For over two decades, I've dreamed about Joyce's breasts. Or, I should be respectful and call her by her married name, Mrs. Coppersmith. She was my first employer's wife, and we formed a kindly friendship based on mutual interests in the arts, music, and theater. I would often see her at events, dressed to the nines and looking stunning for an aging wife.
Mrs. Coppersmith is tall and trim enough for being in her mid-sixties and for having grown children. She has jet black hair that she confided is touched-up to hide the natural gray. Her eyes are sparkling, and her outlook is always positive and cheery. I felt a desire for her years ago, but out of courtesy for her and her marriage, I have been content to observe from afar and enjoy the unfulfilled desire.
Her most apparent enticing features are her breasts. She wears fashions that accommodate and flatter women with generous endowments, but she is modest and never draws attention to herself. However, that is impossible for a women of her looks and endowment. At least not for me. When we are together, I always take a moment to look at her carefully, up and down, and compliment her on her attire.
Over the years, I have also taken advantage of our friendship and her trust to cross the bounds a few times. To take a few liberties. For instance, when she wears a blouse or sweater that has a distinctive design with swirls or images, if no one is observing us, I will comment on it and point out what I like about what she is wearing, allowing my finger to touch her breast gently but only to trace the pattern in the fabric. "That's lovely," I might say as my hand moved to her chest and a finger outlines the design as it curves over her breasts.
On one occasion, I reached out with both hands and deliberate touch both breasts ever so gently. Each time I've done this, I imagine what her nipples must look like and how they would change as I touched them. Even through layers of fabric and her bra, I hoped that she felt a little zing. But I would quickly change the topic so that she might not know what I was truly thinking.
Once we sat next to each other at a concert. Mr. Coppersmith sat on the other side of her. I would often whisper to her, and each time I would place one hand on her arm and draw her ear nearer to me. As I did, I allowed one or two fingers on that hand to gently stroke the side of her breast. I did it in a forward and natural way, as if I always made that hand motion when speaking softly in a close situation. But I wondered if she was aware of my intention. If so, she did not object. As I repeatedly felt up Mrs. Coppersmith, I wondered again if her nipples were responding involuntarily and growing larger and more sensitive.
While holding her in this way and while two fingers were ever so subtly stroking her breast, I leaned over and also spoke to her husband. He smiled and we exchanged a few words as I felt the soft curve of his wife's breast.
This sort of thing has gone on for years, and I rather suspect that Joyce thinks of me as a valued friend who is just affectionate and naturally takes a few liberties that are within her bounds of acceptable behavior.
Last month, things changed. While having coffee with her, I mentioned that a friend told me about his daughter who was having trouble nursing. I suspected that Joyce had nursed her children, so I brought up the subject hoping that she might volunteer something intimate. Sure enough. I said, "I hear that new mothers have to toughen their nipples." As I said the word "nipples" to Mrs. Coppersmith, I felt my cock squirm in my pants.
It took no further encouragement. Mrs. Coppersmith said, "Oh yes, that's important."
I asked, "Well, did you nurse?"
"Yes, I did."
"And did you have to prepare your nipples?" As I asked the question, I felt a small touch of wetness. My cock was beginning to leak.
Our years of mutual friendship were working to my advantage. Mrs. Coppersmith apparently did not feel hesitant or reluctant with me, "Oh yes, in those days they recommended using rubbing alcohol."
"What?" I asked as if startled.
"But that dried them out and made them sore," she said.
"Them?" I asked, hoping she would say the word "nipples."
She did, "My nipples, of course." I did not detect any hesitation on her part, but I knew I had to be careful.
"My goodness, did anything work better?" I asked.
"Yes, lanoline oil, and..." she stopped herself.
"And?"
Mrs. Coppersmith's eyes darted around to see if we were not being observed before saying, "A toothbrush."
My eyes widened, "A toothbrush!?" I exclaimed. My imagination exploded as I imagined Mrs. Coopersmith's naked breasts with her holding one and using a soft toothbrush to gently massage her nipple.
