Aimee’s skimpy top did little to conceal the plump roundness of her braless breasts from prying eyes. Her scoop-neck T-shirt, originally a soft, thin, stretchy material that was so sheer her bra could easily be seen showing through it, was quite comfortable. It was so comfortable that she wore it, constantly, despite it being a summer garment. She slept in it at least once per week, wore it around the house, and it was her go-to garment for quick trips to the store. Multiple wash cycles had turned the somewhat but not entirely opaque shirt, originally heather gray, into a threadbare, nearly translucent ashen gauze, so thin that the texture of her skin shone through.
Her favorite shirt was not only worn, but it also fit rather tightly, the top being slightly on the small side for her figure. Aimee’s boobs were her most notable feature, her long, straight, shiny black hair a distant second. While only an oversized C-cup, her breasts looked massive on her petite, slender frame. Barely over five feet tall and rib-counting thin, despite curvy hips, she had jugs, not breasts. Although the shirt was in her size, the clothing designers assumed that the wearer had no tits. Because of that, the hem didn’t quite reach her waist, and the material molded itself to her pert, ripe bosoms, showing the contours, accentuating the gully between them, and adhering to her crinkly, always-hard nipples.
Even if one couldn’t count the freckles on her chest from yards away, see her oversized pillows tacked onto her lithe frame, or note her prominent nipples jutting out, every movement of her body caused them to jiggle and bounce. Young and athletic, her tits only bounced once, maybe twice, and then stayed firm and high—only enough jiggle to entice. It was sexy and mesmerizing to watch. With the sun shining brightly, her boobs looked all the more enticing; the sun illuminated their gentle slopes and contrasted against her slightly up-tilted nipples, highlighting them in rays and shadows. Her favorite T-shirt always drew attention to her tits; even the weather was working to show them off.
Aimee was in a rare mood, a wonderful, naughty, horny mood. She was feeling absolutely dirty. There wasn’t any specific reason for her torrid state of arousal. Her husband, Jack, hadn’t done anything particularly arousing or romantic; husbands never do. The short woman hadn’t read anything erotic, nor had she seen or fantasized about anything that made her moist. She just woke up in a good mood, feeling alive and energetic, and slowly began to realize how horny she was. Her arousal was one of the reasons why she donned the scandalously revealing shirt; the other one was her destination.
Married for five years, Aimee had a pleasant home life. Jack was an executive at his firm and made excellent money. Aimee worked as an office manager. They had a nice home in the suburbs, newer vehicles, and lived solidly in the upper middle class of society. The both of them were a bit wild in their youth, Aimee much more so than Jack, but they’d settled down to a life of suburban monogamy. While they shared their particular kinks during a drunken night of debauchery, Aimee was far too prudent to confess her dirtiest secrets and desires.
During one night of glorious inebriation, a couple of years before she met Jack, Aimee went to a wild, college party. The guys who rented the house and threw the party, the hosts, thought it would be funny to build a makeshift glory hole booth. It was made from a painted cardboard box and had a reversible sign hanging just under the hole, reading “Suck It,” on one side and “Tuck It” on the other. As the levels of intoxication increased during the night, so did the crazy antics. Inhibitions decreased, quickly, and it became one of those kinds of parties where those lucky enough to hook up were doing so openly and in full view. Aimee wasn’t the first one to climb into the black-painted refrigerator box and kneel to suck random, unknown cocks, but she did stay inside the glory hole the longest.
Outwardly pretending that she’d done it on a dare, peer pressure persuading her, Aimee secretly loved it and spent every night, for months thereafter, fingering herself over how turned-on she was. Since that fateful night of drunken, enthusiastic cocksucking, Aimee had been addicted to anonymous cocks for her pleasure. Sure, they were getting their dicks sucked, but Aimee always felt like such a whorish slut, so fucking dirty, that she couldn’t cum enough. It was her very dirty secret—one that she had never shared with anyone, not even her husband.
It just so happened that there was a high-class adult store, with convenient glory holes for Aimee to enjoy, near the business section of downtown. It wasn’t truly affluent or classy, just nowhere close to approaching the usual seediness of such places. Positioned just a few blocks from the gleaming towers of glass and steel that held the offices of myriad companies, one of them where Jack worked, it was frequented by urbanites and businessmen instead of the usual raincoat crowd. Aimee had been there several times, and that was her destination.
Every few weeks, the big-boobed woman had a random weekday off from work. Jack’s job kept him chained to his desk every day, so Aimee had those days all to herself. She’d enjoy the quiet solitude of the house without a whining man-baby who needed constant supervision. She’d get her long locks treated at a salon or go shopping, sometimes just drinking wine in front of the television all day. Every so often, when the mood struck her, and the buzzing tingle between her legs screamed for attention, she’d dress for sex and venture into the city.
As lunchtime neared, the bustling downtown area was turning hectic, crowds of businesspersons in suits and ties milling about, going to lunch, on their cellphones, and hailing cabs. Wearing an eye-catching, wispy mid-thigh skirt with a handkerchief hem, Aimee, her hair shimmering in the sun, generous boobs bouncing, and her skirt swishing from side to side, walked through the throngs of people, her sunglasses hiding her eyes. Men openly stared at her, the heat of their gaze burning holes in her ass. They drooled over her taut nipples and easily discernible breasts, freely dancing under her thin shirt. She just smiled at them, becoming so aroused at being the center of sexual attention that she jogged the last two blocks toward the adult store.
Usually, Aimee dressed well, but not overly sexy. In general, especially in public, nobody would know that she was a dirty slut who got off pleasuring herself on strangers’ cocks. When she was hungry for pleasure, she let her inner slut out of its cage. In her short skirt and skimpy, see-through top, she both looked and felt like a cock-hungry whore. Not only did she disregard society’s suggestion that she wear a bra, but she also eschewed wearing panties. Knowing that others were looking at her and thinking lecherous thoughts made her pussy gush like a faucet.
The advantages of going to a porn shop in the middle of the day during the work week were that it wasn’t as busy as it would be after office hours, and the clientele during the lunch hours tended to be more clean-cut, businessmen looking to get off, instead of unwashed deviants looking to unload their cum. As always, the unenthusiastic clerk, a sexy, large girl with tattoos covering both arms and her chest, with multicolored hair, was staffing the store. She sat on a stool, her back against the wall, her combat-boot-clad feet up on the counter. She glanced up from her phone long enough to meet eyes with Aimee and nod, then returned to her engrossing social media feed.
Nearly a dozen people, all men except for one smartly dressed woman in her late forties, milled about. Aimee pretended to shop, leaning over the movie bins so her large tits would hang enticingly, bending down and sticking her ass out under the pretense of studying the merchandise on the lower shelves and stretching to pluck random toys and objects from the high shelves. Her silent show quickly had a lot of the customers focused more intently on her than on whatever they were browsing for. When she had them openly staring, their mouths agape and their pants showing the tent-like protrusion of a swollen cock, Aimee looked around and dramatically headed back to the viewing booths.
Eight narrow doors, all painted black, lined the short hallway, four on each side. Rope lighting lined the floor and ceiling, providing the only light. The familiar scent of cum and must, ambrosia to Aimee in her torrid, lusty mood, wafted to her nostrils. As soon as she inhaled it, the last remnants of Aimee, the normal housewife, fled into exile, giving slutty, cock-starved Aimee complete control. Except for the far door on the left, all the others were open. She went to her favorite booth, the third one on the right.
The viewing rooms were tiny and simple. Painted flat black and the size of a broom closet, they held a viewing screen with a control panel on the wall facing the door. The control panel accepted the money and gave you several options for porn videos to watch. A small bench was built into the wall beside the door, and there was a roll of paper towels beside the video screen, a small wastebasket beneath it. Aimee preferred that specific booth because it still had decent padding on the bench and the door’s lock worked.
That booth had two large holes cut at about waist level, one on either side. She slid a few bills into the money slot and began scrolling through the videos. Finding one she liked, Cheating Housewives, she wiped down the bench seat with one of the paper towels and sat, spreading her legs.
