Merry Christmas

[Author's note: I dedicate this to the delightful JuanaSalsa who I follow and who has given me hours of pleasant reading about fat girls having fun.]

My girlfriend of the month is the classic butterball of a woman. Well, of a girl I suppose, technically. She had just turned 18, was one of my students in my American History 101 class, and whenever we went out she had to order Coke because she was always asked for her ID. I would order boilermakers and slip the shot into her Coke. She has one of those sweet round faces that will have her being carded when she's 40.

I have always been partial to big women and when she came to my office, all 300 pounds of her on her five-foot nuthin' frame and said, "Mr. Morgan, I'll do anything for a B. I have to keep my scholarships up," well, I always did think the whole don't-fuck-your-students thing was silly anyway.

I had her report to my office when I finished my last class at 2:00 and then took her to my apartment.

What's that? Oh, no. I'm not a professor or anything. I'm a Teaching Assistant which is to say, I'm a slave to a full professor for whom I handled the "discussion" part of his two Introduction to American History classes, two classes a day, two days a week, and then sat through his lectures the third day. Meanwhile, I carry my own load.

I'm going to school on the GI Bill, which makes me old enough to be "older" to my students, most of whom are around Myrna's age while I'll see 30 before I get that Master's Degree.

I took her home and she turned out to be a keeper. Well, at least for a while. I'm not really looking for a life partner at that point.

But she IS good in bed. It's true what they say. Fat girls try harder.

And she's a VERY big girl. One evening, and alcohol and pot were involved, I measured her. 50-68-56. She's delightfully flat-chested, with oversize brown nipples on a slightly bigger roll of fat. Besides that, she has one of those belly aprons that hang almost to her thighs, a truly fat girl's natural modesty. Her thighs, each as big as many women's waists, are deeply dimpled with cellulite and have their own rolls before tapering into oddly delicate ankles and small feet.

She's cute rather than pretty with one of those big moon faces, soft cheeks with deep dimples, a tiny cupid's bow mouth, button nose, small ears, a cap of thick blonde hair, and eyes that make you think of the words "cornflower blue" and "guileless."

But she has plenty of guile.

That first time, when I took her home, she goddam near fucked me to death.

She was big and warm and seemed to be absolutely insatiable.

She likes to be on top, something I like in a big girl. And the first time she came I thought she had lost bladder control the way she wet my cock and balls and, for that matter, the sheet under us. She was grunting and bouncing, sweating so much that sweat was dripping off of her nose and chin onto my face and chest and her boobs and belly and I liked the salt taste of her.

After that first orgasm she was panting and her hair was wet with her sweat, and she looked, well, "happy" is the word.

And the thing is, I hadn't finished but wasn't in any particular hurry to. She had that kind of an effect on me. I liked watching as she got her breath back and then started her hips rocking again.

That first night she must have cum a dozen times before she finished me. And when we finally lay side by side, my face buried in the roll of fat that held her nipples, her big arm and thigh holding me pressed to the mattress, I had the thought, "I could get used to this."

All of which brings us to last night.

"And so, beautiful," I said as I brought her breakfast in bed, "what would you like for Christmas?"

She smiled, that happy smile I found so damn attractive on her round face, and said, "One hundred orgasms before sunrise tomorrow."

Now I tend to think I'm a pretty sophisticated guy, especially in relation to the younger folks I tend to hang around with, but this one stopped me.

"Really?" I asked, forking the first mouthful of scrambled eggs into her mouth.

She chewed lustily, her mouth opening. Myrna is a Sitophile. She derives sexual pleasure from the act of eating, and she eats with gusto.

"Yes, really," she said, opening her mouth, a little bit of egg falling onto her breasts as I offered her a bite of heavily jellied and buttered toast.

"You want to go to the Vets Corp party, don't you?" I asked.

"That's right, Mr. Morgan," she said, bits of jellied toast falling from her mount to smear her lips and breasts, "or do you have another idea how I might get what I want?"

I laughed and put a bit of the sausage into her mouth, enjoying the light smear of grease on her lips.

"Okay," I said and she did a sit-up, wrapped those big arms around me, kissed me, giving me half of her bite of sausage in the process, and then laid back, mouth open, ready for more feeding.

I made it a Myrna Day. I bathed her and checked her body for rashes hidden deep in her rolls. When I found red areas I applied Desitin liberally. I took her shopping at Big Mama's, a store we had found that caters to plus-size women, and bought her a Mrs. Claus outfit that would draw the men at the Vets Corps like flies to honey.

The what?

Oh, the Vets Corps is kind of our, by our I mean the veterans on campus, version of a fraternity. We wanted the, well, the "community" is a good word I suppose. The community of a fraternity but none of us, after going through basic training or, in many cases, after living through Afghanistan or Iraq or Somalia or whatever other shithole our fearless leaders needed people killed and things broken, were not about to put up with some idiotic hazing.

So the Vets Corps was our version. Our parties were famous and it was interesting how many co-eds of all shapes and sizes came to them.

Two of us were Teaching Assistants and so we often provided, well, the entertainment. There are plenty of students of the female persuasion interested in, as they ALWAYS put it, "doing anything" for that A or B or some extra credit or an extension on that paper.

Our Christmas Party was, well, kind of famous and, since most of us were on tight budgets with little spare money for holiday trips to remote homes, well attended.

We were regulars and when we walked in and made our way to the stage I exchanged handshakes and high-fives with several of the guys while Myrna got the kisses and pinches she enjoyed.

Up on the stage I called out, my "teacher's voice" carries when I want it to, "LISTEN UP!"

When the hubbub died down, it looked like there were 30 or 40 people in the big room with maybe a half dozen girls among them, I announced - - The lovely Myrna has asked for one hundred orgasms before daybreak and I need your help.

While the cheers and whistles filled the room I took Myrna's long coat off of her, something I had used to deliberately hide her outfit.

She had on an oversized Santa Claus hat, a red bra fringed with white fur that barely covered her nipples, an equally brief red skirt, again with white fringe, and ridiculously high-heeled stilleto pumps.

She looked, in other words, like Santa Whore.

She was laughing a little crazily as she was surrounded by men.

I got a beer and watched as she and a half dozen guys disappeared into the other room, the one with the big bed.

It was a pleasant Christmas Party. I laughed and played pool and shot darts. I danced with all of the other girls there although, honestly, they were WAY too skinny for my taste.

Finally, the windows started lightening so I went into the other room for her.

She was awake, and smiling, one man on each nipple.

I chuckled and went to the bed, patted Fred and Joe who stirred, grinned, and rolled off of her and out of bed.

God, she was a mess. She looked like someone had poured a gallon bucket of yogurt over her head and body. Her hair was matted with semen and her face was a mask. When she stretched she parted her legs a little and thick white cream just ran out of her.

"Come on, Sluterella," I said, time to go home.

Her eyes were a little unfocused. "Cockdrunk?" I asked and she nodded and giggled.

Her Skanky Mrs. Claus outfit was lost in the mists of history, so I draped her coat over her shoulders and walked her through the main room to the door.

There were still a few hangers-on, and we heard quite a few "Merry Christmases."

At the door I had her stop and I turned and declaimed, in my best Teacher Voice, "Merry Christmas to all and to all a good day!"