Fat Mom Pole Dancing

It was Monday and I had to get to work. Hell, I owned the place, so I didn't have a choice. I started to shower and wasn't surprised when he joined me.

It was odd, but here I was, 46 years old, and this was the first time I had ever showered with a man. I wasn't sure what to do. But when he took the soap and the washcloth and started scrubbing my face I relaxed and decided to enjoy this attention too.

He scrubbed my face and shampooed my hair. Then the conditioner. And then he washed my body. And I must say, he was VERY thorough. I expected my breasts to be the center of his focus and he did spend plenty of time with them. Then my belly, making me aware again of how much weight I had put on. Then he was between my legs being gentle but thorough, cleaning my labia and finding my clitoris which he played with more than was strictly necessary.

I was surprised again when he slipped to his knees and started on my legs. He was thorough and seemed to be concentrating to be certain that he didn't miss a single square inch. When he took my right foot into his lap to wash it I had to grab his shoulders for balance and when he started washing each toe individually I got the giggles. By the time he finished with my left foot, I was laughing so hard I'm afraid I peed a little.

His hands on my hips turned me until I was facing the wall and the showerhead. Now he was behind me and his hands were washing the back of my calves, my thighs, and then my ass. I squealed when he spread my cheeks and washed what he had exposed, and when his fingertip carefully washed that puckered sensitive spot I was squirming like a fish.

Then he was on his feet behind me, washing my back and finishing by turning me and kissing me as we stood under the water.

"Your turn," he said, handing me the soap and the washcloth.

I giggled, flashing back to when I would bathe my little boy. But he certainly wasn't that now.

As I washed his face and hair and body I could actually feel the bond between us growing stronger. When I found him erect I wasn't surprised, and when I soaped my hand and masturbated him standing there with the warm water running over us I felt a strange combination of naughty/loved/loving/lust/contentment. The sudden hiss and spurt of his release was my signal to move on to the rest of his body while he struggled to get his breath back.

Once we were clean and dry he watched as I dressed and then kissed me goodbye on my way out the door.

I felt like I was part of a couple and I liked the feeling.

The next month was almost like a honeymoon. Not a night went by without our making love, as often as not at least twice. We explored each other, finding sensitive places and special likes.

The first time he had me on my belly, his hands holding my ass cheeks spread wide, and started blowing on my anus I thought I would be leaving nail marks on the headboard. When I felt his tongue, warm and damp tracing that puckered little sensitive place I was completely unable to breathe. And when I felt the pressure as his tongue sought entrance I came with a sharp gasp, my entire body clenching with what he was doing.

Then as he gently worked the K-Y Jelly in there and took me anally for the first time my cries of "yes baby" weren't faked. He was careful and gentle and after that first sharp sensation of stretching, the wonderful fullness as he slowly moved deeper into my rectum had me pushing back against him, my back arched, wanting all of him inside of me that way. And when he started his rhythm I was on all fours, matching him thrust for thrust. I was aware of the way my breasts and belly hung and swayed, but I didn't care right then.

I came a half dozen times while he kept that rhythm going and then, when I felt the sudden tension of his release I squeezed as tight as I could, bringing a soft moan from him as his body strained to release his semen. His fingernails were digging into my back as he thrust and I squeezed and suddenly I relaxed and he thrust once more, deeper, and I could feel him pressed against me, his entire length inside of me.

I had to struggle to hold that position because I was spent, but I didn't want to lose him either. I was squeezing again, trying to hold him when I felt the head against the sensitive opening and had a sudden spasm that forced him out with a little cry.

I collapsed onto my belly and he onto me, both of us gasping in our pleasure and our physical exhaustion.

When he rolled over and off of me I couldn't help but turn around and lift his now soft cock, inspecting. Sure enough, it was brown-streaked. I got up, walking a little funny I'm sure, and got a warm washcloth to carefully wash him off. He lay there enjoying the attention, watching me, watching my body, making me blush again.

For a month we explored like that. We had oral. We had anal. We had mutual oral. We did mutual masturbation. He learned to hold me on the edge until I was begging him for my release, and I learned the signs that he was about to cum and that I could hold him at that spot too. I learned to love watching those clear drops of his precum as they slowly squeezed out. I learned to touch them with my tongue and draw a long string between his cock and my tongue. I learned that his anus was sensitive too, and I explored and found his prostate gland.

The first time I found his prostate, my finger deep in him as he laid on his back, his knees drawn up to his chest, I loved the way his entire body seemed to shudder and then the way his semen just started flowing out of him. Not those hard spurts you associate with a man's ejaculation, but flowing, puddling on his belly, and it kept on as I gently massaged that hard little gland deep inside of him. I kept pressing, almost milking, until he suddenly jerked with the intensity of what I was doing and I felt sticky warmth on my finger. I knew I had taken it too far this time, but held still while his body relaxed.

"Come on," I said, giggling, holding my dirty hand out of the way and offering the other.

He was still struggling for his breath when I dragged him off the bed and led him into the bathroom. I sat him on the toilet and then washed my hands and turned on the water in the shower.

I kissed him as he sat there finishing what I had accidentally started.

"I'm sorry," he said and I giggled.

"Don't be silly," I said, "first, it was my fault. Second," and I held his eyes with mine as I said the rest, "good sex is often pretty messy honey, but it is NEVER dirty."

I kissed him then, a long, lingering kiss, as he finished.

His eyes got big as I pulled off a couple of feet of toilet paper and began fashioning a pad and reached down between his legs.

I liked, very much, that he was no longer completely soft as I wiped him.

"Come on," I said, "let's clean you up."

I couldn't help but giggle. He was still a little unsteady on his feet as I led him to the shower.

Clean and dry, we went to bed and made love again. This time his lovemaking was slow and gentle, and my orgasm matched that. When I came it was almost casual. There were none of those hard muscular contractions I associate with, you know, CUMMING! This was the culmination of love, soft and easy and gentle and so completely fulfilling I only realized I was crying when he started kissing away tears and snot.

He was snoring softly, latched onto my nipple, as I drifted off.

Thursday, when I got home, he greeted me with a screwdriver and a funny smile on his face.

"And what," I asked, smiling, kissing him, taking the screwdriver, and sitting on the couch so he could take my shoes off as had become his standard greeting for me, "is that shit-eating grin about?"

He grinned a little wider, gently massaging my foot in his lap, drawing little sighs from me, and said, "be patient."

So I just accepted his attention. He massaged my feet, itself an almost sexual sensation. He would use his thumbs and dig deeply into my arch and instep, hurting but also relaxing where they were sore. Then he would use his fingers to manipulate each toe individually, stretching them, flexing them, twisting them gently, and leaving me feeling oddly relaxed. He worked my ankle the same way, kissed my foot, and did the other.

The screwdriver done, he stood and offered me a hand.

In the bedroom, he started undressing me and I expected we would make love. When I reached my arms out to wrap them around his neck, though, he slapped my hands.

"Steady down, insatiable wench," he said, making me giggle.

When I was naked he walked me to my little makeup table and had me sit.

He disappeared into the bathroom for a minute or so and I sat, looking in the mirror.

And again, I couldn't help but ask myself, "what in the hell does he see in you?"

We had been eating well, probably too well, and my diet was a distant memory. It showed. My belly was bigger than ever and I realized I was starting to put on fat pads behind my upper arms, something I had avoided all of my life. I noticed, too, a faint tracery of stretch marks starting to show there. I moaned softly.

"What?" he asked, startling me as he put his hands on my shoulders. I had been deep in my thoughts, depressing thoughts at that.

"I'm SO fat," I said.

He got a funny look on his face and slowly turned the chair until he stood in front of me. He was holding my eyes, a very serious look on his face, when he slapped me.

It was so sudden, so unexpected, I couldn't even reach up to touch where he had struck.

There was dead silence, no, there was PERFECT silence for several seconds before I yelled, "DAVID! WHAT THE FUCK!?"

He grabbed my shoulders, stopping me from getting up, and kissed me.

I didn't kiss back. I was mad and in shock and wanted to strike back.

He embraced me, holding me tight, making sure I couldn't get a good swing, and chuckling softly.

"Stop putting yourself down, dammit," he said softly, directly in my ear, "you are beautiful and I wish you'd realize that."

He held that position for a long 10 count before releasing me and leaning back.

"Mom," he said, getting to his knees and capturing my hands, "I've seen how worried you are about your weight and done everything I could to persuade you to quit it. But," and he paused and kissed each hand, "be warned. That slap was an advisory. If you keep putting yourself down I'm going to start spanking you."

I giggled and he said, "I'm serious."

He kissed me and said, "now, where was I?"

He turned me back to face the mirror and used the wet washcloth in his hand to scrub my face. I use the word "scrub" advisedly. He was careful, of course, and gentle, but also VERY thorough.

When my face was scrubbed clean, revealing the wrinkles and extra chins that I work hard to hide but that I didn't mention, not wanting another slap or a spanking, he started on my hair.

He's actually very good at getting me to look my best.

After a half-hour under his hands, my hair was slightly full, not big hair but kind of fluffy, and my face looked good. A pale blue eye shadow highlighted my brown eyes, my lashes were enhanced with careful mascara application but not those silly false eyelashes, the corners of my eyes had a slight point that gave me a slightly exotic look, and my lips were a bright scarlet, glossy and, I thought, inviting.

"You're beautiful," he said, and in that instant, I believed him.

When I started to get up he said, "stay."

He got into the chest of drawers and brought out a bra/panties/corset-garter belt/nylon set I had never seen before. It was very bright yellow.

"Where? What?" I started but was kind of speechless.

He chuckled and said, "my coming home present for you."

He crooked his finger, beckoning, and I took the two steps to close the distance between us.

"Now," he said, "let's see if I can figure this all out."

He dressed me, then, and I'm not sure I ever felt as thoroughly loved or as completely objectified. And I loved BOTH sensations.

The corset-garter belt was first.

He had figured out that with my belly, a simple garter belt would quickly wind up over my mons as it slipped off the roundness. But the corset with straps, what the Brits would call suspenders, offered the option of hose rather than pantyhose or thigh highs or something. And besides that, he said he liked the look.

So I stood while he cinched me in, giving me almost a waistline.

The panties, not a thong but traditional panties were next, and then the bra. I'm a big girl with big boobs and the bra reflected that. There were six hooks in the back and underwires that were uncomfortable but put about six inches of cleavage on display where the girls were pushed up and held together. I giggled as he adjusted my boobs to make sure my nipples were pointing straight ahead.

He did the black nylons next. They had a light lace pattern and seams. He was careful to get them on without a runner and then made sure the seam was ruler-straight. The hooks on the suspenders defeated him for a moment, but he figured it out.

He went back to the close and came back with a shoebox.

"Honey, you're going to break my ankles," I said, looking when he lifted the box top.

He just chuckled and carefully fitted my right foot into the open-toed spike-heeled sandal and did the ankle strap. What we used to call "fuck me" shoes.

I was still sitting when he brought out the dress.

It was yellow too, and actually pretty modest. He worked it over my head, carefully getting my arms into the too-tight sleeves and my thumbs hooked into the thumb holes. Once he had it down he buttoned the collar, kind of a two-inch wide turtle neck with two buttons right at my throat. Under the collar was a big open circle where the girl's cleavage peeked out.

He had me stand then, a bit wobbly on the shoes, and tugged and pulled at the dress until he had it down and adjusted the way he liked it.

He went into the top drawer of my little jewelry box and brought out my gold hoop earrings and my jangly bracelet made of oversized semi-precious stones - mostly turquoise. He put them on me and then walked me to the floor-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door.

"Oh fuck," I breathed and he chuckled.

I looked GREAT! I mean, not to brag, but I looked fucking great in a chubby whore way.

It was the combination. My hair was good, my face was good, the dress was good, the girls looked good, my legs looked good - the heels did good things for them. Overall, I looked GREAT!

"See," he said from behind me, "you have NO reason to put yourself down."

"Thank you," I said, and felt my eyes brimming over.

"OH NO you don't," he said, running into the bathroom and coming back with a dry face towel.

"Don't you DARE mess up my handiwork," he said, the towel dabbing at my eyes.

I giggled and let him dry my eyes.

"Thank you, baby," I said, "I can believe you when you say I'm beautiful."

"You are," he said, "now come along."

He took my hand and led me to his car and we were off. The top up, he said he didn't want to mess up my hair.

"Sooooooooo," I asked between songs on the radio, "where are you taking me to show off your creation?"

"It's a secret," he said, smiling.

I watched as we headed west again. A little past Golden he turned onto a narrow street, I didn't catch the street sign, that meandered through a residential area. We made a few more turns and the lane we wound up on after a half mile of uninhabited forest land, led to a big parking lot with a cinderblock building in the middle. The parking lot was well lit, and the only sign on the building was pink and neon and spelled out "BBW" in six-foot high letters over the door.

"BBW?" I asked as he got out of the car.

He opened my door, helped me out, carefully smoothed the dress, took my hand, and said, "Big Beautiful Women."

I was laughing as we crossed the parking lot.

Inside, he showed the doorman a plastic card and we were waved in. There was a small hallway before the drape-covered entrance to the main room. On the wall, a sign announced - - REMEMBER - THURSDAY NIGHT IS OPEN STAGE NIGHT AT BBW.

Past the drapes, it was a nightclub like any other. It was a big, open room with about 50 tables scattered about strategically. My brief foray into being a waitress made me admire the skill involved in this layout. What appeared at first glance to be randomness was really carefully designed to allow easy access for wait staff and dancers. The tables were mostly four-tops with a few deuces mixed in.

Beyond the dining area was a fairly good-sized dance floor and against the far wall was a raised stage.

And as I looked around the room the world turned upside down. All of my life I had been the fat girl in the room. I had been teased in grade school, been kicked off the cheerleading team in high school, been lonely in college, and dated so rarely that I wound up knocked up at 22 when a fraternity boy "bagged a fatty" on a bet.

In this room, though, I was on the small end of the bell curve. Oh, not far on the small end, just a little past the middle, but for someone who had lived on the far right end of that curve, being in the middle was so different as to be shocking.

I was looking around, constantly, as the hostess, a woman who outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, was dressed to show her sexuality, and was absolutely gorgeous with her heavily streaked hair hanging down her back almost to her ass, led us to a table near the dance floor. The smallest woman I saw was at least 200 pounds and I wouldn't speculate on a number for the largest. The largest had pulled up to a specially designed table in one of those mobility scooters. Ages ranged from one pretty blonde butterball that must have had a fake ID if they were serving her alcohol to one silver-haired gramma that I speculated had to be a septuagenarian at least.

At the table, David ordered a pitcher of beer and a double screwdriver when the waitress appeared and offered menus.

"What? How?" I started and stumbled to a stop.

"I wanted to find a place where you would feel comfortable," he said, "and where you could let yourself be yourself."

He stopped and took a drink of his beer. I was kind of speechless at that point.

"Where you could just quit worrying about your weight," he said, and reached across the table and covered my hands with his, "because you are beautiful just as you are."

I felt silly as I felt the warmth of a blush spread down my cheeks.

"Flatterer," I said.

"It ain't flattery if it's true," he said, smiling.

We turned to the menu then.

And I laughed.

It was a full menu but at the bottom was a small box labeled "Weight Watchers," under which were the words - "See the Hostess. We can recommend several good establishments."

I ordered the meatloaf. There were no options, no "sides" included. David ordered the open-faced roast beef.

While we waited we went to the jukebox, fed a ten-dollar bill in, and started pushing buttons.

When the Righteous Brothers went into their incomparable version of "Unchained Melody," we stepped onto the dance floor. There were a couple of other couples dancing, but we were clearly the best. We should have been. I had taught David to dance preparing for his first junior high school dance, and we had practiced on and off over the years. But I won't deny, it felt good being in his arms, without worrying about who might see us.

We went back to the table and I kept, you know, people watching.

Dinner, it turned out, was absolutely delicious. And for the first time in my memory, I didn't automatically calculate the calories of every bite. We talked and laughed and speared bites off of each other's plates.

The room went dark, suddenly, for a couple of seconds, and when the lights came back on they were much dimmer. Over the public address system came a woman's voice, high-pitched and musical.