A Walk On The Wild Side - Sex Stories

A Walk On The Wild Side

... to keep them straight for a split second, a few times, long enough for my legs to buckle but not long enough for me to fall over, although being sixty-seven that was a close thing. I let myself finish spurting out my stuff and Rachel swallowed and kept swallowing. My spasms came to an end and Rachel licked around the end of my penis, drawing the last of my semen and seemingly downing it with relish. She stood up and wiped around her mouth with her tee-shirt sleeve.

“Your turn, now,” she announced, taking my hands and placing them directly on her breasts which were underneath her top.

“Don't hold back.”

I suddenly realised how big her bust was. For the past year or two, all the ramblers had always worn outdoor clothing. Shirts, sweaters, oversized jackets, scarves and rain-proof anoraks, with a backpack on their back with the straps coming over their shoulders. I had not noticed, or even been able to estimate if I had wanted to, what the sizes of people's busts, stomachs or bottoms were. Why would I want to know?

Take the Cokers, a lovely couple. Cheerful, interesting and enthusiastic (for a year or two at least). But how they managed to heave themselves out of their four-by-four and make it across the car park I don't know, let alone walk up hills and tors. Ditto the Westfields, or at least him. He would have qualified for the Fattest Man In Town regardless of which town you were talking about. And don't get me going on Keith Stiby who had a beer gut the size of ...

... Plymouth Brewery, while at the other end of the scale, Ginny Greenwood was like a particularly skinny beanpole who seemed to be able to pluck energy from the air around her because she had no reserves on her person, as it were. So eyeing up other people's body shapes was difficult and not terribly rewarding. Lovely people, but sexy? I think not. And Rachel didn't flaunt herself at all, being bundled up like a roly-poly the same as everyone else. Consequently, on this the warmest day we'd ever had on one of our Dartmoor walks, her attributes came as a shock. A pleasant one, but a shock nonetheless.

Very pleasant.

She waited while I looked at her chest. I noticed at once how her tee-shirt strained its seams at boob level, stretching across them with the material pulled taut. It showed the lines of the cups on her bra and the clearest hint of some nipples pushing through the bra and the tee-shirt. I set my mind to imagine what lay under the tight tee-shirt top. Plenty, I thought, looking again at the tautness of the tee-shirt between her two boobs. The overhang was considerable and one that I had not seen for a few decades. Not just the normal bust, but a bust which extended forwards more than I expected, with a deep recess underneath, as below her bra the tee-shirt drew back in around her slim tummy, still managing to look taut right down to her belt. I stared at her large perky boobs, obviously with a strong bra to keep them up against the force of gravity. She dropped ...