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

~

The day before graduation, I’m invited by a fuckbuddy to a “final countdown” party thrown by kids from a neighboring school. It’s at the house of a boy from the soccer team, whose parents are out of town.

The party dwindles to me and two boys I don’t know–one of them the boy who lives there. My fuckbuddy is long gone.

The tension among the three of us is thick. I’m putting out serious “fuck me” signals to both of them.

I make out with the one boy on the couch while the soccer boy awkwardly hovers nearby.

Then I beckon the soccer boy. He eyes me skeptically, but he has a look that says, “Fuck it; when is this ever going to happen again?”

I didn’t plan for this. But I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try to make it happen.

At some point, the two of them are sitting on the couch. I’m getting down between the soccer boy’s knees when the other boy gets up, mumbling some excuse. He leaves in a hurry.

I’m sad that I won’t be breaking my threesome cherry tonight, that my perfectly acceptable second cock decided to cut and run as soon as he saw where this was going.

But I let the soccer boy watch me masturbate on his parents’ bed, then I show him how to put his cock in my ass. He has himself a pretty good time. It’s a nice consolation prize.

The next day, I graduate.

There’s a brief function afterwards in the cafeteria, mostly a lot of promises to hang out over the summer by kids who will never see each other again.

Like all the other teachers, Mr. Robinson shakes my hand and loudly wishes me luck with whatever it is that I do with the rest of my life.

Then, quietly, he invites me to an “event” at his house, to take place Friday night–that’s in five days. He tells me there’s no set end time, and that maybe I should be prepared to sleep over.

I nod and accept, and I don’t make a big deal over it. I’m surprised by how easily I accept.

Then I run into Alex. She comes to me as friendly as ever, her demeanor making no acknowledgement of the distance between us. She asks me what Mr. Robinson said to me, and I shrug.

We have a civil conversation that feels very chirpy and bubbly. We veer from topic to topic, mostly generic.

She mentions that she’s sorry about the “thing” with Rob, that she wouldn’t have done it if she hadn’t had someone else cancel on her earlier that night. I find that odd.

I tell her it’s fine, no big deal, not quite sure what it is that we’re talking about.

We make a date to go shopping Wednesday after next–a comfortable few days after whatever’s happening at Mr. Robinson’s.

We part ways, promising to see each other at various open houses later. Neither of us makes any mention of that afternoon we kissed, or the proposition she made.

And I make no indication of what I’ve been up to since we stopped hanging out.

~

It’s the day after graduation, which means tonight is my date with “Darla.”

I show up to a hotel room. It’s just me. Then I hear a knock at the door, and she’s there.

It’s an odd mirror of my dates with Christopher and his friends, or my motel encounter with Mr. Robinson.

In the doorway, she’s resplendent. Taller than me, tanner, much fatter, wearing form-fitting high waisted jeans and a low cut blouse, knotted just below her breasts to show off the roll of her tummy.

She greets me with a smile and a peck on the cheek. She sets her handbag down and tells me to take a shower.

“Nothing personal,” she says, “just something I ask of all my clients.”

I obey, leaving her there and disappearing into the bathroom.

I close the door, trying not to think about how hard my heart is pounding.

She’s so hot.

I expected a new frontier, but I didn’t expect to feel so…

I don’t know.

I feel the urge to masturbate. I make myself take a quick shower instead, hitting all the hot spots.

I find myself wondering why I thought she looked so much like me in her pictures, and how I ended up feeling so small in front of her, and I realize I’m never quite sure what my body actually looks like.

Per her instructions, I’ve left an envelope on the small writing desk by the door, containing her fee. When I emerge from the shower, clad in a towel, I glance at the table and the envelope is gone.

Darla is sitting on the edge of the bed. She’s wearing a pair of black panties with a wide lacy waistband that comes up to her navel, and a matching longline bralette that strains to hold her massive tits.

She must have seen the look on my face. She smiles and pats a spot on the bed next to her.

There’s a box of dental dams to her other side, and a pair of black nitrile gloves where she wants me to sit. She’s wearing a pair herself. I don’t have to imagine too hard what they’re for.

“You can leave that there,” she says.

I drop the towel.

I sit down next to her, feeling more naked than I ever have in my life under her warm gaze. As I put the gloves on, she gathers me with one soft arm and gently hugs the side of my body into the side of hers.

The physical contact is intoxicating. She’s so soft, all rolls and curves, that it’s like being hugged by a cloud.

I’ve felt the touch of so many people’s skin against mine. But there’s something special about hers, a kind of magic I’m not even sure I felt that night with Mr. Robinson.

She has a mischievous smile around her eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” she says.

I laugh, feeling excited, nostalgic, and turned on at the same time.

We make out, and her hand roams over my breast, instinctively treading with care around my sensitive nipple. Her fingertips are tender and cool. Every move she makes raises a jolt of electricity in me.

She has me lie down in the middle of the bed, atop the comforter, and mounts me. She makes out with me, her large, heavy torso lying upon the length of mine and her knees on either side of me.

Through her panties, she feels so warm.

Then her mouth is on my chest and my breasts and my belly, and her hands are touching me everywhere, raising a tingle in even the most innocuous places.

“Can we…” I blurt out.

She looks up at me, with big, gorgeous eyes, from somewhere near the hump of my lower belly.

“…slow down?” I say.

She nods, and says, “Sure.”

She slides up next to me, cuddling me, tracing little nonsense patterns on my naked skin with her fingertips. We trade kisses, little pecks, little bits of spit.

After a few moments, she adds, “Just remember the time. Two hours goes by faster than you’d think.”

I nod.

“Is there anything you’d like to do?” she asks. “Anything you’d like to see?”

“Could you…”

“Mmhmm?”

“I’d like to make you come.”

I expect surprise. Instead she looks mildly intrigued.

She says, “Sure,” in a way that seems to have “if that’s what you want” built into it.

I say, “If you could walk me through it, I want to learn.”

She’s grinning now.

She gets off the bed. I sit up on the edge of the bed, watching her.

She stands with her back turned–her panties have a thong back that disappears completely between the rippled flesh of her stupendous asscheeks.

She glances over her shoulder to make sure I’m looking, then reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra.

For the first time, I notice her armpit hair–not unkempt, but dark and brashly unshorn. I feel the sight of it imprinting on me, changing my lifelong opinion about women’s armpit hair within microseconds.

The way she pulls the bra from her shoulders isn’t like a striptease. It’s a matter-of-fact removal of clothing, revealing the fact of her breast, which I see just the edge of in one quarter profile.

Then she bends over, pulls her panties down, lets them slowly spring loose from her asscrack before sliding them down her thighs, and I catch a glimpse of the mohawk of hair peering from between her cheeks.

Again, not like a striptease.

But it’s undeniably sexy. She knows how to move her body, how to drag up yet-undiscovered reserves of sexual arousal from the bowels of my being.

Part of it might just be that she’s the most attractive woman I’ve ever met.

She turns–every part of her body turns in perfect little balletic arcs–and she faces me, and her nude body is on display to me with all its stupendous flesh, and all she wears for me is a proud smile.

A faint vertical stripe of pubic hair, maybe a few hairs thick, descends from the fold of her belly and grows into a dense, dark patch that convenes between her thighs. I can’t take my eyes off of it.

“Is this your first time with a woman with body hair?” she asks.

“Mmhmm,” I mumble, then say, “This is my first time with a woman, period.”

“Do you like it?”

I’m pretty sure she means her pubic hair, which I’m still staring at.

“You’re so fucking hot,” I blurt out.

She laughs. “How many different men have you been with?”

I think about this.

“About 40?” I say.

Her eyebrows go up. “How old are you?”

“18.”

“When was your first time?”

“Six months ago.”

Now she’s really laughing, an unembarrassed laugh that makes her tits and her arms shake.

God, her smile.

I’d feel a little insulted if it weren’t for that smile, and her body, and the fact that I can’t detect a shred of malice in her laughter. She seems to be somewhere between amused and impressed.

She leans down, her face close to mine, her pendulous breasts nearly touching my knees.

“You’re not quite pulling hooker numbers,” she says, “but for a civilian, 40 different people in six months is doing well.”

I blush.

Her breath is like a spring breeze.

Then I blurt out, again, “Sometimes, they pay me.”

“They should,” she says, then climbs onto the bed and stretches out on her back next to me. Her knees are up, her legs apart.

Her treasure points away from me; I see very little over the hump of her hairy pubis.

I turn, awkwardly, and scoot onto my side with my body touching hers, as she did to me. Her arm gathers me to her.

“Touch me,” she says.

Unsure of what to do, I lay my hand on her belly, above her navel.

With her free hand, she takes me by the wrist.

“Put your hand here,” she says.

She guides my hand between her legs.

I touch something that feels at once foreign and familiar–warm, damp, luxurious–and the words “put your hand here” are forever fixed in my memory.

It’s so strange. I guess because this is my first time touching one other than my own, lacking that instant feedback, feeling only one side of the conversation between hand and…

“What do you call it?” I ask her.

“Whatever you want, babe. It’s your money.”

“I know,” I say, “but I always ask. I like to use the words people use for their own bodies. My… someone important to me taught me that.”

Darla smiles a mysterious smile, glancing at my face lying there next to hers, then looking up at the ceiling.

“Cunt,” she says.

“Sorry?”

“You can call it my cunt.”

Her cunt is radiating BTUs into my flat palm.

“Do I eat you out?” I ask.

“That’s a little advanced,” she says. “Let’s start with just your hand.”

“Do I look?”

“No, stay up here with me. It’s better that you do it by feel.”

With trepidation, I swirl the pads of my fingers, almost imperceptibly, feeling her labia part for me like the petals of some rare, delicate flower. Her inner flesh is impossibly soft.

“Put your middle finger in,” she says softly next to my ear. “Not deep. Just get it wet.”

I do as she says.

In this moment, with part of my body inside of hers, I would do anything she told me to do, no matter how absurd or unwise or illegal.

All things considered, slipping a single fingertip up to the first knuckle inside her welcoming cunt is a simple ask.

“Now,” she says, “We’re going to make out for a minute. That hand isn’t going to do anything silly. Just feel me.”

As prophesied, I kiss her and she kisses me back, open-mouthed, tongues sloppy, her fingers threaded into my hair at the back of my head. Our mouths are ringed with spit.

My hand, of its own volition, is making little movements, little pulses against her sensitive flesh, the most tentative of come hither motions. My fingertip, just inside her, already feels soaked.

“Mmm,” she says as the kiss breaks. “Lick my armpit.”

I hesitate.

“Just trust me,” she says, raising her arm and exposing the furred underside.

I lick the hair tentatively, and she giggles and shivers. I do it again, feeling the firm muscle beneath. Soon, I have the hair saturated, the faintly spicy funk of her sweat swirling in my brain.

“Now,” she says, “Suck my nipple.”

I do as she says.

“Gentler,” she says. “Flick it with the tip of your tongue.”

I do.

She begins to speak into my ear, half of it whispered nonsense and half of it commands that I carry out as we go.

“Use that wet finger to swirl me… no, babe, not the clit, just a little lower… yes, harder, don’t be afraid to push the whole thing around… I can take it…”

And the whole time, she’s breathing and sighing and cooing into my ear, raising goosebumps and hard nipples and the unbearable welling of slick urgency inside my untouched pussy.

Maybe she’s hamming it up. Maybe she’s going out of her way to signal her pleasure for my benefit. I don’t care.

I don’t think the positivity of her response is a lie.

Nursing her nipple, swirling my finger on her cunt–not on her clit, but just below it–pushing her hairy, thickly padded vulva this way and that, I almost can’t believe what’s happening right now.

I think about how I got here, how quickly I got here. And how, despite that, this feels more new, more exciting than ever before.

When she comes, it isn’t the pornographic fireworks I imagine.

I feel her body tense up, in a way that distantly recalls my gentleman lovers, but that I more directly recognize from memories of my own pleasure.

Her formidable hips rise, start to gyrate, and I do my best to keep up as the middle of her body swirls in the air before collapsing back to the bed. She grunts and tenses again, like a full body stretch.

Then it’s over.

I release her nipple and stay my hand, but she corrects me.

“No, no, ride it down with me,” she says. “Gentle, though. I can’t take much.”

I do as she says, pulsing her with my fingers as I did in the beginning. I think I get it mostly right.

For a minute, we just lie there. My arm is a little sore.

I expect her to have broken a sweat, but her skin just shines and smells wonderful.

It isn’t like a fragrance or a soap. Just a wonderfully feminine body smell that I can’t quite put my finger on, that finds a hotline to the primordial center of my brain and makes me want to cuddle her forever.

I hold my fingertips up to the light. I had almost forgotten I was wearing the glove. The black nitrile is streaked and shiny.

I glance at her. She’s looking at the fingers, too.

“That,” she says, “is how you make a woman come.”

What happens next is brisk and professional.

She has me lie with my back propped up on some pillows. I spread myself for her, my perfectly hairless undercarriage that I’m not sure I’ll keep hairless for long.

She shows me the dental dam, how to lay it across the parts of me that she intends to lick. She breaks character just for a moment to admonish me for never having used them with my clients.

That word sticks in my head when she says it.

My “clients.”

She swirls my pussy and my anus with both gloved hands, graduating as soon as I’m ready to licking my clitoris through the dam.

She advises me to play with my own nipples, which never occurred to me before, but always will from now on.

It isn’t the romantic, messy, freewheeling fuck I’d pictured. But she’s a pro. She brings me to a multifaceted orgasm with the skill of someone who’s done something thousands of times.

Then we cuddle again, and I feel like the middle section of my body will never stop thrumming, until she warns me that our appointment is almost over and that it’s time to get dressed.

~

On her way out the door, she stops.

“These men who pay you,” she says, “do they give you the money before or after?”

“After,” I say.

“Get it from them before,” she says. “Tell them to take a shower, then take the money out to your car or another room or something while they’re in there. Count it, make sure it’s real, then hide it.”

“Okay,” I say.

“If you end up in the life for real, hit me up. I like you.”

Then she’s gone.

~

I have one more fuck date, with one of Christopher’s friends, before the night of the “event” at Mr. Robinson’s house: a tall, fit, 60-ish year old man with olive skin that glistens beautifully when he sweats.

I tell him ahead of time that I just graduated from high school. He seems genuinely enthusiastic over the phone when he congratulates me.

For the occasion, I show up in a black PVC bodycon dress, strapless, wet sheen, which makes a spectacle of all the round parts of me. He likes that.

It’s fitted. All my lingerie these days is fitted. It’s one way I’ve found to work through my steady supply of spending cash.

One thing leads to another, and I forget to follow Darla’s advice about payment, but I promise myself I’ll remember next time.

He’s naked, bent over on the hotel bed, on his knees, face mashed into a pillow. I’m wearing a nitrile glove and two of my fingers are buried in his asshole, massaging his p-spot.

He likes that, too.

With a well-lubed hand, he jerks his massive dangling cock, until thick ropes of cum lurch out of him and soil the towel below.

He rolls onto his back and collapses, his half-erection weeping little white pearls onto his softening shaft and his taut belly. He recuperates while I clean up after us.

Before I leave, he gives me $300. My biggest “gift” yet.

He congratulates me again on graduating, telling me that education is one of the most important things in life. Then he asks me to promise that I’ll keep coming back to him, that he’s my favorite. I promise.

With his kind words in my ears and $300 in my purse, I’m not sure I’m lying.

~

It’s the night Mr. Robinson invited me to his place. My outfit is cute, but conservative. The lingerie it hides is all sheer: creamy pink thigh high stockings and panties and bra to match.

When I arrive, his house is bigger than I imagined, the lawn more spacious. I find myself wondering what Mrs. Robinson does for a living.

I imagined a party, but, as I mount the front steps, I realize I don’t see any other cars.

Maybe I’m the first one here. That’s going to be awkward.

As I mount the steps, my imagination is running away with me–wild fantasies of naughty games, exhibitionist sex, a gangbang.

I knock on the door, and the door opens, and my blood freezes.

The legs are so long.

I start at the bottom: high heels, round calves in nylon stockings, thick thighs, pencil skirt, wide hips, an airy sleeveless blouse, big tits, broad shoulders, face pretty but imperious behind wire frames.

She’s not quite fat–she’s heavy and powerful, an Olympic body in a fantasy librarian outfit.

And she’s tall. Taller than Mr. Robinson. Certainly taller than me.