Jean's Awakening Ch. 12

I finally rolled out of bed, pulled on a T-shirt, and headed downstairs.

Roger and Stan were at class but David, Bobby, and Al were sitting in the living room, Al playing something on the xBox One, David and Bobby on their laptop computers.

"So," I said, taking a sip of my iced tea and sitting in the overstuffed wingback chair I had used for decades, "I'm thinking I'll tell Samantha that you guys are interested in meeting her and tell her to spin Michael, her husband, some yarn about me winning a weekend spa vacation and inviting her along. Sound about right?"

Three grins greeted that and I laughed.

"Keep that up and I'll get jealous and tell her I've changed my mind," I said.

David, always the take-charge guy, jumped up, bounded the six feet between us, took my hand in his, kissed it, and said, "you know you'll always be number one with us, Jean."

I smiled.

"But," he said giving his Groucho Marx eyebrow waggle, "you DID offer us the variety pack so you can't back out now. You might get a spanking."

I threw up my hand (not the one holding the iced tea) and said, "you win."

So I called Samantha and asked her to meet me for coffee at the local coffee shop.

I dressed, well, let's say less modestly than I normally would. The blouse was semi-sheer and the red wonderbra put about four inches of cleavage on display. The skirt was above the knee. I rummaged through my underwear drawer before giggling and saying, "fuck it" aloud before closing it, foregoing panties. The shoes were moderately high-heeled pumps. My hair and makeup looked good I thought, my reddest lipstick highlighting my face. As I looked I wished Stan was here.

I went downstairs, the heels loud, and fingerwaved to the guys in the living room.

David beckoned me over and I went.

He ran his hand up the back of my thigh, finding my bare ass, and grinned.

"Good girl," he said, patting where he found skin.

I actually blushed as I pulled away, but I did put extra sway in my hips as I walked away.

They whistled and I blushed more.

It was a nice day and I put the top down on my little PT Cruiser convertible, my personal adventure in midlife crisis.

When I got to the coffee shop, unimaginatively named The Coffee Shop, Samantha had a table for us. I ordered the Coffee Ultra, black, and large, and sat with her.

She looked me up and down and said, "Jesus Jean, you look great."

I blushed again and covered by taking a sip of my coffee.

"Soooooooooooo," she said, looking at me under lowered lashes.

"Okay," I said, "are you serious about wanting to, well, join me?"

"Jean," she said, smiling at me, "I haven't thought of anything else since the meeting."

"How will you handle Michael?" I asked.

She laughed, a hint of bitterness in the sound, and said, "you mean presuming he even noticed?"

I smiled and said, "well, I suppose so."

"Look," she said, leaning across the table and touching the back of my hand lightly, "if it doesn't happen at a car show or on the 14th tee it's unlikely he'll even notice if I'm not around. But I'll handle it."

She paused and added, "if it turns out you guys are interested in a fat girl."

I laughed at that.

"Okay," I said, "here's the deal. Tell Michael that I won a spa weekend for two at, wait a minute."

I pulled out my cell phone and quickly googled "spa weekend programs near me."

I scrolled through, looking for somewhere far enough that he wouldn't decide to drop in.

"Okay," I said, "tell Michael that I won a spa weekend for two at Breckenridge and I'm taking you."

Her eyes were big.

"You're serious, aren't you," she said.

I just grinned.

"Oh God Jean," she said, "I'm sitting in a puddle. Come home with me?"

I raised one eyebrow.

"And just what do you have in mind if I do?" I asked.

She giggled and said, "Jean, this is the most daring thing I've ever done. I want you to help me figure out what to wear."

So I said, "Okay," paid the bill, and followed her home.

Chester, my husband, and I had been to Samantha and Michael's socially before Chester died. They had a big house in one of the upscale suburbs, on the golf course of course. Chester and Michael had both been golf addicts.

"Something to drink?" she asked as we went in.

"Beer is fine," I said.

She opened two beer bottles of a brand I didn't recognize but the labels seemed to have some Chinese or Japanese writing on them.

Inside she was giggling like a schoolgirl as she led me down the hall to her bedroom.

"Let's see," she said, stepping into her big walk-in closet while I sat on the edge of the bed, sipping the beer which was very good.

In a couple of minutes, she opened the doors and stood, doing a slow turn.

Samantha is a big woman. I'm a thick chick but she's a true butterball.

What she had on seemed to be designed specifically to make her look even fatter. The blouse was full and sleeveless, showing off the size of her upper arms, and those upper arms were impressive with big soft fat pads that, well, "wobbled" is the word, with each movement. The skirt was knee length, a sort of grey color, and if anything made her look even bigger. Flat shoes left her legs lacking tension.

I gave a thumbs down sign and she giggled and closed the doors.

A few more sips of the beer and she opened the doors again.

It was even worse.

This was a one-piece thing, a muumuu if I remember the word right, in a bright floral pattern, making her look immense.

"Oh Jesus Christ," I said, getting up and marching, a bit unsteadily, that beer was potent, into the closet.

"First," I said, pointing imperiously, "get that monstrosity OFF!

She giggled and blushed and said, "there's nothing under it."

"Oh honey," I said, "if you want to be part of my new life you'll have to understand that modesty is a thing of the past."

She was looking up at me, big eyes, deer in the headlight.

She didn't move.

"Do you really want a spanking?" I asked, holding my voice quiet, "now get it off."

She was blushing deeply as she reached down, grabbed the hem of the muumuu, and peeled it up and off in the crossed arms way all women seem to instinctively be able to do.

She covered her breasts with crossed arms.

I slapped her hand.

"STOP IT!" I snapped.

She took a deep breath and dropped her arms.

Jesus, she was big. I'm a thick chick but she was beyond that, deep into fat.

There are, of course, four basic shapes for a woman's body - hourglass, pear, tube, and apple. For most of my life, I had been an hourglass but with menopause, my waist was a memory and now I was more a tube. Samantha was all apple.

Her breasts were big, with big areolas and very small nipples, and as I looked they tightened showing very distinct love bumps.

They laid on the first roll of her belly, soft and jiggly.

The second roll of her belly laid, in turn, on the third, which was creased vertically by her navel, and hung well down like a soft pink apron.

She giggled as she saw where my eyes were looking and used her hands to lift that bottom roll and then let it drop.

"A fat girl's natural modesty," she said.

I chuckled but continued my examination.

Her thighs were big like the rest of her, and a little roll of fat hung onto her knees.

Her calves were oddly delicate, tapering to small ankles and feet.

I met her eyes and held out my arm, forefinger down, and did the universal "turn around" sign, twirling the finger in a small circle.

Her back pretty much mirrored her front. A heavy roll high on her back laid on a second roll and her waist was big enough that her ass looked almost small. Those sexy calves, though, were just as nice from the back.

She completed her turn and stood, chin up now, facing me.

"Well," she said, defiantly.

I smiled, took the step that separated us, put one palm on each side of her face, and kissed her.

She kissed back.

It was a good kiss. Different from any I had before, but a good kiss.

My hands found the softness of her back and I couldn't help squeezing, and I liked that it made her giggle.

She was a little breathless when we broke the kiss and said, "I've never been with a woman before."

I chuckled softly deep in my throat and said, "neither have I."

I kissed her again.

She kissed back.

It was a VERY good kiss.

All of a sudden I had a thought and my bowels got that hot watery feeling you get when you're startled and that first rush of adrenaline hits kicking in the fight or flight reflex.

"Oh God," I said, pushing her away and holding her at arm's length.

"What?" she asked, eyes big.

I had to catch my breath, the thought had been so powerful.

"Oh God," I repeated, "I just know they'll want to watch us."

Her eyes got even bigger and then, suddenly, she grinned, what can only be called a predatory grin.

Her hand went behind my neck and pulled me down.

The kiss was wet and sloppy, her tongue a wild thing exploring my mouth.

She pushed me away, grabbed my blouse in both hands, and yanked.

Buttons flew.

"Then we'd better practice," she said, her fingers finding the button on my skirt and then yanking down the zipper, letting it fall to the floor.

"OH YOU SLUT YOU!" she cried out, giggling, seeing me standing there in my tattered blouse, my red wonderbra, and no panties.

She took a step back and, as I had done earlier, extended her arm, her forefinger pointing down, twirling it in the universal "turn-around" gesture.

I giggled and turned, slowly.

I was surprised not at all when I felt her fingers at the hooks of the bra.

She let the bra drop and I finished my turn, my shoulders back, my back arched slightly, prouder of myself than I had been in years.

Facing her, I smiled, head up.

She closed the distance between us, kissed me, and enfolded me in a soft, warm, pillowy embrace.

I reached as far around her as I could and squeezed the roll of softness I found under my fingers.

We stood like that, embracing, kissing, our hands exploring, finding those special spots that no man ever finds.

She touched that special place on the back of my arm, just above the elbow, and I felt an electric shock deep in my belly.

I found the crease at the bottom of her ass, lifting and separating her cheeks, and enjoyed the soft gasp I drew from her.

When her hands pressed down on my shoulders I didn't resist.

On my knees before her, I watched as she lifted the soft mass of her belly apron and I kissed the round mound she exposed. She was smooth down there, surprising me. And she was one of those women that had what I would later learn was a FUPA.

For those of you who don't know, that's one of those little acronyms like BBW (Big Beautiful Woman) that you run across if you look at porn on the web. It's Fat Upper Pussy Area, and she definitely had one. The fat cells that had accumulated at her mons veneris, her Mound of Venus, formed a fourth roll of fat. It was soft and it hung, independently, her nether lips were just wrinkled flaps almost hidden in that soft pink globe bifurcated by a deep slit.

I WANTED to kiss it.

Her scent, pheromone laden, filled my nostrils and I felt that sudden heat in my belly grow even hotter.

Her fingers were entwined in my hair, forcing my head back so I was looking straight up, my tongue probing, seeking her clitoris.

Her fingers twisted then, hurting, pulling me against her.

I liked the feeling as my tongue probed and found her.

Her taste, slick and salty, had me squirming.

When she came my mouth was suddenly full and I coughed, spraying out of my mouth and my nose.

Her fingers twisted more, hurting me, holding me pressed against her as a second wave filled my mouth.

I swallowed and heard her hiss, "yesssssssssssssssssssssss," above me.

She came again, and again, the waves of the mucus and the liberal production of her Skene's and Bartholin's glands that is her natural lubricant, okay, let's call it what it is, the snot or the grool (another word I would encounter as I dipped more and more into porn), filling my mouth and me swallowing it greedily. Enjoying the salty taste, my hands were on her ass now, pulling her to me, while my mouth suckled on her pussy, feeling her body clench with each wave of her ecstasy.

"Oh God," she sort of whined, her fingers trying to pull me away now, "enough baby, Jesus, enough."

But I was the aggressor now, my hands digging into the softness of her ass, my mouth sucking greedily. Pulling her nether lips, swollen, now, deeper into my mouth.

"OH JESUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS," she cried as I pulled another wave from her, drinking her greedily.

Her fingers were pulling at my hair now, and hurting me, but I wouldn't release her.

I bit down on those swollen lips and she screamed, her fingers spasming in my hair, making me cry out.

But I held on.

Her final orgasm was different.

I thought she had lost bladder control the way she sprayed all over my face and hair, her ejaculate thin and watery, but it was pure womanscent.

She finally broke my lock on her pussy when she dropped to her knees.

We were both crying, and both laughing, on our knees, face to face, my face and hair soaked, her cheeks tear and mascara stained and a thick rope of snot hanging from her nose, across her lips and chin, and down almost touching her breasts.

"Oh Jesus," she whimpered.

"Yeah," I gasped, "oh Jesus."

We kissed again, snotty and slick and wonderful.

We held each other gasping, trying to get our breath back.

She recovered first, grunting as she stood and then offering me her hand.

We stood for a full minute, not moving, looking at each other, messy, stinking of sex, and smiling like two idiotic school girls.

I got my breath back first and managed a soft, "oh wow."

Which made her laugh.

"Oh wow is right," she said, holding my hands, "who needs men?"

Which made me laugh in my turn.

"It wasn't THAT good," I managed and we both laughed.

Finally, under control, she turned serious.

"Jesus Jean, I didn't expect that," she said.

"Yeah," was about all I could manage.

"Come on," she said after a few seconds and led me to the bathroom.

She had a big walk-in shower and we both fit comfortably.

We giggled and splashed like schoolgirls while we cleaned each other up.

When we were clean and dry I watched in fascination as she got a tube of Desitin from her medicine cabinet and began carefully lifting each fold and dabbing a little of the white cream from time to time.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

She looked up and blushed a little. "Fat girls get rashes," she said, "and if I don't take care of them right away they get really bad."

She looked at me speculatively and offered the tube.

"Care to help?" she asked.

I didn't say anything, just smiled and accepted the tube.

"Come on," she said, taking my hand and leading me back to bed, "it's easier if you're not constantly fighting gravity."

Back on the bed, she lay back and I picked up where she had left off, lifting the second roll of her belly fat and inspecting all of the way to the bottom.

I found no red hints of developing rash and so moved down to the next roll.

And it struck me that this was a level of intimacy that was special.

"You're going to like it when one of the guys does this for you," I said and she physically shivered, making interesting little wavelets run up and down her body.

"If they like the fat girl," she said and I slapped her hip as hard as I could.

"OWWWWW, WHAT?!?!" she yelled.

I smiled at her.

"Just a taste, Sam," I said.

"Of what?" she asked, rubbing the red spot where I hit her.

"Of what the guys will do if you keep putting yourself down. They'll spank you, honey, trust me when I tell you," I said.

"Oh my," she sort of moaned and I said, "slut."

She giggled and said, "get back to work."

I finished tending to her big body. I found another rashy spot at the roll at the top of her left knee. It was her back, though, that kept me busy. Those places she had trouble reaching of course. She had fully developed rashes at the top of her gluteal crease, the crack of her ass, and both sides of the big roll high on her back.

"Okay, bitch," I said, slapping her ample ass, "now see if you can fix my blouse you tore up and then we're going shopping."

It was shaping up to be a good day.