The 19-year-old Virgin Ch. 11

Carla had paid her lease through the end of the month, so I had a couple of weeks to find a new place. So after I watched her leave, standing on the sidewalk looking like something out of a scene in some chick flick that would have made me make gagging sounds and annoying other moviegoers if I had seen it, I went inside, opened a beer, and moped for an hour or so.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, knock it off," I said aloud and laughed. I had reruns of Murphy Brown on the television and realized, when I actually laughed at some of the inanity I was watching, that I needed to get moving. So I went into the bedroom, my bedroom I realized and got a little weepy again, stripped off my clothes, and took a shower. I took my time, going through my regular face, hair, and ass sequence and then just standing, letting the water, as hot as I could stand it, run over my body.

I stood there until the water started to cool.

"Move your ass," I said, again aloud.

So I stepped out of the shower and dried off.

I padded, the towel wrapped around me, through the living room to the kitchen, seeking sandwich makings and a beer.

Well, let me revise that sentence.

I started padding, the towel wrapped around me, through the living room to the kitchen, seeking sandwich makings and a beer but jumped, yelled, and turned, assuming a fighting stance, the towel dropping to the floor, when a voice said, "God, I thought you'd never get done."

The big blonde sitting on the recliner, her feet propped up, was grinning, you had to think of the phrase "ear-to-ear," her eyes where the towel had been.

I relaxed. I knew her. Well, I had met her and danced with her. I stood silent, trying to think of her name.

"Geez," she said, "I had expected some reaction. I guess I'll leave."

Valerie, that was her name, Valerie.

"No," I said, "don't go. You just scared me, well, startled me is all."

She chuckled, a throaty sound coming from deep down, using her diaphragm I thought and wondered if she had training as a singer.

"Carla thought you might need some company," she said, smiling, a good smile I thought, "so why don't you get dressed and I'll take you to dinner."

She smiled and said, "If I knew of any clothing-optional restaurants I'd say don't bother with clothes but, well," and she let the sentence die.

This made me aware that I was standing here naked since I lost my towel so I reached down and picked it up, wrapping it around me quickly and, to my everlasting embarrassment, blushing.

"Oh, fuck," I said, kind of laughing and definitely feeling foolish, "give me three minutes."

She laughed, another pleasant sound making me think of music conservatories and choral groups. "Take five," she said, "you're a bit of a mess."

So I did. I ran a brush through my hair, found my khakis and a button-down shirt, pulled on shorts, socks, and loafers, and went back into the front room in the allotted five minutes.

She stood as I came into the front room, smiling, and came and kissed me.

Valerie is an odd combination. She's blonde, and her pale skin and eyebrows made me think she was a natural blonde, and pretty in that straight-nosed Roman way you have seen on statues in history class. Her cheeks were red, and it looked to me like that was natural, not makeup, and her mouth was red but that was clearly lipstick.

She was dressed in a way to both show-off and hide her size. A modest top was opaque, buttoned to the neck, and sleeveless showing that she was one of those women who deposited fat cells in the big pad behind her upper arms. Her slacks were casual, loose-fitting, and did nothing to hide the size of her magnificent hips. Her oddly long, narrow feet were in sandals with a high heel, her long toes, looking almost like fingers, were on display, the red polish on the nails drawing the eye.

I guess I was staring, at least, well, inventorying. When I met her eyes again she was smiling.

"Do I meet your approval, David?" she asked.

This time I took the step and kissed her.

"Thank you," I said, smiling, "where are you taking me for dinner?"

She laughed at that, a full belly laugh, and I liked that too. Her voice was powerful and I was more certain that she had vocal training.

"Welllllll," she said, looking me up and down, "not to Theta Cubed. I don't want the competition."

"Huh?" I said, demonstrating that I'm not always the sharpest knife in the drawer.

She giggled.

"Theta Theta Theta," she said, "get it? Theta Cubed"

I chuckled and said, "gotcha."

"Come on, sweety," she said, taking my arm in that two-hands-on-the-arm way some women use to demonstrate that her man has been claimed.

At her size, I had expected something like a Ford F-150 or maybe a full-size Yukon. I was surprised when she walked me to her little Mazda Miata.

I held the door for her and wasn't surprised when the car sagged a little under her weight. I didn't completely balance it when I got in the passenger side.

She was smiling, the only thing I didn't like about her. The tooth bleaching made her look like a plus-size mannequin. I could almost picture the guy at the final stage of the manufacturing process selecting Appliance White for the teeth.

"Not what you expected?" she asked.

"Not really," I said.

"I was always a tomboy and, if we're being honest here, a gearhead," she said, "and when these came out, the closest thing to those old English sports cars, you know, the MGs and Jaguars and Austin-Healeys that were around in the '50s and '60s, well, I had to have one. It's silly and I don't really fit," she giggled and patted her hips where they encroached on the console and door panel, "but it's fun, and what the fuck, I deserve it."

"I like it," I said.

"Soooooo," I drug the vowel out, "where ya takin' me?"

"A place I know," she said.

"Hey," she said, reaching over and working a lever and then pushing a button retracting the soft top of the little car, "relax. I ain't gonna rape you,"

She started the car, backed out of the driveway, and started down the street.

The car stereo was loud, playing some sort of music I didn't recognize at all, the word "indy" came to mind but I can't really say that's what it was. It was loud enough that conversation wasn't possible unless we were willing to yell at each other.

She drove fast, putting the little car through its paces. In town, it was like she was a teenager again, drag racing street light to street light. As we got to the outskirts of town and then to the twisty two-lane roads she really let it out. She was a good driver, I'll give her that, but that didn't stop me from being a white-knuckled passenger as we passed through one little one-stoplight town I didn't think I'd ever been in before and she slowed, hitting the breaks hard enough that I reached forward to brace myself against the dashboard.

The big neon sign over the building proclaimed that we were at the OK Corral, making me laugh. I mean, hell, I've been to the movies.

I waited while she got the top up and latched and then got out and went around to help her out of the car. It turned out, she didn't need help. She spun in the seat with the grace of experience and stood easily. So I settled for taking her hand while we walked into the place.

It was a scene from that movie Road House. Well, the live band wasn't actually behind a barrier of chicken wire, but it had that same rowdy feel to it. On the dance floor, as the band did a passable version of Blake Shelton's Who Are You When I'm Not Lookin', one of the few country songs I recognize, a heavy chested cougar was shaking her oversize and I guessed enhanced tits at a young man half her age. She would not have looked out of place as a teacher and he wouldn't have been noticed in any of my classes. Another couple, a wonderfully fat girl who couldn't have been more than five feet tall and less than 250 pounds danced with a ridiculously tall cowboy. You knew he was a cowboy because of the hat.

At the bar, Valerie greeted the bartender by name, Freddy if it matters, and ordered a bucket and corn. I laughed when he put a galvanized water bucket, I guessed it at the two-gallon size, full of ice with a bunch, it turned out to be eight by my actual count, long neck beer bottles, Budweiser it turned out, and a smaller bucket filled with popcorn. She laid two $20 bills on the bar, waved away any change, and said "follow me."

She was like a force of nature, or a big icebreaker, making a path through the crowd.

And I liked watching her. Jesus, those hips cleared a path that I could follow easily. She would bounce someone, almost casually, moving them out of the way. Man or woman, big or small, none of that mattered. She was like the irresistible force, casually moving among very much movable objects.

We found a table at the far end of the room, against the wall. One of those little tables that was mounted to the wall at what I think they call "bar height." The two chairs were on long legs and you had to sort of hop to get on one.

She reached into the bucket, twisted the cap off of one of the long necks, and handed it to me as she opened a second for herself. I watched, fascinated, as she tipped the bottle up and drained it in one long swallow. She put it on the table and opened up another.

"Come on, sweety," she said, clinking the neck of her bottle against mine, "you're falling behind."

It took me three drinks to empty my bottle before I could set it to join hers on the table.

She twisted the cap off of a second and offered it. I took it and took a drink and smiled across the table at her.

She smiled back and hopped off of her barchair with odd grace.

"Come on," she said, taking my hand, "dance with me."

Her hand on the small of my back reinforced the image she was setting up since I had walked out of the shower and been startled by her. She was very much in charge as she guided me with little pressures where her hand touched me, through the crowd to the dance floor.

The band was doing something slow, I didn't recognize it, and when she stepped onto the floor, faced me, and assumed the classic slow dance posture, her left arm bent at about ninety degrees, palm up, and her right by her side, I realized she was assuming the traditional male role. And I realized something else as well.

I realized I liked it.

So I placed my right hand on her left and my left hand on her shoulder. She smiled and put her left hand on my waist, held still for a couple of seconds, and then stepped off into an easy box step.

She led well and I found myself enjoying the role reversal.

The band followed that with another slow song that I didn't recognize, something about cowboys and heroes or something like that. I'm not into country and western music, and this time she laid both hands on my waist and pulled me to her. She wasn't being overly forceful, but she was definitely controlling. I liked it and it seemed natural to put both of my arms on her shoulders and lean my cheek against her shoulder.

When the band broke into something much faster she spun me away into a passable jive dance. She was a strong leader and I'm a reasonably athletic guy so I thought we looked pretty good. Her face was flushed and she was grinning, not smiling, a sort of combination of happy/predatory grin.

The next dance was another slow one and I didn't hesitate to wrap my arms around her neck and mold my body to hers as her hands started on my waist and slowly moved around to my back and then down to my ass. I was surprised at the soft humming sound I heard when I realized it was me.

"You know what would be nice?" she asked, her breath warm and moist in my ear, her lips were that close.

"What's that?" I asked into her shoulder, enjoying our positions.

"If after this dance you went into the bathroom and when you came back to the table you gave me your shorts," she said in that soft, almost hypnotic voice.

I was surprised enough that I missed a step and she said a loud "owww" when I stepped on her foot.

She giggled and said, "just a suggestion."

The music ended, as it always will, and I looked around and spotted the bathrooms.

"I'll be a minute," I said and she grinned and patted my ass.

"Hurry back," she said.

In the bathroom, I went to the far stall, the handicapped stall of course, as it always is, and carefully shut and latched the door. I had to take off my shoes to get my pants off and I was just certain that every time the door opened, and it was a busy place, the next guy in would catch me and laugh, letting the rest of the people in the bar know what I was doing.

But nobody even rattled the door and I finished getting my boxers off and my pants on without utter humiliation. Well, without humiliation beyond what I was doing of my own free will. And it was of my own free will.

This was different than it had been with Carla. Oh, she had been the one to initiate that first meeting, but after that our roles had been, well, traditional. As I sat and peed and contemplated on the role reversal Valerie was doing I decided to see how this played out. I mean, hell, she's a classic BBW, you know, big beautiful woman, and it wasn't like it was an unpleasant chore what she was doing.

So I finished, pulled up my pants VERY aware of my lack of underwear, put the boxers in my pocket, washed my hands, and went to our table.

She looked at me, expectantly, as I approached.

I felt a blush start at my face and spread as I reached into my pocket, pulled out the boxers, and handed them to her.

Her smile was the smile of a kid who got that much-wished-for present on Christmas. She didn't make a production of it, but she did unfold them, look at them, smile, fold them neatly, and tuck them into her bra.

The rest of the night was like that. You can cut a few yards of basic getting acquainted conversation and you'll have it. It turned out, Valerie is a parts manager at a small engine shop and she could talk endlessly about the hassles of handling warranty claims with Briggs and Stratton or Tecumseh or Kawasaki or Honda or any of it seemed like an endless number of manufacturers. She could complain at great length about suppliers and how long it took to get parts. Things like that.

But the conversation wasn't all one way. She seemed genuinely interested when I would talk about history or economics. She liked hearing about what it was like being in the state finals on the swim team. She was a good conversationalist, in other words, and I never got the idea she wished she was somewhere else or with someone else.

And we danced a dozen more times. I thought we did pretty well too, once I got used to her leading.

Finally, the bucket was empty. Well, both buckets were empty. She had five beers to my three, and the popcorn had been delicious. "Chicago style," she had called it, with some sort of a cheesy-salty flavoring.

She hopped off of the barchair showing that odd grace again, and said, "come on, sweety, time to take you home."

As it happened, in this case, "home" was Carla's apartment.

We were barely inside the front door when she had me in her arms.

And DAMN, the woman could kiss. She was strong, and held me to her, her hand behind my head, not forcing, but controlling. Her tongue explored, and mine met it. And her hands were all over my back. She would start at my neck, trace down to cup my ass, then back up. It was different, much more aggressive than it had been with Carla, even on that first night.

I was surprised a little at how quickly, and how strongly, my body responded.

When she started unbuttoning my shirt I reached for her but she slapped my hand lightly.

"No, David," she said in a breathy way, her lips tickling my ear, "I'll do the work."

She undressed me then, slowly, sensuously. When she had my shirt unbuttoned she opened it, tickled my nipples until they were hard little points, and then sucked each, giving me sensations I had never imagined. Little electric charges passed from my nipples to my dick and back.

And I was hard, Jesus Christ I was hard. I could feel myself throbbing.

She peeled the shirt off of me, nipped each of my nipples drawing little yelps from me, and then eased to her knees, again surprising me with the grace she could show. She took each foot into her lap and got my shoe and sock off before she loosened my belt, unbuttoned and unzipped, and dropped my pants around my ankles. I held her shoulders for balance as I did that little two-step to get out of them and then I stood naked before her.

She smiled up at me, and then took my erection in her hand and in a matter of about 20 seconds, had me cumming. She pointed it to the side and I came on the rug there in the front room as she smiled up at me.

"Okay," she said as she stood, "now that that's taken care of, maybe you'll have some staying power and won't leave me with this itch in my belly. Carla always said you were a bit hair-triggered."

I was a bit of a mess right then, I suppose. In part, I was enjoying being a sex object. In part, I was hurt that Carla, the love of my life I thought, had been discussing my sexual prowess and, well, problems, with another woman. In part, I was, well, embarrassed at the way she had made me cum like that.

But her kisses took away any second thoughts I might have had. Well, and her hands, slowly up and down my back, cupping my ass, pulling me to her. When I started to get hard again she giggled and said, "that's my good boy," rocking her hips against me.

She took my hand, then, and led me into the bedroom, leaving my clothes in a pile in the front room.

She smiled at the blank walls and the plain cover on the bed. "Boy, Carla pretty much took everything, didn't she?" she observed. Then she turned back the top spread and sheet and guided me into bed.

She grinned then, that sort of predatory grin, and started undressing. She didn't make it a strip tease or anything, but she took her time. There was no doubt, watching her face, that she was enjoying what she was doing. And her body showed an interesting mix of genetics.

When she did the double-jointed thing and unhooked her bra and let it fall her small breasts were on display. Well, small in relative terms. She's a big woman and her 44B breasts would have been a legitimate C cup or maybe even bigger on a smaller woman. Her areolas were very large, four inches across I later measured, and a dark tan, not quite a brown color, with nipples in scale. As I watched her areolas tightened and very distinct love bumps rose. Her breasts sagged, making me think there was a kid around somewhere, and had interesting stretch marks across the tops.

Her arms were an odd mixture. Between the shoulder and elbow, she had the big fat pads associated with truly obese women. But from the elbows to her hands her forearms were thin, almost delicate. Her belly softened and got bigger below her sternum, and a truly impressive set of stretch marks were on display. Her navel was a deep slot. She smiled as I looked, and did that thing only a woman can pull off, dragging her right hand through the hair on the left side of her head and then her left hand on the right side, showing off her body and breasts and arms deliberately.

She kicked off the sandals she wore, giving me a glimpse of very long, very narrow feet before she found the button at her hip, her eyes holding mine, unzipped, and pushed the slacks past her hips and let them fall.

I couldn't look away.

Her hips were beyond, you know, "shelf hips," hips you could set a beer on. These were "table hips." You could set the whole six-pack, hell, maybe the whole case on them. They didn't "flare" out, they jutted. And from the waist to her knees she had cellulite dimples so deep you could put a finger in each one. I measured her, later, and those "vital statistics" were 44-38-78. He calves were almost delicate and slender, and her feet were long and narrow with very long, and it hit me with very sexy, toes.