M.U.F.F. Pt. 02

Content notice:

The following story contains depictions of negative body image, weight stigma, and diet talk.

I've done my best to portray these issues with empathy and sensitivity. Beauty comes in every size, and a joyous, fulfilling sex life is the privilege of anyone who wants one.

That said, if you're someone who prefers to avoid such things altogether, you might try one of my other stories instead.

The characters depicted in the following story are all 18 or above. One of the themes involves sexual liaisons between young adult women and much older adults in a position of relative power over them.

The inclusion of this theme is for storytelling purposes only. It is not a comment on the advisability of such relationships in real life.

The Author

~

M.U.F.F., Part II

Today, Mr. Robinson keeps me after class. He waits for the rest of the students to file out. He asks the last one to shut the door on their way out.

He and I are alone in his classroom.

Once again, I spent the whole class period fantasizing about fucking him.

He sits there in his chair, looking at me, searching for something in my face--what, I don't know. I stand there in front of his desk, waiting for him to speak. Eventually, he does.

"Something's different about you lately," he says.

"What do you mean?" I mumble.

"Have I done anything to make you uncomfortable?" he asks.

"No," I say.

He nods. Then he says, "Is there anything else wrong? Anything you need to talk about?"

"Nothing's wrong," I say.

"Okay," he says. "It's just that I'm worried that you're losing focus. I'm not worried about your work, but I know we're close to the end of senior year, and your mind's probably somewhere else."

I nod.

My mind is definitely somewhere.

He says, "I just don't want senioritis to get the best of you."

"Me either," I say.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

I blush. I know he can see me blushing.

He leans forward, his hands clasped on top of his desk blotter, and says, a little softer, a little more conspiratorially:

"Are you in love?"

My mind spins.

Holy fuck.

Is he asking me if I'm in love in general?

Or is he asking me if I'm in love with him?

I don't answer.

He says, even more quietly, "Again, if there's anything I can do for you, just let me know."

He's staring at me.

"How?" I blurt out, an almost voiceless whisper.

"That depends on you."

I don't say anything. I don't know what to say, but I can see in his face that he's gotten an answer.

"We'll work something out," he says.

Then he adds, "Not here."

Those two words land in the pit of my chest like a bomb.

"No," I say, "definitely not here."

"No pressure," he says. "Just think about it."

I leave the classroom in a daze.

After school, driving Alex home to her house, I say nothing. She's chatting away about some boy she's made a date to watch a movie with tonight, but I barely hear any of it.

Two thoughts keep cycling through my head.

Did that just happen?

And, am I going to go for it?

~

Tonight, after my evening shower, I try out my fantasy with Mr. Robinson again. First with me as Mr. Robinson fucking a version of myself, then as myself with Mr. Robinson fucking me.

Neither of them works. I'm not sure why. There's some strange block between my mind's eye and my urgent body.

As an emergency backup, I try my fantasy of fucking myself as me, and it sort of works.

As I'm holding the rabbit to my engorged vulva, caught in the feedback loop of its satisfying touch and craving more of it, I realize that the fantasy is reconfiguring itself, independent of my will.

I'm no longer me, fucking myself.

It's just me, fucking a girl who kind of looks like me. She's lost her identity. She isn't really me, not in any meaningful way.

Just a girl, who I dreamed up. I imagine getting her off while I get myself off.

I choke up on the rabbit. A thin film of fluid inches its way up the grip to where my hand is. Its silicone nubs make a circuit over my clit and back and forth inside me, against my front wall.

I don't know who this girl is.

And I don't care.

In my mind's eye, I fuck her with my hand until she comes, writhing on the bed.

In reality, I fuck myself with the rabbit, until so do I.

~

In class, as Mr. Robinson lectures, my usual fantasies about him run uninterrupted, colored by the memory of the strange conversation we had yesterday.

Every time his eyes pass over me, I search his face for some sign of meaning in his glance, but I find none.

I say goodbye to him on my way out of the classroom, and he gives me a distracted nod.

In the car, on the way to Alex's house, she tells me about the boy she visited last night. She boasts that his parents didn't care, that they were in the next room the whole time and never bothered them.

Of course they fucked.

I nod along to the story, chiming in with stock remarks whenever they feel appropriate, and she's happy.

She gets out of the car and leans in to give me her customary kiss on the cheek.

I don't know why I do it.

I turn my face towards hers, and our lips meet.

She's surprised. But she doesn't recoil.

Our eyes fall shut. Our lips open a little. I wonder if I'm supposed to stick my tongue out, but her tongue finds mine first and I'm grateful that she took the initiative.

I don't know if she's good at this or not. I have no experience to judge. But it feels good to me.

Then our mouths part, and she looks at me for a second, her eyes smoldering.

"Bye," she says.

"Bye," I say, and watch her walk away and let herself into her house.

I wait until the front door closes to pull away.

My heart is pounding.

That was my first kiss.

~

I'm so horny tonight.

But I feel a strange sense of overload. I badly want to masturbate, but I'm so exhausted. And no matter how much I touch myself or who I try to conjure into my fantasies, I can't get myself out of my head.

I settle for lying restlessly on top of the covers, nude, my skin and hair still damp and cooling from the shower. I stare at the ceiling. The rabbit lies on the bed next to me, within reach, but unused.

I'm still not sure what happened between Mr. Robinson and me was real.

It's like I'm seeing him in two realities at the same time.

In one, I'm just a sexless horny girl who projects her desperation onto any warm body. What I saw and heard didn't really happen the way I thought it did. My mind isn't right. My head isn't on straight.

In the other reality, my history teacher wants to fuck me.

If that's true, I've lined up a chance to get laid for the first time, with an experienced partner who isn't going to complicate my life with a long-term obligation. It's mine to take or leave.

Not to mention, it's an impossibly rare opportunity to realize my recurring fantasies.

Maybe he's just a kind old man who offered help to someone who he thought needed it.

But that can be true for either reality.

And then there's Alex.

She's hard to get along with, and she has no filter. Sometimes, she casually makes me feel bad about myself. But she also wants to help me. I really do like being around her. She's bold, infectious.

And, deep down, I know I'd be repressing all of these feelings into a tiny hot kernel in the core of my being, if not for being exposed to Alex's shameless and hypersexualized approach to life.

What did that kiss mean?

Aside from the girl-who-is-not-Beth, who only exists in my waking dreams, the only people I've considered as potential sexual partners are boys and older men--with Alex's frequent encouragement.

I don't know if the kiss and ensuing confusion means I'm into her or not. I don't know if it meant anything to her at all. And, if I am into her, I don't know if it's something that could even go anywhere.

If I came onto her, even just to see what it might be like, what would my life look like in the aftermath? It might wreck whatever closeness we already have, if that hasn't happened already.

Or (I laugh to myself) maybe it would be my happily-ever-after story. Alex and me, carpooling together into old age.

Fuck.

I just want to get laid. With the possibility looming so close, it has to happen soon. I feel like I'll burst if it doesn't.

At some point, I finally start to fall asleep.

The last thought in my mind, before the darkness descends, is that I've waited long enough.

No more meek, passive Beth. This inner crisis is my chrysalis. I'm transforming. I'm about to break free of the shell created by former Beth.

The new Beth takes action. The new Beth pursues opportunities instead of waiting for them to fall into her lap. The new Beth gets laid when she wants to, and she's going to do it as soon as possible.

She's just not sure who it'll be with.

~

Another day, another history class in which I fantasize about doing unspeakable things with Mr. Robinson, in front of the whole of the student body and faculty, while he barely seems to notice me.

After class, on my way past his desk, he says my name and hands something to me without looking up.

It's a manila envelope.

Anybody who saw it would think he was just handing back an assignment or something.

I debate lingering, but he's already gone back to the stack of papers in front of him.

Okay.

With a mannered nonchalance, I make my way into the girls' bathroom, hide in one of the stalls, and look inside the envelope.

There's nothing inside but a hard plastic card with the name of a motel and a room number on it.

No note, no instructions, nothing else.

Just a key to a motel room.

Oh.

Oh jesus fuck oh god oh--

High, tittering voices choose that moment to come into the bathroom. Even though I'm hidden by the closed door of the stall, I suddenly feel paranoid that I'll be caught, that I'll be found out.

I stash the envelope in my bag, leave the stall, and performatively wash my hands while three of my classmates laugh and joke with each other loudly enough that it hurts my ears.

~

Alex is uncharacteristically quiet on the car ride to her house.

I'm vibrating with nervous tension. I hope it doesn't show.

I put the car in park in front of her house and wait for the usual peck on the cheek.

She sits there, staring straight ahead.

I'm terrified. I'm not sure which one of us is going to talk first.

Eventually, she does.

"You know we're going to have to talk about this," she says.

I nod. I can't speak.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't have done it," she says, a hint of caution in her voice. "I'm just interested to know why."

I can't explain what happens next.

It's like a dam breaking.

I tell her everything, starting with my revelatory experience naked in front of the bathroom mirror.

I tell her about my out-of-body fantasy, about fucking myself as another person. I tell her about the various fantasy personas I inhabited while engaging in this fantasy, including Rob.

And, however briefly, including her. How I pictured myself as her naked in the dressing room.

That detail is particularly humiliating.

Then I tell her about how I imagined fucking myself as Mr. Robinson, how it broke my brain, how I suddenly couldn't stop thinking about fucking him, how it colored every interaction I've had with him since.

I tell her about the intrusive fantasies of following his orders while having sex in front of the whole school.

I tell her about how I conjured a double version of myself, of two Beths having sex within my singular consciousness, how that fantasy warped until it was just me having sex with a girl who looked like me.

So far, she isn't saying anything.

And I'm helpless to stop the momentum of the words spilling out of my brain.

I tell her about the forcefulness of my orgasm. How it was the best I've ever had. How my fingers had gathered a sticky froth, something that I'd never seen my body do before.

I tell her everything except the part where Mr. Robinson propositioned me after class. That's where I stop short.

I haven't looked at her the whole time I've been talking. When I finally do, she's staring straight ahead.

I'm terrified that this will go in one ear and out the other, that she'll take this as an opportunity to change the subject to some distantly related anecdote of her own, the way she usually does.

Instead, she says, "You fantasized about me being naked in the dressing room?"

She still isn't looking at me.

"Yes," I say, my voice a thick whisper.

"Did anything happen in this fantasy?"

"Nothing happened."

"Were you into me?"

I search for the answer.

"I don't know," I say, honestly.

She sits there a while longer.

The silence is killing me.

Finally, she looks at me.

"Do you want to come over Saturday night and watch a movie?" she says.

That's two days from now.

I know what Alex means when she says "watch a movie."

She sees me struggling to answer.

She says, "Just think about it."

Just think about it.

No pressure.

She leans in, cups my cheek, and kisses me on the mouth. Not one of her usual pecks. This is more like the slow, sensuous kiss we had in the car the previous day.

I have very little experience to judge, but, I decide, yes, she's good at this.

I'm starting to get turned on. I don't even know if I'm attracted to her, but I'm imagining the body I know so well beneath her clothes, what it would be like to strip her, to touch her.

Our mouths part.

Then she kisses me again. Shorter this time, but no less passionately.

When she breaks the kiss, she gives me another one of those smoldering looks. She gets out of the car without saying anything.

I wait for her to let herself into her house and close the front door behind her. Then I drive off.

I pull into the parking lot of a nearby liquor store, stop the engine, and sit there, trying to decompress.

What is happening to my life?

I made out with my best friend.

Alex, whose lust was usually reserved for boys and older men, whose fantasies about other women were relegated to boy-girl-girl threesomes, who had never shown any interest in me before now.

Alex, who just propositioned me for sex.

Beth, whose prospects for getting laid for the first time went from zero to two in as many hours.

I think of the key card in my bag.

Why didn't I tell Alex about Mr. Robinson?

Mr. Robinson, whose position at the center of my fantasies had wrecked my concentration for the past few days.

Mr. Robinson, who, at this very moment, is probably waiting for me in that motel room.

Mr. Robinson, the first man who ever wanted to fuck poor, loney, fat little Beth.

I think of the moment I had with Alex--my confession, the details I left out, the details I put in.

Alex, whose only questions were:

"Did anything happen?"

"Were you into me?"

"Do you want to come over and watch a movie on Saturday night?"

Alex, whose immediate reaction to my fantasy of her naked in the dressing room was to gauge my interest, to see if I was serious or not.

To invite me, with uncharacteristic coquettishness, into her loving bed.

I recall the fantasy. Her, there in the mirror. Her little breasts, her delicately colored nipples. Her flat belly. Her muscles. Her flawless, hairless skin. Everything taut and perky and perfect.

It occurs to me, as I obsess over this, that I could be having sex with Mr. Robinson right now. That these could be my last moments as the meek, virginal former Beth.

It would be an immediate, uncomplicated opportunity. Something I'm sure I want.

I could be getting laid for the first time right now.

But I could put it off, just for two days. Throw the card key away, forget about Mr. Robinson--what's a male teacher doing sniffing around a female student anyway?--and leave him to my fantasies forever.

Come Saturday night, I'd still get laid. I'd throw myself into Alex's eager, oversexed clutches, and she would be just as much of a guarantee as Mr. Robinson is right now.

Alex, my best friend, my closest relationship outside of my immediate family.

Alex, unquestionably the hot friend in our hot friend/mandatory ugly fat friend dyad.

Alex, who could have any boy she wanted.

What would she ever want with a girl like me?

Then, I think, I've answered my own question. Alex can have anyone she wants. Any opportunity, any excuse for a pump, an ego boost, just one more notch on a bedpost covered in them. Something to brag about.

Alex, for whom life is an unending quest for sexual novelty.

The fact that I'm her female best friend, not one of the men out of her endlessly rotating schedule, is just one more novelty to check off. A woman-loving-woman experience, dropped right in her lap.

Desperate, horny Beth. Beautiful, worldly Alex. I'm hers to take or leave.

Alex wants to have sex with me, I can believe that.

But I just can't accept that Alex wants me.

I let these thoughts swirl in my head for a while until they get exhausting, then I start the engine.

I call home and let them know that I'm hanging out with Alex, that I might not be home until late.

Then I drive to the address on the motel key card.

TO BE CONTINUED

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