Guilty as charged. Ashamedly so. He had never been attracted much to the mammary glands of a the female anatomy — as he commonly referred to them. He was simply unable to see beyond the notion that children used them as meals. There was nothing to them, for him, so there he dwelt in the incapacities of an incomplete lover.
His disinterest focused mainly on them full sized ones. Why the overwhelming size when a mouthful was enough? The sheer volume made him cringe each time a pair came bouncing in his direction. No matter their shape or colour, whether in our out of braziers, they never perked his feelings. The mammary glands were nothing more than obstacles impeding progress. He dealt with them by slobbering best he could, then tossing each one up and over the woman’s shoulder on his way to more alluring locations.
And one day fate saw it fit to have him perched high in the glory of the nightly escapades.
They left the local pub more intoxicated than caring to admit. The smell of the drunken few followed them for blocks into their nineteenth century hotel. They struggled up the seven flights of stairs, every so often stopping to experience each others physiques. He’d sneak his head up her skirt to taste his newfound vice. He swore to have found the most rewarding of mixed rinks: her saturation intermingled to the residue of alcohol in his mouth. He didn’t know whether it was the lust seeping out of her making the drink tastier or the imminent act skewing his already sketchy reason.
They swapped bodily pleasures from floor to floor until fully undressing on their doorstep. He stared at her body as if a lifelong prisoner finally standing at the gates of freedom. He wanted to collect payment for all prior times that went uncharged. She stood against the door like a mirror responding to his desires. “Come take, come get, don’t hold back, it’s all yours to be had,” was her slurred answer.
He hoped that the alcohol had impaired her judgment as much as it had his. He attempted to unlock the door while trying to penetrate her. But, the “No, no, no mister” reception left him hard and wanting.
Once inside they frolicked bits and pieces before heading in different directions. The most dramatic action came when she slid his phallus between the legs and against her crotch to trap him in lustful friction. She told him that she wanted to soak him before enduring the girthy thrusts.
Hell bent drunk they were; the action was interrupted by his urgent need to urinate. He fought the urge valiantly, eventually losing to nature. He asked her not to go anywhere and rushed toward the bathroom. It was difficult to finding the bowl down at the bottom while his penis faced upwards. He didn’t know whether to urinate all about or to continue maneuvering his penis until pointed in the proper direction, but as impaired a judgment as he had, he found his way into the bathtub, turned the shower on and relieved. A half fast soaping and out he stammered back to the bed.
When he returned to the bed, he found her uncovered and passed out. He tapped her face a few times to no response. The night of the honeymoon and this is what awaited him… that’s when it hit him. He saw the volume of her breasts and wondered how he’d managed to marry a woman with a chest he would never use. He took a deep breath, looked down at her supple figure, ran his finger through it, brought the digit back into his mouth and again looked at her breasts.
Shocked that twice he had looked at her chest so he decided to kiss them. Still she was unresponsive. He straddled her about the waist and by all goodness, he found the meaning of “paja cubana’. He grasped her chest, brought them together engulfing his phallus then proceeded to thrust his pelvis back and forth as if inside of her. The sight of her pretty face lying fast asleep ignited the evil in him. He wanted to spew all over her face from that very position for her to awaken covered in him in the morning. He would stop at times to lick, suck, bite, even kiss them; only to return to stroke himself between his breasts.
He was about to climax when she woke up… in her fully drunken state she managed to say “here, let me help you.” She grabbed her breasts brought her chin to her upper chest and opened wide. “Can drunk boy hit the bull’s eye?” said she. “Let me have it, put it here, I want to taste.” He kept slapping his pelvis against her breasts as if banging away a sculpted arse… and a fine one she had.
She enticed him further with indecent remarks that should never leave a lady’s mouth. And at the end, he replied with semen trashing between her breasts, her chin and whatever else he could force out by pressing against the urethra, landed on her face. He smeared himself against the semen on her chest, then had her run her tongue against him for a much needed cleansing. His penis, scrotum and anything else should could mouth got cleaned.
Looking down, much much drunk, eyes squinting and almost shut red, he saw the glory of full breasts as he never had. They created a canvas which he’d stenciled better than he’d had imagined. Her pretty face, big dark bright eyes looking back at him… her mouth moving with residue on it never looked more stunning. She touched it, smiled and asked if he could do the same, except this time, she wanted his lust spread all over her throbbing persona down below. “Come put it down here, push it in until the drunk goes away.”