My cock throbbed, nestled between her cheeks, and she swiveled her hips, grinding against me. Her dress and lacey bra lay discarded on the floor next ...o my pants and shirt. My boxers had been flung across the room. She was still wearing a mesh thong and fishnets with garters. She knew the garters drove me crazy. She gasped as I pushed her down in front of me. The desk was exactly the right height for her bend over. Excited, she reached forward to grip the far edge. Her breasts and stomach were. By the time I moved away from my ex, this had become a need. Once I was living alone again, the idea was simple: to search out the biggest, heaviest juggs I could find. Age, race, or body size never mattered to me. I didn’t care how fat the woman in question was, only the amount of titmeat she had hanging off her chest. Huge firm ones, long low-hangers or massive saggy granny udders, I didn’t care. As long as they were at least a G cup. My fantasy, which I’d pondered for years, was to have. More

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