Jenny woke up to the sensation of her boyfriend sucking on her nipples. Normally, this was a pleasant way for her to wake up, and this morning was no different. She lay on her back, and he'd lifted her satin red nightgown up above her large, rounded, pillowy breasts. Now in young womanhood, Jenny's breasts weren't as big as volleyballs. They were bigger.
Her red aereolae had increased in size commensurately, through the some dozen years of her mammarial development, and her boyfriend was now feasting ravishingly upon the multi-inch circle punctuating the distinctly proportional dimensions of her left breast, his both hands palm open on each side of it, to hold the pride of her womanhood in place while he tongued and suckled to his heart's content.
As her alertness from sleeping increased, the millions of pores inside her vaginal watershed began to release their special oozing sticky juices, in preparation for penetration and entry by her lover's jutting dagger.
He was really getting himself worked up now, breathing and panting heavily, slurping and licking and squeezing and rubbing, her massive mammarial protuberations, when he lifted his torso above hers, to slide his phalanx into her love portal. Once inside her he began to gyrate, to move the phalanx in and out, but after only two completions of this all too brief cycle, he came, and was aburptly done. He quickly rolled off, and said to Jenny, "Honey, what time are we supposed to be at the Morris's?"
It was Superbowl Sunday. They'd been invited to Jenny's sister and brother-in-law's house. Jenny was quiet on the drive over. She'd showered, made her boyfriend breakfast, ate little, and washed clothes. She paid some bills until it was time to go, while her boyfriend had gone jogging. She was still aroused from this morning's love making, though hardly satisfied. She considered taking a long hot bath, but there wasn't enough time. She wore a long black skirt, and over that a roomy extra large size maroon woollen sweater. She had black shoes on with 2 inch heels.
She'd considered wearing a bra, but didn't, out of consideration for her sister, and her husband, Jack Morris. Her sister, though lovely enough in looks, had managed a 36C bust at best, and though she'd seen Jenny topless but a few times, by the way she stared, it seemed evident to Jenny that her older sister was clearly rankled and envious of Jenny's rather startling development.
Emma's husband, Jack, was a different matter. Whenever it seemed he and Jenny were alone, out of eyesight, such as in the kitchen, he felt no compunction at all in rudely staring directly at Jenny's bust while conversing with her. The one time the four of them had visited the beach together - Emma and Jack, Jenny and her boyfriend Mark - it was apparent from Jack's swimming trousers that his prurient interest in Jenny's body, specifically topside, including her royal blue bikini top, and what it contained therein, could not be shuttered out of his thoughts. Emma'd become visibly upset for most of the day. This made it even more of an imperative for Jenny this day not to wear a bra; better to hide the voluminous, succulent nature of her ample, mammarial gifts, within the roomy confines of her maroon sweater, than excite whoever males would be there, particularly Jack, than to needlessly arouse the angst and envy of the women, especially her sister.
