Sammee Ch. 05

We rested for a while, just lying side by side, touching, soft kisses, light tickles. Mostly resting.

I brushed my fingertips across her cheek where there was a definite bruise forming and she was a little swollen. I could see her wince a little.

"I'm sorry," I said, leaning over and kissing her bruised cheek lightly, "I bruised your pretty face."

Her eyes got big and she rolled away from me before I could catch her. Damn the woman could be quick. She literally ran into the bathroom.

I followed, more slowly, and when I got into the bathroom she was looking in the mirror. No, she was more than that, she was leaning forward, her nose almost touching the mirror. She was studying herself in the mirror. Her fingertips were tracing the bruise and the slight swelling.

I moved closer, lightly touching her shoulder, and said very softly, "I'm sorry."

When she turned to face me she was smiling. Not the Grin but a real smile, taking ten years off of her face.

"Let's go out somewhere," she said, bouncing a little from foot to foot like a little girl with a big secret. "Let's go shopping where you can buy me all those things that will embarrass me and everyone can see how you marked me."

"Sammee," I said again, "I'm so sorry."

"No," she said, still smiling broadly, "no, don't you see? This is better than a brand. You marked me where everybody can see and I WANT them to see. I want EVERYBODY to know I am yours."

She stopped and took a deep breath.

"Please, David, please," and she was smiling, "take me somewhere public. Make me wear things that show how completely I am yours. Show the world."

When I didn't say anything for a few seconds she took my hand and placed it on her cheek.

"Are you ashamed?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Don't be honey," she said, "I'm not. I'm proud. I LOVE my new look."

I still said nothing and she flashed the Grin.

She caressed my hand and said, "slap me again then. Do it knowing it's what I want. Make my face swell up like this," and she blew out the cheek that already had a bruise on it.

"No," I said, "I won't do that."

"Then take me out and show the world you've claimed me," she said.

And I gave in. I realized that on some level this was even more, well, kinkier? weird? crazy? something anyway. I couldn't tell if I was now the one in charge or if I was being sucked into something from which I couldn't see the outcome.

The truly frightening thing was, my hand itched to feel the sting as I slapped her again.

She knew it too.

"Do it," she said, she dared, tilting her head, offering her cheek to me.

"Sammee, no," I said, but I could feel my resistance weakening.

"Fuckpig," she said.

"Okay," I said, "a compromise."

That stopped her.

"Compromise?" she said.

"Right now we clean up and go shopping. I'm going to put you in things you would never imagine wearing," I said. "And I'll start researching and I'll find us places that, well, share our interests. Together we'll find a place that suits your kinks. Fair enough?'

She smiled, a wide smile.

"Okay." She looked at me, doing the one eyebrow thing, and said, "MY kinks?"

I chuckled and said, "Okay, our kinks."

We showered together and then got dressed.

I liked watching her do her makeup. She giggled and said, "wanna help?"

"Maybe someday," I said, "but you need to show me how."

As I watched she did her face, a light base, some blush, just basic makeup.

It was her eyes that really made the difference in her look. Her brows were delicately arched and a bright blue shadow highlighted her lids. Then she put on heavy dark lashes. When she was done, oddly, the bruise on her face was even more obvious.

She was fucking gorgeous.

She brushed her hair quickly and then did a quick turn.

She was actually beaming.

"Approve?"

"You are absolutely stunning," I told her.

I got into her closet and rummaged through. It was funny. When I had met her at Roger's wedding she had on the sort of thing you would expect of a classic big beautiful woman comfortable in her size. The skirt had been black and a little above her knee but with a fringe bottom that took it below her knee. Her top had been a bright turquoise color with a scooped neck that showed plenty of cleavage. In her closet, though, almost everything I found was designed to hide her size. Shapeless dresses, brown was the predominant color, flared leg slacks, equally shapeless blouses, all quite opaque.

So I made a quick audible. I had been planning on dressing her in something interesting. Instead, I found the dowdiest dress I could, in brown, not a bright burnt sienna or anything, but a drab brown. Heavy pantyhose, granny panties that could have doubled for a parachute for a good-sized animal, one of her industrial-strength white bras with eight (by my actual count) hooks, and clunky, almost military-looking flat shoes.

"We'll start with this," I said, handing her the pile I had made, "now get dressed."

While she was dressing I opened my little Google Chromebook and started researching.

My first search was for "clothing stores for fat women in Denver." I started through the 17 million hits and figured I needed to refine things.

In the end, I had a list of a half dozen stores that seemed likely and another half dozen clubs to visit.

When I closed the Chromebook and looked up I was fascinated. Her face looked good but in her brown outfit, she could not have looked more like a frumpy librarian. She was smiling.

"The thing I find amazing," I said, "is that is just about typical of what you have in your closet."

"I told you," she said, giggling a little, "I'm usually not the wild and crazy girl you know."

"Well," I said, "let's go change that. But just so you know, we'll need YOUR credit card."

She smiled and said, "of course."

"Ummmmmmmmmmmmmm," I said, "can we take the 409?"

She grinned.

"Sure," she said, "I haven't driven the damn thing since the divorce, I hope it'll start."

She showed me where the keys were hung and I opened the door for her.

I opened the car door for her too, still fascinated at the way she moved her great size so gracefully.

The car started with a rumble but the stink of stale gas soon filled the garage. No air conditioning so we rolled down windows, I used the little clicker to open the door, and we escaped to the fresh air.

Even with the gas that probably had about a 20 octane rating, the thing was scary fast.

I stopped at the first gas station I came to and pulled in. I filled the beast with premium, paying almost fifty cents a gallon extra, well, Sammee paying almost fifty cents a gallon extra. It quieted down and smoothed out as the fresh gas blended with the old. It took a while to get used to the outrageous horsepower, lack of accurate steering, lack of brakes, heavy clutch, clunky transmission, and not particularly comfortable bucket seats. I loved it.

The first stop was at Victoria's Very Big Secret. The sales lady that met us, so big she made Sammee look small, took one look, and said, "Oh honey, come with me."

I looked around and found the coffee machine, got a cup, and sat down in what was obviously the modeling area. Lydia, as her name turned out to be (whether or not that was what was on her birth certificate), had escorted Sammee into one of the changing rooms and promptly disappeared into the bowels of the store. When she came back she had an armload of stuff.

And a coke for me.

There was some interesting rustling, a few grunts, and some absolutely hilarious giggles.

I popped my coke and took a drink, waiting, curious.

The first thing out was a teddy in red. Sammee did a slow turn, smiling broadly. I held my hand out, flat, palm down, and rocked it gently, the universal symbol for, "meh."

She giggled and disappeared.

Next out was a strapless longline bra, her big pale boobs laying on the underwire, displayed, the 18 hooks (I counted later) squeezing it, corset-like until a roll of fat came out above and below the long-line, a look I definitely liked. A string thong barely covered her pussy while the nylons and garter belt with four suspenders per leg looked great. All of the underwear was in black. The nylons were sheer black with a seam line. All supported on a pair of spike heels with ankle straps.

I whistled my approval.

Before we left we had similar underwear in red, white, and a turquoise that set of her auburn hair nicely, white and black shoes, and nylons.

The next stop was a place a few blocks down the street called Soft-Round-Sexy. This was more of a clubwear place rather than a lingerie shop.

Here, the service staff was all big women but none the size of Sammee. We followed more or less the same procedure. A seat for me, this time with a choice of beverages (I took a beer, a Sam Adams in a bottle), and a tray of snacks.

Once again they disappeared into a changing room and one of the salesladies, LaVerne if it matters, started taking things in.

The first thing she stepped out in was a flowing pants suit, covering her completely from the turtleneck at her chin to the wide cuffs almost touching the floor. She did a slow turn and her back was completely bare from the two buttons of the turtleneck to a millimeter or so above where her gluteal cleft (her asscrack) began.

I did the "meh" thing again. Her shoulders slumped but she went back into the changing room.

I nursed my beer and ate a few peanuts.

The next outfit made my jaw drop. It was a bright yellow, with a similar turtleneck but there the resemblance ended. Her amazing breasts were held in what can only be called titsacks, she obviously had no bra on, and her wonderful big belly was on display from her breasts to the slight apron of her belly. A skirt peeked out from under that apron but ended about an inch below the junction of her legs. The garter belt held up yellow fishnet nylons matching the color of her dress (if that scrap of material could be called a dress). She stepped forward, tottering a bit on outrageously high spike heels, yellow to match the outfit. When she turned her back was bare except for a very thin cord, yellow of course, tied with a bow at her spine, holding the top together.

I stood and applauded. "BEAUTIFUL."

She giggled.

Next up was a bright blue number, almost modest since it covered her from neck to below her knees except that her breasts had been pulled through two holes, spaced so that her boobs were widely separated, and tight enough that they stood away from her body for an inch or so before drooping of their own weight. I would later learn that a drawstring, tied at the bottom so her boobs hid it, allowed adjustment in the level of tightness.

I whistled again.

We left with five more dress-size boxes, two more shoeboxes, and a couple of bags of miscellaneous girly stuff.

I was bored, well, that's not true. I was tired of shopping by then but made one more stop before we started exploring the clubs I had found.

The place, innocuous-looking in one of those strip malls, had mirrored windows and a discrete sign over the door that read simply "Dungeon Supplies."

Inside, it was surprisingly bright, it looked like a video rental store before they had gone the way of the dinosaurs. Rack after rack held books, movies, magazines, and a great variety of, well, let's call them toys.

We wandered, hand in hand, and a pretty woman covered in tattoos called a friendly "can I help you?" just like if we had been in a local grocery or appliance store.

"First-timers," I said, waving, "just browsing for now."

"Take your time," she said, returning to her computer.

I had a pretty good idea of what I was looking for but it was fascinating just moving, aisle to aisle.

And there they were - the collars. I had read of such things but had never really seen one. I picked out one in bright red. It was called a posture collar, with a two-sided fork (included), stainless steel, and tapering to very sharp points, that could be clipped to the collar so that the wearer had to hold his or her head high or he or she would be stabbed under the chin with it. She had both hands on my arm and kind of gasped. "Make sure," she said, her voice very low, "that it will fit both of us."

Which sent a little shiver up my back but I looked and saw it was infinitely adjustable with a little cam and ratchet buckle.

An aisle over I pulled an inflatable buttplug off the rack.

I had just about given up finding everything I was looking for when I got to the back wall where there was a display case such as you'd find in any jewelry store. When I picked it up and held it up to her to check if it would fit she giggled and reached across me. The chastity belt was bright stainless steel, padded with thick leather cushioning. I got hard picturing it on her.

She reached across me, deliberately pushing me aside with her weight, and picked up the male version. The cock cage was kind of scary actually. It was shiny stainless steel as well, with a ring, obviously designed to encircle the shaft and scrotum, a downward pointing body, and a stainless tube clearly designed to fit into the man's urethra. She was smiling sweetly and said, "good for the goose honey."

I laughed and said, "fair enough."

Her hand was trembling a little as she reached into her purse for her credit card and the checkout girl was running things across the laser scanner.

"One second," I said, and headed across the store to something I had noticed earlier.

I was back at the register quickly and laid the thin package on the table. It contained little temporary tattoos of archery targets.

She giggled and said, not loud but evidently not caring if the girl heard or not, "and who decides where that goes?"

I chuckled and said, "that's negotiable."

From there we went to the first club on my list, this one pretty close to the store we were leaving. It was called "Half and Half," and the review I had read said, "Thin and Fat. Naked and Clothed. Fun for all."

The place was a single building located on a full block. There was a parking lot that looked like it could handle a hundred cars, the building, a plain block building, and the rest was hidden behind a very tight privacy fence.

"Well," I said, "come on, time to be embarrassed."

She was in the yellow dress, her boobs in a titsack, her belly exposed, the rest of her pretty much on display.

Her deep belly button winked as she moved.

We held hands walking up to the door.

There was a podium right inside the door, and there was a damn big guy behind it. I thought of Jack Reacher.

He looked at me, and then slowly, deliberately, looked Sammee up and down.

"First time here?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, "I know it's a club but can we at least look around?"

He grinned, actually a nice happy grin. I thought it must be well-practiced in the mirror.

"Fifty dollar cover for non-members," he said, "one time only. Membership is a thousand dollar initiation fee and a hundred dollars a month afterward."

I handed him Sammee's Black card. He didn't ask for any ID and I scrawled a signature.

He moved his arm, a slight bow, in that universal gesture - "go ahead."

The balance of the building, the club, was accessed through a heavy curtain. Inside, it looked like any other restaurant with a bar along one side.

Until you looked at the patrons.

Over there, at a small table, a two-top if I remembered from my small experience in the restaurant business, was an obviously married couple. They were chatting over their dinner. He was obviously a bodybuilder with overdeveloped biceps. She was completely naked.

"Oh God," she said softly, holding my arm with both hands, "I feel naked."

"You're well-dressed sweety," I said, kind of waving my arm to indicate the room.

Over there was a skinny woman, she had to be in her 70s, hawklike and handsome rather than pretty, but still striking with a mass of silver hair in a big halo around her head. On his knees, at her side, was a very fat boy of indeterminate age. I assume he was legal since the bouncer seemed to be competent. She was enjoying her meal while popping the occasional morsel into his waiting mouth.

A fat couple, him so big his belly hung between his spread legs and her, fully clothed, even bigger, was at another table while at yet another what had to be a family group, grandpa, obviously the patriarch, held his naked granddaughter on his lap while his wife had a young man, his face buried between her legs, on the floor under the table. They all seemed happy.

The whole place was like that. In some cases the "half and half" meant one clothed, one not. In some cases, it was fat and thin. In some, it was young and old. Or combinations. I was captivated.

"Would you like a drink or have you seen enough?" I asked.

"Order me a screwdriver baby," she said, "I need to find the little girl's room."

So I sat. The waitress was anorexic and took my order for a screwdriver and beer (whatever's on tap)."

"Is this seat taken?" Sammee asked, startling me a little.

I did a double-take.

She was naked except for her stiletto heels.

"Do you approve, David?" she asked.

"Oh yeah," I said, standing, taking the pile of clothes she offered.

She giggled and actually blushed. "God," she said, sitting opposite me, "is everybody really looking at me?"

I looked around the room.

"Well," I said, "there's one woman who's not looking at you."

"Oh God," she sort of moan/giggled.

There was music playing over the PA system, elevator music, orchestral versions of standards. I sipped my beer and smiled, stood, and offered my hand. The music was a not-too-bad version of Ebb Tide.

"Let's dance," I said.

Her eyes got big but then she took my hand and stood.

"Put me on display baby," she said.

I absolutely LOVED the way the stiletto heels made her sort of totter, taking very short steps, making sure the soles and heels hit at the same time.

On the floor I held my hand out in that classic slow dance position, my left hand lifted, palm up, my right held out at waist level.

She stepped close, taking my hand, laying her other on my shoulder. I laid mine on the soft roll of her hip.

I stood for a couple of seconds, caught the beat, and then stepped off into a passable box step.

"Imagine," she said, a wicked glint in her eye, "when we come here the next time and it's you dressed only in your cock cage that's on display."

I smiled. "You DO know how to get to me, don't you," I asked.

"David," she said, leaning forward to brush my ear with her lips and breath, "can we please go home now. Baby, I'm about to explode. I need to be dirty. Please."

"And if I say no?" I asked.

"Do you want me to beg?" she asked.

"That might do it," I said.

And she dropped to her knees, there in the middle of the dance floor, took my hand in both of hers, brushed her cheek with it, and said, not yelling but in full voice, not trying to hide anything, "please, please take me home and let me get dirty with you."

A couple of the patrons sitting near the dance floor clapped.

She giggled and stood when I offered my hand, and then curtsied, quite prettily, in their direction.

At the table, I sat, and she pouted.

"Finish your drink," I said and she threw it back in one quick gulp making me laugh.

I had another leisurely drink from my beer and looked around the room. She was drawing plenty of looks and the woman with the silver hair and the fat boy caught my eye and lifted her glass in an across-the-room toast.

I returned the toast.

"Okay love muffin," I said, "let's go."

She reached for the pile of clothes but I pulled them away.

"You look fine," I said.

Her eyes got big but after a few seconds, she smiled.

I stood, helped her to her feet, and we held hands as we left the room.