A Valentine From a Good Friend

Pammy squares her shoulders as she opens the door to the bar. Stepping over the threshold, she squints in the smoky room, trying to find her bright-headed friend, Janet.

It's packed. She glances at her watch, noting the time. She's early, a curse of hers. As she makes her way to the bar, through mounds of people reluctantly giving way, she spies a table for two, the occupants just leaving, and changes direction. Sitting down with a sigh, she unbuttons her coat, lays it on the other chair and puts her purse on the table before her.

'Why did I let her talk me into this?' she asks herself. 'This is the last place I want to be.' Pammy slumps a little in her seat and orders when the waitress stops at her table.

"White Russian, please" she tells the waitress as she self-consciously tugs at her skirt. Her thighs rub together as she crosses her legs, and then uncrosses them, uncomfortable.

The waitress threads her way back to the bar and Pammy reflects on what she is doing here.

Her husband Mac left her a year ago. Their divorce became final the first of last month. She finally pried off her wedding ring last night, to put into her jewelry box along with so many other broken dreams. Her eyes darken and shimmer with unshed tears, and she again straightens her shoulders, and blinks. She is sick of crying. That's why she let herself get talked into this.

Valentine's Day eve and she is more alone than ever.

Last year's Valentine's day found her slumped on the sofa, a box of chocolates empty beside her, crying, moaning and reliving the words of her now-ex-husband weeks before.

"Christ Pammy, look at you. So you miscarried. Big deal. We could have had others. But no, you just sit and stuff your face. And you wonder why I started seeing Barb?"

His anger grew when she started to cry. "Yeah, cry. Cry and piss and moan and eat your way to an even fatter ass." Slamming the door behind him, he left and never came back.

She hasn't always been fat. Pammy was going through a 'thin' phase when she met and married Mac four years before. All her youth was spent hearing well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning comments: 'She has such a pretty face.' And 'She'll lose it when she meets someone special.' How often has she heard them? Every cliché, every joke.

As Pammy squirms in her chair, waiting for her friend, someone is looking at her. Someone started watching her as soon as she came through the door. What he sees isn't how she would have described herself.

Quinton sees a beautiful lady with deep liquid brown eyes. She moved through the crowd as if expecting someone to bark at her. Dark glossy hair, shoulder length and curly. Pink lips and cheeks, her eyes shy and sad. As he watches from his vantage point at the end of the bar, he continues to do inventory.

Large bosom, at least 44DD he would guess, putting a number on them, as men tend to do. Rounded belly, her ass matches her breasts he decides. Soft shoulders, the bra strap evident under her un-tucked blouse. A whisper of leavage shows in the vee-neck of her blouse. She's wearing a skirt that she thinks is too short, if her tugging at it is any indication. Her legs are clad in dark hose, shimmering in the murky bar light, nice heels.

Quinton has wanted to meet her for months. He was friends with Janet's husband, Sam. One night, at Sam's, they were thumbing idly through Christmas photos. He saw Pammy posed with Josh, their son, in front of the fire. His smile gleeful, hers shy. She had him in front of her, no doubt hoping to hide behind his 3 year old body. And if looks were anything, she was what he has been longing for all his 35 years.

Quinton's marriage was finished three years ago. He has dated some, but not much. He has always been attracted to larger ladies. He is powerfully built, 6'4" inches of cowboy charm, light brown hair worn longer than the current style. Went with his image. He was a singer in a local country band. He made enough with his current gigs to live a good life. He was just lonely. Lonely and looking for a woman like her.

He has often faced derision for his taste and choice of lady, and couldn't care less.

As he watches, a lady and guy bump against her while moving from the dance floor. Her drink tips over, and their eyes slide over her as they laugh their way by. No thought of apology or replacing her drink is evident as they stumble off. Trevor feels a tug at his heart when she merely wipes up what is left of her drink with a couple of cocktail napkins, such resignation in the gesture.

He senses her impatience as she glances at her watch. He motions to the bartender, orders, and makes his way slowly to her table.

Pammy sighs as she mops up the drink thinking, 'Now she's late. I'll give her another 15 minutes, then I am out of here.' She dislikes being in a bar, out in public generally, alone. It's not bad with friends, she can usually keep in the background, but just waiting in a bar, the biggest broad here, makes her ill at ease.

She starts when she notices him standing at her table. Her head cranes upward to his face, and his eyes, so kind and warm, catch her.

"Can I join you?" he asks over the noise.

She looks behind her, as though she doesn't quite believe he is talking to her and then back to him.

"Uh, sure" she says, "I was getting ready to leave, so you can have this table anyway."

She moves her coat to her lap as prelude to putting it on, and is startled when a waitress arrives delivering another White Russian. He pulls out the chair and moves it slightly closer to her, draping his leather jacket on the back of it and sits. The band finishes the set and announces a break. Voices clamoring in the relative quiet of the bar grow quieter as people realize they don't have to yell over the band.

Her eyes go back to his face. He is very good-looking, lean, and tall. His hair dark and wavy, worn long. The dimple in his chin reminds her fleetingly of Michael Douglas. He leans in closer, smiling and lowering his voice "I hope you don't mind, but I saw your drink end up on the table, and such a pretty lady shouldn't be without. And a pretty lady shouldn't be sitting alone."

"Well, thank you. That's nice of you, but really, I have to leave soon." Pammy's face

flames at the compliment, and she looks down into her drink. She is flustered by him, his good looks and sweet words, and offers an explanation. "I was supposed to meet my girlfriend here and she's late. I was just about to leave…

"I really should be leaving now." She is reaching for her purse when a strong hand catches her wrist, she looks at him again.

He leans closer still, "Please stay. Sit with a lonely cowboy and finish your drink ...please." The entreaty disarms her, and she finds herself nodding.

"What's your name, sweet lady?"

"Pammy, um, Pamela. And you are?"

"Quinton Andrews, singer, song-writer and general pain in the ass, at your service. Call me Quinn." With these words he reaches to shake her hand. Her hand feels swallowed in his big grasp. She smiles shyly at his introduction.

"Well Pamela, when the band comes back, would you like to dance?"

Pammy is surprised at his words. She hasn't danced in years. Her size, always foremost in her mind, has prevented her from a display on a dance floor. She always feels like everyone's eyes are on her, with ridicule and scorn. Life can be mean to a big woman. And previous insults can color every new situation.

Pammy hesitates. His eyes are compelling and dark blue in the subdued light. She smiles a half-smile figuring he's a kind man, maybe with come kind of complex… looking to make the day of a fat broad.

"Really, you don't have to. I don't usually dance anyway." She answers with a little shake of her head.

"It's my pleasure, believe me," he answers as the band returns. They launch into a slow set and Quinton stands and takes her hand in his. He pulls her up and whispers in her ear, "Right this way Pamela." The breath of his words spoken against her ear brings a shiver that he can feel.

With his shoulders cutting through the crowd, he leads her to the floor. He's easily a head taller than she, even with heels. She feels strangely graceful, following him through the crowd. When he takes her into his arms for the dance, her heart quickens.

The dance floor becomes crowded pushing them into a tighter embrace, his body long and hard against her. Her head is cradled against his upper chest and she can hear the bass vibrate through him. She smells his cologne, spicy and tart, and his own rugged man scent. Her eyes close as he rests his chin on her hair, so soft and scented with a sweet smelling perfume.

As they sway slowly to the beat of the song, his hands caress her back, pulling her closer still. Pammy savors the feeling of being held tight against Quinton. It has been so long since anyone has touched her. Let alone, this gorgeous guy. She goes with the moment. Her big tits between them, the nipples hardening with the friction of his chest moving against her.

Quinton feels his cock rise as she moves against him. With a little moan, his hands travel down her back to the base of her spine, and then lower to the big swell of her ass. He pulls her closer yet, letting her feel his cock stiffen. Slowly grinding his groin against her, he feels the sharp intake of her breath. When Pammy feels him grow against her belly, she feels a corresponding wetness, as if in silent reply to his stiffening, making her panties damp.

'How the hell has this happened?' her mind asks the question. She thinks she could fuck him right here, now, he has affected her so.

No sooner did she think this, a hand moves from her ass to turn her head to whisper against her ear "I could strip you and fuck you right here, Pamela."

Her mouth goes dry and she feels another surge of wet. Her breath coming faster, she pulls away to look up at him. Left brain logic and right brain impulsiveness battling each other as she looks into his dark eyes.

"Where can we go?" she asks, her right brain having won this particular skirmish.

Quinton feels a rush of emotion at her words. He swallows hard, smiles, and takes her hand, leading her back to the table. He helps her with her coat, shrugs into his, and snags her purse up giving it to her as they walk from the noise.

Leading her from the bar to his truck, his hand resting on her ass, the air feels cool against her flushed face, Pammy smiles uncertainly as he opens the door to allow her to enter. Stepping up on the running board to haul herself up into the cab, she feels his hand on her thigh under her skirt. Her mind is whirling with a thousand different things as she feels herself react to his touch with a little shiver.

…How big her ass must look from his vantage point, how she shouldn't leave her car and go off to fuck a stranger. How much she does want to do just that. She buckles the seat belt around her waist and watches as he climbs in, lithe and graceful.

He leans over and kisses her. His lips firm and soft on hers. His hands reach to twine his fingers in her hair on either side of her face and he deepens the kiss, drawing back only to chew on her lower lip, before returning. His tongue teases her mouth open and she leans into his kiss, offering her tongue. She traces the inside of his mouth and then wantonly sucks his tongue. Her hand reaches over and drops to his lap pressing into his groin, he moans into her mouth, as she rubs his hardness through his tight jeans.

Breaking away from her, Quinton stops her hand and pulls back.

"We'll never get out of the lot like this Pamela" he smiles. Her dazed expression compliments the tightening he feels in his balls.

Pammy leans back into her seat, staggered by the intensity of their kiss and his abrupt pulling away. Her mind somewhat eased by his smile not to mention the appreciative bulge in his jeans.

Pammy doesn't remember much of the drive. She watches Quinton as the streetlights and oncoming cars' headlamps make his face strobe dark/light. He drives with absentminded attention, one hand on the wheel, the other on her thigh. He turns his head toward her every once in a while to smile a promise at her.

Pammy looks out at the darkness punctuated by streetlights. Her right and left brains start another round of conflict as she realizes that she probably should have called Janet. Let her know she wasn't there. Well, Janet was late. But still, if she does show and sees her car in the lot… What has possessed her to go with this man? Is she that starved for love? Ah, second thoughts. Another fault of hers. What could he see in her?

Quinton senses her withdrawal and moves his hand to her shoulder.

"Hey Pamela. Just relax. I'm not a pervert or maniac. If you're uncomfortable, and have second thoughts, we can just drink some coffee and talk" his smile sincere. "I'm happy to have met you and just would like to get to know you better."

Pammy looks back to him at his words and thinks that this was the second time he has seemingly read her mind.

"Quinton, er, Quinn, it has been a long time since I have been out on a date." The incongruous statement echoes in her ears… DATE? Is that what this is – picking up a guy in bar? "I mean been out with a different man" she amends. Can she possibly sound more foolish?

"What I mean is" taking one more stab at it "is that I haven't been with a man in quite a while, and it's been even longer since I've dated and I'm nervous as hell and yes, I am having second thoughts." Apparently she hadn't quite drained the well dry of foolish remarks. By the time she finishes the explanation, she can feel her cheeks flaming.

She didn't notice when they left the main road. Quinton smiles again as he pulls into a long driveway.

"Cross my heart Pamela, no funny stuff" he assures her as he parks the car in a breezeway beside a white ranch house. His seatbelt makes a snick-hiss as it is released to snake back into the seat. Turning toward her, he releases her seatbelt and eases it around her so it doesn't fly back as his did.

Pammy feels another little rush of heat as his arm slides around her guiding the belt. She is so attracted to him. Quinton kisses her quickly, a little peck and reaches into the backseat to retrieve a large heart-covered gift bag before sliding out his door.

Oh the trepidation that bag gives Pammy. The troops from both sides start a real barrage as she begins to work out the significance of the gift bag? Was it a gift from a lady of his? His gift to her? Maybe he was stood up and just to get even, picked her up? A gift from his mom? Any of her business? Pammy retreats from these imaginings as he opens the door to help her step down.

Quinton watches Pammy from the corner of his eye as he leads her through the breezeway with a hand on the small of her back to the door. She seems so tense. He hands her the bag to hold while he unlocks and opens the door. From her reaction, he guesses the bag somehow bothers her. She held it like someone handed her a dog turd to hold. Smiling, he takes the bag and ushers her inside, through the lanai, the kitchen, dining room, stepping down to the living room, snapping a light on in the kitchen and dropping the bag on a counter as they pass.

A lamp in the window softly lights the living room. Pammy looks around and is pleasantly surprised to see a nicely furnished room. Masculine, but comfortable, a fireplace at one end. Large comfortable looking sofa, matching chair and a large leather recliner. Deep fall colors glowing in the dim light. No real decorative theme, but certainly not the man-den of a pervert.

"What can I get you Pamela?" he asks as he takes her coat. "Coffee, wine? Mixed drink, Beer?"

"Wine please."

"Have a seat, I'll be right back." Humming softly, he takes the stairs at a hop, hangs up her coat and his in the foyer, and goes to the kitchen.

Pammy, doesn't sit right away, but walks around the room, examining the bric-a-brac on tables and the quality prints on the walls. His guitar is propped in a corner on a stand. She stops before it. He's a singer he said. A songwriter. She reaches and idly plucks a sting or two daydreaming a bit. She is at ease here. The bag is forgotten. The battle, a truce.

Quinton feels like singing. He has his heart's desire in his house. Whether he gets her into bed is irrelevant. As he uncorks the wine, he figures it would be enough to court her and woo her. She is as nice as Janet and Sam said she was, if not nicer. Funny. Beautiful. An awkward charm. And they sure have a good thing going with the physical attraction. Grinning, he spies the gift bag on the counter, and hedging his bet or maybe pushing his luck, he takes it to his bedroom before returning to pour the wine.

Moving back down the few steps to the living room, Quinton sees her at his guitar. Her womanly body bent slightly to pluck at the strings. He will sing to her. But later.

"Here you go Pamela," he says as he points to the sofa with an elbow, "relax and let's talk," handing her a glass he then grabs the remote off the cocktail table, clicks on soft music and sits.

And they did talk, for hours. About their lives, divorces, work. Underneath it all an undercurrent of charged sexual feeling. Her shoes kicked off, one bottle of wine a dead soldier, the other almost, they have moved closer and closer to each other, narrowing the distance on the sofa until their knees are touching, facing each other in conversation.

As Pammy laughs at one of his anecdotes, Quinton leans forward and kisses her, unable to resist the impulse. It goes from a soft kiss to passion in seconds. Their arms wrap around one another, her breasts squashed against his chest. Pammy is liquid as he deepens the kiss then breaks it off backing away a little, to kiss down her chin and throat. His hands touching her, caressing her, from neck to breasts. Hooking a finger in her collar, Quinton pulls it to the side, Pammy feels his lips there and hears him inhale her scent.

His teeth nip and nibble, his lips soft and wet, Pammy starts her own exploration, lightly caressing down his back, moving around to feel his hard chest through his shirt. Quinton leans away from her with a soft smile, looking at her. Her hair is mussed, her lips swollen and damp from his kiss. Eyes dark. Her skirt has ridden up showing a remarkable amount of her fleshy thighs, her large breasts straining against the thin fabric, prominent nipples displayed in glory. Breathing hard.

Pammy meets his gaze after he has seen her. Her eyes shy and questioning with a shadow revealed. How she wishes she had the perfect body to wrap around his. The hurt of what she is, a 5'6" 210lb, mound of flesh, pushes into her mind. The thousands of derisive comments she's heard all her life flood back. The battle lines are drawn once again and she waits, prepared for rebuff.

Quinton has no such rebuff for Pamela. He can see her thoughts as plain as, well as plain as her hard nipples. She's afraid of him. Afraid to be open to him, afraid to be hurt by him. And she is beautiful to him. Her half fearful smile, warm inviting body. He wants to be on her, in her, pressing against her big body, and abundant chest. He wants to feel her legs wrap around him, and hold her extravagant ass tight to drive deep in her, lost in her body. Quinton doesn't want to see fear in her eyes.

With a groan he reaches for her wrists, grasping both in one strong hand. Urging her down on the sofa, raising her hands over her head. He kisses her, his body moving on top of hers. His other hand on her delicious tits. His thighs pressing into her. Grinding his hard jean covered prick against her softness to her pelvis. Breaking the kiss, he looks into her eyes deeply for a long drawn out moment.

"Let me be good to you Pamela." Seeing the answer in her eyes, his lips come down again.