1. Glamour Shots, Chapter 10


    Date: 2/25/2017, Categories: Wife Lovers, Author: stormdog100, Rating: 18, Source: LushStories

    lush, curvy, full-figured body on which large, heavy breasts look completely at home. She had also styled her almost white-blond hair into two long pigtail-style braids which hung down on either side of her face and down to her breasts. We walked up to them and I stuck my hand out, only to have it entirely engulfed in Michael’s huge mitt as we shook. It wasn’t unexpected – I’ve shaken hands with Michael on many occasions – but I still marvel at how big his hands are, and at the fact that he moderates his strength into a firm, but not crushing, grip; not all big, powerful guys are so considerate! We each got a hug from Marci, and Alli got a hug from Michael that lifted her clear off the floor before we separated and admired and commented on each other’s costumes. These two are another couple with whom we get together from time to time, usually for activities like hiking, fishing, or four-wheeling back in the hills, and we’ve spent many an hour on a lakeshore or around a campfire with a cooler of beer close at hand. They’ve been together – and monogamous, to the best of my knowledge – for several years now, but have shown no signs that marriage is in their future plans. Their attitude seems to be that if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. I looked at the two of them. “Well, let me guess; you’re either the worst-dressed Vikings fans ever, or you’re some Norse warrior from the ‘hood and she’s your Viking wench, right?” Like most white folks around black folks – and, probably, ...
    vice-versa - I had tiptoed around the race issue when we’d first met, but it quickly became apparent that he was not one of those types that use race as either a weapon, a shield, or a crutch; he and I now basically just treated each other as friends do, with all of the teasing and jabbing, including ridicule of all of the various racial stereotypes. I, for example, have no rhythm and can neither dance nor jump (mostly true, actually), while he can neither understand hockey nor pass up a box of Twinkies. Neither of us ever uses any of the vile racial slurs, even in jest; friends don’t go there. He also doesn’t consider himself an “African-American”, his family having been on this continent for generations; instead, he calls himself an “unhyphenated American”, a term which I’ve picked up and now use regularly on all forms where it asks for “Race”. I now check “Other”, and write that in the blank, my own little expression of contempt for the seemingly constant need to classify us by our differences. He laughed at my evaluation of their costumes, a deep, booming chuckle. “Wrong, man – I’m Thor!” He held up his inflatable pool toy, which turned out to be a large hammer made of red and yellow flowered plastic, one of those harmless therapeutic items, I assume, with which people can vent their aggression by bashing the object of their frustrations without doing any lasting damage. I laughed. “Ah yes – nothing says God of Thunder like a red and yellow flowered inflatable hammer! So that ...
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