Deciding to act on an impulse, a happily-married man approaches a BBW at the bar. There’s nothing wrong with feasting his eyes while exchanging a few words… Right?
(Author's note: There are themes of adultery in this short story. If that’s something that bothers you, you are free to skip this one, but I still encourage you to read it, even if stories about infidelity are not your cup of tea.)
I spot her sitting at the bar: a beautiful face that seems so familiar, yet completely new and exciting at the same time. Attired in a black sequin dress that fits her like a second skin, the zaftig woman flaunts the classic Hollywood look. Side-swept strands of wavy auburn hair cover one side of her face and draw attention to her pouty red lips. I can’t help but think of Jessica Rabbit, if Jessica Rabbit had been blessed with an extra hundred pounds of padding. Mouth-watering mounds of fair flesh strain against her gown, which barely manages to contain all of her voluptuous curves.
My eyes continue traveling south while mentally undressing her. The tight fit of her dress provides her with an almost cartoon-like hourglass figure, and judging by the way the fabric stretches drum-tight across her jutting *** cheeks, she can’t possibly be wearing anything underneath; the lines would be noticeable if she were. Her legs are unexpectedly shapely and culminate in the cutest, plump little feet crammed in high heels.
Not many women have the confidence to wear such a revealing dress while boasting so much skin. She pulls it off majestically, conveying the universal male fantasy from back in the day before the mainstream standard of beauty was skewed during the age of fat-shaming, silicone, and selfies. At maybe 5’10 and two-hundred-sixty plus pounds of pure opulence, she is the embodiment of female sexuality.
This impedes her from being left alone for too long, even by men who, just by their demeanor and looks, you can tell they don’t usually go for that size of woman. A guy who is shooting very high for his league goes for broke, his manners polite and courteous while attempting to buy her a drink.
Big mistake. With a woman like that, you don’t ask. You take.
My assumption about her is proven true when she shakes her head with an inconvenienced smile, and my jealousy subsides as I see the poor guy do the crestfallen rejection stride back to his friends. I gloat in silence, empowered by the knowledge that I could... if I wanted to.
Not a minute has passed when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a peer-level suitor from another table standing up, his eyes on the prize. Should I even consider making a move, this would be my only shot.
Something is stirred inside me and I find myself slipping my left hand into my pocket and using my thumb to push against the ring around my finger. It slides off with barely any resistance and lands on top of my house key with a clink, officially kicking off my losing battle against temptation. I walk in her direction, deceiving myself into thinking that some innocent conversation doesn’t necessarily have to lead to anything else.
Nothing wrong with harmless, friendly banter while enjoying the view from up close.
Small, hesitant steps and a nervous rush of adrenaline coursing through me evince the fact that I haven’t done this in a while. I pull myself together and quicken my pace to beat the competition.
“Is this taken?” I ask smoothly and claim the seat to her right before she answers. The guy I just cut off huffs back to his seat.
“It is now,” she confides to the drink in her hand. Did I hear an accent?
The bartender shoots me an agreeing glance. You’re in, he silently cheers me on. “Old-fashioned,” I nod back.
I search for the woman’s eyes, but her face is hidden behind her drink while she takes one long, slow sip.
“Her next drink is on me,” I instruct the bartender without removing my gaze from the woman.
Locks of silky red hair dance over her plump shoulders as she finally puts down her gin and tonic and turns to me with a raised eyebrow. The pull of gravity on her inviting, adipose flesh suggests she might be somewhere in the neighborhood of her late forties. She looks me up and down.
“That’s a bold move.” Her thick British accent takes me by surprise.
“I’m a bold guy,” I reply without missing a beat. The corners of her lips turn up just a bit like she’s holding back a smile. I can tell she’s going to make me work for it, making her reward that much sweeter if I play along. She narrows an eye, then decides to bite.
“Alright,” she states before twisting in her seat to face me, with a tone that makes it clear I’ll have to earn her trust first. Two formidable, creamy triple D’s surge forward from her dress as she places her left elbow on the bar and her fist to her jaw. She extends her right hand and her breast jiggles when her upper arm brushes against it. It’s humanly impossible not to look. “I’m Wilhelmina Montgomery.”
The name is fake, as is her terrible accent, but I don’t mind.
“Niklas Heinrich,” I lie too as I take her delicate hand. It’s warm and soft in my grip. Our handshake sends more ripples up her breast and blood down to my loins.
“I’m married, just so you know.” Her tone is suggestive more than deterring.
“Don’t see a ring,” I dare her before taking a casual sip of my drink.
“You shouldn’t hit on a married woman, especially while being married yourself,” she says, eyeing the pale stripe of skin on my recently-unringed finger. “You must really love your wife if you wear your ring long enough to get a tan line in this sunless city.”
She’s good. And I do (love my wife), but now is not the time to think about that.
“We have a special arrangement, my wife and I,” I counter with a purposely vague reply. If she’s game, she’ll fill in the blanks on her own. “How about you? Are you expecting company?”
“Well, I don’t see anyone else.”
I look around. At least half the guys in the room keep shooting glances our way, eagerly awaiting their turn and banking on my own walk of shame. I go for the next line that I know will knock another ***** off her armor.
“If you don’t mind me saying, your husband must be an ***** to let such a beautiful woman sit alone at a bar while not wearing a ring.”
A naughty grin breaks her face in two.
“He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, I’ll give you that…”
Trouble in paradise, but I’m not one to judge. “So he won’t mind you talking with strange men?”
“Not at all,” she says simply, then tips her glass to her lips to empty the last of her drink. The clinking of the ice cubes reminds me, for the second time, that there’s no turning back now. “I think he actually likes it. Makes him feel like a winner in some twisted way.”
I can relate, but I don’t tell her that. “Sounds like a chump to me,” I humor her instead.
The bartender refills her drink. I nonchalantly slip him a Benjamin, making sure I give her enough time to notice. I wave a cool hand to indicate I don’t expect change.
We continue playing our little game for one more round. The sparks vibrate in the charged air while we size each other up with smoldering eyes. Every time I feel like I’m making headway, her phone screen beats me in the fight for her attention, or I catch her checking out the competition. I dial up the charm by buttering her up but at the same time casually surveying the scene, making it seem like I’m not that interested.
I point out how all eyes are centered on us and give her all the credit, which she rightfully deserves. I know that funny little smile on her face; I recognize the lust on her heavy-lidded eyes. She’s relenting.
It’s time for my move.
“This place is dry,” I state after setting down my empty glass. The bartender comes over with the bottle in hand, awaiting my confirmation to pour me a refill. I turn to look at her, conveying the invitation without words.
A mischievous smirk flashes over her face.
I turn back to the bartender and shake my head, deciding to go all in with my next two scrupulously deliberate words: “We’re leaving.”
I sense a little hesitation, but ‘Wilhelmina’ drowns it by chugging down her whole glass while the bartender and practically the entire bar gasp in unison.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says after getting on her feet.
So much for innocent conversation.
I leave another bill on the counter to overpay for round two, then place my hand on the meaty small of her back and guide her outside, rejoicing at mouths agape and shaken heads of my defeated opponents. You lucky son of a *****, I can almost hear their thoughts.
The first kiss happens as soon as I close the cab door and blurt out the instructions to my place. The yellow Prius hasn’t even finished pulling out of the curb when she tugs on my shirt and mashes her lips against mine, shoving her hot tongue into my mouth. She kisses differently than my wife does, but her taste is pretty much the same. This familiarity gives rise to intruding thoughts of tomorrow’s daily rut, but I quickly shut them down by fondling her succulent **** over the dress, then digging my fingers into her warm cleavage. She moans into my mouth.
(Author's note: There are themes of adultery in this short story. If that’s something that bothers you, you are free to skip this one, but I still encourage you to read it, even if stories about infidelity are not your cup of tea.)
The Con
by AC Morgan
by AC Morgan
I spot her sitting at the bar: a beautiful face that seems so familiar, yet completely new and exciting at the same time. Attired in a black sequin dress that fits her like a second skin, the zaftig woman flaunts the classic Hollywood look. Side-swept strands of wavy auburn hair cover one side of her face and draw attention to her pouty red lips. I can’t help but think of Jessica Rabbit, if Jessica Rabbit had been blessed with an extra hundred pounds of padding. Mouth-watering mounds of fair flesh strain against her gown, which barely manages to contain all of her voluptuous curves.
My eyes continue traveling south while mentally undressing her. The tight fit of her dress provides her with an almost cartoon-like hourglass figure, and judging by the way the fabric stretches drum-tight across her jutting *** cheeks, she can’t possibly be wearing anything underneath; the lines would be noticeable if she were. Her legs are unexpectedly shapely and culminate in the cutest, plump little feet crammed in high heels.
Not many women have the confidence to wear such a revealing dress while boasting so much skin. She pulls it off majestically, conveying the universal male fantasy from back in the day before the mainstream standard of beauty was skewed during the age of fat-shaming, silicone, and selfies. At maybe 5’10 and two-hundred-sixty plus pounds of pure opulence, she is the embodiment of female sexuality.
This impedes her from being left alone for too long, even by men who, just by their demeanor and looks, you can tell they don’t usually go for that size of woman. A guy who is shooting very high for his league goes for broke, his manners polite and courteous while attempting to buy her a drink.
Big mistake. With a woman like that, you don’t ask. You take.
My assumption about her is proven true when she shakes her head with an inconvenienced smile, and my jealousy subsides as I see the poor guy do the crestfallen rejection stride back to his friends. I gloat in silence, empowered by the knowledge that I could... if I wanted to.
Not a minute has passed when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a peer-level suitor from another table standing up, his eyes on the prize. Should I even consider making a move, this would be my only shot.
Something is stirred inside me and I find myself slipping my left hand into my pocket and using my thumb to push against the ring around my finger. It slides off with barely any resistance and lands on top of my house key with a clink, officially kicking off my losing battle against temptation. I walk in her direction, deceiving myself into thinking that some innocent conversation doesn’t necessarily have to lead to anything else.
Nothing wrong with harmless, friendly banter while enjoying the view from up close.
Small, hesitant steps and a nervous rush of adrenaline coursing through me evince the fact that I haven’t done this in a while. I pull myself together and quicken my pace to beat the competition.
“Is this taken?” I ask smoothly and claim the seat to her right before she answers. The guy I just cut off huffs back to his seat.
“It is now,” she confides to the drink in her hand. Did I hear an accent?
The bartender shoots me an agreeing glance. You’re in, he silently cheers me on. “Old-fashioned,” I nod back.
I search for the woman’s eyes, but her face is hidden behind her drink while she takes one long, slow sip.
“Her next drink is on me,” I instruct the bartender without removing my gaze from the woman.
Locks of silky red hair dance over her plump shoulders as she finally puts down her gin and tonic and turns to me with a raised eyebrow. The pull of gravity on her inviting, adipose flesh suggests she might be somewhere in the neighborhood of her late forties. She looks me up and down.
“That’s a bold move.” Her thick British accent takes me by surprise.
“I’m a bold guy,” I reply without missing a beat. The corners of her lips turn up just a bit like she’s holding back a smile. I can tell she’s going to make me work for it, making her reward that much sweeter if I play along. She narrows an eye, then decides to bite.
“Alright,” she states before twisting in her seat to face me, with a tone that makes it clear I’ll have to earn her trust first. Two formidable, creamy triple D’s surge forward from her dress as she places her left elbow on the bar and her fist to her jaw. She extends her right hand and her breast jiggles when her upper arm brushes against it. It’s humanly impossible not to look. “I’m Wilhelmina Montgomery.”
The name is fake, as is her terrible accent, but I don’t mind.
“Niklas Heinrich,” I lie too as I take her delicate hand. It’s warm and soft in my grip. Our handshake sends more ripples up her breast and blood down to my loins.
“I’m married, just so you know.” Her tone is suggestive more than deterring.
“Don’t see a ring,” I dare her before taking a casual sip of my drink.
“You shouldn’t hit on a married woman, especially while being married yourself,” she says, eyeing the pale stripe of skin on my recently-unringed finger. “You must really love your wife if you wear your ring long enough to get a tan line in this sunless city.”
She’s good. And I do (love my wife), but now is not the time to think about that.
“We have a special arrangement, my wife and I,” I counter with a purposely vague reply. If she’s game, she’ll fill in the blanks on her own. “How about you? Are you expecting company?”
“Well, I don’t see anyone else.”
I look around. At least half the guys in the room keep shooting glances our way, eagerly awaiting their turn and banking on my own walk of shame. I go for the next line that I know will knock another ***** off her armor.
“If you don’t mind me saying, your husband must be an ***** to let such a beautiful woman sit alone at a bar while not wearing a ring.”
A naughty grin breaks her face in two.
“He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, I’ll give you that…”
Trouble in paradise, but I’m not one to judge. “So he won’t mind you talking with strange men?”
“Not at all,” she says simply, then tips her glass to her lips to empty the last of her drink. The clinking of the ice cubes reminds me, for the second time, that there’s no turning back now. “I think he actually likes it. Makes him feel like a winner in some twisted way.”
I can relate, but I don’t tell her that. “Sounds like a chump to me,” I humor her instead.
The bartender refills her drink. I nonchalantly slip him a Benjamin, making sure I give her enough time to notice. I wave a cool hand to indicate I don’t expect change.
We continue playing our little game for one more round. The sparks vibrate in the charged air while we size each other up with smoldering eyes. Every time I feel like I’m making headway, her phone screen beats me in the fight for her attention, or I catch her checking out the competition. I dial up the charm by buttering her up but at the same time casually surveying the scene, making it seem like I’m not that interested.
I point out how all eyes are centered on us and give her all the credit, which she rightfully deserves. I know that funny little smile on her face; I recognize the lust on her heavy-lidded eyes. She’s relenting.
It’s time for my move.
“This place is dry,” I state after setting down my empty glass. The bartender comes over with the bottle in hand, awaiting my confirmation to pour me a refill. I turn to look at her, conveying the invitation without words.
A mischievous smirk flashes over her face.
I turn back to the bartender and shake my head, deciding to go all in with my next two scrupulously deliberate words: “We’re leaving.”
I sense a little hesitation, but ‘Wilhelmina’ drowns it by chugging down her whole glass while the bartender and practically the entire bar gasp in unison.
“Let’s get out of here,” she says after getting on her feet.
So much for innocent conversation.
I leave another bill on the counter to overpay for round two, then place my hand on the meaty small of her back and guide her outside, rejoicing at mouths agape and shaken heads of my defeated opponents. You lucky son of a *****, I can almost hear their thoughts.
The first kiss happens as soon as I close the cab door and blurt out the instructions to my place. The yellow Prius hasn’t even finished pulling out of the curb when she tugs on my shirt and mashes her lips against mine, shoving her hot tongue into my mouth. She kisses differently than my wife does, but her taste is pretty much the same. This familiarity gives rise to intruding thoughts of tomorrow’s daily rut, but I quickly shut them down by fondling her succulent **** over the dress, then digging my fingers into her warm cleavage. She moans into my mouth.
