Randy Randy 3

So my friend Allen says I should write down some of the things I've done. He said there's a thing called

Literotica

that would have people who like to hear about shit like my life. Well, what the hell. I'm, let's say, "between jobs" right now and got nothing else to do. So here goes.

It's a Friday night at the

Happy Tavern

, a little joint in a little town in a midwestern state. Allen says I need to be careful with names and shit so I don't get in trouble. Well, or get the chicks in trouble too.

Anyway, it's Friday night at the

Happy Tavern

and I've been giving pool and darts lessons to the locals, which I am not one of. But I'm here often enough, and won my first fight convincingly enough, that I'm accepted as, if not a regular, at least not a stranger. I could get by with winning by buying an occasional round and the men had decided it was kind of flattering to have the city boy flirt with their wives since they knew I was harmless having been claimed by Rita the owner and Donna the bartender.

I hit the last bullseye, closing out the Cricket game and laughing as the girl who was my partner high-fived me and kissed me. I pushed her away and handed her to her mother, it had been her mother and father who we had just beaten, and said, "Watch this one. She's starting to fill out nicely and I might decide she's old enough."

We all laughed. It was that kind of a place and I figured she'd be knocked up about the time she got a driver's license but that was so far from my concern I couldn't even see concern from where I was. Hell, her mom had her big tits barely contained in a man's shirt not buttoned but tied below those udders of hers, and half of her ass hanging out of ridiculous Daisy Dukes. Like mother like daughter as they say. Yeah, it was THAT kind of a place too.

I bellied up to the bar, as they say, and ordered another beer. Rita had just did the flick-the-lights-on-and-off thing and called out, "Last Call For Alcohol," to loud groans from around the bar. But there are laws and it was coming up on 2:00 in the morning.

I watched Donna moving behind the bar, doing all of that bartender shit a good bartender does to close the place down and be ready for tomorrow. She was fun to watch. At five foot nothing and somewhere between 250 and 300 pounds she was a perfect butterball. She was in one of her flowered muumuus, one of those brightly patterned Hawaiin-looking things that have a scoop neck, very puffy sleeves, and about 50 yards of brightly patterned material. For someone so big she moved with an odd grace, comfortable in her size and with the familiarity of a great chef working in his kitchen. She cleaned and polished, exchanging occasional winks with me.

And yes, my dick got hard.

That's what she likes about me, of course. Oh, hell, let's be honest, that's what all of the women in my life like about me. I have a condition, you see. I wondered about it enough to go talk to a doctor and he said it was a new one on him. There's a condition called "random erections" when old Wilbur, your one-eyed friend just jumps up for no good reason, but that's not it. Mine gets hard when I'm around a woman, for sure, but not just because I'm walking by a building and a breeze blows. But it's not what the doctor called

Priapism

either. When you have that shit it gets hard and stays hard and that can fuck old Wilbur up. But that's not it. I'm soft until I see a chick, and get soft again after I'm done. Well, for a while anyway, but if I'm with a broad, well, old Wilbur needs about 20 minutes and he's ready to rock and roll again.

I felt big tits against my back and then felt breath in my ear. I recognized Rita's voice when she said, "Now don't you wear her out, y'hear. I need her at work tomorrow."

I laughed, turned, and grabbed her by the ass and pulled her to me.

"We could make it a minage ah twah," I said, and she laughed.

"Sorry, my love, but I'm up to my tits in rugrats right now," she said, "but Donna's free. Just don't ruin her."

Which was true, of course. Rita is the original Fertile Myrtle. She told me once, over the pillow as we both relaxed after about an hour of non-stop fuckfest, that she got knocked up at 14 and at last count had eight, She laughed and said, "Maybe I'll get me a full baseball team, wanna help." "I think I just did," I said, and hell, maybe I had. But she wasn't showing.

I laughed, gave her tit a friendly squeeze, and said, "Deal."

I finished my beer when Donna came over, handed her the empty glass, and watched as she carefully washed, dried, and racked it.

She came around the bar and once again I was amazed at how she moved. Shit, she was skipping as she covered the last couple of yards before wrapping me in one of those soft pillow embraces of hers.

"Baby," she breathed in my ear after a wet sloppy kiss, "If this cowgirl don't get to ridin' pretty fucking soon I'm going to explode, I swear I am."

I laughed, patted her big hip, and said, "Your car or mine?"

She laughed back, said "Follow me home," and headed for the door in that light, skipping way of hers she had when she knew she was about to get laid.

I got into my car, a restored '62 Chevy Impala 409 if you care about such things, and followed her in her ridiculous little Mazda Miata that sagged dramatically on the driver's side from her weight.

Donna has a trailer on a little plot of woods that she told me once was a gift from an uncle she used to fuck. I liked the place, it was nice and private and you could do anything you wanted. The nearest neighbor was probably five miles away.

That was important because sometimes Donna was a screamer.

And I DID love making her scream.

When we got inside she turned and wrapped me in another of those soft, pillowy hugs, and said, very softly, "Randy, it's been a very bad week. Undress me, please, slowly, tell me I'm pretty, and take me to bed."

I laughed and said, "You're my favorite, you know that," repeating a line I had used about a bazillion times before.

She laughed at that, a big belly laugh with her head thrown back, and then met my eyes.

"I suppose I am at that," she said, and then punched me in the arm, a solid punch that hurt, "since I'm the one who's here right now. That's always your favorite, isn't it Randy." That last was delivered with a bit of seriousness.

I grinned, the boyish grin I practice in the mirror a lot, kissed her quick and hard, and then said, "Okay, beautiful, you're my favorite right now."

She started to say something but I shut her up with a kiss. Hell, I wasn't here for a conversation, well, not yet anyway, and we both knew that. So I kissed her, my hands bunching the material of her muumuu as I did until I had it pulled up past her knees. Then I broke the kiss just long enough to lean back, pull the muumuu up past her belly, and then peel it up like a banana, lifting it over her arms which she had raised straight over her head, accommodating what I was doing. She was a very accommodating girl. Yeah, "accommodate" is the word of the day on my calendar.

Her trailer, okay, her mobile home, was warm. She's an open-windows kind of girl and I liked the gentle smells of the woods and the night sounds myself. It was warm enough that she was already sweating, and I liked that too. I've been with my share of skinny broads, you know, the cool-as-a-cucumber kind who never have a hair out of place or perspire, but I like a woman who gets into it and that includes sweating when you get going. Donna did that. As my hands found the material of her bra it was wet with sweat, damn it, I missed a chance to use another of my

Word A Day

words. The bra was sodden.

I pushed her to arm's length and just looked. I've discovered that women like that, you know, being openly looked at, kind of like you're inventorying them. Oh, they may bitch and blush and say shit like, "Jeez, take a picture, it'll last longer," but that's all bullshit. Broads like being looked at. Otherwise why in the hell would they spend so much time in front of mirrors? Am I right?

So anyway, I looked.

Let me say this. I like women. I like ALL women. I like young women (as long as they're legal of course). I like old women. I like pretty women. I like homely women. Hell, I even like flat-out ugly women. I like skinny women. I like women with big old boobs and women with tiny teacup titties. I like them blonde and brunette and redheaded and if the pussy hair is a different color, if, of course, there's any there, I like that too.

But if I had to be honest, gun to my head and a lie detector attached, I'd have to say fat girls are my favorite.

In my experience, there are two types of fat broads. There are those who are classically "shapely" in the sense of being sort of an hourglass with a narrow waist and wide hips but are just normal size times 2. These chicks are fun with those big pillow boobs, sweet asses, and often they flaunt that shit around showing inches of cleavage and liking their Daisy Duke cutoffs showing off that big ass.

The other type are the plain old fat girls. There's no hourglass. The waist on a chick like that is often the biggest part of her. The "figure" of a fat girl like that is a series of rolls.

Donna was a plain old fat girl.

Her face was very round although, unlike many fat girls, her eyes were actually sort of big and, well, "bug-eyed" is the word but not in a bad way, on her it just highlighted her pretty blue eyes. She wore her blonde hair, and I happen to know she's a natural blonde making her another rarity. In my experience, oversized blondes tend to be the giant hourglass type while brunettes tended to be the apples.

Let me digress.

If you're not familiar with them, there are four basic female body types. There's the hourglass - think Marilyn Monroe or Sophia Loren - with big boobs, small waists, and big hips. There's the tube, think any model you see on TV or Angelina Jolie - no boobs, no waist, no hips. There's the pear - women who put all of their weight from the waist down. And there's the apple - women who are just plain round.

Donna's an apple.

Her blonde hair was done up in sort of a giant halo, the words backcombing and "ratting" applied. If you've ever watched any of those old movies, you know,

Beach Blanket Fuckfest

or something with Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello, well, that's what Donna's hair looked like except around her forehead it was already darker and damp with her sweat. Her face was smooth, the skin stretched by the layer of fat under it. She had a little button nose, a small cupid bow of a mouth, tiny ears, very round cheeks looking like she was storing an apple or something in each one, and about five chins but no neck.

She giggled as I kept slowly moving my eyes down in a slow inventory.

One of the things I like about a truly fat girl is the way they seem to store fat in the upper part of their arms and Donna did that. Her hands were normal size with pudgy fingers but nothing you'd notice, and her forearms, with a rose tattooed on one and a series of names - Robert, Frederick, Samuel, and Johnathan in a line down the other, all with a line through them, crossing them out. Randy was not crossed out.

Above her elbows, though, she ballooned. By the middle of her bicep, it was as big around as my thigh and I loved the deep cellulite dimples there.

From the neck down, she was a series of rolls. Off of her shoulders was a soft round roll. Her bra covered the second roll and the third and fourth rolls were successively bigger. Her panties covered the next roll and held her belly apron like it was a sack. Her thighs were big enough to have their own pair of rolls, the lower covering about half of her knee. Below her knees, her calves, like her forearms, were, well, "normal size" and her calves tapered to ankles so delicate you had to wonder how they supported her.

I held my arm out, finger pointing straight down, and twirled it. You know, the universal "turn around" gesture.

Not for the first time I thought, "Damn, is there anything sexier than a truly fat girl's back?"

The first roll of her back hung, looking almost like an ass the way the two distinct rolls came to a crease at her spine. That big bag of fat almost covered her bra. Two more heavy rolls made up her back before the panties hid her huge ass. The backs of her thighs were even more obviously fat than the fronts with deep cellulite dimples, and that top roll would probably have failed the pencil test.

Oh, the pencil test? You never heard that one? The first time I did I was with this woman who was partying with her friends, celebrating six weeks after having the baby. Hell, I can't even remember her name. Anyway, she was drunk and when I started making my moves on her the other women with her started teasing, something I don't mind, I've never been shy about approaching a herd of women to cut one out, but one of them said something about the "pencil test." That stopped me and I said something bright like, "Huh?"

She giggled and peeled off the T-shirt she was wearing, the one that said "Quit Staring. I'm Breastfeeding," and did that double-jointed thing all women seem to be able to do and reached back to unhook her bra. Her tits were big and heavy and she said, "If you put a pencil under your boob and it doesn't fall out you need a bra." I said something witty like, "Oh." She laughed at that, looked at the table, picked up a shot glass sitting there because one of her friends was doing shots and beers, lifted her tit, and put the shot glass under it. "See," she said but I couldn't, the glass was completely covered, "I NEED a bra."

A skinny girl peeled off her top, no bra, tiny little titties peeking at me now, picked up one of those tiny little straws from one of the drinks, dried it carefully, and put it under one of those bitty titties. It fell out.

"I see," I said. I never did fuck that new mom, but I DID find out the skinny girl liked it up the ass.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah.

That roll on the back of Donna's thigh would fail the pencil test. Hell, it might fail the shot glass test.

I moved to her, found the two hooks of her bra, and unhooked it. Christ, it was soaked with her sweat.

I used my hands on her shoulders to guide her to turn, she's WAY too big to actually turn her, until she faced me.

I did the two palms to her cheeks thing, looked into her eyes, another look I practiced regularly, and said, "You are beautiful."

Her eyes overflowed then, and I liked the dark streaks that started down her cheeks.

"God I love you," she said, not moving, just holding my eyes.

I was taking my time now. I knew what she needed, this wasn't my first time with her, and it doesn't cost me anything or hurt a bit to give a woman what she needs.

I gently brushed a few wet hairs from her forehead and kissed her, a gentle, soft, and yes, loving kiss. I do love women.

She was crying now, not sobbing or bawling or wailing or anything dramatic, but she WAS crying softly.

Fat girls are so predictable.

I kissed her, a slick snotty kiss now as she cried softly, and then started working my way down her body. I kissed each soft chin lightly, her shoulders, and the top roll of fat.

She didn't really have breasts to speak of. They were just another roll of fat with nipples. So I found each nipple, small and very hard, and sucked gently before easing to my knees.

In my experience, women like that shit. You know, a man on his knees before her. I worked those panties down and buried my face in the deep warm crease of her belly button. When I did the motorboat she giggled.

I kissed farther down, taking my time and covering her FUPA with dry little kisses, lips puckered like a little boy kissing his Mom.

What's that? Oh. That's her Fat Upper Pussy Area. On a truly fat girl that

mons veneris

, you know that round mound of rebound (sorry Sir Charles) that marks a woman's entrance. In Donna's case, it was like a five-pound bag of fat that was soft and very warm. There was no hair, not that she shaved but the constant rubbing every time she took a step kept it smooth.

I worked my way down, kissing those enormous fat thighs, probing the cellulite dimples with my tongue, and loving every inch of her. At her knees, where another roll of fat hung, I sucked on that, hard, leaving a hickey on each one.

And I still wasn't done. I went all the way down, prostrating myself on the floor, and kissing her feet.

Now that wasn't fun. She's a big girl and sweats easily and she had been on her feet for most of an eight-hour shift and my friend, if you've never watched a good bartender at work, you just don't understand how much physical work it is. She got one of those FitBit things and often went over 20,000 steps in a shift.

So, anyway, I worked the laces of her expensive walking shoes (something called Hoka Bondi 7 if you care, about $250 a pair at Amazon prices), got them off of her, and peeled off her sock, damp from foot sweat, before kissing them. And yes, her feet did NOT smell good at all but she likes when I do that and I DO like giving chicks what they like.

I used my hands on her hips to turn her and started up her back. I loved the way she squealed and giggled when I sucked the backs of her knee joints. At her ass, and if you've never paid attention to a truly fat broad's ass you really should. Her ass itself, the big

gluteus maximus

that gave an ass its shape, was kind of lost in the surrounding softness. So I kissed it, something else I think all chicks love.

At her size she has trouble, you know, reaching and getting really clean and there was that earthy smell, not bad but, well, let's be honest here, a hint of shit smell. But there was also a sweet smell, almost like when you used to get cotton candy when the carnival was in town, and I knew when I spread her cheeks I'd find she had a rash going. So I checked and, sure enough, there was a bright red circle a couple of inches across before you to that tiny puckered opening. So I pushed harder, spreading her cheeks, making her lean back to keep her balance, and licked where I knew she would be sensitive and itching. She giggled and I tasted just a hint of sweetness.

But I wasn't here for analingus, not yet anyway, so I pulled back, let her ass go enjoying the little slapping sound as it closed up, and continued kissing my way up her back.

Her back didn't sweat as much as her front but there was this line down her spine, well, where the two rolls of fat made a deep crease where her spine must have been, and it glistened with sweat so I ran my tongue up it, tasting salty womansweat mixed with the hormones of a woman in heat.

By the time I stood behind her, old Wilbur was so hard he hurt as he nestled between her ass cheeks.

"You are beautiful, you are tasty, and I love you," I said, something else a chick likes to hear.

I moved around so she could watch me undress. I didn't make a strip tease of it but I did it slowly, holding her eyes, until I stood naked, Wilbur at full attention.

Then I crawled up onto the bed, laid back with my head on one of the six pillows she kept on the bed, laced my fingers behind my head, and said, "Well, come on, ride 'em, cowgirl."

She got onto the bed, ponderous in her size, and started knee-walking up my body, her knees outside of my legs. I could feel the softness of her thighs almost caressing as she worked her way up. When he had her knees just above my hips, Wilbur resting comfortably under the warm weight of her belly roll she grunted lifted herself, grabbed a double handful of belly and FUPA, and lifted it out of the way.

"Help me," she said, so I reached down and gave Wilbur a push so he pointed straight up and then watched him disappear as she settled onto him.