Double Date Ch 01

Okay, Gentle Reader, I'm offering a challenge.

I have been thinking for some time now that it would be fun to write something collaborative. So here's your chance to join me on an interesting journey. What follows is an opening scene. David and Marti are married and preparing for their first "double date with a happy ending." They are, as you can see, still in love, but sex has become, if not stale, predictable.

Now, the question in my mind is this - - how is the other couple handling the upcoming date? Are they as nervous as David and Marti? Are they old hands at the swinging scene? Are they still in love? My only requirement is that the woman is big and beautiful.

If you would like to join me in this experiment, contact me through the "comments" section below (for obvious reasons I don't release my email address on Literotica). Send me your opening paragraph or two and, if I like it, I'll send you the draft as a.docx file and you can add the next section. I will retain final edit and proofreading rights.

Come on. I know there are plenty of budding writers (I don't call myself an author, that sounds a bit pretentious) out there. Let's see what you got.

Double Date

"Are you sure about this?" I asked for about the thousandth time.

"Fuck no," she said, but she was giggling, "I'm scared out of my goddam mind. But I'm also so damn excited I could cum right here."

I reached around and ran my hands down her breasts, cupping and then releasing them, before continuing down her belly, big and soft as a woman's should be.

She leaned against me as I lifted the soft flesh of her belly apron and probed lower until I found the hard little button of her clitoris.

"Right here?" I asked.

"Baby," she breathed, but she didn't try to push my hands away.

My Marti is pretty hair-triggered. I think it's the whole ugly duckling thing. She was always the fat girl and sometimes I think, no matter how many times I tell her she's beautiful, how often I tell her I love her, she's still afraid this time might be the last and I'll leave her, finally acting like every other man in her life.

But I've always been a chubby chaser, ever since my cousin, all 297 pounds of her, claimed my virginity when I was, well, never mind that detail. That gave me an advantage in high school when I faced no competition while the rest of the guys fought (sometimes literally) for the attention of some skinny blonde. While they did that, I would have Brenda or Lucy or LaVerne or Kathy on a picnic blanket at my favorite spot, doing a scientific experiment to see if it was actually possible to fuck yourself stupid.

I was head-over-heels, crazy, stupid in love with my wife when I married her 17 years ago, and still am. But as always happens, there really weren't any more surprises, any more adventures for us. So when ((fill in your name here)), the male half of a couple we met at the Cow Palace, a Club that catered to men who enjoyed women who no longer fit into a size 6 or, for that matter, a size 16, had broached the idea of, as he put it, "A double date with a happy ending," I asked Marti if she might be interested.

Even after 17 years she still retained that "Ugly Duckling Syndrome" at her core.

I remembered when I had broached the subject of our double date the first time.

Marti is pretty. Slightly oversized ears and front teeth that are a little crooked keep her from being truly beautiful, but she's very pretty in that round-faced, firm-skinned way of truly fat girls.

Marti is NOT pretty when she cries.

Her eyes were instantly red and swollen. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her nose was red and swollen with little bulges on each side as her sinuses plugged. Clear mucus poured from her nose and when she spoke thick mucus-laden saliva made a sheet between her upper and lower lip.

"You're done with me then?" she asked. No, let me rewrite that sentence.

"Y-y-you're d-d-done w-w-with m-m-m-me th-th-then," she managed in a very small, defeated voice, her head hanging, thick strings of mucus hanging from her nose unattended as she stood, arms hanging, utterly defeated.

It was so silly I couldn't help but laugh.

And that was the wrong thing to do.

"YOU THINK I'M FUNNY TOOOOOOOOO?" she screamed, swinging her big soft arm in a slap that would probably have knocked me back if not for all of those hours I spend in a Shaolin do Daochang (what you probably think of as a "dojo") that gave me the reflexes to block.

"No, Marti, no," I said, still chuckling as I wrapped her into a hug. Well, into something more like a boxer's clinch to tie her up and keep her from trying to hit me again.

"No, Baby, no," I said, holding her, my lips so close to her ear I knew she would feel each word as a warm puff, "No, nothing like that. Now calm down, let's talk."

I'm not sure how long I held her, saying those things you say in a situation like that. I was calming her like you might calm a frightened deer or a stray animal you weren't sure about. She was crying and soaking my shirt with a warm, sticky mixture of tears, snot, and drool.

Eventually, I felt her relax and I allowed enough slack between us that I could lean back far enough to focus on her eyes.

No, my Marti is NOT pretty when she cries. I had started this conversation in the kitchen as we did that careful dance allowing us to work in the same relatively small area without bumping into each other all of the time. She was in her regular around-the-house outfit of worn-out flannel shorts and an oversized T-shirt (this one advertising Coors Beer). She's one of those women who hates wearing a bra and goes barefoot whenever possible.

And she was a mess. Tears were still running down her cheeks to drip onto her breasts and the clear snot from her runny nose added to the tears making her look like she was in the finals of a wet T-shirt contest.

I kissed her. It was snot-slick and she didn't respond at first but I dug my fingers into her great mass of dark hair, holding her, until I felt her finally surrender and kiss me back.

I held her like that, standing in the kitchen, my arms around her and whispering, as the old song goes, "Sweet Nothings" while she got herself under control. It felt like a long time but it was probably something like a minute or two before she finally drew a deep breath, blew it out, and pushed me away, not in anger this time, but to allow us to talk.

"Tell me," she said.

"You know ((name and name))," I said, "from The Club. Well, they're kind of like us. They've been married for ((number here) years and are thinking about, well, experimenting."

I wound down at that point, having a few second thoughts myself.

"And?" she asked, calm now that she was sure this wasn't "the talk" that led to a breakup.

"And he thinks you're hot and would like to have a double date with the understanding that if we wind up going home with someone not our spouse, that's okay," I said. I was kind of proud of that little turn of phrase and it worked.

She giggled.

"Now THAT, my love," she said, "is about the cutest way of saying 'wife swapping' that I could imagine."

I chuckled.

"Are you ready to talk now?" I asked.

She smiled, nodded, and said, "But first I have to wash my face."

I smiled and said, "Go ahead. While you do that I'll make us up a snack. Then we'll talk."

"You think feeding me makes everything all better, don't you," she said.

"Well," I said, kissing her, another of those slick, salty kisses, "it's a start."

She smiled then, the smile that strips years off of her face and just MAKES you smile back. "Well, there IS that," she said over her shoulder as she headed out of the kitchen.

In the refrigerator, I found half of a Key Lime pie. I loaded it with a thick pile of whipped cream and put it on the table where our side-by-side chairs made it easier for me to feed her.

When she came back, face washed but eyes still red and swollen, she was naked. We both enjoy her feeding and being naked seems to make the sensations more intense for her.

I held the chair for her, a little courtesy I always try to show, and then scooted it forward as she sat.

"Okay," she said after another deep breath, in through the nose and blown out with a soft hiss through pursed lips, "Tell me."

I forked a big piece of the pie into her mouth and took a few seconds to arrange my thoughts but also to just watch her. Marti is a pretty woman in the round-faced, girl-next-door way of so many plus-size women. And she eats with gusto, her mouth opening with every chew and little bits of whatever it is she's chewing tumbling down her chin and onto her breasts and belly.

"You feel it too," I started, forking another piece of pie into her mouth. "Our sex isn't bad. Oh, hell, our sex is wonderful. But we have pretty much explored every little nook and cranny of each other. I just think it might be fun to try something new."

I shut off her reply with another forkful of pie.

"If you don't want to try it," I said, "we won't."

I kissed her, tasting Key Lime.

"Marti, I love you. I'm satisfied with you. Hell, I'm head over heels, crazy, stupid in love with you," I said, "but some variety might, you know, spice things up a little."

Her chin was covered now with the pale Key Lime filling, the whipped cream border, and tiny crumbs from the graham cracker crust. The same stuff was scattered on her breasts and her belly. Christ, she looked sexy.

I finished feeding her the half pie in companionable silence, the only talking was me telling her how goddam beautiful she is, how sexy she is, and how much I wanted her right then.

When the pie was finished, the last of the crumbly crust captured by pressing the tines of the fork into them and then offering them to still-hungry lips, she spoke.

"If we do this," she said, "I won't hold back."

I smiled. "If we do this, just remember what I've taught you and make sure he gives you at least three orgasms before he takes his own pleasure."

She smiled then, and I knew we would do it. I felt that tingle deep in my belly as my adrenal glands squeezed, flooding my body with the need to fight or flight. It hit me, suddenly, that I should probably be the one concerned. What if he had techniques better than mine and she fell for him rather than just accepting the encounter as variety to spice up life?

"Okay," she said, standing suddenly, knocking her chair back. She's a big woman and takes up a lot of space and when she moves, and, well, the formula for force is F = M * A, force equals mass times acceleration, and she has a lot of mass. "We'll do the double date, on a trial basis, but now that you've fed me and put me through the emotional wringer, you HAVE to take me to bed and relieve some pressure."

I laughed. "Relieving pressure" is Martispeak for "I want to cum like a garden hose."

I stood and just looked. I like looking at her. You know the four basic shapes for a woman, don't you? Oh, anyway, they are hourglass, apple, tube, and pear. You see plus-sized hourglasses, those women who look like Betty Boop in the flesh. There are plenty of pears, the women with the shelf hips and bubble butts. There are a few tubes, usually found among soccer moms and PTA members, the women who thickened after giving birth and never recovered their girlish figures. But the best, in my view anyway, are the apples, and Marti is PURE apple.

Her head is big, an appropriate size for her body. Her face is round with big, wideset, blue eyes making a stark contrast to her thick, dark, almost black hair. She has a button nose, small ears, and a generous, full-lipped mouth.

Like all truly fat women, she has three chins, the third sagging in a pillow that hangs slightly over the dent that marks the top of her sternum. Her arms, especially the backs of her arms, carry those wonderfully soft and warm pads of fat. From the shoulders down she is pure apple. She's flat-chested, her breasts mostly a roll of fat with nipples.

Two distinct belly rolls divided by her navel give her that shape I love so much. The first is a soft roll that continues around her back, giving her that big roll right at her shoulder blades. The second roll is bigger, below her navel, divided into two distinct hemispheres that hang almost past her FUPA, giving her a truly fat girl's natural modesty.

Her FUPA, that's Fat Upper Pussy Area for those of you who don't stay current on their Urban Dictionary, is the result of her

mons Veneris

, that beautiful Mound of Venus that marks every woman's sex, accumulating fat cells. In Marti's case, it is almost a third roll. It is big enough that it wobbles as she walks, something I never tire of looking at.

That bottom roll, especially, is a mass of stretch marks. They aren't a gift from a child and pregnancy. Like many fat girls, Marti has never conceived even though we never use any "protection." They are the result of the yo-yo dieting that plagued her before I came into her life. And they are SPECTACULAR. The marks are deep enough that I can feel them with my fingertips, and very dark. The deep cellulite dimples add to the texture of her belly rolls.

Her thighs are soft and cellulite dimpled, soft fat pads almost hiding her kneecaps. At the top, the skin between her legs, from where they joined to about halfway down to her knees, is very dark and thick, what she calls her chubrub, from the way they rub together with each step. When I play with that skin it feels like a well-maintained baseball glove, worked and oiled every day for 30 years. It's buttery soft, very thick, but still sensitive enough that I can make her whole body shiver when I tickle or trace it with my tongue.

Her calves have that big bulge of many fat girls although her ankles are almost delicate. I worry about them, to be honest. That's a lot of weight to carry on such relatively small bones. Her feet are oddly slender and her toes long and delicate.

She looks just as good walking away. Her waist, well, where a waist once was, is thicker than her hips and her big ass looks oddly small as a result. Her ass is big enough that it wobbles when she puts a little extra swing into it, as she was doing now.

From the back, her mass of dark, curly hair hangs to her shoulder blades.

If you're wondering, her measurements are 40-62-48 and on that morning she weighed 346 pounds.

That was on a Saturday and I did my best to prove my love.

Her first orgasm was from what my tongue was doing as my face was buried under that bottom roll of belly. She was squeezing her legs together, taking away my hearing as her warm, soft, warm, fat flesh filled my ears, and taking away my sight the way she covered my face with her belly. I couldn't use my fingertips to touch the way she had me pinned.

But taste and smell were working fine and I inhaled her womanscent like it was the best

Sativa

marijuana, and I tasted the nectar of the Gods as it flowed freely into my mouth.

Her second orgasm was from my tongue again, this time after I had her roll onto her belly. I buried my face in her labia, soft and full, a long slot stretched much farther than on any skinny girl, her body so soft and fat that even her taint was a part of the long slit, making a fine line from her labia where she was running with her thick white nectar to the darkly stained tunnel that led to the tiny starburst of her anus.

I licked her in long, slow licks until she came again, the sudden gush of her release soaking my chin and throat. I pulled her down, my nose touching her anus where it pulsed in slow bulges as she came. I inhaled her earthy, not unpleasant scent as I felt her tremble with her pleasure.

Her third orgasm came from my finger. I had on her back then, pulling her knees back, her palms flat on her thighs right at the fork of her legs, opening herself. I used my fingertip, just the tip, to gently rub the tip of her clitoris, keeping the pressure light so I could make it last for her, well, for both of us. She was breathing in quick little panting breaths then, her whispered pleas, "Please, God, Baby, PLEASE," was sweet music in the room, and when she came, spraying her release in a thick wet stream that soaked my chest, I finally took my own pleasure.

She was so wet that when I entered her there was an audible splash and as I pushed deeper she overflowed, soaking us both even more. I finished quickly, I was pretty keyed up by then, and moved up to cover her face with kisses.

We talked after that, laying in bed, the sweet scent of love well-made filling the air.

"Yes," she said, finally.

"Yes?" I replied.

"Yes," she said again, "let's go on that double date."

She rolled onto her side, her chin propped up on her palm.

"You're right," she said, her fingertip slowly running down my chin to my throat, my chest, and giving my now-soft cock a squeeze, "this is great but, well, predictable. I knew exactly what you were going to do before you did it."

"I know," I said, my fingertip tracing the curve of her breast, the roundness of her waist, and the dimpled flesh of her hips, "and I knew exactly what to do."

She giggled and kissed me.

And so, here we were, Friday night two weeks later, preparing to go on our first double date with the full expectation that we might go home with someone else.