She was pulsating with fury.
“Now, Marilyn,” Big Julie wheedled, evading the flying flower arrangement. “Sweetheart.”
“Don’t ‘Sweetheart’ me,” Marilyn yelled.
Big Julie was getting turned on by all of Marilyn’s passion and sweat. Not to mention the way the edge of the exercise leotard bit into the curve of her ass. If it was one thing he liked, it was a passionate woman, and Marilyn, okay, she was meaty, but her curves still had plenty of velocity, and she was wearing a skin-tight leotard, her nipples showing through it like hard little points on a pencil. Her rump was quivering, her thighs were trembling, and best of all, there were damn few elastic polymers in sight. A woman in full bounce was a glorious thing.
Marilyn picked up the bedside phone and pulled her arm back, ready to throw.
Big Julie hadn’t been married for twenty-five years and been a made guy for the same without learning something about self-preservation. He rolled out of bed away from Marilyn’s aim and thundered around the end of the bed. Marilyn dropped the phone and turned to run, but Big Julie tackled her, flinging her onto the bed and jumping on top of her. Marilyn tried to knee him in the balls, but Big Julie was ready for that, clamping her legs with his and grabbing the one hand of Marilyn’s he could reach. She swacked him on the head with the other, but she didn’t do much damage because his head was plenty hard and now he was getting hard elsewhere, too, which also was a glorious thing.
Marilyn pulled back in shock and then struggled harder, but Big Julie grasped Marilyn’s sweat-soaked boob with his hand and pinched her nipple. It gave him a nice rush, not as nice as Baby, but still really, really good, and when he realized that he couldn’t get his hand inside the leotard, he grabbed it by the neck and yanked, tearing it open and leaving exposed a naked breast the size of a small cantaloupe.
He gazed at it, feeling his breath quicken. Marilyn’s boobs weren’t anything like Baby’s. Baby’s firm titties stood up straight when she was on her back, thanks to surgical intervention, but Marilyn’s exposed breast slid sideways on her chest. It was bigger and pinker than Baby’s and a lot softer. He put his hand on it and molded it, seeing how her generous flesh swelled out from between his fingers as he squeezed.
Marilyn had stopped struggling and was staring at him in shock but not horror, her breath coming in shallow gasps, the skin on her chest rosy with exertion and extra blood flow. Big Julie took note of the change in posture, activity level, breathing, and speech, and took advantage, settling himself more comfortably and letting her know with other movements just how vigorous and refreshed he was feeling this morning after a good night’s sleep. In a very short time, he had the satisfaction of seeing Marilyn’s eyes close. She sighed—a melting sigh—and when her back arched, Big Julie smiled in satisfaction, knowing that he was about to enjoy a very nice marital workout.
Some time later, Marilyn got up to take a shower, careful not to wake her spouse, who was gently snoring. Her hair was a mess. She had beard burn on her chest. But she felt great. Her skin tingled. Her thighs throbbed with a gentle ache she hadn’t felt in months, if not years. Her vagina hummed. Every nerve ending sat up and saluted.
She stepped under the warm water, bathing quickly and washing her hair. When she got out, she combed her hair and put on one of the bathrobes that the hotel thoughtfully provided its guests before she went back into the bedroom to dress. When she stepped into the luxurious space, now strewn with discarded athletic clothing, Big Julie was awake and watching her. She felt the hum escalate to a full choir belting out the Hallelujah Chorus.
Big Julie watched Marilyn come back from the bathroom, her wet hair hanging in dark hanks around her shoulders. The bulky white bathrobe was crossed tightly over her chest and knotted around her middle. Marilyn right out of the shower looked nothing like the hot, ferocious, no-holds-barred, wild woman whose clothes Big Julie had torn off just a short time ago. She looked, in fact, like the Pillsbury dough boy if the Pillsbury dough boy had fallen into the dishwasher and survived the pot-scrubbing cycle.
“Julie,” Marilyn said. Her eyelids drooped as