Fat Mom Pole Dancing Ch. 04

I don't know how long he had me stand in that corner.

It doesn't matter, really.

Like Winston Smith after his turn in Room 101 with O'Brien, I understood what he said was true.

I knew, as a reality that completely washed away my previous shame, that my belly was a beautiful symbol of my femaleness.

I knew, as truth, that my sagging breasts showed that I was a woman in full flower.

I knew, with mathematical certainty, that the cellulite dimples in my big ass were a gorgeous reflection of my ability to survive the harsh winter and still feed my family.

As I stood there in the corner, holding the T-shirt up to put my ass on display, this new reality grew in me. I was crying, my T-shirt sodden with tears, mucus, and drool, but it was tears of joy. The lingering pain in my ass was just a reminder of my beauty and his love.

And so I stood, crying, happy, and above it all, head over heels, crazy, stupid in love.

I have no idea how long I stood there like that. For the first time in my life, I understood what the word "fugue" meant. I was no longer "Annette." I was no longer "Mom." I was Earth Mother. I was Gaia. I was Sex Incarnate.

Above it all, I was beautiful and I was in love.

He brought me back to myself, well, to my new self, with a hand on my elbow and soft words spoken.

"Come with me," he said, gently pulling me. He wasn't forcing, just guiding. I felt an odd lassitude that I attributed to a combination of the pain of the spanking, the release of that body-encompassing orgasm, and my new reality.

I padded along beside him, the chub rub of my inner thighs sliding across each other with the slickness of my natural lubricants.

It felt good.

He walked me into the bedroom, closed the door, and laid his hands on my shoulders to gently turn me to face the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. I watched in that detached, still-in-a-fugue way, as he reached down and started pulling the hem of my T-shirt up. It seemed natural to lift my arms and help him.

I stood in a natural posture, my arms at my sides, aware of him looking into the mirror over my right shoulder, and I looked.

And there it was.

I was beautiful. My face was a mess. Mascara streaks ran down both cheeks from eyes red and puffy from my crying. Bulges on each side of my nose showed how badly my sinuses were swollen. My nose was still running like a damn hose and sheets of clear mucus hung from my chin to my breasts. At least I wasn't drooling.

I watched as he leaned forward and whispered into my ear, "You are beautiful."

I leaned my head to the side, offering my neck and throat, and said, "Yes, I am."

As he nuzzled my neck, sending wave after wave of shivers and goosebumps up and down my body, I kept looking at myself in the mirror.

My breasts, shiny from the way my nose kept running, were heavy and sagging, lying on the roundness of my belly. My nipples were hard, round bumps sitting at the top of the cones formed by my dark areolas with the distinct love bumps, the Montgomery's Glands, showing clearly. They were good breasts. Hell, they were beautiful breasts, fit to feed my children and, at need, the rest of my family if the hunt should fail or an early frost should take out the crop.

It was like he could follow my eyes as his hand cupped and lifted my breasts. When he rolled my nipples between his thumb and forefinger I was unable to breathe.

My eyes went to my belly. I realized I would never again be offended if someone asked me if I was pregnant. I looked pregnant, say about the eighth month, fully big but not yet quite to wondering if my water would break. It was beautiful. It was Earth Mother, giving birth to a generation. It was perfect femininity. It was the distillation of what it meant to be a woman and I realized in that instant that the core of my "womanness," of my "femaleness," wasn't my face or my breasts or even my pussy. It was my uterus, my womb, deep inside that round belly, the source of the next human being to come into the world.

And I was crying.

"What?" he asked, his hands driving me into despair as they gently caressed the shape of my belly where I would never carry a baby again.

He turned me and held me, his arms holding me close, his hands gentle on my back. He kissed my cheek about a dozen times and asked, "What's wrong?"

I supposed if there had been a psychiatrist handy to administer a quick sanity test, if there is such a thing, I would have come up crazy right then.

I was bawling now, sobbing, great whoops of pain and sorrow ripped from me.

"Mom," he said, pushing me to arm's length, capturing my eyes with his, "What is wrong?"

"You're right," I managed although it should probably be written as, "Y-y-y-y-you'r-r-re r-r-r-r-r-ri-i-i-ite," "I'm beautiful," I got out and then wailed the rest, "but I'm BARREN," I finished in a long wail.

He held me then while I wailed my pain and disappointment.

When I finally wound down he pushed me to arm's length.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

So I told him all.

"David," I said, after about ten deep breaths to get myself under control, "when you were born there were complications. I had a placental abruption and, hell, if your Dad had worked more than about five minutes away from the house you and I probably wouldn't have survived your birthday. But he was close, got home when I called him, took one look at the puddle of blood I was sitting in, grabbed me, loaded me into the car, and headed straight for the hospital."

I wound down for a minute, taking deep breaths and getting my thoughts in order.

It's a good thing he didn't say anything, just held my hands and waited, or I probably wouldn't have managed to continue.

"It was a placental abruption," I repeated, "no big deal as long as I got to the hospital in time. An emergency caesarian section and you were out and yelling and I was stitched up. Overnight in the hospital and good to go."

I stopped and breathed and thought for a moment, my mind going back to that wonderful and awful two days.

"Then," I went on, "about midnight I spiked a hundred and five fever. I was septic. They pumped me full of antibiotics but, well, before I left the hospital I had a beautiful baby boy and a hysterectomy on my medical record."

He surprised me then. He smiled and kissed me.

It was a good kiss and it felt natural to arch my back and press my belly, my beautiful, round, womanly belly, against him, offering myself with nothing held back.

He broke the kiss, put his hands on my shoulders, and turned me to face the mirror again.

"Say it," he said, his fingers tracing the bottom of my belly.

"I'm beautiful," I said, and I meant it. I WAS beautiful. Hell, I AM beautiful.

His fingertips ran across my face, a delicate spider tickling, touching individual nerve endings, my face scrunching up involuntarily.

"Whose face is it?" he asked and I didn't hesitate.

"Your face," I said, smiling.

He brushed his fingers across my lips, the touch so light, the tickling so intense, it almost made them hurt.

"Whose mouth is it?" he asked and, again, I didn't hesitate.

"Your mouth," I said, smiling, capturing his hand, and kissing his palm.

I held his eyes in the mirror as I licked his palm.

For the next half hour, he inventoried my body and had me give him each separate part. I assured him that they were his breasts. His nipples. His belly button (with some giggling as he probed and played with his new possession). His belly. His Caesarian Section scar.

I gave him each finger separately and then each toe.

I gave him my cellulite and, as he played with it, that chubrub between my thighs that had been my shame since I had to take off my clothes for gym class in 7th grade. The difference this time was that when he told me it was beautiful I believed him. So I squeezed it until it bulged dramatically and gave it to him.

I gave him my pussy, piece by piece. I gave him my clitoral hood, and then my clitoris which he played with, almost bringing me to orgasm. I gave him my labia, outer and inner lips separately, and then pushed hard to give him my cervix. In a final shedding of the last shreds of my inhibitions, I turned around, spread my cheeks, and gave him my anus.

And every bit of it he declared to be beautiful.

And every time he said it, I believed it.

He eased to his knees and started kissing his pussy.

And my body took over.

I winced and cried out when his hands cupped my ass.

He squeezed even harder, reminding me that I had been given a lesson.

But his mouth on his pussy, his tongue probing and finding his clitoris, his hand squeezing his sore ass, took me to Heaven and back.

We made love, twice, later that night. He was gentle and loving and, of course, that perfect match was, well, perfect.

The first orgasm was powerful, that female ejaculation we all strive for.

The second, though, was better. It didn't hit hard, it lingered.

And lingered.

And lingered, as his rhythm continued.

And lingered, as his rhythm continued.

I was crying when he finished, filling me with that beautiful gift only a man can give a woman.

And he was crying too.

Then we were laughing.

I was exhausted.

"I'll build you a pole tomorrow," he said, "and you'll look absolutely wonderful on Thursday night."

"Okay," I said as I slipped into a very sweet dream.

I woke, alone in bed, winced, and cried out when I rolled over and put pressure on my ass. I got out of bed and hobbled to the toilet where I said, groaning again, and did my business. I washed my hands, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and ran a brush through my hair.

Back in the bedroom, I started to reach for my chest of drawers for a housedress and then thought, "Fuck it," and went in search of coffee.

I stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and swung it shut. I was almost afraid to look, afraid that the, well, the "spell" is as good a word as any, that he cast last night would be broken. Or maybe had just worn off.

I let out the breath in a long hiss.

I opened my eyes.

And I sobbed in relief.

I was beautiful. Okay, I am beautiful. He turned out to be right.

Oh, I'll never be confused with a supermodel. I'll never be an hourglass and no one will ever think 36-24-36 when they see me.

But I was beautiful. My breasts were full, my nipples dark and hard, my belly round looking almost pregnant.

I knew what he meant when he said I was Earth Mother.

And God DAMN it, I was crying again.

I brushed the faint stretch marks across the tops of my breasts and then the darker marks radiating out from my belly button, a bulging outie that had never gone away since David was born.

And I thought they were beautiful.

I struck a pose, something I had seen in some magazine or other, or maybe the nose art on a B-17 in one of those war movies I enjoyed. I turned slightly, lifted my left leg lifted a little, toes pointed, my right arm straight over my head, my left arm under my boobs, lifting and offering them.

"Shit," I thought, "you are beautiful."

I noticed stubble in my armpit where it showed clearly, thought about going for my razor, and then giggled.

"No," I thought, "Earth Mother is natural."

I kept looking, smiling. How had I ever thought I was ugly? My son was right. This is what a woman should look like. Not a stick figure. A woman ready to bring life into the world.

I don't know how long I stood like that, just looking, okay, just admiring.

Eventually, I turned, my position a little awkward, making me tired, and looked over my shoulder.

My breath caught.

The spanking, I giggled and changed my thought.

The "lesson" had left me with two round bruises right where the roundness of my ass met my dimpled thighs, just above that line, the gluteal sulcus, where ass meets thigh.

When I touched it, I felt a sudden sharp pain but there was an answering twinge deep in my belly. I realized then that this was something that I had to be very careful with. I was remembering the pure pleasure, something so intense it bordered on "rapture," that had blown away the pain. And I knew that it would be very easy to get addicted to this.

Inspection done, and my relief palpable when I realized that the lesson had worked and what I saw in the mirror was beautiful, I patted my belly, muttered "Fertility Goddess," and went in search of my son and coffee.

I was mildly surprised at how natural it felt to be padding, naked, through the house, after a lifetime of working so hard to cover myself up.

David was busy in the kitchen. I remembered, with a little rush of delight, teaching him to add a splash of milk to the eggs and then beating them with a fork until they were the proper color, buttercup yellow as my grandmother had taught me. I could see he had eggs coming to room temperature, English muffins in the toaster, tall glasses of orange juice on the table, and I could smell coffee brewing.

His back was to me as he carefully separated the strips of bacon, laying them on a paper towel, so I moved behind him, reached around, and ran my hands down his belly until I held his cock in my left hand while cupping his balls in my right.

"Whose cock is it?" I asked, nuzzling his neck.

"Yours of course," he said, chuckling.