good – was making it bearable; I started to seriously consider divorce.
Then came the bra strap incident.
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I was out jogging on a Saturday morning, wearing one of my older substantial strapless jog bras with just a sleeveless shell over it, when I sprinted for about a hundred meters, trying to purge my mind of thoughts of divorce. My boldly bouncing hefty boobs apparently became too much for my old bra, and the strap snapped. It was sudden and startling, and hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. The snapping of the bra onto my back and sides raised welts, and my tits hurt from their sudden release, when a flopping nipple almost put my eye out too (ha, ha).
Then there was the embarrassment of my naked left boob completely popping out of my sleeveless shell. Of course this happened at the most crowded part of the jogging trail, and I almost ran over a guy coming the other way when I was startled and became fully cognizant of my predicament.
Fortunately the guy I almost ran over – and did run into – was big enough that I didn't flatten him, and he was a gentleman besides.
"Oh shit – sorry!" I exclaimed as I banged into him. "I just had a serious wardrobe malfunction."
"I can see that," he chuckled, seemingly making eye contact with me while simultaneously admiring my left boob. "It doesn't look like you can continue with that outfit without becoming the object of attraction for every guy around. Can I offer some help?"
"What would that be?" I skeptically asked as I popped my naked left boob back into my sleeveless shell (for all the good that it did since my tits were still exposed almost up to the nipples) and gingerly removed my now useless bra.
"I just started my jog about half a kilometer ago. Take my shirt," he said as he removed his not-yet-sweaty T-shirt with "Northwestern University Volleyball" proudly displayed on it along with a college seal "and put this on, and I'll give you a ride back to your car if you want since I'm not sure that you'll be jogging anymore right now."
He obviously had gotten a good look at my tits to make that assessment because, in fact, if I continued to try and jog without a sturdy jog bra it would not only be uncomfortable and exhibitionist, but painful since I was a long way from my car.
"You know that's nice of you," I said as I reluctantly took his crew-neck T-shirt and quickly put it on – primarily because two guys slowed as they jogged by and were ogling me, "but I don't know you and I'm not stupid enough to hitch a ride with someone I don't know even if he appears to be a real gentleman."
"You're wise beyond your years," he chuckled as he guided me by my elbow off to the side of the jogging path. "But I have a solution. Do you have your phone with you?"
"No – only my ID and car keys," I replied, now finally noticing just how big – and really good looking – this guy was since I was virtually swimming in his shirt and it hung down to my knees.
