Sandra cast around in a panic for her shorts and shirt. But the screen door had crashed open with a dry slap, and they stormed in.
Oh, my God! She was huge! Not obese, just strapping, with a bulk in the bosom and a girth in the hips like a female shot-putter. Maybe she was; she filled the doorway. Atop the vast shoulders was a...pleasing, I would say, face, roundish, but with thick dark hair slicked back and very short, over-sized eyes and lips, both with a certain sensuality. Over it all, a healthy tan. All in all, a female creature no one could ignore. I thought that her boobs in the blouse with bursting buttons must be soccer balls. Beneath the cloth, the nipples asserted themselves, high and centered like gun barrels.
Right behind, like a punctuation mark, came the 1960's avatar of Joan Baez, with a long pretty face, stick-straight hair, long nose, long body, and long legs. All of it seemed to have been fashioned as a setting for the jewels of her eyes: bottomless brown pools, bigger than a child's, of an infinite gentleness—or submissiveness—that made "beauty" seem irrelevant.
But I was watching Sandra. She was behind the curve! If she grabbed her clothes, now, it would confess that the party was verboten, sleazy and illicit, the party-goers scurrying for cover. How could she do that? Naked little Stephanie was heading for the door with a grin, arms spread wide in welcome.
"Whoo-eee!" blasted big Bertha, spying my egregious cock. "Has anyone slapped a measuring tape on that catch?" That was good for about a 15 percent decline in the angle of my erection; she was terrifying!
"Bare ass little Steph!" she blared, enveloping her in a hug, sweeping her off her feet, twirling with her.
In a moment, she released Stephanie, who seemed to have survived, and turned toward Sandra. She smiled vastly and boomed, "I'm Butch Cassidy, and..." swinging a paw at Joan Baez, "this is the Sundance Kid!"
She said to Sandra, "You must be Mrs. Lorraine! Pleasure to greet, after hearing so much. I'm creaming at what I'm seeing!"
Sandra came forward, attired in her micro-thong hedged with its fluffy, tawny hair, her nipples unavoidable erect on her big breasts, but as self-possessed as if on a diplomatic reception line, and held out her hand. Butch grabbed it, bowed, and loudly smooched it.
Then, her megawatt smile beamed again at me, and she barreled forward. Know what it means to be helpless?
Her eyes locked on mine, her paw of a right hand enfolded both my dick and balls, the whole package, and she gushed, "An honor to meet you, Tommy," as the meat vice crushed my swollen parts.
It was just what I needed. Therapy for premature ejaculation. "No!" I yelped, "ahhhh! No!"
The crusher, the mitt at the end of the giant's forearm, released my meat. The mitts seized my head—sort of near my ears—and the Great Head closed with mine. The lips were shocking, soft as orchid pedals, sweetly enveloping mine, with flicks along my lips. I had never, ever, been kissed like that.
She broke off, at last, and I gasped for breath, "Sorry, Tommy! Sorry about the sore nuts." Then, she was down there, on her massive knees, and her great sweet mouth took in both my cock and my balls—much shrunken from their ordeal—literally sucked-in my whole package. For a moment, I keened like a lost soul, because it felt as though my balls were being ripped from their roots. But then, the sucking softened into a rhythm, warm, engulfing, and sensual—as though her woman sought out my inner-most man and stroked it...
In no time, my hips began to thrust at her, and I was panting. Was this the moment, at last?
"Oops! None of that, pardner!" she brayed, with wild laughter, as her mouth came away. In a few seconds, my cock had been raised into firing position, aching with rigidity.
"Good one!" she crowed, as she stood up, and delivered a casual backhanded slap that was like being butted in the crotch by a ram.
"Hey!" The protest came from somewhere. I was spiraling away into the black hole of agony. It was Sandra, suddenly at my side, one arm around me, and her hand protectively cupping my privates. Too late, of course.
"Hey, take it easy, right?" There was a challenge in her voice. "He's tied up, girl! These are delicate!" Her hand massaging ever-so-gently, motherly. "And, they belong to my daughter!"
"Whoa! I love it," roared Butch, but now she was bent over, working her ridiculous scrap of red panties over massive but not unshapely thighs. I couldn't focus, my whole being was in my balls. But as Butch straightened up, I registered that whatever had covered her top was gone, too. And soccer balls, but cut in half, were attached to her mighty chest, perfectly round, tight, like some primordial sculpture of stone in the Easter Islands, and egregious and lubricious were the thick thumbs of her tits aimed point-blank at the viewer.
I could not wrench my gaze from her powerful torso. Below her breasts, in letters like needle-point embroidery, one of those framed sayings, a dark-purple tattoo announced, "My stiff tits," with an arrow pointing up. Below, just above her navel, was a similar tattooed sign, "My hot clit," with an arrow pointed down her belly at the unkempt shag. She caught my gaze and gave a shrug. "I had nothing to do with it, Tommy. Some guys slipped a benny into my drink, one night, and I woke up a day later in some tall grass beside a road, totally bare ass, with a killer dildo still jammed up my butt, and this crazy burning sensation all down my front. Guess what it was?" She waved a hand down at the signage. "This." She added, "I was seventeen, back then." She frowned. "Took 23 stitches to fix my asshole, but tattoos don't just disappear."
Without transition, she yelled, "Are you bare ass, yet, Sundance?" and the sweet reply came, "Totally, Butchy! Nothing to hide!"
"Are you all right, Tommy?" Sandra's face was close to mine, so I could smell her enticing breath. And her blessed hand was ministering to my mashed nuts. And no attempt whatever to keep her soft tips from brushing my arm. Who wouldn't recover?
I could focus now on "Sundance." Just what you would expect, I guess, but so delicately delivered, with the brown breasts spaced by some artist, their symmetry entrancing, neat small nipples prettily stiff. But, except for a quick trip down to the jet black shag, concealing any labial apparatus, your gaze came back to her eyes. And she was looking at me with all the dear tender concern in the world.
Her eyes met my eyes, for an instant, and read who-know-what; but she came over and stood demurely before me. The eyes never wavered from mine. "I'm Angelina, Tommy. Happy birthday! I'll do anything you want!"
The main attraction was being protected by Sandra, but Angelina/Sundance leaned forward and her lips closed over my nipple. My nipples never have been sensitive, so what the hell happened? Some current flashed from my nipple down to my gonads and I felt the tired flesh revive. Who was this slender witch?
She freed my tit, with a sucking sound, looked up into my eyes with those depthless brown pools grinned, and she proceeded to give my chest a nice long brush-massage with her twin tips. By the time she was done, I saw she had aroused herself so that the doe's eyes were glazed over with arousal.
"Shall we get organized?" trumpeted Butch, surging into the room with a full glass of Chardonnay. She came up and took Sandra, not ungently, by the arm, and said, "Sit on the couch, Mom; he's safe," and gave her a firm, but not rude, push in that direction.
An enveloping kiss from Butch, her lips traveling down my chest, belly, circling the dazed head of my dick with a wet tongue tip that brought it to urgent attention. I would not have thought it possible. This was a pro! Maybe a "pro-stitute," but who cared? "You're all set," she declared, with a tender pat, and the bare arms reached around me, seized and squeezed my butt cheeks. Suddenly, I yelped as a fat, rude finger intruded into my ass and wormed its way deeper until I hooted, catching my breath. Not a bad sensation, just an impossible sense of being stuffed, and then the hooked finger was teasing something up there, milking it, so that I felt as though my stiff dick might launch into space, dropping my body away like a used booster rocket.
She was up, face close to mine. "Your asshole is public property, buster! Just wait!"
Angelina was standing by demurely. When Butch turned to her, she smiled sweetly, but Butch proclaimed, "And now, you'll see the famous sun-dance ceremony! Long live 'A Man Called Hoss'!"
Angelina gave a stifled gasp, backing away a step and bending over, a new fear on her face-but she was too slow. Butch's thumbs and forefingers had locked like pliers onto her little nipples. "No, no, no!" she was pleading. But she was being hoisted off her feet, strung up by her grotesquely elongated dark tits. She gasped in protest, her hands flying up to claw at the clamps, but it did no good. For a few moments, she dangled aloft, held only by her nipples, and, for good measure, Butch jounced her a few times. When Butch set her down, releasing her, Angelina's hands clapped over her nipples and she bent over, weeping.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It happened in an instant. Sandra had started to rise and got as far as a shocked, "Stop it! Now!" when Angelina's martyrdom ended.
Astoundingly, I next heard Angelina's voice, which sounded like a little girl's: "No, please, it's all right. Really, I'm all right! It always freaks me, but they never tear off." And Sandra lapsed back into her seat, glaring at Butch, her jaw jutting forward. Then, I glanced at Stephanie, who stood watching, a slight frown on her face, unperturbed. I guessed she had seen this DVD many times: "The Martyrdom of Angelina's Titties."
Now, Butch had reached the sofa. Her bulk did a graceful half-turn and she let herself collapse down next to Sandra, landing on the couch like a safe dropped to the sidewalk. For a moment, Sandra seemed to try to rise, but Butch's huge arm slipped around her, the hand encircling her bicep on the other side, clamping it—and Sandra, too—in place.
I judged the swiftness of Sandra's reaction time by the fact that she realized, instantly, that she wasn't going anywhere—and chose not to seem to struggle. Instead, she turned her head to Butch with her best smile. As though with utter unconcern, she asked, "Do we have a date, Butch?"
"Do we!" Butch's thick fingers scooted over Sandra's long thigh, up over her flat belly, nearing the sedate gourds. As the fingers traveled, she looked into Sandra's eyes, and got, in return, only a friendly smile.
Now, the fingers played with Sandra's rubbery nipples, tweaking, flicking, and rolling the flesh like ripe berries squeezed for juice. For a minute or two, I watched Sandra fight the bewitching titillation, all her self-control at stake. Then, like a steam pipe hissing, she gasped, let her head fall back, and released a long sigh of submission.
As Butch's sly fingers worked her, Sandra began to breathe harder, so her full breasts rose and fell, and, after a moment, she murmured, "Okay, yes!"
