tagFetishThe Lady and the Fat Man

The Lady and the Fat Man


A number of years ago, I knew a woman (on-line) from Germany who had a very (to me) peculiar fetish. She was a zaftig blond who could have been a stand-in for any Valkyrie Maiden swooping down on some ancient Norse battle field, plucking fallen warriors and transporting them to Valhalla. She was also a prostitute. A large (but not fat) woman herself, she was partial to larger men -- men who could crush her underneath them, and dominate her physically. She was a frequent chat partner on the old mIRC system (is anyone still using that I wonder?). This story came out of those talks and some fantasies I wove for her in those days. I'm not sure what brought this to mind -- perhaps it was stumbling across the photo of her cat she'd sent me once, having promised me a picture of her "pussy." Anyway, this story is NOT for everyone. If the idea of fat men having sex disgusts you, DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER. You have been warned.


She knew she wanted him the moment she saw him reach back and dig his fingers into his ass crack to free himself from a self imposed wedgie. He was a big man. Just about 6 feet tall, he had to weigh over 300 lbs. Perfect. Her pussy moistened at the thought of being crushed beneath that massive frame. She was beautiful, and knew it, but she took a perverse pleasure in giving herself to some of the most inappropriate men anyone could imagine. She could have been a model, if she'd wanted to. In fact, she'd done some modeling, but decided it wasn't for her.

Her current fetish was fat men. Not just any fat men, mind you. She preferred taller men. She was five-ten herself and wanted to be with men who were as tall or taller than she was. But, they had to be large men. I don't mean large in the sense of their male endowment -- that was not something she cared about. For her, the trigger of desire existed in the opportunity to be crushed -- to have her breath pushed out of her lungs, her whole body pinned to the bed -- during the act of sex.

Now, walking before her down the sidewalk, having just adjusted his clothing to unbunch his undies, was a classic example of what she was looking for. His hair was grey, his posture was good, his stride confident as he walked ahead of her about 20 yards. Broad shoulders gave way to an even broader waist and fairly narrow hips giving him a sort of reverse hour glass figure.

She had to meet him. She followed him. He walked into a bar. She followed him in. It was one of those bars that flew the odor of tap beer and cigarettes like a banner. It was a place where middle aged men and their wives played shuffle board and complained about property taxes and how Congress was ruining the country. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom, and then she spotted him, sitting alone at the bar, staring vacantly into the mirror behind the booze bottles. In front of him, a martini -- as out of place in this setting as she was. It was the middle of the afternoon and the place was empty except for the two of them and the bar tender -- busy in the back with a beer delivery.

Her excitement had been steadily growing since she had first spotted this guy. Now, just 20 feet away from him, she was near orgasm just imagining his doughy body covering her, smelling of stale sweat, gin, and probably whatever he'd had for lunch. Oh, the sweet humiliation. Her legs trembled as she walked toward him, her purpose never wavering.

"Hi. My name's Andrea," she said as she took the empty bar stool next to the target of her lust, "How would you like to go someplace and fuck?"

She hadn't asked him his name -- she wasn't interested in knowing him except as a one time sex partner. He represented a way to accommodate her rather esoteric perversion. Period. When she was done with him, she would never see him again, or so she always thought. Wham, bam, thank you sam.

He looked at her, his mouth dropping open for just a moment as a look of total bewilderment crossed his face. Then he looked at her again -- top to bottom, bottom to top -- and took a long pull of his martini.

He pointed at the door with his hand -- "Lay on McDuff," was all he said. It was a well modulated voice; a trained voice; and was just as out of place in this tavern as he was in his expensive wool suit, white shirt, Burberry tie, and Shakespeare reference.

She turned and walked out of the bar, confident that he would follow, knowing that he would be admiring the view of her delightfully curved backside. She walked to her car and got in. She started her car and pulled out of her parking space. A look in the mirror revealed her prey getting into his own car. She slowed to make sure he wouldn't lose her, and then smiled as she saw him jerk his car out into the street, obviously accelerating hard to catch up.

A quick call on her cell to a local no-tell-motel she had used before, and she was set. As she drove, she put a hand between her legs and pressed hard against her throbbing sex, rubbing away some of the frustration she felt having to wait for her fulfillment.

Check the mirror. He's still there. One more intersection to go through. There. The sign just ahead. Blinker on well ahead of when it needed to be to make sure he would know they were turning. Pulling in parking behind the motel. Seeing the door open just as she had arranged. Out of the car, walking into the seedy motel room. Would he follow her this far, or would he lose his courage at the last moment? She had spotted the wedding band. Would he have second thoughts. She did not face the door, but waited. The door closed behind her, then silence.

"You came," she said. "I wasn't sure you would." He said nothing. She could hear his breathing.


No man had ever asked her this before. Why? This guy wouldn't have a chance in hell of scoring a woman of her attributes, and he wanted to know why?


She began to strip. Within seconds she was naked and she lay on the bed, displaying her considerable charms. He remained where he was by the door, looking at her. His breathing was the only noise in the room besides the air conditioner. He kicked off his shoes and removed his tie, announcing his decision with action rather than words. Apparently he had decided not to look a gift-whore in the mouth, or pussy, or whatever.

She closed her eyes, her hands restlessly moving up and down her body as she waited for him to join her. Her pussy was wet, the lips open -- hungry; her nipples adamantine with excitement. She felt the bed move as he climbed aboard and she opened her eyes. He was FAT. He had a big frame; there was no doubt about it. She guessed that even as a teenager he had been blessed with broad shoulders and a deep chest. He might once have been an athlete. But, clearly, those days were long past. She estimated his age at fifty-something. He had "moobs" and rolls of flesh rippled from his chest down to an apron of fat that obscured his groin -- she got just a glimpse of his cock (not big by any means) and balls (substantial and apparently shaved). She opened her arms to him.

"Get on top of me. Crush me."

For just a moment a puzzled frown crossed his face. A light went on in his mind, however, and he smiled -- he got it.

As she felt his warm, moist, fleshy belly press her down into the mattress, her breath began to come in short, sharp, gasps and she felt the electrical contact between her pussy and her brain close with a snap. By the time she felt his hot, gin-scented, breath on her neck, and his full weight came down on her, she was already well into her first orgasm of the afternoon.

She spread her legs as wide as she could, trying to get them around the massive girth of the man. She cocked up her hips, her pussy straining to find the cock that she knew was hiding behind the folds of his massive belly (technically, that should be "bellies" because, like chins, he had several). He managed to get his hand between them, and as she angled her hips so that her pussy was just about pointing straight up, he dug his cock out from between them and managed to hit the target on the first try.

She came again as she felt him press her further into the mattress as he drove his cock home. The pressure on her diaphragm was tremendous. She literally had to fight for each breath and the anoxia was adding to the intensity of what had become a continuous series of orgasms. She did not have the breath to scream and it was just as well because the walls of this motel room were about the thickness of government standard toilet paper when it came to sound proofing and she didn't want the cops to burst in thinking there had been a murder.

She felt his cock twitch inside her and then he began to thrust.

"Fuck...me...hard...as...you...can," she managed t6o gasp. "Crush...meeeeeeee!"

She didn't know, or care, if he found this a strange request, but strange or not, he had his cock in the pussy of a beautiful woman who was obviously getting off on his body size. Why ask why? He began to pound her with short, powerful strokes, forcing a grunt from between her lips every time the full weight of his enormous body slammed her back against the bed. His cock, once inside her, seemed bigger than it had looked -- a bonus.

She was in heaven. His weight crushed her, made it hard to breathe; took away her control. This allowed her to let go and focus on her pleasure. Her father had been a big man like this and she had heard the bed slamming against the wall as, night after night, he had fucked her mother. She had listened to these sessions in her own bedroom, playing with her newly discovered sex, making herself cum over and over and over again.

She had grown into a beautiful and desirable woman. Men regularly threw themselves at her. Good looking men. Appropriate men. Eligible men. She fucked some of them, and a few women too. But, her fetish was for big, fat, men. Not "bears" -- she preferred smoother bodies so she could feel the clamminess of their skin against her while they fucked her into submission. It was a very specific fetish for one, certain, type of man. Mature. Big. Silver or white haired. She was, in these men, living out the fantasy she knew she could never have or even really think about.

Her orgasms continued to explode across her nervous system as he went on and on, surprising her with his staying power. His own breathing was becoming ragged and she wondered what she would do if he had a coronary. Sweat ran off him, splashing against her skin, hitting her in the face, dripping into her mouth as she gasped for breath and silently groaned with pleasure. His thrusts started to lose their rhythm and she sensed that his own climax was fast approaching.

With a groan that sounded almost like a death rattle, he thrust into her once more, as deep as he could manage, and she felt the warmth of his explosion as he ejaculated in her. On and on his climax went, his cock jerking out its foamy load, filling her to overflowing, the excess running down her ass crack and onto the cheap bed spread.

Finally, his last squirt having travelled the length of his inner plumbing, he collapsed on her, letting her take his full weight. THIS was what she had been waiting for. She wrapped her arms as far around him as they would go and pulled him even tighter against her if that were possible. It was now so difficult to breathe that she had to fight for every ounce of oxygen she could get while, at the same time, her series of orgasms now reached its zenith in an inner pyrotechnic display that nearly burned out the synapses in her brain.

And, then, it was done.

"Off," she gasped.

He rolled off, thinking that perhaps there would be some gentle after play.

She got up, took a wad of tissue from her purse, wiped as much of his cum from her crotch as she could, pulled on her panties and slacks, put on her bra, slipped her shirt on, and her shoes, grabbed her purse, turned, and walked out the door without a word, leaving him laying naked and gasping on the bed, wondering what had just happened.

She never saw him again.

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