Fucking fatties is always fun

It’s true that life can throw you some curves, but how boring would it be if it were all straight lines? No, not all curves are bad. Take, for example, Tuesday, three weeks ago!

I’m leaving my appointment, walking across the entrance plaza, heading for my car, checking the clock and figuring I’ve got time enough on my meter to stop for a coffee, when I become aware of a ruckus at the bus stop I’m passing. Voices raised — some taunting, one pleading. “Stop! Leave me alone!”

That gets my attention. I slow down to assess the situation, and quickly determine several teenage punks are harassing a plump young woman there. “Hey!” I yell. “Bugger off! Leave her be.” Changing direction, I stride over towards the glass enclosure. The thugs look my way, surprised.

“Get a grip!” they whine. “We’re just teasing!”

Brandishing my cell, I tell them to fuck off before the police get there. They retort, “Protecting your fat-assed girlfriend, eh?” But they move on, nonetheless.

“You okay?” I ask. They had her verging on tears; now the dam breaks. Speaking through her sobs, she sputters, “I tried to ignore them, but they just wouldn’t let up — Fatso this, and Lard-ass that!” Then she sobs even harder. Not knowing what else to do, I put my arm around her shoulder and let her cry against my chest, until she can compose herself.

“Hey, you stood up to them,” I mutter, encouragingly. “You were very brave.” I pause to watch her slowly gather herself. “Anyway, it’s over now.”

She has started quaking violently — with rage, I suspect — and frustration. “No,” she says, shaking her head resignedly, “it’s never really over.” I continue to murmur inarticulate platitudes, trying to calm her — to soothe her nerves. And, ever so slowly, she regains her poise, shaking off her upset. Now she’s embarrassed. “I don’t know why I let those punks get under my skin,” she mumbles.

“Forget it. They’re not worth the agro!” Then, after a moment, I introduce myself. “By the way, I’m Jacob.”

“Hi, Jacob. I’m Monica — Moe to my friends.” Her smile, however brief, is radiant, as she adds, “Thanks!”

“Can I get you a coffee?” I ask, nodding at the shop ahead.

“That’d be nice. Thank you.”

As we walk toward the coffee shop in companionable silence, I — rather dispassionately, I’ll admit — assess her. She is, to say the least, rotund. About 5’1″, she must be a 50-inch triple D bust — thick tummy, big hips and bottom — at first, I almost have to agree with the punks; she looks very tubby. But analytically, I realize that, despite her shape, there is something — actually several things — rather attractive, or, at least, intriguing about her: A very pretty face, for starters, with a flawless complexion; graceful hands; firm knockers, with conspicuous high beams; defined waist; shaped butt; muscular thighs; and sculpted calves. Yes, she is quite the curious package.

We stand at the ordering counter in a sort of awkward silence, both conscious, I think, of a kind of mutual uncertainty hanging between us. But, once we get seated at a small table by the window, the atmosphere mellows. Moe — no, Monica. ‘Moe’ is too hard edged. Curiously, my inner-conversation decides that this little butterball is definitely a ‘Monica’, not a ‘Moe’ — anyway, Monica smiles, “Thank you…,” then, raising her eyebrows, adds, “Jake?”

I return her smile, but reply, “Jacob, please. I’ve never been Jake — or Jay.”

“Oh. Sorry, then, Jacob. I just…” She begins to nervously babble.

“It’s all right.” I smile at her, probably too indulgently, then turn serious. “So how are you feeling — seriously?”

She smiles a shy, sad smile, and waits a beat before responding softly, “I’m okay. Really.” Nodding her head slightly, she adds, “You’d think I would be used to it by now, eh?” And, like the flood-gates opening, Monica begins, in a rush, to tell me her story. “I’ve always been ‘plump-plus’ — a softer euphemism for fat, so I got used to teasing early, or thought I had.” She surrenders a shrug and a derisive snort before continuing. “You know, I’ve tried every frigging diet ever invented. Some left me tired and sick — lethargic and weak; others strong and inspired — energized; but none ever left me lighter.”

“I am a regular at the gym, and have been since I was a teenager. I am, in fact, quite strong and flexible, but my toned muscles remain obscured by the surrounding ‘chub’.” She spreads her arms and throws out her chest in a sort of “See?” gesture of display. Then she chuckles, wryly. “Oh yeah. Ever since puberty I have had large prominent nipples. They have always stood out; through all manner of clothing — tops, sweatshirts, sweaters, even brassieres — padded or otherwise. Kind of a permanent high-beam! Goodness knows, I’ve always deliberately dressed well, picking styles and patterns that minimize my size and de-emphasize my roly-poly shape; still, I don’t generally attract the right type of attention.” Puzzled, I raise a questioning eyebrow, and she goes on to explain. “Guys, more often than not, it seems, misconstrue erect nipples as a sign of being horny and respond with salacious remarks. Fact is,” she admits, after a moment of reflection, “My nipples are very sensitive — very out there. A sort of exposed erogenous zone.”

She smiles ruefully, giving he head a shake, then continues, in a surprising direction. “Still, my sexual experience has been predominantly pity-fucks!” Slapping her hand over her mouth, she squeaks, “Omigod! Did I just say that?” Embarrassed and flustered at being so frank, she stutters out an apology, drains her now-cold coffee, and stands to leave. “Sorry for being such a… er, whatever. Thanks for the coffee — and for being so kind.” Monica pauses and gives me a very slightly sad, thousand-watt smile, before adding, “And for listening,” then she turns. “I’ve got to get going or I’ll miss the next bus.”

“Wait!” I say, standing suddenly with a clatter. I’m feeling an odd urgency, as I call after her, “Let me give you a lift.”

She turns. Her look, one of consideration. “Really?”

“Yeah. I men, no problem.” We get to the car just as the meter runs out. The chatter during the drive, while cheery, is inconsequential trivia — favourite song, favourite movie, and stuff like that. She gives me directions and in no time at all we pull up in front of an old character-home in which she rents a suite. For some reason — prolonging the connection, I s’pose — I walk her to her door. As she turns the key in the lock, I say, “Well…, it’s been nice meeting you, Monica. I’ll say goodbye now. Take care.

Suddenly, just before I turn to leave, she wheels around and stares at me wide-eyed. She looks like she’s seen a ghost. “Is something wrong?”

Breathlessly, her voice a hoarse whisper, she asks, “Will you fuck me?” Her unblinking eyes are locked onto mine. “Please.”

Now, at this particular juncture, I’m between relationships. The fact is, I haven’t had sex in almost a half a year, except with my five-fingered right-hand man. I’m sorta looking for, waiting for Ms. Right; so her astounding proposal kind of blows me away. I nod and stammer, “Unh, sure… uh, yeah… um, yeah, I’d love to!”

Monica, now looking invigorated, grabs me by my jacket lapel, and virtually drags me into her bachelor — bachelorette? — pad, kicking the door shut behind us. Locking me with her eyes, she begins to silently, frantically disrobe. I follow suit, fascinated by the fervor with which she pulls free of her jacket, and tears off her blouse and camisole. As she shimmies out of her bra, it occurs to me, in a back corner of my mind, that it — her bra — is really quite a feat of engineering, supporting all that mass. But, even once that support is removed, her boobs are amazingly firm — and more upright than I would have expected. As she flops onto the bed, onto her back, and kicks herself free of her pants and panties, her impressive breasts don’t completely flow to the sides, but still remain somewhat upraised — nipples up and erect.

Meanwhile, I’ve just bared my chest and kicked my shoes off. As she watches me, through lowered eyes, supine on the bed, she lets her knees splay to reveal well-trimmed bush. The unspoken invitation — damp, puffy labia — is too much for me. Wriggling out of my shirts, I drop to my knees, between hers, and inhale her redolence — that indefinable aroma — the scent of a woman in heat.

Hesitating only an instant, I fall into eating her — drawing my tongue between her lips, gathering her dew, as I stroke up to circle her clitoris. She responds energetically. Her thighs rubbing my cheeks; her love button, marvelously sensitive, is slowly engorging.

With each successive sweep of my tongue, Monica’s vagina blossoms; her labia opening up, glistening pink and puffy. I can feel a subtle vibration beginning somewhere deep in her being, deep in her flesh. We are quiet, save for the sound of my lapping, and her soft moaning, giving way to brief stretches of panting. I feel Monica’s hands migrate into the hair at the back of my head, as she gently humps her hips up into my face. Gradually, her hands begin to pull me more firmly into her bush, into her gash. Her humping and bumping slowly become more violent, more desperate; her moans and sighs louder and more plaintive.

Suddenly Monica lifts her legs and locks her ankles across my back. Thumping her heels between my shoulder blades, in a series of jerks and spasms, she forces me tight into her, her fingers twining in my hair and pulling firmly. Trembling and quaking, she squeezes, sealing her thighs against my cheeks, until I nearly suffocate. I can feel the heat building in her fundament, searing my face.

Monica goes preternaturally rigid as she cums and cums and cums, squealing uncontrollably through her orgasm. Until, at last, she begins to relax, trembling for a long moment, before sighing, and going limp.

I’m not what anyone would call super-experienced at giving head, but that was the most satisfying cunnilingus I’ve ever enjoyed. I can’t speak for Monica, but judging from her panting giggles, and the way she’s lethargically continuing to pull of my face into her quivering quim, I would say that she found it, at the very least, adequate. Indeed, I believe our introduction into sex with one another has been wonderfully successful.

Suddenly moving with surprising speed and agility, Monica rolls herself out from under me, yanking me up off my knees as she does. I scramble to remove my pants and briefs and socks. Pushing me back onto the duvet, she endeavours to capture my bobbing erection. Now, I’m not huge — hung like a horse or whatever, but neither am I small — I dunno — seven, eight, nine inches, erect. In any case, Monica takes me in, completely; inhales my turgid member with one determined slurp. Actively pushing herself down over me, she seats my cockhead firmly against the back of her throat. Her face, nestled in my pubic beard, breathing through her nose, she waggles and twists herself on me, withdrawing from time to time, then shoving herself deep and hard once more.

My cock seems to get firmer, stiffer than I thought possible. Then Monica begins really, seriously pounding. Fucking me mercilessly with her mouth. I can feel my arousal ascending, getting closer and closer. “If you keep that up,” I wheeze, “I’m gonna cum!” In response, she slams herself down and holds me deep, deep in her throat for a moment, before taking up the frantic bobbing again. “I’m really gonna cum!” I hiss out my final warning, as my climax builds past the point of no return.

Sucking with her cheeks, she squirms over and around my rampant prick, without backing off, like a woman possessed. My hands, entangled in her hair, cupped over her ears, unnecessarily hold her tight over me, as I blast what seems to be gallons of cum into her gullet. She sputters and gags but determinedly stays put, allowing my jolting and spurting member to stay fully engulfed, as my mighty erection loses, slowly, some of its iron-hard rigidity.

“Man, oh, man!” I pant out. “That was fabulous!” Monica just smiles benignly, as she lets my dripping, slightly softening member fall from her mouth.

“Where did you learn such truly excellent felatio?” I ask, like an excited kid. But, when I realize the possible negative connotations of questions, I blush, and stammer, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….”

“I dunno,” she whispers in an indecipherable tone, apparently ignoring my gaffe. “I really haven’t done it much. I guess I just did what came naturally.” Before I can put my other foot in my mouth, with an unspoken, “Next!” she bounces up beside me and arranges herself on all fours.

I realize, now, she is cleverly directing our encounter almost without speaking, as if words will tarnish it; yet, somehow, I know I need to shuffle around, to line myself up with her backside.

Spreading her big, firm ass cheeks, I have to tuck my hips slightly, but my eager cock slides easily into her wet, welcoming quim. And as I begin to pound her, doggie-style, her pendulous boobs start swinging side to side, at first in unison, then in counterpoint. We go at it with gusto.

At one point, she arches her backup high, then drops it abruptly, swiveling her hips to force herself back against my thrusts. Hands on her hips, I begin pulling, the two of us getting into a steady pumping rhythm — she rearing, me thrusting. After a bit, though, I lean over her back, and grab her hanging boobs, mauling them as I walk my hands around to her nipples. Pinching each — while continuing to pound her bottom — I pull and twist, eliciting gasps and groans from her. I snake one arm down under her hanging belly, seeking out her clitoris, which has pushed out from beneath its hood and is standing up proud and stiff, rigid and vibrating like a little penis.

Stroking her clit causes Monica to quake and waver, her knees start wobbling unsteadily. Trying to hold her up, I redouble my thrusting, accelerating to a frenetic pounding, our rhythm disintegrating into a chaos of passion, until, crying out in a sort of wild dissonance, we energetically cum together — each of our orgasms feeding off the other’s. The climaxes seem to go on and on, until, at last, we topple to the side, totally enervated.

Still connected by my softening tool, we lie spooning. panting in what seems to be satisfied silence; It certainly is for me. I wait for her to break the reverie. Puzzled by the extended silence, I whisper, “If I play with your nipples do you think we can go again?”

Monica appears to be surprised — shocked, even — by my response, and suddenly she gets teary-eyed. I don’t understand. Puzzled, I ask, quietly, “Why the tears?”

She shrugs it off, sniffing. “‘S’nothing,” she whispers, snuggling tight into me. We lie still and silent for a long while. I can feel her quaking, stifling sobs. Eventually she stills, and, heaving a sigh, attempts to explain.

She begins by describing what had usually been her experience in what should have been the afterglow of a sexual encounter. “After the climax — his climax, whoever he was — I’ve learned to just wait — wait for the dissipating sexual tension to turn — as it always does — to disgust and revulsion.” Sadly, it would seem, in the past, where she had been, initially, a willing and eager pussy, she was, afterwards, just a fat cunt!

Not knowing how to respond to that, I simply shrug and ask again, “If I play with your nipples do you think we can go again?”

Monica hesitates still surprised. Pulling her head back so she can look me full in the face, to convince herself that I’m not pulling her leg, a look of incredulity passes across her visage, melting into a look of sheer delight that twinkles in her eyes. She breathily replies, “Absolutely!”

Without further ado, I fasten my lips on hers. And she responds: pressing against my mouth; sucking on my tongue; trying to merge our faces into one; chewing my lips. Jeez, she knows how to kiss! For my part, I’m trying to insert my body, tongue-first, into her being. I can feel myself losing my grip. I mean, I hardly know her; we’re virtually strangers. Yet, I feel myself falling into her — happily, eagerly.

Eventually, the urgency of the kiss dissipates, and, while we continue to ‘suck-face’, the desperation has faded. As I reach for her very sensitive nipples — pinching and twisting and twiddling — her arm comes across to grab my dick, which stiffens as she makes contact. She begins to gently stroke. I pull my lips free, dropping them to one of her nipples, the replaced hand falling to her pussy, where I insert two fingers — easily — as she is sopping wet, dripping with our blended juices. I feel her gripping and releasing my fingers, her vaginal muscles pulsing, her pussy throbbing, and I can feel her dew gathering, her pussy becoming increasingly slick. Probing for her G-spot, my thumb on her clitoris, our mutual arousal erupts, sweeping between us like a firestorm.

Keeping her nipple firmly between my teeth, I shuffle down her body, rolling her onto her back. Her trembling thighs splay invitingly. Lining myself up, woodie bouncing impatiently, I push through her matted bush, splitting her puffy pussy-lips. I slip in so smoothly, it’s like we’re made for each other — as if we’d been doing this for years. Monica holds my biceps as I finally release my oral grip on her tit. With her legs up around my ears, her thighs are like shock-absorbers, tempering the violence of my urgent thrusts; her round belly cushioning my pounding. In short order, we cum together — an unheard of third time for me!

Gathering our ragged breath, we lie together in sweaty embrace for a long denouement. Unsure of myself, I stutter, “Maybe we could go for a coffee, or a drink, or dinner some time?”

Monica giggles, suddenly back in control. “Are you asking me out on a ‘first date’?”

“Uh,” I nod.

“Not exactly the conventional order of things,” she laughs, “but ‘Hell, yes!'”

We slowly disentangle, each unable to wipe the goofy smiles from our faces.

I am completely entranced by this minx, this chubby cherub. Fatso or Dumpling: it all depends on one’s perspective, eh?

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