Big Apple Boobs by Dan Thomas

Its no fun getting lost in a strange city unless of course you find a bar stocked full of babes all ready to show you the way.

Years ago, when I was in my early 20s (to be that young again!), I took my first business trip to New York City. The last night I was there, I was finally on my own, so I just started walking. Like a fool I strolled through Times Square at midnight, back in the days when it was a freewheeling, tenderloin district. Frankly, being a buttoned down Midwesterner at the time, I was turned on by the sights, the smells, the craziness, even the sleaze.
Hell, I could have been mugged. I even paid five bucks to sit in a mildewed room with a bunch of other horny men and watch a scraggly guy and girl fuck at one of those live sex shows.
The guy never came, but that's not the point of my story! After I got out of that show, it had started to rain. Why I didn't hail a cab I'll never know. Instead, I just took off walking; heading in what I thought was the direction of my hotel. I knew my hotel was near Grand Central Station.

The rain was pouring down. I didn't have a coat, so I ducked into this dark, cozy saloon to dry off. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. Then I noticed it. All the women in the joint were very well endowed. Some weren't much in the face department. Some were stunning. But all of them had incredible knockers! There wasn't less than a D cup in the place, I figured. Everywhere I looked I saw snowy white, glossy black and golden tanned hillocks of tit flesh spilling out of low cut dresses and plunging necklines. Hell, when I spun on my bar stool, my nose practically got caught in one honey blonde's cleavage! I shot a look to the bartender who winked at me and said, "Ever seen anything like it?"
"Not where I come from," I replied.
The blonde my nose had almost collided with took the bar stool next to me and asked me if I'd order her a drink, a Brandy Alexander. I ordered the drink (it was gonna cost me) and tried to keep my eyes off her voluptuous mounds. As we drank, she introduced herself as Suzanne. I could feel her body heat through my rain soaked suit coat and smell her heady perfume.
She wasn't as young as I'd first imagined, maybe pushing thirty-five. But I thought she was the most exotic woman I'd ever met and I liked the way she gently stroked the red polished fingernail of her right forefinger on my groin.
"Do you mind if I touch you there?" she inquired.
"No," I assured her. I was getting hard.
With her encouragement, I let my right hand rest on her thigh, encased in fish net. Suzanne was wearing a short mini skirt and sexy red, vinyl boots (women dressed sexier back then).

She pinched my cheek, said how young I was, and asked how many girls I had slept with. I lied, told her I was far more experienced than I was.
"I think you are fibbing," she told me. "What you need is a mature woman to break you in to the ways of wanton pleasure."
I couldn't agree more. My eyes stared down at her soft, billowy cleavage. The tits were freckled. Suzanne arched an eyebrow. "You like my bosom?"
"Yessss," I hissed.
"You wish to see more of them?"
I wasn't so young and naive that I didn't know I was being hustled. But those tits! I hungered to knead them with my hands, suckle them with my lips.
I nodded. Very quickly Suzanne got down to business. It would be two hundred for our "date," back at her apartment. I would also have to pay cab fare, both ways. Oh, and the bartender needed a sawbuck. Paying for the privilege to play with Suzanne's jugs (and her pussy, I assumed) was going to wipe out most of my cash and make me fudge a lot (a helluva lot!) on my expense account. But by then, after two beers, my dick--not my brain--was in control. Minutes later we were nestled in the back seat of a cab, me with my face pressed against Suzanne's cleavage, and her whispering things like, "You're gonna love my boobies," in my ear. I didn't have a clue what part of Manhattan we were going to. At the other end could have been a thug with a hammer, but I didn't care. I kissed her cleavage, swabbing the sensual, soft flesh with my spittle. Suzanne giggled.

We arrived at her apartment house. The doorman took my last twenty (Suzanne had not mentioned him getting paid off) and after a short ride in an elevator lined with red velvet and mirrors, we reached Suzanne's apartment.
I was small but neat, very feminine with a lot of flouncy furniture and bric-a-brac. She showed me into her bedroom and immediately began undressing.
"Well?" she asked me, seeing that I wasn't out of my clothes.
I removed my suit coat and began to undress. Very soon Suzanne stood before me in garter belt, fish nets and bra. I knew the woman had a pussy, because I saw a "v" of closely trimmed, dark pubic hair and pink, fat cunt lips between her creamy thighs. But it was the woman's milk sacks that interested me the most.

She strutted over to me, still in her high heels, placed my hands on her jugs and told me to remove her bra. She had to show me the front clasp. I removed the brassiere and my cock throbbed in my underpants. The breasts bounced out of the bra, swayed and held in place. They were huge, snowy white with delicate blue veins and rose colored nipples. My hands shot to them, manhandled them. They were firm, sans all the plastic junk you see injected in tits today, and heavy in my palms. I slavered kisses all over the bazooms, nursed on their hardening nipples. Suzanne's fingernails slipped beneath the elastic waistband of my jockeys and teased my growing erection.
"Don't be so shy," she said, and snapped my underpants down. Suddenly she took my cock in her mouth and began to blow me. I licked my lips as a pleasure invaded my groin that made my sphincter twitch.
After pumping her head for a while, she removed my soppy woody from her mouth and hand jacked it.

"You want to fuck me now?" she asked, cupping my throbbing testicles in her palm. I was still kneading her tits with my hands, staring at the mounds in awe. The prostitute smiled, reading my desire. She asked me if I'd ever had a "snowball fuck" before. When I said no, she said I was in for a treat. We went to the bed. The busty blonde stretched out and massaged oil into her piled high hillocks. Then she had me straddle her chest. "I guess you know what to do next," she told me, pressing her mammaries in with her hands to make a "tit pussy" for me.
I slapped my cock between those mountains and jacked my hips. Meanwhile, as my bloated cockhead darted in and out from between the hooters, Suzanne flickered at it with her tongue. The breasts seemed to swell even bigger, consuming my meat. My heavy, aching balls slapped wetly against the entrance to the titty valley. "Honey, can you get off this way?" she asked me.
"Think so," I moaned.
The sensation of fucking her tits was incredible, felt so good on my boner. But I guess Suzanne was losing patience, because no sooner than I thought I had the urge to ejaculate under control (I wanted to prolong it), Suzanne reached round my butt and jammed a sharp finger up my ass.
"Ouch!" I yelled out. Her probing finger immediately triggered my ejaculation. I fired one shot of semen that splattered on Suzanne's chin. Very adroitly she got my quivering cock under control and aimed my glans at her tits. My remaining load went splat on those fantastic jugs. The sticky cum dripped down between her cleavage and slicked to her bellybutton! Man, I never did get to fuck her in the pussy.

Suzanne said I was a sweetheart, and that she usually didn't let her customers come on her body. Anyway, if she was hinting for a tip, I just couldn't afford it. She gave me a wet wash cloth to wipe my groin clean, then popped into her bathroom to "freshen up."
Soon we were in a taxi on our way back to the bar. My cock still glowed warm from my first snowball fuck. The taxi dropped us off. Suzanne jotted her phone number down on a cocktail napkin, in the event I wanted to see her again when I came back to New York. It was still raining, but I didn't have enough money with me for cab fare, so I slugged through the rain until I finally managed to find my hotel. I was soaked when I got back to my room. I pulled the napkin from my pocket and the ink had run to the extent I could not read Suzanne's phone number. Also, I had never gotten the bar's name--not even a matchbook!

Since then, I've been to New York City a half dozen times. And on each visit, I scour the streets to find that bar that was a hangout for beautiful, big breasted hookers. So far no luck. All I know is that it is within walking distance of Grand Central Station!