Obsession and Inclusivity: A Tale of Tits and Dicks and their Owners

Dive into my audio version of this post here:

He likes women’s tits. Well okay, he’d probably be the first to admit it; he doesn’t just like them, he loves them, he’s obsessed even. Uh those gorgeous things, be they small or big, mismatched, or well-balanced, fat nippled or tiny dotted pins, colour matters not a bit. Tits, boobs, jugs, teats, boobies, bosoms, melons, bazookas, jubblies, titties. Ahh, breasts, gorgeous things. 

He also has a very vivid imagination and an almost constant hard-on, which he dresses to accommodate. You have to be really checking his crotch out, in close quarters, to see his wood. And he’s not a small guy.

The highlights of a typical day for him, in chronological order, and in his own technicolour imagination.

Tits!

He kisses his wife goodbye in the hallway, copping a decent grope of her tits while he’s at it, she squeezes his dick, wishes him a fun day, her eyes glinting with secrets, a smile on her lips. He’s on top of the world.

On the way down the escalator to the Underground, he never walks the fast lane, but keeps right. Even in winter, with full-on winter-coats, he can imagine the titties underneath, but on summer days like this one, his imagery is on another level, and he’s in his element. 

He approaches the escalator, his wood already present. On he gets and he has absolutely no shame. He openly ogles all of the women coming up on the escalator beside him. It’s London, people go out of their way to ignore others. He doesn’t mind being the underground perv in the slightest.

See her coming up the fast lane there? No bra! Lovely little handfuls she has, watch them as she strides; they’re pert, standing out, nipples like tiny stones through the light material of her summer shirt, and due to their elegant size, they hardly wobble, they just bounce, describing small opposing circles over her chest. He watches with a sigh of absolute pleasure.

Here’s another, she’s a lovely big, beautifully big woman with enormous breasts. She’s riding the slow lane, a stately elevation, he watches her approach. He imagines her breasts confined in a tightly tied corset, squashed up and resting at the top like jelly, barely contained in their stays. Closer she comes, the slightest hitch of the escalator causes a quake of breathtaking proportions, every hitch threatening to spill her free. He could spend hours watching this woman, but she slips past and is forgotten, his eyes already searching out the next.

Seated on the tube now, so many pairs of bouncing, shuddering titties in their summer tops. It’s sweltering here, everyone blushing with the heat and sweating. He gets fixated by the woman standing in front of him, holding the overhead rail. She’s reading her book and doesn’t notice his regard. Her tits are juddering about at eye level in her strappy tank top. 

In his mind, with a particularly hefty jerk of the carriage he pulls the front of her top lightly down, setting her free. Her jiggling tits on display to all and sundry, and she doesn’t notice it, absorbed in her book. He imagines people staring, himself reaching up to cup the underside of her tits, feeling the weight of them with each jolt of the carriage. His pants are painfully tight in this position, but he can’t let the image go. 

His stop. He stands, careful not to touch her body.

“So crowded,” she says, smiling at him, her hand brushing his hip.

He minds the gap, catches a glimpse of her before the doors close. She’s reading as though nothing happened, but there’s a smirk on her face. She had him sussed.

He works at a supermarket as a cashier. All day women hand him useless pieces of plastic, which he scans and gives back to them, and then they take their goods. In his mind’s eye, the exchange works very differently; goods for services. 

If only he could make it so, it would work like this: The women line up in the queue with their tits on full display. Their goods are totted up and he gets to spend the exact amount of seconds their goods cost in pounds (Euros), suckling, groping, rubbing his face over their teats. He likes to round it up to the nearest ten, or if the tits are especially interesting perhaps a fifty.

He stands, so they can claim their change from him, each woman gets her pounds (Euros (from Sundial: did you notice the capitalisation there again heh)) change in seconds exploring his crotch with their hands. Hands rubbing over his wood, creating an endless amount of precum. Uhhh. He loves his job.

Lunchtime, he gives his imagination a break, pops on by the local titty bar. He’ll spend a good half an hour here, enjoying those pole dancers. Look at her there in her fishnets, shorts so short, they’re a belt on her waist. Gorgeous, rounded globes of her ass on full display. And those lovely shapely tits, nipples barely covered by the tiny triangles of her ill-fitting string bikini top. And how she uses that pole, uhh such skill. He’s completely mesmerised.

He’s in luck with this one, half-way through her routine, the triangles barely concealing her nipples slip completely to the sides, and mmmh her tits are revealed in their full glory. He watches how gravity affects them, as she throws herself sinuously, craftfully about her pole. His cock is rock-solid and pulsing in his trousers, he slips a hand into his pocket and strokes it absentmindedly, watching those gorgeous, sexy tits and that beautiful ass complete their routine on the pole.

If he’s feeling especially flush, which he just happens to be today, he’ll finish lunchtime off with a private lap-dance. He always tips generously, when he does. But the girls know him well and despite his perverted nature most of them find him very sweet, and even without those generous tips, many would still let him have a casual grope, though strictly speaking, it’s not allowed.

Dicks!

He goes back to work on cloud nine, and his afternoon is a collection of further fantastical, physical exchanges for goods bought. 

Then an hour at the gym, now that’s a special time for him indeed. Watching women get sweaty, imagining them naked on those machines and uhh those cross trainers. But he’s side-tracked now and desperate to get home.

His wife is waiting for him, she frees her tits the moment he gets in, and he gets himself comfortable on the sofa. She straddles him, proudly offers up her tits and he suckles. She’s brought herself to lactate for him, it’s their kink, they do this every evening as part of their foreplay.

While he suckles, she tells him about her day, how many dicks she managed to touch and trace through the material of their trousers. And oh, the guy who was so excited he came undone, when she stroked over him and it seeped through his trousers, so she got to taste his gorgeous, salty cum on her fingers. A sultry smile on her lips, drawing a desperate groan from him. 

They’re well suited in so many ways, these two, her with her dick obsession, him with his tit. She’s stroking his rock-solid, needy cock through his trousers now, and he has her ample buttocks in his hands, still suckling her tits.

And then of course her special highlight; how it made her feel when that pervert enjoyed seeing her tits escape her string top so much when she was on the pole, he requested a private lap-dance with her and he sucked her dick and made her come all over his face in under two minutes. And then, he paid her for it!

“And now it’s your turn,” she grinned, unbuckling his belt and her hungry mouth devoured his cock, him groping her titties all the while, until he came in great spurting thrusts into her mouth and down her throat. And like any good girl would, she swallowed every last drop.

And like any good boy would, he prepared his ass, and she owned it with her dick, holding his, flacid though it was, until she came too, hard and deep inside him.