Chapter 3: Couples Therapy

The day I announced my engagement, my mother gently pulled me aside, gazing at me with love in her eyes, lightly squeezing my hand.

"Cynthia," she said, holding back tears. "I want you to know that I'm extremely proud of you for choosing to marry such a decent and honorable man like your father."

At the time she said this, I still had yet to discover that the man I'd chosen to marry, this 'decent and honorable man' whom both Mom and Dad spoke of with such admiration and respect, was also undoubtedly the biggest pervert I'd ever met in my life – a man whose ultimate pleasure was secretly jerking off watching younger men with huge cocks fuck the shit out of his wife.

Perhaps, I should have picked up on the signs. Then again, maybe I chose to ignore them. My girlfriends always warned me about the quiet ones, probably to protect me from a city filled with odd-looking, socially awkward, creepy middle-aged men, who always saw me as more than just a pretty blonde, thus always seemed to be just my type

The day Joel and I first met, I'd been working as a registered nurse for over ten years. At the time, I was working down at the veteran's hospital, near Fenway, when I pulled up one morning and parked facing the new wing under construction, where Joel had recently been hired to work as a sub-contractor.

Initially, he kept his distance, always watching from afar. For three weeks, I showed up every morning, certain to see him in his yellow hard hat, tracking me with his eyes, as I looked over, smiling politely, before quickly making my way inside.

Usually, all I had on were baggy scrubs, as I quickly jumped out of my car, with no make-up, and a velvet scrunchie loosely tied behind my head, holding back the frazzled nest of my shoulder-length, naturally golden blonde hair.

As I walked toward the front entrance, I marched with purpose by the new wing next to the main building, ignoring the horde of obnoxious construction workers, who instantly turned into a pack of drooling Neanderthals, with their annoying cat calls and tacky whistles, stopping to stand there and ogle me like a piece of meat, in spite of the fact that I'd literally just rolled out of bed, dressing quickly, before racing out the door, only to sit through thirty minutes of rush hour traffic, faced with another endless 12-hour shift, looking like holy hell.

I didn't know it then, but the quiet guy standing apart from those grunting animals, the one with the nerdy glasses and receding hair line, had just moved to Boston from Portland, Maine three months earlier.

His name was Joel Hanson. What struck me about him had nothing to do with his looks. Compared to that group of leering savages, he was the only one who never did anything but smile when he saw me walking by. Not that his coworkers' behavior really offended me. As far as dealing with the opposite sex, I honestly wasn't so different than most women. Certainly, there were times when I did find it highly exciting to notice a man's eyes roaming over me. Ever since high school, I'd always been known as a tremendous flirt. In fact, I'd bet my life's savings that most, if not all, of the people where I grew up, believed that I was a total slut.

Admittedly, I did get around a lot back in those days. It all started when I woke up one morning at 14. I looked down and my eyeballs nearly fell from my head. My once ordinary palm-sized tits had suddenly ballooned without warning, visibly reminiscent in both size and shape to a twin set of large, hovering, air-filled blimps, round, heavy, and woefully uncontainable, forcing me to throw out all of my old, useless bras and haul around these huge, awkward, back-breaking, bowling balls, in a 38DD.

Three years later, I found myself wondering if my enormous tits would ever stop growing at all. By then, I had already gone up a full cup size. Needless to say, I had to get used to men staring at me wherever I went, from the time I woke up in the morning, to the time I finally went to bed.

Even the men in my own family had no willpower when it came to keeping their eyes off of me. All of them seemed to think I didn't notice, but every man in my whole family had all been caught sneaking a quick peek at my massive hooters more than once.

In high school, my father started his own towing service, eventually growing it into one of the largest towing companies in town. I'll never forget the day when I strutted down to his first little neighborhood shop, proudly displaying the first outfit I'd ever bought with my very own hard-earned money. Perhaps he didn't want to know. Yet, strangely, my father never asked me where I got the cash. Not that I would have told him anyway. To me, it was better to lie about it, than force my poor father to picture his only daughter kneeling in front of the Connor twins from next door, who'd each given me $50 dollars to jerk them off and let them cum on my tits.

With my father still nowhere in sight, I waited for him outside the shop, leaning under the hood of an old pick-up. I waited there chewing a stick of bubble gum, bending over in white cut-offs, deeply wedged up my ass, allowing my cheeks to hang out considerably, as I stood there quizzing myself on the names of each auto part, till I heard footsteps come up behind me, turning as Daddy called my name.

Wearing a hot pink tube top, I spun around, smiling like Christmas morning, greeting my father showing more cleavage than a Vegas hooker, innocently grinning as my huge tits heaved over the cups of my strapless bra.

The look on his face was this unforgettable combination of panic, lust, and a sudden heart attack. I watched as he stood there stuttering, mopping his sweaty brow, all the while trying not to stare, when a half dozen other drivers promptly emerged out of the woodwork, whispering and snickering to each other, obviously pointing in my direction.

Later that evening, as I lay in bed, touching myself between the sheets, through our thin walls, I couldn't help overhearing the rusty springs of my parents' bed, noisily screeching, accompanied by their audible moans.

Beneath the covers, I quietly fingered my pussy while they fucked, listening for close to an hour, before finally whimpering through a shuddering orgasm, proud to feel solely responsible for giving my Daddy such an urgent hard-on, jealous of Mom, who clearly made good use of it that night.

Of course, after that day, I noticed my father got highly protective of me all of a sudden; teaching me how to fire a pistol, long before teaching me how to drive.

I started my career in nursing straight out of college. Even in ratty scrubs, as ugly and unflattering as they were, it seemed as if every man at the hospital could easily see me coming a mile away. By then, my tits had gotten so big that they practically entered the room before I did.

Given the Christian values passed down to me by my parents, at first, I was deeply conflicted over all the attention I got purely because of my looks. Then, one day, my father's brother got really sick. Upon which, I spent several weeks traveling alone to regularly see him at the hospital. Those private visits with my Uncle Stewart led to his full recovery, which I personally believed was all due to my frequent visits, giving him reason to live, knowing that several times a week his favorite niece would swing by and happily jerk him off, which ultimately helped me appreciate the gift of my voluptuous figure, along with the implicit power of all my alluring feminine charms.

Soon, I was reveling in all the attention, especially after a grueling 12-hour shift. To help me recharge, all I needed was a few hours surrounded by single men, making the most of every opportunity to proudly show off my broad, sumptuous, milky white tits. I started frequenting local bars, where tons of guys eagerly lined up to pay for my drinks, which I chugged down one after another, till by the end of the night I didn't care who it was drunkenly thrusting into me, or for that matter clearly remember which one had freely unloaded his warm, sticky load all over my big, round, beautiful jugs.

Honestly, I never really felt guilty about being such an easy lay back then, save for the fact that only a handful of guys ever called me back.

I knew things were different when Joel finally asked me out. Then again, I was the one who actually made the first move. I'd grown tired of waiting for him to do something other than smile at me from a distance. So, finally, one morning I decided to flip the script. I got up an hour early, making the extra effort to shampoo, condition, and blow out my sunny blonde hair. Pleased with that, I went to the mirror to patiently put on my face, where the application of lavender eye shadow really made my blue eyes pop. After a few strokes of bold, lengthening, dark mascara, with black eyeliner, and a generous coating of shiny pink lip gloss, I was finally ready to put on my naughty outfit.

It was mid-April and the weather was fairly warm for New England. So I threw on a bright yellow tank top, ignoring the fact that my bra straps kept sliding out underneath. For a second, I did consider going without a bra, then opted to be a little less obvious for once, remembering how shy he was. I then spent the next two or three minutes wrestling my stubborn hips into a skintight pair of sexy, blue, low-rise jeans. I spritzed on a little perfume. Then I looked down, inspecting the condition of my red toenail polish, pulse racing as I quickly slipped on a pair of flip flops, grabbing my scrubs, before finally hustling out to my car.

Along the way, I stopped and picked up a dozen donuts, just to have some sort of valid reason to walk over and introduce myself.

I pulled up in front of the hospital around 7:30. My shift didn't start until eight. With butterflies in my stomach, I stepped out and promptly sashayed toward the construction site, offering a smile toward every curious glance, amused by the sight of every man within eyeshot freezing dead in his tracks.

Worried that one of my co-workers might see me, I walked over so quickly that my boobs start bouncing and jiggling uncontrollably, tumbling like power balls beneath the sheer fabric of my flimsy yellow tank top.

From a short distance, I could already see Joel grinning at me just as usual, green eyes looming wide behind his thick glasses. Clearly, he'd noticed me right away, as we quickly exchanged longing glances toward each other, ignoring the watchful eyes of those standing nearby. Though he most likely had no clue whatsoever, by then I'd already decided that soon I'd be giving him an open invitation to fuck me. Hence, I had no intention of wasting any more precious time.

Standing in front of him, he must have stood at least six feet tall, ruggedly able-bodied, with a sturdy, muscular frame. I offered him a donut. Then he looked down, pausing for a moment, before reaching down, pulling one out and promptly taking a large bite.

I stood there watching him chew for a while, before finally accepting it'd be up to me to start up a conversation. Otherwise, I'd be there all day.

"Sooo, what's your name?" I asked, breaking the ice. His lips curled into a friendly smile. Before he answered, he reached up with his right and wiped his chin, then reached out and warmly extended it toward me.

"Joel," he said. "Joel Hanson. What's yours?"

"Cynthia," I replied, accepting his handshake. "But you can just call me Cindy."

"Hmm," he said, wrinkling his brow. "I sort of like Cynthia better. Honestly, I can't put together a grown woman like you with a name that sounds like a little girl," he said, with a short glance down at my tits. "Really doesn't do you justice," he added, with an innocent smile.

For him to flatter me so openly was not only a big surprise, it was also a huge turn-on. Not only did it make me want to spread for him even more, it was all I could do not to drop down and instantly start blowing him right then and there.

After exchanging numbers, it took him only one day to call me and set up our first date. He might have been somewhat shy, but at least he had enough balls to call me right away.

While I appreciated his initiative, I wasn't nearly as impressed by his imagination. However, as girls often do, I cheerfully played along with his tired idea of dinner and a movie, letting him plan the whole evening, since it honestly didn't matter to me where went anyway. Regardless of where the evening started, my mission would only be accomplished once I got him in bed.

Our first date was set for Friday night. I must have spent over an hour trying on various outfits. By 8:30, I'd finally settled on the perfect slutty ensemble. I put on a pink satin demi-cut bra, over a white-collared shirt, fully unbuttoned, tied beneath my tits, creating a sinful combination of eye-popping cleavage and bare midriff. I then slipped on a black pair of studded, high heel clogs, with black thigh high stockings slid up over my curvy legs.

At the last minute, I checked my face, pleased with the look of my cherry red lipstick. After fluffing my hair, I then headed out, where Joel was patiently parked outside.

Ten minutes into the movie, I was already feeling restless, as Joel sat there eating his popcorn, making no effort to touch me whatsoever.

I needed to take matters into my own hands. So I reached over, set my hand on his lap, and then shamelessly inched my fingers down toward his crotch.

With my head face forward, I felt his hand curling around my wrist, palm sweaty, as I noted the tension in his tightening fist. Taking the chance that someone nearby might notice, I carefully pulled down his zipper, with one eye focused on the screen, and the other checking his reaction as his head slowly turned facing me.

I calmly reached down into his briefs, fingers warmed by the steam rising from his heated groin. Then my hand continued to explore further, where I then discovered what must have been the root cause of his dreadful shyness.

Being a nurse, I'd learned to develop compassion for people with anatomical defects. In his case, Joel simply wasn't well hung. To put it bluntly, his penis was very small, barely the length of my index finger, which was how I measured it, as I felt it growing inside my hand.

Filled with sympathy, I couldn't help thinking back to my Uncle Stewart, whose penis wasn't so large either. Not that it mattered, since I loved him dearly and would have done anything to make him smile.

Sitting there next to Joel, with his puny hard-on pulsing inside my hand, the feeling was eerily similar to my vivid memories of visiting my uncle in the hospital and getting him off.

As we left the theater, by then I was so worked up that I couldn't bear the idea of sitting still in some boring restaurant. So I asked if he would take me to a bar, just somewhere to hang out and have a few drinks.

We stopped at an Irish pub in Jamaica Plain, which wasn't too busy considering it was Friday night.

At the far corner of the bar, we noticed an empty pool table. The one beside it was being used by three guys who looked like ZZ Top. After one round of beers, I could tell that Joel was finally starting to loosen up. I did my best to tease him as much as possible, deliberately bending over for every shot. His eyes grew wide as I playfully tempted him with my shapely body from various angles, letting my shirt gape open in the front, to the point where I probably didn't need to be wearing one at all, since everyone was getting to check out ninety percent of my rack anyway.

As if that wasn't enough, I turned around and boldly stuck out my big ass, getting so wet any minute I fully expected to start feeling warm juices running down my leg. Of course, had I worn panties, I could have avoided this little problem. Instead, as I leaned over the pool table, cooled by the air between my parted legs, I learned to embrace the idea of flashing my glistening pussy in front of strangers, convincing myself that I had no choice, as my tight denim skirt slowly proceeded to creep its way up over my moist hairless snatch, till finally it wasn't the alcohol that had me intoxicated, liberated by the conscious decision to flash my cunt, drunk off the pleasure of willfully doing something so wrong, while only concerned with maintaining Joel's healthy erection and increasing the vital flow of lubrication between my legs.

As the night went on, my slutty side just got bolder, as Joel and I continued to drink even more. I had always been a pretty good pool player. My father taught me when I was young. Eventually, I learned the game well enough to beat my older brothers. Still, I enjoyed convincing Joel that I had no clue what I was doing, waiting for him to come up behind me and press his little hard-on against my butt.

Leaving the bar, we pulled up to my empty apartment, completely hammered. I made no secret that I wanted him to come inside. I leaned forward signaling for him to kiss me, where we then started to make out, before finally rushing inside, enjoying some of the best sex I'd ever had. His dick might have been small, but he clearly knew how to use it, and he ate pussy like he'd never tasted a home cooked meal.

After dating for six months, we then discussed marriage, agreeing that we should both get physicals before taking such an important step. Though I came back with a clean bill of health, the other shoe fell off when we learned that Joel had a low sperm count.

For me, it had taken so long just to help him get over the diminutive size of his penis, only for him to suffer another blow to his ego, right when things were starting to feel normal.

On the plus side, my father treated Joel like a son. He respected the way Joel treated me and really admired his strong work ethic. He liked Joel so much that he even loaned him the money to start his own construction business. It started small, but within a few years, he was able to grow a loyal client base by outbidding major companies for large contracts.

After our wedding, we spent several months trying to get pregnant, with increasingly frustrating results. Finally, with help from a sperm donor, I gave birth to my son, Miles, on September 18^th, 2011.

By then, Joel was comfortably earning six figures. So I decided to take an extended leave of absence from the hospital. We needed more space than our modest starter house in Hyde Park. So during the day, while Joel was working, I started calling realtors and house hunting online.

It took some time, but eventually we settled on a brown, two-story, fixer-upper, in Roslindale, with a nice yard, in a top-rated school district.

Between jobs, Joel spent the entire summer renovating the house from top to bottom. To help him, he hired a black architecture student from MIT. His name was Byron Thompkins, smart, witty, very handsome, with brown eyes, no facial hair, and a warm, easy-going smile, which went nicely with his bald head, mellow voice, and radiant brown skin.

The first time we met, I'd been up all night dealing with a crying baby. I woke up barely conscious, hauling myself out of bed. Then I slowly shuffled my way toward the kitchen to make some coffee.

I opened my bedroom door and stepped out wearing these little red boy shorts, with a white cami-style top stretched tight across my braless chest. I never saw Byron as our bodies suddenly collided into each other. I squealed from the blinding chill of freezing cold ice water instantly soaking through my shirt.

I forcefully arched my back, thrusting my giant hooters toward his bewildered face.

For a moment, it felt like Fort Lauderdale in '96, when I'd reluctantly entered a wet T-shirt contest during Spring Break, only to claim first prize.

His eyes instantly bugged out, as he stood there holding his empty glass. Then he reached his hand out, holding a white paper towel, apologizing profusely, as he quickly began dabbing it against my tits.

"Shit, I'm really sorry," he said. "I didn't realize you were home. Your husband told me I could come in and get a glass of water. Honestly, I'm so sorry."

At the moment, I almost felt worse for him than I did standing there with my nipples poking through the front of my shirt, which was rendered practically invisible as Byron stood there with his eyes zooming toward the soaking wet cotton vividly clinging to the broad surface of my large, glistening, upright breasts, as I stood there shivering, spine perfectly erect, aiming a pair of watery torpedoes at him, while pointed back was a large, visible hard-on, ready to shoot back at any second.

Weeks later, with the renovation well under way, something happened that changed the course of my marriage from that day forward.

I'd been struggling to work off my extra baby weight, with little to no success. Like most married couples, our sex life had dwindled down to almost non-existent, especially after the birth of our first child. To fix this, my husband and I agreed to try therapy. Through various contacts in the industry, I came across a well-known, highly-respected expert in behavioral medicine and clinical psychology, Dr. Megan Sinclair. After downloading one of her books on my Kindle, then reading it all in one night, I immediately came to the conclusion that this brilliant, insightful visionary was clearly the perfect counselor for us.

Physically, our new therapist was beautiful enough to be a Hollywood actress, with the same formal, dignified manner of Rachel Weisz or Elizabeth Hurley, and a low, sultry, resonating voice like Kate Winslet or Catherine Zeta-Jones.

For an older woman, she'd aged gracefully, with clear, glowing, ivory-colored skin; deep, calming, focused brown eyes; and subtle laugh lines barely visible around her smug, tight-lipped, rarely seen smile. Her comely figure looked healthy, but not overly fit, with soft, feminine curves played down seemingly on purpose in her high-class, custom-made business suits, in muted colors, with basic accessories, as if she intended to distract people from noticing her conspicuous boob job, with implants set high on her chest, both the size of my baby's head, odd for a British woman nearing fifty.

At our first session, she admitted that her methods were, as she put it, "somewhat unorthodox." She treated her patients using a theory designed to release their inhibitions. Within five minutes, she looked me square in the eye and laid out what she believed was the key to every successful relationship, enunciating each syllable like an audio-version of Psychology Today.

"My dear, you must learn to embrace your inner slut," she stated flatly.

This wasn't an easy thing for me to hear, not when I felt like I'd already been doing that all my life. Still, Joel and I figured we pretty much had nothing left to lose, except maybe our marriage, so we graciously went along with her initial instructions, in which she advised us to track all of our sexual activities for one week, reporting back everything to her at our next visit.

One sunny Wednesday afternoon, I walked down into the basement, where Joel had been kind enough to set up a treadmill, there among all his scattered tools and various building materials thrown everywhere.

As I walked down the creaky stairs, Joel and Byron were already there, discussing the merits of vice grips and socket wrenches, or whatever the hell guys talk about.

I laid down my yoga mat, fully expecting some sort of basic greeting. Yet, Joel barely acknowledged me, which I'd come to accept as standard behavior, whenever he was focused on a task.

On the other hand, Byron's face instantly lit up from the moment I appeared in front of them in my skimpy workout ensemble.

My tits were so big that my sports bras had to be custom ordered, since nothing ever came close to fitting off the rack. The afternoon sunshine inspired me to wear yellow, which right after pink had always been one of my favorite colors.

Of all times, as I started stretching, my boobs decided to pick that moment not to cooperate. After laying down the mat, I sat down and spread my legs in either direction, uselessly struggling to keep my huge tits from flopping almost completely out.

Sitting there, with my legs covered by pair of royal blue leggings, it was hard to ignore Byron's frequent glances, as I continued having to sit up and yank down my stretchy yellow sports bra, which insisted on riding up over the lower half of my large, unwieldy breasts, each time I leaned forward.

Finally, Joel led Byron back upstairs, allowing me to finish my workout in private.

Twenty minutes later, I was walking steadily on the treadmill, where I turned to the sound of heavy footsteps, loping down the wooden stairs. As Byron surprisingly reappeared, he gave me some lame excuse about needing to grab a box of nails or some other bullshit like that. I rolled my eyes and shot him a playful smirk, certain he'd come back purely for a second look.

I asked how things were going and he answered that everything was right on schedule. I nodded back, pressing one of the buttons to slightly increase the pace.

For two minutes, he hung around, lingering for no reason, watching me jog at a medium pace. From a short distance, his eyes faithfully continued tracking the tumbling motion of my pendulous breasts, bouncing in time to the whirring rhythm of the belt churning beneath my feet.

Soon, I began sweating, beads trickling down my stomach, staining the Lycra spandex firmly hugging my shapely hips, leaving dark patches in the sheer, skintight, pantyhose-type fabric of my full-length, royal blue leggings, technically footless tights, yet no matter the name, leaving nothing to the imagination as the moisture generated by my ever-increasing perspiration glued the material to every curve of my meaty hips and broad, fleshy thighs.

Meaning the hit the stop button, I reached forward, turning my head, when Byron apparently dropped his cell phone on the floor. Suddenly, the treadmill started racing beneath my feet. The belt nearly threw me off as it started whizzing beyond control. Byron quickly rushed over as I called to him in a panic, trying my best just to hold on and not fall down. He instantly came to my aid, slowing down the machine, as I desperately struggled to catch my breath.

For a second, I stood there with my eyes shut, clutching my sweaty forehead, waiting for the room to stop spinning. With a deep breath, my eyes slowly opened, as I looked over and noticed Byron staring down at my chest. In all the commotion, my sports bra had slid up exposing my tits completely. I instantly tried to holster them back inside, while Byron remained speechless, watching me stuff them back inside my bra.

Trying to contain my embarrassment, I struggled to think of something of appropriate to say, without directly explaining that my eyes were a bit higher up.

"Um, thank you," was I could manage at that moment.

"No problem," he said. "It was my fault. I didn't mean to distract you."

"Actually, I think you were the one who got distracted," I said, making him blush, even with his dark complexion.

"Yeah, I guess that's true," he admitted, looking a bit worried. "You won't tell your husband about this, will you?"

I paused for a moment, quietly considering how hard it had been for Joel to find such a talented partner.

"We'll just pretend it never happened," I said, patting his arm. "Have you had lunch yet? There's some leftover pot roast in the fridge. Why don't you go up and fix yourself a sandwich? I need to go hop in the shower."

With that, Byron walked back upstairs, where I soon followed, passing him in the kitchen, on my way to the bathroom, where I quickly undressed, peeling off the damp sports bra, dropping it down to the floor, before slowly peeling down the blue leggings, then piling them over the yellow bra, both of which, unbeknownst to me at the time, ended up stuck between the door jamb and the door itself.

Minutes later, I was calmly enjoying a warm, steamy shower, lathering foamy bubbles over each one of my large, supple breasts. Though I hadn't intended to leave the door open, from inside the misty, glass stall, I looked out and noticed that I'd somehow left it slightly ajar.

The angle of the ceiling high mirror above the sink provided me with a clear view into the main hallway. I'd just begun rinsing out my favorite tropical scented shampoo, when I noticed the shadow of someone standing there just outside the door.

Clearly, it was Byron, since Joel had already seen me naked a thousand times and certainly would never attempt to spy on me in such a bold manner.

In hindsight, maybe I should have made another choice. Yet, in that moment, the seeds of a budding exhibitionist had already taken root, especially after exposing myself to Byron in the basement.