Large round breasts


Large round breasts
1977... the year Skynyrd crashed, Star Wars came out, and I had an 9th
grade math teacher named Mrs. Lambfinger. Horrible name, I know, and
it was that much worse that her first name was Pamela and sort of
rhymed (Pamela Ramyerfinger), though I only thought of her as Mrs.
Lambfinger.

No. Not quite true. I thought of her in many different ways. I
sometimes thought of her unbuttoning her top for me, button by button,
to reveal-- well, I’m not sure now how my fantasies played out, since
they had no basis in reality with any girl at that point, of course.
I knew nothing about how girls really behaved when you were about to
have sex with them, I didn’t know if everyone but me was having it or
no one was, but I did know one thing. Mrs. Lambfinger was hot.

She’d be talking about calculating radiuses and angles and stuff, but
all I could do was look at her in her peach-colored, pyjama-like
pantsuits, their bell bottoms swaying behind her as she strode from
one end of the chalkboard to the other, and contemplate the glorious
reality underneath it all.

What was it that I found so entrancing about her? The girls my age
were gawky, bony, skinny faces and big lips sticking out, boobs stuck
to them like tennis balls glued on a board. Mrs. Lambfinger was...
ripe. A fully ripened woman in her 20s (which seemed so mature to me
then), lips broad and sensual, blue eyes sensitive and knowing,
straight blonde hair cascading down to her arms. Her breasts ample
underneath their peach polyester prison, her hips wide and womanly and
topped by little love handles, her thighs pneumatic, stretching the
artificial fiber to its tensile limits, forming a pair of perfect
smooth ovoids in which flesh and polyester seemed to have come
together as one.

Or on a sunnier spring day, she might go all hippie chick, loose
peasanty blouse under which those big handfuls of breast swayed back
and forth loosely, jeans stretching around a round, squishy butt,
little toes peeking out of brown sandals, inviting you to imagine the
flesh that continued underneath the clothing. Don’t get me wrong, she
wasn’t fat, she was simply filled out, squeezable, plenty to hold
onto. She was a woman, not a girl, hear her roar (as a song of the
day had it), and day after day, night after night, her shape filled my
dreams.

And then the year ended. I got a B+. Considering how little I was
paying attention to math, that was probably pretty good.



College. Elvis Costello and Violent Femmes, My Dinner With Andre when
we were being sophisticated (which is not to say we didn’t all race to
see Empire and Jedi, of course).

I graduated in ’86 and got a job in technology for a big paper
company. The job was a little on the boring side-- what first job
isn’t-- but all in all this was a good time, young, money to spend,
skinny ties and new wave to dance to.

One perk was getting to go to a convention in Dallas-- travel and
fancy dinners on the company dime, hurray-- as one of about a dozen
people from all over the company. I didn’t know any of them.

We met up in the lounge of the Westin to get our credentials and meet
each other, and it was then that one of the women, a tall, somewhat
well-padded but still shapely blonde turned toward me, and we looked
at each other for a moment, and then we stared, not believing what we
saw, and then--

"Richie?

"Rich. Mrs. Lamb...?"

"Oh, God no," she said, laughing. "Call me Pam Stengaard. I haven’t
been Mrs. Lambfinger for three or four years, thank God."

"You two know each other?" one of the men asked.

"You won’t believe it, it’s totally embarrassing," she said, but she
wasn’t embarrassed, she just found it funny, as she explained to him
how we knew each other.

She was more rounded out than she had been then, broader across the
hips, even bigger breasts, a little rounder and fuller face. But she
still had the easygoing, relaxed earth-mother confidence that I’d
responded to years before, and even if she was now starting to look a
little-- not fat, but big-- I still found her sensual and ripe, and
not just for nostalgia’s sake. That is, I had these thoughts, but
quickly put them away, as being purely of academic interest.

We went to dinner in a large group but I barely had a chance to speak
to her and it was mostly boring business talk all evening. The next
day we were too busy talking to customers on the floor to catch up,
either, but finally that evening I caught her and invited her to
dinner. She said dinner was already spoken for but she would be happy
to join me for a drink beforehand.

When she came down to the bar she was in a black cocktail dress which
followed her curves unabashedly, and showed off a little cleavage to
boot. The relatively short blonde hair and the sparkling earrings
were quite a contrast to my 70s memories of her, but if my 15-year-old
self had been there, he’d still have knocked over the table when his
wood hit it at high speed.

"Glad you don’t mind being seen with an older woman," she said as I
handed her a glass of Chablis.

"To the Westfield Titans and math class," I toasted, clinking my class
to hers. "Actually, I’m delighted. It’s really nice to see you
again. As adults."

"Adults," she said, as if she was merely humoring me with the idea.

"I mean, not to pry, but as grownup as you seemed to me then-- to the
whole class-- you must have been about my age now. Fresh out of
school, anyway."

"What class were you?"

"Class of ’81."

"So you were only the second class I ever taught," she said. "God,
that was terrifying sometimes. I hope I did all right."

"You were great," I said. "I learned a lot." I took another sip
before the next thing I was thinking of saying; it could have ended
the evening real fast. "I thought you were really hot, too," I said.

"You were 15, you would have thought a lamppost was hot," she said.
Whew, at least she took it in good humor.

"True, but I did," I said.

"Ah, my glory days," she said. "You know you’re getting old when your
students start turning up as your colleagues."

We chatted a bit and then her colleague, Jerry, came to get her. I
couldn’t tell if they were more than colleagues or not, probably not.
I spent the evening watching pay per view and eating room service--
the classic lonely guy night in a distant city. It would have been so
much better with... somebody.

The next day was another long day of working the exhibit and talking
to customers, and I hardly had a chance to speak to Pam again. So I
was surprised, but pleasantly so, when she came up to me at the end of
the day and said "I don’t have any other plans, do you want to join me
for dinner?"

I hope I didn’t seem too pathetically eager to take her up on the
offer.

We went to a little Mexican place recommended by one of the other
exhibitors-- we both laughed when we saw it, it was "romantic" in the
most overdone way, strolling guitarists and red lighting and all the
other atmospheric touches of a bordello. Maybe because the atmosphere
was so preposterous, we soon turned to talking about ourselves a
little more freely than before.

"It wasn’t anything bad," she said, by way of explaining her divorce.
"We got married so young-- before we knew who we were, really. By the
time we figured it out, we were different people than the ones we’d
married. But what about you? Is there somebody?"

"Not really," I said. "I mean-- I had a girlfriend in college, but I
guess we’re over."

"You guess?"

"Well, she lives in Boston--"

"Do you visit her?"

"I have once or twice. It’s hard, it’s expensive--"

"If it’s worth it to you," she said, "you overcome those obstacles.
You take the chance. Is it worth it to you?"

"I don’t know. We thought it was, but as time goes by, we just don’t
seem to be able to keep it going," I said, and as I said it I could
see a kind of disappointment in me in her eyes. It was like being in
class with a teacher again-- I’d flunked a test. Well, who asked her
to grade my life? "It sounds all romantic to say distance doesn’t
matter and you’ll make it work no matter what, but life just doesn’t
work out that way sometimes, I guess."

"As we both found out," she said, turning her gaze from me to the
dessert menu.



Somehow the evening never really recovered from that point. We were
cordial but there was a little sour note in the air; I’d disappointed
her somehow, she’d gotten under my skin a little, and so any distant
hope I had of getting into her skin faded. We said good night in the
elevator and went off to our separate floors.

I had a restless night and woke up thinking about her and the things
she’d said. If it’s worth it to you... you take the chance. Is it
worth it to me? Goddammit, it was, I wasn’t going to let it end where
last night had ended.

It was still a good two hours before the convention floor opened so I
thought we could have breakfast and try to get back on a friendlier
basis. I called her room but she didn’t answer. I showered and
dressed quickly and then went to her room-- it might be a little
forward but I hoped she wouldn’t mind.

It looked dark inside from the peephole-- she was probably gone
already but I knocked anyway. To my surprise I saw an eye come to the
peephole, and then she opened the door.

She was standing in the hotel robe which was quite small and barely
wrapped around her. Under it she wore a cream-colored sheer nightgown
which only went as far as her thighs; her legs were bare below that.
I had to ratchet my view up from her cleavage and to her face, where
her blonde hair lay tousled over one eye-- it was obvious I had
awakened her. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up, I thought you
might want to have breakfast-- I’m really sorry I--"

"I overslept," she said, by way of stopping my flow of words. She
didn’t say anything else.

It was my turn. "I thought about what you said. About if something’s
worth it to you, you have to take the chance."

She still looked at me. I couldn’t tell if she understood what I was
saying or not.

I took the chance.

I put my hands around her broad hips and brought my lips to hers to
kiss her. After a moment’s hesitation she kissed back, pulling me
inside the room and shutting the door behind me with her bare foot.

Our tongues touched and she sucked mine inside her mouth as I undid
the belt of her robe and she let it drop off her body. Now I saw her
in her sheer nightgown, her nipples protruding from the material, her
large round breasts barely visible in the dim light of the room.

We kissed furiously as I caressed her broad, soft ass and she
unbuttoned my shirt, then ran her hands up and down my chest. I
slipped my hands under her panties and kneaded her butt, pressing her
crotch against the hardon in my pants as I did so. She broke our kiss
and moved her head down to lick at my nipple while unbuckling my
pants. She dropped them around my ankles and then slipped the briefs
down with one hand while taking my hard cock in her hand with the
other. Then she was down on her knees and looking at it, licking her
lips.

A moment later her soft warm mouth was all over it, bobbing up and
down the head and taking it deep in her mouth and halfway up the shaft
while her other hand caressed my chest above. She pushed me over to
the bed, still warm from her sleep, and had me lie back on it, and
then she spread my legs apart and started licking my balls hungrily,
while my cock flopped against her face, her hair brushing over it as
she worked eagerly on my sack. Then she took my cock in her mouth
again and pumped it hard with her hand while bobbing up and down on
the head. I made noises to indicate that I was about to cum and she
seemed not to mind. My toes curled, stars went around my head, I shot
the first spurt in her mouth and she swallowed it quickly, then
another and another and she took them in and swallowed them too.

Mrs. Lambfinger swallowed my cum. What would Corey Peterson say to
that?

When I was finished throbbing and my erection was sinking, she climbed
up onto the bed, pulled the nightgown over her head, and lay down next
to me, her head on my chest. I put my finger under her chin and moved
her lips up to mine and we kissed again, a little more calmly but no
less sincerely. Now I could run my hands over her ripe, full figure,
the round, heavy breasts rolling out over my chest, the soft, ample
ass and thick, powerful thighs. She felt so natural and nurturing,
her size, her softness, her warmth.

I moved down to suck at her nipples and rubbed my hand along the
inside of her sleek thigh flesh until I reached a place warm and
steamy. Just a couple of gentle strokes of her sex and it opened up
and the wetness took my fingers in. She whimpered a little as my
fingers went inside her and I nuzzled my way down her soft belly,
rubbing my face in her thicket of fur. I pulled my fingers out and
grabbed hold of her ass cheeks to open her wide. Then tongue on
labia, the metallic tang of her juices as I licked my way up and down
the soft folds of her pussy, kneading her ass as I dove deeper, deeper
into the warm wet recesses of her slit, then pushed her back on her
back to spread her ass wide and tickle the little wrinkled hole with
the tip of my tongue. There was nothing I didn’t want to do with her,
now that I had her and she had me.

It didn’t take long with her writhing in delight at my tongue for my
cock to get hard again. Now I climbed on top of her and she took it
by the root again and pointed the head straight into her pussy. I
slid into her and rested atop her before pulling out again; it was a
completely different experience being on top of her womanly figure
rather than the skinny young girls I’d had in college. I loved
plowing into her, feeling her big ass move with each thrust, nuzzling
her fat round tits, stroking the soft flesh under her arms, around her
hips, along her thighs and calves.

We made love like this for a good ten or fifteen minutes, feeling each
other’s bodies, kissing and nuzzling and nibbling affectionately,
before she started bucking back hard like she was about to cum. She
rubbed her clit as I pounded into her and then with a scream she
clamped her thighs around me and shook with each throbbing wave of her
orgasm. Once it had subsided I ran my fingers under her ass and
started thrusting hard again, and within a few strokes I too came and
collapsed onto her, feeling the light mist of sweat on her chest with
my face.

"We have to get dressed and go down to the hall," she said a few
moments later.

"What are you doing tonight?" I asked.

"Getting laid by you, I hope," she said.

"So I got an A, Mrs. Lambfinger?"

"Yes, Richie, you did. And if you want to do it ever again, you’ll
call me Pamela from now on."


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