It was the second week of July. A scorching heat wave had baked our region for nearly a week. Folks retreated to wherever they could find relief. Swimming pools, the malls, movie theaters; anywhere that could keep them cool.
Wifey asked if I would go shopping with her; a trip to Costco was in order. Although I could list at least a dozen other things I would prefer to do with my Saturday afternoon, I smiled and said, "Sure." I love my wife. Although I love my wife, that does not mean that my mind is numb nor my eyes are blind to the never ending flow of sexual stimulation that bombards me. A trip to Costco on a hot, summer day would have its, um, perks.
My favorite perk was wifey herself. Modest, yet amazingly sexy, she was unashamed to head out in a pair of shorts that were comfortable for her and a great view for me; and countless other men whose minds and eyes were also alive and well. It always gave me a secret, naughty rush at the thought of how many men those shorts lured into trying to figure out if the fabric impression over her crotch was just the natural seam of the shorts or a sexy revelation of her married slit. Not to mention the stares that would unceasingly be bearing down on her ass where those red cotton shorts hugged her form in a way that dared men to find her panty lines.
She also was wearing a white tank top with a bra underneath that offered her breasts, which needed little help to begin with, a lift that made me want to reach under her tank top and fondle her for hours. I could imagine the thoughts others might have of her.
But I have no interest in sharing her. I am not one who takes delight in the idea of "slutifying" my wife in some cuckold perversion. She's mine, all mine. I have absolutely no intentions of ever sharing her. The same can be said about cheating. I don't cheat. I won't cheat.
Now, when it comes to me not cheating, where reality takes a stand, my fantasies definitely ignore the boundaries. Admittedly my mind plays. Of course, I am not a freak. My guess is that I am typical. All guys do it. I am perhaps in a minority of men who do it, but never verbalize about it and certainly never act out on it. It is part of the deal that comes with not cheating.
As we drove to the store, I enjoyed the repeated glances I had of wifey as she sat in the car next to me. Those amazing 36c breasts full and ripe had a perky jiggle, both under her tank top as well as the flesh that was exposed above the tempting, "u-curve" neckline of her tank top. Her inviting, creamy, white flesh was dazzling to my eyes. Adding to my swelling lust was the private knowledge I had of what was discreetly covered under her top and bra; those huge, light, pink nipples that I often sucked until I could suck no more.
By the time we arrived at the store and I grabbed a cart, my lust was in full bloom. I was about to enter a buffet of bodies on display. My wifey was not the only woman dressed in summer wear to beat the heat. By the time I had pushed our cart through the large, warehouse entrance, my eyes had already been entertained by a parade of attractive bodies randomly on display.
As wifey and I zigzagged aisle by aisle, my eyes discreetly darted with horny intentions from one woman to the next. The mix of forbidden fruit daring my eyes to look, and wifey's body mine to enjoy but not at that moment, tormented me as I squirmed to keep my hard cock discreetly positioned in my shorts.
In the produce area, I leaned against our parked cart as wifey lingered over the choices of fruit. This gave me a chance to watch as others exited the extremely cold side-room where products were kept that required temperatures in the 40's. We all know what the sudden contrast of cold air does to most women's nipples. I positioned myself to take inventory of each pair that passed my way, working on the lust-formulas that all men have stored in our minds which we use to calculate the size and features of a women's nipples, ably using just the small fraction of data made available to our eyes.
I was delighted, albeit mildly surprised, at the number of braless women on display. Wifey rarely went braless in public, unless she was in formal wear or swimwear. So it always surprised me at how free some women felt to let their tits jiggle freely. Delighted. Mildly surprised. Definitely NOT complaining.
Wifey waved me over to her. I pulled myself away from my grandstand viewing of "nipples on display" and pushed our cart over to her. She pointed to a crate mixed with apples and oranges and asked me to load them in our cart. Then as she guided our cart towards a pallet box loaded with watermelons, in her adorable, innocent naiveté she said to me, "help me find a couple of good melons."
I couldn't help but crack a sly smile and muffle a snicker that she understood to be my raunchy interpretation of her choice of words. She met my reaction with a frown and glare as if to say, "Give me a break and just pick out a couple good ones!" She walked away, leaving me to my task, as she gave me a shrug that either meant "whatever" or "look at MY melons." I chose to believe the latter.
As I examined the watermelons, my eyes were greeted by the young, married woman on the other side of the watermelon pallet. She was thumping her finger on one watermelon, and then another, trying to discern which might be the sweetest and ripest. Then, upon making her choice, I froze as I watched her lean over to cradle the watermelon she had chosen and lift it to her cart. As she bent over, her mid-twenties, huge, married breasts dangled into view as her top hung low enough for my eyes to see past her breasts and to her abdomen.
I pretended to focus on the melons my hand was pretending to be examining. The fact was my focus was on the melons I could only fantasize my hands could examine. I saw it all. Full breast curves, dark nipples, swaying flesh. It was three or four seconds of complete exposure that made the entire shopping trip worth my time.
After freezing and admiring her, I noticed she was fumbling with the heavy watermelon. I politely and kindly stepped towards her and disarmingly offered to help. With a look of relief on her face she thanked me and stepped back.
"This one?" I asked as I pointed to the melon I was pretty sure she had been fumbling with.
"Yes please." She giggled nervously and said, "Usually my husband handles the melons, but he is at work."
