Fat Angela

It was the same every time. I'd stumble into her apartment drunk; she'd give me beer I didn't need; feed me; take off my clothes; caress all over my body while I blathered my nonsense, then I'd lose myself in her fat and the moment my eyes opened in the morning I'd escape and hope like hell I didn't run into her again — until the next time I was seriously drunk and needed to get laid.

But I made a mistake about a year ago, after about a year of seeing her every couple of months. Before I bolted I let myself feel sorry for her and said, "Why don't you lose some weight, Angela? You're developing a real problem." I didn't say this to hurt her feelings; I said it as constructive criticism and to encourage her. She was big when I met her, so big it took a lot of booze before I hit on her and she has only packed it on since. Now, she is getting past obese, I mean, the woman is so big she is getting hard to fuck.

Anyway, right after I said it I regretted it. Big time, because she got a look of desperation in her eyes that made me flinch. Then she said, "Will you help me?"

"Help you? How?" I couldn't imagine what I could do for her.

"I don't know, but will you try and help me? I know I need help."

"Do you have anyone else? Your mother, your sister, any friends?"

"I have no one for this."

"Well," I said, hiding my discomfort, "see a nutritionist, somebody like that — they can help. What can I do?"

"I have a pretty good idea of what I need to do, I just don't have the courage, the ambition, the whatever it takes. I never have. I need help."

"But what can I do?" I repeated. "Seriously. If you know what you have to do, do it."

"I need support, someone I can ... you know me, you've seen me, I have nothing to hide from you. You could help; I could really use you."

What do you say? No? That's what I wanted to say but I couldn't, I'd been over to her place a fair amount and she'd always been really kind to me as I fucked and sucked my way all over her flesh. Now it was pay-back and I couldn't see how I could get out of it. But I tried. "Food and exercise. That all there is to losing weight, eating less and exercising more." That used to be the best advice, I'm not sure it is any more.

"But if you would take an interest in it and help me." Maybe she read my face because she quickly added, "not all the time — I'm not saying that, but maybe we could get together every month and ... I don't know ... maybe, I don't know you could help some how, help me with my progress ... encourage me, stuff like that. I know I have to deal with this ... I got myself into it; I've always known I had to deal with it but ..."

Angela is a nice kid, she has a kind, generous heart. "Do you know anything about food?"

She giggled without humour. "I know how to abuse it."

My hang-over wanted this over with. "Do you have an email? I'll help you find out what and how much you should be eating and I'll figure out an exercise regime for you, but I won't help you if you don't help yourself — do you understand? I'm not going to nurse-maid you. You have to figure out how much weight you want to lose and you have to do all the work to lose it. But," and I hated to hear myself say this, "as long as you're working at it, I'll help. OK?"

It got me out of there but I hadn't reached the bus stop when I vowed never to see her again. I've always known there are strings attached to everything; I'd been lured into forgetting that: in the year I've been showing up at her door, drunk, she never once contacted me, never imposed on me in any way; she just fed me, plied me with booze and she's given me her body and she never once asked anything in return so I knew I owed her and, godamn it, by the time I sat down in the bus I knew I had to help ... if I could. But I also thought that fat people statistically had little chance of losing weight. Maybe they had a metabolism problem, maybe a genetic pre-disposition, maybe they couldn't stay focused for very long, maybe this, maybe that, I didn't know anything about it. I'd honour my commitment, I'd help her for as long as she was helping herself but the moment she stopped, so would I and that would be the end of her.

So I took my responsibility seriously. As soon as I got over my hang-over I researched a proper diet and an appropriate exercise program for her and I emailed them to her, all nicely organized so if she carefully followed the instructions she would effectively begin the process of rehabilitation, that's the way I thought of it: she would be rehabing her body, her life. I told her I would see her in a month.

I was drunk when I showed up, not falling down drunk but drunk enough to make the sight of her tolerable. She looked the same but she was a little more excited. She had followed my routine religiously and she thought it was working. She hadn't lost any weight but she said she wasn't as sore after exercise any more (mainly biking at a gym and walking outside) and her food cravings didn't seem as bad: she thought she could see some light at the end of the tunnel. I was thinking probably a pinprick.

She liked to take my clothes off in the living room, I don't know why, but as I drank and blathered she'd just slowly strip me and then she'd gently run her hands all over my body, awkwardly because of her fat — she was always leaning against it, but she seemed to really love to do this and I liked it, too, liked that she was so anxious to feel me. But she was always careful in the living room that I didn't cum. That happened once and the moment I did it was over — I sobered up with the orgasm and bolted. So now she makes sure I'm teetering along an edge until she stands up, goes to the fridge for a couple of beers (both for me) then leads me to her bedroom.

It's funny but when I'm horny and drunk fat kind of turns me on, but when I'm not it turns me off. She senses that, I think, so she kind of knows when I'm ready, knows when I want to see her take off her clothes and she does it the same way every time. When I'm lying on her bed she makes sure I have a hard-on and a bottle of beer in my hand. When she starts to strip she doesn't really dwell on it, or try to make it look sexy or anything, she just stands beside the bed and I slowly stroke as she slowly strips.

Angela is about 5'6", 25 years old and, I've never asked of course, but I'd say she's close to 200 pounds. But even so, she has a pretty face with brown hair, a broad forehead, pretty blue eyes, a nice nose and a very expressive mouth that I actually like to kiss once I get through with her breasts — the girl may be actually pretty if she got rid of the thick layer of fat that envelops her.

As she's standing stripping by the bed I'm always looking at her breasts, they're enormous, the right one much fatter and a little shorter than the left; they have aureolas the size of dessert plates and they hang down to the navel dug deep into her rounded belly which itself drops down so far I can't see the rich brown bush I know is there.

It's not a pretty sight, even the booze can't gild this lily, but it does inspire me to want to explore it so when she kneels on the bed and those giant melons sag beneath her, I reach for them and I'm already sucking when she nestles in beside me, pulling me into her hot, sweaty, fleshy environment.

This is all about me, of course. I don't know what she gets out of it, I don't know what a woman this fat CAN get out of it: wouldn't their fat insulate them against the nuances of sexual stimulation? But I get a lot out of it because she's so willing to please me. She strokes my hair and face as I feed on her tits, then she accepts my tongue in her mouth while I ride her thigh, then, even through the booze, as I get closer and closer she gets ready for my climax. When she detects the signal, learned from previous directions, she turns around, climbs on top of me, caresses my face with her sagging belly as she moves down me then she smothers me with her hot wet pussy and I beat myself to a fabulous orgasm. I love it and I love to pass out after it, to just slip into oblivion with my face in her pussy and her body, soft as a pillow pressing against mine.

One of the reasons I'm so anxious to escape her as soon as I start to sober up is guilt. I know she deserved better than this and I know that I am better than this, but for me it's always fuck and flee, every time, that's the routine. But the routine was broken during my drunken visitation on the third month of her rehab, as I called it. Before I could get out of there she asked me if I noticed a difference — I had been too drunk the night before to take any notice, so with morning light streaming through the window she got off the bed and stood at the foot with the sunlight splashing on her, making her pink skin glow orange.

I was a little shocked. "Geeze, it's working." The first thing I noticed was that I could see a tiny bit of her pubic hair, that was a first and her belly, while still as round and as enormous as a beach ball, didn't bulge out at the sides as much as it used to. "How much have you lost?"

She actually has a lovely smile. "32 pounds."

"Wow." I was impressed. "How are you feeling. Is it making a difference?"

"I'm feeling fat," she was still smiling, "but I'm getting there. It's going to take some time but I'm going to get there, I know I am."

I reached for her hand. "Come here." I was feeling a little pride in her — and in myself as if I was somehow responsible for her mini-make-over. When she knelt on the bed I pulled her forward and onto her back. Then I got between her legs and entered her, pressing into her as much as I could and for the first time ever I fucked her conventionally; I gave her what I thought of as a reward.

But I doubt she came, I doubt she wanted to but she was ecstatic that I tried.

I was drunk as usual the next month but it was a wasted hang-over. She had her period so I made do with her caresses and a blow job and saw no point in staying. I missed the next month, 'I was out of town,' I lied as I stood unsteadily on her doorstep the following month and in the morning I was struggling to get out of bed when she pushed me down, then jumping off, fairly nimbly it seemed, and stood at the foot, giving me a little curtsy.

"Wow."

"56 ... and counting," she said with a smile that lit up her face. Then she turned sideways, backwards and then faced me again, showing not a shred of modesty. She slapped at her belly then gripped her tits. "I've still got a long way to go but ..." her grin was radiant.

I reached for her hand and pulled her down. "I didn't think you'd stay with it." I climbed on her thigh and started to fuck on it, surprised that I wasn't already looking for my socks. "I thought you'd quit trying months ago." I had a pounding headache.

"I like you looking at me," she smiled as she lovingly gazed up at me. "That's my incentive." She was kissing my chin when I motioned her to turn over and when she got up on all fours I entered her from behind and had both her breasts in my hands when I groaned out my orgasm then fell on top of her.

I really was away the next month and I found out how little I knew her when I tried to call to apologize and realized I didn't have her number, didn't know her last name and didn't know any of her friends through whom to track her down when I remembered I had her email but couldn't find it. So I think she was a little hurt when I showed up, a little too drunk, a month late. I don't remember much, only leaving.

I don't think I've ever been so hung-over when I left but even so I managed to remember to get her full name and number which was fortunate because a month later it allowed me to call her to get out of the next scheduled visit and then the next. But, ultimately, I showed up again because I knew it was the first anniversary of her rehab and I would have been an absolute shit not to.

She wasn't happy with me, even she couldn't disguise that, particularly because I was later than usual, but she did her best to pretend I hadn't hurt her feelings and we began our routine seamlessly, me with a beer in my hand and useless opinions in my voice, her with her fingers taking my clothes off and exploring me. I wasn't really drunk drunk so I soon noticed that she was sitting much more closer to me than usual in the sense that she was finding it a lot less awkward taking off my clothes so I pulled away a little and looked at her. "You've lost more," I said, not concealing my surprise.

She smiled, but it seemed a little sad. "75 pounds in a year. I wouldn't have thought that possible."

I pulled further away and turned to more easily read her. "So why aren't you ecstatic about that? I mean, that's a remarkable accomplishment."

She smiled again. "I am," and she moved closer, her fingers tracing a pattern on my shoulder.

I pulled back so I could see her face. "You don't look it."

She shrugged.

"What's wrong?"

She hesitated, her fingers now clenched in a fist. "I hoped you'd take more of an interest."

I knew this might be coming but even so I never prepared for it. "This isn't about me, Angela, it's about you, your health. You had to lose the weight and you have and I'm proud of you."

"Are you?"

"Yes, sure I am."

"Then why haven't you come to see me?"

I wasn't drunk enough for this yet but I quickly got to my feet and pulled her to hers, "Show me. No, you're right, I should have asked and I really am proud of you so show me, I'd love to see you."

"Really?" God, she needed to hear that. "You're not just saying that?"

"Wait." I finished off my beer and quickly went to the kitchen for another and when I returned I sat down and said, "Be very slow, Angela, and I want you to tell me how you've done it, how you've taken off all that weight."

Usually she would have me nude by now, and I'd be on her bed watching her as she undressed, stroking myself; drunk, loving her fat and the prospects of being smothered in it. This was different, a lot different, she was sort of forcing me to take an interested in her and that didn't seem sexual. Not good. I wasn't up for it, certainly my willy wasn't: a drunk pillage of her flesh was one thing, actually caring about her was quite another. But it was hard not to try to care; she was looking at me in a pathetically hopeful way: she desperately wanted my approval.

"Wow, you have a new bra. It's pretty sexy." Her shirt was partly open showing a yellow bra I'd never seen before, usually they were just really big, grey-white and really industrial. What I saw of this had an element of femininity to it.

She smiled. "I had to buy new ones but they're still hard to find. My size. This is the nicest."

"It's pretty, take off your shirt." I was drinking when she did and some of the beer went down the wrong way, and I started choking. She came over to help but I fended her off and slowly recovered and sat back wiping tears from my eye. Then she slowly came into focus. "My God, you're half the size you used to be." Yes, her breasts were still enormous but perhaps this time it was because they were a huge shelf over a relatively small waist; gone was the beach ball.

She threw her shirt on a chair. "Not these, they aren't half the size ... there is nothing I can do with them." She wasn't smiling when hefted her breasts.

"No, but the rest of you. Look at you. God, I'm really impressed." And I was. In a year she had gone from a revolting slob to a ... I don't know. "How much did you say you've lost? I mean, you're almost there."

"78 pounds." She was undoing her belt and zipper. "I saw a doctor last week. I'm not going to lose much from my breasts, I'll have to have surgery for that. He thinks I should lose another 15 pounds or so before I do." She was pushing down her pants and stepping out of them. "But he had good news, too." She was facing me in her yellow bra and panties, entirely unaffected by her near nudity; she could have been standing in front of the doctor. "I'm young enough that my skin is still really elastic." She pinched some skin at her waist. "He said all this will probably fit me again; he doesn't think I'll need to get any removed — he said I'm really elastic." She started to pull her bra strap over her shoulder.

"Just stay still a moment, let me look at you." I liked that I said this, I liked the sound of it, it sounded like I actually cared, and it shocked me when I realized I did, that I liked looking at her, she was no longer repulsive to me. I quickly undid my pants and pushed them off with my underwear and gripped my prick which had become hard even before she took her pants off and when I looked up, slowly stroking, she was smiling at me, she has a really wonderful smile.

"It's nice to see that, Jim," and she dropped down to her knees with surprising agility and kissed my helmet, then she pressed her face into my belly and when she did, I reached behind her and undid her bra, then I leaned forward, gently pushing her backwards onto the floor, removing her bra as I did, and I lay down beside her and kissed her smile. "You should be very very proud of yourself." My hand was palming her breast. "There aren't many who've accomplished what you have." I half crawled onto her and pressed my erection into her thigh.

"I'm not there yet ... and I'm never going to be slim, I'll always be heavy but maybe a healthy heavy, I can live with that." She pushed her thigh into me.

"Was it hard?" I had raised up on my arm so I could look at her, I was actually interested in her answer.

"Only at first. It was really hard at first, I had to create a whole new life, but they say you can create new habits in a few weeks and I did, diet and exercise and I stuck with it, eating less and less and exercising more and more — you can do that when you're seeing the results. The people at work were really helpful, really encouraging. When I started to feel better, you know, healthier and lighter, able to move better," she laughed and wiggled so her breast shifted in my palm, "even with those, that's when it really took off. Feeling better is even a greater motivator than looking better. Let's go upstairs."

I helped her to her feet and as she turned to lead the way I grabbed her by the waist and stripped her panties off and only then noticed how much weight she had lost on her ass. I pressed myself up against her and squeezed my prick into her crack and pulled her into me and I heard her laugh before she broke free and I followed her up the stairs. But on the top step she turned and sat down and she had a look that I had never seen before but I didn't see it for long because she grabbed me and I fell on top of her and we squirmed along the carpet until my knees could touch and then she pulled me into her, pressing her lips hard against mine and when I entered she fucked at me with a ferocity I didn't think she knew.

I thought of that all week and I thought of her smile and her yellow underwear and her new look and her penetrating gaze that so desperately sought my approval and I phoned her on Thursday night and again on Friday night but she wasn't in. She answered on Saturday morning. "I was out," was all she said to my inquiry and she said she was surprised to hear from me, it hadn't been a month and that, no, she couldn't see me tonight, which really pissed me off and when I hung up I vowed never to see her again.

But that didn't last long, I phoned her the following Thursday but she couldn't see me then or on the weekend. "What gives, Angela, I mean, why can't I see you?"

There was dead air on the line for what seemed an awful long time before she said, "I'm seeing someone."

It was stupid, childish and wrong. I hung up and when I did, I immediately regretted it and quickly phoned her back. "Look, I'm sorry," I emphasized, "but why haven't you got any time for me any more?"