EXTRACT FOR
The Farmer's Daughter
(Shooter3704)

    So there I was a thirty-nine year old widower; a man alive and in the prime of life. Okay, maybe not the exact prime, but not far from it.  For six months, I mourned her passing and I functioned as an attorney. I went to work, I studied legal briefs and papers, I ate meals if only irregularly, and I lived if it could be called that.

      My firm had five partners, nine associates, and a host of paralegals and staff. We occupied all of one floor in a skyscraper and part of another floor. We were, by any standard, a high dollar law firm.

      One day it dawned on me that I was not working up to par. I didn't blow any cases, but one was too close for comfort. A couple of the partners suggested I take a leave of absence and get my head together. That made sense to me so that's what I did. 

      To be frank I did some really crazy things. Bungee jumping and skydiving were two of the less crazy things. I bought a motor cycle, wrecked it, hobbled around for a few days and sold it. I took some racecar driving lessons and proved to myself I didn't have the guts to take the chances necessary to be a good racer. 

      On a whim I decided to take shooting lessons. I found a range that offered lessons and got started. I was as surprised as anyone to discover that I was a natural pistol shot. By natural, I mean I hit what I shot at. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred I scored.

      My shooting instructor insisted I try it with my off hand. By off-hand he meant my left hand since I'm a right-hander. Oddly enough I did very well with my left hand after a few practice shots. Not as well as my right hand, but impressive.

      I wasn't as keen to enter competition shooting as my instructor was, but I did. I won the city match, the state match and the regional shooting match.

      My instructor wanted me to enter international competition, but for some reason I suddenly lost all enthusiasm for shooting. I cleaned my pistols and put them away.

      Sport fucking isn't a recognized sport, but it should be.  Sex, or more precisely fucking, reaches every area of human existence. It spans all social and economics levels. It is a part of every human's life.  Rich and poor alike engage in the sport. There is fucking in the most remote Amazon jungle village and in the most expensive penthouse in any city and everywhere between.

      I became a sport fucker and didn't even realize it at the time. It just sneaked up on me and I credit Helen Justice.

      I should back up a bit and explain about the sex life I enjoyed with my wife. Joan was a highly charged sexual woman. She loved every aspect of sex. After we started dating, she held me off for a couple dates and then gave it up to me. From that time on, we fucked in every possible position and did every type of sex known to a man and a woman.

      It was obvious that Joan had some experience at sex, but for some reason we didn't discuss it. I wasn't a virgin either so we put the things that happened before us in some back corner of the mind and left it there.

      Joan never said no to anything I suggested. She was an oral sex enthusiast both getting and giving. Anal sex was something she loved and often initiated. Joan was multi-orgasmic. She could climax easily and often. Our libidos were pretty well matched. Joan often stated that she was always ready or ready to get ready.  That wasn't bragging because it was true.

      After her death, I went into sexual limbo for a while. My dick was just something I used to piss and nothing more. As I mentioned I credit Helen Justice for pulling me out of limbo. Helen takes some explaining.

      Helen and Joan were friends since elementary school. Best friends through high school and college. Helen had been married two or maybe three times over the years. Each time she divorced, she used Joan as her lawyer and each time they took some poor sucker to the cleaners.

      To be honest, I liked Helen okay, but there was something about her I was always leery of. I suppose Helen could be described as a big beautiful woman. Tall, nearly six feet tall, and she had a rack that was awesome. She carried a few pounds of extra weight, but carried it well. Helen was without a doubt the curviest woman I ever saw. Helen was also the sexiest woman I ever saw. It seemed to me that her massive tits were always just about to pop out. 

      It took me several years to identify what it was about her that caused me to me wary of her. It wasn't the fact that she was loud, opinionated, and very vocal. Actually, I usually enjoyed that. It wasn't that she spent money as if it was going out of style. If Helen had fifty dollars, she managed to spend a hundred dollars. I knew Joan had loaned Helen thousands of dollars over the years. I also knew that Helen had never paid back a dime of it.  That didn't bother me. What did bother me was the fact that I was attracted to her.

      I figured that out right after Joan and I moved to the suburbs. The house we bought had a nice large swimming pool and Helen came wearing a tiny little scrap that barely covered her nipples and pussy. Her bikini top left most of her huge breasts uncovered. That day I knew what it was about her that made me uncomfortable.  The big woman was sizzling hot.

      Helen was well aware that men, any man, found her big breasts an attraction and she always wore clothing to maximize her boobs. She always wore low-cut dresses, shirts, or blouses to show a lot of cleavage. I started fantasizing about her big tits.

      I was happy and very content with Joan and wanted nothing or no one who would screw that up. After I became aware of the attraction I had for Helen, I avoided her whenever possible without being obvious. 

      "I saw you tonight," Joan said one night after a party we hosted. "I saw you looking down Helen's top."

      "No you didn't," I said in denial. 

      "Of course you looked," Joan said laughing. "Every man here tonight looked. Some women, also. Helen intended for all of you to look. She is proud of her breasts."

      "From what she wears I would assume she was very proud of them," I said. "I'll bet when she takes off her bra they fall to her waist."

      "No, they don't," Joan said grinning. "The damned things defy gravity. They sit there on her chest like two perfectly shaped balls."

      "Probably not real," I said. "I'll bet she's have them enhanced. Shot full of silicone."

      "Again you are wrong, Alan," Joan said laughing. "They are real. I know because I was there when they first started. Helen had boobs years before the rest of us girls.  I've always envied her knockers."

      "You have nothing to be ashamed of," I said. Joan's breasts were much smaller, but I loved them and had spent many pleasurable hours playing with them.

      "Thank you for your loyalty," Joan said with a smile. "A lot of girls who develop early are ashamed of their boobs and are shy about them. Not Helen. She was extremely proud of them and would show then to anyone who seemed interested. When the rest of us were still waiting for something to start growing, Helen was showing her boobs off. No sir, they are one hundred percent natural."

      "Probably has no feeling in them," I said. "Not like your breasts." Joan could get an orgasm just from having her tits played with.

      "Not according to Helen," Joan informed me. "She claims they are very sensitive." I was aroused and that ended the discussion of Helen's tits that night. Naturally, from that night on, every time I saw Helen I wondered about her giant knockers. When I didn't see her I fantasized about them.

      Helen made an effort to be a part of my life after Joan died. She was there within minutes of the death and she stayed close all though the funeral and wake. After that, she called nearly every day to check on me.

      When I told Helen I was thinking about a leave of absents from the firm she told me she thought it was a great idea. She came to the emergency room to get me after I crashed the motorcycle. She watched from the ground when I jumped out a perfectly good airplane. She didn't participate in the shooting because she didn't like guns, but even so, she encouraged me to do it.

      After Joan's funeral, I got so I hated the commute to and from the suburbs so I leased a townhouse. That left that huge house empty and it was Helen who suggested I sell it. I was torn about selling it. Part of me wanted rid of it and part of me wanted to keep it because Joan loved it. I was still wavering about it when Helen came to see me.

      "I have two things to talk about," Helen said breezing into my townhouse. "Both are about money. The first thing is I need to borrow some. The second thing is I want to list your house and sell it for you.  If you agree to the second thing we won't have to discuss the first thing."

      "Are you a licensed realtor?' I asked her.

      "I am," she asserted. "I also have a buyer and the commission on it would do nicely. Otherwise I'll need to borrow ten grand."

      "Why do you need money?" I asked. "Didn't Joan get a huge settlement from your last husband?"

      "She did," Helen said. "It's gone now. I know you are worried about me being able to pay it back, but I have some investments that should start to come in any day now."

      "Sell it, Helen," I said. It wasn't the money. I could easily afford to give Helen ten thousand dollars. It was what I needed to push me off the fence about the house.

      We spent a few minutes fixing the asking and selling price. The house was free and clear so I would have even more money to "lend" Helen. She suggested pricing it at two million-four and come down to an even two million. I agreed and signed the papers authorizing Helen to sell.

      "Okay now that we have that out of the way, how is it going, Alan?" Helen asked me.

      "Fine," I told her. "I got through with shooting and I'm looking for something else to get into."

      "I would prefer it if you didn't get into something that was dangerous," Helen said. She was still leaning on the dining table where we signed the papers. She noticed my eyes had drifted to her cleavage. Her ample and clearly visible cleavage. 

      "What are you doing for sex?" she asked me in her usual blunt manner. 

      "Without," I said. "Mostly without. Jacking-off some, but that's about it. How about you? Getting any?' I could see her bluntness and raise her.

      "I do all right," she said. "No such thing as too much. Maybe you should try sport fucking as an outlet or hobby."

      "I give up," I said laughing. I should have known better than to attempt to get the better of her. "What on earth is sport fucking?

      "It has several elements," Helen said. "First and foremost it is fucking for fun.  There's endurance and distance involved, too, but I could care less about distance. Endurance is a good thing."

      Try as I might I could not keep from looking at Helen as a potential sex partner. I knew she was Joan's age, but she looked more than ten years younger. I asked her how she stayed so young looking.

      "Some quirky genes I guess," Helen said. "My mother looks like she could be my sister and my older sister looks like my kid sister. Don't change the subject, Alan. You and me," she said looking me directly in the eye. "Fucking for fun. Now."

      "I don't know, Helen," I stammered. "I'm not sure?" I stopped protesting because she was unbuttoning her shirt. When it was unbuttoned she removed it displaying her marvelous breasts encased in a heavy duty black bra. Slowly and tantalizingly, she removed the bra. My wife had been right. Helen's breasts did not sag to her waist. There was some sag just from the sheer size of the big things, but not much. They were like two perfectly round balls or balloons on her chest. Her areolas were as large as a saucer and her nipples were at least an inch long. They were mouth-watering works of art and my mouth did water.

      "See anything you like, Alan?" she asked.  I managed to nod my head. "Would you like to feel them?" I nodded again and went to her. "Taste them, Alan," she whispered when I took them in my hands. "Bite them and make me come for you."

      It was a natural progression from that point on. We made it to the bed scattering clothing as we went. We fucked, sport fucking or otherwise. Then after a breath-taking long hot fuck, I came as hard as I ever had. I filled her pussy with my cum and then remorse rolled over me like a giant wave.

      "No, no, no," Helen said sensing what was happening to me. "None of that, lover. Joan made me promise to take care of you. She called me to come to the hospital when you weren't there. She told me to take care of your physical needs. I told her I would and we shook hands like we used to do. Our secret handshake. This is what she would want, Alan."

      "Maybe she meant for you to cook my meals for me," I said.

      "No, she knew I can't cook worth a damn," Helen said pulling my face between her ample breasts. "Rest, baby, and get that beautiful cock hard for me again. This is sport fucking and we need to do a lot of it."

      When Helen said a lot of fucking, she wasn't kidding. She stayed with me for the rest of that night and most of the next morning. She left singing and I stayed there marveling at what had happened. I felt some remorse but it wasn't overwhelming.

      Helen was back that evening with a signed contract on the house. We drank some wine and then went to the bed and she worked her magic on me again. Helen was like no other woman I had ever been with. She was a sexual dynamo and wouldn't even consider that I was finished.  Helen was even hotter than Joan had been and much more demanding.