I Hate These Guys Who Think We Care What They...

Larry could only look on and lick his lips.Then, as a reward, they let him use his mouth on the ends of his breasts,which were now as large as baby bottle nipples. He was ecstatic. Anelectric current of pleasure raced through his body. His breast tipsseemed to pulse with independent life. They grew an even brighter pinkand stretched an additional half inch away from his bounteous boobs. Itwas the most powerful sexual experience he had ever had. They watchedhim, fascinated, as he had some sort of orgasm without ejaculation. Itwas decided that he could only having auto-suck sessions when they saidso, maybe once a week if he was extra good, probably a lot less often.After all, he would serve them better if he was desperately horny.Soon he was wearing that immense bra that his wife had shown him early on.All of his considerable, pent up sexual energy was transferred to keepingthe couple happy. Tanya told him that any chance of becoming his old selfhad been put on hold. How he hated this Sunday each year, hated the march of veterans, but was drawn in some morbid fascination annually. Each year, he observed the file of crippled soldiers, long since passed their usefulness to a society, doing it's best to forget for the other three hundred and sixty four days, except in the glorified films of heroic deeds with John Wayne, or another popular actor, leading a squad of crack troopers into an impossible confrontation, overwhelming odds, somehow beaten at the loss of one or two, good men. The silver screen could not convey the disease, shit, fear and boredom of warfare.He had watched the ruins of buildings rebuilt, almost in unseemly haste, as if to purge the lingering scars of destruction from sight, from memory. Mental scars could not be expunged from the mind so easily. Time is the only healer, and that, not very successful.Every year, the ever dwindling numbers of ex-service men, filed along the Mall, a proud march, to lay wreaths of poppies at the.
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