Jerry Thomas
Well-Known Member
(SSBHM, Romance, Fantasy)
Vacation, at last! I glanced out the window of the Airbus as it touched down on the runway in Gran Canaria. One look at the rows of palm trees and the variety of tropical plants growing just beyond the airport fence and I knew immediately that I was on Spanish territory. The whitewashed stucco houses with their red and orange tiled roofs under a cloudless blue sky filled me with a sense of bliss. I was already shaking off the oppressive feeling that weighed down my soul after weeks of chilly rain in the more northerly climate that I was accustomed to. From my window seat inside the air conditioned cabin, I imagined I could feel the hot Spanish sun on my sun-deprived skin.
The pilot made a brief announcement in three languages as we approached the gate. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Las Palmas, where it is currently 32 degrees Celsius under sunny skies. The local time is 15:25. Thank you for flying Brussels Airlines and have an enjoyable stay.”
I did a quick calculation in my head and realized that I would soon be stepping out into 90 degree weather. I intended to have a VERY enjoyable stay indeed, with plenty of sun, surf, and, if my idea of a perfect vacation worked out as I hoped, a healthy helping of sex besides.
Even though I only had one drink on the way down from Belgium, my recollection of what followed is still a bit hazy. I remember getting up from my seat, struggling to pull the bulky carry-on out of the overhead bin, saying good-bye to an attractive flight attendant standing at the cabin door, and then following my fellow passengers up the ramp and out into the terminal to baggage claim. I stood at the edge of the carousel and spotted my powder blue hardback suitcase with a pink ribbon tied to the handle as it circled towards me. I waited in line at passport control, headed past the “Nothing to Declare” counter, and departed the airport without further ado. I searched for my hotel shuttle and next thing I knew I was comfortably established in my hotel room – con vista al mar, of course!
I was overly fascinated by a small vase of flowers on the coffee table and I vaguely remember picking up a multilingual tourist magazine and paging through the glossy photographs of laughing young couples cavorting on a white sand beach. I glanced out the sliding glass doors to the balcony and was astonished to see that it was already dark. Suddenly feeling exhausted from the excitement of my trip, I quickly undressed and crawled naked into bed.
I must have slept soundly because my next memory was that of the morning sun shining warm and bright through the window. I sat up, stretched, went to the bathroom to shower, and put on a cute little tank top and a pair of white short-shorts. I smiled at myself in the full-length mirror mounted by the door, pleased by my slim figure, and headed down for breakfast. I honestly can’t recall what I ate, but next thing I knew I was standing outside in the sun, which was warm, but not yet hot. Glancing at the colorful Swatch I had purchased in the duty-free shop, I was surprised to see that it was already almost noon. I seemed to be missing chunks of time that I could not account for.
I walked along the broad Paseo las Canteras that parallels the beach, still trying to rid myself of a kind of brain fog that puzzled me. But I felt good, otherwise. I felt happy in my body and the other passers-by were turning their heads and giving me looks as I pranced along, my hips swaying slightly and the shorts just barely covering my butt cheeks.
I looked down the Paseo and it was then that I spotted him. He was sitting on one of the stone benches that line the promenade. I put on my pair of sunglasses, thinking that this would accent my coolness and perhaps hide the excitement on my face as I made my approach. Even at this distance it was obvious that he was a juicy fat pig.
I walked ahead slowly, savoring every moment as his physical details became more and more clear. He was wearing a bright blue t-shirt, one or two sizes too small, so that it rode up and revealed a thick, soft layer of squeezable fat around his waist. I could see roll upon roll of love handles encircling his body, like the Michelin man in my Guide Vert. His full bountiful breasts would have made many a less well-endowed woman envious. The material of his short sleeves was stretched to the max and cut into his fleshy upper arms. And on top of it all, like the icing on a cake, he had an adorable boyish face with rosy chubby cheeks, chins that hid any semblance of a neck, sensuous kissable lips, and a head of blond, unruly hair that made him look a little like a bloated version of Boris Johnson.
I approached him, wondering what I could say without making my interest seem too obvious. I merely sat down next to him on the bench. Surprisingly, instead of moving away or giving me a strange look, he turned towards me with a wide happy smile, as if he had expected me all along.
He extended a hand with thick fingers that looked like sausages. “Hello, I’m Tony,” he said in New York-tinted English. “I knew you would come. After my friend left me, I just knew you would come instead.”
I’m usually not at a loss for words, and I have no problem hitting on a total stranger, but this time I was almost speechless. “I’m here in Las Palmas on vacation from Brussels,” I stammered. “But actually I’m a native of Chicago, when I’m not working on a project in Europe.” I was so flustered I forgot to tell him my name.
“Chicago’s a great town,” he replied. “I just love their deep dish Chicago-style pizza.”
It’s obvious you do, I thought. Then, gradually recovering my customary self-confidence, I asked, “It’s almost time for lunch. Would you like to go somewhere and have a pizza or something?”
He rubbed his fat belly in the affirmative. “I was just thinking the same thing. There are more places here than you can count. You pick.”
He stood up heavily and I had another chance to look him over from close up. He was wearing light gray sweatpants underneath his overflowing belly apron, roughly cut off above the knees to create a makeshift pair of shorts. One thigh alone probably weighed as much as me altogether. He wasn’t wearing shoes or socks, instead his large feet were shoved into a pair of red, white, and blue plastic beach sandals. He was fairly short, maybe only a few inches taller than me, but given his size I estimated that he had to weigh 400 pounds, at least. He was more spherical than anything.
“Come along, Butterball,” I teased, as we took a few steps together along the Paseo. He didn’t seem offended, but instead smiled his happy smile again.
“You like fat guys, don’t you,” he stated, and I was slightly taken aback by his openness and honesty. “My partner thought I was getting too fat, that’s why we broke up, but I knew somebody like you would come along, eventually.”
He sort of wobbled as he lumbered along, his oversized thighs rubbing and getting in the way of each other. The fat of his side boobs pushed his arms out on either side, making him even wider and creating a traffic obstacle for the other pedestrians.
“You sure are big,” I said by way of a compliment.
“I’m glad you noticed! I must weigh three or four times more than you. But you see, it’s because I have a medical problem. In my earlier years I started to develop an almost uncontrollable appetite. Nobody really knows why. I just can’t resist food and I’m so hungry all the time that I have to eat several meals a day, every few hours or so. I even get up to snack a few times during the night. It’s kind of a curse, but I’ve learned to live with it and make the most of my life as it is.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I said, and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
Dream Vacation
By Jerry Thomas
By Jerry Thomas
Vacation, at last! I glanced out the window of the Airbus as it touched down on the runway in Gran Canaria. One look at the rows of palm trees and the variety of tropical plants growing just beyond the airport fence and I knew immediately that I was on Spanish territory. The whitewashed stucco houses with their red and orange tiled roofs under a cloudless blue sky filled me with a sense of bliss. I was already shaking off the oppressive feeling that weighed down my soul after weeks of chilly rain in the more northerly climate that I was accustomed to. From my window seat inside the air conditioned cabin, I imagined I could feel the hot Spanish sun on my sun-deprived skin.
The pilot made a brief announcement in three languages as we approached the gate. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Las Palmas, where it is currently 32 degrees Celsius under sunny skies. The local time is 15:25. Thank you for flying Brussels Airlines and have an enjoyable stay.”
I did a quick calculation in my head and realized that I would soon be stepping out into 90 degree weather. I intended to have a VERY enjoyable stay indeed, with plenty of sun, surf, and, if my idea of a perfect vacation worked out as I hoped, a healthy helping of sex besides.
Even though I only had one drink on the way down from Belgium, my recollection of what followed is still a bit hazy. I remember getting up from my seat, struggling to pull the bulky carry-on out of the overhead bin, saying good-bye to an attractive flight attendant standing at the cabin door, and then following my fellow passengers up the ramp and out into the terminal to baggage claim. I stood at the edge of the carousel and spotted my powder blue hardback suitcase with a pink ribbon tied to the handle as it circled towards me. I waited in line at passport control, headed past the “Nothing to Declare” counter, and departed the airport without further ado. I searched for my hotel shuttle and next thing I knew I was comfortably established in my hotel room – con vista al mar, of course!
I was overly fascinated by a small vase of flowers on the coffee table and I vaguely remember picking up a multilingual tourist magazine and paging through the glossy photographs of laughing young couples cavorting on a white sand beach. I glanced out the sliding glass doors to the balcony and was astonished to see that it was already dark. Suddenly feeling exhausted from the excitement of my trip, I quickly undressed and crawled naked into bed.
I must have slept soundly because my next memory was that of the morning sun shining warm and bright through the window. I sat up, stretched, went to the bathroom to shower, and put on a cute little tank top and a pair of white short-shorts. I smiled at myself in the full-length mirror mounted by the door, pleased by my slim figure, and headed down for breakfast. I honestly can’t recall what I ate, but next thing I knew I was standing outside in the sun, which was warm, but not yet hot. Glancing at the colorful Swatch I had purchased in the duty-free shop, I was surprised to see that it was already almost noon. I seemed to be missing chunks of time that I could not account for.
I walked along the broad Paseo las Canteras that parallels the beach, still trying to rid myself of a kind of brain fog that puzzled me. But I felt good, otherwise. I felt happy in my body and the other passers-by were turning their heads and giving me looks as I pranced along, my hips swaying slightly and the shorts just barely covering my butt cheeks.
I looked down the Paseo and it was then that I spotted him. He was sitting on one of the stone benches that line the promenade. I put on my pair of sunglasses, thinking that this would accent my coolness and perhaps hide the excitement on my face as I made my approach. Even at this distance it was obvious that he was a juicy fat pig.
I walked ahead slowly, savoring every moment as his physical details became more and more clear. He was wearing a bright blue t-shirt, one or two sizes too small, so that it rode up and revealed a thick, soft layer of squeezable fat around his waist. I could see roll upon roll of love handles encircling his body, like the Michelin man in my Guide Vert. His full bountiful breasts would have made many a less well-endowed woman envious. The material of his short sleeves was stretched to the max and cut into his fleshy upper arms. And on top of it all, like the icing on a cake, he had an adorable boyish face with rosy chubby cheeks, chins that hid any semblance of a neck, sensuous kissable lips, and a head of blond, unruly hair that made him look a little like a bloated version of Boris Johnson.
I approached him, wondering what I could say without making my interest seem too obvious. I merely sat down next to him on the bench. Surprisingly, instead of moving away or giving me a strange look, he turned towards me with a wide happy smile, as if he had expected me all along.
He extended a hand with thick fingers that looked like sausages. “Hello, I’m Tony,” he said in New York-tinted English. “I knew you would come. After my friend left me, I just knew you would come instead.”
I’m usually not at a loss for words, and I have no problem hitting on a total stranger, but this time I was almost speechless. “I’m here in Las Palmas on vacation from Brussels,” I stammered. “But actually I’m a native of Chicago, when I’m not working on a project in Europe.” I was so flustered I forgot to tell him my name.
“Chicago’s a great town,” he replied. “I just love their deep dish Chicago-style pizza.”
It’s obvious you do, I thought. Then, gradually recovering my customary self-confidence, I asked, “It’s almost time for lunch. Would you like to go somewhere and have a pizza or something?”
He rubbed his fat belly in the affirmative. “I was just thinking the same thing. There are more places here than you can count. You pick.”
He stood up heavily and I had another chance to look him over from close up. He was wearing light gray sweatpants underneath his overflowing belly apron, roughly cut off above the knees to create a makeshift pair of shorts. One thigh alone probably weighed as much as me altogether. He wasn’t wearing shoes or socks, instead his large feet were shoved into a pair of red, white, and blue plastic beach sandals. He was fairly short, maybe only a few inches taller than me, but given his size I estimated that he had to weigh 400 pounds, at least. He was more spherical than anything.
“Come along, Butterball,” I teased, as we took a few steps together along the Paseo. He didn’t seem offended, but instead smiled his happy smile again.
“You like fat guys, don’t you,” he stated, and I was slightly taken aback by his openness and honesty. “My partner thought I was getting too fat, that’s why we broke up, but I knew somebody like you would come along, eventually.”
He sort of wobbled as he lumbered along, his oversized thighs rubbing and getting in the way of each other. The fat of his side boobs pushed his arms out on either side, making him even wider and creating a traffic obstacle for the other pedestrians.
“You sure are big,” I said by way of a compliment.
“I’m glad you noticed! I must weigh three or four times more than you. But you see, it’s because I have a medical problem. In my earlier years I started to develop an almost uncontrollable appetite. Nobody really knows why. I just can’t resist food and I’m so hungry all the time that I have to eat several meals a day, every few hours or so. I even get up to snack a few times during the night. It’s kind of a curse, but I’ve learned to live with it and make the most of my life as it is.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I said, and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
