Tucker Fuller’s Modern Life Ch. 01

Big Tits


Miriam Belle



Author’s Note:

“This was originally titled “Mrs. Aziani and the Lawnmower.” But now that I’m writing Literotica again and putting all my old stories back on the site, I decided to make all of Tucker’s stories a part of a larger picture, hence “Tucker Fuller’s Modern Life.” And, as before, the adventures of Tucker Fuller are purely fantasy and for fun, not to be taken seriously… oh, and if you catch any typos, let me know. A few always slip by damn it… Cheers!”


I was eighteen years old and no closer to being a man than I had been at age ten. To look at me might lead you to believe otherwise, but believe me I was as immature as they come. I was built right, weighing in at 180lbs and sporting a physique that I really didn’t have to work at. I was muscular but far from ripped, if anything I was sufficiently fat in all the right places. My hair was receding even then (to this day I believe that in a past life I made fun of bald people mercilessly… and now I’m paying the price through karma). No one else in my family is losing their hair. Even my great grandfather Eustis has a full head of snow-white hair.

But me? I’m looking more and more like Bruce Willis everyday. That’s a shitty deal, isn’t it? I’m not saying Bruce Willis is ugly, I’m just saying even when he was eighteen, I’ll bet he wasn’t looking like he needed hair transplants.

The point is, I’m an average guy. Why my next-door neighbor ever took an interest in me is beyond my comprehension. Maybe she had really poor vision or maybe she was so fed up with her booze-hounding husband Phil that she was desperate for a quick fuck. Either way, on a very hot and unreasonably humid summer day around the middle of August, I found myself on the receiving end of Mrs. Rachel Aziani’s affections.

In typical jerk-off story fashion, I was mowing her lawn to make some extra scratch. The Aziani family had a lawn that probably covered a square quarter-mile of prime real estate along the Sacramento River. Their backyard looked more like a golf course than anything else, always mowed and groomed to perfection. A lot of neighborhood guys had vied for the job of mowing the biggest lawn in town not because of the money (which was great for the work… a hundred bucks each time) but because of Rachel Aziani.

I got picked most often for the job, though at the time I didn’t understand why. Truth be told, I didn’t really care why…

Mrs. Aziani was a trophy wife if ever there was one. She was only thirty-seven years old and looking every bit like she could have been at least ten years younger. Her skin was always tanned (I’d heard she forced Phil to buy her a personal tanning bed) and the woman was built like an Amazonian Goddess. I shit you not that her breasts were in the range of 42 DDD and somehow, even when she went about sans a bra, they remained pert and perky. A lot of speculation revolved around whether they were real or not, but based on the hypnotic jiggling and swaying I knew there was no way she could be a child of silicone.

Her eyes were dark and exotic, hinting at some diluted ethnic heritage hailing from a Spain or maybe even Portugal. Her hair was always dyed blonde and her legs and arms were toned to muscular perfection. Quite simply put, Rachel had no business being a trophy wife. She could have been a porn star or even a fashion model. The woman looked like she could have done anything she wanted to do. And even if she didn’t have the talent or moxy to do anything but look pretty, I imagine there must have been thousands of men and women out there willing to make up for what she lacked.

Her wardrobe was legendary in our small town. While many of the mothers and women lamented her revealing outfits (believing that she belonged in the pages of Hustler rather than in her flower garden, bent over in daisy dukes and a tight fitting tank top weeding out the bad plants) a lot of us guys dropped to our knees and thanked God with a sincerity usually saved only for relief from a bad hangovers and finding out that the pregnancy test was negative. She was nice to everyone she met and always made it a point to sunbathe whenever her lawn got mowed. She seemed to be oblivious to the envy and jealousy she engendered in other women and the lust she summoned from the men around her.

As I said before, I was the lucky bastard who landed the job of mowing her backyard that humid summer day. The sun was beating down mercilessly as the two o’clock hour rolled around and I found myself working without my shirt. I usually didn’t do that (as my modesty actually outweighed my need to show off) but considering I was sweating out a pint of body hydration every six minutes it was more a statement of survival rather than attraction. I knew had about another hour to finish the Herculean sized backyard before the sprinklers came on, and I was doing everything I could to make sure I missed that deadline. The promise of cool water on my burning skin was irresistible.

I ataşehir escort was halfway done at that point, pushing my mower in the rear of the property along the ivy thick fence that separated the lawn from the five foot drop off into the river. That was when I noticed that Mrs. Aziani was lounging on her back porch. My interest in her would have been equally as sincere had she been fully clothed, but when I realized the woman was bare naked I nearly choked. As I walked along, I watched her adjust her lounge chair, bent over and giving me a view of her ass that was the stuff premium porn websites are made of.

“No way,” I whispered as I slid my sunglasses up to see with my own eyes.

Then the mower clanked and jumped as I ran over a rock. The stone bounced and ricocheted inside the mower housing as the blades ravaged it. I cringed and pressed down on the handle bar of the mower, raising the housing up enough to allow the stone an exit. The rock zinged out into the small rose garden a few feet away like a primitive bullet. I hissed, my lips drawn back from my teeth, and I prayed nothing had happened to the blades or the inner workings of the mower.

I shook my head and shut the engine off. I knelt down and tipped the mover on its side. The blades seemed okay, though I could see small notches along their edges. The metal housing looked dented and scraped from where the rock had chipped off the green enamel paint upon it’s numerous impacts. I wondered if that was the only damage or if I had screwed up something else. I didn’t know jack shit anything mechanical, let alone mowers and their engines. I sighed and righted the mower.

“Everything okay?”

I shot up to attention and bashed my head against one of low-lying branches of the cherry tree. My world spun as I grabbed my head, doing my best to remain cool and calm. There, in the mottled shade of the cherry tree stood Mrs. Aziani. She was as nude and carefree as she had been on the deck of the back porch. My mouth fell open in a stupid gape that I truly believe summed up my verbal and metal prowess in a way words simply could not.

“Tucker?” she asked as she took her rose tinted sunglasses off, “You okay?”

“Yes,” I managed. My head was aching as my eyes watered behind my shades.

“What happened?” she asked. I was thunderstruck at her casual attitude about being naked in front of me. Oh sure, we knew each other because we lived in the same neighborhood. Hell at Christmas time I shoveled her walkways off and she would more often than not give me hot chocolate as a bonus above her payment. We smiled and waved at each other when we passed in the store or on the street. But I had no idea this simple daily interaction made us friends to the point of nudity.

Not that I was complaining, mind you.

“A rock,” I stuttered as my eyes rolled down her slender neck and then rested on her large, pear shaped breasts. I was fascinated by the way the light and shadows from the cherry tree fell on her naked bosom in a sexy patchwork.

“A rock?”

“Yes,” I tried to smile, hoping my bulging eyes weren’t visible behind my shades, “A rock.”

“Is the mower okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” I nodded as my cock betrayed me and began swelling in my shorts, “Yes.”

Mrs. Aziani reached out and touched my head. When she drew back her hand, there was blood on her fingers, bright and red against her tanned skin. She looked at me and said, “We should fix that up.”

“We should?” I asked dumbly, trying to stifle my reaction to her nudity.

Mrs. Aziani laughed, “Yes, we should.”


“Tucker,” she eyed me, “What’s wrong?”

“I just…” I began as put my hands on my hips and searched for the right words, “I just never had someone hire me to mow their lawns that was as, uh… as naked as you.”

Mrs. Aziani smiled broadly and looked down at her body, “Does this offend you?”

“No no,” I put my hands up, “You’re perfect, Mrs. Aziani. Really. It’s just that I’m not used to women walking around naked in front of me.”

“Oh,” she nodded and then cocked a quizzical brow, “You want me to go put some clothes on?”

“No!” I said way too eagerly, my voice unintentionally high and broken, “I mean, not on my account.”

“Come on,” she took my hand, “Let’s clean you up.”

As we walked across the yard, I tried to process the fact that there was an insanely gorgeous woman holding my hand and leading me into her house completely naked. She was slightly in front of me, her bare feet looking sexy and beautiful in the green grass as she walked. Her ass moved like some kind of hypnotic visual aphrodisiac, the muscles working in curved perfection as her large breasts bounced and jiggled. My cock was now becoming a serious problem as my eight inches erected to the point of needing to stand straight up. I looked down and could see my shorts tenting out.

‘Down,’ I commanded desperately, my body revolting against my brain, ‘Down!’


Once inside the house, which was cooled by the miracle ataşehir escort of central air, I felt the sweat covering my body begin to do what God had meant for it to do and start cooling me off. I had assumed once inside she might put on a robe or something, but Mrs. Aziani remained blissfully nude and unconcerned with the effect of her body on my cock. I was on the verge of running to the fridge and dumping an ice tray down my pants to subdue the monster erection. I had already embarrassed myself by rocking the mower and then clubbing myself with the cherry tree branch. A run away woody was the last thing I needed right now.

“Just sit there by the bar,” she instructed me as she let go of my hand, “I’ll run upstairs and get the first aid kit.”

“Sure,” I smiled and watched her leave. How Phil Aziani could ever acquire a drinking problem or have a hard time living with a woman like her was beyond me. Even if she was a total bitch in their private life, there were some things worth putting up with bullshit for. Of course, if I had a wife that beautiful I’d be worrying about her constantly. I suppose a little nip from the bottle would take the edge off a paranoid mind in a pinch.

I sat down at the bar and relaxed. The stools were comfortable and the bar itself was shiny and pristine. I didn’t dare touch it. I was dirty enough to leave incredible smudges and smears on the finely polished surface, and I didn’t want to upset Mrs. Aziani. So I sat there and looked at the framed pictures hanging behind the bar above the rows of alcohol and mixers.

There were four framed portraits of men I assumed had to be from Phil’s side of the family. The first guy looked like Niels Bohr. He was old and wizened looking as he posed for a camera that had to have been new in 1900. The second portrait was of a fat man who looked like the love child between Dom DeLuise and Alvin the Chipmunk (in retrospect, I could actually see how Phil Aziani got his pronounced overbite… he came by it naturally). The third was of a younger man, probably eighteen around the year 1950. His hair slicked back and he resembled a more jovial version of a young Brian Dennehy.

The fourth and final portrait was of Phil himself. Phil managed to retained the Boor haircut (maybe closer to Richard Feynman, it was a close call) and the Chipmunk-DeLuise complex and the Dennehy charm through three generations of diluted genes. It was a recent portrait, probably taken a few years back when his hair was more brown and less gray. It seemed to me that he wanted to portray himself as a noble intellectual or an important businessman.

I guess he was. In our small town, owning the local grocery store was the biggest piece action you could get in on when it came to business. And I suppose if the constant unsolicited discussions about town politics and the importance of Gouda over cheddar in the display case was anything it could be called relatively intellectual, right? Or, it could have been called pretentious and annoying. You see, I worked for Phil my first two years of high school and after a month of his thoughts on cheddar versus Gouda I wanted to gouge my eyes out and stuff them in my ears just so I wouldn’t have to see or hear him.

Still, it was a handsome collection of family portraits.

“First aid,” Mrs. Aziani said from behind me.

I spun around on the stool and saw that she was still naked. My cheeks blushed fiercely as she walked over to me. Her crotch was completely shaved and equally tanned to her body. I felt a little dizzy as I wondered at what she might taste like. My penis, which had taken a rest after my brief look at the family portraits, sudden mutinied again and was on the rise.

“It’s not that bad,” I said.

“You have a pretty good gash at your hairline, Tucker,” she told me and sat the first aid kit down on the bar. It was one of those old school kits, made of sheet metal and equipped with a latch that only hardcore fishermen could appreciate. There was a bold red cross painted on the lid and below it in equally colored and prominent print was the phrase, “FIRST AID.”

She opened the lid, her movements causing her tits jiggle and bounce again as I began to wonder if I had passed out from sunstroke and was actually laying face down in the backyard. It was entirely possible. But from the smell of the peroxide she soaked the cotton with and the searing pain of the disinfectant in my wound I knew this was real.

“That hurt much?” she asked, her attention focused on cleaning up my cut.

“Not at all,” I lied as my attention fell to her breasts again. Her nipples were hard and erected outward, the areolas firm and relatively small in comparison to the size of her tits.

“You think you can finish up out there?” she asked.

“I think so,” I replied as my erection tented out my shorts again. I rolled my eyes and prayed she wouldn’t notice. I became dimly aware that my nipples had gone hard too.

“I can put clothes on, Tucker,” she said suddenly. She tossed the used wad of anadolu yakası escort bloody cotton away and looked at me, her dark eyes piercing and direct.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, “You look good.”

“Thank you,” she smiled shyly. Now she gets shy? She pulled out a band-aid and tore the paper covering off, saying, “I’m a nudist at heart. A lot of people don’t understand that. They think it’s immoral or something, but I love it. I can only really be myself in the backyard where the fences are high enough.”

“Oh,” I nodded, “I love nudity too. I would be naked all day if I could.”

She looked at me with a wry smile.

“I mean,” I stumbled as my tongue inflated in my mouth, “I…”

“Easy Tucker,” she laughed and pressed the band-aid gently to my forehead, “You’re going to give yourself an aneurysm.”

I smiled and nodded. “I’m not very good around beautiful women, let alone beautiful naked women.”

Mrs. Aziani smiled and nodded understandingly. She closed the kit and slid it to one side as she leaned against the bar and looked at me. She said, “There’s nothing wrong with being appreciative of the human body.”


“Look,” she said and glanced at the clock on the far side of the kitchen, “Why don’t you take a break?”

“Oh, I better not,” I said, “I should finish up.”

“Tucker,” she put her hand on mine and I swear my heart nearly stopped, “Take a break.”

“Okay,” I said immediately.

“You’re uncomfortable?”

“No,” I said. The truth was I was getting so comfortable it was worrying me. The more I stared at her body the more I became used to it. The more I became used to it the more I was going to relax. With relaxation came familiarity and easiness. I could easily imagine me reading too much into her eccentric behavior and making a move far too inappropriate to forgive.

“You know what might help?”

‘A stiff drink?’ I thought dismally.

“Take off your clothes,” Mrs. Aziani said.

I laughed a little and when I saw she wasn’t joking, I found myself suddenly reluctant to look at her at all. I said, “Ah, Mrs. Aziani I don’t think…”

“Rachel,” she corrected me.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Rachel,” she said, “Please call me Rachel.”

Seeing her naked was one thing, but now we were on a first name basis? This was getting out of hand the way my wet dreams about her got out of hand almost every night. I figured the resultant outcome would be the same in either case if this went any further. I said, “Rachel, that might not be a good idea.”

“You don’t want to be naked with me?” she asked, a tinge of offense in her voice.

“Oh no,” I recovered, “It’s not that. It’s just that, well, you’re married and I’m not and you’re so…”

“Tucker,” she squeezed my hand again, “Take your clothes off and relax.”

I sighed and knew I was about to do a very stupid thing. As with many stupid ideas and things in my life, I listened to the wrong head and found myself slipping out of my shoes and socks. Mrs. Aziani watched me as she leaned against the bar, her legs casually crossed and her eyes filled with amusement. I took a deep breath and then dropped my shorts and underwear to the hardwood floor.

Her eyes darted down to my painfully erected cock and she grinned a wicked half-smile that was sexy and yet dangerous at the same time. She looked up at me and commented, “I can see you’re happy to be here.”

I looked for something to say, anything that could be suave or suggestive. I wondered what James Bond might say at a time like this (the Sean Connery version of Bond, not the Roger Moore or George Lazenby Bond… Pierce Brosnan was okay, but Connery was the fucking MAN!). After coming to terms with the fact that I had nothing, I smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

“Come on,” she took my hand again and led me outside to the back porch. We walked down to concrete path of backyard, passing the many rose bushes and then the mower. We reached the back fence and she opened the gate. We descended the cement block stairs and arrived at a small beach studded with boulders. The river was roaring past us deceptively, it’s bark far worse than it’s bite. This was the calm stretch of the river and swimming was safe here for about a mile.

“Someone might see us,” I whispered.

“Who cares?” Mrs. Aziani looked at me as we stepped out on the fine gravelly sand of the beach. Small waves lapped at the shore as we stood there. I felt the urge to cover my crotch up and hide, but I didn’t want to seem cowardly in front of her. So I summoned my courage and placed my hands on my hips, confidently looking out at the far bank of the river. Thick foliage, brush and blackberry vines made the bank impassable to intruding swimmers. Oak and Cottonwood trees lined the bank and made a wall that shielded us from the utility road just beyond.

We sat down on the sand as the sun raged above. There was a long silence between us, as though Mrs. Aziani were debating something in her mind. I could see her thinking as her eyes looked out across the sparkling water. I propped my back against one of the large boulders and tried to get used to the sand against my ass. After a few minutes of adjusting and trying to discreetly cover my package from view with my thigh, I gave up and just let it stick out.

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