BREAST-TO-BREAST by Mesmerized – Part 1

Last night my lifelong fantasy came true. For years my wife has indulged my passion for naturally well-endowed women. The idea of two bosomy women in a breast-to-breast confrontation simply thrills me. Whose breasts are the biggest, firmest, whose nipples are the best, whose breasts would be flattened or enveloped in a breast fight? – this is the stuff of which my fantasies are made.

Angie, my bride of nearly 10 years, is really stacked, to employ a vintage description for a full 36D. Although she has just turned 35, my busty redhead looks grand: 5 foot 5 inches of feminine voluptuousness. She has always been proud of her rack, particularly her breasts, and finds my passion for them highly erotic. Over the years she has catered to my fantasy by verbalizing herself in breast fights with full-breasted women that come into our life’s little circle. In her stories, Angie is the winner and understands that her fantasized victories really turn me on. I love having a wife with the best breasts in the room.

In our friendship clique, there are a number of busty babes. Each of them has been sized up (scrupulously observed in varying degrees of revealing outfits) by Angie and me and my bride comes out on top.

About six months ago a new couple worked their way into our group. Kate and Buddy are an attractive couple, recent transplants from the east coast. There is nothing particularly remarkable about the two of them except – you know already – Kate is very well-endowed. For the first time, there is a woman in our midst who rivals my lovely Angie. Almost immediately, Kate became part of our breast fight storytelling ritual, and our sexual sessions soon reached new heights of passionate frenzy.

On the real life scene, Angie began emphasizing her assets whenever we knew that Kate and Buddy would be on-hand at any social event. For example, Angie bought the most auspiciously provocative evening gown for the annual Easter Charity Ball. However, Angie’s dramatically plunging neckline created no greater scandal than did Kate’s see-through taffeta dress. Despite a myriad of sequins, I (all of us) could see the fullness, the roundness, the grandness of Kate’s lushness. And despite strategically placed fabric, large areolas provided a glimpse and a rush if one paid close enough attention (and most us boys certainly did).

At the May Day Picnic, Angie selected a braless, sheer, scarlet halter-top that showed everyone about not only breast size and shape, but the state of her nearly constantly (on this given day) erect nipples. She really has a pair of magnificent stiffies. But Kate showed up in a Daisy Mae outfit that would have shocked even Lil' Abner. Her tight, tight, tattered jean shorts revealed a breathtakingly sexy ass atop those perfectly sculptured legs. However, it was the polka dot blouse, shirttails cinched tight at mid drift, buttons unbuttoned, that kept all eyes at attention. Several times throughout the afternoon, Kate would (accidentally?) bend over and reveal the full wonder of her beauties in all their naked glory. The men were thrilled, the ladies were indignant, and Angie was livid. For the first time my wife had a real contender for her uncrowned, unstated, but heretofore unquestioned title of Best Breasts in the Clan. Our sexual foreplay soon became storytelling of a more violent nature, with Angie practically beating Kate senseless in the fantasized breasts duels.

At the Fourth of July Beach Party the fantasy nearly became fact. Angie pulled out all the stops and bought a sheer bikini with a thong bottom and little patches that barely covered her areolas. The burgundy color was divine with her red hair, violet eyes, and creamy, white skin. We have no children (unlike the other couples in our group), and to be so physically perfect at 35 is simply (in the minds of most women) unfair. Of course, the bikini put absolutely everything on display. There would be no question left unanswered. Exactly what Angie had would forever more be common knowledge to anyone at the beach that day. Even I was a little shocked at the utterly revealing nature of this blatant attempt to put any doubts to rest: Angie wanted to leave no doubt that she was still the Queen.

When we arrived at the beach, most of our friends had already arrived. Angie timed it all in order to make the grand entrance. At the car she slipped off her muumuu and stuffed it in the beach bag. I gazed with wonder for the millionth time at her beautiful body. She may as well have been nude for all the coverage she got from the mini-bikini. I smiled and Angie threw back her shoulders, thrusting her magnificent breasts up and out for all the world to see. Never before had Angie worn anything half so daring in front of friends – in front of anybody for that matter (present company excepted). I found the exhibitionism sexually thrilling, yet slightly unsettling. I was as giddy as a teenager about to cop his first feel. All of our friends were going to be gazing at my wife who was, for all intents and purposes, nude.

Off we trucked to the shoreline, Angie jiggling wonderfully with her confident, bouncy stride. As we approached our group at the far end of the beach, all eyes were not focusing on our well-planned late entrance. They were intently watching a Frisbee being tossed between two players. When we were within 50 yards of the gang, we could see that the Frisbee players were none other than Kate and Buddy. And while the two were not extraordinary at the game by any stretch of the imagination, Kate’s physicality held everyone’s rapt attention. Her long, black hair was being flung every which way as she ran, turned, leapt, dove and screamed delightfully in her efforts to catch the plastic saucer. Although she could not throw very well, the grace and beauty of her catches was a thing of awe. Well, she didn’t catch all that many either, but the very act of trying to catch the damn thing was mesmerizing. Her body was spellbinding.

Kate wore an itty, bitty, teeny, weeny, yellow polka dot bikini (yes, just like in the song) that was astounding. The top of this wild bikini was more like a yellow, polka dot belt, about 3 inches wide and tied in a bow at the back. The 3 inches were apparently enough to cover her nipples, but not much else. As I continued walking toward her, mouth agape and eyes transfixed, I could just make out her chocolate brown areolas, above and below the yellow polka dot belt – top – whatever it was, it was fine. No less fantastic was the tightness of the belt around her breasts. It was cinched to the point where her mammary flesh bulged out the bottom of the belt and practically exploded out the top – compressed breast flesh everywhere – and gobs of it! With her raven hair, naturally dark and deeply tanned skin, the contrast with the ultra bright white and yellow bikini (or whatever you’d call it) was indeed remarkable. I just kept plodding along in the sand, marching to get closer to Kate, not really thinking, just staring and appreciating – being stupid, really.

Suddenly Angie ran straight past me at a full gallop, streaking directly for Kate. It occurred to me that Angie was angry, jealous, or just damned pissed off about having her thunder stolen by this bold and buxom interloper. But that didn’t make any sense. Angie was reasonably level-headed – besides, she wouldn’t make an ass of herself in front of the whole gang by attacking Kate. What was she up to?

Just as Angie reached Kate from a side angle, she put on a short burst of speed and snatched the Frisbee in midair. After a few athletic strides, she stopped and hooted to me, “Keep away, darling. Don’t let Buddy get it.” And with a wicked whip, Angie sent the disc spiraling my way.

Delighted at her antics, I whooped and hollered and made a bee-line for the flying Frisbee. I leapt and snared it behind my back, touched earth, spun and heaved it out to sea, but in an arc that it would bring it back within close proximity to my rambunctious wife (we are very good Frisbee players).

Angie yelped with glee and sprinted toward the ocean, pulling up just short of the encroaching water slithering up the sand, the last remains of spent waves. She let the Frisbee drift back into her waiting hands, then turned toward me. Kate had taken off after her, but still had a good 20 yards to close the gap. Angie smiled her big ear-to-ear dazzler, then heaved the Frisbee from a low center of gravity. The plastic sphere shot directly toward Kate at a frightful speed. Alarmed, Kate screamed and stopped in her tracks, crouching with her hands and arms over her head. But the Frisbee sent low and hard, was still well under Angie’s control. The updraft hit about 10 yards in front of Kate, sending the disc rocketing skyward until it reached its zenith, then began the downward, backward journey to Angie, who caught what she had thrown, then relaunched it with a perfect strike to me, some 30 yards away.

Buddy had figured out the ploy as well as the abilities of his competition. Rather than chasing the elusive disc, he knew the disc would come to me – and that is where he should be to make the intercept. But I was quick and sent the saucer back to Angie fast and spot on. Strike two. She took off down the wet strip on the shoreline waving the Frisbee up in the air with Kate in hot pursuit.

Buddy and I were laughing and exhorting our wives to carry on the game. We watched with the eyes and loins of men in lust and love with their women. It crossed my mind that every man on the beach would surely be at full mast by now, but nothing to be done about that. There was a real female confrontation at hand: Two beautiful, buxom women in a contest of physical attributes and ability. May the Goddess be blessed.

Angie, out in front, sprinting with her long red hair flowing behind her, was a picture of feminine power and beauty. She was about 50 yards away from me now, seemingly nude at this distance, her big, full breasts undulating up and down, out and in, side to side with the graceful rhythm of her quick, gorgeous strides. Her alabaster skin (each square inch carefully covered with power 30 sun block by yours truly early that morning), shown bright and beautiful against the sparkling sand and shimmering sea.

Fifty feet back, pursuing Angie like a black jungle cat, raced the fabulous Kate, matching her prey stride for stride, silky, long, jet-black hair streaming behind, olive skin bronzed by the sun in stark contrast to the pale sand, the white foam of the breaking waves, and my porcelain-skinned Angie . From where Buddy and I stood, Kate’s little bikini panties were also invisible, but the three inch bright polka dot band strapped around her bosom and back were still apparent to the eye. From our side angle, Kate’s breast flesh seemed to be gushing everywhere at once. Her momentous cleavage was surging up to her chin, a strangely sensuous thing to observe, but I longed to free her from that constraining material and let her breasts roam free. I found myself trying to imagine how big her breasts really were and to compare the size and shape with my wife’s unrestrained beauties.

The remarkable Kate seemed to be closing the distance to Angie (surprising, since my bride is quite the athletic type). I sprinted toward the girls in an attempt to get close enough for a throw from Angie to reach me, Buddy in hot pursuit. Over her shoulder, Angie could see me closing in. She slowed enough to turn and throw, but before she could release the Frisbee, Kate dove the remaining yards, and tackled Angie at mid body. The half thrown Frisbee fluttered and arched toward the open sea. The women struggled together in the sand for a moment, disentangled, jump to their feet, and dashed in hot pursuit of the object of the game, now floating just beyond the breakers. I too changed course, with Buddy not more than 5 yards behind me. We all hit the water at about the same time and distance from the Frisbee. I am a very good swimmer, very comfortable in the sea, having spent my first 10 years after puberty in profound search of the perfect wave. I dove under the first breaker, then hit the surface churning. With a dozen powerful strokes, I reached the Frisbee ahead of the rest and crowing, stood and waved it above my head. The water was only waist deep. Buddy was swimming frantically and would be on me in a moment. I glanced at the women and saw that Angie was a couple of body lengths in front of Kate. I whistled my shrillest whistle and threw the Frisbee so that it landed within a stroke of my bride. Buddy saw, stopped swimming and found the bottom with his feet, standing within 2 yards of me.

Angie grabbed the Frisbee and stood holding the disc above her head. However, at her full height, the water was still neck deep. Kate never missed a stroke and just plowed right into Angie, knocking her off balance and simultaneously dragging her down into the water. Angie did not let go of the Frisbee, and resurfaced fighting for her footing, disc still thrust skyward. Kate surfaced and stood face to face with Angie. They were inches apart, really chest to chest, but the damn seawater was covering the important bits. Kate leapt up and tried to snatch the Frisbee from Angie’s upstretched grasp. I gasped from the sheer majesty of what my eyes beheld. During the all out freestyle race to the Frisbee, Kate’s bikini top had given up the cause. When Kate broke the surface her breasts were free as the day she was born. They were beautiful.

My eyes took as much in as possible, before Angie jumped in an effort to increase the height of the Frisbee and keep it above Kate’s grasping reach. For just a moment, both of these unbelievably gorgeous women were chest to chest, breasts to breasts, straining for the Frisbee, oblivious of their staggeringly breathtaking breast confrontation. The sea sirens came together, big breasts smashing straight-on into big breasts, and suddenly the bevy of breasts before my eyes once again submerged, as our bountiful wives crashed back into the water.

Try as I might to freeze-frame the breast duel in my mind, a winner could not be determined. It all happened too fast, and I longed for a replay with stop action control. Kate’s breasts were sumptuous, big and full and round. But so were Angie’s. When they smashed together at the height of their jump, breasts disappeared into breasts – but whose were bigger, firmer, whose had given way? I could not be sure! This much was certain. It was very close and I simply had to know.

While Angie had managed to keep hold of the Frisbee, the battle had become a splashing frenzy of arms and legs. The women were struggling for the Frisbee, but could not regain their footing in order to leap and give us another heart-stopping show. In a flash I formed a plan to right this terrible wrong. I dove the four feet to the seabed and swam as a madman underwater towards the women. I recognized my wife’s buns (those thongs are delicious) and without hesitation stuck my head between her thrashing legs. I came up between her thighs and pulled them tight to my shoulders. Then with a heave, I stood up, Angie using her leg and stomach muscles to stay onboard. Suddenly we were out of the water, I from my stomach up, and Angie completely exposed. I sputtered, glanced up and saw my beautiful bride’s breasts above my head. She was still waving the never submitted Frisbee above our newly constructed husband and wife tower, and her breasts were jutting out, voluptuous, firm, and NUDE. The little patch top had gone the way of Kate’s breast belt. I roared my approval at the magic of everything that was happening.

Angie noticed her complete toplessness but showed only pure delight. She was laughing and yippeekayyaying with glee.

Kate was on me in a flash, leaping out of the water, trying to scale our human tower head-on. In a moment her breasts were in my face, and I succumbed to debauchery. I gazed with all my might at the fullness of her magnificent mammaries and tried to imagine, to comprehend whose breasts were bigger, my Angie’s or Kate’s. I couldn’t tell without seeing them breast-to-breast. I narrowed my focus to Kate’s nipples. I had already ascertained that Kate had the bragging rights when it came to areola size. Kate’s big dark ones were much bigger than Angie’s pink ones. But nipples held considerably more significance for me. I scrutinized Kate's lovelies, now only inches from my eyes. Kate’s nipples were full and erect. They were as big as they were sexy. But were they bigger or firmer than Angie’s stiffened nipples? It was close. I had to know and conspired to do so at once. I opened my mouth and took Kate’s left breast in. I took a big mouthful, areola and all. My tongue sought the answer. Kate's nipples were incredible, but I knew at once, it was too close to call. I needed a nipple to nipple duel.

I extracted my mouth from its glory and glanced up at Kate who was quickly scrambling to the top of the pile, apparently unaware or unoffended at my liberties. I so wanted her to go breast to breast with Angie. I quickly realized that if Kate could scale Angie’s body without me capsizing, I would be able to see their breasts come together and compare from my very advantageous bottom view. But the whole scenario that had been brought about by my new best friend (the Frisbee), and the women’s struggle to maintain/gain possession of this little circular piece of plastic was about to cause me to topple. I fought with the fury of a maniac to hold my footing, eyes riveted to the bulging breasts above me, now within a foot of a front to front duel. But I was losing it and realized with despair that in a moment we would all be back thrashing in the water.

Suddenly, Buddy emerged from below, rising face on to me until we were eye to eye. He’d grasped Kate’s thighs and pinned them around his shoulders. Kate immediately understood what had happened and grapevined her shins under Buddy’s arms and clamped them to his back. Her throne was secure. Angie had already locked herself onto my shoulders, her throne also secure. Buddy and I were face to face. That meant Angie and Kate were face to face – and that equated to breast to breast – and all breasts in this contest were big and nude. I smiled and saw Buddy smile back. We both understood what was about to transpire.

To Be Continued