Janet let go a long, low groan of pleasure as she thought of it, and her hands slipped up to cup the great, softly swollen globes of her breasts. She tested their weight, hefting them almost reverently. Here she was, thirty years old the week before, and still not a hint of sag to the great masses of sensitive flesh.

She rotated her breasts slowly, tenderly, savoring their feel as the pull of them tugged at the muscles of her chest and shoulders. She loved it when men played with her breasts, was driven to heights of pleasure by it – even when they were just a little rough with her.

She spread her thumbs away from the other fingers, letting the pads rub their way up to her stiff nipples and then push slowly, heavily over the enlarged buds.

Oh Tom, Tom, I wish you were doing this to me! she thought.

Her hands moved lower, sliding down over her ribs, palms pressing hard so that she could feel the bulge of each bone. Still lower, her hands moved inward, following the taut line of her body over the flat, gentle muscles of her stomach.

Her breath was coming more quickly. Janet bent forward, unthinking, mindless of the shower spray now soaking her hair. Her hands moved over her smooth abdomen, so compact, so flawless. It was hard to believe that from that same abdomen had come the lovely, rapidly maturing young woman that was her daughter, Penny. Harder still to believe that Penny was thirteen.

Her fingers splayed wide as she reached lower, then followed the indentation of her thigh creases down onto her strong upper legs.

She couldn't handle it any more. Janet turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub, flinging a towel across her shoulder. She didn't care about the thick, copious drops of water that splashed down onto the hall carpet behind her as she trotted towards the room she and her husband slept in. Her large breasts bobbled deliciously, making them ache all the more.