Rolly Polly Brigitta

Rolly Polly Brigitta

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All characters are over 18, fictional, and none of it ever happened. Think of it as a grimm fairytale.

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Mixed erotic themes--some incest, non-consensual, consensual, impregnation, breeding, dominant male, large female.

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Rolly polly Brigitta with her folds so fair finds her purpose.

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At first sight, she was nondescript.

Not particularly comely nor ugly, neither virtuous nor slatternly, not agreeable, and not disagreeable.

She was simply rolly polly and plump. Like a fattening pig. Thickened nicely around her hips, belly and breasts. Her petite frame draped in folds of fat. Her innocence concealed.

Oh, my! How she caught my eye!

I'm a connoisseur, and could see an excellent breeding conformation beneath her blubber.

At a glance, and in an instant, she gave me a fine, long, thick cock stand.

I've always had a lech for a wench with a body that will quickly absorb a man's seed, carry his baby, and birth, nurse and wean his bairn. Whether they display their charms for all the world to see, or keep them hidden, they've always gotten under my foreskin. Ever since those early cock-stands which made a man of me.

I distinctly remember dedicating the rest of my life to the breeding call, as I spurted inside my first mount, a virgin maid, barely of age, with large green eyes and shiny russet hair.

That day I left the innocence of childhood and gained the innocence of manhood.

The innocence of manhood is a man's pure, exhilarating, unconsidered, innocent drive to breed. To procreate, to spread his seed, to fuck babies into maids, to get women up the duff, in the family way, inseminate, impregnate, make monthly cycles late, and take up permanent residence in a female's womb.

She will forever feel his presence inside her, from first penetration and insemination, to the descent of his bairn through her birthing canal, until the day she dies.

I've been fortunate to sample many female fruit, and get them with child. I enjoyed ploughing and seeding all of them. The married and the maiden, the high born and low, the enthusiast, bored and dolorous. I sought out any who had an egg ready to conceive, whether it was her first, last or midway through her fertile years.

Some received my seed with lust, some with calm acceptance, and some by force, lamenting loudly as I plundered them. But, however they received, receive they did, and they all swelled, distended and ripened like grapes on a summer vine.

I'm a skilled, proud vintner of pregnancy.

***

As experienced judges of the female form know, a good breeding conformation starts with the torso.

First, the sow must have a nice, long, furrowing belly to couch her sire, one on which he can rest his weight, and slide his belly on, smoothly, wetly, skin to skin, as he shafts her. And, when her womb catches, it will cradle his unborn baby for nine months.

Next, she must have a fine waist, a waist to comfortably fit beneath a manly barrel paunch, a waist fit to be held in a firm two-handed male grip during mating, a waist to swell into an enormous, mounded, veiny, ripe belly.

Above her waist, she must have succulent tits for her man to suck on, engorge and milk-fill for his bairn, and later for him to sup from for himself.

Finally, below the waist is her pelvic tray of offerings. Ovaries, cunt, womb, eggs, uterus and arse. Her gift to him. Her welcome to his claim.

The breeder proffers her torso to her sire. The sire takes it as his field to plough and plant and harvest.

As a matter of taste, I also like my breeders to have short limbs, not grown an inch since they were innocent sprites with a

frisson

of future breeding promise, dreaming their first dreams of child-bearing. I like to feel their splayed and raised legs, so short they struggle to encircle my waist as I furrow them, and their arms so slender and short they barely reach my hairy broad shoulders, while they feel me in breeding rictus spurting new life inside them.

I have learned fat folds and belly rolls hide a breeder's beauty and fuckability from most men, and, therefore, some females will cultivate layers of blubber to avoid an unwanted fucking. Men, whether kith, kin, stranger, friend, even father, brother, son will always pursue a female breeder with seduction, coercion and authority. She may acquiesce and receive a mating cock, or she may refuse. But refusal will only be temporary. A male in breeding rut can be forestalled but never denied.

A pursued wench will always, sooner or later, be overpowered, bred and farrowed. Her only refuge is to cultivate a dumpling figure to evade her would-be swain. She will eat like a fattening sow, blubber up, become rolly polly, unattractive and insouciant. She is trying to put men off her scent.

But I am not most men, and, besides, such a wench has her own need to be bred, and it cannot be extinguished. It smoulders in her green wood, ready to flare into flame when I prod it with my hot poker. I've always been able to smell a lass who has been pursued by men who want to take her against her will, a lass in cover, hunkered down, run to ground, a breeder hiding inside thick layers of fat, waiting for her prince.

I see innocence and ripe fecundity inside her camouflage folds, and I will put her under like any breeder. And, when I do thread her, there will be the added spice of my strong lech for thick polly folds. They are not a barrier to a good fucking, but rather bring my truncheon cock extra challenge and joy.

I take special delight in thrusting well in between a rolly polly cunt's deepest folds to seed her. No folds are so deep they will keep my prick from her cunny crack, and once I get my cock-head past her hymen, there's no stopping my seed. She'll be furrowed before sunrise, farrow in nine months, suckling my bairn till weaned, and suckling me on her milky tits whenever, however and for as long as I want.

***

I silently considered the little dumpling before me in the dell.

She reclined invitingly, brought to market weight by pig meat, cream pastries and wine. I pictured her displayed nicely, with her legs spread and a very swollen, veiny, pregnant, belly approaching term.

I quietly questioned the maid attending her, a red-haired, wiry, small-tits breeder herself.

She answered me, "You must be a foreigner that you don't know Princess Brigitta. King Trolling, he as lives in the castle, is her sire."

I followed her gaze to the top of a tall tower risen high above the castle wall. It was a hard stone shaft, circular and tall, topped by a round helmet roof. The only window was an arrowslit set into the helmet. For all the world, it resembled a phallus, the arrowslit its piss hole, its single eye, belonging to the King, watching down on his Brigitta's dell.

I asked, "What's your name? How long has she been your mistress? Has she always been rolly polly?"

"I am Rose. She was born when I was ten, and I was assigned to care for her at first squall on her mother's belly. She is like my child, sister and mistress, all in one. As a child, she was a delightful, pretty thing, but on her eighteenth birthday, a melancholy settled on her like a pall. The light went from her eyes, the King ceased attending her as closely as he had, and the Queen thought she was fallen."

"Doesn't she have any suitors? It's always the custom in every kingdom, that a princess's father will give her to a man when she turns eighteen. This is how he gets his heirs, successors and alliances. She looks almost twenty, already an old spinster."

"Every potential suitor is repulsed by her size and melancholy as soon as they see her. No one has been tempted by the rich dowry the King has offered. No one wants to fuck her.

She's an old maid of nineteen, she has no sibling, the Queen's womb is shrivelled and the King doesn't have an heir. He's in despair and has grown impatient.

"Doesn't he love his daughter?"

"The world thinks not, but I see behind his eyes. I know he loves her in his own way. He often looks down at her from his tower arrowslit while she lies here diddling and fiddling. But she can't take his touch."

"Go now. Tell the King a foreign Prince, traveling incognito, wishes an audience before nightfall. No one else must know."

She rose and left, with new purpose in her step.

***

The next afternoon, I went to see my rolly polly Princess again. She was in the dell with a wine jug, goblet, and cream pastry streaks around her lips. This time, her dress was already up, her bodice down, and her creamed fingers delved casually between her slick folds diddling ceaselessly. Her perspiring layers of pudge glistened in the warm spring sun. Nobody was there to see, except Rose, me, and whoever might watch from the arrowslit.

My cock again stood up, so quickly proud and thick I had to adjust my codpiece. I wanted to put her to furrow, farrow and suckling without delay.

"You're a pretty lass, your highness" I declaimed, bowing courteously, "are you all alone?"

She was silent but eyed my codpiece. It had been pushed out of place by my hardening man-jack. She dropped her eyes immediately and modestly, but they soon flickered back to her stiff admirer distending my breeches.

With her eyes on the prize, she replied, "I am alone, unguarded and unchaperoned, with just my Rose. And now you and your Jack-nave are here. Does he serve you well?"

"He has served me long and faithfully, and can serve you long and hard. Would you like to meet him?"

"What will my father say?"

"Princess Brigitta, your father has bid me woo you. He requires an heir, but knows your loveliness is not to the taste of other men. But, as you see," gesturing with a low bow to my arisen man-jack, "you are to my taste. It would be my great pleasure to have you dancing on my cock-stand."

At mention of her father, she glanced quickly up the tower, and a confusion of loss, love and lust filled her eyes. I wondered what had happened to turn her rolly polly, then looked behind her eyes and knew.

I pressed my advantage.

"His Majesty insists you must be shafted without delay, and his insistence is my command. I carry his authority. Furthermore, his own desire will be in me when I am in you. You will know us both as I fill you. Your father will be our witness."

I watched her eyes and knew I'd soon be in her.

When I am decided on a thing, I push forward immediately, and I moved onto my fertile field.

I stepped to her and bore her to the ground upon her back. I hitched her skirts up to where I knew her waist beckoned beneath her drapes of flesh, and pulled her bodice down to bunch beneath her breasts. She struggled briefly, but I smacked her and settled my weight on her, and she was soon still and agreeable.

When I had her settled sufficiently, I lifted half my weight and took a first full measure of my new mount.

She was rolled upon the pastry tray and goblet, almost naked, displaying well, nervously licking her cream-bedewed lips. She wore no petticoats, and except for the silks and satins now tangled around her fat belly, she was bare from toes to fingertips. She displayed nice jellied mounds, fat nipples, a doubled chin, and glorious dumpling curves.

She stared into my eyes, and beyond to her father's arrowslit, seeing both in a single view.

I traced a finger along her belly folds. They were not just dainty decoration around her waist but rose in tiers, up and up to her fat rolly tits, and cascaded down to disappear as neatly folded flaps and furrows leading to her fucking slot.

My feast awaited.

I settled to my knees before her thigh join, grasped her chubby short legs, bent her thighs back, and tucked her knees behind her armpits. This position holds a mount's back curled, her head forward in kyphosis. It gives her a clear view of her own exposed charms and of me as I take my entertainment.

She was as wide open to me as a rolly polly can be, her folds were dark, deep and wanting.

As I positioned her, she squealed with fear and delight. It is a particular and lovely sound and it has called to me ever since my youth when first learning to fuck. Her squeals filled my ears when I bent low and applied my nose to her cunt slot. I have never felt so alive in all the years since I first rooted in a furrow.

That sound, the familiar herald trumpet call of a virgin at her breaching, rang through the dell. I drew my first deep breath of her ripe scent. The fragrance was of fresh peach, tart cunt juice, and the fertile pungent morning dew of breeder in heat.

I breathed out, savouring, my breath carrying her scent, my sigh a single slow exclamation of delight.

"Fuck me, m'lady, but you are ripe for cocking."

It was a statement of lust and gratitude, like the Lord's grace from a Priest before a meal.

Needing no further invitation, her squealing and wide legs being sufficient, I extended my tongue and firmly probed her slot. I swiped slowly, starting low down, around her arse hole, then licking up along her cunt and piss hole to her bud. Her bud emerged from its hood and pressed against my inquiring tongue, saluting me with its own bold greeting. Her squealing turned to moaning, then back to a squeal. She squirmed so wildly and I had to grip her so strongly that I left bruises on her.

I proceeded to lap her repeatedly, continually swiping my wet tongue from arse hole to bud, rhythmically, firmly, wetly, never allowing her to recover before starting my next swipe. Periodically and at random, I would suck at her folds, nibble her bud, and gulp down her nectar.

Her breath was ragged. She moaned. She squeaked. She squealed. She thrashed. Her hands tangled my hair. I held her arse cheeks firmly in my large hands. She was a succulent peach. She was on heat.

I was ready, and I had her ready. I rose to my knees, freed my bollocks and truncheon, and shuffled forward to stud position.

I slid my cock-head between her folds, those lovely fat draggles which ran from her belly down to drape around her cunt. She was wet with my spittle and her cream, and I pushed in easily. The first rampart was down.

I threaded my cock-head through those outer folds, which by pressure, clasp and yield, guided it to her fucking hole. Her enfolding draggles squeezed my shaft from all sides with a welcoming tight grip, even before I reached her virgin opening deep inside, which would be even tighter.

It was waiting, hidden from my sight, but I felt it gape open to admit and then nip my plum. I had to pause and discipline my cock and lech lest I spurt too soon.

After I brought my over-eager cock under control, I pushed hard to breach her and felt her hymen give way.

Then my cock parted her tunnel and she accepted me as if I belonged inside her, which I did, by right of conquest and paternal authority. She was mine.

Her glorious folds and draggles had become her wedding gown, her bridal train, her deflowering veil. I had her breached. Without delay. Without fuss. With barely ten minutes passed since I bid her attend to me.

She had never thought anyone could reach so far inside her or so quickly and was overcome. She swooned momentarily around my hard cock, but recovered as I set to shafting.

I proceeded to fuck her soundly. I enjoyed the jiggle of rolly tits and belly bacon beneath me, and also saw inside my polly mount the long torso, small tits and short legs of a lithe breeding girl taking her first cock. Her eyes were fixed between her legs.

She awoke when her first ecstasy hit her with a rictus I can still feel, and her cunt squeezed me like a suckling calf's mouth squeezes his mother's teat, desperate for his milk. Then she swooned again.

She awoke as I began spurting inside. Her bleary eyes refocused on the crack between the folds between her legs into which my cock disappeared. She felt it pulsing, felt my cock head gently shuttling against her uterus, felt her cunt filling with my semen, full measure, copious, as her bud jiggled on my cock root.

She groaned when I finished, not knowing quite why, or what had happened. Why was a strange man inside her? Why was she splayed wide and taking his shaft? Why was she leaking his man juice around his cock? Why were her inner thighs rubbed raw? Why were her skirts bunched beneath her tits? Why were her knees under her armpits?

While still embedded in her, and before she fully recovered, I wiped the pastry cream from her lips and had her suck my fingers clean. She tasted pastry and cunt juice. One more of her many first lessons. Then I peremptorily withdrew my shaft--without the customary "By your leave, Your Highness"--and casually told her I would return on the morrow.

As I left the dell I looked back and saw Princess Brigitta still as I left her. Her back curled forward, knees bent back, armpits easily restraining her chubby knees, wide and open, vacantly staring down past her belly to her gaping fuck folds, which leaked my man cream.

As prearranged, Rose would soon fetch her mistress to her bed-chamber and titillate, fiddle and dally with her while praising the romance of my unexpected man-jack hammering.

Her father, King Trolling had told me to fuck an heir into her and had been with me in the fucking. He had watched from the tower arrowslit as if from his own piss-and-jizz slot atop the end of his own stiff shaft. He must have been as exhausted as I was, but, unlike me, he had not yet emptied his bollocks.

I went to report progress to him in a private audience. At his request, I described in detail how I furrowed his daughter, what it felt like, and how she took it. I left no detail unfelt, no stones unstirred, no groan unheard. His member was fully engorged, and he had to massage it constantly. He was relieving himself in a scullery maid behind the throne when I left.

***

The next afternoon, I again attended Brigitta in the dell. As before, she had a tray of pastries, streaks of pastry cream around her lips, and a pitcher of wine, but this time there were two goblets beside her.

"Sit with me awhile," she instructed, signalling Rose to fill the goblets.

She was surprised when I countermanded her. It was another lesson for her in the authority her father had given me. I curtly declined the Princess' royal request, and told Rose to stand back.

I was here for a single purpose. To woo her, wed her, and produce an heir for the King. Not necessarily in that good order. Indeed there's more fun to be had in peasant order. I would bed and breed her first, then wed her. I have

carte blanche

from the King. He will watch from his tower arrowslit and follow my progress through detailed reports, all the while keeping his scullery maid to hand.

I told Rose to stand guard and turned to task. First, I tipped Brigitta on her back.

She squealed and struggled like before, but this time with not as much spunk. When I smacked her and brought my weight to bear to quieten her, I found she became agreeable too quickly. It seemed she had, overnight, decided to come into my fold, and was yearning for another fucking. Perhaps the King had spoken to her.

This boded well for the future, but for the present, she must learn that it's not up to her to make such a decision. It's up to me. And, in any case, I had a lech to overcome fierce resistance with honest struggle, before I got into her.

It was a simple matter to set this to rights. I set to correcting her, and man-handled her as a disagreeable sow, bringing my force and hands to redden her rump. This fostered indignity and resistance, as I intended, and she squealed and squirmed and fought back. At this, I chastised her again, with both hands and all my weight, and she fought back even harder. As Rose and the tower's arrowslit looked on, I gradually quenched her spunk and brought her under full control.