M.U.F.F. Pt. 03

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 III

I approach the door and pull the key card out of my bag. I hold it in my hand near the card reader, but I can't bring myself to swipe it.

The motel is an old walkup on the fringes of the commercial end of town. The air is dry and hot and smells like gravel. There isn't much out here.

Not many people around.

I look down at myself. I'm in the same jeans and loose-fitting dark blouse that I wore to school today. Underneath, a drab sports bra and old cotton panties that won't stay out of the depths of my asscrack.

I wish I'd worn something different, something sexier. I wish my entire style were sexier. I look so frumpy.

But then, I look frumpy in everything, and I don't think they make sexy clothes for people like me.

I notice that the door isn't latched. Not quite ajar, but definitely expecting company.

I strain to hear anything inside. I can just make out the quiet jabber of TV news.

I picture myself inside that room with Mr. Robinson. For some reason, in the image in my mind, he's standing there, naked and erect, and I'm still in my frumptastic Beth clothes. It's almost funny.

I think about swiping the card again, then realize that I could just push the door open. Either way feels somehow invasive, like I don't have permission.

I decide to knock instead.

Just as I raise my hand, I hear Mr. Robinson's voice from inside.

"It's open. Come in."

I nearly jump out of my skin.

I waste a second wondering how he knew I was here, then I realize he must have seen me get out of the car through the narrowed slats of the drawn blinds.

Once I've collected myself, I give the door a gentle nudge. It drifts open.

I don't know what to expect. There's a bed. Mr. Robinson is reclining on it, in the same clothes he wore at school, but his shoes are off.

There's nothing really sexy about it, except that it's him, and that we both know why we're here. He's watching TV. It feels almost domestic.

He looks over at me.

"Close the door, would you?" he says.

I do.

"Lock it behind you," he says.

I do.

I expect him to click the remote to turn the TV off, but he doesn't. The quiet jabber continues unabated.

I set my bag down. I kick off my sneakers.

He swings his legs around, gets off the bed, and approaches me.

I feel very short with him standing right in front of me.

(I'm barely over five feet. I always feel so big around Alex, partly because she's thin, but also because she's almost as short as I am. Mr. Robinson is at least a full head taller than I am.)

He looks down at me, staring at my face. I avoid his eyes. In the periphery of my vision, I try to divine what he's thinking. But I can't.

It crosses my mind that I could still be wrong about this. There could be an alternate explanation for why we're together, alone in this motel room, some major way I've misapprehended his invitation.

Then he runs his fingertips over the skin of my fleshy upper arm, raising goosebumps and hardening my nipples, and the possibility that we're not here for sex suddenly becomes very remote.

"Did anyone see you?" he says, quietly.

"No," I say.

"Good," he says.

His fingertips are making a few more circuits on my hateful upper arm, and his other hand is on my hip. My own hands dangle self-consciously at my sides.

"I'm glad you didn't knock," he says.

"Why?" I say.

"It isn't much of a clandestine encounter if you're attracting attention," he says, smiling.

He's close enough that I can smell his breath--somewhere between spearmint and coffee. I don't mind it.

I still haven't said or done anything.

His hands pause.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks.

I nod, still not meeting his eyes.

I want to tell him everything. About the fantasy in the mirror, about not being able to think about anything else at school, about why I've suddenly been so different around him.

All the stuff I told Alex in the car.

But I feel stuck. The gears in my brain are clashing.

Finally, I force something out.

"Could we...?"

"Yes?"

"Take a shower?"

He grins. "Of course. Anything you want."

There's a countertop with a sink and mirror on the back wall. Nearby, a thin door. There's a tiny bathroom in there with a toilet and a combination bathtub/shower.

Barely big enough for two.

I make him wait outside the bathroom while I get undressed and get in the shower. I leave my clothes in a neat, folded up pile on top of the toilet tank.

I stand under the spray--just a little too hot and hard for what I'm used to--letting the nervous sweat of the day rinse off my skin and run down the drain. It's a moment of blessed loneliness.

Then I call him in.

Through the curtain, I hear the door open. I sense his approach.

Okay. This is it.

I don't think I've been naked around another person since I was a small child. And I can't think of anyone who's been naked around me. Except for Alex.

The curtain pulls back, and Mr. Robinson comes into the shower. I turn sideways, not really hiding myself, but not really showing myself, either.

I don't look at him. He's a tall, hard shape at the corner of my vision.

He closes the curtain and turns to face me. His presence is large and warm in the small space.

I can't bring myself to glance at it, but I'm dying to see if Alex was right about him.

I expect him to take me into his strong arms, to seize me like a piece of property, to get whatever use there is to be gotten out of this body.

He asks, with surreal politeness, "Can I kiss you?"

I turn towards him, not giving myself time to look, and hoping that I'm not giving him time to look either. I turn my head up and our arms go around each other and our mouths meet.

His tongue is more forceful, more insistent than Alex's. His chin, as clean-shaven as it is, is already tearing up mine. I'll have to come up with an excuse for that before I get home.

He holds me tightly while we make out. My tits are mashed against his hard stomach. I don't have to try very hard to identify the firm lump between us, pressing into my belly.

With our mouths together and the spray from the shower pouring over my nose, it's difficult to breathe.

Maybe it wasn't a great idea to start in here.

He breaks the kiss. Maybe he feels the same thing.

"I have an idea," he says.

I don't say anything. I think he realizes I'm not going to, at least not yet.

He says, "Let's wash each other. Since we're already in the shower anyway."

The shiniest boobs.

Fuck Alex for being right.

"Can I turn my back to you?" I say to his chest.

"Sure," he says.

I turn around, facing away. I have to turn the spray off so it isn't hitting me in the face. I hear him fumbling behind me for the tiny bottle of soap on the shelf just outside the shower.

Then I feel his fingers, surprisingly delicate, between my shoulder blades. I gather my hair up into a thick lock and drape it down the front of one shoulder to get it out of the way.

I'm enjoying his touch. But I'm mortified as he goes lower and touches the thick rolls under my arms, the ones that go around to meet the overhang of my breasts. If he hates them, he doesn't give me any sign.

"Arms?" he says.

I hold my arms out, away from my sides a little, and he goes up and down them with the soap, seeming to enjoy the fleshy, squishy parts that I spend most of my life trying to cover up.

He leaves my arms and I let them drop. He's onto my lower back, giving it a brief massage with his slippery thumbs, for which I'm grateful.

He touches the prominent shelf at the top of my ass. It's another feature of my body I'm unhappy about. He's making little circles as he goes, massaging my wet, spongy skin with the soap.

Here, he pauses.

"Is it okay to go lower?" he asks.

I nod.

His palms roam downwards, feeling pitifully small on the wide surface of my bare buttocks. As he goes lower, towards the fold where my ass overhangs my legs, I shiver, and he pauses again.

"I'm okay," I say.

To show that I'm game, I lean forward to give him better access. I put my feet apart and steady myself with my hands on the tile wall in front of me, above the handle that turns the shower on.

With such a big part of my body sticking straight out at him, I feel mortified again.

But--again--if he hates it, he gives me no sign.

His hands cup the bottoms of my asscheeks, gliding on a gossamer-thin layer of soap as he rubs me, his fingertips occasionally tickling the backs of my thighs. Then he rises back up to the shelf.

And there, he pauses.

He doesn't say anything.

Then, with slow deliberateness, he descends with one hand into the tight chasm of my asscrack, starting at the top and working his way downward in little crosscut motions, leaving suds in his wake.

Fuck, he's deep in there. I wish my brain didn't have to process how far into my asscrack it's possible for an adult hand to go.

I feel like I should stop him. I don't know why.

I feel like his hesitation before going in was out of a sense of mutual embarrassment, like he knows that touching me like this should shame us both.

I don't stop him, and he continues.

He's getting closer to my asshole, which is making me supremely anxious--wondering if he's going to stop, if he's going to touch it or not, what would happen if he did.

My pubic hair, in its untouched state, starts at my navel, grows into a big, bushy patch on my pubis and labia, then ends in a wreath around my anus--a feature of my body that I'm especially unhappy about.

I shave the line that connects my navel to my pubis, and I trim the bush every once in a while, just to keep it under control and to feel a little pretty.

But, aside from once or twice, I've never bothered with the hair on my asshole. Why would I? It's not something you'd even know was there.

Shit. He's about to touch it.

Why am I not stopping him?

When his fingers touch home, I struggle not to react.

He glides right over it.

If he registers the shameful hair growth, or my tension, he gives me no sign.

He makes a few tight circles on my perineum, then he's out of my ass and onto my hips, which I would find a relief if I didn't hate my hips too. I stand upright, relieved to no longer be sticking my ass out.

For a second, I thought I was going to be the first virgin in history to get fingered in the ass before getting fingered in the pussy.

I hear him grunt, sense him moving, and I realize he's crouching behind me. His hands shimmy down my thick thighs, my round calves. First one leg, then the other.

I'm trying to square how much I hate this with the thorough, tender care he's showing to all the parts of me that I hate, and how thrilling and how pleasurable it is to be touched by another person.

He grunts again, and I feel him rising behind me, feeling a brush of incidental contact by something warm and hard against the back of my leg as he stands up.

"The front?" he says.

God. I've been putting this off. How do I keep putting it off?

I'm going to have to look at him sooner or later.

I'm going to have to let him look at me.

I decide that I just have to steel myself and get it over with, like ripping off a bandage.

I turn around, instinctively giving him the quick look up and down that I'm so used to getting from guys when they think I'm not looking.

Mr. Robinson's body looks older than I thought it would. His stomach a little softer, the carpet of body hair that runs from his chest down to his thighs a mosaic of salt and pepper.

I don't know if his cock is big or not. I realize that I'd have no way of knowing, up close and personal, its head just inches from my navel. It doesn't look very big. The hair on it looks neatly trimmed.

But it looks nice. I'm not scared of it, like I had worried I'd be.

He has an adoring look on his face, which is out of character for how I know him. He looks the least authoritative, the most vulnerable I've ever seen him.

He looks like he's looking at something beautiful, even though he's only looking at me.

I avert my gaze as soon as he meets it.

He puts his hands on my chest--not on my breasts, at least, not directly. Just under my collarbones, soaping me there, getting my shoulders, the base of my neck, the crooks of my arms.

"What do you call them?" he asks me.

I consider asking him what he's talking about, but I can't pretend I don't know.

I summon my courage. "My tits."

"Can I touch your tits?"

"I don't think so," I say, then add, "not yet."

He nods.

He touches my belly, just under the bottoms of my tits, which rest low and heavy on my chest. My sensitive nipples point slightly down, a disgraceful concession to gravity so early in my life.

He comes so close to touching them, and I'm ready to jump out of my skin, but he doesn't. I settle for being humiliated that he's touching my big round belly instead, all over its broad expanse.

Then he's on the underside of the roll that overhangs my thick pubis, and I finally have to ask him.

"Do you actually like this?"

I could have settled for being awkwardly silent all night. But the thought was racing in my head, and now it has to come out.

"I like it very much, he says, making sweet little circles below my navel with the fingers of one hand, as if for emphasis.

"Why?"

"I think you're a beautiful girl, Beth."

I laugh automatically.

"I'm serious," he says.

I can't believe him. It's such an outrageous lie. This must be how he gets naive girls such as myself to go to bed with him.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

His hand pauses where it is, just below my navel.

"Sure," he says. "I can't guarantee that I can give you an answer, but you can ask anything."

I feel like I need to be very careful, which is an odd thought, given that I'm already here and we're already alone together, naked in the shower. He's already touched almost my entire body.

Almost.

I ask, "How many other girls at school have you done this with?"

Sounding very careful himself, he says, "Is there any answer that would make you glad you asked?"

"I guess not."

"Okay then."

"What about Mrs. Robinson?"

"What about her?"

"What would she say if she knew?"

"Mrs. Robinson and I have a certain lifestyle. We like to keep it quiet. But there's an arrangement in place."

I can't help myself. All the questions spinning in my mind, the ones I've kept locked away in my timid silence, are coming tumbling out.

"Don't you think it's wrong to bring a student of yours here to... do this?" I ask.

"You're legal," he says. "And neither of us has promised or demanded anything from the other."

There's a little steel in his voice now. I feel like he's been asked that question before.

"You mean you're not going to raise my grade?" I ask.

I'm trying to lighten the conversation. I don't know if it's working.

Then he laughs. "Beth, you and I both know your grades don't need any help."

I laugh, too.

It's so strange, seeing him this way. Laughing, horny, playful. Old, naked, soft in many places, hard in one. He's nothing like what I imagined, all those times I tried to picture my first partner.

My teacher is just a man. I don't know why he seems so big and intimidating in the classroom.

I'm so horny. I've spent so much time feeling guarded, I've barely noticed. My insides are blazing.

"You can wash my tits," I say.

He smiles.

I say, "If..."

"If what?"

"I want to wash you first."

He grins, then offers me the bottle of soap.

Then I say, "I want to touch everything. Thoroughly."

He's still grinning. "I don't know if you think you're going to find anything that hasn't been thoroughly explored already. I'm pretty open-minded."

"Yeah, but I have some catching up to do."

Then I take the soap.

The care he's taken with me, his attention to my permission, has me feeling emboldened to do the same with him.

I soap my hands up, thinking about how I had imagined him being pushier than this. I always imagined any boy, any man, being pushier than this--all but forcing themselves on me, daring me to say no.

Fuck it.

The new Beth takes action. The new Beth waited long enough while old Beth languished in her curiosity. The new Beth cuts right to the chase.

"What do you call it?" I ask.

He can't pretend to not know what I'm talking about.

"My cock," he says. "And balls."

"Can I touch your cock and balls?"

He nods.

TO BE CONTINUED

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