WG Story Drone
Well-Known Member
BBW, Relationship ~Sex - A young man's sexual awakening at the hands of a sultry BBW.
(Author's Note: This story is true except for Carol's last name.)
My love for big, beautiful women goes back to the summer after graduating high school. As a child, I was small and slight for my age and ill-suited for a world where boys defined themselves largely through sports. I was always the last one picked when the class divided into two teams. Despite growing up without much self-confidence, I spent a happy childhood playing with a large gang of friends, which included boys and girls.
Puberty for me came exceptionally late. Whern it did, post-highschool, I confronted another new world where I was now intensely interested in "girls" yet more afraid than ever to do anything about it. My complete lack of experience was paralyzing.
In other areas of my life, especially career plans, I was mature and directed. Encouraged by my father, I had long planned a career in medicine. My father helped me get a volunteer job in the research wing of a large hospital when I was seventeen. I spent two summers working in a tissue cell lab where I helped the lab technician grow cells for research projects in little covered glass dishes known as Petri dishes. These were kept in the "sterile room," a tiny room at the back of the lab, which was off limits to everyone except us to protect the experiments from contamination.
The woman who ran the tissue cell lab was Carol Bellano, a twenty-five year-old, single, Italian-American woman. Her job was quite routine and mine was even more so as her assistant. Every day, I helped her wash glassware in the sink and sterilize more glassware and instruments in the autoclave (a steam-pressure machine used to sterilize Petri dishes and the like). I also helped her set up experiments, measure out powders on sensitive scales, and "feed" the cells in the Petri dishes with solutions carefully dripped from pipettes.
Carol was a warm, vivacious, intensely playful woman who loved to talk and joke. A splash of life and color in a drab scientific environment, Carol's laughter frequently echoed down the long corridor of labs where stiff, middle-aged men solemnly carried out their important research.
It didn't take long for Carol and I to become fast friends since we spent seven hours a day talking to each other as we worked. I loved having someone to show off to and the fact that I had her full and undivided attention. Not a day passed without me acting up to get her to laugh. It was the closest thing I could do to flirt.
For years, I had imagined that making a woman laugh was somehow linked to winning her heart. In one of favorite tricks for Carol, I donned a white lab coat and did imitations of some of the doctors on our floor until she practically screamed with laughter. My other trick was to stand on the doorknobs of the door to her lab and swing back and forth, beating my chest while she cried, "Bomba the jungle boy!"
Within two or three few weeks, Carol and I were comfortable talking about everything. As I soon found out, her favorite topic was sex. Since she wasn't dating anyone and often said she was too big to be attractive to most men, her main outlet was sexual fantasy, stories, dirty jokes, and teasing. Since I was cooped up with her in a small lab for forty hours a week, I became the happy audience for her constant sexual conversation. And all I had to do for the most part was listen.
Carol told me early on how she was still a virgin, having been raised a "good Catholic girl." Invariably, she mentioned her virginity only as a prelude to a longer discussion of how sensual she was, how she thought big women were the most sensual of all in bed, how she had a collection of sheer nighties at home which she liked to wear, and how she couldn't wait to get married when all of her pent-up desires would be released. Her future husband, she promised, would spend much of his free time in bed.
The more she talked, the more hot and bothered I got. Since all of this talk was about Carol or the delights which her future husband would enjoy, I was safely excluded from this feminine desire yet given a front row seat. For the first time in my life, I could enjoy the company of a secret object of desire without having to do anything.
The more we talked, the more comfortable I became with her erotically-charged conversation. It wasn't long before she began directing teasing remarks at me or asking my opinion on these matters.
By the second month of the first three-month summer, Carol was even telling me in some detail about her experiences with men and how close she had come to losing her virginity with her only serious boyfriend. When she told me she had allowed him to "climax" her with his hand, I remember my heart began to pound.
Until I met Carol, I had never heard anyone use that word in conversation. But as I quickly found out, it was one of her favorite words. I found it particularly exciting hen she used it as a verb, as in her accounts of how her boyfriend "climaxed" her. I went through this image over and over, especially as I lay in bed at night, free to let my imagination wander. Needless to say, I was always the one who was climaxing Carol with my hand even though I didn't have the faintest idea how that was done.
In my young eyes, Carol was more than desirable. She was a big, beautiful goddess, a kind of Gina Lollabrigida, only bigger and more beautiful. She was about five feet five and, perhaps, 180 pounds. Because most of her weight was distributed to her hips, bottom, and especially her bosom, she exuded a boundless femininity at all times to my rapt eyes. As she moved about the lab, in close proximity, she gave off an undulating, ripe, feminine fullness, which made every step a spectacle.
There were also sounds and smells, which I found intoxicating. Whenever she walked, I heard her pantyhose swishing back under her white lab dress and had a kind of aural image of her upper thighs. While these were invisible, the sound of her upper thighs rubbing against each other with each step gave this hidden area a vivid presence in my imagination. It was as if I could see in a certain way into the hidden, mysterious zone of her upper thighs and especially into the area between them where they rubbed together to make that silky noise.
Carol also wore lots of perfume, which filled the small room and made her seem even closer. When she worked next to me, I could smell other wonderful scents, the shampoo she had used, the soap, the skin lotion she kept in her desk, and other unidentifiable feminine smells. By the middle of the first summer, I'm sure Carol realized she had a very captive audience in her new assistant.
In retrospect, I can see why sex came up so much in conversations. It was heavy on the brain for both of us. And each was a non-threatening audience for the other. She was a frustrated, twenty-five year old virgin eager able to express her sexuality primarily through talking. And since I was young enough to pose no threat but old enough to be very interested, she was even freer to be frank and playful and teasing. As a completely inexperienced, sexually preoccupied teenager, I was very eager to talk about sex, or at least, to listen while an older, experienced woman did most of the talking.
Carol was the perfect Venus for me. I could desire and enjoy her presence all day long without having to do anything myself. I suppose we were the ideal match.
Carol always wore a severe, white, lab uniform, which came down to her knees and buttoned up below her neck. The only good thing was the tight fit. She always looked like she was about to burst out of it. And when she sat down and crossed her legs, her uniform rode halfway up, exposing her luscious, heavy thighs. It was impossible not to look at them when she sat down and crossed her legs since this action produced a broad expanse of panty-hosed thighs right in front of me.
By the second month, Carol had begun teasing me by sitting down nearby and letting her uniform ride up, checking to see if I could control my eyes. If I didn't look, she teased me for obviously wanting to. If I did, I got teased for that instead.
It didn't take long before I was looking a lot, especially when I thought she wouldn't notice. Most of the time, I got away with it, or at least, I thought I did. When she caught me, she often scolded me for being a "naughty scamp" or something else like that. In the first few months, I blushed every time she caught me and swore to myself I wouldn't stare so much.
Of course, all such resolutions were impossible since I stated at her, on and off, all day long, five days a week. In that small lab, she was never more than 15 feet away and usually working right beside me. Eventually, I realized that catching me staring was a game she enjoyed and that her teasing and scolding was becoming as exciting as watching her when I thought she wasn't looking.
My Summers with Carol
By Anonymous
(Migrated from the Weight Room Anonymous Achives.)
Part One - My First Summer
By Anonymous
(Migrated from the Weight Room Anonymous Achives.)
Part One - My First Summer
(Author's Note: This story is true except for Carol's last name.)
My love for big, beautiful women goes back to the summer after graduating high school. As a child, I was small and slight for my age and ill-suited for a world where boys defined themselves largely through sports. I was always the last one picked when the class divided into two teams. Despite growing up without much self-confidence, I spent a happy childhood playing with a large gang of friends, which included boys and girls.
Puberty for me came exceptionally late. Whern it did, post-highschool, I confronted another new world where I was now intensely interested in "girls" yet more afraid than ever to do anything about it. My complete lack of experience was paralyzing.
In other areas of my life, especially career plans, I was mature and directed. Encouraged by my father, I had long planned a career in medicine. My father helped me get a volunteer job in the research wing of a large hospital when I was seventeen. I spent two summers working in a tissue cell lab where I helped the lab technician grow cells for research projects in little covered glass dishes known as Petri dishes. These were kept in the "sterile room," a tiny room at the back of the lab, which was off limits to everyone except us to protect the experiments from contamination.
The woman who ran the tissue cell lab was Carol Bellano, a twenty-five year-old, single, Italian-American woman. Her job was quite routine and mine was even more so as her assistant. Every day, I helped her wash glassware in the sink and sterilize more glassware and instruments in the autoclave (a steam-pressure machine used to sterilize Petri dishes and the like). I also helped her set up experiments, measure out powders on sensitive scales, and "feed" the cells in the Petri dishes with solutions carefully dripped from pipettes.
Carol was a warm, vivacious, intensely playful woman who loved to talk and joke. A splash of life and color in a drab scientific environment, Carol's laughter frequently echoed down the long corridor of labs where stiff, middle-aged men solemnly carried out their important research.
It didn't take long for Carol and I to become fast friends since we spent seven hours a day talking to each other as we worked. I loved having someone to show off to and the fact that I had her full and undivided attention. Not a day passed without me acting up to get her to laugh. It was the closest thing I could do to flirt.
For years, I had imagined that making a woman laugh was somehow linked to winning her heart. In one of favorite tricks for Carol, I donned a white lab coat and did imitations of some of the doctors on our floor until she practically screamed with laughter. My other trick was to stand on the doorknobs of the door to her lab and swing back and forth, beating my chest while she cried, "Bomba the jungle boy!"
Within two or three few weeks, Carol and I were comfortable talking about everything. As I soon found out, her favorite topic was sex. Since she wasn't dating anyone and often said she was too big to be attractive to most men, her main outlet was sexual fantasy, stories, dirty jokes, and teasing. Since I was cooped up with her in a small lab for forty hours a week, I became the happy audience for her constant sexual conversation. And all I had to do for the most part was listen.
Carol told me early on how she was still a virgin, having been raised a "good Catholic girl." Invariably, she mentioned her virginity only as a prelude to a longer discussion of how sensual she was, how she thought big women were the most sensual of all in bed, how she had a collection of sheer nighties at home which she liked to wear, and how she couldn't wait to get married when all of her pent-up desires would be released. Her future husband, she promised, would spend much of his free time in bed.
The more she talked, the more hot and bothered I got. Since all of this talk was about Carol or the delights which her future husband would enjoy, I was safely excluded from this feminine desire yet given a front row seat. For the first time in my life, I could enjoy the company of a secret object of desire without having to do anything.
The more we talked, the more comfortable I became with her erotically-charged conversation. It wasn't long before she began directing teasing remarks at me or asking my opinion on these matters.
By the second month of the first three-month summer, Carol was even telling me in some detail about her experiences with men and how close she had come to losing her virginity with her only serious boyfriend. When she told me she had allowed him to "climax" her with his hand, I remember my heart began to pound.
Until I met Carol, I had never heard anyone use that word in conversation. But as I quickly found out, it was one of her favorite words. I found it particularly exciting hen she used it as a verb, as in her accounts of how her boyfriend "climaxed" her. I went through this image over and over, especially as I lay in bed at night, free to let my imagination wander. Needless to say, I was always the one who was climaxing Carol with my hand even though I didn't have the faintest idea how that was done.
In my young eyes, Carol was more than desirable. She was a big, beautiful goddess, a kind of Gina Lollabrigida, only bigger and more beautiful. She was about five feet five and, perhaps, 180 pounds. Because most of her weight was distributed to her hips, bottom, and especially her bosom, she exuded a boundless femininity at all times to my rapt eyes. As she moved about the lab, in close proximity, she gave off an undulating, ripe, feminine fullness, which made every step a spectacle.
There were also sounds and smells, which I found intoxicating. Whenever she walked, I heard her pantyhose swishing back under her white lab dress and had a kind of aural image of her upper thighs. While these were invisible, the sound of her upper thighs rubbing against each other with each step gave this hidden area a vivid presence in my imagination. It was as if I could see in a certain way into the hidden, mysterious zone of her upper thighs and especially into the area between them where they rubbed together to make that silky noise.
Carol also wore lots of perfume, which filled the small room and made her seem even closer. When she worked next to me, I could smell other wonderful scents, the shampoo she had used, the soap, the skin lotion she kept in her desk, and other unidentifiable feminine smells. By the middle of the first summer, I'm sure Carol realized she had a very captive audience in her new assistant.
In retrospect, I can see why sex came up so much in conversations. It was heavy on the brain for both of us. And each was a non-threatening audience for the other. She was a frustrated, twenty-five year old virgin eager able to express her sexuality primarily through talking. And since I was young enough to pose no threat but old enough to be very interested, she was even freer to be frank and playful and teasing. As a completely inexperienced, sexually preoccupied teenager, I was very eager to talk about sex, or at least, to listen while an older, experienced woman did most of the talking.
Carol was the perfect Venus for me. I could desire and enjoy her presence all day long without having to do anything myself. I suppose we were the ideal match.
Carol always wore a severe, white, lab uniform, which came down to her knees and buttoned up below her neck. The only good thing was the tight fit. She always looked like she was about to burst out of it. And when she sat down and crossed her legs, her uniform rode halfway up, exposing her luscious, heavy thighs. It was impossible not to look at them when she sat down and crossed her legs since this action produced a broad expanse of panty-hosed thighs right in front of me.
By the second month, Carol had begun teasing me by sitting down nearby and letting her uniform ride up, checking to see if I could control my eyes. If I didn't look, she teased me for obviously wanting to. If I did, I got teased for that instead.
It didn't take long before I was looking a lot, especially when I thought she wouldn't notice. Most of the time, I got away with it, or at least, I thought I did. When she caught me, she often scolded me for being a "naughty scamp" or something else like that. In the first few months, I blushed every time she caught me and swore to myself I wouldn't stare so much.
Of course, all such resolutions were impossible since I stated at her, on and off, all day long, five days a week. In that small lab, she was never more than 15 feet away and usually working right beside me. Eventually, I realized that catching me staring was a game she enjoyed and that her teasing and scolding was becoming as exciting as watching her when I thought she wasn't looking.
