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 things 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 XII

Of course, Alex and Courtney fucked.

Alex tells me the story, every little detail, right down to the way the sunlight in the walled back garden picked out hints of gold in Courtney’s untamed forest of bright red pubic hair.

They’re already planning a second date.

I tell Alex about my surprise threesome with Michael and Austin. Her eyes get wider with every detail–how I had them getting off to the sight of each other’s bodies, how they tasted each other’s cum.

“Any longer with them and you’d have had them sucking each other off,” she says.

“If I can get them both to see me again, that’ll be the bare minimum,” I say.

~

It’s the night of the party. Darla and I worked things out ahead of time.

It’s an apartment. The spacious front room has been cleared and there are layers of soft blankets in the center of the floor, maybe three or four deep, with a waterproof through blanket on top.

There’s a circle of men around it, some of whom I’ve done nigh-unspeakable things with, some of whom have brought their wives. Somewhere among them is Alex.

I’m standing in the middle.

Barefoot, clad in a too-small low cut pink top and a floral printed skirt that barely covers my ass. Every soft part of me threatens to pour out over the top, or in between.

And, of course, nothing underneath.

(I asked Darla over the phone what I should wear.

“The virgin-whore complex,” she answered.)

I’m hyper-aware of the buttplug hidden inside me. They’ll see it soon enough.

There’s a collective hush. Heads turn, including mine.

Darla enters, wearing an all-black mens-style suit meticulously tailored to conform to every peak and valley of her substantial body. Her hair is up and back to enhance the masculine effect.

It’s three pieces. She doesn’t wear a shirt under the waistcoat–her breasts look mountainous.

From Darla’s open zipper, there extends a strap-on dildo, translucent dark blue, damn near as big as my forearm, shining under the overhead lights. The glans traces jagged patterns in the air as she saunters.

“Holy fuck,” someone murmurs. A feminine voice, maybe Alex.

Darla stands behind me. For a minute, she does nothing. Just lets me stand there, heart pounding, about a dozen sets of eyes leering at me.

She lifts the back of my skirt–I feel it, clinging across my wide hips as it rolls upward–and exposes my bare buttocks, to the audible delight of those within eyeline of it.

Something hard brushes my asscrack. That would be the dildo.

She leaves my skirt where it is, hoisted and bunched with my ass exposed. She gets closer behind me, letting the dildo lay atop the trench of my asscrack. Her tits and belly touch my back.

Her hands reach around my waist. One pulls the waistband of my skirt down and the hem of my shirt up, exposing the fullness of my belly.

(“Some of them genuinely just like our bodies, but some of them are fetishists,” she said. “The latter wants to see the full freak show, and the former isn’t going to turn it down.”)

True to Darla’s prediction, some of them just seem happy to see more skin, but at least a few are reacting very specifically to the sudden emphasis of my protruding body fat.

With so many eyes on me, so many voices rising up in cheers, jeering, and intermingling conversational noise, everything seems to slow down and float in a thick haze, like falling snow inside a snow globe.

The din of the room rushes like a waterfall in my ears.

Through it, I hear Darla address the crowd.

“Don’t be shy,” she says. “Come closer.”

The circle around us grows smaller. They’re close enough to touch us from all sides, though no one dares. I feel as if I can feel the hot breath of the room on my exposed flesh.

From a man nearby–Christopher, I think, though it’s hard to tell with the overhead light and my tunnel vision–I catch one word:

“Tits.”

Darla laughs. She says they can have one now, then the other later if they behave themselves.

Then her hand reaches around me and her fingers peel the cloth upwards over my left breast. It bursts free, heavy and plump on my ribcage.

She grips my hair, bends me over, bids me to spread my cheeks, makes sure I give a full turnaround so that the whole room can see the gaudy heart-shaped buttplug clenched in my hairless anus.

(Darla strongly suggested we both shave for the occasion–“everything below the neck, right down to the skin”–and, dolefully, I agreed.)

“Touch your toes,” she tells me, and I do.

My top rides up and releases my tits around my chin, its flimsy fabric unable to hold them in this position.

Our audience crowds around as she pulls the buttplug out. I feel my sphincter opening around it, big enough at its widest point to admit a smallish adult hand. The intensity leaves me temporarily breathless.

I’m no longer able to process their discreet responses. They blur together, a whole room focused on my thrumming asshole as the small tip of the buttplug finally exits.

“Elbows and knees,” she orders.

I comply. She presses down on the back of my head, mashing the side of my face into the blankets. Out of the corner of my clouded vision, I see faces, some cheering, some staring with mouths agape.

We planned all of this. Nevertheless, in my fogged mind, the scene is made more potent, transformed, by the taboo of what’s happening, what’s about to happen.

I almost don’t register the dildo until it’s all the way inside me, filling me up just about to my stomach.

From behind, she fucks me, aggressively. I feel my flesh rippling. I passively take her cock, splayed out on the blankets with my ass up. Her fingers grip the meat of my asscheeks.

“Pleasure yourself,” she orders.

I slide my hand down between my belly and the blankets, and feel how inhumanly wide my labia are stretched around the sliding girth of Darla’s ersatz cock.

Darla growls her approval in a string of words and phrases that demean me and egg me on.

My eyes glide listlessly around the room.

I drink in their laughing, cheering, horny faces, funneling them into my living fantasy as I pleasure myself with my fingers, while Darla fills my pussy almost to bursting again, and again, and again.

At some point, she has me on my back and she fists my asshole, but I don’t remember. I’m told later that I had a spectacular orgasm–though not the first, or the last.

Darla doffs her jacket, strips from the waist down, smothers me with her pussy and her ass, not inviting me to pleasure her so much as be held in powerless awe by her flesh, her sweat, her scent. I can’t breathe. In that moment, I’m in love.

Then we’re sitting naked and upright, clutching each other’s bodies, grinding our pussies on each other’s thighs, our bellies and breasts slide together, our faces buried in each other’s shoulders.

Darla comes. Her cries are over an octave higher than when she gleefully rumbled all those dirty things into my ear. It’s a beautiful sound.

Then the show is over.

~

Darla insists that we shower together. Soon, I understand why. There, under the spray, she holds me, strokes my hair, tells me I did a wonderful job.

She asks me if I’m okay, if there’s anything that hurt me or upset me. Truthfully, I tell her I’m fine, that I enjoyed every bit of it.

Gradually, I’m back to full awareness. Darla is drying my hair while I sit on the closed toilet seat. My body is alive with lingering sensation.

She dons a comically small robe and offers me one as well. I accept.

Then we go out to mingle with our public.

~

“Mingling” is, of course, a chance to drum up further commercial opportunities before the evening draws to a close.

Alex comes over. I feel nervous. She was supportive to begin with, but that was before the actuality of the event was staring her in the face.

As it turns out, she’s enthused–gushing, even–as thrilled as if she’d been the one.

The guests mill about, some with drinks. Alex gets swept up in some conversation or another. I leave her to it. She’s a social butterfly, and I, a wallflower.

It seems like no time at all before I see Darla vanish into one of the private bedrooms, accompanied by two men.

I notice Christopher talking to Alex. They seem to be having a good time. He says something–from that look on his face, I know he’s teasing her–and she’s giggling her sincere Alex giggle.

Soon after, Christopher approaches me.

“That girl you’re with…” he says.

“Darla?” I say.

“No, the short-haired little thing.”

“Oh, that’s Alex.”

“That your girlfriend?”

“She is.”

“Well, my rolly polly pet, she’s a sweet piece of ass. You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Thanks.”

“Is she working tonight?”

“No, she doesn’t work.”

“Ah. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m looking to get my dick wet, and I think she’s into it.”

“I think that would be good.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

I don’t know what he expected. Jealousy, maybe.

“Yeah,” I say. “She needs to get laid more often. I’ve been pushing her to put herself out there.”

“You’re a good’un, you know that?”

“I try.”

As he turns to leave, I grab his wrist.

“Christopher,” I say.

His eyebrow is up.

I tell him, “She’s still pretty new at this.”

He nods, understanding.

Then he’s off making the rounds with the other guests, saying his goodbyes.

Alex comes over to me and says she’s going to go somewhere with someone.

“If it’s okay with you,” she adds.

“Of course it is,” I say.

She gives me a hug.

Into my ear, she says, “I love you.”

I feel myself blush right up to my hairline.

Hiding my grin against her shoulder, I say, “I love you too.”

Eventually, the hug loosens. I give her a kiss and a goodbye squeeze on the ass.

“Okay,” I say. “Go have fun.”

Alex departs.

Quint, one of my frequent clients, catches my eye and comes over to me. I haven’t seen him since before my threesome with the Robinsons. He introduces me to his wife, Jessica.

Jessica is a tall, thin white woman, dyed blonde, about 60. She looks that sculpted way that youthful women look when they’re just starting to show their age. She wears a snap-front olive baby tee and jeans.

(Quint is the guy who likes PVC dresses and jacking off while getting finger-fucked. I wonder if Jessica is aware of this. Intuitively, from the vibe I’m getting off of her, I don’t feel like she does.)

Jessica is all friendly and smiles, but I get a strong feeling she doesn’t like me.

Maybe it’s the fact that I just got fucked in front of her husband, or that I’m now casually chatting with him while wearing only the too-short satin robe that Darla lent me.

Quint’s doing the talking. Just as a by-the-way, he lets me know that Jessica’s been talking about having her first woman-on-woman experience. Jessica herself pretty quiet during this part.

He seems more serious about making this happen than she does.

In my mind, I’m imagining the conversation:

She muses idly about being curious about women. His excitable brain translates this into an urgent need. He sweeps her into this situation driven more by his desire than hers. Though hesitant, she goes along.

Or maybe she really does want it, but she’s shy, or she doesn’t feel like this is something she should let herself have. She tells herself she’s not that into it–but Quint’s pushing it, so she has an excuse.

I have no way of knowing, and I have no interest in mediating the couple’s therapy session necessary to suss out which one it is.

Still…

“$300,” I say.

“What?” Quint says. Jessica says nothing.

I speak directly to Jessica. “For $300 cash, I’ll take you into one of the bedrooms here and have sex with you right now.”

Jessica eyes Quint nervously.

I don’t think it’s that she’s offended. I think she never expected the opportunity to present itself so suddenly, with so little buildup.

No chances to talk herself out of it.

Quint eyes her back. He looks like he’s trying not to look excited.

Still speaking to Jessica, I say, “If he wants to watch, it’s $150 extra.”

I’d charge them $300 extra if he wanted to join in. But, for whatever reason, I don’t think it’s necessary to tell them that tonight.

Both our eyes are on Jessica.

At first, her expression is neutral.

Then, with a nervous laugh, she says, “Okay.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Christopher and Alex leave together, chatting amiably on their way out the door.

Just briefly, my eyes meet Christopher’s. We give each other a nod of mutual recognition.

Quint and Jessica step out to procure $450. I’m doubtful that they’ll actually come back, but they do.

Soon enough, the three of us are closed inside one of the private bedrooms–small, just a mattress with a sheet on it, a candy dish of condoms, black nitrile gloves, single serving lubes.

She and I stand in front of each other, next to the bed. Quint stands in the corner, looking like a boy who knows he’s being talked about in the principal’s office.

“Should my husband be in here?” she asks.

I glance at him and shrug. “He paid to watch. But it’s up to you.”

She doesn’t tell him to leave, and he shows every intention of staying.

I shrug my robe off. It clings to my skin, still sweaty and smeared in fluids, so I have to wriggle to get it off my naked body. Her face flinches away from me, as if I’d shined a light in her eye.

I say nothing, do nothing, waiting for her to look at me again. When she does, her eyes flick down, then up again.

As if on instinct, she reaches out and touches the overhang of my belly. She immediately jerks away, as if burned by my softness.

I let it go, but I resolve that she’ll feel me up in all my softest places before her time is up.

“Your turn, honey,” I say.

“Can we turn the lights off?” she says.

“No,” I say.

She looks uneasy.

“I can help you,” I offer.

“No,” she says.

She undoes the snaps of her shirt. She has small breasts, held by a black balconette bra. Her tummy is flat, but the bottom of it is loose and stretchmarked. It sags, just a little, over the top of her jeans.

She takes her pants down. She wears a leopard thong with black ruffled edges. Though faded, it looks good on her. She slides the thong down her long thighs. She has a tiny, thinned triangle of pubic hair.

She stands up, clad only in her bra, not quite meeting my steady gaze.

“Honey,” I tell her, “you are absolutely beautiful.”

She glances at my face, sees my sincerity, and gives me a little embarrassed smile.

“And the rest?” I say, eyeing her bra.

“Can I keep it on?”

“Suit yourself.”

“What now?”

“Here,” I say, gesturing for her to get on the bed.

She does, on all fours at first, giving me a probably unintentional display of her brown asshole and prominent pale inner labia.

She lies on her side, facing away from me. I climb onto the bed behind her, spooning her as tightly as I can manage, her ass nestled in the crook of my thighs and belly.

I drape my arm over her hip, letting my hand rest on her soft, rippled belly just below her navel.

“Is this okay?” I say.

She says nothing, but she nods.

“Put your knee up, honey,” I say.

She does.

I slide my hand down between her legs, enjoying the softness of her pubis, the coarseness of the hair. I cup her vulva–it’s warm and wet.

Her inner thighs stiffen in response to the contact.

“We can stop whenever you want,” I say, just behind her ear.

She nods.

“If you want to face me,” I say, “or if you want to look at me or touch me anywhere or do anything to me–anything you’re curious about–you have me here for whatever you want.”

“Please,” she says quietly, “keep touching me.”

From behind her, I start to strum her vulva in slow circles. From this angle, it’s so oddly similar to masturbating myself–my hand is mere inches away from my own excited genitals.

She breathes in halting breaths. I think I’m giving her what she likes, but I feel like she’s in her own head. She hasn’t let her defenses down, hasn’t given herself over.

This might take a minute.

“Forget that I’m here,” I whisper. “Forget that this is something new, and just focus on the feeling.”

I think this works. Before long, her hips are instinctively humping at nothing in particular, having the not-unpleasant side effect of grinding her ass in my lap.

Then she comes, and she immediately starts sobbing, and Quint starts to step forward until I shoot him a look that tells him to stay right where he is. Without a word, he complies.

I hold Jessica’s shuddering body, cradling her from behind, stroking her loose belly, until her sobbing dies down to a quiet sniffle.

She mutters, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I tell her. “You must have needed the release.”

“Yeah,” is all she says.

I try not to think about the state that Quint’s marriage was in when he first started seeing me, or how his extracurricular activities that included me might have contributed.

She scoots away a little and rolls over, looking at me. It’s as if she sees me for the first time: a fat little thing, almost young enough to still be in school, a barely-adult out of her depth.

“Do I have to do anything for you in return?” she says.

Fixing her with a confident look, I say, “What you have is about 45 minutes left.”

She reaches out, touches my belly again, the way she did before. This time, she doesn’t jerk away.

“Are you really curious about women?” I ask her.

She muses, “I always thought that if I ever left Quint, I might try sleeping with women instead of men.”

Quint, very much still in the room, looks like he wants to die.

I tell her, “You can sleep with whoever you want, whether you’re married or not. Being married doesn’t mean somebody owns you.”

She laughs. “You’re wise for your age, aren’t you?”

Her hand hasn’t left my belly.

I raise my leg, the way I had her raise hers. I take her by the wrist and guide her hand between my legs.

“I’m as old as I need to be,” I tell her.

Her eyes fall shut and she sighs, perhaps in gratitude, as her palm makes contact with my blazing loins.

“What do I do?” she whispers, her eyes still closed.

“What do you do to yourself?”

She laughs. “I use my vibrator.”

I laugh, too. “Okay, maybe finger-fucking is a little advanced for where you’re at right now.”

I place her hand on my lower belly, just above my soft, hairless pubis.

“Look into my eyes,” I tell her.

She does.

As we maintain eye contact, our faces just inches apart, with her hand on my lower belly, feeling every flutter and vibration in the core of my body, I reach down in between my legs and begin to masturbate.

Anytime her eyes flick away, I coax her back to me.

“Oh, Jessica,” I breathe, “look at me, Jessica.”

Soon, as my hand and her voyeuristic gaze reliably bring me towards orgasm, my vocalizations devolve.

“Oh, Jessica… fuck, babe… nngh…”

She watches my face, surely seeing my knitted brows, my reddened skin, my clouded eyes fixed on her, as I grunt and gasp and buck and come, her hand feeling my inner convulsions through my soft flesh.