Simpatico - An OFS Story Pt. 01

The following story features an ongoing character, code-named OFS (Our Favorite Slut). She's a 40-something college professor, fat, queer, woman of color, who takes lovers the way some people eat popcorn.

Though this story can be read as a standalone, she also appears in the following stories, in order:

"Teamwork"

"Tanya Krawczyk"

"One Week"

"Video Party"

"Jeet"

"Satisfaction"

If you enjoy this one, you may find them interesting.

- The Author

SIMPATICO: AN OFS STORY, PART 1

It's my birthday, and I've made it my mission to pick up a pretty young thing for the night.

I don't particularly care who they are or what they're working with.

I want a stranger. I want someone who will do whatever I want. I want that youthful combination of naivete and stamina.

It's a gift to myself, from myself.

I'm flitting between acquaintances at a campus bar--one of the ones that get a pretty good mix of undergrads, grad students, and faculty--when I spot her.

I've seen her jogging on campus with friends. She's short, pale, freckled, with big bouncy brunette hair and a gigawatt smile that takes over her entire face. She wears black plastic cat-eye glasses.

She's not exactly fat. (Not like my glorious abundance, anyway.) Just soft and round.

She walks in the door with a couple friends: a thin blonde girl who I'm sure is the designated hot one, and a guy who looks like he never washes his bedsheets. All barely old enough to be in here.

When my friends see where I'm suddenly looking, I can hear their eyes roll. They're well aware of my habits by now.

She's wearing mom jeans and an oversized college sweatshirt.

Okay, so she's straight.

Not a big deal. We can work with that.

I'm wearing a loose-fitting black skirt, above the knee, with wide suspender straps over my shoulders, and a striped red and black crop top that shows off my big belly. I'm not wearing a bra, and it shows.

When I approach them, carrying a big maroon handbag, they look like they don't know what to make of me.

Through the magic of knowing how to talk to young people, I end up chatting with two of them on the patio about whatever. (The blonde went home.) I want to get her alone, but the guy is sticking around.

Melissa is her name. She has a high, lilting voice. I'm still not sure what the guy's name is.

At one point, she asks me if I'm a grad student. I laugh, pretending I couldn't hear her over the clusters of conversation coming from the smoking area.

I've always traded on my youthful appearance, but I guess it's a sliding scale. At 43, my appearance reads no younger than "grad student."

She suggests relocating to her place. The three of us walk there. It's a co-op a few blocks away, one of those places with at least four couches in the living room.

We enter, kick off our shoes at the door, and seat ourselves. I set my handbag on the floor next to the couch.

With the guy there, I feel like I can't make my move. We watch an excruciating "comedy" on the ancient TV. All the while, I project serious fuck-me vibes at her, and why-are-you-still-here vibes at him.

Finally, I say to her, "Could you show me your room? I want to ask you something."

We leave whatsisname alone.

Her room is small, like a big closet with a twin mattress in it. She's decorated it with posters--mostly bands I've never heard of.

When she closes the door, it's dark, save for a street light filtering in through the curtains.

We're close. We have to be, when there's so little floor space.

I say, "It's my birthday, right?"

She nods.

"And I'm allowed to be a little extra?"

She nods again.

"Maybe I'm a little drunk--" (I'm not.) "--but could I show you my tits?"

She laughs.

God, she's cute.

Then, grinning, she says, "Sure."

Ah, the girl code. Birthday requests are sacrosanct.

I set my handbag down at the foot of the bed.

I take the straps off my shoulders, lift the crop top, and pull it off over my head. My big, heavy tits tumble out of it, one after the other. I stand there, naked from the waist up, for her consideration.

She just sort of stares. The glint from the window is making it hard to tell where her eyes are pointed.

I decide to encourage her. "What do you think?"

"They're nice," she says.

"You like them?" I say.

"Yeah."

"What do you like about them?"

"I don't know. I guess, that they're real."

I laugh. "Of course they're real."

"No!" she stammers, a little embarrassed. "I mean, they're big. But they're big in a way that big boobs are supposed to look."

I feel like telling her that there's nothing wrong with augmented breasts, that they help some people feel more at home in their femininity.

But she seems like she's paying me a sincere compliment, so I decide to take it.

Then she says, "Can I show you mine?"

She must be feeling bold.

"Sure," I say.

There's something about being in a room with bare boobs that's highly contagious to women in their early 20s.

Which is exactly what was counting on.

We're in sync, sympatico.

She removes her glasses, sets them aside, pulls her shirt off, making a momentary disaster of her thick hair. She wears a nude bra with full, thick cups. The fat of her hips and belly overhangs her jeans.

She averts her eyes--whether out of shyness or intense focus--as she reaches behind her back to undo the hooks. She slides the bra off, awkwardly, as though trying to stay covered for as long as possible.

Then she puts her glasses back on.

Mirroring my nonchalance, she stands there, naked from the waist up, for my consideration.

I don't wait for her to ask.

"I like them very much," I say. "They look like soft little handfuls that would fit perfectly in a pair of champagne coupes. Your nipples are like silver dollars, with the pale pinkness of cherry blossoms."

She laughs. "That's a lot more than I said."

I laugh too, and I reach out and touch her upper arm, and I don't take my hand off once we've stopped laughing.

The silence is getting heavy. I let it.

She's the first to speak. Her voice is quiet, tremulous.

"Could I try kissing you?" she asks.

Smiling, I gather her in my arms against my bountiful chestnut flesh and put my lips on hers, availing her of my slightly open mouth and my waiting tongue.

She responds, timid at first. Her lips are also parted. A little bit of our saliva mingles in the brief exchange.

"You're really soft," she murmurs, close to my lips.

She has no idea.

Her breath under my nose is warm. Her skin is warm. Her nipples, hard at the tips, poke into the wide expanse of my breasts.

"Do you want to try another?" I ask.

"I'm straight," she blurts out.

"So you don't want to try another."

"It's not that," she says. "It's just..."

"You don't usually kiss other girls."

"I never have."

"You have now."

"I guess so."

"Did you like it?"

She goes quiet for a second.

Then she says, "I did."

"Do you want to try another?"

"Yes."

We kiss again, slower, wetter. She kisses with her tongue wide and relaxed.

I'm holding her with my hands safely on her bare back. I decide to risk letting one slide down her spine, over her jeans, to the overhang of her ass.

Her posture does something that tells me this is something else she isn't used to.

But she doesn't stop kissing me. The hand remains.

By now, I'm pretty hot and bothered. From the way she's melted into me, the way her hands are roaming around my wide bottom, so is she.

This time, I'm the one to break the kiss.

"What else haven't you tried?" I say.

She's timid again. "I've never touched another girl... you know, down there."

"Have you touched another girl at all?"

"I felt another girl's boobs. We felt each other's boobs, as a joke."

"What about boys?"

She laughs. "Yes. I've touched boys."

I release her from my hold.

Not breaking eye contact from her, I reach under the hem of my skirt and pull down my lacey black slip shorts. She sees nothing but the skirt, then the shorts around my ankles.

I take her by the wrist.

"I've watched porn," she offers, apropos of nothing. "Looking at the woman's parts never really did anything for me."

"You don't have to look," I say. "Just feel."

"Okay," she says.

With my free hand, I hike my skirt, not so far as to show her anything. Just enough so she can reach under it.

I spread my feet and guide her hand beneath the hem.

Before I bring her home, I tell her, "Just tell me if you want to stop."

She says, "I don't think I want to."

I hold her palm upright and touch it to my hairy vulva. Very carefully, I press her against me, letting her feel how warm and damp I am.

She says nothing. She has an enigmatic look.

"How does it feel?" I ask.

"Warm," she says. "Soft."

"Do you like it?"

She nods. "I guess you don't really think about how it feels when it's just you touching yourself."

"Do you want to put a finger inside?"

She looks hesitant.

She says, "I'm not sure I know what I'm doing."

"You just said you touch yourself."

"Yeah."

"Do you ever penetrate yourself with your fingers?"

"Yes."

"Whatever you do to make yourself feel good, just do that to me."

"Could you lie down?"

"Sure."

We rearrange ourselves in the cramped space. I lie down on her rumpled bedding. Streaks of dim light fall across me. She looks down at me, both of us half naked, as if looking upon me for the first time.

"Could we..." she begins.

"Yes?"

"Can you take your skirt off?"

I give her a reassuring look. "Help me with it."

I raise my hips and slide the skirt down. She pulls it the rest of the way down my legs and sets it aside, where my shirt fell. I raise my knees and let them spread apart, unshy about exposing myself to her.

She's staring at it. I don't know if it's my completely untamed bush, the brown inner labia peeking through, or something else that has her transfixed.

I stare back at her, smiling. "I'm waiting."

She gets on the bed, on her hands and knees, hovering over the V of my thighs.

She lays the length of her middle finger in the trench of my labia, gathering moisture and courage.

Then, palm upturned, she puts herself inside me.

Being penetrated, even by just one finger, is a welcome relief.

"Mm," I say, "Curl it a little."

She does. I sigh with gratitude.

She's still staring at it.

I reach out to her chin and tip her head up so that our eyes meet.

"Your finger is inside me," I say.

"Yes," she says.

"How does it feel?"

"It feels..."

She starts moving around in me. I don't know if it's conscious or unconscious, but it's nice.

She says, "Really fucking soft."

"Do you like it?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to stop?"

She really thinks about this.

"No," she says.

"Can you put another? The ring finger?"

She does.

Without being told, she starts stroking me on the inside, little pulses of pressure, on the front wall of my vagina. She's uncoordinated. But still, it feels nice.

"Mm," I say, signaling my pleasure to her.

She has a look of intense concentration on her face. I can't tell if she's enjoying it, if she's afraid of messing up, or if it's just the hyper-focus of working at an unfamiliar task.

I start thumbing one of my nipples, very lightly at first, minding its sensitivity and working up its tolerance for touch.

My other hand, resting on my thigh, makes little scrabbling motions of its own volition.

I debate asking her to insert another finger, but I know that if we go down that road, it won't be long before this poor straight girl has her entire hand inside me.

I let her entertain me for a couple minutes, then take her wrist and gently pull her hand away.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks.

"No," I say, "you're doing great. But frankly, it's not going to get me off."

Her face falls.

Quickly, I add, "It takes a lot of practice to finger-fuck someone, and you're already better at it than a lot of people I've had."

I sit up, take her face in my hands, and give her a passionate horny kiss.

When we separate, she asks me, "Do I have to take my pants off?"

"You don't have to do anything unless you want to."

She considers this.

Then she gets up, unzips her jeans, and slides her pants and her panties down to her ankles. She stands up, kicking her pants away.

I get a good look at her dark, fluffy pubic hair. It's nearly as unruly as mine.

"Sorry," she says, noticing where my eyes have traveled.

"Why?"

She touches the edge of her bush.

"I wasn't expecting to meet someone tonight."

"I was," I say.

A look of realization comes over her. Instinctively, she covers her breasts and her pubic area.

"Were you trying to pick me up from the very beginning?" she says.

"Yes," I say.

"Why?"

"Because it's my birthday. I wanted to spend it naked with someone beautiful."

She isn't covering herself anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED