Warm Milk, Part 2: Molly Arrives

Sexy stuffing stories, my peeps: it's what I live for. Here's part 1 if you wanna catch up.

* * *

There was a knock on the door.

Rufus jumped up from the sofa. He had shaved, buttoned up, tucked in, and gave himself a quick look in the mirror before he opened the door. In that single second of pull a tingle seized his crotch--half sex, half fear at not knowing who he would find on the other side.

And there she was.

"You must be Molly," he said, not knowing what else to say.

Molly lowered her head, but a small smile upturned one corner of her mouth. "He said you were pretty," she said, looking up at him through her long eyelashes, "and it's true."

The corner of each of her merry eyes was decorated with a tiny red jewel, and her dimpled cheek had a beauty mark on it. Rufus felt all his tension sigh out--and his chest swell again on the next breath.

"And you are adorable," he told her, "a little burlesque princess."

Molly stepped inside, taking it all in: the balcony with the view of the city in the pouring rain, the fully equipped kitchen, the door to the bedroom. Then she undid her belt, turned, and allowed her trench to slide down off her shoulders. "Take my coat?" she asked him sweetly.

Slowly, Rufus curled his fingers under the collar, between the fabric and her warm skin, and the coat slid off. Underneath she was wearing thigh-highs, frilly red panties, and a corset teddy that completely failed to conceal the thickness of her waist or her round soft belly. She had a pert rump, and two bouncy breasts ready to spill from their cups as soon as she bent over. She stood smiling at him a little, her hands rising to tighten the combs that held her curly hair back--her eyes asked him if he was pleased.

Rufus felt a pleasurable twinge in his belly, and without thinking reached out to draw her closer to him. She was smaller than he was--she could pillow her head on his breast, and he could rest his chin on the top of her head. He heard her give a little "Oh," as she came up against his broad chest and his soft tummy, the same combination that had so enticed Andre Six. She lay one of her little manicured hands on his chest, the nails red as love, and then she tweaked his nipple!

He felt a tickle: one of her hands grope around, squeezed one of his love handles through his shirt. "You're soft," she said."

"Softer than most boys, I've been told." His voice had deepened, coming up from his chest.

"Not as soft as I am, though," she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

I bet you are, he thought, eyeing her thick waist--she might even outweigh him a little, for all their difference in height. "I'd like to kiss you," he said.

"I'm surprised you waited this long," she said, and turned her face up to him, her flower-pink lips parted prettily.

He caught her open mouthed, and as their kiss deepened he felt her arms slide under his, gripping his shoulder blades--a harness of lust. Rufus ran her hands down the curves of her sides, feeling the hard ribs of her corset and then the soft, soft globes of her rump beneath. He was pressing his palms to them, about to squeeze, when with a little flip of her head she came loose from his mouth. Rufus was left staring stupidly at her, his lips still parted. She bit him gently on the lower lip.

"Want to help me carry my bags?" she asked, smiling.

The door was still open. Her bags were out in the hallway, a large one made of maroon crocodile, and two paper grocery bags. When he brought them in for her he noticed they held a gallon of milk and a new six pack of Orange Crush.

Rufus smiled.

* * *

Part three is next, so stay tuned!


Related:

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

"You Can Do Better": Part 2

Part 1 is here.

We're taking a little trip back in time, sex blog readers. It's April 2008, I'm drunk at a party, and I've just been pulled into my first kiss with a BHM.

* * *

Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?

All those times I'd seen the BHM at parties, all the times I'd sat with his group to have lunch, he'd never given me anything more than sidelong glances. I think I'd spoken to him exactly once, and now he was pressing me to him as if he'd wanted me for ages.

And he was enormous. Not "heavy", not "chunky"--he had to be close to 300 pounds, his great belly pressed up against me when we kissed. We came apart and he said something about the way I looked compared to him. "It's ok," I said, my hand on his belly, "I like BHMs."

"What?" he said.

Shut up and kiss him, I admonished myself.

He kept wanting me to go somewhere, to "sit down". I had my arm around his neck. "I dunno," I said, made merry by his lack of subtlety, "do you have any condoms?"

I think this was too forward even for the sloppy drunkards we had both become. He said some more things that I don't remember except that they riled me up enough to tease him. I put one hand on my hip and trilled, "I dunno, you are older than I am."

The BHM is one of those students who, for one reason or another, end up going to college at the age when most of his peers had finished graduate school. With this memory other details began to float to the surface of my brain. T.'s girlfriend--who had once been Constantine's girlfriend, but I pushed that thought away--had called the BHM "the biggest lush in school." That's all I knew about the BHM, and after Constantine I had had enough of drunkards. I began to push him away. He suggested once more that we go sit on a nearby bench.

I guess my legs were tired. "You take eye shots," I accused as we sat down.

"Psh," he said, and we made out again. This time when we came apart he asked me if he wanted to go up to his room. When I had protested at him peeling me off the only girl I had touched in two years, he said it had been a year since he had had sex.

Apparently I was the cure for this. But then again he probably didn't get fucked much, he was a BHM. Suddenly I felt sorry for him, all alone against the bodily prejudices of the world. And the way we kept making out...

I pulled myself away from his mouth, rehearsing the reasons in my head: It's not you, it's me...

"You can do better," he said.

"Better than what?"

Better than a dumb excuse like that, he said.

Oh, fuck: did I actually say something as uncool as that? "It's true," I said, taking refuge in what Constantine had taught me. "I'm a cold heartless bitch."

"That's not true..."

We made out some more.

X. and Constantine had been all about frenching, to the degree where normal kissing was something exotic for me. Even with those experiences, the BHM had an unusually skilled tongue. He encircled his with mine, tracing spirals. My tongue bumped and shoved against his. Even though I had never experienced the kind of attention he put into frenching before, I teased him when he began to delicately explore my teeth. Ah, you don't have just one trick! I exclaimed, but he still wanted me to come with him to his room.

I was thinking I could maybe do it, I wasn't held to conventional ideas of who to and who not to fuck. There was Mr. R., six foot three, long black hair and a soft overhanging belly... Mr. S., who was short and soft all over, with a whiff of cruelty about him from his dalliances with Constantine....

The BHM wasn't like any of those people. He kept putting my arm on his shoulder, like the neediest nerd boy.

"No," I bleated, "it'll be weird afterwards. And I really wanted a girl," I wailed, suddenly remembering that was what I had been originally after.

"That's not the issue," he kept saying.

"No," I said, "I lay with the Jackrabbit and Constantine, and it was weird afterwards."

I got off the bench and walked away. I looked back a little later and he was gone. I was surprised it was so simple.

It was around 2 am, the hour when parties died and everyone who hadn't hooked up yet would be too drunk to fuck. That was my last chance of the night, I thought to myself, if I couldn't find someone else to fuck in the next twenty minutes I might as well go back to my room and cry into my pillow.

I made one last circuit of the campus. No one, no one, not my girl or a blonde girl or girl with braces. I did find the class math whiz laying on the grass. I came up to him slowly, my hands out as if to fend him off. "I know a billion people have probably asked you this--"

"GET THE FUCK AWAY!!!" he roared.

I went away, figuring that if he was well enough to yell like that he could have his beer-induced existential crisis by himself. I passed one of his friends, much soberer than I and carrying a cup of water and a wet washcloth for him.

Why hadn't I done it? I said to myself later, stripping down to the skin in my room. I didn't know why I had given up the chance at something so rare I spent all of my leisure planning and scheming for it. I pulled out my laptop, found my favorite sex blog, and started reading about orgies--a good plan because I soon became so distracted I forgot to cry. I probably masturbated before I finally succumbed to exhaustion and the acceptance of my own bad luck.

* * *
The next day, Friday, we had off from classes. Even after I had showered, breakfasted, and begun my class reading for Monday, I was still thinking about him. In the beginning, I wasn't sure why he excited me so much.

He wasn't horrible, as fat guys went--he was friendly-looking. I had even vaguely considered him at one point, before I had become brave enough that having longings and the voicing of those longings weren't completely divorced.

And yet... and yet...

I should have said something like, "Dude, you're a boy and produce sperm. That's not a good combination when I'm this drunk." Girls were a lot less dangerous in terms of fuck ups, at least in this case. Lots less chance of STDs with muff diving too, though HIV was always a factor...

Right, bisexual girl, I thought, it's all about his gender.

Or I hadn't been 100% comfortable with him. "I don't KNOW you," I had kept saying. "You take eye shots." Of course, I hardly had known my girl either, I had just wrapped my arms around her and went for it.

It was that, then: such things could only happen when I was fully in control, when I wanted it.

It's not your body, I had been trying to tell him in my drunk and inarticulate manner, it's just you. In the back of my mind I was hearing people say, Gawd, she got with him? "Him" being not "that fat guy" but the lush, the horny drunkard. Of course, if I had been fully attracted to him I wouldn't have cared what people said--or what he thought, either. I had screwed plenty of people far worse personality traits than his.

And I left it at that. After a year without sex, he might have been happy to have me use him. But the next day--the start of a whole empty weekend without sex--I was still happy about my decision.

* * *

Related:

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

"You Can Do Better": Part 1

We're going to be doing a bit of time travel now, dear sexblog readers, so bear with me. This happened back in April 2008, when I was still in college. Like most colleges, the night we finished our finals was given up to the senior skit and drunken parties. And like most college students, I was horny and out for blood.

This is different from most stories I've posted on here in that there's a lot of lesbian making out. But if you're worried you might get bored reading about a pretty BBW getting some girl-on-girl action, just hang in there: there's also a BHM.

* * *


I woke up on Friday at noon. I put my arm over my eyes to shut out the sunlight as last night became present memory: I had gotten drunk, and I was still miffed about the girl.

Two girls.

* * *

Thursday was prank night, a secret that the entire campus already knew. I had been assigned no real job except to photograph the insanity, but ended up holding the ladder for one of the more shapely members of my class as she climbed up to hang banners. Her dress was sparkly, gold, and short. Very short. Dude, I thought, I hope she's wearing underwear and cursed the gods when my hopes were fulfilled.

Other than that, the pranks we pulled on the underclassmen went off without a hitch. Things were cheerful enough as long as the drinking was going on, but once they were all packed into an auditorium for the satiric skit the senior class had dreamed up, things began to get ugly.

First, one of the MCs was hit in the face with a cheap blue kickball. He leaped off the stage, jumped over the first row of seats and a fistfight began. Another senior grabbed hold of the microphone and called them off.

Then the audience started throwing beer cans.

I was trying to take photos of what was happening on the stage when one zipped by my head, spraying beer. Then others. Some of the cans were crushed, some full. Still the prank play went on. They hoisted V.-- the sexiest girl in school--onto their shoulders, her hands wrapped with chains. The gayest boy in school was crowned king and treated to half-naked men giving him a massage. Then he was overthrown and they hauled the shyest boy in school on the stage and crowned him instead.

The audience roared. They climbed out of their seats and onto the stage.

"That's it, that's it, it's over!" yelled the MC into the microphone. The auditorium emptied out, the outer lobby became dark, and the dancing began.

I went out, reloaded film, and realized that in all this screaming crowd I was the only one not yet drunk. I found the Atheist and his friends, dressed in black and smoking cigarettes and complaining about how bad the skit had been. Constantine was there. He had a paper crown on his hair, a feathery tinseled thing that would have been worn at a three-year-old's birthday or virgin's bachelorette party. He had his girlfriend on his arm, and as I talked with the Atheist their making out became more and more explicit. She touched his chest, they put their arms around one another, they came closer and closer until they kissed, he laughed, he caressed her ass.

"Atheist," I said, "you used to be an alcoholic. Tell me where I can get something to drink that isn't beer."

"Behind the stage," he said, "if it isn't all gone."

"I'll see you when I'm drunk," I said.

Behind the stage was a nearly full pint of gin. I hate tonic water so I poured it straight, tried to drink it. I found a half-empty liter of Coke and used that as a mixer. I on the way out I snagged a cold can of Keystone Light and took it with me--I wanted to see if I could shotgun it, later.

Then I saw the girl.

She said something about having lost her purse. Upon inquiry she had either left it in the lobby or somewhere else. I followed along without being invited.

She found the purse on the floor, dangerously close to the spilled drinks that marked the edge of the dance floor. She put it on without seeming to notice that I had followed her--I pulled on the strap to get her attention. "Are you really bi?" I asked.

She looked offended that I would doubt her. "Yeah."

"Are you really drunk?"

"Yeah..."

"How drunk?"

"I dunno..."

"Are you drunk enough to kiss me?" I asked.

'Well..." she said and her mouth bore down on me.

Ten minutes later my chin was slick with her mouth juices. I couldn't call it spit, it was too sweet and lovely for that. My arm was around her waist, feeling the muscles through her tight shirt. Then a well-meaning friend came and pulled her away.

"You ruined a beautiful thing," I told the friend later that night. Like all drunkards I was easily distracted, and my girl had seemed to disappear directly she was taken away. But I saw her once more, a long time later. She was trying to hold up a shorter blond girl.

"Tonight's not the night," she said, noticing me.

"I think it's a good night," I said, tracing my fingers down her belly.

The blond girl was hanging off her, they were so tangled up together each step taunted the ground with their falling.

"Later," she said, moving off. "I'll remember."

"Sure," I said, knowing that she would forget. They staggered off for a hundred yards or so before finally sitting down in the soccer field and I forgot they existed. I found myself with my arm around a girl with braces.

"So-and-so hit on me earlier," she said.

"So-and-so is a slut," I said.

"You're right," she laughed, "he is a slut!"

"I'm a slut too," I said, and then we were lip-locked.

"I have a girlfriend," she said when we came apart.

"Who's your girlfriend?"

"She isn't here..."

Since she was still kissing me I was sure we could work something out.

Then I felt a hand on my arm. I looked up to see the BHM, a very large boy a year below me, come to save the damsel from my clutches. He wasn't letting go, so I sighed and then smiled and released my prize.

"Ok, I'll let you go because you have a girlfriend," I said. "M.'s right there--go dance with her."

The BHM was turning me towards him. He was blurry from the Keystone Light, and I whined something about not having had a girl in years. He said that wasn't the issue, put my arm on his shoulder, and began to French me.

Oh, I thought. How long has he been like this?

* * *

Part two will be posted later.

Related:

◆ The Who's Who of Stuffies

Dreamed I was kissing a boy...

...realized I must be kissing the sheets when I felt his face. Thrust in anyway.

His tongue was flat and tasted of linen.