(photo is (c) ultimatebbw.com)
It was mid afternoon. She was already in bed reading a book when I stepped into the bedroom. I took off my pants, socks and shirt and slipped under the sheets with a smile on my face. She was wearing nothing on top. She purred toward me, turning on her side, while one of her boob rolled gently on top of each other.
It was saturday, and about the perfect time for our nap. We often do this on the weekends. It’s so relaxing. I love the feeling of freedom and laziness that makes your mind wander and expand, like if it was on a cool cloud. It’s very nice.
We chatted and kissed softly, talking about what we should do for dinner, or just how nice the fresh sheets felt on our skin. Oh, sweet nothings. And well, being the football (that’s what the Americans incorrectly call soccer) fan that I am, I also told her my “anxiety” for tomorrow’s game between my dearest Italy versus Brazil. I kind of love to give her a chance to mock my craziness and laugh about it together.
At same time I was making a conscious effort not to touch her too much. My problem is that I can’t control myself. I love the feeling of her soft body on my skin so much that my first — one could say primal — instinct is to attack her like a vicious animal, and adore her for what she is: the love of my life, with big boobs and very large hips. Plus, I thought she gained some luscious weight in the last week and I had been dying to check her out for longer than a week.