My Wifes Monster Tits

When I married my wife, she would have already been considered a busty woman. She was a full double D on a medium sized frame. I regarded myself as lucky to have those big boobs to play with and I won't lie and say that her boobs weren't one of the factors in my desire to marry her. They were actually a pretty big factor because Liz was never a stunning beauty or a sparkling conversationalist. That's not to say that I could have ever gotten a beautiful and charming woman. I haven't been slender since my early 20's and my features are far from chiseled so I considered myself blessed to have a woman like Liz.

I always enjoy spooning my wife and laying my hands between her breasts as I drifted to sleep. Having access to a big set of boobs every evening is a tremendous blessing and I'm fully aware that some guys sneak glances when we are out and about. Early on, her boobs weren't crazy big but they were big enough and given that her looks were average at best, she didn't mind wearing clothes to show off her assets.

As happens, when she got pregnant her breasts absolutely exploded. Practically overnight, her breasts blew up from a double D to a double G. Her areolas turned to a dark brown and grew to the size of pancakes. In the last month of pregnancy, she would lay on the bed with her massive breasts falling to either side of her huge belly. She looked like a living fertility statue. After the birth of our first child, her breasts were producing milk far beyond necessity. She was filling bottles and putting them in the fridge much faster than they could be used. They were all labelled with dates but there were so many that one or two might be misplaced, tasted by a curious husband.

After pregnancy, Liz lost much of the weight but not all of it. Liz was no longer a kid and all her weight was going into her torso. She had relatively thin arms and legs and a rather flat butt but her breasts and tummy were disproportionately large. She was developing a larger and larger shelf and basically had no use for a napkin in her lap because food could never make it that far. She would even joke about not being able to see her shoes anymore. When she stopped breast feeding, her breasts went down in size but she would never again be less than an F-cup.

Liz would continually complain about her weight and there was constant talk about dieting but her willpower was completely lacking. She loved to go out to eat and have desserts and her weight continued to increase. All the weight would go straight up top and Liz didn't need to wear clothing that accentuated her breasts anymore because her breasts would show in a puffy winter coat. When we got married, Liz had a variety of different, attractive bras but as her breasts got larger she just started getting the plain industrial strength bras that looked like they were made in a soviet factory.

As the years went by, her breasts continued to move down the alphabet. F-cup was a distant memory and I grew increasingly confused by the cup sizes. Liz reached double I, which apparently is the same as J. A triple I is the same K. So why not just call them J and K? Were women embarrassed to wear a K but less embarrassed to wear a triple I? Liz didn't seem to have a good answer. What we did know was that the number of stores that carried Liz's size was diminishing. There was no such thing as a fancy bra in Liz's size.

Liz had long since passed the point of being busty and was firmly in the realm of a real medical problem. Even when we first got married, Liz never wore a bra at home because she found them uncomfortable and they would create indentations in her shoulders. Those indentations were growing deeper and deeper and Liz was coming up with more excuses for not going out. By this point, we were empty nesters and should have been enjoying life but instead we were watching movies at home and eating takeout. Despite only being in her early 50's, Liz was walking very slow and awkwardly with her breast preceding her by over a foot. It would have been better if Liz would have put more weight below the waist because her center of gravity was so high. People joke about busty women toppling over but this was literally happening. Liz fell forward three times in the space of six months which included a fracturing of her wrist.

At this point, Liz was in a vicious cycle. The bigger her breasts got, the more sedentary she became. The more sedentary she became, the bigger her breasts grew. Through it all, her breasts maintained an admirable shape. They were wider than her torso, and hung past her belly button but still stuck out, even without a bra on. Her nipples continued to point out rather than down and she managed to avoid stretch marks. She was somehow keeping it together through it all. The only real issues were the deep indentations in her shoulders and she was very self conscious about her areolas which spread across her breasts. Her pancake sized areolas were now more like small pizzas.

The shower in our bathroom is all glass and I find it mesmerizing to watch Liz wash herself. If Liz was getting a workout, this was it. Watching her manage those massive breasts in order to clean them is hypnotizing. She spends much of the day in a robe and slippers, laying on the couch watching TV. If she wasn't lying on the couch she was sitting with her breasts on her lap. Just getting off the couch is a labor and always involves some grunting and groaning. If I had my way, she would have pulled her gown open and allowed her breasts to be exposed as she watched TV. With all the years we've been together, I never get tired of staring at her breasts but I try desperately to appear disinterested because in all likelihood it would cause her to become even more guarded.

Confession time. Liz would often talk of reduction and I would always try and talk her out of it. I want to say that I love Liz but despite the burden they would cause in her life, I wouldn't want to lose her breasts. I would always show sympathy for Liz as she continued to move through the alphabet in bra size but privately it excited me. By her mid 50's, Liz had reached the most extreme sizes wearing a double L and as time went on, even that grew increasingly tight. She was forced to purchase a very expensive custom made bra which, if it were commercially made, would probably be an N cup. Her breasts had become a serious physical handicap but I was enjoying them immensely.

I secretly took pleasure in her struggles and humiliation. Liz was very upset when her breasts grew past her belly button but I loved it. I saw it as a benchmark for her unbelievable growth. Every new cup size was a new level of excitement. I would fantasize about her breasts becoming more than 50% of her body, large enough so that I could drown in her cleavage. I could scarcely objectify my wife more and I don't admit any of this with pride. On the rare occasions when my wife and I go out, I WANT men staring at my wife's tits. I enjoy hearing men comment on my wife's tits, even as I console her for her embarrassment. I'm the kind of guy that will fade into the background in a crowded room but when I'm next to my wife I'm the guy with the woman with monster tits. I'm sure there is a mixture of desire and disgust from other men but I can guarantee when they go home at night they're thinking about my wife and a certain percentage wish they were me.

As Liz approaches 60, she continues to talk about reduction but I always try and talk her out of it. I don't know where she'll max out. I don't even know what her bra size is since she's been getting them custom made for quite awhile now. I watch videos of the largest breasted women in adult videos and my wife is at least as big as the biggest. I compare my wife to the bustiest middle age to late middle age women in porn and I don't see any bigger than Liz. I watched Liz getting dressed the other day and when she bent down to pick up a sock her breasts literally reached her knees. Just two huge bags of flesh wobbling around as she bent down. Hell, I'd love it if they hung to her knees when standing straight up.

Things happen after three decades of marriage. I'm sure there are couples where the love grows but I suspect most couples just develop a sense of familiarity. Liz is less like a soulmate and more like a piece of furniture that I've grown accustomed to. We still have the occasional sex, which is always a tremendous treat. She simply lays on the bed with her massive breasts on either side of her body like two white, full sized pillows. I know it annoys her but I like to move her breasts around like drawing them up so they bookend her head or even pulling them together so her face is buried within her own cleavage. She doesn't like it but to me she is her breasts and I consider them mine.

If you ever fantasize about a woman with breasts so large that you could literally have your torso between her cleavage, know that women like this exist. And if you're jealous, all the better. As long as Liz has those massive titties, I'm keeping her.