# Escape - by ThinkingFA (SSBBW, Romance, Eating, Mild Sex, ~XWG)



## ThinkingFA (Mar 16, 2009)

_SSBBW, Romance, Eating, Mild Sex, ~XWG _ - Refugees from the financial district of NYC find Valhalla 

*Escape
by ThinkingFA*​
I freely admit that my life has been one of selfish adolescence disguised as responsibility. I pretty much skated through school and landed a job at a big investment bank. Because I had a knack for picking up languages I jetted between New York and Miami, working on various projects with South America. With condos in both places, fast cars and all the girls I could have, it was a life most men my age would envy. 

It’s only in retrospect that I can see the emptiness of it all. My only real responsibility was the 100-hour work weeks I put in. Sleep was something I squeezed in between casual sex and the London market opening. Exercise &#8211; forget it. Breakfast was Maalox and coffee. Just like Gordon Gekko, lunch was for wimps; if dinner didn’t involve a girl, it was a cheeseburger on the way home. Throw in a couple of office political battles in the day and my 40 years in this body felt like 60. Looked like it too. I had always had an escape fantasy &#8211; to live the island life in something like a Jimmy Buffett song. But there was no time for fantasy. 

Fortunately for me, 20-something girls still found money attractive. The routine was the same: find a pack of them hanging out at a bar in their little black dresses, send them a round or two of cosmos or whatever girlie drink they were having, introduce myself, and walk out with at least one them. Sometimes the relationship would last more than one night, but most of them would tire of competing with my job for attention. 

Cooking was another of my skills. I worked my way through b-school in high end kitchens and got pretty good. If the banking thing hadn’t worked out there was always the celebrity chef gig. I once had the face for it. Now it was just full of stress. 

But I digress. The girls loved this, too. It was just more of the attention they craved, and it could keep their interest in me for longer than a one night stand. Problem was my style leaned heavily toward classical French &#8211; butter, cream, sugar. After they put on 20 or 30 pounds and couldn’t fit into their little black dresses any more, they’d leave, too.

Then in September of ’08 it all fell apart. Most every market unwound and gave up the illusory wealth that had built over the last ten years. When my firm imploded, so did I. My identity and sense of self-worth evaporated with most of my life savings. I floundered for months, taking the occasional cooking job to pass the time until I could get back in the game. Thing was, all the players were out on the street looking to get back in the same game. My escape fantasy was becoming increasingly inescapable.

Finally, I woke up one morning and decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I let the banks foreclose on my condos, declared bankruptcy, took my last 20 grand and headed for Margaritaville. 

I beat around the Bahamas for a few months and took whatever work I could find. Most involved cooking, which made me happy, or so I thought. Eventually I landed on a small up and coming resort island called Bonefish Cay. I would work wherever I could all night, drink myself into a stupor and usually wake up on the beach. 

I looked like a bag a man once came in. And it was in this state that I found myself at one of those sand bars, owned by a man known by the locals simply as Tommy. He was black as night and had a toothy smile that put everyone at ease. I told him my story one night over a fifth of the local 151-proof hooch, and through what could only have been an act of pity, he took me in. 

I greeted guests, washed dishes and swept up at the end of the night. In exchange, he let me sleep on a cot in the back. On breaks I would fish and cook whatever I caught for Tommy and me at the end of the night. Noticing I was pretty good in the kitchen, he asked me about starting up a dinner service, but the numbness of my life wouldn’t allow me to see the opportunity for a few months. 

Then one morning my eyes were opened by rain blowing in through the hole in the wall Tommy called a window. I took what was left of my cash and bought an old Airstream on a cement pad down the beach from Tommy’s. I also accepted Tommy’s offer, splitting the nightly take 70/30. I was drinking less and starting to feel better about life. I laughed again for the first time in I don’t know how long. Something about living on island time and life among the locals was unknotting my shoulders and back. I started swimming in the morning. The deep breath of exercise felt good again.

At first our business was slow. The locals showed up when they wanted and left when they were ready. That was OK; Tommy’s wasn’t exactly formal. The beach was the floor, the tables were driftwood and the drinks were strong. Dinner was whatever was swimming around that day. Soon our reputation spread, and when the tourists asked where was good to eat, the cabbies all told them to go to Tommy’s.

Soon the place was filled up every night with stressed out lawyers, doctors and the flotsam and jetsam of the financial industry &#8211; and their wives. They all came looking for a piece of my life, trying to fulfill their own escape fantasies, only to have to go back to their 100-hour work weeks and piles of bills. They looked the same &#8211; pasty, paunchy and staring vacantly at the ocean while their matronly wives chatted up the locals and the American spring breakers. 

Every now and again one would try to leave with me while her husband was back at their hotel gambling absently. They were pretty much the same, too. They were about 50, and years of pampered living had made them broad across the backside and double-chinned. Not that I had a problem with that. In fact, the extra weight suggested some experience in life and maturity beyond what I could find in the college girls. 

The problem was their femininity had eloped with their youth. All that what was left was someone who thought it was attractive enough to wear extra perfume to cover up the stale smell of age and idle living. Some would come off the beach squeezed into those skirted old lady swimsuits &#8211; most often too small and last worn on the cruise they took a few years back.

A lot of the college girls could be described as matronly, too. And they flaunted it. Fat chicks in bikinis were a joke in my college days, now they were common &#8211; and appeared just as confident as the hardbodies. Now instead of my money, they liked my tan and my laugh lines. I looked youthful to them and represented the freedom they came seeking at Bonefish. They flirted. I flirted back. 

Attractive as I thought some of them were, I never allowed anything to come of it. Not even for the one that wouldn’t take no for an answer. As I was finishing the cleanup around three one morning, she came in almost swaggering with a sureness I’d never seen in someone her age &#8211; or size. I’d say she was 25, though I never found out her age or her name. 

She was a tall girl and every bit of 200 pounds. Her blue eyes burned with intensity and purpose. A snug bikini accentuated every curve of her body. It was the first time I thought a girl her size was attractive &#8211; stunning even. I could tell by the rise and fall of her ample chest that she was ready to take me. Pressing against me, she held my face in both hands and kissed me full on the lips. She knew what she was doing. 

“You liked that,” she whispered, as she felt my hardness against her. I could only respond by kissing her back and then pulling away. I didn’t want a girl any more. If I wanted anyone, she would have to be a woman. I enjoyed her, though. She tasted like margaritas, and I enjoyed the weight and softness of her as she pinned me against the wall. This was a revelation to me. But it was not to be &#8211; at least not for her.

Spring break became summer. The summer brought sultry heat that lasted day and night. Fortunately, the evening breezes made for pleasant nightly walks on the beach. It became my habit to grab a cold Red Stripe and walk and think and sit until I felt I could sleep. I’d drag myself back to the Airstream, collapse into bed and wake with the heat. 

The tourist season was ending and the beach was quiet at night again. The drunks and the skinny dippers were going home, and I had the beach pretty much to myself. One particularly late night while working on my third Red Stripe I spied a woman walking away from me. I couldn’t believe I’d missed her; I must have been in deep thought. She stopped about 100 yards away and stared at the waves. The moon illuminated her in an ethereal way.

I could almost see through the gauzy sarong that barely fit around her middle. Her bare midriff suggested a bikini, which surprised me given her size. I’ve known guys that were good at guessing women’s weights. I’m not one of them. She looked to be a little over 300 and a little over five feet tall to me. She had one of those heart-shaped rear ends that all us men love, only it was triple the size of what most men desired. When the breeze kicked up, it revealed thick thighs that dimpled at the knees. In the low light it looked she had blonde hair and a pretty face that was probably a little more than 30. 

She walked over to me. Not an easy thing to do for woman her size to do in wet sand. “If you’re going to undress me with your eyes, you could at least tell me your name.” 

Sheepishly, I said, “Sorry, I didn’t know I was staring.” 

“I’m Jake,” I said, as I struggled to my feet. 

She held out her hand, “Liz.” 

She had a confident handshake and placid blue eyes. She looked right into mine and wouldn’t let go. We stood there holding each others’ hands for what seemed forever.

“What brings you to my beach?” I asked.

She cocked an eyebrow and replied, “Your beach?” 

“I like to think of it as my beach. I live in that Airstream up the way.” 

“Nice place,” she said sardonically.

“It’s not much, but it’s not much to take care of, either. It’s enough for me. But back to you. I believe there’s a question on the floor.”

“Bad job, bad breakup, tired of New York,” she answered distantly. I told her my story was about the same, and we talked for the next hour. She was a banking refugee like me and had been there about three weeks. She would leave day after tomorrow. Finally feeling sleep coming on, I excused myself and asked if she’d like to have dinner tomorrow night at Tommy’s. She accepted. 

It was a slow night, except for a couple of drunk lawyers. From the kitchen I saw Liz come in. She came in after her last day on the beach wearing the bikini and sarong from the night before. I liked the way her body bounced and jiggled. She smiled expectantly and looked around for me at one of the tables. She sighed with a look of disappointment when she didn’t find me and turned to leave. I rushed out. “Liz. I’m glad you came.”

“Bit of a magician are you? You just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Oh…it slipped my mind to mention I’m the cook here. I came from back in the kitchen.” 

She looked away with disappointment in her eyes. I couldn’t tell if she was expecting someone of a higher station or if she just thought it wasn’t going to be much of a date. I assured her that Tommy’s was as busy as it was going to get and that we’d have plenty of time together once I brought dinner out. 

We had filets from a grouper one of the locals caught. I served it to her with a mango salsa, some rice and a Red Stripe. Liz ate with gusto, clearly savoring every bite. When I offered seconds she exclaimed, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

I’d never seen a woman eat so much. I’d never found it so appealing, either. We finished with a key lime pie, which she relished. She moaned delightedly after her third slice. I could tell food was an experience for her. 

“That was delicious!” she said, “Where’d you learn to cook like that?” 

“I was cook in a former life. Why don’t we go for a walk, and I’ll tell you all about it?”

I told her about the career I left in New York and Miami and how I cooked my way through b-school. Turns out she worked for the remnants of the bank I used to. We talked for hours and shared intimate details as if we’d known each other a long time. Being with her felt natural. As we talked, I had the chance to take her all in. She leaned back on the sand her hands with her knees up, her hair moving gently in the breeze. Her blue eyes sparkled in the moonlight. She didn’t have a particularly large belly, but it rippled when she laughed. I found I liked that, too. She was mostly bottom heavy and spread out wide on the beach under her. In my reverie I thought everything about her was beautiful. 

There was a pause between us, like the ones in the movies before two people kiss. I broke the silence with a quip, “I’d ask &#8216;your place or mine’ but the Airstream’s a little cramped for one.”

“How bout mine, then?” she asked, but seriously.

I stammered, “I didn’t mean to suggest…uh, be so forward, I mean.”

“I did,” she whispered as she stood up and reached for my hand. Liz wrapped her arm around my waist and we walked in silence to her hotel. It was one of those high rises that I thought ruined the look of the beach. They were springing up everywhere. We rode the elevator up to her 10th floor suite, overlooking the ocean. She opened the door out to the balcony and let a cool breeze wash over the room. Even up here I could hear the lapping of the surf.

Then she uttered the classic, “Wait here while I slip into something more comfortable.” 

We both giggled at the old cliché. I heard the shower run, and ten minutes later she emerged in a thick white robe, toweling off her blonde tresses. A few drops of water ran down between her ample cleavage. 

“I’m famished. How bout you?” she asked almost lustily. 

After the dinner she ate, I was little taken aback, but intrigued nonetheless. “No thanks, but help yourself.”

Liz rang up room service, “Yes this is room 1012. I’d like to order the lobster pasta with the sherry cream sauce, the strawberries and cheese platter with champagne, and two banana cream pies.” 

I just had to say, “That’s a lot for one.”

“I’m a lot of woman. Or haven’t you noticed?” She had me pegged for someone who liked this sort of thing. Funny, she knew it before I did.

“Hard to miss,” I chuckled, “But most women fear eating in front of men, much less all that.”

“It’s not something I talk about really. A distant boyfriend and I experimented with it for awhile. Turns out I liked the weight gain more than I liked him. So I got rid of him and kept the habits.”

I looked at her quizzically and asked, “I hear there’s even more pressure from government and media in the states to be fit. So what’s the appeal for you? Anything beyond fetish or does it reflect some unconscious pining for lost love?”

An annoyed look came across Liz’ face and disappeared. She could tell I wasn’t judging &#8211; that I was just trying to know her. She cracked open a lobster claw, expertly drew out the whole succulent flesh and swirled it in the lush cream sauce. Seeing it pass between her full lips, sauce dripping slowly down her chin gave me an unfamiliar jolt, which I didn’t recognize as something sexual. 

She paused thoughtfully, wanting to get the words just right, swallowed and replied, “I was the typical &#8216;food is fuel’ type. It was broiled this or steamed that, workout at midday, protein shake for lunch, eight more hours at the desk, something light or non-existent for dinner.” 

She paused for the other lobster claw. As she chewed, she did so much more than savor. There was a look of near-ecstasy on her face as she stared distantly at the ocean. The jolt was back, only this time there was no mistaking the feeling as I felt that familiar firmness below my waist. 

I asked, “Food takes you to another place doesn’t it?”

Liz smiled peacefully, “It’s so much more than that, though the next time I have lobster I’ll think of this time and this place right here with you. My life was one of total discipline and restriction. All the self-help guys say that’s what you have to do to succeed. And you have to do it twice as hard if you’re a woman.” 

She sucked the last piece of pasta through her lips as though she were kissing someone. Then, not even bothering with the niceties of slicing a piece, took a fork and dove into the banana cream pie. She continued, “I can’t say much nice about Ben now. So no, it’s not longing for a lost love. He did teach me to let go, though. I’ve discovered that success doesn’t mean being &#8216;on’ all the time. I had one of those butch business cuts and let my hair grow long. We started slow, by taking off earlier and going out for nice dinners with a little dessert. Then I cut back on the workouts and finally just dropped them altogether. Some extra weight crept on around my hips and chest &#8211; the six pack I had began to disappear.”

I listened intently, and my erection intensified. She took notice and sensuously licked the pie from her lips, then took a sip of the wine. “Ben’s attention grew stronger and more frequent. I liked it. I also liked the new freedom. I wasn’t so worried about what other people thought of me. All that mattered was my growing enjoyment of food and of my growing body. It was a complete rejection of the limits I had let society and corporate life put on me.” 

Liz tossed the pie plate aside and started on the second. I got a thrill from this, too. I baked the pies for the hotel every morning for a little extra spending cash. It felt almost as if I was the one setting her free now. She went on, “Before long I was sneaking out of the office for long lunches at Ben’s apartment. He started feeding me in bed, and we’d make love between courses. I felt loved and cared for and adored, and I couldn’t get enough.” 

In a near instant, her second pie was half-eaten. Her pace only seemed to quicken. “I’d gained over 80 pounds in less than a year. To celebrate going over 200 I showed up at his door for lunch with nothing but a trench coat and a business suit I used to wear when I was 110. It drove him mad with desire, but I made him feed me before he I let him touch me. The vest barely covered my breasts; it popped open all over the place, and the little glimpses of flesh here and there drove him crazy.” 

She paused to make sure she finished every last bit of custard.

I was going crazy just playing out the scene in my mind’s eye. This was all totally new and unexpected. We used to make fun of women like Liz back in the day. Now for me that day was gone and gone for good. I hung on her every word and wanted to know more. I could tell she still had a fondness for these memories and wished she could have it again.

She tore her gaze from the ocean and looked right into my eyes. She knew she had me. “The lust in him was building. He couldn’t keep his eyes off my belly, which bulged between my top and my skirt. When he brought dessert he forced me up on the table, and we had each other right there.” 

I stared into her eyes, almost lost in time. It didn’t matter that she was speaking of another man. I knew soon this would be me, and so did she.

She finished her story, “But it wasn’t just the attention of a man that drew me in. At my desk, I’d absently find my hand slipped into the waistline of my pants, fondling my growing fat roll or some new dimple. Once it stopped a co-worker dead in tracks. He was a real jock type, not the one I’d expect. I didn’t know how long he was there, but he was totally taken in by the charge I got out of just massaging my fat. I always knew I was attractive, but now I felt beautiful &#8211; beautiful and free. Then one day I decided to surprise Ben at lunch, only to find in him bed with another woman. There was food all over the bedroom, and she was enormous, at least 400 if not 500. Ben kept on feeding her as if he expected me to just jump in with them. He showed no remorse, not even when I ran out crying &#8211; for as fast as I could run now, pushing 230. That was it. We never spoke again…” 

She trailed off.

I could tell she still felt the pain and betrayal. Some women get traded for a younger model. Liz got traded for a fatter model. 

“So what then?” I wondered aloud.

“I started out by purging Ben and everything about him. It was back to the gym and the strict diet, but the harder I resisted temptation the more I gave in. I would lose 20 and gain 30. My determination to separate completely from him was overcome by my intense desire to be the new me. I craved the emancipation of eating, and before long, eat I did. Each time I had to shop for new clothes I felt more beautiful. I’d stare in the fitting room mirror and caress each new fold and each new emerging roll. I found men were attracted to this confidence. Nothing really came of any of the flings I had, but they were fun and affirming.”

I moved around the table and wrapped my arm around her. I looked her deeply in the eyes and said, “And so here we are.”

“Yes. Here we are,” she said softly, drawing closer to me. She took my hand and placed it on her belly, which was firm with fullness. I massaged her a little. 

“How does that feel?” she asked.

“It’s an unexpected pleasure.”

“Unexpected? But you’ve been hard for the last half hour.”

“I know. I usually prefer a more athletic body type &#8211; closer to what you were than what you are now. But I find myself hopelessly attracted to you.”

“I like you, too. You have the weathered look of a man who belongs here at Bonefish Cay. I like how taut you are and that you smell like freedom and the ocean.” She took my hand from her belly, placed a strawberry in it and drew it to her mouth. The juice ran down her cheek, and I took another and placed it between her lips. 

She sighed, sipped some champagne and led me over to the bed. “Don’t forget the strawberries, especially not the ones covered in that dark chocolate.” 

I complied.

She lost the robe, and I my shorts and t-shirt. I explored her body. It was thrilling to touch her and to know that there was still much more to caress. I held one of the juicy berries in my teeth, and we kissed as she took it. Food as sex was new to me, and it was thrilling. With the next kiss I entered her. She rolled over to be on top. She sat up and had to lift her belly to get comfortable. That drove me wild. So did seeing every part of her jiggle and quiver. We climaxed together, and then she collapsed on top of me. She enveloped me, and I savored the sensation. I relished the feeling of her weight, her bigness, covering me. We laid like this for some time, and fell asleep, me still inside her. I awoke to her vigorous motion. I lost count of how many times we did this until we collapsed, exhausted into a deep sleep.

The next morning I awoke to find Liz gone. She’d left her sarong and this note: 

Dear Jake, I had to catch a plane back to New York. I would love to spend more time with you, but work calls me back. It always does. I enjoyed last night, and I hope you did, too. 

Being with you was the renewal I was looking for. I feel more like a woman and less like a banker drone again. I envy the freedom you’ve found. One day I hope to be so liberated. Until then, I won’t forget you. I hope you won’t me. 

Affectionately, Liz.

For I moment, I felt abandoned. But then it was just one night &#8211; one night I’d hold fondly for a long time to come. I decided not to let this get me down. I still had my Jimmy Buffet life, a little coin and a whole lotta freedom. Still, I ached.

The ache passed with the weeks and months. And the memory of Liz, as memories do, faded into time. I was left with only fond feelings. After a couple of years it was a struggle to remember what she even looked like. I gave in to the matronly lawyers’ wives that came in. Some of them even liked food play. 

I knew it was wrong, but I craved the feeling of a fat woman again. But none of them were Liz, and I finally realized that being with them wouldn’t help me reconnect with her. I thought of trying to find her in New York, but I couldn’t bear the thought of going back there again. 

So I worked and cooked and baked even more for the local hotels. I saved enough to sell off the Airstream and build a small cottage in its place. I liked the space and put in a big kitchen so I wouldn’t have to use Tommy’s for my side work. Eventually I lost track of the days of the week again and drifted along with island time. 

One night, I didn’t know how long into the future, a familiar face darkened the door at Tommy’s. I really couldn’t make her out, though someone pushed forward from the recesses of my memory. I thought it might be Liz, but denied it. She had her thick blonde hair, but weighed every bit of 400 pounds, if not more. 

She owned the place &#8211; every eye, man and woman, was on her. Even though she waddled more than walked, everyone was transfixed by the grace and confidence with which she moved. She was beautiful and she knew it. Then I knew it was her.

She had on the familiar sarong, only now she had to tie two of them together at the corners. She still wore a bikini with that same swagger I remembered. My eyes met her blue ones when she took off her sunglasses. She lifted herself onto a barstool with no small effort and asked, “Know of anyone with a place to let?”

I smiled a wry smile and said, “Space isn’t easy to find around here any more, but I think I know someone.” 

Tommy gave me the rest of the day off, so I told her I’d take her to see the owner. We chatted casually as if we were meeting for the first time. It was a fun game.

We went over the dunes, and seeing the cottage she said, “Nice place.”

“Yeah, I know the owner. A little set in the ways, but there’s extra room for someone who doesn’t mind sharing it with a stubborn beach bum.”

She giggled knowingly, “I’d like to meet her.”

“Him,” I chuckled, “And you have.” 

With that she threw her soft arms around my neck and kissed me deeply. It felt fantastic to have her near me again. I couldn’t wait to get her clothes off and explore her new curves.

We went in and spent a few hours catching up. She told me she fully gave in to feeding after meeting me. She knew it was right for her, but had done it alone for the last four and a half years. So that was how long it had been. Banking and New York were taking her soul, she felt, and she had to get out. She sold everything and took a chance on my still being here and being unattached. We were both happy she was here.

“How &#8216;bout some dinner?” she teased, “I’m starving. By the way, I like what you’ve done with the structure.”

“I could say the same,” I came back.

“Well it goes a lot faster with someone’s help. I’ve only gained 100 pounds since we first met.”

“They look good, though. They all landed in the right places.” That was an understatement. Even at this size, she still had that heart-shaped ass. Her belly was half to her knees when she sat. 

“About that meal. Talking isn’t making me less hungry you know.” We both laughed, and I reached over and kissed her again.

Just like that first night together we shared lobster in sherry cream sauce, banana cream pies and berries and cheese. She licked some banana custard from my lips and coyly asked, “That was divine. What follows the appetizer?” 

“Growing girl, growing appetite, huh?”

She took me by the hand and led me to the bed with an extra pie we found in the fridge. “Just try and keep up, OK, pal?”

Two years later, life is bliss. Liz weighs over 600 contented pounds. We start the day with her favorite breakfast, piles of Belgian waffles, overflowing with whipped cream or mounds of scrambled eggs and the local bacon. Lunch pretty well starts after we wash the dishes and lasts until dinner. Dinner lasts until she just gives out. 

Liz helps out in the kitchen when she can restrain herself. It’s OK when she doesn’t, though. Our life isn’t about restraint. She eats with passion and abandon. We walk on the beach at night and make love where we feel like it. We swim naked in the ocean then lie on the beach and stare at the stars until we fall asleep. All the heads still turn when she walks into Tommy’s. She’s the most beautiful woman on the island, and the locals all tell her so. But all that matters is when I tell her. She’s mine. I’m hers. The changes in latitude suit us.


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## Observer (Mar 18, 2009)

Bump after edit


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## atcAlan (Mar 18, 2009)

Great Story!!


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## idtentional (Mar 18, 2009)

You, sir, have written a terrific story - very well written, believable and erotic.
bravo
id


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## lifelongpassion (Mar 19, 2009)

Good story! Thanks!


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## agouderia (Mar 19, 2009)

Totally different, really fun, but realistic take on the financial crisis! Really enjoyed it - more please!


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## Lardibutts (Mar 20, 2009)

> Good story! Thanks!





> Totally different, really fun, but realistic take on the financial crisis! Really enjoyed it - more please!



Very much agree with both those comments. It is beautifully written too in that attractive "been there, seen it all, done it all" Johnny Cash manner. 

Nice to have something looking into an SSBW future so positively from today's straightened times.


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## fatgirl33 (Mar 20, 2009)

I loved this story, as well. Very well written, very beautiful. Actually, if it was longer I might have mistaken it for a published romance novel of very high quality.

Thanks!
Brenda


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## Coop (Mar 20, 2009)

Wait. What? Isn't this same exact story posted? Why am I seeing two topics?

Good story BTW


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## Observer (Mar 20, 2009)

Coop, your observation was correct. The author posted the story twice on successive days. I merged the threads and deleted the second post - as far I I could tell they were essentially identical.


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## grae0001 (Mar 21, 2009)

and i like it too!


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## runningman (Mar 22, 2009)

Excellent. A good read.


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## ThinkingFA (Mar 23, 2009)

I first posted this story on another board and realized it was the wrong one, so I posted on this board within 24 hours. First time poster - please forgive. Thanks for all the nice comments. I'm glad you liked the story.


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## Mr. Jigglesworth (Apr 26, 2020)

Great story, love how comes to the realization that though he's chased skinny minis all his life he finds himself attracted to her at over 300, he likes her appetite, he liked that she was feed, then he continued with the feeding to present and the whole time she knew she was beautifull


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