The 19-year-old Virgin Epilogue

So I stayed.

In the end, Irene, the midwife, showed up right at the hour she had promised. She was the perfect image of a midwife, mature, thick, severe, and no-nonsense but at the same time wonderfully gentle when she needed to be.

The labor got more intense throughout the day.

I would rub Chelsea's back, wash her face, fetch whatever she wanted, including a quick trip to the grocery store for a gallon of something called Moose Tracks ice cream and a jar of cherry peppers, and hold her hand, something that became a painful experience as the day wore on and the contractions more intense.

The baby came at 2:08 p.m. I know because Irene had me countersign the official birth certificate, an act that gave me an odd rush of pride.

If you've never seen a baby being born, I recommend it. It's an amazing combination of sexy, frightening, clinical, and gross, and I could probably come up with a dozen more adjectives. In Chelsea's case, since we were at home, we just left her naked as her labor progressed.

I watched as her labia swelled and stretched.

I watched as Irene would check and note dilation levels, and watched the transformation of her cervix from a tiny opening to the baby's doorway to the world.

I watched as her body was covered in sweat, her hair wet with it, and I gave her little sips of ice water and, of course, held her hand as the contractions came faster and faster.

In the end, I watched as her face reddened with that final push and the baby slipped out, almost easily after all of that work, and after Irene did something with a squeeze bulb I heard that famous "first cry."

I had the honor of cutting the cord and then putting it into a freezer bag and into the freezer, something both Irene and Chelsea seemed to think was important.

Finally, in an act of intimacy I find hard to describe, Irene had me reach inside Chelsea and massage her now-cramped uterus.

She was exhausted by then. Irene laid the baby on her chest, that scene you've seen in movies and TV, and Chelsea smiled that smile you've seen in movies and TV.

And then she slept.

Irene showed me how to diaper and bundle the baby, took Chelsea's blood pressure and hooked a little clip to her finger, entered some numbers in a little book, had me sign the Birth Certificate, smiled, and said, "You did good for a first timer," patted my arm, and finished with, "Okay, David, I'm off to register this birth. Tell Chelsea to call if there's a problem and I'll see her tomorrow."

And there I was, alone with mom and baby.

But that was anti-climatic too.

The baby cried, waking Chelsea just like evolution had trained her. I gave her the baby and watched as she nursed for the first time.

Okay, my dick got hard.

The next day I helped Chelsea into the bathroom and made a "He-Man" breakfast of a six-egg omelet, a dozen strips of bacon, fried sliced potatoes, and orange juice. I served her in bed, feeding her as she smiled and said, "Thank you" with each bite.

By the third day, she was fully mobile again, and I LOVED looking at her.

The huge baby belly was gone, but baby fat remained and that stretched-out skin didn't just disappear. I thought the soft flap of her belly was sexy and the matched rolls outside of her shoulder blades beautiful. The tracery of stretch marks just added to the attraction.

When she invited me to sample her milk I didn't hesitate and found myself addicted. The baby and I would share when the baby cried every couple of hours.

On the fourth day, she called me from the bedroom.

"Come here, David," she said and had me lay back on the bed.

"I'm too sore still for vaginal sex," she said, "but you deserve relief and I know your right hand isn't that much fun. So lay back and let the new mom take care of you."

For the rest of the week, she would give me oral sex at least twice a day, "lunch and a bedtime snack" as she referred to it.

I found, to my great surprise, that I enjoyed taking care of her baby, well, and of her for that matter.

I was mildly surprised when her first trip outside of her house after the baby was born was to Theta Cubed where she auctioned me off.

"Why?" I asked, hating the whine in my voice and the tears that overflowed my eyes.

"Oh, David," she said, being so motherly right then that I just wanted to latch on to her breast and be fed, "it's still the best seven hundred twenty dollars I ever spent, but I need to adjust to my new life, sweetheart. And you, my dear, still have plenty to learn."

My pleas fell on deaf ears although we did cry together. But she was adamant.

That particular Monday night I was the second on the auction block.

As Laura, a wonderfully bawdy 50-something led her boy into the market he was naked and when she said, by way of introduction, "Hung like a goddam mule and dumb as a stump," the reality was obvious. He was a little older than me, and had a clean foot of cock hanging loose. I wondered what the damn thing would look like hard.

He went for six hundred forty dollars, giving me a little rush of satisfaction remembering the seven hundred twenty Chelsea had spent on me.

Then it was our turn and Chelsea walked me to the spot and took the microphone.

"The kindest, gentlest man you'll ever have. Girls, he was there for the birth of my son and helped. I'd keep him if I could."

I was purchased by a prototypical "granny" for eight hundred ten dollars. Mame was bouncy and busty and doughy in that way of fat old women, and proud of what she claimed was her "sexual disinhibition." She was insatiable and would be after me three or four times a day. I loved her body, what I could imagine Carla, my first, would be in 50 years. She had those soft floppy pads of fat under her arms, a hanging belly apron that gave her a natural modesty, and loved sex in every way we could imagine.

She took me to the auction after two months. "A girl needs variety," she said when my face fell when she told me what he was going to do, "and as much as I love you, Davey, I don't have much time to experience it."

I was disappointed when I only brought seven hundred eighty dollars the third time I was auctioned off, but at least it was more than the five hundred even that the other guy brought. Of course, the way Laura introduced him, "barely adequate but willing to try," probably had something to do with that.

It was Laura who bought me that evening. She was, she told me, 49 and dreading the "Big Five-Oh." She was just a big tube of a woman. At 5'7" and 234, she was thick, thick everywhere. Her arms were big and soft. Her thighs were big, showing that distinct chub rub at the tops of her inner thighs that I was coming to find so attractive. Her breasts were big, a 42EE cup, with big pale pink nipples.

Her most distinguishing feature, though, was her mons veneris, that beautiful round Mound of Venus. Her body stored fat there and I learned the true meaning of FUPA, a term I learned means Fat Upper Pussy Area. It stored so much fat that it hung, almost a separate body part, with the slit of her labia and vulva almost lost. Across the top of her FUPA, the pubic hair was very thick and coarse but her nether lips were smooth. When I asked her about it, she said it was lasers and chemicals that made it permanent. I loved playing with it, feeling the warmth and softness of the pure fat there.

Laura kept me through the end of my Junior year. I learned many tricks to keep a fat girl happy from her, and never regretted a minute of it.

Margo, who kept me for a month my senior year was so big that she used one of those mobility scooters and was, it turned out, a feedee. I learned the joys of being a feeder with her, and also how to tend to a truly fat woman. Every morning I would inspect her body, going over each fold and crease, and applying a white cream, it's called Desitin if you care, where I found rashes. At her size, she couldn't really reach and I spent our first week together cleaning the terrible rash between her legs, washing with a gentle medicated soap, and then smearing the Desitin liberally.

I didn't mind any of that. Oh, hell, I enjoyed all of it. She enjoyed oral sex and once I got the rash under control I loved when she would push the limits, sitting on my face, smothering me until sometimes I would lose consciousness. She had a sweet tooth and I indulged it for her. Often dinner would be a cake or two dozen Krispy Kreme Long Johns, she liked the chocolate-covered cream-filled kind. All of that sugar gave her love honey a sweet taste and I would drink at it, swallowing noisily as she came in torrents, overflowing my mouth and leaving me looking like I had just stepped out of the shower by the time she was satisfied.

In all, there were twenty-three women during my college years. All from Theta Cubed and all big women. The smallest was Paula, a short pixie of a woman with shelf hips that flared from a 28-inch waist to double that at 56 inches. The biggest was Margo who was 425 before she auctioned me off.

I learned discipline, both giving and receiving. Phyllis, 50, the perfect image of the crazy cat woman at home and the equally perfect image of a successful corporate lawyer when she went to work, made giving me a spanking a regular part of our foreplay. But this wasn't just some spicy foreplay. It was a true spanking and although I hated and feared the pain, the way I would cry and beg her to stop, when I would cum, my erection hard against her thigh, my belly laying across her lap, her jeans coarse against my skin, crying and kicking, it was such a perfect release I came to crave it.

Lana, only slightly older than me but with a trust fund and wealthy parents who paid for her nice off-campus apartment and her credit cards, needed the opposite. She couldn't achieve orgasm without being humiliated and punished. And the thing is, I had to tell her she was being punished for being such a fat pig. Now don't get me wrong, she was a big girl, not huge but big, with a big soft belly, big pillow boobs almost as big as Carla's, a big round ass, wonderfully pink skin, and the deepest cellulite dimples I ever saw, before or since. So I would make her crawl while we were at her house, make her do jumping jacks until she was exhausted and dripping sweat, then make her crawl some more while I strapped her with a belt. I liked it probably more than was healthy.

You get the picture. During the almost four years I spent at college I went from being a 19-year-old-virgin to, if I do say so myself, an accomplished lover. Well, and a man with a taste for big girls. One of my favorite blues singer-songwriters is a guy named Dave Mackenzie. Among other great songs (things like Rats In My Bedroom and If Jesus Comes Back As A Mexican Man) He has a song called Big Old Girls. That song fits me. I've discovered I like everything about a big woman. I like their big faces, their soft arms, their big asses, the deep creases of their belly buttons, and their cellulite dimples. I like all of it. Hell, I like the way they sweat when they get excited.

As I see 50 looming, comfortable in my life as a tenured history teacher at a junior college, I suppose that I have Carla to thank for, well, pretty much everything.

I have been married to the same woman for 24 years now. And I love tending to her still.

She was a big girl when I married her. I was 32 and she was 22. She was bigger and more beautiful when she was pregnant, back to back our kids a little over a year apart, and I accepted her intermittent attempts to diet. As the kids got into school I finally got her to quit her stupid dieting. I feed her, breakfast and dinner but I usually just take lunch at my desk.

My daughter starts college in the fall, and my son will be out of the house the following year. Annette and I are already looking forward to our non-dieting future. I've been researching bariatric medical equipment. You'd be amazed at how much is out there. But I married the perfect woman. When I show her things like bariatric beds or special winches and lifts she gets almost as excited as I do.

She has already relented and allows me to feed her when the kids aren't around and I love that special intimacy.

Well, there it is. I hope you enjoyed my reminiscences. They are fond memories and now I think I'll finish typing and go ravish my bride. I think there's about half a pie in the refrigerator.