M.U.F.F. Pt. 08

Extra important content notice:

The following chapter contains a conversation in which a woman says she had sex with an adult man when she was a minor.

This experience is not described in detail, and the inclusion of this conversation is necessary for character development. It is not intended for erotic purposes.

Regular 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 VIII

Tonight is my first date with one of Christopher's friends where I have the whole routine worked out and implemented from step one.

His name is Jack. I've been with him before. He's tall, fat, very dark-complected, handsome in a dour sort of way. He dresses nicely; his clothes hide salt and pepper body hair and a thick cock.

He greets me at the door of the hotel room. I come in, see that the envelope is on the table waiting for me. I politely tell him to take a shower. He disrobes in front of me, taking amusement in being watched.

While he's in the bathroom, I hurry out to my car with the envelope. I count the cash--$150.

I'm $150 per hour. In theory, $150 per person per hour, though I haven't explored that option yet and I don't know that I will.

I reserve the right to raise my price to $200 if they want something... special.

I hurry back inside and strip down to my underwear. Subconsciously, or maybe consciously, I've dressed like Darla--from the jeans and the blouse to the high-waisted panties and bralette underneath.

Tomorrow is my shopping date with Alex. I thought about holding off on anymore fuck dates until then, but I found myself wondering what difference it would make.

I'm sitting on the bed. Condoms, gloves, and dams are laid out next to me like crown jewels on velvet. Jack comes out, wet and panhandled. He seems delighted to see my collection of treasures.

What he wants is a little weird. Not special rate weird, but weird enough that I'm almost uncomfortable.

He asks me to lie still upon the bed. Not like a pillow princess--like I was dumped there, sprawled on my back, limbs in all directions. Limp, unresponsive.

Again, it's weird, but I do as he says.

I watch through my eyelashes as he crawls onto the bed next to me, distorting its surface with his weight, his massive erection protruding far beyond his round belly.

He starts taking my underthings off. I move to help him, but he puts a hand on me, reminding me to stay in character. I go limp again. After some effort, he has me naked.

He sets about examining my immobile body, curious, like a science experiment, touching me from head to toe, squeezing every roll of fat, prodding every orifice, from my nostrils to my asshole.

(Wearing gloves, of course. I've instituted an across-the-board barrier rule, and I'm not about to abandon it for the sake of theater.)

He takes a deep sniff of my pussy. I'm a little surprised by how wet I am inside--I can be sure he's getting plenty of my natural fragrance.

He lays a dam across my holes, giving it a little pat to ensure that it sticks. It sends little tendrils of electricity through me.

Then he gets his mouth involved.

First, my cheek--not kissing it, so much as covering it and sucking the flesh. My cheeks are chubby like a chipmunk's--there's a lot for him to grab onto. It's a strange, wet, squirmy feeling.

He moves on to the fat under my chin, then my upper arms. He takes my wrist and raises my arm to get at the underside, and seems to take particular pleasure in licking the sweat from my stubbly armpits.

The whole time, I alternate between wanting to groan from how gross the sensation is, how strangely he's behaving, and wanting to squeal with laughter from how much this tickles. I remain still and silent.

His tongue follows the roll from my underarm to my tit, of which he gathers an impressive amount into his mouth. It's wet and oppressively humid in there. His tongue swirls the bulk of me.

Merficully, he doesn't seem very interested in the nipple. I would scream for sure.

He does the other tit and moves onto my belly, lewdly probing my navel.

He takes my legs under my knees and raises them, spreading them apart.

Instead of going for my pussy or my asshole, he twists me this way and that, getting my hips and belly to bunch up in various ways. He sucks the rolls, tonguing the folds, and I think I finally get the game.

He runs his tongue all over the bottoms of my asscheeks, the backs of my thighs, cleans the sweat from the backs of my knees, suckles my calves, fellates each foot in its entirety, then one toe at a time.

At one point, a not quite suppressed giggle leaks out of me. He pulls my toe from his mouth, linked to him by a string of thick, mucusy spit.

"So, you're awake now," he says, playfully.

"Yes," I mock-whimper.

"If you're not going to be unconscious, you'd better lie real still and pretend."

I nod, then go back to "sleep."

He follows the inside of my leg, back up towards my crotch, but skips the best parts of me in favor of my pubic mound. He presses his lips into the pad of fat, making it distort under the pressure.

He seems to take great pleasure in rubbing his tongue against the lay of my short, razory pubic hair.

He passes my pussy by way of my inner thigh--I almost laugh again--and finds his way in between my asscheeks.

He gets my legs up in the air, getting me good and spread out, and puts his mouth over my asshole. Through the latex, I feel the flat of his tongue pushing against it.

I feel the strangest sensation, and I realize he's sucking on my asshole, delighting in the involuntary trembling of my allegedly limp legs.

Then he does a commendable job of eating my pussy. He takes a gourmand's delight in tasting every inch of the latex, prodding every part of my vulva, sampling its mouthfeel.

Despite myself, I feel myself headed towards orgasm. As he tongues me insistently in short, heavy strokes, just under my clitoris, I give myself over to it. Soon, it becomes impossible to stay immobilized.

I have to admit, replaying the last several minutes in my head, every fat-fetishizing, oral-fixating moment of it, is getting me there with much more urgency than I ever expected.

It's not that I'm completely okay with it, or that it's something that I ever wanted.

But, I have to admit, it's doing something for me--being reduced to an object of sexual amusement for someone else's benefit, being viewed as a vessel purely for aesthetic pleasures and physical sensations.

After he's satisfied himself with his living fantasy, we do the usual. I suck his cock for a while--my mouth can barely contain the massive head of it. I spit and slobber; he licks the saliva from my chin.

He wants to see my asshole gaping; I show it to him. He asks to sniff it while it's open. I let him, and he avails himself of a deep inhale. I feel the slow exhale of uninhibited bliss on my bare behind.

He fucks me, comes, ditches the condom. I put on a grand display of jilling off (I don't fake it, but I ham it up), he gets hard again, he fucks me some more, doesn't come, so he jerks off on my tits.

It's not the most usual way to get laid. But hell, he's a sweet guy, and his cock feels good. I'll never say no to a booking with him.

I ask him if he'd like to clean up his semen with his mouth. Even as I say it, I'm aware that his cock is half-soft, and the clock is nearing our time of farewell. Oddly, I feel a twinge of regret.

"Keep it," he says. "I'd love it if you put your clothes on and drove home with my spunk on you."

"I think I will," I say. I gather a fingertip full of the stuff and make a show of suckling it. He gives me a look like he's in love.

I grab my shirt, electing to pack my bra in my bag.

While we're getting dressed, he says, "I'm throwing a party in about a month. I was wondering if you'd be interested in providing entertainment."

I raise my eyebrows. "What kind of party? And what kind of entertainment?"

"A gentlemen's party. The kind where there's a show and everyone gets to watch."

"Does that mean I'm the show?"

"Not just you--more of a one on one thing. Though I'm asking you first, if you know of anyone else you could bring along."

I pause to pull my jeans up. They're a little stuck on my damp legs.

Then I say, "What kind of other person?"

He says, "Someone like you, preferably."

Ah.

I ask, "At this party, are we--this person and me--just playing with each other, or is anyone else getting in on it?"

"That's up to y'all. I'm sure some of them would want to, and they would pay full price on top of the door fee."

He sits on the edge of the bed to put his shoes on, and adds, "We want to see full hardcore, start to finish. But, otherwise, you set the house rules. I'll see to it that everyone abides by them."

I'm fully dressed and gathering my things.

I ask, "How many people are we talking about?"

"Maybe six? Possibly more. Sometimes, the wives want to come, to keep their husbands out of trouble. At least, that's why they say they want to come."

Okay, I'm interested.

"I'll see if I can get someone," I say. "We'll work it out, but right now I'm thinking full price for each person, plus full price again for anyone who wants to play afterwards."

His eyes light up, the pleasure of his plan in the early stages of fruition. "That sounds fair."

"I'll be in touch and we'll figure out the details."

~

He leaves first.

I could take a shower here, or clean myself up in the car. I keep plenty of emergency bathing supplies in the glove compartment.

But I decide to respect his wishes. The cum stays.

I wait for his car to pull away, then I head out to the parking lot. My phone is already in my hand.

If a half dozen horny middle-aged men want to circle up and watch two fat hookers dyke out in front of them, I know the first person I want to call.

Later, I take my usual late evening shower. It's becoming more of an early morning shower.

Jack's semen rehydrates and rinses away from my body in soggy flakes. I masturbate vigorously with my fingers, fantasizing about being worshipped by sucking mouths and prodding tongues.

~

Alex and I meet up for our shopping appointment, and it goes more or less as I thought it would. I feel awkward, I assume she feels awkward, neither of us acts like it. We act like it's old times.

We hit the same stores we always hit. By rote, we end up at the same lingerie store we were at all those months ago, the day after my 18th birthday.

It's the same old routine.

We carry around a bunch of stuff, which she picked out for herself. We're in the dressing room so she can try it on. She lingers in the mirror, topless, admiring herself while I bear witness.

She wears a light peach summer dress with a neckline that dips to her navel--or it would, if it weren't presently rolled down to her hips to facilitate a rotating lineup of unpurchased bras.

It's so tiresome. At the same time, though, I find myself admiring her in a way that I wouldn't have done before, at least not on a conscious level.

It's as if some inner taste, some latent palate, has activated in me since the last time we did this. Something has imprinted on me during our time apart, and I find that it isn't so hard to look at Alex now.

I'm positioned in the reflection behind her. I feel a twinge in my guts as I'm reminded of the foundational mirror fantasies that started me on this journey. Their connection to Alex isn't lost on me at all.

I can see just the very top of her asscrack peeking out above the rolled edge of her dress. Her "coin slot," as Christopher once referred to mine.

I find myself wanting very much to put my finger in it. I'd be intrigued to find out what would happen if I did.

Instead, she shoulders the straps of her dress, gets her little boobs tucked in just right, and faces me.

"Let's go babe," she says.

I'm definitely letting my imagination run away with me, and I'm not particularly trying to stop it.

"Okay," I say, and follow her out of the dressing room. We follow our well-trod path to the plus size corner in the back of the store.

As usual, we spend much less time picking out something for me. I end up with one item: a long, trailing black scarf, made out of flimsy translucent polyester.

I don't know why I grab it. I could bide my time and buy something much better, something custom.

But, for some reason, it speaks to me.

We hit the cash registers, then head out to the car.

We head to Alex's place to drop her off. She spends the time babbling about people I don't know and things that have nothing to do with me.

Nothing, not one solitary moment, has transpired to acknowledge the gulf between us, or what caused it.

As we pull up, she proudly informs me that her parents are gone for the next few days, and she's going to keep going through the contacts in her phone until she locks down "at least two guaranteed dicks."

She still talks to me like I'm the easily impressed, coquettish virgin Beth of old. The only thing she knows me as.

"Bye, babe," she says, and starts gathering her stuff.

I look at her face and say, "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

She doesn't look at me, but a cloud passes over her expression.

"Or you could just invite me in," I say, deciding to press the confrontation.

"I don't want to do that," she mumbles.

"Why not?"

"I just don't?"

"But why not? Why so many others, but not me?"

She's silent.

"Did I ruin this for us?" I ask.

She's still silent.

I'm so close to telling her to just get out of my car and fuck off, but then I see something shift in her expression--wheels turning, thoughts struggling to get out.

Then she speaks.

"Two," she says.

"What?"

"Only two."

"Two what?"

She sighs, lets her bags slide from her fingers onto the floor of the car.

"Only two others," she says.

Something feels heavy in my chest.

"Two other people?" I ask, "or two other times?"

"Two people. One time each."

"Jesus, Alex, what about all the..."

"I was lying. About all of them except the two."

Her voice is thick. She isn't crying, but I think she's going to.

I've never seen her like this.

"All that stuff you said you liked," I say, "All the sex things you said you were into, was that all a lie?"

She sniffles. "No, I like them. For real, I want to try all of them. I watch a lot of porn."

Under any other circumstances, a crying girl blubbering "I watch a lot of porn" would make me laugh. Maybe I would, if it didn't feel the world shifting under my feet.

"You couldn't stop talking about a threesome with a guy and another girl," I say. "You acted like that was your final frontier."

She snaps, "Just because I lied about all the other stuff doesn't mean I don't want the things that I want."

"What about New Year's Eve in the eighth grade?"

"I wasn't lying about that. Well, I was. Sort of."

"I don't understand what you're saying."

"I didn't really want to do it. But he was an older boy and he was into me, and I thought I should do it, because... I don't know, I just did."

Very carefully, I ask, "Did he rape you?"

"No," she says quickly. "He didn't rape me."

"But?"

"We didn't use a condom. After the party was over, he took me to the pharmacy to get the pill."

"Jesus, Alex. You bragged about it so much."

"I think I just liked the idea that it happened."

"What about the other time?"

"My parents had another couple over, friends of my dad. I was in my room with the door open. The man came looking for the bathroom and saw me."

"You weren't..."

"I wasn't doing anything! Just looking at something on my phone. He introduced himself, we talked for a while, he came farther and farther into my room until he was inside and the door was shut."

Tears are flowing freely down her cheeks. I feel like reaching out and wiping them away, but I'm not sure how she'll react. Frankly, I'm not sure I feel close enough to her right now to do something so intimate.

Alex, who declared me her special project. Alex, my mentor, my coach. Alex, so worldly in the ways of sex.

Alex, my lying friend.

"What happened next?" I say.

"Just to be clear," she says, "I came onto him."

Oh boy.

She adds, "He didn't resist, though. He showed me the condom in his wallet, told me he always carried it. 'In case I meet someone interesting.'"

"How old were you?"

"16."

I'm not even going to ask how old he was.

"Those were the only two?" I say.

"Those were the only two."

"So you made the rest of it up."

She nods, still not looking at me.

I say, "What about Rob, the night that you called me?"

She says nothing, and my confusion about our graduation day conversation about "the thing with Rob" becomes clear.

"Jesus," I say under my breath.

"Do you hate me?" she says.

Now it's my turn to say nothing.

Not because I want her to dangle, but because I don't know how I feel about her right now.

Big, bad Alex is now actively sobbing in my passenger seat, looking so small and pathetic. I can't bring myself to hate her, but the feelings I'm having right now are too wild and undefined.

Her face is a mess.

"Come on," I say. "We can't sit in here forever."

~

We go inside her house. I take her stuff to her room while she heads to the bathroom. I overhear her blowing her nose, sounding what I imagine it sounds like when longshoremen blow their noses.

I sit on the corner of the bed, wondering how long it'll take for her to straighten up. I assume she's just taking her time to calm down, and maybe contemplating further additions to her confession.

I've had my own time to cool off. Now, I just feel pity for her.

I've admitted to some embarrassing shit to her over the course of our friendship. Even so, I think her breakdown in the car just won the grand prize.

Finally, she appears in her doorway--even in her current state, she floats--her hair and her clothes as immaculate as usual, but her face ravaged and unmade-up. Her nose red, the skin around her eyes swollen.

She doesn't look at me. In the corner of my eye, she crosses to the mirror hanging from the inside of her open closet door. I see myself in there, far away, reflected in the background of her misery.

She starts monologuing, partly to me, mostly to herself, a mixture of rerunning what she said in the car and beating herself up for pretending for so long. A novel twist on the usual Alex babble.

As I watch her robotically check herself out, examining her distressed eyes, her puffy face, I feel something else besides pity.

She's wrapped up in clearing the last remaining gunked makeup from her eyes. She doesn't notice when the reflection of Beth disappears from behind her.

Her chatter abruptly stops when the reflection of Beth reappears, standing very close behind her, wearing her brand new black scarf.

Wearing only her brand new black scarf.

TO BE CONTINUED

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