Zaftig Society Ch. 02byJorisKHuysmans©
The story so far: Doreen, a lonely, plus-sized middle-aged widow, receives an invitation from something called The Zaftig Society for what appears to be a swingers' party. She does not attend, but when the night of the party comes, she can't help thinking about it... and pleasures herself.
Doreen was in a store on the other side of town, which she had never visited before. No one knew her there, or seemed especially interested in her as she shopped for a dress... a dress that would accentuate her curves and bulk as much as everything she currently owned did its best to hide them.
What did she need such a dress for? She told herself that it was just, well, time to start feeling better about her body. But why did she feel the need to feel like this now, at this moment in her life? Where did she plan to go, who did she hope to be seen by? These were things she could not answer, or would not, even to herself.
She settled on a wine-colored dress in a subtly shiny material, which draped well over her curves but also had strategically-placed gatherings of material which created curves of its own. The result framed her curves, but obscured the precise shape of her form. It left you wanting to see more... if Doreen's figure was something you might want to see more of in the first place. Which she was not convinced would be the case for any man.
She went home, and when she got there she opened her desk and pulled the invitation out from its discreet spot under a box of checks. She looked at it idly, at the rough and indistinct sketch at its top that she now could only see as a naked female, a fat, bounteous one. If she had thrown the invitation away in the kitchen, it would have been long gone, but by chance she had tossed it into the rarely-used basket on the other side of her counter by the telephone, where it had sat for weeks before she fished it out. The second of the three dates and places listed on it was Friday.
She refused to think about what would really happen there, because to do so would be to... what? To be a slut. To do unspeakable things with strangers. To abandon everything about who she was. She was a person of a certain age and position in life and she would no more... with a man she didn't know than she would rob a bank.
But then there was the dress she had bought. Why? What use would she ever have for such a dress? To be buried in and give them one last surprise, she thought bitterly. Or first surprise, rather.
She had a sudden urge to try it on, even though she had seen it on her body barely an hour before. She took it out of its box and put it on a hanger and hung it up, letting it unfold. Then she pulled her blouse up over her head. The body she saw— white bra that screamed function over sexiness, pale flesh, rolls of soft flesh— was not one that she expected anyone to be wildly attracted to. And yet, evidently someone— a whole society— was.
She shimmied her pants over her round hips and butt, and stood there now in white, featureless underwear, wisps of curly black hair around the edges. Suddenly she had a wish she had bought some other kind of undergarments, something that didn't look like a plaster bandage but accentuated her round body. This was where the problem would come, if she did what of course she would not do— once the dress came off, everything under it would take the steel out of the men, so to speak.
A mischievous thought came over her. There was another choice. She unsnapped her bra and tossed it aside, letting her big flat breasts flop out. Then she slipped the utilitarian underwear off. This was her— white, lumpy, marked with the imprints of tight-fitting undergarments.
She took the dress off its hanger and slipped it over her head, shaking and wriggling to get it on, letting it drape and find its shape again. She looked in the mirror and suddenly— her breath was taken away. The dress had looked good enough when she was in it in her sturdily-structured bra, but now it curved with the shape of her breasts, the roundness of her hips. Before it helped hide her shape, now it... accentuated it. Made you desire the breasts that filled it out, the nipples that jutted out under it, the way it shook and rolled with her form.
And she felt underneath the absence of underwear. The secret that her innermost place was there, waiting to be found and taken. She felt along her leg and began drawing the skirt upward, until she saw the thicket of dark hair. She stood with her legs apart and rubbed the center of her patch of fur, as it began to spread with her moistness. Her finger ran along the now-wet slit, slipped inside her. She imagined someone else doing this to her, feeling his way up her dress and spreading her legs apart, her lips apart, and then a rough cock forcing its way into, her shuddering as she was plowed with one thrust after another...
She came for the first time in her new dress. Carefully she pulled her hand out and let the fabric fall, then wiped off her fingers before pulling it over her head again.
* * *
She parked a block away and then walked to the large Colonial home in wealthy Belle Plaine. Each heartbeat pounded in her ears; every tottering step in her heels seemed to pitch the world off balance. Was she really going to do this? It seemed impossible, mad— and then she grabbed the brass knocker and rapped it, once timidly, the second time firmly. In a moment the door opened and an older man dressed as if for boating smiled graciously at her and said, "We are so pleased that you accepted our invitation. Do come in..."
...she sat on a barstool as a bartender with a face as impassive as a photograph of the long dead made her a vodka and tonic. She sipped it hurriedly through the plastic stirrers. There were only a handful of people in the living room, a couple sitting closely on a sofa, a couple of older men talking by the bookshelves. This was, to her, more horrible than if a full-fledged orgy had been happening in front of her; so few meant everyone would know what you were doing, no anonymity in the crowd. She thought of leaving, but before she could put the thought into action there was another gentleman of expensively conservative dress at her side.
"So glad you could come, my dear," he said. She recognized him; a doctor of some prominence, whose wife had died several years earlier. "When you care to go upstairs, I'll be happy to show you the way."
So that was it, she thought? She was expected to just go up there and start... fucking? He must have sensed what she was thinking, because he added, "There are private rooms for the ladies, and quite an interesting group in the lounge. My home is yours for the evening," he said, and then bowed and backed away...
...now that's what I had in mind, she thought, as she turned at the top of the stairs and found a couple passionately kissing on the landing. They were both in plush robes, and his arm was under her robe, her legs spread halfway apart. She was heavier than Doreen, and as they writhed together, the woman's capacious breasts were working at shaking themselves free. Doreen continued walking past them, and the woman looked at her with a frankly carnal gaze. Was that an invitation? To join in, on a bisexual basis? Astonishing, nothing like it had ever occurred to Doreen before...
...behind a door, she could hear a bed creaking, a woman panting and grunting. She came to the lounge— and stopped cold. A woman— a woman she had seen at church— was completely nude, riding atop a man on a chaise lounge, her drooping breasts and flopping belly flying about with each bounce on the man below her. As she did, with one finger she rubbed her thatch of fur, but with the other hand, she held a penis to her mouth, licking around it carelessly as she... fucked. She was fucking one... cock and sucking another. And seeing Doreen, she looked at her, pulled the penis from her mouth and said "Better come get some of this, honey," and— and pointed the cock at Doreen...
...she turned the corner and ran straight into the doctor who owned the house. He too was in a robe now, and seeing her distress, asked her with genuine concern what had happened. Her explanation was too jumbled to make sense to him— something about it being awful, and animalistic, and yet—
He took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. It was her choice, now, and she knew, as awful as it was, what she wanted, what she had to have...
...the woman she knew from church was on her back now, and was being fucked by a potbellied man, perhaps Greek or middle-eastern. Her floppy breasts flew up and smacked against the stomach of the cock she was sucking now.
Doreen stopped at a couch and leaned against its back. The doctor was behind her and she took his hands, then pulled him close against her back as she watched the woman fuck two men. He began caressing her breasts over the fabric of the dress while nuzzling her neck. She reached behind her and hiked the skirt up and he moved one hand to her broad ass, caressing her fat hams. She felt inside the robe until suddenly her hand felt a cock, soft and rubbery. It took her a moment to realize the reason— he was shaved around his scrotum.
She stroked his cock as she watched the woman licking the balls, then tonguing the ass of one partner while the other continued fucking her from in front. The doctor's cock grew hard in her hand, which she felt a surge of pride at. Then he separated her thighs and his hand slipped into her wet pussy between. Two fingers rubbed her inside while she pumped his cock. The woman being fucked watched her. She directed the cock to her pussy— and suddenly she was the woman being fucked, too...
... the cum sprayed on the woman's stomach. The cock slid into Doreen's pussy...
...the woman turned over, her flat dangling breasts swaying as she sucked at the cock in front of her. Doreen pushed back against the cock inside her as his hands roamed under her dress, around her broad butt, her round heavy breasts, her belly...
...fucking harder, sucking as cum filled her mouth, grunting as she wanted it hard and deep inside her, feeling his balls slap against her, his body split her crack apart with each thrust...
...she pulled off of him, a ribbon of cum fell against her leg, shockingly cold. She looked at him. The first man she had had sex with, other than Paul, in more than 25 years. She looked down at his cock, going soft. She could not regret this. It was what she had needed and denied herself for too long. But she couldn't face him, not as a person now. He had been the cock she needed, now she needed to be alone, to understand who she was now.
* * *
A curious thing happened while she was at the bar, drinking another vodka and tonic, more seriously. A man came up to her and said he was glad to see her again. That he had been sorry about Paul's death, but that he was glad she was back after a few years and that she looked more lovely than ever. She began to protest that she and Paul had never been there before, but she could hardly get the words out; she couldn't say anything that even identified her, acknowledged that she was who he said she was. For a moment she thought, could Paul have come here? But the man had been certain they had come together, which meant he must be wrong.
She sat by the pool for a while. Guests frolicked, probably post-fucking. They laughed. They had the joy of life. She had lived with death for too long. This was life, coarse and animalistic but alive. If the price of feeling alive in the company of others was to fuck and suck, it was a fair bargain. She knew then that she would be back.
* * *
It was on the way home that an idea began to form in her mind. She rejected it at first, too too awful, but as it fought to assemble itself in her doubting mind, she felt it become true, inescapably true. And as it did, the bottom fell out of her world, and she had to pull over to the side of the road and sob, loudly, like a wounded animal. She knew why that man had thought she and Paul had come to these parties, in the past. She knew it for a fact. And she hated it, and wished she were dead, as dead as Paul as she sobbed her agonizing new knowledge out.