Friday, October 31, 2008

Stuffer Literotica: Warm Blood

Here's a little Halloween treat for y'all: some erotica! If you can't guess what movie they're watching, or who Mister Six is dressed up as, I'll either give up on my literary pretensions or my readers aren't the geeks I think they are.

* * *

"Did she just say "gorged to bloatation?" asked Rufus.

He felt Mister Six gently rubbing his tummy. "I think she did, yes. Funny, I've watched this five times and I was never quite able to figure out what she said there..."

"That's the worst-sounding description of it I've ever heard!" said Rufus.

A piece of popcorn appeared before his lips, pinched between two long red nails. He sighed, but obediently stuck out his tongue to receive it, knowing she would only press more on him if he refused.

"Put your right off your popcorn," Rihanna grinned, crunching a few bites herself.

The sight of a pretty BBW munching popcorn put ideas into Mister Six's head, but unfortunately he was on the other side of the couch. He bent to Rufus' ear, whispered, "See if she'll let you eat it out of her--"

Rihanna: "Oh no, he hit him with the tea kettle!"

After the brief flurry of excitement was over--he killed him and then was just drinking tea? That wasn't what they were after--they settled again in a big heap on the sofa (faintly dusted with popcorn fragments.) Rihanna sat on the left, Mister Six on the right and Rufus was snuggled between them, his head pillowed on Rihanna's ample thighs. They had been feeding him candy, popcorn, soda, and other sweets off and on all day, and he felt...not sick, exactly, but over-cloyed with sugar. Mister Six leaned up against Rufus' side, stroking his sides and belly. Rufus' slight discomfort added to the tension that always coiled inside him when they watched any kind of horror movie.

"You know," said Rihanna, taking a sip of her white wine, "I have no idea why I like this movie."

"It's got Johnny Depp in it," said Rufus, wincing as the boy sat on the trunk, crushing the fingers of the man trapped inside.

"No," said Mister Six, "everyone likes Johnny Depp," as if a universal should immediately be dismissed as an unfair advantage.

"What is it, then?" asked Rufus.

"Gives vore a whole new meaning."

"Oh, God, now that's horrible!" laughed Rihanna, and she pelted Mister Six with popcorn fragments until the barber opened the lid of the trunk and and the man that had been hit with the tea kettle rose up from inside like a zombie.

"Oh, is he going to let him go? No--look!" cried Mister Six.

Rufus sat straight up, his chest heaving. He felt his thighs and fists clench as he watched the lavish spirts of blood, the jerk and shudder. He brought his hands up--

"Don't hide your eyes, Rufus! The killing's the best part!"

Mister Six hand his hand on Rufus' biceps, and he felt the rolling of the great muscles there. Behind his emo movie-star locks and his cuddly tummy, Rufus had the arms of a prizefighter, but even Andre sometimes forgot this. He discovered his heart was hammering, transferred his hand to Rufus' hard nipples, his soft tummy, stroked him like a cat. He felt Rufus relax, and his attention was once again caught by the movie.

"'Haven't you had enough for one day?'" quoted Andre. "Ha! That's the best line ever!"

"It wasn't so bad," said Rufus, sounding surprised at himself. He found himself wanting to see it again, wanting the rush. The strength in those arms, the release of that blood...

"You know," said Rihanna, wrapping one of his long locks around her finger, "for someone who's stomach can take so much abuse, you're awfully sensitive!"

Rufus blushed. He was entirely unable to explain the fluttering, touchy, unbearable tension that came over him when he saw certain things in movies. It was like waiting for an explosion. "It's not my stomach that hurts when I see things like that in movies..."

"He's tender hearted," said Mister Six, ruffling Rufus' long hair.

"No...tender headed," said Rufus.

"Well," Mister Six smirked, "we all knew that!" He flicked the bulge in Rufus' pants, making Rufus blush all over again.

* * *

"Rihanna!" Mister Six called. "Did that box come in the mail today?"

His voice echoed weirdly off the harsh angles of his New York flat. Andre sighed in frustration. Even in a place less than a third the size of the Seattle Hacienda, she still managed to elude him. And here it was, almost 10-o-clock--and on All Hallows Eve!

He stopped by the darkened picture window, frowned at the elfin face reflected in the glass. He tilted his fedora onto his head, pulled up the collar. More than anything else tonight, he wished for a face people would take as a serious threat.

Mister Six let out his breath, straightened, looked deep into his reflection. He tried to assume the mental attitude of the character he had chosen, tried to draw from his tempestuous desires that cold and stoic spark...into the goat's appetite for raw eggs and sugar cubes...the kind of mind that would see a head split open in the unfolding of a pretty butterfly's wings...

Mister Six's sigh fogged the cold window--it was no good without a mask. Who knew he wouldn't be able to find the right mask?

As he drew patterns in the steam something Rufus had said a long time ago came back to him, about the mystery of darkened windows. The pressure of dark was like the pressure of water, thousands of gallons held back by a single sheet of glass...

Somewhere above him a door opened, shut.

His fedora slipped to the floor as he turned, his thin hand splayed against the icy glass. On the floor above him began a heavy, measured tread, as if the feet and legs that made them were beginning to stiffen.

A figure appeared at the top of the stairs.

He wore a button-down shirt, white, the sleeves full. It was pulled in close to his waist by a purple vest, and his black pants were snug across his rounded thighs. Over this was a dark brown apron--as simple as what would be used in a butcher's shop. But it was his face that was the best...and the worst. Years ago he had been apprenticed to a master of transformations, and his fingers had not forgotten that art. His eye-pits had been blacked, so that his blue eyes snapped and sparkled in the depths. His coal-black hair had been swept back, teased so that it made a kind of mane, and above his left eye was a bleached streak a finger's width wide. But it was the smaller touches that made Mister Six draw in his breath, the subtle lines of age tracked across the brow, pulling at the corner of his eyes. His full cheeks had developed sooty hollows. The effect was of full, firm flesh that had been drawn back to show the angle of terrible hungers.

"I need a knife," he said.

Mr. Six could only say stupidly, "a what?"

"A steak knife, an exacto knife... something. I need one." He was trying to fasten the cuffs of his spotless white shirt as he spoke.

"You don't need a knife," said Mister Six. "You need blood."

Rufus stopped what he was doing and looked at Mr. Six. He ran his eyes down the filthy brown trench coat, the bulging pockets, the purple pants with their black pinstripe, ending in a pair of very scruffy shoes. "Who were you supposed to be?"

"I was going to have Rihanna paint my face with white and black, but--" Mister Six ran a gloved hand through his red hair, and was reminded of his fedora, which was still on the floor. "Never mind." He rescued his hat, pulled it down at a rakish angle. "Come with me into the kitchen--I know just what you need."

* * *

"Here we are," said Mister Six into the fridge. He emerged with a mound of uncooked hamburger on a plate, the bloody juices pooling around it. Its ridges made Rufus think of brains.

"Salmonella," said Rufus.

"Just watch where you put your hands," said Mr. Six, taking up a handful. Then he squeezed it over Rufus' arm, the red flesh oozing through his fisted fingers. It wasn't the bright blood they were hoping for, just a clear dribble.

"Ugh," said Rufus.

"Jesus, what are you doing?"

Rihanna swept into the kitchen. She was wearing an emerald dress with loads of frills, her bodice pushed her ample breasts out and up. Rufus grinned hard when he saw her. Just the sight of her made a warmth come up from his loins and cover his sensitive belly.

He had forgotten the effect such a lecherous grin would achieve, augmented by his makeup--Rihanna stopped dead, her fan fluttering in her hand. "Rhianna," said Mister Six, "the box--"

"Oh, it came today, silly!"

She came back with a brown-paper wrapped box, which she unwrapped. Both Andre and Rufus caught their breath, for were greasepaint and brushes, lashes and gummed gems, false hair, vials of glitter, the teeth of old men and beasts. And inside the box was a still smaller box, in which were three lines of ruby capsules. Mister Six held one up to the light, and it glowed like a stone taken from the forehead of an idol.

Rufus was confused. "How do you...."

"You bite them," Rihanna said. She plucked one out and held it to her prettily made up lips like lipstick. "You bite it, tho... I don't want to get it on my dress. Don't worry, it says it's OK if you swallow it..."

Mister Six had already taken one and given it a nip. He made a face. Then he stood back from Rufus and flung it at him, slashing his waistcoat with artful sprays, the drops trickling down the curve of smooth fabric that covered his belly. He squeezed whole capsules onto his shoulders, making red pools on his dominant arm. He held his arm lightly, lifting it, feeling the hard curve of muscle underneath the soft billows of cloth. He pressed himself a little closer, his thigh meeting the curve of Rufus' thigh, a little bit of his chest meeting Rufus' side. He tugged off the fingerless gloves and made Rufus pull them on--they were too large on Mr. Six but on Rufus they fit perfectly. Rufus flexed his fingers, smiling.

"Ready to go?" asked Rihanna.

"Not yet," said Mr. Six, and disappeared into the bedroom.

"We'll be late--!"

"Just a minute!" Mister Six yelled back. Through the open door Rufus saw the trench coat go sailing across the room and heard water running.

He was looking at her dress, at the structure of the bodice. "Feels nice, doesn't it?" he said, his eyes straying to the laces.

"Like body armor," she laughed, knocking on it gently with her knuckles.

"A hardness without for the softness within," said Rufus.

Rihanna shivered. His flexible voice could mimic a hundred different people, but this one...she had heard it a hundred times, filtered through speakers, but never carried by a living breath. Instinctively, she raised her fan, dropped her eyes.

"No. No..." said Rufus. "Let me see your face." He took a step closer to her, in the tiny kitchen, and she felt his hand slip under her smooth chin, his thumb caress her smooth neck.

He raised her chin. Rihanna's red hair was artfully piled on her head, little tendrils coming down around her ears. Her large eyes, fringed with velvet and black, looked up into his in their black pits.

"I hadn't seen you yet with your makeup on," he said, and there was a kind of purr in his throat. His hand, as it raised her chin, was faintly red, and smelled of the raw meat they had been handling.

"Do you like it?" she breathed. She felt as if his hand had stretched her onto her toes, unbalanced her.

With his other hand he fingered the cameo hanging from its emerald ribbon, the lace that fringed her breasts. "You look very pretty," he said.

When he let go of her his fingers left three small red flowers on her cheek.

"Think I should shave?" asked a mocking voice at his elbow. Mister Six was standing there. He had a white shirt and white vest on, and was turning a top hat in his hands.

"Well," purred Rufus, "aren't you beautiful."

He turned to the woman at his side. "Don;t you think he's pretty?"

"Oh, very much, sir," she said, holding up her fan again but her eyes gleaming with mischief. "But I think he needs one more detail."

Mister Six held his hat by the brim, pressed against his stomach. "What could that be?"

Rufus' eyes moved to the box on the table.

Rihanna handed Rufus a capsule. "You do the honors."

It was bitter, Rufus thought as he bit into it. It had a strange, pomegranate taste, with the consistency of corn syrup... sticky and red...

Mister Six wouldn't do what he wanted. Rufus was taller, he couldn't see under Mr. Six's chin. "Not far enough," he said gruffly, and reached up to grasp Mr. 6 by the hair, tipping his head back. Mr. Six gasped slightly--pushing his chest forward, his arms limp at his sides as if he dangled in Rufus' grasp... Rufus could see the great vein pulsing in his neck.

With great precision Rufus drew a cold red line across Mr. Six's neck. The pretty boy hardly made a sound as the red blood ran down his neck and pooled in his collar.

"Don't wipe it off," growled Rufus as Mr. Six reached up to touch the wetness, "you're going to wear it like that all night."

"I won't," said Mr. Six. touching it and laughing.

Rhianna plucked a pair of fangs from the box and put them into her pretty mouth. She smiled into her compact, snapped it shut. "Well, are we all together now?" She was already heading for the door.

His hand crushed her wrist, and she found herself snapped around, chest to chest, his prisoner all in a moment. She saw the red capsule trapped in the corner of his grin, felt her tongue poking through her fangs, flimsy plastic.

"I don't think so, love," Rufus growled. He pressed her up against the counter, and she could feel the heat spreading from his crotch through her dress, felt a warm drop on her breast. "You see," he murmured, caressing soft, "you're next!"

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

BBW Monday: Along Came A Spider...

Via Wikimedia Commons

In honor of Halloween, today's Pretty BBW is the burlesque dancer I've most wanted to see live: Miss Dirty Martini! Where can I get some pasties like that in time for this Friday?

But even if I can't bejewel my tits, I think I might have a treat or two in store for y'all later in the week. Stay tuned!


Miss Dirty's Website

◆ Are YOU the next BBW? Submit a photo to missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Friday, October 24, 2008

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

BBW Monday: Butterfly

Jack Potsmoker

But People Don't See My Fetish As Sexy! How Do I Write About It?

Via riotclitshave

It all started when the BHM licked my armpit.

"Oh my god," I giggled, playing the scornful femme, "what kind of pervert licks people's armpits?"

The BHM gave me his most wicked look--the look he usually reserves for when he's about to tie my arms behind my back. "Oh yeah?" he said. "What kind of pervert likes it?"

I blushed deep. It had, in fact, been very pleasurable: a warm caress across one of my most sensitive zones. Try it some time, seriously...if you're brave enough not to let your usual experience of armpits deter you.

This why, even though I have a sex blog, so little of it has to do with sex. Even in this wacky alternative universe called sex blogging, where working for is a legitimate career and mothers of three can have baskets of sex toys on top of their refrigerator as a matter of course, I can hardly bring myself to tell people what I'm really into. I'm never able to forget how rare my desires are--and how potentially a hard-on ruiner. What would you do if you were in the same place I was two weeks ago: a sexy boy running his hands down your breasts and crotch, breathing, "So what's this fetish you have?" into your ear.

I can't say, "I like corsets" or "being flogged." In order to avoid lying, I'd have to say: "I enjoy encouraging skinny men to overeat until their stomachs bulge out and they become helpless."

Still there, readers? I congratulate you.

Several times I've taken part in the Sugasm. It's pretty much a fancy traffic generator for new sex bloggers: submit your week's best post, vote for your favorites at the end of the week, and all they ask in return is that you post the week's winners on your own blog. Some people love it, some people hate it, but the point is that the majority of posters has to do with BDSM, gay and lesbian, or heterosexual encounters.

Which is fine, but it raises the quandary: how do you write a smart, engaging sex blog if what turns you on is seen as a turn off by the majority of people--even by ones thought of as kinky? What if you get off from fucking balloons? What if you wank to castration? Is there a famous furry blog that I've never heard of?

Case in point: imagine a curvy, busty girl giggling in bed as her arms are tied behind her by her lover. The window is open, so a cold night breeze titillates and tingles over their overheated bodies. He pulls her towards him by the hips, pressing his hard, thick cock into her ass, giving her anal for the first time...slowly...

Now add the fact that the man weighs around 300 lbs.

Hear that? That's the sound of a thousand pussies screaming in pain as I ruin their orgasm.

Which, some people say, shouldn't really matter: no one gets into sex blogging for the money, and I'll be very lucky indeed if, after a year, I have 300 readers (not even a drop in the bucket compared to the views on, say, one Lonelygirl15 video). But I am into it for the attention, comments, page views and discussions I can start in the pointless/sexy/disgusting/beautiful world which is teh internets. But there's this hang up: unless a person has their brain wired in a special way (held by how few?) they won't be able to get past the small fact that what turns me on isn't leather, high heels, and fancy sex toys but stuffing, fat sex, and large amounts of fizzy soda water.

All I knew (and all I still know) is that I hadn't seen a blog quite like mine before. (I do, at least, have a unique voice in the sea of BDSM blogs.) I wanted to celebrate and write intelligently about a fetish that, at worst, gets called anti-feminist, the biggest thing holding back the fat acceptance movement, or--as The Naked Trombonist told me when I tried to explain it once--just plain stupid and dangerous. I figured I would have the fact that almost any deviant sexual behavior has had these accusations thrown at it on my side. I was inspired by the best in the biz: Always Aroused Girl, Violet Blue, Jefferson (before it all went so very wrong) and Sinclaire Sexsmith: writers who believed in their own unusual desires, sought them out, and wrote about them in a very hot and intelligent way. I remember coming in contact with what seemed a whole new world when I read Sinclaire's blog, having never come across the terms "femme" or "packing", and I imagined I could do something similar for my own strange fetish: make it beautiful, make it more accessible and safe, and start discussions about a sexual preference I've once or twice seen described as "the new gay."

Instead (though mine is a very, very young blog and I may simply be impatient), I still feel like an outsider even in the big wide world of internet sex. The rule of "If you get off to it, someone's already done it and put up pictures about it" notwithstanding, I find myself trying to justify my likes and dislikes in such a way that they fit into the accepted language of what's sexy. I will play up the BHM's intelligence, his dominant tendencies, and his big dick, even if one of my biggest turn ons is how my thighs will ache as they are forced apart to accommodate his girth when he's on top. (*Winces at the sound of hundreds of readers skipping to another website because of that image.*) I'll struggle not to think about the undertones of eating disorders I see in most feeder erotica, and play up the fact that I am a smart, curvy, college educated woman...who just happens to have always gotten off to disgusting things. My fetish can be just a legitimate as homosexuality, I'll say, even when 90% of the emails I get are from people who are creepy...or I fall in love with men who are thousands of miles away.

But there's Lolita, right? One of the world's classics, by some measures--and it's about a rare fetish seen as either crazy or disgusting by the majority of the population. Yet somehow the author was able to tap into the universal feelings of obsession, love, and heartache that made his work mean something even to straight white hetero academics.

Though sometimes I wonder if his secret was simply admitting that Humbert Humbert was, in fact, sick.

I'm a sexual screwball, dear sexblog readers. I don't have multiple orgasms, no one sends me free sex toys, and I love having sex with a man that's obese. I encourage men to indulge in behaviors that even I see as dangerous, altering their weight, appearance, and their edge in physical sports. But they love it, my stuffer boys, do it to themselves if there's no one to "encourage" them. And I love it. Since I first learned what it meant to orgasm, I've never been able to get off to anything else.

It's a struggle to think about these things. Sometimes I swear I will never do it again, sometimes I think it's entirely legitimate. I want to be told my fetishes are as important to my happiness as your whips and glass dildoes are to yours, no matter how little they might turn you on. I want someone to tell me there was a mistake, that I can rewire my brain so that I will be able to get off to sex in the missionary position and never have to go digging through the filth of the internets ever again. I want to lose weight so I can fit in tiny clothes and boys will hit on me in bars, and I want to keep it because The Colt and Alex tell me I'm beautiful.

I want answers to all these things, but I don't have them yet. That's what this blog is for.


Erosblog has a very interesting post about how, in reality, the majority of internet erotica is less the work of sexual revolutionaries and more that of Nipples the Bear.

◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Molly Is Under the Weather

Via ru_glamour

I've been sick for the past couple of days. It's my own special brand of cruddiness. Lately, when I'm under stress (my writing, mainly) I start getting the same symptoms, sore throat and such. So this blog's semi-hiatus will have to continue for a while longer, until I can get better and write a longer article.

However, with the magic of scheduled posts, you'll be seeing some new photos of bellies and beauties this week. While I'm in bed drinking tea with lemon, look at this amazing set of fashion photos I found at ru_glamour: a fit boy and his curvy lady at play in bed and on the beach.


◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

◆ Got a tip about a website that I should feature? Email me at missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Monster Sex

R u there?

Even though he always txts the same thing to me, he pretends not to know what I'm talking about. There?

Fancy a bj from a girl in glasses?

what's special about a girl in glasses?

you can imagine i'm a kinky geek goddess

there is that

should I come?

If you can come for a few minutes.

I go up to my room, brush my hair. I slip a sharp-edged condom into my bra--foil wrapper.

Max is in the same room as me, writing. I pat his blonde hair. "I'm going for a walk."

"Oh?" he says, looking up.

"Is Jesus your friend?" says J. from the floor.

"No," I say. I go out.

My breast buzzes.


I txt back, coming.

I regret it a little. Mr. Six would have let him wait. Mr. Six would have made him think he wasn't coming. Then, only when he was at the very top of the stairs with Rufus inside thinking he would never come: Knock knock.

Halfway down the street I start hiccuping.

Rufus is sitting with his knees on the sofa, waiting. hic! excitement. he looks out the window, anxious. hic! Must stop--isn't sexy. hic!

I hold my breath.

"God fucking dammit!" I yell.


Rufus is panicking, both hands over his mouth. Giggles.

Scream. Yell: reset. Someone come up from behind and yell, "Boo!"


Half a street away, I hold my breath again. This has got to stop.

Rufus opens the door. Mr. Six holds up a bottle of Orange Crush. Nervous, Rufus shows him in, trying not to hiccup, fails. Mr. Six says "Aww, here," gives him a drink. Rufus gulps it down, swallows the hiccups, gasps.

Mr. Six is drinking too, laughing at him.

"Shut up," says Rufus, kisses him.


Hold breath again. Moment passes in which I imagine my diaphragm erupting. Somehow it calms. I don't feel calm.

Cross the street. Headlights.

Peering in the dark--which door? Up the creaky creaky stairs. I leave the door open, on the bottom, even though it is also open at the top. Anyone could get in. Robbers.

Last time he was watching TV. This time he is already standing. Big shape--comes to me. We make out. He finds my chiffon skirt, perhaps he'll pull it up--I want to be bare-assed to anyone looking up the stairs from the street.

The french kissing ends. He looks back to the sofa. He wants to sit down. No, he's turning off the TV. "It's dark," I say. He reaches to turn on a lamp, but instead AC goes silent.

Uh-oh, I think, as he takes my hand in his large, dry palm. It's so dark there's nothing to see, only touch, and I know how my mind will people the dark with shapes. He's ahead of me, opens the door. I remember the first time, party outside, he pulled me in the same way. "I wish we had done it when we weren't drunk", I had told him then.

All dark, just shapes. In the dark he will not have a face, just a blank hole. "Wait," I say, laughing a little, "let me take off my sandals."

First time we did this, my grandmother had been dead. My father had called and told me the week before. His room is a wreck: clothes, boxes, a hatrack. But only in the daylight. Now just big lurking shapes.

Last time, I had realized that he could have been anything. I couldn't see anything but black, I only knew he was there from his mouth on my pussy. He could have been doing anything else without me seeing. He could have switched his body entirely, changed to a wolf, silently swelled to fill the whole room...

He pulls me down onto the bed. Swell of his belly. Perhaps pressing my hand to it will make it cave in, the sides will clamp down on my hands, cutting them off. Teeth, blood, scream. His mouth is a warm wet hole on mine, probing tongue. He lifts my thigh, I realize something about myself.

"I'm so wet," I say.

"You are." He closes my legs, lays a hand on my knee.

"Aren't you going to put them in?"

"I will," he says.

His fingers slip in easily, without a hint of the pain that usually threads the sides of my cunt hole. All the while we kiss, his tongue encircling mine, his mouth wet, covering my chin. My hands in his hair are wet, his neck is slippery. Only touch, can't see a thing. Perhaps in the throes of it his head will detach from his body, big drops of yellow ooze, and I won't realize it until I reach for his body and realize that it's somewhere else, that he's nibbling the back of my ear while his chest is still in front of me. I put my hand in the crook of his neck so I can feel it in case he decides to detach. Tongue. I bit the tip and realize his whole tongue is extended out of his mouth, the length of it.

He's doing it, I think, he's doing it now. He pulls my hand down--feel my cock. "Can we turn on a light?" I ask. "Want to see what I'm doing."

"All right," he says. As wet as its made me, my libido won't take much more of this, soon I'll start to freak out.

The light is on in a moment. He is wearing a t-shirt, bare legged, his broad face. He's grinning. Human. I sigh with relief and we kiss--he lays back, pushing my head down towards his crotch. Blowjob.

I look up and realize the mirror on the wall, we're exactly even. I can watch myself give him a blowjob. I smile at myself, like that girl with the website--will I tear with love? (link) My face takes on the same elongated shape as hers.

Good sloppy blowjob. Sloppy seconds. even thirds (link. make it exact). my hair makes a webbing around my face, sticking to everything. My own hair in the blowjob.

The bed begins to squeak--our combined weight is rocking the whole thing.

I can't come. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon!" Rufus barks as he thrusts into Mr. Six's arsehole over and over again.

Smell of fruit. Did he fart? Pause half a beat. Thrust, thrust, thrust...

My hips are killing me, stretched to accommodate his bulk. Why must they ache? I stretch my legs up--pilates--he goes wild. Thrustthrustthrustthrustthrust. What is that, oh god, my ass, his hand, no, it's his balls, with every thrust his balls are swinging and hitting me square in the pink pucker-up of my ass.

"Ohohohoh," I say.

His cock slips out, he lets it go, it brushes the lip of my pussy and he thrusts it right back in again. Press. I glance up and see him with his head up, his eyes shut tight, holding.

Oh, I think, this must be it.


For a second I'm afraid he's going to collapse on me. His head drops, then he kisses my breast. Smiles, eyes nearly closing. The he pulls himself up, goes out into the hall still naked. I catch a glimpse of the condom hanging halfway off his dick, full of sperm.

I lay on the bed where he left me. My skirt is around my waist, one leg drawn up, falling against one another. No orgasm. Unhappy? No.

Mr. Six laughs. He tilts a bottle of orange crush and drinks and drinks until his belly is round and hard--belches. He caresses the curve of it and that's all, what a thousand licks had not been able to put into me is lit up. My legs begin to stir--another round?

The BHM is back. He turns off the light, gets in bed with me. We tangle up together, belly bulge against mine. Might collapse. I think he can eat me, now.

"Hi," I say, in between kisses.

"Mm," he says.


◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Quickie: Strange Things

A "quickie" is a fragment of story that doesn't quite fit anywhere else. But if you read them, you'll find that they might illuminate a few points of the larger story.

* * *

A constant source of marvels to any of his lovers or acquaintances was Mr. Six's seeming inexhaustible libido. Sometimes, when they had nothing better to do, they would sit and mythologize about it, as if Mr. Six were a movie star or a historical figure and not someone they shared their bed and house with--adding to it, speculating, embroidering truths. it was true, however, that once at a dinner party the topic of the very strangest things to get off to came up...and Rufus found himself blushing as Mister Six had begun to slowly, subtly...then not so subtilely, to lead up to that time in the garrett when he had forced Rufus to drink six bottle of--

"Is there anything you don't get off of?" Rufus cut in, so abruptly that people laughed.

It took the table a moment before they realized Mr. Six had actually taken the question seriously. The silence lengthened.

"Chewing gum," said Mr. Six at last. "the noise it makes. And I hate the flavor."

* * *

"He gets off from watching The Thing--"

Rihanna had yet to see the movie.

"There's this bit in it where a doctor is giving this guy a shock treatment and the guy's stomach caves in and grows teeth and bites off his hands..."

Rihanna's eyes widened. "He gets off from that?"

Rufus had been laying with him on the sofa in the half-dark, as usual. "And I have my head in his lap, right? And all the sudden I realize he's popped a stiffy!"

Rihanna laughed at the phrase he used and immediately regretted it when she saw how distraught Rufus looked. "Maybe it was just you...", she tried to soothe him, thinking that the weight off Rufus' head on her mound, all that silky hair, would be enough to get anyone off.

"He wasn't even looking at me! You know how he gets, right? The Look..."

Rufus had been shutting his eyes. He himself was "sensitive", with a private list of movie scenes he could hardly bare to look at--everything from Violet Beureguard in Willy Wonka to the last thirty minutes of Akira--when he'd noticed Mr. Six's growing "problem".

"And I said, are you getting off? And he said, 'His stomach caves in,' very simply, like if there's a tummy in it he just "has" to get off! But there's this other bit, where the head kind of oozes off the table--"

"Stop!" said Rihanna, laughing and putting her hands over her ears.

"--and he's still hard! I mean, I'm a pervert too, but I'm not perverted like that!"

Rihanna began to laugh again, this time at Rufus' mix of awestruck and indignant.

"I've just never thought of what the inside of his mind is like--tentacle porn and medical texts and The Cell and all that vore by mamabliss... it's all gotten mixed up in his head until I just can't imagine what he's envisioning when we're having sex. How can real life sex be enough for him, anyway... sometimes I think he's lost all sense of boundaries when it comes to fantasy..."

"Maybe he likes the idea of kissing your lips when the rest of you is someplace else. Maybe he likes the idea of your morphing into a lot of tentacles to pull him closer, or splitting down the middle so he can get his whole body inside you. Isn't there that scene in Alien where he puts his tail up her ass?"

Rufus just shook his head.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

BBW Monday: "She didn't come with a name, just prettiness."

Via riotclitshave, the greatest photoblog in the world.

I get very annoyed with the comments whenever I post a skinny girl- people just can’t seem to help themselves. After the hundredth “sammich” comment I just want to delete the post. Which is why you’ll never see me post a picture specifically pointed at making fun of a fat person. People are cruel and I don’t want my journal to be a place for people to get hurt.

--quoted from riotclitshave's interview with Coilhouse.


◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

◆ Are YOU the next pretty BBW? Submit a photo to missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Text of the Week: The Colt Has Interesting Tastes

I've had increasingly weird dreams lately. I told the Colt so in a text message this morning.

Me: I had zombie attack dreams. :-0

The Colt: ZOMBIES!

Me: Loads of 'em. And me without my machine gun.

The Colt: I like zombie dragons.

Me: Learn something new every day.

Though, since this is the boy that has also expressed a liking for dragons in lingerie, I guess I shouldn't be surprised?


◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Muffintops Galore

According to bart_calendar,

Reading Fleshbot, AVN and various other adult industry trade publications I've noticed that Muffin Tops are the new big trend in porn.

He then goes on to explain what a muffin top is, which I hardly need to do for you people.

The Fleshbot article in question has the kind of descriptions I never expected to see in "real" porn--i.e., the kind of details that would make an FA cream his pants:

In the fashion typical of director Jim Powers, stars Brooke Scott and Marlie True begin the movie by doing a ho-stroll down a crowded street in broad daylight until they are won over by a man offering them jumbo ice cream cones. Claudia Downs and Rucca Paige were also encouraged to buy jeans a couple sizes too small...

Muffin Tops are so in demand in the world of this film that Claudia Downs... is forbidden from going to the gym.

However, as you will see when you read the full article, my hopes to even slightly "legitimize" my fetish of choice are always dashed.

They also have an impressive gallery of nicely muffin'd chicks. Don't worry, I'll still be here when you get back.


◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Wednesday, October 8, 2008


I'm not sure where you all are coming from--my statcounter isn't able to give me a particular place--but there certainly seems to be a lot of you. And I'm glad to see each and every one. ;)

So, Welcome to my pervy little corner of the internet! Here you will find everything a stomach fetishist could desire, with articles weekly, erotica monthly and pictures almost daily...when I'm able to get online. (My internet connection is a bit, er, ticklish at the moment.) But until I've put up the next installment, why don't you have a look around?

You can look at the stuffer boys (i.e., male feedees) in all their round bellied glory.

Or, if you have the other persuasion, you can look at some of the hottest BBWs I've ever seen.

Or if your wanking takes a more literary turn, you can read the feederism erotica (i.e. stuffer stories) starring Mister Andre Six, his girlfriend Rihanna, and their soon-to-be-boyfriend Rufus Hex. Many stuffing orgies ensue.

And, if you want to keep up with my erotic adventures, the best way is, as always, to go up there on the right, hit the button under "subscribe", and add me to your RSS Reader.


◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Saturday, October 4, 2008

Janie Blooms Talks About Her Tummy

Janie has been one of my favourite sex bloggers ever since she wrote so hilariously about her first try at anal sex. In Janie Dresses Up, she writes about her late blooming love for dresses. How they make her feel girly, sexy, for almost the first time. And her changing view of her own body, which a lot of us sexy BBWs can relate to:

Which isn’t something I talk about here, really. My chubby issues. It’s not that I’m trying to pass as some skinny girl of my readers’ dreams. It’s just an issue that’s a blog on its own and besides, my tummy has never prevented me from having orgasms or good sex. In fact, my stomach has become my most erogenous zone, apart from the obvious ones (pussy, breasts, ass). It was a scary thing when someone first touched my stomach and I found it very arousing. Because it is a place on my body that holds for me, historically, tons of shame, insecurity, and doubt. However, there is a miracle that happens in sexuality. Or at least in mine. All those negative-ish feelings about my tummy translate into physical sensitivity. My fears about my stomach not being attractive are eroticized and, bam, kink is born. Touch my stomach in a certain way, grope it, massage it, and well, I get very, very wet kids. And boys who have elicited this reaction out of me, well, this reaction has often made them touch my stomach even more, and in turn, I have started to treasure my tummy. As a place of power, of VULNERABILITY. Vulnerability is power, folks.



◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

This is not supposed to be here

EDIT 10/4/08: Due to my inability to figure out the correct date months ahead when I schedule picture posts, this showed up on a day that wasn't Friday. And since I haven't had reliable internet until today, I wasn't able to fix it.

But heck, it's a hot photo. So I'm keeping it up.

I found this photo on, but it's not the shorter haired, tan Daphne that I'm looking at. This chick in pink looks to be having way more fun...and the man she's sitting on doesn't look a bit displeased either!