M.U.F.F.

Content notice:

The following story contains depictions of negative body image, weight stigma, and diet talk.

I’ve done my best to portray these issues with empathy and sensitivity. Beauty comes in every size, and a joyous, fulfilling sex life is the privilege of anyone who wants one.

That said, if you’re someone who prefers to avoid such content altogether, you might try one of my other stories instead.

The characters depicted in the following story are all 18 or above. One of the themes involves sexual liaisons between young adult women and much older adults in a position of relative power over them.

The inclusion of this theme is for storytelling purposes only. It is not a comment on the advisability of such relationships in real life.

The Author

~

M.U.F.F., Part I

Alex. Aged 18 years and two weeks to the day. The kind of girl who doesn’t walk into a room, so much as float into it.

She wears shirts, skirts, and dresses that hug her slim body, that make it look like she isn’t wearing any underthings. Which, typically, she isn’t.

Today, she’s wearing an olive slip dress, belted at the waist. Nothing underneath. She’s at the lingerie store, a shopping trip in celebration of her birthday.

Alex considers her birthday to take place during the two weeks both preceding following the actual date. Birthdays are important to Alex. At least, hers is.

In the dressing room, she lingers in the mirror with the dress pulled down to her waist longer than necessary. She admires her tiny breasts, little dewdrop nipples, her belly made taut by field hockey.

Her fingertips touch the faintest hint of fat that protrudes over the belt, just below her navel. A storm cloud flashes over her face, vanishing as soon as it comes.

Alex is tiny, athletic, and beautiful.

I’m standing behind Alex.

I see myself, visible in the mirror to her and to myself. While she checks herself out, she sees me seeing her.

The girl in the mirror behind Alex is not tiny, athletic, or beautiful. She’s Beth: short, fat, plain, chubby-cheeked, her many round parts curtained off by dark, loose clothes.

Beth was the first girl at school to sprout tits and big hips, which made her a lightning rod for the most horrible kind of attention. Otherwise, an invisible person.

Alex pulls her dress back into place by the shoulder straps, teases her fringey short hair, and turns.

“Let’s go, babe,” she says. I nod.

I help round up her various selections. She carries the keepers. I carry the rejects.

Yesterday was my 18th birthday. Today was pitched as a shopping trip in my honor, but nothing we’ve picked out is for me.

Halfway to the checkout line, she stops, as if finally remembering.

“We’re going to find you something cute,” she says.

Alex and I met last year. We’ve gone to the same schools since we were small children, but our circles never overlapped, until the day that they did.

Alex declared that she was making me her special project. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

We’re not the most obvious pairing.

Alex, who lost her virginity on New Years Eve in the eighth grade and bragged about it to anyone who would listen.

Beth, who’s never had sex, who’s never been kissed, who includes group events in her definition of dating to avoid feeling left behind.

Alex’s never said what she meant by “special project,” but it’s clear enough. She’s going to get me laid, and, in order to do that, she’s going to sculpt me into the kind of person who gets laid.

Alex leads me, without asking, to the plus size section: a small, dim corner at the rear of the store. I follow.

She sifts through bras with large cups and thick straps. She knows my size offhand. I sift through the bras to her right, as if imitating her.

She likes to tell me, “As soon as you get a boy in the shower, you’re going to have the shiniest boobs of all time.”

Alex likes to shower with boys, and she thinks my big tits are my best asset. You see the logic.

Alex, who, by her own account, has had dozens of casual encounters, some with boys at our school, some with older men.

I’m examining a beautiful, frilly, lacy thing, which piques Alex’s interest.

“Ooh,” she says, “That’ll look great on you once you’ve lost weight.”

I put it back.

We head back to the checkout line, pay for our stuff, and head for the door.

Alex has her purchases in hand, all sheer, all black. I have a full coverage lounge bra with blue polka dots. It’s nothing I don’t have plenty of already, but I didn’t want to leave empty-handed.

Out in the mall, we cross paths with my history teacher, Mr. Robinson. He’s a handsome, well-dressed middle-aged man, like an old movie star. We exchange brief pleasantries.

Once he’s gone, Alex speaks in a conspiratorial stage whisper.

“Bet he’s got a big dick.”

Alex, who speaks with respect to male teachers and her friends’ fathers, then, the moment they leave earshot, speculates about their penises and what it would be like to have them in bed.

Beth, who, having never even seen an adult penis in person, can only agree.

In the parking lot, on our way to my car, Alex makes crude jokes about Mrs. Robinson. I think there’s a reference I’m not getting, but I laugh anyway.

I’ve never seen Mrs. Robinson before. By Alex’s description, she’s a bombshell. Alex has said many times that each of them is the lucky one for being able to fuck the other.

As we get into the car, she’s outlining a hypothetical scenario involving herself and the two of them, which doesn’t quite feel like a joke.

Alex, whose ultimate fantasy is to have sex with a boy and a girl at the same time.

Beth, for whom any sexual partner is a fantasy.

Reading between the lines of Alex’s description, the girl she usually imagines in her fantasy looks like a thin, pretty version of me, a detail that I find odd. She’s less descriptive about the boy.

I drive Alex home. She kisses me on the cheek before going inside.

~

When I get home, it’s late. I shower and towel off.

I don’t look at mirrors. Mirrors are fraught for me. But, as I pass by it, I catch myself in the corner of my eye. A big white shape, blurred by condensation.

For some reason, I stop and look. Maybe it’s because the fogged glass makes the girl in the mirror look like a stranger. I watch, as if hypnotized, as the watery haze clears and the girl comes into focus.

I try to see myself as strangers do. I try to get into character as someone who isn’t Beth, as someone who looks at Beth and evaluates her as a stranger would. I try to think that person’s thoughts.

I find myself imagining what it would be like to be someone having sex with the girl in the mirror. I move my body and let my hands play over my soft flesh as the scenario unfolds.

I imagine coming up behind her, my reflection taking its position behind hers. I feel the steam coming off of her skin, smell her thick brunette hair, the lingering scent of shampoo.

I thread my arms underneath hers, grip her heavy breasts, so big that they overfill my hands, touch her nipples–so sensitive!–and give her neck little suckling kisses. She tilts her head to give me room.

One of my hand slides down the expanse of her belly. I glide over the faint lacing of stretch marks, the deep navel, the roll at the bottom.

I keep going.

My fingertips brush the border of Beth’s dense outgrowth of bushy pubic hair. She plants her feet apart. My fingers find their wet, soft home.

As I hold this poor, lonely girl, so lucky to have me, as I pepper her neck and shoulders with horny, sucking kisses, as I thumb her nipple, as I strum her puffy, hairy labia, I try to imagine who I am.

Images of people in my life float through my head, all the people I might become in this fantasy. It’s as if I’m auditioning them. First, I try Rob out.

Rob is a mutual friend of Alex and me, who graduated two years ago. For a time, Alex had tried to finagle us into being a couple. “He can be your sexy older boyfriend,” she would say.

I guess it made sense. Rob is a big, burly bear of a boy, and, like me, he’s shy. It just never worked out for us, partly because I’m such a chronically guarded person.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to be fucked by him.

I try to imagine being Rob. Tall, fat, disrobed, hairier and more muscular in my mind’s eye than he probably is in real life. Holding Beth from behind, my erect penis a hot lump against her back.

I have plenty of practice imagining Rob’s naked body. I’ve forensically constructed it from years of knowing him, filling out the missing details with piecemeal elements of men I’ve seen in porn.

I’ve never imagined being him before, never imagined lusting after someone through his eyes. Never imagined that Beth would be the one to turn him on.

It isn’t quite working.

It’s not that Beth isn’t enjoying this. It’s just that Rob isn’t right for the job for some reason.

I drift through a few other candidates. Boys at school, movie stars, musicians. All of them varying degrees of desirable,

For some reason, I land on a memory of Alex.

She is as she appeared in the dressing room–slim, taut, sure of herself. This time, in my memory’s construction of her, she’s naked, her muscular legs and bald pubis on casual display.

I don’t need to make up what Alex looks like naked. I’ve seen her enough times to know. She thinks nothing of changing in front of me, or welcoming me into her room, still nude from her morning shower.

I don’t know if she’s that way with anyone else. I have a strong feeling that she is.

Her image lingers longer than the others.

Then she, too, is gone.

Then Mr. Robinson floats by, and I kind of don’t hate it.

After a moment’s hesitation, I try to imagine being him.

I imagine he’s fit, hairy-chested. I picture myself in his body, in the mirror, holding Beth from behind in a strong, authoritative embrace.

I imagine having a big dick, like Alex said. I imagine it hot and hard, wreathed in hair, pressed upright against Beth’s spine.

I don’t know if it’s the novelty of the imaginary dick or the distance of treating my own body as an object, seen and felt from the outside. But a sudden boldness hits me, a sexual confidence I rarely feel.

What would Mr. Robinson think of Beth?

Beth, the meek, quiet girl who would occasionally surprise herself with a strong opinion, who got some of the highest marks in class but never quite felt they were high enough.

Beth, surrounded by a classroom full of loud, bubbly, nubile young things in spaghetti straps and short shorts.

Would he ever look past them, see Beth, imagine fucking her?

As Mr. Robinson, I decide that, yes, I would fuck Beth. Even if it’s because I feel sorry for her, and because I find it cute that a girl like her would imagine being with a man like me.

I would throw a fuck at Beth, for pity’s sake. She’d enjoy the attention.

I wrap my arms around Beth’s body and rub her with tenderness. I surprise myself by how much I enjoy the pure, physical sensation of her softness, a thing that never occurred to me before.

I reach down in between Beth’s legs and stroke her hooded clitoris, its sensitivity dulled by horniness, her vulva smeared with vaginal secretions. Her breathing is getting heavy. She’s into it.

And, oh, please, would I thumb her nipple some more? Yes, I would.

Beth needs to come. And she isn’t going to do it in here.

Everyone else in the house is in bed right now. Still, we wrap ourselves in towels before she opens the bathroom door.

I follow her to her room. She lets me in, then comes in behind me and closes the door.

We’re alone. I drop the towel. With confidence, I let Beth look at my body, tall and hairy and panhandled, just for her.

She drops her own towel. Out of respect, I don’t let my gaze linger too long.

She climbs onto her bed and splays her damp legs out atop the comforter.

She reaches into a drawer for her big blue rabbit vibrator, a gift from Alex. The nicest gift anyone’s ever given her.

She clicks it on, positions the big part at the entrance of her puffy, hairy labia, and lets the small part rest on her clitoral hood.

The fantasy gets foggy here. It’s as if the condensation of the mirror were back, filling the whole room. I’m no longer seeing Beth through Mr. Robinson’s eyes.

I’m myself again.

I try to imagine Mr. Robinson doing something to me, try to imagine his mouth, his fingers, his cock, anything, but none of it quite resolves into a concrete image.

Still, the general fantasy of Mr. Robinson and the vibrations from the rabbit are starting to take me places. The smell of the air in my bedroom starts to thicken.

I push the head of the rabbit further inside me. It resonates deep in the core of my abdomen. The little nub batters my hungry clit.

I bring myself to a brief, utilitarian orgasm, the kind I’ve had thousands of by now, and the naked Mr. Robinson vanishes like a puff of steam.

The horny fog lifts. I return to reality, and all that’s left is me. Looking down the unsightly hills of my breasts and belly and thighs, I suddenly feel like the most unwanted, least sexy thing on Earth.

After lying there for a few minutes, I put the rabbit away. I find my pajama pants and a long t-shirt. I get dressed, get back into bed, and fall into a deep post-orgasmic sleep.

~

The next morning, the first time I see Mr. Robinson is in the hall at school. We greet each other, acknowledge our chance meeting at the mall, promise pointlessly that we’ll see each other in class later.

The whole time, though, I’m picturing him naked.

He’s hard. I’m naked in front of him. He tells me, in his commanding voic, to kneel. I obey.

The linoleum hurts my knees, but I barely notice. Mr. Robinson’s cock, so big and veiny and hairy in my mind’s eye, juts out, the angry red bulb at the end of it inches from my nose.

(A porn scene I like, which I’ve watched countless times, furnishes this distinctive image. It’s just a guess, but I can’t believe his cock doesn’t look like this. In fact, I’m certain that it must.)

We’re being watched by everyone in the senior wing as I take his cock into my hand and put my lips on it.

This image stays with me as I watch him walk away. It’s all I can think about.

Of course I’ve imagined Mr. Robinson as a sexual partner before, in a juvenile, abstract sort of way.

But this has never happened before. A vivid fantasy, unbidden, springing into my head with such force that it crowded out everything else.

God.

I have to get through 45 minutes of his history class this afternoon.

I hope with all my might that this doesn’t happen again, that I can listen to Mr. Robinson give his history lecture like normal.

But to no avail.

He stands in front of the room, gesturing at bullet points on the white board, reminding us to turn the pages in our textbooks, while the mirror scene from last night plays in my head on repeat.

I worry that anyone close enough to me will smell that something is up, even as I stare through my eyelashes at the indistinct figure behind the fly of Mr. Robinson’s slacks.

After class, I do something I’ve never done before: I sit in a stall in the girl’s bathroom, on the cold toilet seat, and I use my fingers to bring myself to a furtive orgasm as quickly as I can.

I shimmy myself back into my jeans, then sit there for a few minutes to give myself time to not look like someone who just masturbated on the toilet.

I tell myself that I can’t make a habit of this. But I needed the relief.

I open the stall door, already feeling embarrassed, but there’s no one else in here but me.

After school, I drive Alex home. On our way, I summon the courage to tell her about what happened today–my sudden horniness, my fantasy about Mr. Robinson, my liaison with myself in the bathroom.

I glance at her face. Immediately, I know that the gravity of my experience is lost on her.

She laughs and says she masturbates in the girls’ room all the time.

She also tells me, as if laying out a higher hand on the card table, that she once fantasized about Mr. Robinson fucking her in the ass across the top of his desk. I’m not sure I needed to hear about this.

As she gives me her customary peck on the cheek and gets out, she tells me she always brings a bullet vibrator to school with her in her book bag. She says it’s really quiet and promises to buy me one.

~

Later that night, after everyone’s gone to bed, I have my usual nighttime shower.

I’m having my mirror fantasy again, of being outside my body, of looking at it through the eyes of a stranger.

I try being Mr. Robinson again. It was so effective last night that I already feel the tingle in my loins, just from the memory.

For some reason, it isn’t working this time. I’m turned on by the sight of a strange naked girl in the bathroom with me–this Beth–but I remain a hazy figure in the reflection behind her.

Last night may have been my all-time favorite fantasy. The ending was lackluster because I didn’t have the patience and the focus to pursue it. Has it already lost its novelty?

I try out a few other people. Rob again. Even Alex. (I feel especially ludicrous, trying to imagine being her.) Nothing works.

Then something strange happens, as if by chance. One of those thoughts that seems to come from somewhere outside my mind, somewhere higher, that I can neither be blamed nor credited for generating myself.

The person standing behind Beth in the foggy mirror is… Beth.

I am myself, looking at another person–a stranger–who is also me, and simultaneously seeing myself in the reflection behind her.

It’s a surreal experience. When I see myself, I see all the problems that I avoid or cover up–all the rolls, folds, and stretch marks.

When I see her, I just see her body as a set of features, no flaws standing out, the way you’d see anyone else’s body. Like any girl in the locker room, or on the landing page of a porn tube site.

Or in the mirror in a dressing room.

I look her up and down. Round face, shoulders scattered with freckles, big upper arms, big tits with mottled pink nipples, a round belly that overhangs her thick pubis and thick thighs, a swirl of pubic hair.

If I could see Beth from the outside, through my own eyes, could I imagine fucking her?

I don’t know if I could.

But it strikes me for some reason that I would like to try.

Beth and I don’t waste time fooling around in front of the mirror. We don our towel, skitter down the hall to our room, and shut the door.

As she climbs into bed and lies akimbo on top of the covers, as I mount her, straddle her, my hairy sex hovering above her pale tummy, I realize that I have no idea how to fuck a girl.

But then, I have no idea how to fuck a guy, either.

She looks up at me with a mixture of gratitude and trepidation as my hand slides down her lower belly.

As I finger myself as if I were someone else, I spare a dim thought in the back of my mind for how solipsistic and narcissistic this is, of conjuring a lover exactly like myself in order to have sex with her.

I have no idea how I got here.

But it feels wonderful.

I make out with Beth, enjoying her lips and her spit and her soft tongue, her generous breasts and belly touching my own, while my fingertips pump the front wall of her slick, sloshing pussy.

I feel like a confident, worldly lover bringing an inexperienced new partner into the fold. At the same time, I feel naive and precocious, being taken care of by someone who knows what they’re doing.

Both sides of the fantasy, in their simultaneity, are turning me on.

I finish and I finish hard, the thunderous orgasm that wanted to happen last night. As the heat and the fantasy begin to fade, I notice how sore my forearm and wrist are.