M U F F Pt 09

Content notice:

The following story contains depictions of negative body image, weight stigma, and diet talk.

I've done my best to portray these issues with empathy and sensitivity. Beauty comes in every size, and a joyous, fulfilling sex life is the privilege of anyone who wants one.

That said, if you're someone who prefers to avoid such things altogether, you might try one of my other stories instead.

The characters depicted in the following story are all 18 or above. One of the themes involves sexual liaisons between young adult women and much older adults in a position of relative power over them.

The inclusion of this theme is for storytelling purposes only. It is not a comment on the advisability of such relationships in real life.

The Author

~

M.U.F.F., Part IX

I tell Alex everything.

I start with that day we went shopping, recapping things she already knows. About my dissociative fantasy in the mirror. About fucking myself as Rob, fucking myself as her, fucking myself as Mr. Robinson.

The fact that I'm standing behind her, that she's interacting with me in the form of my reflection standing behind hers--just far enough back for her to see my body, on purpose--doesn't escape her, I'm sure.

I get to the end of what she knows.

Until now, she's refused to turn around. I take her hand gently, like a child, and ask her to sit down on the bed with me before we move on.

We sit on the edge of the bed. I try to sit right up next to her, our legs touching, but she sits just a little too far away.

I want her to look at me, to let me show my nakedness to her. She stares straight ahead instead, into the middle distance.

I tell her about the hotel date with Mr. Robinson. And, knowing that it might hurt both of us, I confess to her that it was moments after we kissed in the car.

She doesn't say anything. Her shoulders visibly tense up.

I tell her about my rampage--the months-long spree of sleeping with every boy I could get my hands on.

I tell her about Rob. I tell her he told me that he had hung out with her, but that they didn't do anything. I tell her I sucked his cock in his car. I tell her I'd have no qualms about doing it again.

I tell her about dipping my toes into online dating, about contemplating a woman who reminded me of her, and subsequently discovering an abundance of older men with perversions of all kinds.

I do my level best to remember, in order, the progression of new sex acts I experienced, starting with eating Christopher's ass. (I don't name names at this point.) About drinking his piss in the shower.

About coming to love anal. About learning to massage a prostate. About the odd, not at all unpleasant experience of role-playing a dehumanization scene, of letting my body be poked, prodded, suckled.

At some point, she started glancing at me. By now, she's actively staring, her pretty eyes wide and incredulous.

I tell her I started accepting "gifts" for sex, how I came to expect them, and how I now regularly arrange "dates" that require payment up front.

I tell her about Darla.

For some reason, thinking of that night induces me to wax nostalgic, going into experiential detail, more so than my rote documentary recounting of the men. I talk about how Darla made me rethink things.

There's something different in Alex's eyes as I tell her about Darla, some spark in there that wasn't there before. She's not really looking me in the face. She's sweeping my body. I don't call her out on it.

I'm enjoying being looked at.

I tell her about the party I have booked in a few weeks--though I keep the specifics of the plan private. Those are still being worked out. But I tell her in no uncertain terms why I'll be there.

Finally, I get to the part I've been avoiding, the part I'm convinced will make her think I've cooked all this up as a way of getting back at her for the grand lie she's perpetrated.

I tell her about my experience with the Robinsons at their house.

She says nothing. I search her face, wait for her to break out in laughter, to turn red, to call "bullshit." But she doesn't.

"Well," she finally says. "This is a lot to process."

I think she believes me.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, though I'm not sure what about.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"I guess..."

I really don't know.

Then it comes tumbling out.

"I guess because none of this would have happened without you," I say. "There are lots of things I discovered about myself very quickly, because you pointed me in the right direction."

"I did?"

"I think you did. At least, my impression of you did."

"But it was all a lie."

"I know. But I believed it when I needed to. I don't need it anymore."

She pauses, as if carefully considering what she's about to say next.

She says, "Are you sure this is right for you? Do you feel like you have to be this way?"

I laugh. "I've thought about that a lot, and I keep coming back to the same conclusion. I've always wanted this. I was never going to get it, not on my own. You came along and showed me how."

She cracks a half-smile. "I don't know how to feel about that."

I say, "Maybe you shouldn't know how to feel. But please, just listen to me when I tell you that you did something good for me. I love my life the way it is now. I love the way I feel. I love myself."

It's a pregnant pause.

Now it's my turn to consider what I'm going to say next.

"I love you," I say.

She turns bright red.

I immediately add, "I don't care if you don't answer me back. I'm not even sure I care if you love me back. I'm fine with it, really. I have a pretty full life."

Quietly, she says, "It isn't that I... it's not that I don't have a response. But is it okay if I don't say anything right now?"

I nod.

Perhaps on an impulse, she reaches out and lightly touches one of the loops of the thin scarf that dangles between my bare breasts.

"Why?" she asks.

"Why what?"

"Why did you want me to see you like this?"

"This is who I am, to a lot of people. And it's who I am to myself, a lot of the time. I wanted you to see it."

Her hand is very close to my heart, and to other parts of me. I wish she would touch me.

I tell her, "I used to hate what I saw in the mirror. But now I'm feeling myself, and I guess I wanted you to see me that way."

"Are you sure it isn't just because you thought you'd get lucky?"

I laugh. "I'm pretty lucky in general."

She laughs, too. The old Alex is starting to come back into her reddened eyes.

Then she says, "Can I ask you something? Just as a hypothetical?"

"Sure."

"If we were to have sex right now, what would make me different from anyone else?"

I think carefully about what I'm going to say. And I'm trying not to wonder too hard just how hypothetical her question is.

"Everyone's different," I say. "There's something special about it with each person. I'm not going to lie and say I wouldn't feel that way about anyone else ever again, but nobody's like anyone else."

She says, "I suppose it goes without saying that, if we were to be in some kind of relationship--hypothetically--it wouldn't be exclusive."

"No," I say. "I couldn't."

"Would you keep... you know..."

"Hooking?"

She blushes. "Yeah."

"Of course. I love to fuck, and I think I'm good at it. Getting paid for it seems reasonable."

"Would you still fuck other people for free?"

"Yes."

"Would you ask me first?"

"No."

"Not even if it were someone like Rob?"

"No. I don't think making that kind of decision for myself is something I could ever see myself giving up."

"What makes the difference between treating someone as a paying customer versus just a regular hookup?"

I think about this.

"The arrangement, mainly. If someone approaches me as a client, I charge them. If it just sort of happens, or if I'm on the hunt for strange, I'm not going to tell them, 'Oh, by the way, pay me.'"

She laughs.

We fall into another pregnant pause. We search each other's eyes. For what, I don't know.

Wistfully, almost to myself, I say, "There isn't a single person that I wouldn't let fuck me."

She is straight-up staring at my belly, where it overlaps my thighs, no doubt thinking about what hides beneath it.

She whispers, "You really have changed."

"Yeah," I say.

I stare at her, staring at me.

Then I ask, "Are you turned on right now?"

She doesn't say anything.

I add, "I'm not driving at anything. I just want to know."

"Yes," she says.

"So am I," I say.

I wait for her to move, or to say something, even if it's to diffuse the situation.

But she doesn't move. She doesn't say anything. I find myself looking at the deep V of her summer dress, the bare landscape between her small breasts, her flat belly, her navel just visible at the bottom.

I tell her, "If you want to do something about it, we should just go ahead and do it. Otherwise, I'm going to put my clothes back on."

"Can I just..." she trails off.

I give her an expectant look.

"Touch you?" she asks.

"Anywhere you want."

She places her hand on my chest, between my breasts, through my scarf. I can feel my heart beating against her palm, a little harder than usual, a little faster.

I've seen a lot and done a lot, but this feels new. My mind pauses and reminds me that this is Alex, my best friend. My sexual idol.

And, as it turns out, practically a virgin.

Her hand moves, hesitantly, down towards my stomach.

"Anywhere you want," I repeat softly.

After all the frontiers I've crossed, this is uncharted territory.

Her hand roams over my belly, a twinge of bashfulness crossing her face--I think she still finds my body fat embarrassing on my behalf--then back up to cup my tit.

She sees me wince as she gets close to my nipple. She takes care as she touches it.

"What do you think?" I ask.

"I've never touched a woman before," she says.

"Not even playing? Like at a party, or to tease men?"

"Nope."

I take her by the wrist. She lets me. I bring her hand up and down one breast, then the other. Around my belly, over the coarse beginnings of pubic hair growth on the thick roll of my stomach, onto my thigh.

I stop when her arm grows resistant.

"Hypothetically," she says, "if we were in a relationship where you were..."

"Hooking?"

"Seeing other people."

"If that's what you want to call it."

"That would mean I'd be free to see other people too."

"I wouldn't be okay if you didn't."

"Why?"

I sigh.

I say, "Because I'm not the only one for you. I can't be. It's a big world out there. A lot of experiences worth having. I would hate myself if I kept you away from that."

To that, she says nothing.

Then her hand starts moving again, of its own volition, towards my crotch.

I spread my thighs and slouch, giving her an easier angle, and sigh gratefully when I feel her fingers find their way home.

Just barely into the trench of my puffy labia, she says, "You're so soft."

"Here," I say, pulling up a pillow to recline against. "Put your middle finger in me."

She does. My vagina accepts her effortlessly.

"Wow," she mouths voicelessly, staring at my vulva with her finger buried inside me.

She reorients herself. Not exactly lying on top of me, but kneeling next to me, arched over me.

"What do I do now?" she says.

"Anything you want," I say.

"Should I get naked?"

"Do you feel like being naked?"

"I don't know."

"Then keep your clothes on for now."

"I didn't know that was an option."

I smile. "Wiggle your finger. Towards you, like you're saying 'come here.'"

She does. It's not great.

But it's good.

"Put another finger in," I tell her.

She hesitates.

I tell her, "Don't worry. I can take it."

I don't tell her that I could probably take her entire hand right now.

She slides her index finger in along with the middle finger, and repeats the "come here" motion without being told.

"It's good," I tell her. "It feels nice."

She looks pleased.

I take the wrist of her other arm.

"Put your hand here," I say, and guide it to my vulva, placing her fingertips just between my stretched entrance and the hooded clitoris so close above it.

"What now?" she says.

"A third finger," I say, "and swirl me and do the 'come here' at the same time."

She obeys without objection.

It's a little rough going at first, but she finds a rhythm, and--though I have to caution her away from my clit a couple times--she might actually make me come on her first try.

I let my head hang back limply, playing with my own nipples, though I watch her face as she drinks in the sight of my body in her thrall.

I'm crying out, grunting, all the hammy little things I do with men that aren't fake, so much as an intentional show of my feelings.

"What do--" she starts.

"Just keep doing this," I interrupt, hissing between my teeth. "Don't stop don't stop--"

She takes her fingers away a little too soon, but the build is already there, close to the point of no return, inflamed by the presence of my friend and newfound lover--

With my orgasm so close within reach, I begin to jill myself. She embraces me, peppers my face and neck with kisses, as if she isn't sure what to do. Which, I guess, she isn't.

When I come, her face is directly above my face, her eyes clouded with lust. I sink back into the bed, and we kiss, wetly and sloppily. Our second kiss. So many things have transpired since the first.

We cuddle and neck for a while. After a while, it becomes apparent that this is as far as it goes, that she's had her fill of life-changing revelations.

At least, for the moment.

She offers me dinner. I tell her I'm not quite ready to put my clothes back on, and ask her if she's comfortable if I stay naked.

"I don't know if I am," she says.

We compromise. She finds some old pajamas of mine, left in a drawer from a sleepover in the before-time.

(She dared me to get naked, which I did, in the dark, under the covers. In retrospect, this was an early formative step in the journey that brought us to this.)

I ditch my scarf and pull the pajamas on: high-waisted yoga pants and a loose t-shirt. (I knot it below my breasts--new Beth doesn't do shapeless, concealing clothing.) I don't bother with a bra or panties.

We go downstairs to the kitchen, where she reheats some leftovers. We eat together, mostly in silence.

I keep waiting for sex to come up again, but it never does, and I've decided not to push the issue.

It's late. She invites me to stay, then clarifies that I can sleep in her bed with her.

"If you want," she adds.

"Pajamas or naked?" I ask.

"Well, I always sleep naked..."

"So do I."

I call my family and let them know that I'll be staying the night with Alex. It's fine with them--nothing unusual about it, and they're happy that we're hanging out again.

In Alex's room, by the reading light on her bedside table, we undress at the same time. Even though she's seen me naked now, and I've seen her naked plenty of times, it's a charmingly shy affair.

We crawl under the covers. At first, we're apart, but, soon enough, we scooch together.

We neck a while, feeling each other in mostly innocuous ways under the blankets. I delight in her taught musculature, her deceptively soft ass. For her part, she's bolder about my many soft, fleshy parts.

Eventually, she turns the light off. We neck some more, and eventually fall asleep in each other's arms.

~

I wake up, having rolled over at some point, my back to Alex, her body spooning mine, her arm draped over my belly.

At some point in the night, one or both of us kicked the covers partway down our thighs. Broad morning light pours into the room, made diffuse by her thin curtains.

(She would boast that her windows faced the neighbors, and that it turned her on to know that the curtains hid nothing from them. That part, I still believe is true.)

I want to roll over, to see her body, to touch her. But I hear her snoring--a brassy, masculine sound--and decide to just lie her and enjoy the feel of her body pressed up against mine.

Eventually, she stirs, and I feel her prop herself up on her elbow.

I turn my face upward, and her face is above mine, and we kiss.

It's a little romantic, a little raunchy. Both of us have nighttime mouth and neither of us seems to give a shit, which I like.

The kiss breaks.

"Morning," she says.

"Morning," I say.

At some point in our sleep, she changed her mind about her comfort with nudity. We both spend the morning with each other naked. She doesn't object, doesn't seem ill at ease with either of our bodies.

In the kitchen, she prepares breakfast--cereal. Probably wise of her to skip cooking anything in oil, at least without an apron.

I enjoy watching her parade around, gathering things, her lithe, hairless physique stretching this way and turning that way, her tiny breasts vanishing and returning every time she reaches over her head.

I think she knows I'm staring. Neither of us acknowledges it.

We eat on the living room couch, the morning news prattling indistinctly on the TV. I feel a twinge in my guts, remembering my first encounter with Mr. Robinson.

I'm so horny.

Idly, I imagine doing to her what Jack did to me--having her sprawl out limply while I play with every inch of her naked body as I see fit. The fantasy isn't helping.

We finish eating at around the same time. We set our bowls down on the coffee table in front of us.

She turns towards me and kisses me on the cheek. I take her face into my hands and kiss her on the mouth.

"What now?" she asks.

I grab the duvet from the couch, and spread it on the floor. We sit together, little innocent kisses, hands not so innocent, until she's on her back and I'm lying on top of her.

"Just relax," I tell her. "Let things happen."

Looking up at me, she nods.

I stroke her soft skin, feeling the cords of well-trained muscle running throughout her arms and her abdomen, following my fingertips with wet, sucking kisses.

I play with her nipples, flicking one of them with the tip of my tongue. They're not too sensitive. She's squirming a little, breathing loudly.

My fingertips brush her pubis.

She's so luxuriously smooth, I almost miss feeling that sensation on my own body. My own pubic growth will soon be back in earnest.

I use what Darla taught me.

I return to her nipples, leaving one hand between her legs. She spreads her thighs and raises her knees. What I find is soft, warm, and soaking wet.

I draw little bits of nonsense between her pussy lips, until I find the place that elicits the most welcoming response from her--a little closer to her clitoris than on me.

I swirl her there, keeping her nipples busy with my mouth and my free hand, until I can't help myself and move up to watch her face. In her state, her orgasm approaches quickly.

I've watched a lot of people come. But this is special.

Her mouth is slightly slack, her lips parted, her eyes closed almost peacefully. Her cheeks and forehead are bright red. Her breaths go in and out in ratcheting, staccato bursts, followed by a long exhale.

We lie there a while, her flat on her back, me clinging to her warm, sweaty body, my hand cupping her humid vulva.

TO BE CONTINUED

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