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Introduction
I’m a predator and a chubby chaser. A fatty fucker if you prefer. The technical term is adipophilia, literally “love of,” the philia part, “body fat,” the adipose part. It’s a preference, a fetish if you will, so common it has been studied and assigned its own acronym, FA for Fat Appreciation. Those who disapprove of my taste might call me a “hogger,” or a “pigger,” the farmyard references suggesting that there’s something wrong with me. That the women I prefer have something wrong with them.
But here’s the thing.
There’s NOTHING wrong with me. It’s the society that has gone nuts. You see, it’s only in a well-fed society that skinny women are prized. Throughout most of history, bigness has been a sign of prosperity. Of success, if you will.
But I think it goes deeper than that. I think it extends back to the days when the precursors of homo sapiens were still living in trees and the biggest worry was that snake sneaking through the branches or whether the pitiful creature would find enough nuts and berries to fill its belly, or if it would go hungry. A fat female would have the reserves to survive, and if she had delivered a baby recently, her milk would provide emergency rations.
It’s not a cultural thing for me, then. I’m not rebelling against Cosmo or Playboy. It’s the natural thing. It is, it seems to me, the real thing.
Chapter One – My First Fatty
Until I was 18, I was a victim of the culture’s demands. My first conquest, if you can call fucking the neighborhood slut a “conquest,” was a bone skinny girl, Kathy was her name, who walked home with me from the city bus we rode to high school, spread her legs in my bed, and let me, then said “Thank you,” and walked home alone.
The girls I dated were all skinny model types. I was never one of the “popular” kids in school, but I’m easy on the eyes, brush my teeth regularly, use deodorant, and mostly the girls I asked out said “Yes.” After Kathy, and before my mother died, and I was taken by my father to my new family, I was successful twice in persuading girls out of their panties.
Being new in school, even with a step-brother to do some introductions, turned out to be awkward for me. Being raised by an alcoholic had left me with weak social skills, and there was a cultural difference resulting from being a Westerner (a Colorado native) in a big southern city (Mobile, Alabama). I had a few dates, but none of the girls were, you know, “willing.”
I had been in my new home for a few months when I was told, not asked but told, that we would be going to a cousin’s wedding.
And that was where I met my first fat girl.
I watched the wedding, my newly-met cousin looking beautiful in that plump, round-faced way of her Italian heritage, and the groom handsome in the tux. I ate truly excellent lasagna and garlic bread, so rich it was a meal itself. Some red wine and some sort of sweet dessert made for a full belly by the time they started pushing tables out of the way to clear a dance floor.
My brother quickly introduced me to another cousin, Sharon, and they disappeared, so I was on my own while Dad and my step-mother joined her sister, the bride’s mother, and commenced to drinking and smoking those Chesterfield’s that Dad said was something left over from the rations he was issued in “the War” as he always referred to World War II.
Leaving me alone at the table.
Which was all right with me. I was enjoying watching and thinking maybe one of those bridesmaids might be willing.
And then, across the room, I noticed a girl, well, a young woman, who looked about as alone as I felt. She was a redhead and pretty. Not beautiful, but she was pretty with that pale skin of a true ginger. A bright blue top set off her hair and skin beautifully.
I waited, and when the band, they had sprung for a live band, started into a very passable version of Bobby Vinton’s Blue Velvet, I walked over and asked her to dance.
When she turned and looked up at me, I realized that this was a very big girl. She was one of those women with a face that would be comfortable on one of the runway models I liked. But below that face was, I guessed, about 300 pounds of woman.
But I was there, my intention obvious, and I had been raised to be a gentleman, so I leaned forward and, in that formal way you do with a stranger, said, “May I have this dance?”
Her smile made her even prettier.
When she stood, she was big enough that she looked me in the eye, making her tall for a woman at five nine, or maybe even five ten. And Jesus, she was big. The blouse she wore, in that bright blue color that set off her hair and eyes so beautifully, had a scoop neck that put about six inches of pale cleavage on display. And yes, she was at least 300 pounds.
I walked her to the dance floor and assumed the classic slow dance position, my left arm bent, hand palm up, inviting hers, my right hand ready to lay on her waist. She flashed that smile again, took ataşehir escort my left hand in her right, stepped closer, laid her right hand on my shoulder, and I completed the dance position by laying my right hand on her waist just above the shelf of her big hips.
It turned out, she was very light on her feet, and we danced well together.
As the music reached the final bars, “And I still can see blue velvet through my tears,” she stopped, caught both of my hands in hers, and said, “Okay, you’ve had your fun with the fat girl.”
I held her hands when she moved as if to walk back to her table, and I could have kissed the band leader when they went right into Elvis Presley’s I Can’t Help Falling in Love. When I stepped close, though, she didn’t respond.
Instead, she asked, “What are you? Some chubby chaser? A fatty fucker? You’ve had your fun, isn’t that enough?”
There was something about the way she said it, angry and defensive and aggressive all at once, that got to me.
“I’m the guy who likes to dance with the prettiest girl at the dance,” I said, holding her eyes, and the thing is, I meant it.
She held my eyes for another long five count before she stepped close, laid both hands on my shoulders, and started swaying with the beat. I laid my hands on her waist, just above that shelf of her hips again, and when she stepped close, doing that thing all women seem to know how to do, kind of molding herself to me, I realized how damn sexy it was to be dancing with a woman that I could not reach around.
When the band slipped into Twist and Shout, she held me on the floor, and it turned out she was amazingly good with the fast beats too. When I spun her away in a pretty good jive dance move, her skirt flared, and I could see she was a nylons and garter belt girl, and I realized how damn sexy her big thighs were.
I spent the rest of the night with her. I won’t bother you with the conversation. You can cut a few yards from stock, and you’ll have it. It was all pretty banal. “Live around here?” “What kind of music do you like?” “What do you do?” You know, getting to know each other. And realizing I liked her.
We exchanged names about halfway through the conversation, realizing we hadn’t yet, and laughing about that. I got her number, this was before smartphones, written on one of the little celebratory napkins. I liked that she put a little heart above the “i” in Linda.
“Really?” my brother asked as we headed home, me driving after Dad admitted he had a few too many, so Dad and Rita, my step-mother, necked in the back seat like a couple of teenagers as we drove the twenty-five or so miles home. Ron, my brother, gave me turn-by-turn instructions. I was still learning my way around.
“What, really?” I asked.
“Linda?” he asked.
“Why really?” I asked.
“Ummmmmm,” he said, “if you DO, by some miracle, get lucky, aren’t you afraid she’ll squash you?”
I laughed at that.
“She’s fun. I like her,” I said.
He rolled his eyes and said, “Different strokes, I suppose.”
Then, for the rest of the drive home, he told me how it went with Sharon. He didn’t go into all of the details, what with Dad and Rita in the back seat, but I got the distinct impression he had been well inside her panties.
Linda and I dated for the next three weekends. The first was bowling and bowling-alley food. She was a good bowler, much better than I, and I thought she looked spectacular in loose, flowing pants and one of those bowling shirts with the big stripes that seemed to emphasize her size. She knew a lot of people at the bowling alley, and I realized that this was sort of the unofficial meeting place for the fat people in the area. At the end of the evening, I drove her to her apartment, kissed her chastely at the door, and headed home with blue balls.
The second date was a more traditional dinner and a movie. No, I don’t remember what the movie was, some science fiction low-budget thing, I think. We both enjoyed those. But I DO remember dinner. It was a place she knew where the signature dish was lasagna. The restaurant itself looked like something off the set of The Godfather, with small tables, red and white checkered tablecloths, and candles in old wine bottles covered with wax drippings.
But that’s not what I remember.
What I remember so well was watching her eat. I hadn’t noticed so much at the bowling alley, where the burger and fries were pretty much finger food. But here in the restaurant, it was almost pornographic the way she enjoyed eating. She took big bites, chewed with obvious pleasure, and then wiped her lips delicately after each bite.
“What?” she asked. I guess I was staring.
“I don’t think I ever saw anyone enjoy a meal as much as you do,” I said, honestly.
“Hey,” she said, slapping her belly with a loud clap sound, “you’re surprised that I like to eat?”
“No,” I said and followed that with what might be ataşehir escort bayan the first truly adult, intimate thing I ever said to a woman, “I’m thinking I’d like to feed you.”
She laughed, but her eyes got big at that.
I hated the awkwardness between us as we finished dinner. And here I thought we had gotten past that.
The drive home was equally awkward.
I walked her to the door, wondering if I had blown it.
She turned to face me, her face very serious.
“Okay, Buster,” she said, in a subtle way emphasizing the difference in our ages, “if you’re serious, next Friday I’ll cook for you,” she paused, took a deep breath, and finished in a rush, “and you can feed me. Bring your toothbrush.”
She kissed me, a sudden, hard, good kiss, and then turned and went inside without any more talk.
Dad, Rita, and I had reached an agreement. After all, I was pretty much grown when Dad came and fetched me. I respected their house rules, was quiet when I came home, but I really didn’t have a curfew. When I told them I expected to spend the weekend with Linda, Dad smiled in that way men do, and Rita took me aside and said, “Listen, Buster,” making me smile, “you be nice to her and for Christ’s sake, be careful. I won’t raise your kids.”
I smiled, kissed her cheek, and said, “I will and I will,” answering both of her directives at once.
I was a mess that week. I blew a geometry test, snapped at Ron when he teased me about my coming weekend, and almost got fired from my part-time job at the local small engine shop when I snapped at the boss.
But I survived, packed my little gym bag with two T-shirts, two pairs of socks, two pairs of shorts, and my toothbrush, and showed up at Linda’s promptly at seven on Friday evening.
Christ, she looked stunning. She was in a white T-shirt so white it practically glowed. It was tight, emphasizing her size and making the lack of a bra obvious. Her white shorts were so short that her gluteal sulcus, that line where her big ass met the tops of her thighs, peeked out. She had obviously spent a lot of time on her hair and makeup. The red hair formed a halo around her oddly thin face. Her eyeshadow was green to match her eyes, green with contact lenses. Butterfly lashes emphasized her pretty eyes, and the scarlet lipstick fit her ginger skin.
She smiled and said, “I take it you approve?” in reaction to my stare.
“You are gorgeous,” I breathed, and liked that I managed to draw a hint of a blush at that.
“Okay,” she said, kissing me lightly enough that she didn’t smear her lipstick, “come in and see the place.”
Her apartment was small, a one-bedroom with an open kitchen/living room/dining room, the kitchen separated from the rest with a bar-height counter.
“See if there’s something you like,” she said, gesturing at the “entertainment wall,” a stereo, a big 32″ television, about a hundred record albums, and about a hundred books.
I smiled as I puzzled out the combination, got the fancy stereo rack going, and put an album by that new group called The Beatles on.
I was running my finger across her books, fascinated with her eclectic taste and happy to see some of my favorite authors there, when she called, “Okay, David, dinner is served.”
I had deliberately been not looking. It felt like she was preparing something like a surprise, and it was, after all, her show.
The small table was set for one. She sat at the head with a serving bowl full of spaghetti and oversized meatballs swimming in a thick red sauce. On a plate, a half loaf of Italian bread, swimming in garlic and butter, and covered with a crust of Parmesan cheese. A large glass of wine so red it was almost purple sat beside the bowl. There was a second chair to her right.
I stood and took it all in, just looking for a long ten count.
“You said you wanted to feed me, Baby,” she said, smiling, but I thought there was a hint of nervousness in the smile, “or should I set another place?”
I went to her, bent, kissed her, a long, thorough kiss, sat, and said, “This is fine.”
“David,” she said, catching my hand, “this is my fantasy, but it’s the first time I’ve ever done it. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
I smiled and said, “Linda, this is my fantasy, it’s my first time, but unless you tell me to stop, you’re getting fed tonight.”
When she smiled like that, she was truly beautiful.
I stuck the fork into the spaghetti and twisted it as you do with spaghetti, making a ball liberally loaded with sauce.
When I looked back at her, I had been concentrating on loading the fork, her eyes were big, her lips were parted, and her breath caught as I slowly moved the fork to her mouth.
I honestly don’t think I have ever seen anything quite as sexy, as purely sensual, as the look on her face as she closed her eyes and opened her mouth in invitation.
It was a big ball of spaghetti, and she had to open wide. escort ataşehir A couple of hanging strings left a trail of that red sauce on her chin as she started to chew. I didn’t wipe it off. Instead, I tore off a healthy chunk of the garlic bread and brushed it across her lips. Her eyes were closed now, and when she opened her mouth, the half-chewed bite visible, I came erect as I pushed the garlic bread in.
Her feeding lasted almost an hour.
We fell into a rhythm. A big bite of spaghetti, a big bite of the garlic bread, or a meatball, another bite of spaghetti, her mouth so full now her cheeks bulged, allow her to chew and swallow. A swallow of the wine. A big bite of spaghetti. About every third or fourth bite, I’d take a bite as I watched her chew.
As we went on, she relaxed, accepting the reality of her fantasy, allowing her body to relax and enjoy what was happening.
Her nose was running, and accumulated sauce was dripping down her chin onto those big boobs, staining her white shirt, when she came the first time.
I think it surprised her.
I know it surprised me.
I had just stuffed a big bite of the garlic bread into her mouth, her cheeks were bulging, when her breath caught, and I saw rather than felt that sudden tension in her body.
Suddenly, that beautiful womanscent of her pleasure filled my nose, flooding my olfactory system with its load of pheromones, and I got even harder, something I wouldn’t have thought possible. I looked down and thought she might have wet her pants, but the scent, hell, the perfume, that suddenly filled the air was pure womanneed, womanexcitement.
I kissed her forehead, said, “You are beautiful,” and pushed half of a meatball into her mouth.
She came in waves then, for the rest of her feeding. Each time I would hold the fork ready, stroking her hair until she relaxed, and then feed her the next bite.
Finally, she pushed my hand away, weakly.
“I’m stuffed, Baby,” she said, her voice very breathy in her excitement.
“Maybe,” I said, kissed her snot and sauce-smeared lips, “but you’re not done.”
“Baby,” she said, but when I brushed the next forkload of spaghetti across her lips, she opened her mouth.
Finally, the serving bowl was empty, the garlic bread was gone, and the last of the wine was finished.
“Oh. My. God,” she said, completely relaxed and absolutely stuffed. Hell, I was full and I hadn’t eaten a quarter of what she had.
“You are gorgeous,” I said, kissing smeared lips, “You are stunning,” I said, kissing her forehead, “You are beautiful,” I said, leaning back and looking at her.
“I’m a mess,” she said, smiling, her eyes closed, looking like a tired kitten.
Well, that was manifestly true. The bottom of her face was covered with red sauce and bread crumbs. Her white T-shirt looked like I had poured sauce on her boobs, and the clear mucus from the way her nose was running freely made it look like she was in a wet T-shirt contest. Red sauce had found its way to the belly of her white shorts, and she was wet from her orgasms.
“You are a mess,” I said, kissing sauce-smeared lips, “a beautiful mess.”
“I don’t think I can move,” she said, giggling.
“Relax,” I said, kissing her again, “and I’ll clean up before I take you to bed.”
She giggled, said a soft, “Oh God,” again, and sprawled in the big chair.
Cleanup was actually pretty simple. It was just the serving bowl, the plate the garlic bread had been on, and the wine glass. She had, evidently, cleaned up the cooking residue before I got there. I figured out the dishwasher, got everything put in it, soaked a dishcloth, and wiped down the table as she sat, watching.
“Come on, Beautiful,” I said, offering my hand, “I’m taking you to bed now.”
She smiled, took my hand, and struggled to her feet, having trouble even with my assistance.
“Well,” I asked once I got her vertical and stable, “was your fantasy all you had hoped?”
She smiled again, took a deep breath, and said, “Marry me.”
When I didn’t say anything to that, she giggled and said, “Marry me, David. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”
“How about we just go steady for a while?” I asked.
She sighed theatrically.
“Take me to bed, David,” she said.
Our first two dates had been fairly chaste at this penultimate moment. I had kissed her and then watched her inside before leaving. This was the first time I would see her naked, and I wanted to make it memorable.
She started for the bathroom, but I caught her hand.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked, smiling.
“I need to wash my face,” she said.
“Nuh uh,” I said, pulling her toward the bed, “you’re beautiful just as you are.”
There’s really no way to get a woman’s T-shirt off of her in a slow, sexy, sensual way. It’s not like unbuttoning a blouse. You know, one button at a time. Tickling and kissing the newly revealed skin.
But she had on a T-shirt, so all I could do was catch the bottom hem and peel it up and over her head.
“Peel” is the proper word. Between the sauce, drool, and snot, the material clung as I worked it up.
As I exposed skin, I understood a phrase one of the guys in the locker room had said. “Women are supposed to be soft and round.”
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