Girlfriend’s sister gives him what he wants…
****
I met my girlfriend Tara about midway through college and we’ve been together ever since. I love her. She’s an amazing person and she’s easily the smartest girl I’ve ever dated. When we first met there was the usual hot and passionate hookups. I’d call her up at 2 in the morning while I was taking the El back from downtown Chicago and she’d meet me at the Purple line and take me home. We’d fuck each other’s brains out and that would be that. The next morning I went to Davis and she took the train to Columbia.
It was not the greatest sex I’ve ever had. Again, I say this with full love in my heart for her, but it’s one of those things that sooner or later in the relationship you have to confront. It wasn’t that she wasn’t eager to learn or as horny as I was. We were just coming from different sexual backgrounds. Tara and I settled into a fairly regular sleeping/fucking pattern after we moved in together our Senior year and, to be completely honest, it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t ever exciting, but it wasn’t bad.
So I was faced with a dilemma that Senior year: do I stay with Tara and get another apartment with her after college, or do I end the relationship and pull up stakes? We both had job offers in the city and things were looking really good. I loved Tara and I could see myself marrying her. She read four or five different newspapers every morning, she was a journalism major with a social policy minor, she had a great sense of humor. There were few annoying quirks or neuroses but it was your usual gender nonsense. But the one thing I had to grow to love were her breasts.
Obviously Tara was not my first. The girls that made up my pantheon of exes ranged in personality from the frigid and uptight to the wild and nymphomaniac. I’ve been lucky to know all of them and each of them taught me something new, whether about myself or women in general. Their bodies ranged as diversely as their personalities and one thing I learned – that movies and imagination had never taught me – was that all women are built differently. Not even vaginas look or behave the same. And when it comes to breasts women are the practically snowflakes. Large breasts do not always equal better breasts, sacrilegious as it seems. For example, I was once falling over myself to get this beautiful dark-skinned girl into my freshman dorm. She had breasts that looked like they were ready to burst from her bra. And once we got into bed and the clothes came off, I saw that they were. But as large as they were, her breasts had no real shape, reached for her knees, and were covered with stretchmarks. Don’t get me wrong – they were fascinating. But not what I’d fantasized about.
I love boobs. It sounds basic, but there it is. I love legs, I love a tight ass, freckles, an unconscious smile, I love women. But there is no comparison to having a perfect nipple pressed against your palm and your fingers happily squeezing a woman in the throes of lust. Or naughtily in an abandoned parking lot. Or surreptitiously while the two of you are waiting in line. You get what I’m saying.
Tara had very small breasts. At first I was into them just for their novelty. They weren’t so small that she was flat-chested. She was at least half a cup size away from that. But they were smaller breasts than I’d ever encountered before and left, unfortunately, much to be desired while we were going at it. If they’d been a little rounder, or maybe a little fuller, this would be a different story. But instead they sort of just stood out from her chest, beautiful in their own way but, well, not the locus of my erotic fantasies.
We had a great time together nonetheless and there were very few complaints on this end.
Enter Tara’s younger sister, Courtney. Courtney was almost the opposite of her big sister in nearly every way. Their faces look strikingly similar. In the right light they could be fraternal twins. Tara in most ways was more delicate. She was petite, several inches shorter than Courtney. Courtney was only a few inches shorter than me. She had very dark skin compared to Tara’s “Chicago tan,” she talked a lot more but had a lot less to say. Courtney had opted out of going to college and instead had her and Tara’s parents put up the money for her to become a beautician or something, I was never very clear. She swore frequently but tried to curb it around her family. The girl was boisterous, loud, and petulant. So what am I getting at?
Courtney had amazing breasts. She was only a little taller than Tara but the similarities in their faces made her sometimes look like a trashier, sluttier version of her sister. You can see where I’m going with this… Where Tara dressed in her own style, Courtney always dressed predictably and provocatively. How do I know her tits were top-class? Because she never failed to wear shirts that ensured any passerby could get drunk on her cleavage. Courtney did tanning booths all the time and those puppies were as unconvincingly brown as the rest of her. Tara’s younger sister had the kind of breasts that you can practically taste. I haven’t been a teenager for at least five years but catching a glimpse of Courtney abusing a shirt that was never meant to withstand such springy sweetness felt unfair in a way that bounded and resounded from my brain to my balls and back again. It brought back the same dire longing that hormones extrude from a kid just trying to do his homework and ignore the erection waiting for just the slightest provocation from the outside world. Watching the way Courtney moved, the way she’d reach across the table, a man could get a sense of how soft she was, yet how firm and pliant she might be. And, yes, she did catch me more than once following the several dangling necklaces she wore down into the warm recesses of her body. She was never amused.
As for the rest of her, she wore skintight black pants one afternoon to her sister’s graduation that showed with a few extra inches comes a luscious bottom. Whenever I was alone enough to fantasize, Courtney was never far from my mind. Yet I wanted to be with Tara. She was my girl and we had gladly decided to get another apartment together after college. Her sister was just some physical fantasy. But there it was: the fantasy. In the darkest places of my mind I imagined what it would be like to sneak into Courtney’s room during one of her frequent visits and have my way with her anonymously. That was patently ridiculous. Yet being in a steady relationship with Tara meant close contact with her family, and having those succulent globes so near at hand was a maddening thing.
But I tried to put it out of my mind.
One Saturday night, about a year after Tara and I had graduated college, I was roaming the apartment looking for something to do. We’d gone out with friends that evening to celebrate something – somebody getting married or a promotion or maybe it was just an average night of indulgence – and come back on the El pleasantly drunk. Tara made an omelette and then fell asleep before she could eat it. I turned the burner off and helped her get her shoes off. Then I returned to the kitchen, ate the omelette, and retired to the living room. The doorbell rang.
I got up and checked the clock. It was 2:20 AM. Curious, I went to the door and sidled up to the peephole. Courtney was standing outside the door in ripped jeans and a tank top. I took a moment to admire her small but upturned nose with its light sprinkle of freckles. I unlocked the door and greeted her. But before I could get “Hey, how’s it going?” out of my mouth Courtney had pushed past me and made a beeline for our kitchen. I hastily locked up and followed her, just in time to see her bend over our sink and heave. Several of my lustful fantasies were given a sharp kick in the groin. While I stood awkwardly in the hall Courtney raised her arm and waved at me angrily.
“Get over here,” she muttered.
I let out a dumb, “What?”
“Hold my hair back!” she hissed.
Right. I came up behind Courtney and grabbed the bunched hair she had gathered in her right hand. I turned on the faucet and let it run. Courtney seemed to react to the sound of running water and sighed, bending over the sink and pushing her ass into my crotch.
“If you think you can make it,” I said, ignoring the warmth of her behind, “I can take you to the bathroom. I don’t want you to clog the sink.”
She gave an annoyed groan.
“Fine then,” I said, sweeping more of her dark hair behind her ears as we both leaned over the sink and waited for her to get sick again. “Busy night?” I asked.
“Oh fuck you,” she grumbled, putting her hands on the rim of the sink and relaxing a little.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” I said. A few months earlier Courtney had moved to Indiana to finish her training in a salon.
“Stop talking,” she grunted. I realized that Courtney was drunk, and it probably took as long as it did for me to realize it because I was slowly sobering up. I realized, however, that she was probably more drunk than I’d thought and I reminded myself not to let her fall asleep with us in this precariously impolitic position. Courtney heaved. The strain on her body drove her ass backward into my groin and forced me to reach out to keep from tipping off my feet. I grabbed, unsurprisingly, at the most prominent curve of her anatomy, her right breast.
Courtney must have been too drunk to be bothered because she didn’t shrug me off. I used the handhold to get myself back on my feet but then, failing to be slapped, I kept my hand where it was. Courtney just leaned over the sink, ass straight out, and groaned. I realized too late that I was unapologetically copping a feel. Was it worth it? I could hardly fit the whole thing into my palm. It reacted against my fingers with a springy vitality, its swollen roundness so elegantly pronounced on so inelegant a woman. I squeezed. Here this poor girl was trying to barf in my sink and I groped her like any drunken frat boy. I regret nothing.
I gave one more tentative squeeze before she slapped my hand away. My dick stirred in my pants and I hoped that she didn’t feel it, or was too far gone to care. “I’m fine!” she barked. She must have thought I was trying to keep her on her feet. “Keep your hands off my tits,” she told me. Maybe not.
“It was an accident.”
“Yeah,” she said with a smirk. We waited together for her to vomit again but after fifteen minutes she finally asked to be sat down in the kitchen and given a glass of water. I had brought her a blanket and was all set to retire when she grabbed my wrist and told me to get her her purse. She had left it on the kitchen table when she smashed into the kitchen. I picked it up, handed it to her.
I sat down next to her on the couch and watched her cross her legs. There were so many holes and rips in the jeans that I could easily see the muscles in her thighs flex against each other. She was wearing black topless shoes that flopped limply from her toes. She searched for something inside the purse and I saw no harm in taking the opportunity to stare right down her cleavage while she had her head bowed. I had never had such an unobstructed view of her chest and after leaning over the sink for so long her breasts were now fully in view. I imagined that her left nipple was just a quarter of an inch from peeking over her haltertop. But I was satisfied with the sight before me, her chest expanding greatly as she regained her breath from the awkward crush of bending over the sink.