Thunder Thighs at Thunder Bay

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bdsm

There’s a sort of running joke among my friends about how clueless I can be with women, with being able to tell whether they’re interested in me. Usually when a friend is busting my chops about this, they are referring to what you might call my “false negatives”—the situations in which a woman has to “hit me over the head” to make me aware of her interest in me. My friends all say I can’t take a hint. What they don’t realize is that I’ve had my share of false positives as well, and that these experiences have left me a tad gun-shy. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been a half-hour into what I thought was a mutually flirtatious conversation at a cocktail party only to have the woman finally mention a husband, boyfriend, or fiancée. I evidently just have trouble reading women in general.

Teresa was a classic example of one of my false negatives. Actually, it isn’t that I didn’t think she was interested; it’s just that I didn’t trust myself to make a move. I met her a few summers ago when I was in Thunder Bay for the wedding of an old friend from college. I was invited to be a groomsman and she a bridesmaid, so we both arrived on Thursday night in order to be there for Friday’s rehearsals; the ceremony was late Saturday. And although I took an instant liking to her, and suspected that she reciprocated, I felt the stakes were too high to try anything overt: we had friends and friends-of-friends in common through Brad and Liz (the happy couple), and I didn’t want to embarrass myself or get a reputation for being “that guy,” the one who shows up stag and has smarm enough to try to get laid at the wedding. And there didn’t seem to be much to gain either—we practically lived on opposite sides of the United States and so were unlikely to start having any kind of relationship. So I just flirted miserably, but refrained from saying anything that would constitute an actual “pass.”

I was in my early thirties, white, slim, medium height, short dirty-blonde hair. Teresa was a positively gorgeous BBW brunette in her mid to late 20s, her mostly creamy white skin slightly reddened in places from the late summer sun, and her lustrous black hair in a lopsided, boyish bob. I don’t really have a “type” when it comes to women, except that I do love the larger ladies. I have dated all shapes, sizes, and colors but, below a certain dress size it takes something very special to turn my head. Teresa did not have that problem. At 5’6″ or 5’7″, she was probably carrying 220 pounds, gathered voluptuously in a high, broad bottom, a pronounced endearing belly that ringed her middle and protruded beyond her beltline, and big gorgeous boobs that flopped freely and lazily over her midriff. The first time I saw her she was in a sky blue half-cami, a pair of cutoff jean shorts, and flip flops—an enchanting ensemble that displayed the whole package, exposing milky thighs, thick meaty arms, a deep valley of cleavage and a protuberant bare belly.

My only complaint was the hair. She had the kind of hair that I’m sure would have cascaded luminously down those broad pink shoulders had she let it grow long. But even worn short, her hair sexily framed a cute round face with high round cheeks and a sharp, v-shaped chin softened by a slight packet of double-chin fat beneath. She wore a sort of permanent smirk that made her appear forever on the verge of making a smart-ass comment—which, by the way, turned out not to be very far from the truth; she definitely had the kind of sharp, quick wit you often see with sexy, intelligent fat chicks, as though their street-smarts have been honed by the conflicting experiences of having been ridiculed in their youth for their weight, only to find themselves very attractive to most men in adulthood (whether the men admit it or not), even as women with similar builds remain bewilderingly absent from fashion magazine covers or marquee roles in Hollywood blockbusters. She seemed like the sort of person who was fully capable of enjoying her life, but who had learned how to use words as a weapons when she had to.

That first Thursday night, the only guests to have arrived were the members of the wedding party—family members were supposed to start rolling into town Friday afternoon and other guests Saturday morning—so it was a mostly twenty-something set in a holiday mood and game for a late-ish night. Brad and Liz took the whole wedding party out for pizza and beers at a small patio café near the lake.

There were ten of us in the party, and I clearly remember Liz introducing the groomsmen to the bridesmaids they’d be paired with during the procession. I remember how the lone fat chick in the party of skinny girls immediately caught my eye. I recall mentally reciting, as though in mock prayer: Please let me get her, please let me get her. “And this,” Liz was saying, “is Teresa.” The fat chick—Teresa—waved to all of us. “And Teresa, you’ll be accompanied by…” Pick me! Pick me! “Bart Waylon.” YES!

“Pleased to meet you,” I güvenilir bahis said.

When it came time to sit down I made a point of sitting across from her at the end of one of the wooden, picnic-style patio tables. “So, Teresa was it? Looks like I’m with you.”

“Yep. So you just do exactly what I say and we won’t have any trouble,” she cracked.

“Ha. What exactly are our responsibilities in all this?” I asked, pouring the first pint from the nearby pitcher and giving it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, taking a slice of pizza from the nearest pan. “I suspect all will be revealed at the rehearsal dinner.”

“But you don’t have some inkling?” I poured myself a pint and picked up a slice.

“Walking, mostly, I think. Just walking. I mean, best man and maid of honor have to say a few words at the reception but us, we’ve got a pretty cush gig. Just walk up and stand there.”

“I uh. I haven’t been to a lot of weddings.”

“I try to avoid them generally. Like the plague actually. Especially being in wedding parties because, you know, ninth ring of hell, right? My strategy somehow failed me this time.”

“Strategy?”

“I try to hover at around 150, 175 percent of my ideal BMI so people won’t ask me to be a bridesmaid,” she said in mock explanation, and then broke out into a cockeyed smile, shattering her deadpan. “No one like’s a whale in the wedding party.”

My heart leaped anxiously in my chest. I never know what to say when a woman references her own weight in a sarcastic, self-deprecating way. I’ve been an admirer of fat women all my life and yet I’ve never come up with a subtle way to communicate this fact in a way that doesn’t make my appreciation sound like some sort of weird fetish. The problem was compounded in this case because, of course, I did not want to sound like I was making a pass. So instead of deflecting I just laughed at her joke and said: “Fat fail, eh? What do you suppose went wrong?”

“Liz. Known her since childhood. Wouldn’t let me off the hook…. Bitch.”

We both chuckled and sat for a moment in comfortable silence down at our end of the table. It was serene; there was a cool, fresh-smelling breeze off the lake and the patio was lit by strings of Christmasy lights that cast colorful shadows over her shiny round face. “So, what’s your story?” she asked .

We continued like this, exchanging the usual icebreaking chit-chat, and I grew more intoxicated with her wit and charm (to say nothing of the beer!). I wanted so badly to ask her to break away from the company and go for a walk with me but I concluded that it was simply not possible. There were ten of us in total; we had to mingle; I had to avoid embarrassing myself by trying to lay a bridesmaid.

The evening wound down and I returned to the hotel room I shared with Marty, another one of Brad’s groomsmen. I recall lying in the dark staring at the ceiling as Marty snored that night, unable to sleep thinking of Teresa. I thought about trying to rub one out in the bathroom but decided against it. I was unlikely to wake Marty but, if I did, it would be the basis for another story I didn’t want circulating among my friends: I didn’t want the title of The Guy who Couldn’t Go One Day Without Spanking It. I turned over on my side and waited for sleep.

* * *

The rehearsal dinner and related events gave us yet another opportunity for flirt and banter. Friday she wore a high-waist ruffle dress, fire engine red, with thin shoulder straps that showed plenty of those beautiful arms and shoulders, a plunging scoop-neck that left the cleavage on display, and a faux sash just below the bosom. She seemed taller today, thanks to high-heeled patent leather boots (“my hooker boots” she called them), and the way the material of her dress flared down and out over her lower back and big pear-shaped bottom—which was even more pronounced today thanks to the high heels—seemed almost calculated to drive me crazy. As the day’s events wore on I was powerless to stop trying to steal glances when she wasn’t looking but, after a while, the chance that I was succeeding in being at all inconspicuous seemed very poor indeed. By this time the party had expanded to include about thirty more people and, even if Teresa herself didn’t catch me checking her out, it is doubtful that I went entirely unobserved.

The ceremony itself was to take place outdoors in a lakefront park, and the reception would be in a small deconsecrated church that had been converted into a recreation hall. The rehearsal and the dinner both took place in the hall. The event planner (or wedding director, or whatever she was called) was a compact, Napoleonic woman with a Brooklyn accent and a shrill, strident, gym-coach’s timbre; she was hustling about barking all sorts of instructions and explanations that seemed either tedious or obvious or both. “Okay, if I could have everybody line up with your partners facing the stage—pretend the stage is the lake.” Teresa appeared türkçe bahis beside me with a can of beer.

“You’re starting early,” I observed.

“Over here, captain. You’re on my right. Sip?”

“No thanks,” I said, and she laced her arm through mine. We were both standing still and looking straight ahead and I was suddenly awash in her assorted aromas, beer, sunburn and shampoo. I inhaled deeply and held my arm stiffly—too stiffly, evidently, for she noticed and patted my bicep reassuringly.

“Relax,” she said, “you’re so tense. Here, really, have a sip.”

I gave in and took a long pull from her can.

“That’s better,” she said, hugging my arm affectionately. “You don’t have anything to be nervous about.” She paused a moment and then, as though reconsidering, said: “Well, I do have one thing I suppose I should warn you about.”

“What’s that?”

“I will have to goose you for the group photo. That’s just how it’s got to go down. Sorry, it’s been decided.”

My heart skipped a beat and I started swelling in my pants (not now!, I thought, not now!). “Wha-why are you going to goose me for the photo?”

“An exercise in precision timing. To capture your face in mid-goose, just as the shutter clicks, your shock immortalized in celluloid. It’s part sport, part art.”

I smiled stupidly, with no answer to this bizarre overture. Finally I managed: “But, if the point is to surprise me, doesn’t it kind of defeat the purpose to tell me in advance?”

“Makes it a challenge,” she explained, as if in all earnestness. “See if I can make you jump even after warning you it was coming.” She smiled brightly and winked up at me. Just then the director indicated that it was time for the procession to move, sparing me from having to match Teresa’s wit any longer—at which I fear I would have failed. It was a relief to be finally under way, but I was worrying that the beginnings of a boner would show though my pants as I walked up the aisle. Then, suddenly: “Here, quick, take this,” Teresa thrust her half-full beer can into my hand just as we started to walk.

“Four paces apart, people, four paces! In time with the march, two, three four, good and split!” As each groomsman-and-bridesmaid pair reached the appointed location, the director felt the need to repeat (belabor, really) the shouted instruction “Split!” indicating that the couple was to separate and move to their respective wings of the stage. Teresa and I were third—the last couple before the best man and maid of honor, second to last before Liz and her dad were to walk up, so it was by now very obvious where the split point was. Nevertheless, as we drew near: “Two, three, four, split!” came the abrasive direction. I let go of Teresa’s arm and turned 90 degrees when, in a scolding tone, I heard the director shout “Very classy, sir! Won’t have a can of beer tomorrow I hope!”

I couldn’t help myself—I felt my brow furrow in angry incredulity and I glared back over my shoulder indignantly at the director. She was obviously taking herself way too seriously if she thought it was her job to scold an invited guest for having a beer in the rehearsal. What difference could it possibly make? Then, in my periphery, I could see Teresa looking back over her shoulder at me with a mischievous smirk. She saw me notice her and pointed at me, mouthing the word “busted.” I chuckled and shook my head.

The vows rehearsal was a welcome break. I stood there quietly on stage, not really paying attention, defiantly sipping from what remained of Teresa’s beer, and trying to process everything I had observed. Fact: Teresa was hot as a skillet. I wanted her very, very badly. Fact: Teresa was flirting like crazy; she had hugged my arm close; we had shared beer; she had essentially informed me that before the weekend was over she intended to pinch my ass.

On the other hand, fact: different people have different senses of humor and, without really knowing Teresa, I couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t just this way with “all the boys.” Fact: I’ve made terrible, humiliating mistakes in the past, misreading women’s cues. And, alas, fact: the stakes still favored containing myself. If she was flirting, the most I had to lose by staying mum was perhaps one brief fling; if I was wrong, however, and this was just her version of un-sexual banter, then hitting on her overtly would be a potentially embarrassing faux pas.

As the minister droned on and on about what he would be saying about the sacrament tomorrow, I took sips of beer, my semi-hard cock softening, and my faltering resolve now hardening: I was going to be good, I determined. I was going to get through this weekend and not try to do anything about Teresa, except enjoy her company.

Teresa, it turns out, had other plans.

* * *

She never goosed me. The occasion just never arose. There were dozens, possibly hundreds of photos taken that weekend but none where she was in position.

There ceremony güvenilir bahis siteleri proceeded without incident the next day, and then there was the awkward longueur of the receiving line followed by the professional magazine-chic photography session down by the beach before the whole procession made its way fitfully across town to the reception hall, most everybody by that point very much in need of a drink.

At dinner, a sad accident of seating had landed me far away from my newfound favorite and, if there was any doubt about who had been doing the heavy lifting in that easy banter of ours, it was removed by the miserable, awkwardly punctuated silence in which I passed the evening trying to converse with Marty and two of Liz’s other maids. “Um, and, how long have you worked there? I see. And what’s the weather like down there this time of year?” It was a yawn a minute.

Teresa, by contrast, seemed to be holding forth, at least according to the evidence of my stolen glances at where she sat a few tables away. Every time I looked up she seemed to be laughing heartily, or else talking in an animated way to the delight of her interlocutors. I was feeling quite sullen.

Speeches were made over the long desert course and, at long last, as the red wine I had been gulping all night finally began to blunt the edges of the evening, the band took to the stage and people began dancing. Almost immediately I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hey, cowboy, aren’t you supposed to offer me the first dance?”

“I, uh. I’m not really much of a dancer,” I stammered.

“Shocking!” she gasped in sarcastic surprise. Then she simply extended her hand. I rose, took it, and stood stupidly still. I stepped back and took a long moment to drink in her sumptuous beauty. In this short weekend I had only seen her in three different outfits, but it was quite a range: from beach casual to night-on-the-town evening wear to high formal. And after a weekend of stewing in futile admiration this last presentation was almost unbearable. The dress was a full-length royal violet with godet pleats, ruching up the left-side seam and, across the bosom (the first time her cleavage had been covered all weekend), a broad lavender sash that rose and became a single shoulder strap over the right shoulder. A matching lavender bustle accentuated her already enormous ass and, just under her double chin gleamed an elegant pearl choker. To top it all off she had even managed to pin her hair up in some sort of coiffure I won’t try to describe; all I know is that it surprised me, as I wouldn’t have thought she would have enough hair to put up. In sum, she was stunning. “Um,” she finally said, “you know you’re the one who’s supposed to lead me to the dance floor, right? Being equipped with the penis and all.” I took her cue and escorted her out onto the crowded dance floor.

Two inane fast songs passed before a slow number came up and allowed us to converse. She opened the conversation with: “So, do you ever post on internet dating sites?”

“Sometimes.”

“You know what ‘DDF’ means?”

“DDF? Ummm… divorced…? Uh, divorced-something-female?”

“Sometimes you’ll see it ‘DD-free’?”

“Oh! Drug and disease free? Sure.”

“So? Are you?”

“Am I what? DD-free? Why are you asking me this?”

She ignored the question and asked: “Do you know what BBW means?” Her eyes twinkled and she may have actually blushed a little.

“Ha! I know exactly what that means.” I smiled, pleased with myself that I’d had the presence of mind to place enthusiastic emphasis on the word “exactly.” Maybe I was emboldened by the wine but, at last, what had been unspoken all weekend was in the open. In that one sentence—in that one word—I had managed to imply how hot I found her.

“So, then, you know why I’m asking.”

“Uh, not exactly,” I flubbed.

She sighed. “They told me you were kind of clueless about these things.”

“They?! Who’s this ‘they’?”

“They. Said I’d have to spell shit out for you. So permit me to do so now. Bart, I am about to propose that we, that is, you and I, quietly excuse ourselves from this dance floor and find a secluded place to have unprotected sex without a condom and I figured I should make sure you were DDF. And into BBW.”

Oh my god! My heart was pounding and my already semi-solid cock started to stir at this brazen proposition, but I couldn’t resist continuing the banter a moment longer. “That’s a little redundant isn’t it?”

Realizing what she’d said she now blushed, eyes closed, “Oh yeah. Duh. You know what I mean.”

“I mean,” I persisted, “I suppose we could have protected sex without a condom, maybe wear a hard hat or a flak jacket or something.” It felt good to turn the tables, to be picking on her for a change, instead of the other way around.

“Alright,” she smiled, still blushing, “that’s enough.”

“I mean I’m just clueless so…”

She gave me a playful smack on the deltoid and said “You keep this up you’re going to talk your way out of a piece of ass.”

“Yes,” I finally relented. “I am. DD-free that is. And I’m assuming you are too?”

“Indeed.”

“And you’re just going to trust me about this?”

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Yer işareti koy Kalıcı Bağlantı.

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak.