The way he brushed his hand against my arm and down my back last night was tender seduction. My hand fell to the curve of his back in a graceful poetic tuck of the wrist. The middle finger grounds me to his body while the rest innocently stick out. Love permeated from our bodies as we embraced for the dance and made the first circular move with our feet.
“Five minutes of dancing,” I said just a moment before.
“Fifteen,” he countered.
It was 10pm, the kids were in bed, and both of us were tired from the day’s many activities.
“Five,” I held firm and pressed play on the music app on my iPhone. The music began and soon thereafter our feet.
We ended up dancing for an hour and it was light and fun. Like partners, we planned our moves, attempted them with the music, pulled apart to give our feedback, made adjustments, and tried again.
By the time we fell into bed, we had virtually choreographed our entire tango competition routine, something our instructor warned us against.
“If you try to memorize a routine,” our instructor said a few weeks ago, “you stand the chance of forgetting it when the lights are on you.”
Something about creating it between us one move at a time made choreographing seem less rigid and more cohesive, like we were charting our journey together. If he forgot what was next, no biggie, we’d pick up however we wanted. Our general framework would keep us on track. There’s still no counting beats or anything. We’re just dancing and it feels good to have a partner with whom I’ve been learning tango for years.
I picture us in 10, 20, 30 years doing this, at fancy parties around the world, on a cruise ship maybe. My hair is pure white but still the lioness mane it is today. I’m still sexy, maybe even sexier in my mature age, and he is a refined man with class, good looks, and grace. We’re that couple. He opens the doors for me, pulls out my chairs, orders my drinks and I hold tight to him because he’s my protector. Men flirt with me because I’m charming. My husband loves every moment of it. He makes love to me every night still. We’ve done it for years. The dancing helps us to stay active and passionate. A section of our closet is filled with our handmade tango attire and accoutrements, silk shirts, leather shoes, and fine dresses. We wear it all and often. Life’s too short to not burn the candles, use the silver, dirty the china, and wear all of your lingerie.
I wake up in the morning and my breasts are hard. They’re so much larger than they used to be, and I’m still not used to it.
“I’ll never get plastic surgery,” I used to say as a young naive woman with a childlike A cup. I believed it too until something changed in me. One day I woke up in my mid-thirties and wanted to be sexier.
“A C cup would be nice, don’t you think, honey?” I asked thumbing through photos of women’s breasts on the Internet. For the first time in my life, I found breasts not just sexy but orgasmic.
“Yes, Stella, let’s pump these little girls up,” my husband responded hours later. I was riding him naked with my small breast in his face, and he was suckling at my nipples. “You’re already so beautiful, so sexy. I can’t imagine you with big breasts.. a knock out for sure.”
So the search began. Two months later I was recovering from surgery and a month after that I was shopping for new bras with glea. It was the first time I realized that having large breasts is like having small ones. Good, cute bras in your size is hard to find. 32DDD is my new size, and I’ve come to realize all of the cute stuff seems to stop around a DD. Then if I do stumble up a cute bra, the matching undies are full bottoms, not thongs. It’s a pain in the ass, literally, but truly just a first world white girl problem. Now I have to spend more time shopping for lingerie, a problem my husband doesn’t mind, and my collection has tripled in the year since the implants.
He grabbed my pussy this morning. “Put your little pussy right here,” he whispered in my ear and motioned to his crotch.
It was raining outside and cool, but my body was burning up in the pjs I was wearing. I took it all off in the bathroom, slathered some creamy coconut oil on my pussy lips, and peered at my buxom chest in the mirror. They really are fabulous and have turned my naturally muscular physique hourglass. Now my chest is just as big as my butt. I need to do more squats I judge as I rotated sideways to admire the curvy view.
I strut like a model as I return to the bed.
“Wow. You’re so fucking fine. Damn, babe,” my husband eyes my luscious body up and down and opens his arms for me to come to his manly chest.
I mount him. His dick is hard as hell but my husband takes his time stuffing it in. She’s tight this morning, wet but tight, just the way he likes it. My breasts are in his face. He grabs one with one hand and lets out a serious manly moan. So do I. He feels so big and amazing, I can’t deny it.
I shift my weight to my feet and lift up into a squat over his crotch. His dick is still engulfed in my sweet pleasure. I begin to bounce up and down on him. He lifts his head to watch the action.
“Big tits and a tight tight pussy!” He puts one hand on my butt and the other cups one breast. He relaxes back down and closes his eyes. I continue my work riding his monster dick to completion. I haven’t cummed in days and really I’m fine. Draining his balls this morning is my goal. I look down at my beautiful pussy opened so perfectly around his huge dick. It’s her goal. She’s sucking his dick good too. Just look at that! She’ll be sucking it clean for the rest of her life. It’s her job, and she loves it.
I have white hair, he’s dressed in a fine Italian suit. We’re dancing a dance on a yacht or perhaps at a party in Madrid. His hands caress my back, my breast press up against him. He whiffs my perfume, kisses my neck, and whispers “You’ve never turned me on as much as you do now. I can’t wait to unzip this dress…” His voice trails as his hand reaches the zipper, he tugs it a little. I look up with submission, innocence and delight. “How many times have we made love?” I ask. My lips are still painted red yet there are more lines on my face. “Not enough, Stella. It’ll never be enough.”
He pushed my body down on his crotch and held my hips still. I could feel his dick pulsing hard, but his face did all the talking. He closed his eyes, threw his head to one side and let out a deep sigh. I watched as he slowly turned back and opened his puppy brown eyes. Yes, it’ll never be enough.