Chapter 7
It was a strange coincidence, just happenstance, that left Bill Martin's wife Winifred alone in the house that night her husband was engaged in ... scientific experimentation.
It was a coincidence that it was the same night the phantom titty-nut chose to go out for a little window-peeping. He'd been trying to break the habit. Over a month had passed since the last time he'd gone out peeping. More coincidence led him to Maple Street; he usually stuck to Stonewall Drive and Wollheim Street. That long arm of coincidence led him right to Bill Martin's back yard. And right up the big elm tree, because he saw light and interesting shadow-movements in the upstairs window.
Then he was up, and could see in that window, and his eyes popped.
Winifred Hanrahan's tits were a goodly part of the reason Bill Martin took her out, again and again, and married her. They really should have learned a little more about each other. At thirteen, Winifred Hanrahan had been top-heavy. At twenty, she still was. At twenty-three, fifteen years ago when she became Winifred Martin, she was still top-heavy. At five feet, five inches, she had measured 39D-23-36. To guys, that was Something Else. Not to her. To Win Hanrahan Martin it was a drag. She was resigned to having to fight to find clothes that fitted properly. She had had to resign herself to serviceable bras, in black or white. No lacy confections or skimpy little bandeau-bras in sexy sky-blue or peach or coral pink or ecru for her. "One size fits all" was bullshit to Winifred Martin; she spilled out of that kind of bra. Too, clothing manufacturers believed that any woman with tits the size of hers also had a lot of gut and a butt and hips to match.
Being really titsy was a drag for Win; it is for any woman.
It wasn't for Bill Martin. He was crazy about those big white jiggly titties.
Trouble was, over the years Win sort of took charge. Part of her means of giving Bill a hard way to go, of "keeping him in his place," was withholding her beloved tits.
It never occurred to her to tell him he just didn't treat them, or her, right. He treated her great jiggling jugs with awe, and gently. He ceded control of this, and then that to her, and then item after item, until because he was "not competent enough to go out of the house looking decent" she even decided what he'd wear each day. And if he got out of line-by her definition, of course—she withheld her tits.
She'd wear loose stuff that didn't show them off and indeed minimized them. She'd wear high-necked stuff so he couldn't see the cleavage he loved, the Grand Canyon cleavage between the Grand Tetons—an un-American phrase meaning simply "big tits." Sure, she withheld other stuff too, like pussy. Trouble was it was torture for Bill to make love with her without messing with her gigantic titties. Another trouble was that Win liked sex, lovemaking, and plain old balling. She could forbid Dummy to touch or even lick or suck her titties, but not getting herself dicked was like cutting off her nose to spite her face —or her nipples to spite her breasts. As it were.
Theirs was not a well marriage, not a healthy one. It was, though, all too normal In America, where women are women and men are . . . slipping. Being slipped.
Win was alone tonight, and Bill was doing his clicking elsewhere though she didn't know it, and her period was coming up, which meant that she was horny. So she was upstairs in the bedroom at nine p.m. squeezing and sucking and yes, biting her own mighty mammaries, while she gave it to herself up her scarlet-furred snatch with a carrot whose color wasn't too far different from that of the hair all around that juicy drooling thirty-eight-year-old pleasure slit.
And that's what the phantom titty-nut saw from the big old elm tree outside.
Eyes bugging, he took himself firmly in hand, and hand jobbed himself, and he came a lot sooner than Win Martin. His goggling eyes remained fixed on her. They were glassy. (By now her measurements had undergone some changes—she was 41DD-28-38. Pure incredible sex, unless you don't happen to like women who look more like women than most men. You like women who look more like boys? Hmmm.)
The nut outside her window loved the way she looked. He was gaga over the way she looked. He happened to be a breast-man. A titty-nut. Just a peeper, you understand, not a breaker-in or a molester .. . but he was about to become one. He was about to become the Phantom Titty-Nut.
Jeezis Crise, that marvelous, magnificent, munificently mammaried broad was actually sucking her own titty! Xaviera had said a woman could do that, some women, if they were a bit active—and well hung. This one was. He couldn't stand it. He started to see everything through a mist of dancing little red dots. He descended the elm tree in Bill and Win Martin's back yard. Heart pounding, he went right up to the back door.
Pure coincidence. Win had goofed. Bill Martin was a Good Husband, and he always saw to things such as locking the back door. He locked it every night. Tonight he wasn't here. Win had forgotten. She had goofed. The phantom titty-nut pushed the back door open and walked right in.
The Martins didn't have a burglar alarm. The dog was at the vet's. The Martins didn't even have a cat, or a parrot that could yell "Rrrawk! Prowler! Call the cops!"
The phantom titty-nut went right in, and through the kitchen. On the way he picked up the stick around which Win Martin wrapped string. It was a sort of secret vice with her. She saved string. Lots of people do. You never know when you might need some string. Of course, you never know either when some phantom titty-nut might come along and tie up you and your titties with your own saved string.
One more coincidence. (Coincidences really won't make it in fiction. This, of course, really happened. Coincidences happen more often in real life than in fiction. That's why someone, probably Benjamin Franklin, came up with the phrase "Truth is stranger than fiction.")
Unable to get off, really wild and of course sure she was all alone in the house, Win was trying something new. She'd smeared lotion all over her carrot and her ass crease, and she'd laid a pair of brand-new jeans across the big double bed she shared with
Bill. The fabric of brand-new jeans is rougher. She wanted to feel that rough fabric against her nipples.
So, coincidentally, this is what the phantom titty-nut saw when he eased open that bedroom door:
Win Martin lay on her stomach, face up, legs kicking. She was grinding her massive milkwagon into that rough denim and she was poking that greased carrot into her (virginal) anus with both hands. Her asscheeks were snowy-white and trembling. She lay face-down, her face turned the other way, and she had both hands behind her.
And the phantom titty-nut had a ball of string in his hands, neatly wound so it would neatly unwind. And he was beside himself, out of his head, excited—meaning he hardly knew what the hell it was that he was doing.
In about two shakes he had pulled one of Win Martin's stockings down over his own head—just as he'd learned from movies and Newsweek and Time, crime professors, all three—and in about four shakes more, Mrs. Winifred Martin had both hands tied behind her back. A hand turned her over. Coming down from her sex-high, she'd actually thought maybe it was Bill, playing some sort of new game. No: she saw an apparition: a horrid stocking-masked face with the nose all scrunched and spread out by tight taupe nylon.
Win opened her mouth to let out a yell. Her other stocking went right in, and the yell stayed in too.
Stark naked and with her big white breasts riding her chest and ribs and upper arms like two big white San Diego Naval Base pillows, she writhed and jerked and made "guh! gl-l-Uuh!" noises around a mouthful of stocking, hers.
Her captor just stood there beside himself, beside the bed, and he stared at all that bobbing quivering jerking rippling white exciting titty-meat.
"Mus' be jelly," he muttered, "'cause jam don't shake like that!"
And the Phantom Titty-Nut went on a tit-orgy.
First he just grooved on them with his eyes. Then with his hands. He stroked and pressed the massive mounds of Win's gigantic jugs in a lingering, loving massage.
His warmth-radiating hands roamed those mountainous masses, fondled the soft, juggly cushions, manipulated them, worked lovingly over them in soothing loving caresses that would have brought involuntary soft sighs from the bound woman if she hadn't been so scared.
"Oh, oh Jeezis, oh Jeezis Crise, I can't get enough of these sweet knockers!"
Oh my god, she thought, to have to suffer this manhandling of my sweet knockers by a stranger! He's a nut, a maniac, a rapist, a phantom nut in the night—a Phantom Titty-Nut!
"I love them! I love you! I love these big beautiful shivering shimmering titties! I sure hope you like havin' 'em played with! I'm going to play with 'em a lot! I saw you sucking one—this one—and you must have been laying on those jeans to get 'em some rough lovin', while you were usin' both hands to poke that carrot up yourself!"
Hm! Terribly embarrassing . . . and true, she thought, confused and with mixed emotions. Everything he said was true. And he said he loved her massive teats. And ... he said he was going to play with them a lot\
She wondered what things might have been like around here for the past fifteen years or so if that weak-kneed Bill had ever just grabbed her and started doing her boobs this way. (I'd kill him, that's what!)
But . . . she couldn't kill the Phantom Titty-Nut. She couldn't do a blessed thing but lie here and just take whatever he did to her. Hmmml Sure, she'd heard that jazz about if rape is inevitable, relax and enjoy it. Bullshit. A man must have made that one up. That sex-nut Ben Franklin, maybe. But .. . still . . .
He wasn't menacing her with a weapon. Didn't seem to have one. He wasn't raping her. He didn't even sound mean. Just all excited, shaky, out of his gourd over her megatherian mammary masses.
If titty-fondling is inevitable, I might as well relax . . .
... and ...
Enjoy it!
He was squeezing now, his fingers digging into great masses of satiny textured breast-flesh, making it bulge in corpulent white-skinned beauty all around his inpressing fingers, squeezing, noting how those fantastic huge jugs just practically begged to be squashed and rearranged, shaped into new conformations, turned into new shapes—all temporary— furiously palpitating amorphous masses, all kinky and wild and Jeezis Crise Fun!
Every nerve in each big jostling hemisphere was coming alive and tingling in response to his molding reshaping hands ... appreciative response.
"Mmmmmgl—1!" Her eyes flared.
He had just hurt her, hurt her breast while he forced it and its twin into new and fascinating shapes. Hurt her—and the fiery pain went straight down through her viscera to burst into her red-furred cunt like a firecracker.
She wished she could tell him to stick the carrot in her. As long as he was getting so much out of this, she might as well be getting all she could out of it!
Now big hearty to-and-fro manipulations made her big white breasts jiggle and ripple and flop wildly back and forth. Big liquid-filled pillows on her chest. His warm, soothing hands were setting her tits aflame, and there was a lot there to set afire. The brushes of his fingers teased their peaks, firmed those crests, which were pale pink.
On and on he played with her desperately sen sate titties, demanding and enforcing their submission, claiming them, demanding her submission while he spread his titty-loving hands over the smoothly dis-
tended hemispheres and squeezed with demanding, possessive firmness. He rubbed her tits. He squeezed her tits.
In fascination and with a fetishistic ardor he palmed her naked throbbing breasts, his fingers coursing over their nipples, his thumbs moving inward toward the swells of those pretty pink nipples. He worked so casually with her sensitive tits, giving her gentle strokes and finger-pressures that made her flesh fairly sizzle.
He had beaten off in the tree outside, had blown semen into the air to splatter on the ground. And now he had a hard-on again, right up to his navel, while he gathered up a double big fistful of carnation-tinted titty and ground the beloved meat in his grasping hands.
She lurched and showed pain and anguish. Her eyes flashed.
Instantly his fingers returned to titillating the juicily erotic melons with loving caresses. He reshaped them to the dictates of his tit-loving whimsy. His fingers slid over the pink nubbins of her nipples and watched the cute super-sexy way they jutted warmly, rather arrogantly up between his fingers. Like a pair of giant pencil erasers, deep pink. He rubbed those soft lumps, palming the great curves of the fleshy masses from which they sprang like pink springs, slipping thumb and fingers around each sweet crest, making her feel the pressure while he watched the beautiful rush of blood into the pale red tips.
They became a lot deeper red.
So did her face. Her tongue tried to push the cloying, clogging stocking from her mouth. But it was stuffed and wadded and caught in her teeth. Her breasts throbbed and her nipples were starting to pout into passionate red erections.
"Oh shit, I love these dam' big fine titties, lady!"
That, his calling her "lady," reminded her of her pride. Of the ignominy of her situation. She was lying here moaning into a stocking that stuffed her mouth, grooving on the attentions, the manipulation of her sensitive breasts, by a total damned stranger who didn't even know her name but called her lady! Her wrists were bound with thin string so that her hands tingled.
Her feet, however, were free. And she had to do something, for her pride.
She drew up her feet and kicked him. She missed his crotch.
He staggered, but retained his twin titty-grips. He used them to steady himself. If she hadn't been gagged, she'd have screamed at that breast-tugging which was excruciatingly devastatingly painful. She grunted and quivered and made a muffled "Oh!" sound around her mouth-drying tongue-restricting gag-
"Bad!" he chastised her. "I wasn't hurting your titties! You tried to hurt me, though! Now—"
She trembled and stared upward with wide, stricken eyes. She knew what his words meant. Now he would get even. Now he was going to hurt her.
He—he's going to hurt my boobs!
He did.
With a big handful of her more than ample breast-meat in each fist, he began twisting in opposite directions. Big creases ran through the flesh and each breast felt as if assaulted by fire. That hurt. The twin cherry-buds of her nipples took on a scarlet glow. Her tits flamed.
Now his tit-fondling had become a lewd, indecent and cruel assault, and pain shot through her entire organism. She felt tears well up in her eyes, and she couldn't see well, as though looking through water.
He let go. Grunting, he shoved his hands in under her armpits arid dragged her up into a sitting position with her back against the bed's headboard. That way her naked, reddened breasts hung free. And naked. And vulnerable.
He seized on them again, those massive dangling gargantuan breasts. Her eyes stared. She couldn't move her hands. She couldn't speak, or even cry out.
First he hauled the pink-tipped beauties wide apart, turning them into a pair of stretched, creamy white footballs. He grinned at her. Then he slammed his hands together, slapping her poor breasts into each other with pulpy smacking sounds.
She writhed her pain-drawn face. Big tears over-
flowed her wide gray-green eyes to trickle slowly down her soft cheeks.
Again he let go. He had to rearrange his hard-on, still inside his pants. She stared at it. No, she thought, trying to send a message to her cunt: the treacherous stupid damned thing was filling up with juice. Dumb cunt! she thought. He's hurting me. This isn't something to get all charged up and wet and itchy about. This is mean! He's a bad man, a thieving house breaker, and I hate him! I hate this!
Her cunt didn't agree with her. It went right on twitching and creaming. Its thick pink lips parted in avid invitation. Her belly trembled and crawled. Her brain spun.
Now he reached up to close one hand around her dangling left breast and thumb the nipple. In the manner of a prospective buyer testing the point of a knife. She sucked in a quick hissing breath. The knife analogy was apt—his attentions to the ripe nipple soon had it stabbing out like a blood-red dagger. Her nipples were big on her outsized and malleable breasts; that was how she was able to lick and suck her own sweet puffy pulpy nipples.
He bent his head and gave her squeezed nipple a lick.
She sighed, but then trembled apprehensively when he lifted his head and then bent it with a slow deliberation to the deeply red erection he had created on the forefront of her shghtly pendulous, massive, oval-shaped breast. He kissed it. Her defenses melted. The bound, gagged redhead sighed.
Then she felt the slow and steady tightening of his teeth. Another swift nervous breath hissed into her lungs. She held it there, afraid to breathe. His hand, meanwhile, was bunching the tender flesh, squeezing her enormous tit out of shape.
Even while he was hurting her poor breast, she realized that he had never so much as touched her pretty red-orange fleeced cunt. It wriggled as if to gain attention . . .
He began gnawing and nibbling at her rigid nipple, meanwhile gripping her titty so firmly that the marks of his fingers were being branded into the skin of the luscious white globe.
"Mmmmm—"
The monster ignored her. The phantom titty-nut kept right on being a titty-nut. The monster commenced chewing on the large-aureoled nipple, bunching it and all he could of her shapely mass of tender tit-flesh into his mouth where he sucked with such incredible powerful drawing force that it felt to her as if the elongated red berry was going to be torn right off its mooring at the end of her aching breast.
That did it. That scared her, and that brought a reaction from her. But it was not the reaction she'd have expected. Right then, she learned something about herself.
Fingers of pure sensual-sexual fire ran voluptu-
ously all over her, all through her, and she felt marvelous and trembled and heard herself panting plaintively. Deep back inside her open-mouthed, glistening cunt, a thousand ants seemed to go running about, and where they stepped a drop of cream formed. It filled her cunt. She shuddered under the forceful sensation of rapture that flooded through her quivering belly and within the mouth of her cunt . . . the starved, gasping mouth of her deep pink slit.
I wanna be fucked! she screamed inside her head, and cried because she couldn't tell him. I need to be fucked! Tm going out of my bird! I'm so turned on it hurts! Bastard, bastard—pick me up and carry me off to your tent! , Shivers ran through the whole opening length of her creamy-slick channel. Her pussy was an open mouth. It wasn't gagged, and it was yelling. But it had no larynx. It didn't make a sound. Her needy pussy just shouted silently, begging.
He didn't leave off grinding her nipple around in his teeth until he was jerking and panting. Then he let go, and her nipple snapped back to the big pillowy breast it adorned, and the whole pink mass jiggled and swayed and rippled—flaunting a big red ornament like the first joint of her index finger, without the nail, and painted with scarlet polish. It glowed. It stung. It hurt. It hurt good. She'd never seen her nipple so big—and never known it to feel so good.
She got even more excited then, because he was panting and quivering and kneeling up, looking down, opening his pants, reeling out—with difficulty— a nice big fat deeply pink cock. She didn't know if it was circumcised or not. The head was bare, moist-shining, sexy-dark nut with a crying eye, and from the way he stared down at it and said "Wow!" she got the idea that he was looking at a record erection, too, just like her nipple.
Ah! At last! Bill Martin's wife thought. Rape is inevitable.
(At that moment, though she didn't know it, Bill Martin was sprawled on the floor in a sorority house near the campus a dozen blocks away, watching two shapely young ladies lick his cock. Two. Both at once. And damned if the silly dodo didn't think of his wife's great big fine titties, right then.)
Rape was indeed inevitable for Win, but not the way she thought.
Her captor did have to get it off. Since he was a breaker-in, getting it off with her was certainly rape as opposed to that activity people call "making love" while using "fucking" as an adjective, a bad adjective. But. He was not going to get it off in her cunt
He was after all a breast man. A titty-nut In his stocking-mask, he was the Phantom Titty-Nut. And he was wild about this woman's titties, her massive gigantic football-shaped titties.
So he fucked them, while her cunt cried and cried and felt more empty than Shea Stadium after a losing ball game.
He held her breasts partway together. He left a tunnel, a valley just big enough for his mighty hard-on. And he slid that vibrant and distended tool sexily back and forth in the glorious soft nylon-feeling valley of cleavage between the full silky thrusts of her great big breasts. Her breasts looked beautiful wrapped a round his cock. Panting and hunching, he said so. His cock looked great, very dark, going in and out between her breasts. He fucked them, gasping.
His cock was sweating. Her breasts were sweating. Sweat formed a nice layer of grease, not as nice as the cuntal juice designed for that purpose—but to the phantom titty-nut, ravishing the best pair in the world, this was a lot better than any old juicy, clingy, sucking, muscular cunt.
He hunched and punched, fucking titty. He moved steadily, reaming in and out between the ivory pillows, drying the sweat with friction, feeling some pain as unlubricated breast-skin caught abrasively at his bare, blood-filled flesh.
Although her cunt was an aching horribly empty hole that wanted to be filled, his captive was beginning to get into this strange activity. Bill had never fucked her tits. She knew he loved them. She wondered if he'd ever thought about fucking them, like this. The man astride her now had pulled her down, so that her head was almost on the bed again, though not quite. That way she could watch the dark slick hot-looking head of his dick come squirting out from between her breasts, and watch it retreat, the loose skin all around it stretching and partly obscuring it until it vanished again between her breasts—and then came zooming forth again.
It occurred to her then that she was about to get a face full of semen.
She was wrong. The phantom titty-nut had one more fantasy he wanted to realize. Truth to tell, he was single and a masturbater. He always looked at big tits when he beat off, naturally. Sometimes he folded a pillow around his cock and pretended he was fucking a particularly nice pair he'd seen in this or that magazine. (The sexiest pictures were probably on the covers of Cosmopolitan, strangely enough, but those ladies usually weren't as hung as he liked them, the phantom titty-fucker of Elm Street.)
Now he realized that he was going to come, very soon. He realized that he'd shoot his semen into her face. That would be awful, he thought. Really ugly. Really mean. After all, he hadn't really bothered her any, just delighted both of them by spending the past hour or so groping and sucking her titties. It wasn't as if he'd messed with her privates. That would have been bad. He hadn't raped her or anything; rapists were terrible men. He wasn't. He just happened to dig titties. And these just happened to be the best.
His final fantasy was to shoot off on tits. All over tits. And, as he happened to be a masturbater good enough and experienced enough to get a professional license if anyone passed them out for that, he naturally enough put two and two together. He had played with tits. He had treated them nicely and roughly. He had licked and sucked and bitten. He had fucked them. Now all he had to do to make the evening really complete was to jack off and come on them. And after that he'd best get his ass the hell out of here!
So he reared back, letting his cock flip up out from between her massive mammary pillows. And he spat into his hand, and grasped his cock firmly, just right, and treated her to the sight of a real expert beating off.
"Gahhh!'' He growled, loudly, and came.
Hot white ropes of semen flew out of his dark-swollen cock and splashed onto her big shivering breasts. Another big spurt shot violently forth, and" went smack, just below her left nipple. Half swinging his ass and guiding his hose with his hand, he fired off another round of jism, and this one went right over her right nipple, onto the mountainous topside of her breast. Another spurt; on the underside. Swing, and shoo? again: underside of her other breast. And then dwindling driplets of cock-milk, and it was oozing along the marvelous mountainous curvature of her beautiful titties, and he was absolutely ecstatic.
He was also drained, and gasping and moaning. And half-smothered inside that damned stocking.
"I-Im-m . . . going t-to leave nowww," he said, gasping. He glanced around. "I bet if you got up and went over to the dresser and turned around, you could get loose pretty quick. I see it has a glass top. The edge won't be sharp, but it oughtta cut that little ole string."
"Guhinmfff !" Her eyes rolled.
"I love you," he stammered hotly, and then the Phantom Titty-Nut left the bed and took off, zipping his depleted peter up in his pants as he went.
Win Martin did a lot of sobbing while she got herself off the bed and went over to the dresser. She twisted her arms a bit and started sawing the string on the rounded edge of a piece of glass designed not to have a cutting edge.
By the time she finally got her hands parted, she had leaked a lot of tears, and pussy juice, and she was mad. She had been so charged up. So turned on. And he had wasted his cock on her tits, and wasted his sperm there too. Dumb bastard! And now—now—she'd spent so damned long getting the damned string cut that she had wound down.
"He could've at least raped me with the carrotl" Win Martin stormed, once she'd get her stocking out of her mouth. (It was an extra, now. The Phantom Titty-Nut had been pulling the other one off while he ran out the door. She had an idea he'd be keeping it, though. A little souvenir.)
His souvenir still dripped off her tits. She went into the bathroom and wiped it off with a wet washcloth. She wiped a lot. She pinched her nipple, with the wet rough cloth over her fingers. Ouch! That was the one he'd chewed! She pinched the other one. Then, thoughtfully, she looked around. She tossed the wet washcloth at the towel bar and got another one—a dry washcloth.
It was a lot rougher.
She began buffing her nipple with it, while she went back into the bedroom for the carrot. To hell with calling the police. It would be embarrassing. Besides—he hadn't even raped her.
Damn him!