“Will ya look at ‘em, Grace? Holy cow, don’t they got bras in Brooklyn? City nips–there’s city nips and there’s country nips and I tell ya, right now the city nips are winning!” 

That was my husband, Gerald, when we went to the public market at a park in Brooklyn last spring. When I think about it, that’s my husband all the time, but this story is about that one particularly beautiful Sunday morning in the middle of May. The flowers had bloomed and while the sun was quite warm, a slight breeze kept things (apparently) a little nippy. 

We were visiting friends (city friends—we’re rural folk) and the two of us strolled to the market for local produce and whatever other treasures we might find. We were prepared to scoff but were happily surprised at the quality and variety (if not the quantity) of the goods we found. The bagels alone were worth the six-hour drive. 

But this story is not about the bagels, it’s about another thing at the market that was also worth the six-hour drive. 

Gerald was cleverly wearing his sunglasses so that the women with the aforementioned unfettered breasts couldn’t tell how inappropriately he was behaving. How could I argue with his approach? Seriously, I’m asking you—how? 

I was people watching too. I was never one to obsess about fashion, but the women around there dressed very fashionably even when they were dressed down for running on the park’s paths or wandering around the market’s plaza. Luckily, I don’t believe that I was out of place in my blue-with-white-polka dots maxi sundress. 

Gerald doesn’t like it when I chat with strangers and it’s probably because I flirt sometimes, and sometimes they flirt back. Huddled under the vendors’ pop-ups, it’s hard not to get to know the people next to you. Granted, some of the more aloof New Yorkers weren’t used to people like me but everyone warmed up eventually. 

About my flirting—sometimes I follow through. I don’t do that back home, of course, because everybody knows everybody and, honestly, there aren’t many I’d want to follow through with anyway. Gerald and I travel now and then and when we do, I can’t help it if some man finds me attractive. I can’t help it if I find him attractive. I can’t help it if I end up fucking him behind a tree. 

I’m getting ahead of myself. 

First, let me say that no husbands are technically harmed when I fuck strangers (for example, behind trees). He gets plenty at home and let’s face it, he was so intent and content counting nipples that morning that I could have given the stranger a blowjob right in front of him and he wouldn’t have noticed. 

Let’s talk about him—the stranger, not my husband. You remember my husband. 

“Gawd, Gracie, did you see the pair on her? Aoogah!” 

Remember him now? “Yes, dear, very nice.” 

The stranger and I passed each other as we went from one vendor to the other. I smiled and nodded, and he did that too, right after he looked me up and down. I didn’t look back at him, exactly. I turned my head to the side just enough to see if he was looking back at me. He was. 

He was carefully dressed to appear casual, from his well-fit polo shirt to his wrinkle-free cargo shorts to his sockless, slip-on shoes that probably cost him more than I spent on groceries in a month. Money can make an unattractive man attractive, but the stranger didn’t need money. 

He had a little gray at the temples, just a little, which is so hot. He could have been thirty-five or fifty-five, and he had one of those neat beards that you can’t tell if it was on purpose, or that he just hadn’t shaved today. 

I examined the celery (or potted plant or whatever the hell it was that I was pretending to examine), shyly batted my eyelashes, and unbuttoned the first of my dress’ many buttons without breaking eye contact. His gaze dropped to my chest but by the time he looked up, I had moved on to the next bunch of flowers or eggplant. 

He carefully, casually appeared at my side. “Looking pretty,” he said. “Everything. There are times I come to the market, and nothing looks good at all.”  If his temples hadn’t started my juices, his voice would have, gently rolling from his broad chest. 

Melons! That was it—I was looking at melons and he had every opportunity to make a melon wisecrack and he didn’t. Good for him! 

“I’m Kevin.” 

“Grace.” I offered him my hand, but he lifted the other, showing me my wedding ring. 

“Hi, Grace. Is Mr. Grace with you?” 

I pointed out the man sitting on a bench and pretending to scroll through his phone with his sunglasses on. 

“No,” I answered. 

“Do you live nearby?” 

I gave him the abbreviated version of how we came to be there and told him that I’d love, love, love it if he could show me around the park. I unbuttoned the next button, and we walked the perimeter with my arm in his. 

“That’s my townhouse there.” He had a townhouse next to a park in Brooklyn. “Would you like to see it?” 

Yes. Yes, I did want to see it. The townhouse, too. “I would, but I can’t. Let’s find some shade.” I led him by the hand to where there was a small cluster of trees in view of his house. I leaned against the biggest one and popped another button. “Have you ever looked out your window and caught people fucking in the park?” 

“Never.” 

I lifted my dress to my knees. “Have your neighbors?” 

“Not that I know of.” He lifted my dress a little more for me. 

I pulled his face to mine. “Is it because nobody ever fucks in the park?” 

He kissed me. “I’m sure there are people fucking in the park all the time.” 

“Good.” I unbuttoned the last two, slid the straps from my shoulders, and wrapped my arms around his neck.  He nuzzled my neck and cleavage and he found out how wet my panties were already. 

“The clasp is in the back,” I told him as I unbuckled his pants. His cock was as big in my hand as it looked in his pants. I clawed his shirt over his head, and my bra joined it on the ground. 

“Is anyone looking?” he asked with his back to the street, taking a break from sucking my tit. 

“I hope so.” I pushed my panties aside and slid his cock into my wet pussy. Sadly, I had to make him stop after his first few thrusts. I hadn’t thought things through, and my back was getting scratched by the tree bark. Without a word, he lifted me with one hand under my ass and the other in the crook of my knee. All I had to do was hang on and enjoy the ride. 

My girly grunts (as Gerald calls them) get louder the closer I am to cumming, and I had to bury my face in Kevin’s chest (oh, darn) when I screamed through my climax. I apologized later for my drool by sucking him off when it was his turn. Swallowing is so much tidier. 

We had trampled my bra and I was going to leave it behind on the ground, but Kevin balled it up and stuffed it into his shorts (as if his shorts weren’t stuffed enough already). “No littering,” he reprimanded me with a smile and a swat. 

I found Gerald sampling cheeses. “Where’d you wander off to?” 

“Girl things.” 

“Sweetie, your breath is a little funky.” 

“Goat cheese.” 

He made a face. “Hey, weren’t you wearing a bra?” 

Of course, he had to look at my tits. At least he’s consistent. “I took it off. I, I, I…” I put on my indignant face. “I had to compete with every woman in the city for your attention.” 

“Well, now, you didn’t need to do that. You know that your county nips would always win!” 

They did.