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Big Tits

This is my entry in the “Money Honey” event.

I would like to thank my Sweet Inspiration blackrandl1958 for organizing this event, and her editing.

If a woman wants to cheat she needs to be reasonably attractive, not too fussy and the definition of “reasonably attractive” varies proportionately with how fussy she is.

You’d think it would be similar for men, but sex is usually a seller’s market for women, so a less attractive woman has a better chance of hooking up with a more attractive man than the reverse.

Beyond mere physical attractiveness there is a more important factor: money.

Despite decades of women’s liberation, dating expenses are still borne overwhelmingly by the man, so if a woman wants to cheat, she simply has to be available to her target audience, whereas a man must have access to funds that he doesn’t have to account for to his partner.

Which brings me to my story.

After a relatively short period of marriage, my wife Sheila’s sex drive went from a Porsche to a VW Beetle. At first I accepted it as the lot of the married man. “Not tonight, Honey, I have a headache,” didn’t become a cliché for no reason. I soon discovered; however, that she was cheating on me. How I found out isn’t pertinent to my story, just trust me that she was.

At first, I was actually happy, believe it or not. I thought that it might be a sign of her renewed interest in sex and that I might reap the benefit, but no, any renewed interest she might have had in sex didn’t involve me.

This is where my opening remarks come into play. While I could always play the revenge affair game, and there were certainly women that I would find attractive who might feel the same about me, there was the problem of paying for the prelude to sex. Unless she was a slut, which wasn’t what I was looking for, a certain amount of wining and dining would be required, and that takes money.

As with many couples, we lived paycheck-to-paycheck, and there wasn’t much excess that I could siphon off.

Divorce was out of the question. Neither of us could live nearly as well separately as we could together, and since I made more than she did, I would probably have to pay her maintenance. So I resigned myself to turning a blind eye to her infidelity and took myself in hand, so to speak.

One of my favorite fantasies; no, not that kind, involved winning the lottery. I often drifted off to sleep making my plans for what I would do with all that money, only to wake up just as broke as when I went to sleep. That still didn’t stop me from faithfully buying tickets, even buying an extra one or two when the jackpots grew super-large.

I always bought quick-picks, so I had to check my tickets to see whether I won or not. I never really expected to win even a secondary prize, let alone a jackpot, so I was surprised when I went to the lottery web site and saw that my first two numbers matched. I sat up a little straighter and carefully checked and double-checked each number, then pinched myself. I had won!

I saw on the TV that the only winning ticket was sold in our town. I was a six hundred millionaire.

I started making plans, but first I had to talk to Sheila.

“Sheila, we need to talk.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” she said laughing.

“Ha-ha,” I said, “but you’re on the right track. I want a divorce.”

She looked stunned for a moment.

“Surely it can’t be because of my cheating. I know you’ve known about it for months, and it hasn’t bothered you before.”

“Why do you think it never bothered me?”

“You never said anything, you never did anything.”

“What could I say or do? If I told you to stop you would have just laughed in my face. I couldn’t afford to take other women out, most women want to be wined and dined, I’m sure you’re familiar with that.”

She had the decency to blush.

“The only other option was divorce, and splitting our finances would only hurt both of us, although I’m sure you could arrange for some ‘assistance.'”

“So what has changed? Why do you think you can afford to divorce me now?”

“This,” I said as I slid a photocopy of the winning ticket over to her. I wasn’t about to give her the original, though I had already signed it anyway.

“You have a lottery ticket. Big deal, so don’t millions of other people.”

“Not like this one. This is the winning ticket in last night’s Powerball, six hundred million dollars. Of course it’ll be less if we take it in a lump sum and after taxes.”

“I suppose you’re going to try to cheat me out of my share?”

“Why do cheaters project onto others? No, as much as I would like to, I really can’t be bothered, Half will do me nicely.”

She was lost in thought.

“What do we do now?” she finally said.

“We get lawyers.”

“Why plural? Why not share one?”

“There’s no need to pinch pennies. By each having our own we guarantee that each of our interests are protected.”

She yalova escort saw my point. We got our lawyers, agreed on the splitting of our other meager assets, took our shares of the lottery prize and went our separate ways.

Taking the prize in a lump sum, and after taxes, we each walked away with around two hundred million dollars.

I immediately put a hundred and fifty million in a super safe income-producing fund. Even if it only yielded 1%, it would give me a million and a half annually forever, more if I reinvested part of it.

The other fifty million would be “mad money,” the money that I could use to fulfill my wildest dreams.

The first thing I did was what any red-blooded American male with more money than sense, and whose most frequent sex partner was his own right hand would do: I went out to get laid.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t as easy as many seem to think. I didn’t have, nor want, a neon sign over my head flashing “Rich Dude,” and I didn’t give off Brad Pitt or Jason Momoa vibes when I went into the clubs. I had a “Dad bod,” though I’m not a dad, and though I got my share of dances, I didn’t get much interest in follow-up activities.

I thought of hiring an escort, but that’s also not as easy as you might think. Oh, I found many links on a Google search, but most didn’t look too reputable, and I was afraid of downloading a virus, or worse. I did take a flier on a couple, and while not horrible, and I did get my rocks off, again, it wasn’t like the stories. None of the women were particularly classy, I could feel the disapproving stares when we walked into any place respectable, and the “love-making” was barely acceptable sex.

One thing I did do was buy a large condominium and move out of the hotel I’d been living in since we sold our house. I hired a personal trainer; a man, I didn’t want any distractions, and with his guidance, I fitted out one of the rooms as a workout room. After six months of torture, he had me in about as good a shape as I was going to be in. I still wasn’t going to strike awe into anyone, but the Dad bod was gone, and any failure to attract women would be all on my sparkling personality, or lack thereof.

Now that I was in shape, and with weekly visits from my trainer to hopefully maintain it, I hired a fashion consultant to re-do my wardrobe and overall appearance. I also took dance lessons, and was surprised at how much I enjoyed it.

While I didn’t keep tabs on Sheila, we did have mutual friends who would occasionally fill me in on what she was doing. While she was in no danger of going broke, that would be pretty hard to do with $200 million, she was definitely being more profligate than I was. She bought the biggest house, in the richest neighborhood, and not one, not two but three luxurious cars.

She bought houses for her family, gave money to even casual friends, and took groups of friends on expensive vacations.

Oh well, it was her money.

I have to admit that my success rate with women, as well as the quality of women I attracted, went up, but after a few months, it got kind of old, and I wanted something more.

I decided to get out of my comfort zone and visit Europe. It was definitely a treat flying first class and staying in the nicest suites in the best hotels.

I guess I’m an “Ugly American,” I made no effort to speak any of the languages, but I did hire guides to make sure I got the full benefit of all the historic and cultural sites.

My guide in Paris, Monique, was such a pleasure, competent and beautiful, that I hired her to accompany me through the rest of the country.

At first, it was all business, though I could feel us growing closer, especially at evening meals at the small bistros she would find for us.

Things changed when we reached Marseilles. I wasn’t paying attention when she checked us in, I probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.

I opened the door to my room and Monique followed me in, dragging her luggage.

“Aren’t you going to your room?” I asked.

“I am,” she said, nodding towards the bed, which I now noticed was a double instead of the usual single.

When I turned back to Monique, she put her arms around my neck and planted a big kiss on my lips. Her lips were warm and soft, and tasted vaguely like strawberries.

Not being completely clueless, I put my arms around her waist, pulled her close and returned the kiss, thrusting my tongue deep into her mouth.

Soon, all of our clothes were off, we were on the bed and I was moving down her body to taste her sweet honey, but she pulled me up.

“Fuck me, fuck me now!” she demanded in her cute French accent.

Who was I to argue, and I plunged my hard cock into her hot pussy. She came almost immediately, then wrapped her legs around me, dug her heels into my ass and urged me on to fuck her harder. She came two more times before I erupted into her.

I flopped over beside her as we each drew ragged breaths.

“I’ve yalova escort bayan wanted to do that for so long,” she said.

“Why didn’t you? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have pushed you away,” I said laughing.

“I don’t know, it seemed unethical.”

“I know that doctors aren’t allowed to fuck patients, and lawyers have rules about getting involved with clients, but tour guides?”

She punched me on the arm.

“I know, it seems so silly now; I don’t know what I was thinking.”

My cock had recovered, and I rolled back on top of her, supporting myself on my arms.

“Now that we have that straightened out,” I said, “I’m ready for round two.” I lowered myself, my cock finding her pussy like a guided missile as she arched her pelvis up to meet me. It was a little longer and leisurely, but just as pleasant. We drifted off to sleep, not even realizing until the morning that we were lying in a wet spot.

We jumped out of bed in the morning and Monique won the race to the shower, which was unfortunately only big enough for one.

She came into the bedroom naked except for a towel wrapped around her head, but pushed me towards the bathroom when I tried to grab her.

“There’s no time for that now, besides, you stink,” she said with a smile, and I hit the shower.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and came out to find that Monique had ordered us a room service breakfast, and was sitting in a big fluffy robe sipping on a cup of hot coffee.

Joining her, we soon made short work of the food and were sitting there lost in our thoughts.

“So, what would you like to do today, Robert?”

“I thought maybe we could check out a nude beach,” I said, waggling my eyebrows.

She just laughed.

“What’s so funny? All my life I’ve read about how Europeans are much more relaxed about nudity, and I’ve always wanted to see it for myself.”

“Oh, you’ll see it,” she said, still laughing, “Europeans are definitely less body conscious.”

I didn’t catch her change of phrasing, but I was soon to have a rude awakening.

We obviously didn’t need to bring much. I put on some board shorts and an unbuttoned sport shirt, Monique wore a bikini bottom and a T-shirt. We threw a couple of large towels into a tote, some water bottles and lots of sunscreen. We put on sandals, wide-brim hats, and we were off to the beach.

As soon as we reached the beach I saw why Monique laughed. Like I guess most people who’ve never been to a nude beach I pictured a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue without the swimsuits. Well, the “without the swimsuits” part was accurate, but that’s as far as it went.

Probably half the people were over fifty, with big bellies, tiny dicks and sagging boobs, and that was just the men! Oh, there were younger people, some even quite attractive, but for every babe with her tits and pussy on display there were guys with their swinging dicks. I’d never seen so many dicks in my life, and I’ve been in plenty of locker rooms. On the plus side, I saw that I had no worries about the size of my equipment.

We found a relatively uncrowded spot, spread out our towels, stripped off and sat down. I noticed a distinct lack of tan lines on Monique; this was obviously not her first time. We proceeded to apply generous amounts of sunscreen. I had to be especially careful with a certain area. Monique tried to help me there, but it caused a rather embarrassing reaction.

That was when I learned some nude beach etiquette. Despite all the skin on display, sexual activity was strictly a no-no. Some of the guys were sporting erections, that was nearly impossible to avoid, but if the pressure got too great there was the ocean to either cool things off or to deal with the issue.

After a surprisingly short period of time I got reasonably comfortable, and started to act like it was just another day at the beach. Monique and I played in the surf and even played a little volleyball.

As it got close to lunch time, we decided that we had had enough sun, pulled on what clothes we had and hit a snack bar for a quick lunch before going back to our room.

A couple of quick showers to get rid of the sand, salt and sunscreen, and it was back to bed for some more sex, then we had to shower again before going out for dinner and dancing. It wasn’t our first time dancing, but I still basked in the glow of her compliments on my dancing.

We were actually too tired for sex, but still fell asleep in each other’s arms.

We shared a bed for the rest of my stay in France, and as much as I would like to say that we fell madly in love and she ran away with me, the facts are that we were fond of each other with a great sexual chemistry, but that was all, and when it was time for me to move on I sent her home to Paris with a generous tip and not a few tears.

I had no other real relationships for the rest of my trip, though I was rarely without a bed partner, and I was ready to go home.

When I came home I found out escort yalova that Sheila had remarried. It had surprisingly little effect on me. I went about acclimating myself to being back home and trying to decide just what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

As much as I tried to keep a low profile, I was a prime target for gold diggers. I didn’t need to hire private investigators, they were pretty obvious, between wanting to go to the best restaurants, to sob stories about family members in need, to wanting to go on first-class vacations to exotic locations.

When I’d pick them up in a Nissan instead of a Lexus, and take them to a mom and pop restaurant, the disappointment was obvious on their faces.

My resolve was strengthened when I heard about Sheila’s divorce. Even though she didn’t have a prenup, her high-powered lawyers kept her from losing half her money, but it was still an expensive lesson for her, and she became more cautious. She even had a draft prenup ready before she got too serious with anyone so that she didn’t get swept up in the emotions of a new romance.

One thing that did pique my interest was coffeehouses. No, not Starbucks, think folk music, like when Bob Dylan and Joan Baez got their start.

There are few professional venues like the old Club 47 in Harvard Square left, but most are small volunteer-run places in church basements. Most of the performers are quite good, and I found myself attending at least once on most weekends.

The people I met were unpretentious, interested only in the music. They applauded politely at even some of the more amateurish performers who opened for the main acts or played in the Open Mics.

One of my favorite coffeehouses was the Harmony Hills Coffeehouse. It was one of the smaller coffeehouses, but it had a faithful following, and consistently had name acts, some even nationally known.

I found myself chatting with June Quimby during an intermission, and was surprised to find that she ran the coffeehouse. She didn’t act like she was some kind of big shot. The coffeehouse was a labor of love, and she deferred most of the credit to her crew of volunteers.

It was very much a shoestring operation. Performers required a guarantee versus a percentage of the ticket sales, which could range from as little as $300 to $1,000 or more, and she’d always be nervous if ticket sales were slow, sometimes they had to dip into their cash reserve to pay the guarantee.

I was thinking about how easily I could help them, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Also, I was beginning to develop feelings for June, and I didn’t want her to think that I was trying to buy her affections.

I decided to ask her to go see a local performance of Celtic Thunder, and she readily agreed.

I had a good feeling when she complimented me on my Nissan, and was impressed, but not awed by my choice of restaurant. While I could have easily afforded front row seats, I opted for the middle of the orchestra, and she was again pleased but not blown away.

I actually started volunteering at the coffeehouse, usually at the refreshment table so that I could slip a little extra cash in, and our dates became a regular thing. At first, most were at some of the other coffeehouses in the area, especially if there was an act that one of us wanted to see, but soon I discovered that her tastes were more eclectic.

At least once a month we’d be at the symphony, or the ballet, even a rock concert. I was again careful not to get too crazy with the tickets. One time when one of my favorite acts was performing I got choice seats, and when she raised her eyebrows I had to quickly explain that I got them from a friend.

It was after we had been dating for about six weeks. I walked her to her door, and leaned in for our usual good night closed mouth kiss, when she threw her arms around my neck and, for lack of a better word, attacked me. She thrust her tongue into my mouth and I was forced to respond in kind.

As we pulled apart, I caught my breath, then said, “What brought that on?”

“I was tired of waiting for you to make a move,” she said grinning. “I hope I wasn’t premature?”

I pulled her in as close as I could and kissed her at least as passionately as before. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, but I think we should continue this conversation inside,” she said as she opened her door and dragged me in, though I wasn’t exactly digging in my heels.

We stumbled our way to her couch and plopped down, never breaking our kiss, and soon our hands were wandering all over each other’s bodies.

I guess I was still moving a little too slow for her, as she began to unbutton her shirt and undid the front clasp of her bra, setting her breasts free. Though she rarely wore anything too form-fitting, I still had held her close enough to have a rough idea of her body. Nothing could prepare me for the sight of her breasts. They weren’t huge, but just right for her body, firm and perky with prominent nipples, which were already hardening.

I may be slow, but I’m not stupid, and as my hands started massaging her breasts, my mouth latched onto a nipple and she threw her head back and moaned.

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