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 XII
Of course, Alex and Courtney fucked.
Alex tells me the story, every little detail, right down to the way the sunlight in the walled back garden picked out hints of gold in Courtney's untamed forest of bright red pubic hair.
They're already planning a second date.
I tell Alex about my surprise threesome with Michael and Austin. Her eyes get wider with every detail--how I had them getting off to the sight of each other's bodies, how they tasted each other's cum.
"Any longer with them and you'd have had them sucking each other off," she says.
"If I can get them both to see me again, that'll be the bare minimum," I say.
~
It's the night of the party. Darla and I worked things out ahead of time.
It's an apartment. The spacious front room has been cleared and there are layers of soft blankets in the center of the floor, maybe three or four deep, with a waterproof through blanket on top.
There's a circle of men around it, some of whom I've done nigh-unspeakable things with, some of whom have brought their wives. Somewhere among them is Alex.
I'm standing in the middle.
Barefoot, clad in a too-small low cut pink top and a floral printed skirt that barely covers my ass. Every soft part of me threatens to pour out over the top, or in between.
And, of course, nothing underneath.
(I asked Darla over the phone what I should wear.
"The virgin-whore complex," she answered.)
I'm hyper-aware of the buttplug hidden inside me. They'll see it soon enough.
There's a collective hush. Heads turn, including mine.
Darla enters, wearing an all-black mens-style suit meticulously tailored to conform to every peak and valley of her substantial body. Her hair is up and back to enhance the masculine effect.
It's three pieces. She doesn't wear a shirt under the waistcoat--her breasts look mountainous.
From Darla's open zipper, there extends a strap-on dildo, translucent dark blue, damn near as big as my forearm, shining under the overhead lights. The glans traces jagged patterns in the air as she saunters.
"Holy fuck," someone murmurs. A feminine voice, maybe Alex.
Darla stands behind me. For a minute, she does nothing. Just lets me stand there, heart pounding, about a dozen sets of eyes leering at me.
She lifts the back of my skirt--I feel it, clinging across my wide hips as it rolls upward--and exposes my bare buttocks, to the audible delight of those within eyeline of it.
Something hard brushes my asscrack. That would be the dildo.
She leaves my skirt where it is, hoisted and bunched with my ass exposed. She gets closer behind me, letting the dildo lay atop the trench of my asscrack. Her tits and belly touch my back.
Her hands reach around my waist. One pulls the waistband of my skirt down and the hem of my shirt up, exposing the fullness of my belly.
("Some of them genuinely just like our bodies, but some of them are fetishists," she said. "The latter wants to see the full freak show, and the former isn't going to turn it down.")
True to Darla's prediction, some of them just seem happy to see more skin, but at least a few are reacting very specifically to the sudden emphasis of my protruding body fat.
With so many eyes on me, so many voices rising up in cheers, jeering, and intermingling conversational noise, everything seems to slow down and float in a thick haze, like falling snow inside a snow globe.
The din of the room rushes like a waterfall in my ears.
Through it, I hear Darla address the crowd.
"Don't be shy," she says. "Come closer."
The circle around us grows smaller. They're close enough to touch us from all sides, though no one dares. I feel as if I can feel the hot breath of the room on my exposed flesh.
From a man nearby--Christopher, I think, though it's hard to tell with the overhead light and my tunnel vision--I catch one word:
"Tits."
Darla laughs. She says they can have one now, then the other later if they behave themselves.
Then her hand reaches around me and her fingers peel the cloth upwards over my left breast. It bursts free, heavy and plump on my ribcage.
She grips my hair, bends me over, bids me to spread my cheeks, makes sure I give a full turnaround so that the whole room can see the gaudy heart-shaped buttplug clenched in my hairless anus.
(Darla strongly suggested we both shave for the occasion--"everything below the neck, right down to the skin"--and, dolefully, I agreed.)
"Touch your toes," she tells me, and I do.
My top rides up and releases my tits around my chin, its flimsy fabric unable to hold them in this position.
Our audience crowds around as she pulls the buttplug out. I feel my sphincter opening around it, big enough at its widest point to admit a smallish adult hand. The intensity leaves me temporarily breathless.
I'm no longer able to process their discreet responses. They blur together, a whole room focused on my thrumming asshole as the small tip of the buttplug finally exits.
"Elbows and knees," she orders.
I comply. She presses down on the back of my head, mashing the side of my face into the blankets. Out of the corner of my clouded vision, I see faces, some cheering, some staring with mouths agape.
We planned all of this. Nevertheless, in my fogged mind, the scene is made more potent, transformed, by the taboo of what's happening, what's about to happen.
I almost don't register the dildo until it's all the way inside me, filling me up just about to my stomach.
From behind, she fucks me, aggressively. I feel my flesh rippling. I passively take her cock, splayed out on the blankets with my ass up. Her fingers grip the meat of my asscheeks.
"Pleasure yourself," she orders.
I slide my hand down between my belly and the blankets, and feel how inhumanly wide my labia are stretched around the sliding girth of Darla's ersatz cock.
Darla growls her approval in a string of words and phrases that demean me and egg me on.
My eyes glide listlessly around the room.
I drink in their laughing, cheering, horny faces, funneling them into my living fantasy as I pleasure myself with my fingers, while Darla fills my pussy almost to bursting again, and again, and again.
At some point, she has me on my back and she fists my asshole, but I don't remember. I'm told later that I had a spectacular orgasm--though not the first, or the last.
Darla doffs her jacket, strips from the waist down, smothers me with her pussy and her ass, not inviting me to pleasure her so much as be held in powerless awe by her flesh, her sweat, her scent. I can't breathe. In that moment, I'm in love.
Then we're sitting naked and upright, clutching each other's bodies, grinding our pussies on each other's thighs, our bellies and breasts slide together, our faces buried in each other's shoulders.
Darla comes. Her cries are over an octave higher than when she gleefully rumbled all those dirty things into my ear. It's a beautiful sound.
Then the show is over.
~
Darla insists that we shower together. Soon, I understand why. There, under the spray, she holds me, strokes my hair, tells me I did a wonderful job.
She asks me if I'm okay, if there's anything that hurt me or upset me. Truthfully, I tell her I'm fine, that I enjoyed every bit of it.
Gradually, I'm back to full awareness. Darla is drying my hair while I sit on the closed toilet seat. My body is alive with lingering sensation.
She dons a comically small robe and offers me one as well. I accept.
