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A lady who loved me once called me A Woman Whisperer. She said I could calm women from their pain or sorrow with my hugs, caresses, and soothing voice.
She was right.
She came to me at the depth of her pain. Short, blonde, extremely curvy. She was a college friend. We met in Advanced Chemistry senior year. She was beautiful but had no idea. Men in the 1980s completely ignored her type. They were looking for big hair and tiny bodies.
I liked her from the start.
I will jump past our two year post-college friendship. I was working for a global financial firm (I dropped science for money) and she was student teaching in a middle class elementary school.
She called me one night and asked if I thought she would ever find a husband. I assured her she would. She said her roommate was away for a week and she was lonely. I asked if she wanted to go out. She asked if I could come over.
Nothing had ever occurred between us except the occasional cuddle after watching a movie or walking home from a party.
She answered the door in a-size-too-small pajamas, with pants that shaped her blessed ass. They dug into every crevice of her body, though they covered her completely.
I immediately got hard. I had occasionally jerked off to the thought of her, but she was one of 100 who might occupy my fantasy on any given night.
And now, here she was, presenting bonus veren siteler her curves in all their glory, in pajamas that crawled up her rear and held back her enormous breasts.
I instantly hugged her. Not sure why it was so natural, but it felt right.
I hugged her and held her and she hugged me back. I was not sure when to let go because I really wanted this woman. So I stroked her hair, told her it was going to be all right, and kissed her head.
She then thanked me and kissed my neck.
That was odd. I played it off as a nothing and she quickly sat down on her couch. I followed, shedding my coat on a chair.
She sat on my left. I sat down. I put my arm around her. We did not speak. She leaned into my chest. Her beautiful, generous bosom slid up against my chest. I stared at them for the long minutes I caressed her hair, told her it was okay, told her I would always be there for her.
Then, because I could not hold back, I used my right arm to stroke her arm. She quivered. That made her quiver? A few more minutes and then, I went for it. As I told her she was very beautiful, I stroked her left breast. She froze. I think she held her breath.
“Don’t do that,” she said. She looked up at me. “Just, don’t. That’s not why…”
She trailed off. I think she could not say the words she had rehearsed to refuse me.
“I love bahis you, and I love your breasts,” I said. I rubbed and massaged them, a little at first, and then more. “I need this.”
She put her head down on my chest.
“Why do you need them?” she asked. She was like a child. She was 24 but not sure she had ever been with a man. We did not have that type of relationship where we discussed paramours.
“Because I’m a man and men need breasts like these,” I said.
Now, I was feeling them vigorously. Her breathing was labored. Her right arm was crushed below my left arm and her left was now touching my hand on her breast.
“I need them,” I said.
I put my hand under her shirt and she yelped like a dog out of sheer terror. But I did not let up. She tried to control my hand but it was now time for me to squeeze her nipple. To play with them. To use my left hand to pull her head back and kiss her on the mouth, and on her neck.
I will not exaggerate and say this led to passionate sex. But I used my hand to feel up her breasts and her now very warm and inviting pussy. This was over a 10 or so minute session. She would protest each movement and then guide my hand – her way of acceptance and attempted control.
Like so many of the curvy women I have been with, she came very quickly. I was rubbing her cunt vigorously, inside and out, as she writhed deneme bonusu at my attention. At one point she said:
“Why didn’t you do this to me earlier? Why did you make me wait? It’s so good. It feels so good.”
I said, “I’m here now.”
She came. She screamed at those words. She kissed me and almost jumped off the couch in the direction of my hand.
Her pajama pants were still on as she came down from her high.
“I know what to do with a hard cock,” she said. She made the statement as if she had been handling cock her whole life. I found out later she had a boyfriend some time before who liked when she talked dirty. She took care of his needs and rarely allowed him autonomy over her body.
She used both hands to undo my pants, push them and my underwear to the floor, and gently handle it.
“Did you ever jerk off to thoughts of my tits?” she asked. “Did you think about them at night when you stroke your cock?”
She repeated things like this. Each time I said yes, she smiled as if she had a small victory.
“I’m going to make this mine,” she said, and sucked at it with a vacuum mouth. I came after maybe five minutes of attention. She took a tissue and wiped her mouth as if finishing a meal in a restaurant.
We lay on the couch, she cuddled up on me; with my pants on the ground, for at least an hour. She told me secrets about her life (she had once fallen in love with a girl; she used to tell people that one day she would marry me).
She and I agreed I was a great listener – once I came. So, for the next several months, that was the relationship we had.
More to come on our time together.
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