No woman in my life had such a fantastically voluptuous shape as Karen
Wray, my college landlady. My eternally ideal object of passion. That she
was also supremely refined in the art of seduction, you will agree if you
read on. This is a memoir of my first amour with a grown woman.

As long as I can remember I have been fascinated by women with voluptuous
figures, which necessarily implies very large breasts, and may imply a
general fleshiness outside the strictest esthetic boundaries. In other
words, I'm turned on as easily by women who are somewhat overweight as by
the Playboy centerfold type, who typically has slim, perfect legs, a taut
belly and a bosom which is never shown to droop even a centimeter. Well,
some men are turned on by the Mrs Onassis (Jackie O) type. There's no
accounting for taste. Anyway, let me quickly get on with my memoir. The
names have been changed to protect our privacy.

In the year 196x I was a shy but oversexed 19 year-old college sophomore,
a first-class bookworm on the border of what was later termed nerdiness.
Having spent my first year at the University of New Mexico in a dorm room
with noisy roommates, I decided to find off-campus housing this time. It
was early September when I got off the bus at the Albuquerque campus for
my second year of engineering studies. I walked the full distance to my
new digs carrying an old suitcase and a canvas duffle bag. It was nearly
a mile north, in a quiet residential neighborhood between the campus and
Albuquerque's airport. I'll call the street Anthracite Road. The house
was quite modest, but it had a fenced in patio in the back with a small
swimming pool, which later figures prominently in my story. The only thing
I knew about the living situation is that the landlady was Karen Wray and
that I was her only student-tenant.

When I arrived at her house on that unseasonably hot September day, no one
answered the doorbell for a few minutes. I was hot and sweaty and thirsty,
so I walked around the side of the house and was promply greeted by a
pleasant shock which literally took my breath away. Mrs Wray waved me over
to the modest-sized swimming pool, where she was sitting and reading a
novel. She was a pretty, short-haired brunette woman in her thirties,
wearing a short white terry-cloth robe which revealed that she was
phenomenally curvaceous. I could scarcely tear my gaze away from her high,
tan cleavage, slightly sweaty from the sun. She had nice, slender ankles,
too, although her thighs were a bit plump. Mrs Wray jumped right up and,
like a good hostess, offered an iced drink before showing me around my new
home. I tried very hard not to stare at her spectacular shape or to make
excessive eye contact, either. It was really tough, because Mrs Wray was
precisely the physical type I conjured up in my masturbatory fantasies: a
pretty, but not glamorous face, with understated makeup, and really
voluptuous form. I estimate she was about five-five or five-six tall and
maybe 145 pounds, distributed nicely all around. She gave me the
impression of a stroke magazine centerfold who had gotten pleasingly
plump. An over-ripe glamour model, to put it another way

As the first weeks of the semester passed, I got into a routine of
classes, labs, study in the library until about 9, then a brisk walk home.
I was too tired to think about dating and girls. I noticed, too, that my
landlady would also come home late from her office job, rush through a
salad-bar salad and quickly turn in, quite fatigued. I gathered from our
few conversations that she was an office manager at the Sandia
Laboratories, a defense oriented R&D outfit located at Kirtland Airforce
Base. Her office was chronically understaffed; hence the long hours, and
the lack of energy for a social life. I also learned that she had married
a much older man who left her a childless widow, with the Anthracite Road
house and not much else. In other words, she really needed the income from
my rented room to make ends meet.

As the weeks wore on, our respective workloads got slightly heavier, not
lighter, and we rarely ventured beyond the confines of her house. Although
our schedules did not allow us to take meals together, we started watching
the tv news together at the end of the day. Mrs Wray always wore
loose-fitting, modest clothing, but some times she sat close enough so
that our thighs touched with quite a bit of pressure, which alone was
enough to give me a semi-erection. At other times, without making any
suggestive remarks or looks, she leaned her head on my shoulders, as if
she were nodding off from fatigue. Sometimes I suspected she was not
really sleeping on such occasions, but was enjoying the closeness. From
time to time, I fantasized about her in the short terry-cloth robe, slowly
peeling it off her voluptuous form...

Week by week I was getting hornier and hornier, and I suspected that she
also was getting aroused by having me in close proximity. Although we
spoke freely on any number of subjects, I naturally hesitated to ask her
about her love life after widowhood.

Finally, around mid-October, things began to heat up.
"Oh, Brad, would be a dear and help me so I don't fall off the
step stool?" She was rearranging some crockery on a high shelf in the
kitchen. Her cotton skirt was very short, and her loose-fitting top didn't
quite reach to the waist of the skirt, so I could see a nice expanse of
soft creamy flesh around her middle. It seemed logical to support her at
the waist, so I got to touch her bare skin, which thrilled me intensely.
"A little tighter, Brad, I'd hate to have a fall."
"Gladly, Mrs Wray" I said, as I gave her waist a gentle squeeze.
Since she didn't seem to be in any hurry to complete her chore, I held her
bare waist and leisurely admired her full, curved thighs.

Not long after that episode, out of the blue, she remarked, "I've been
noticing that you look at me...a bit...longingly, Brad. Is that possible,
or is it my imagination?"

I knew enough even then not to refer to my own loneliness and extreme
horniness, so I replied: "It's just that you're a hell of an attractive
woman, Mrs Wray." "I hope I'm not sounding too forward."

"Brad, a little forward may be okay. Umm, why don't we put aside the
formality and have you call me Karen." She smiled a demure smile, at which
I blushed furiously. But I held her gaze, and sensed that there was a
definite erotic potential in our living together in that little house.

From then on she would favor me with glimpses of her lush curves, but they
were glimpses only, which inflamed my interest in her to an obsession.

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