Big Red #10 Tube Top

Downtown was boiling under the night sky.

Everything smelled thick -- sweat, beer, fried meat, asphalt pissing heat back into the air.

Marla sat in the passenger seat, heart beating against the tight band of her black tube top.

No bra underneath.

Just her fat, freckled tits spilling upward, nipples stiff and aching.

The inside light was switched on, soaking her bare skin in dirty yellow.

Every freckle, every jiggle, every pulse of heat between her thighs was undeniable.

She kept her face turned toward the window, chin high, pretending not to see the men gathering outside.

She didn't need to look. She could feel them.

Eyes scraping over her.

Cocks getting hard.

Breaths getting shallow.

Her thighs stuck to the leather seat, slick with the wet heat soaking through her shorts.

Her husband drove slow, one hand on the wheel, the other creeping across the center console to tug her tube top lower.

He peeled it under the weight of her tits until the fabric bunched at her ribs.

Her tits dropped heavy into the open air, wobbling with every bump in the road.

The car rolled past clusters of men outside bars and gas stations.

Conversations stopped mid-sentence.

Phones jerked up, fingers fumbling to take pictures.

Some men just stared, mouths open, grabbing themselves through their jeans, not caring who saw.

Her husband slipped a hand between her thighs, pushing the wet cotton aside.

Two fingers pressed against her soaked pussy lips, dragging the slickness up to her clit.

"Fuckin' dripping already," he muttered, voice low and full of pride. "My nasty, filthy girl."

Marla whimpered, squeezing her thighs together, trapping his hand there.

The car crept forward.

The crowd thickened.

The night pressed harder against the windows.

At a stoplight, a group of guys walked close enough to smell.

They leaned in, heads cocked, drinking in the sight of her thick, naked tits jostling every time the car idled.

One of them jerked his chin toward her, laughing low, grabbing the thick bulge in his pants without shame.

Her husband rolled the window halfway down.

The humid air rushed in, smelling of beer and cigarettes and summer sweat.

The men leaned closer.

One of them -- tall, neck tattooed, drunk off his ass -- chuckled. "Goddamn, baby... look at those fuckin' things."

Marla's nipples puckered harder.

She didn't move.

She didn't blink.

She just sat there and let the heat in her veins take over.

Her husband grinned. "We're parking over off Main Street," he said, voice loud and casual. "Feel free to stop by if you want a closer look."

The men laughed, clapping each other on the back, shouting promises to come find them.

The light turned green.

The husband eased forward, giving them one last long, slow view of his wife's bare, bouncing tits under the cab light.

More men on the sidewalk caught sight of her and whistled, pointed, one even running to keep pace with the car for a few feet, hands cupped around his mouth, shouting filthy praises.

Marla's pussy leaked faster.

The cotton of her shorts was a lost cause, soaked through, clinging to her skin.

Her face burned. Her breath came hard.

Her heart twisted in her chest.

The husband pulled into a half-abandoned parking lot a block off Main Street, behind an old pawn shop with a crooked, blinking OPEN sign.

He turned off the engine.

Silence swallowed them.

Marla sat trembling, tits heaving, thighs slick and glistening in the low light.

The tube top was nothing now. Just a useless strip of fabric scrunched under her tits.

Her husband leaned over, kissing her shoulder, sucking a freckle into his mouth.

"You ready to be a good little street slut for me?" he whispered.

She nodded without hesitation.

He smiled. "Good."

She tugged her tube top back up with shaky hands, barely covering her nipples, just enough to pass in the dark for a girl wearing something respectable -- from a distance.

They climbed out of the car.

The air outside hit her wet skin like a slap.

Voices drifted down from Main Street.

Laughter. Catcalls. Heavy footsteps.

The night was waiting for her.

And she was ready.

•••••

The bell over the pawn shop door jangled sharp and ugly when they pushed inside.

The place smelled like old cigarettes, motor oil, and desperation.

Dim yellow bulbs buzzed overhead. Shelves crammed with junk leaned at crooked angles.

An old radio crackled out rock music nobody was listening to.

Marla stepped in first, tube top barely clinging to her tits, nipples stabbing against the thin fabric.

The heat and filth of the place wrapped around her, dragging more sweat from her skin.

Her thighs were already slick from the ride over. Her pussy was already leaking into the crotch of her shorts.

Her husband trailed after her, calm, confident, owning the room without a word.

He let her wander through the aisles -- pretending to browse, touching useless broken tools, chipped guitars, greasy fishing poles.

With every step, her tits bounced heavier.

The tube top kept slipping lower.

The tops of her pink areolae peeked out over the stretched black cotton.

Marla tugged it up once, twice, but her husband shot her a warning glance.

She dropped her hands to her sides and left it alone, cheeks burning.

From behind the battered glass counter, the owner watched.

Big guy. Thick arms. Round belly under a sweat-stained tank top.

Dark hair slicked back, heavy gold chain around his neck.

Italian, maybe. Half muscle, half gut. Rough but not ugly.

There was a hunger in his eyes that made Marla's knees soften.

He finally walked over, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"You folks looking to pawn somethin'?" he asked, voice rough, heavy from years of smoking.

He looked her up and down, slow and obvious, eyes catching and sticking on her tits.

Her husband chuckled.

"Maybe," he said. "What do you figure she's worth?"

The big man grinned, slow and nasty.

"Fuck... fifty bucks for those tits alone," he said, nodding at her chest.

Her husband shook his head, laughing under his breath.

"Fifty? Shit, buddy. Those tits are worth triple that. But you can't make a real offer without a sample first."

The owner licked his lips, gaze glued to her chest.

"You offering?"

Her husband didn't even hesitate.

"Go ahead. Pull 'em down. Give the man a show."

Marla's whole body flushed deep red.

But she obeyed.

Hands trembling, she hooked her thumbs under the tube top and peeled it down.

Her tits spilled out heavy, pale, freckled, nipples so hard they almost hurt.

The owner groaned under his breath, stepping closer, heat pouring off him.

He bent his thick head and latched onto her left nipple without asking twice.

Mouth hot and greedy.

Big fat lips sealing around the swollen bud, sucking hard, slurping her into his mouth.

Marla gasped out loud, no chance of hiding it.

Her body betrayed her instantly, hips rocking, pussy clenching in the soaked mess of her shorts.

The owner shifted to the other nipple, slurping, pulling, rolling it between his teeth just enough to make her knees buckle.

He came up for air, face flushed.

"Fuck, that's good," he panted. "But if I'm really gonna make a good offer... I gotta know what the rest of her's like."

He reached out, thick, grubby hand hovering just above her belly.

He looked to the husband. "Can I?"

Her husband nodded once. "You gotta ask her."

The big man turned his gaze on her, thick with need. "You mind if I feel you up, sweetheart?"

Marla's voice came out wrecked, shaking.

"Yes, sir... please."

He didn't waste time.

His hand planted on her soft belly, fingers sinking into her skin, moving lower.

He dragged his thick fingers down the waistband of her shorts, brushing the swollen lips of her pussy through the soaked fabric.

"God damn," he muttered. "This cunt's fuckin' melting."

He pushed the cotton aside and slipped two fat fingers into her dripping hole.

Marla moaned sharp and broken, legs shaking, hands gripping the edge of a battered display case to stay upright.

The owner pumped his fingers into her slow and deep, savoring the slick heat pouring out of her.

His other hand cupped her tit again, squeezing, pulling her closer.

She could barely breathe.

She was floating, melting, shaking apart.

The owner groaned. "I could bust a nut just fingerin' this slut."

He yanked his fingers out, wiped them sloppily on his jeans, and shoved his pants down just enough to pull out his cock.

Big. Fat. Heavy.

Veins bulging.

Tip already wet and angry red.

He stroked it once, twice, looking at her husband.

"Please," he said. "I need to cum bad. Let me use that mouth."

Her husband grabbed Marla's hair, yanking her down to her knees on the filthy pawn shop floor.

"Open up, Red."

Marla moaned and obeyed, mouth wide.

The big man fed her the fat head of his cock, groaning like he was dying.

She sucked greedily, drool running down her chin, eyes glassy and wild.

He grabbed the back of her head and fucked her face, slow and steady, hips rolling forward with obscene little grunts.

"Good girl," her husband said, voice thick. "Good little fucktoy."

Marla gagged, swallowed, drooled, took it all.

The owner's breath turned ragged.

"Fuck... fuck... fuckin' cumming!"

He yanked her head back just in time and jerked himself hard, thick spurts of cum splattering across her tits, her collarbones, her flushed face.

Marla tilted her head back, tits pushed forward, catching every filthy rope with a whimpering moan.

The owner staggered back, cock twitching, laughing breathlessly.

"Best pawn I ever almost made," he muttered, stuffing himself away, wiping his mouth.

Her husband helped her to her feet, tugging the tube top back up over her sticky, stained tits.

Marla stood there, tits leaking cum under the thin fabric, shorts glued to her soaked cunt, hair tangled, face glowing.

"Appreciate the hospitality," her husband said, clapping the big man on the back.

"Come by anytime," the owner said, voice hoarse.

They walked out into the night, pawn shop door slamming shut behind them.

Marla stumbled a little, her legs still shaky from being mouthfucked and painted with cum.

Her tube top was stretched and stained, riding too low to hide anything.

Her tits jiggled heavy with every step, the fabric barely catching her nipples, sheer with sweat and spit and leftover filth.

Her husband didn't slow down.

He grabbed her hand, pulled her along the cracked sidewalk toward Main Street.

The city was alive ahead of them -- voices, laughter, music pumping from open bars, cigarette smoke curling into the heavy air.

Marla's heart thumped.

She was dripping between her thighs, shorts sticking wetly with every stride.

The tube top slipped again.

One nipple popped free.

She didn't fix it.

Her husband saw it, grinned dark, and squeezed her hand harder.

"You keep those fuckin' tits out, Red," he said.

"Make 'em beg for it."

They hit the street.

The men from earlier were already waiting -- the ones from the corner, the ones he'd baited with the drive-by show.

They whistled when they saw her.

Some clapped.

Some just stared, stunned at the sight of her filthy, flushed, half-naked body stumbling out of the dark.

One bold guy -- young, thin, too much cologne -- approached first, grinning ear to ear.

The husband stopped, letting Marla wobble to a halt in front of them.

"You wanna touch her," he said, voice carrying, "you gotta ask permission. Clear?"

The guy nodded fast, eyes locked on her tits. "Please," he said. "Can I touch 'em?"

Marla shivered all over.

Her voice came out breathless, desperate.

"Yes, sir."

The guy reached out -- hands trembling -- and cupped one heavy tit, squeezing it roughly, thumbing the already hard nipple.

Marla moaned, head tilting back, eyes fluttering.

More men lined up.

One after another.

"Can I suck?"

"Can I feel?"

"Can I kiss 'em?"

Each time, Marla gasped out her consent.

Each time, they pulled another bit of her dignity away.

Hands mauling her tits, squeezing the fat curves, pinching her nipples until she gasped.

Mouths closing over her flesh, sucking hard, leaving spit-slick bruises that glowed in the streetlights.

One old guy -- rough hands, cracked nails -- buried his face against her freckled shoulder and moaned.

Another young punk pressed his hips against her side, grinding his cock through his jeans as he sucked on her nipple like a starving dog.

Her husband watched it all, arms crossed, smirking. "Good girl," he muttered. "Good little slut."

Marla was whimpering now, shorts visibly soaked, juices running down the inside of her thighs.

Her husband finally pushed through the crowd, grabbed her by the back of her neck, and dragged her into the mouth of a nearby alley.

The men followed, but hung back, forming a rough half-circle at the entrance, cocks out, hands pumping, waiting for the real show.

The alley stank of piss and old beer.

The brick walls were slimy with sweat and graffiti.

Marla didn't care.

She bent over willingly, hands on her knees, tube top now nothing but a twisted rope around her middle.

Her husband shoved her shorts and panties down to her ankles in one violent yank.

Her fat, wet pussy gleamed under the security lights buzzing overhead.

He yanked his cock free and jammed it into her in one brutal thrust. SQUELCH!

Marla screamed.

The alley swallowed the sound.

The guys at the entrance groaned, jerking faster, their eyes locked on the scene.

Her husband fucked her hard, hips slamming into her ass, hands fisting in her hair, using her body.

Her tits swung wildly with every brutal thrust, nipples wet and sore from all the earlier mouths.

Marla sobbed, moaned, laughed -- loved it.

Every slap of flesh, every grunt from the crowd, every call of "good slut" and "dirty bitch" just pushed her higher.

She was their show.

She was their street slut.

She was her husband's filthy trophy.

He reached around, grabbed her tits, pulled her up by them, used them like handles to fuck her even harder.

Cum ran down her legs, her thighs shaking, the world spinning.

Nobody touched her now.

That was the rule.

They could watch.

They could stroke.

They could talk filthy.

But they couldn't have her.

Only he could.

Her orgasm ripped through her, blinding, savage, ripping screams from her throat as she squirted around his cock, soaking the alley floor.

Her husband roared his release into her, filling her pussy with thick, hot cum, pounding the last few strokes in brutally deep.

When he finally pulled out, Marla staggered forward a few steps before collapsing onto her hands and knees, tits swinging low, dripping cum from both holes.

The crowd groaned, cursed, painted the bricks with their own cum.

She sat back on her haunches, grinning through the mess, tits covered in spit and cum, shorts ruined, tube top clinging around her waist like a surrender flag.

Her husband crouched beside her, one hand grabbing her hair, yanking her head back to kiss her hard.

"Best fuckin' slut in the city," he growled against her mouth.

She smiled, eyes glazed, still shaking. "I want more," she whispered.

The night wasn't over yet.

Not even close.