The Measurer

When Fred Zyderman got up of a morning, the first thing he would do was check the various thermometers installed inside and outside the house. After he had checked the temperature in the kitchen and in the living room, he would go outside and check the thermometers on the front and back walls of the house, to which maximum-and-minimum thermometers were affixed so that he could record the seasons’ highs and lows. Then he checked the readings of the barometer and the hygrometer in the outhouse where he had set up a kind of workshop-cum-laboratory. 

     Seated at the kitchen table while waiting for the kettle to boil for his first pot of tea of the day, he then measured his own blood pressure, pulse and temperature. As with the air temperature readings inside and outside the house, and the air pressure and humidity readings, he made a note of his blood pressure, heart-rate and body temperature, inscribing the figures on graph papers kept in ring-bound folders so that he could plot their variations. In this way he built up a mass of scientific data on himself and his immediate surroundings. 

     For his blood pressure and pulse, he was especially fastidious, taking the readings three times and then calculating an average, for Fred had learned by experience that considerable variations between consecutive readings were frequent in this domain, as in others, especially if one was too hasty or agitated, and he was concerned to avoid the unnecessary anxiety of a freak result. 

    In the evening, he would again check all the thermometers and other instruments recording the major and minor changes of the environment in and around the suburban semi-detached house where he and his wife Dorothy had lived for the last 24 years.  And again he would carefully check his blood pressure, pulse and temperature, forcing himself to sit calmly and breathe slowly and deeply the while in order to ensure optimal and hopefully reassuring readings. It was a doctor’s diagnosis of high blood pressure and the suggestion that he record its levels that had put wheels on Fred’s increasingly busy hobby. For the simple yet essentially scientific act of taking one’s own blood pressure, with its demand for patience, precision and calm, had fed a kind of hunger or obsession. The plain fact of the matter was that Fred Zyderman liked measuring things. And he was forever finding more and more parameters to measure.

    When the doctor told him he should be keeping an eye on his blood pressure, Fred had still been in work, the editor of a specialised monthly trade publication devoted to materials testing. Now that he had taken up the seemingly generous offer of his bosses for early retirement he was free to devote virtually the whole of his days to this mania for mensuration.  He became excited each time that he thought of interesting new parameters to measure. His body weight, for example, which he began measuring more and more frequently.

     He tried to get his wife Dorothy interested in measurements too, seeking at least once a week to get her on the bathroom scales, to which she would patiently and good-humouredly agree. Naturally he would regularly take her blood pressure and pulse too. If he was able to raise the topic without too much awkwardness, he would even offer to measure the blood pressure of their few friends and neighbours. 

    He took to carefully measuring the fuel consumption of their little car, he had a water meter installed to monitor their domestic consumption, and began to wonder out loud about the electrical power consumption of various household equipment. He bought a digital multimeter with which he tested batteries and chargers, he set up a rain gauge in the garden next to the birdbath and birdfeeding table, he sent samples of garden soil, the kitchen water supply and the dust from the carpets away to professional laboratories for detailed analysis of their content. 

    Discreetly,  Fred took his measuring mania even further in private. He would measure his height in order to detect any shrinkage due to the onset of old-age. He measured the acidity of  his urine. He would masturbate in order to measure the length of his erect member, sadly confirming what he already knew -- that his rod was less mighty than once it had been. He once used a micrometer to measure the diameter of his balls, after having read that the chronic consumption of alcohol caused them to shrink, for Fred had always liked his drink. Such measurements, he knew, were particularly useless, as he had no comparison, no figures for the diameter of his testicles when he had been a lusty young man -- just the definite sentiment that they had got smaller.

    He even considered measuring the amount of sperm he produced on ejaculation, but dismissed the notion rapidly. How could he compare it with what he produced decades before? In any case, it all depended on how long one had gone without ejaculating…  More positive and useful in countering his fear of declining sexual powers was the burlesque inspiration he had one day regarding his wife Dorothy’s breasts. Agreeably large and full, if now somewhat low-slung as she entered late middle-age, the dear woman’s mammary glands had long been a source of joy to Fred. Indeed, though he was careful nowadays not to say so to her, those wonderful big soft bags had been one of the main reasons he had married Dorothy.

    “Darling, I’ve got something I want to ask you,” Fred said to his wife on the evening following his latest inspiration as they prepared to go to bed.

    “What do you want to go measuring now?” Dorothy knew her man.

     “Well,” he began. “You know how I’ve always liked your tits so much…”

     His wife said nothing. He thought he heard her sigh, but she seemed to smile, waiting for him to go on.

     “I want to weigh them.”

     Now she did sigh. “I should have guessed that one was coming.”

     “Well, can I, er, can we?”

     That quick change of personal pronoun helped. How could she resist his request to connive in such silly -- but finally flattering -- whimsy?

    “You are such a crackpot!” she laughed.

     So back downstairs they went, and dug out the old kitchen scales. Both seated naked at the kitchen table, they giggled at the childish but delightful absurdity of  it. She squealed softly as she placed first one large warm breast, then the other, in the cold shiny steel pan of the scales as he added the old-fashioned iron weights in the other pan.

     “Well, what do they weigh?” she asked.

     “Too hard to say, these scales are not very accurate, and anyway your tits keep wobbling around when you laugh. Several pounds each, that’s for sure. But I’ve just realised something.”

     “What’s that then?” Dorothy enquired, a note of anxiety entering her voice, as if she suddenly feared her breasts did not please Fred enough.

      “It’s not what they weigh that counts, it’s my weighing them that I like, and I can do that best with my own hands.”

      “Oh Fred! I do like it when you say things like that. You know what I would like now?”

      “What?” he asked. Now it was his turn to be anxious.

      “I want you to fuck my tits while we both hold them, so the tip of your cock rubs the nipples. I want you to fuck me like that till you come all over my tits, and then we can both rub your come into my big tits. 

      “And then I’m going to turn over and stick my big bum into your face, Fred, and you’re going to fuck me a second time, hard, from behind. 

      “And you know what, Fred?”

      “No,” he gasped. “What?”

      “You’ve got a choice, Fred. You can fuck my little arsehole or you can fuck my big wet cunt.”

       “Well, aren’t I the lucky fellow!” he crowed happily.

      They bounded back upstairs like horny teenagers.

      Instantly they were on the bed he began fucking those magnificent tits in the manner she had described, and it did not take him long to shoot his come all over them. After rubbing his hot semen into those great wobbling mounds with her eager help, he leant back to let her turn around and present him with her handsome posterior as promised.

      Vaguely, he wondered just how wide her arse was. Measure it? Take a photograph of it and put it on the Internet?  For Fred was proud of his wife…

     The heat from her steaming great cunt was making him glow. “That must be so hot. Could I put a thermometer in it?” he wondered. “No, better put that up her arse.” He could no longer think very coherently.

     Without further ado or measure, he gently inserted both his forefingers into the arsehole, and pressed his face between the flaps of her cunt, breathing deeply and snuffling up her womanly odours as the lips of his mouth sucked hungrily on her inner labia till they bulged like the halves of an open purple fruit.

     “What a size! Those lips! That clit!” he muttered to himself, bug-eyed and brainless with desire.

     He sucked and lapped at her cunt till neither of them could stand the tension any longer. 

     “Fuck me!” she moaned.

    He mounted her, clambering, so it seemed to him, the bluff cliffside of her thighs, whose circumference he even in this moment thought of measuring, so greatly did they impress him.

    His chin resting on her back, he grasped her great breasts, one in each hand, kneading and squeezing the nipples in time with some rising, pounding jungle rhythm.

    Then he took one of her hands and drew it behind them both, back down between his thighs. 

    Fred guided the palm of her hand to his scrotum, and closed her fingers around his balls, as he slid his stiff rod deep into her slick pussy, slowly but as deeply as his strength would allow, until he felt her womb, and a shuddering wave gripped them both as he rocked and ploughed, reared up and heaved, cleaving to her wondrous padded pelvis, and pumped his seed far into the bowels of his earth-mother Dorothy whom, he realised in that moment, he loved beyond all measure.