Nice View

[Via] Chagrin

There's a link to who took this photo, one Mireia, but that's not enough for once, because she doesn't have any more information as to why she took it. I'd like to know, though, 'cuz I'm curious if she had the same motive for taking it as I do for posting it here. 

Plus Size Erotica: You're Doing It Wrong

Boobies and cupcakes done much better by corkaborka77.

If you like to read or write about sex on the internet, there's a good chance you've heard about Ravenous Romance. I don't actually know much about their performance as a company, but when I heard they had put out a new novel featuring food and a plus size woman I was all "yay!!!"--until I realized I was reading about it on weepingcock. It's an LJ community where people post the best worst porn they can find.

Ravenous Romance's description for Handsome and Petal sounds like the next hot show on the Food Network, but in reality it's some of the stickiest, schmoopiest stuff I've ever seen. It might even give you a yeast infection:

“Lily, my Petal,” Brody said.

She caressed his cheek, which showed a wonderfully scruffy layer of five o’clock shadow.

“Yes, Handsome?”

“You’re more beautiful than a plate of homemade brownies, hotter than hot fudge, more sinful than cinnamon.” Lily blushed. His cock ached in response to the redness on her cheeks. Brody imagined similar color rising on other destinations across her gloriously sexy plus-size form."

The poster, arionhunter, comments, And now, it's time for sex. Food sex. Involving what else but whipped cream? (Once, just once, I want to see a man's "meat" covered in A1 sauce.)

As he watched her movements, feeling like he was floating on a giant cake, she raised a candy cane to her plump lips and teasingly performed oral sex on it. Then Lily hooked the cane around Brody’s straining cock and pulled his thickness into her mouth.

'Hunter explains the symbolism behind this gesture: Y'see, the really fun part about this is that as a kid, every Christmas I was told the story of how the candy cane symbolizes Jesus. I can't wait for my Sunday School teachers to add the part about how "the hard end of the cane symbolizes Jesus's erect penis, ready to be fellatiated, then perform frottage."

I have nothing more to say.

Sex Blogging and Getting Older

You ever hear that saying about how young people think they will live forever? That they are invincible?

It's bullshit.

It may just be because I have spent the last 3.5 years hanging out with scruffy philosophy majors for my late night-conversations, but I've never known anyone my age who didn't know that they were getting older and be scared shitless by it. Actually, we all think we'll die at 30.

It's true. For the longest time, I have had the vague, unformed idea in my mind that some form of annihilation would come over me before I reached my 30th year. Or maybe not anything that dramatic, maybe it was something else that felt like dying. It put an edge of desperation into everything I thought, if not everything I did--I wasn't sure what the hell to do half of the time. I never really talked to anyone about it, because a part of me felt it was stupid. Just my own private not-quite quarter-life crisis which could never be resolved.

I don't feel like this any more. But lately I've been talking to the Hipster Feedee (more about him later) and he talks about how he does all he can to "fake it" now. To make it seem like he's 29 or younger. About how he had a star-studded birthday so that if anyone looked him up on the internet they wouldn't see his true age right away. He tells me stories about people who write about music and art getting fired when they reach a certain age and then I get riled up and angry. No one knows why me and my peers have to think like this.

Well, Ok, I, personally, don't know. I just know that up until recently when I contemplated reaching that age my mind would reach such a wall of shining nothingness that I was sure it could only be The End of All Things. Maybe it's because I know deep down that Napoleon and Alexander the Great and Mozart all did their thing by 20 or so.

Really, I was a failure out of the womb.

When I make a little more effort to imagine it, I think we're all more afraid of our sprits dying than our bodies. At 30 we imagine we will all be old and fat* and boring. No more parties. No more drinking. No more late nights at Kino 41st street when some stranger would put their hand in my twat**. At 30 all would magically dissolve and I would be left entirely alone in a dead end job, maybe at Starbucks.

A young gay man I know is also depressed at getting older. According to him, a 30 year old gay man is practically at death's door. A minute after midnight on his last day at 29 he will wither, turn grey, and start looking at twinkies that are hardly in their teens with the sick smile of a pedophile. (Come to think of it, wasn't this whole concept a major plot point in Queer As Folk, how Brian Kinney was terrified of hitting 30?)

However, I now find myself almost unique among my generation in that I am not afraid of getting older. And I owe it all to reading sex blogs.

It's true. All the best sex blogs are written by old people***. According to my favorites--the ones I first found almost a year ago and kept reading up until this very day--us 20 year olds know absolutely nothing about sex. We are just mouthing our "date"'s twat and fumbling at our "boyfriend"'s ball sacks. At 20 and with a fair number of partners behind me, I can still yearn for a golden age of sex--which seems to come around 40 after a divorce****. While the thought might worry some of you, I adore you people. Your exploits put my adolescent groupings to shame and I want to be just like you when I grow up.

And as for the younger bloggers--i.e., those who have actually reached 30 without keeling over at midnight on their last day as 29ers--you're just like me, only cooler. You're still drinking and wenching pretty girls. You're still figuring out who you are and what you want. And you embrace the exploration boldly.

It would seem, then (at least out here on the fringes of sex and gender and tech and god knows what else) that age no longer matters when you fuck. With the knowledge that I will probably still be getting tail--and lots of it--when I reach the tender age of 40, all the other problems of aging seem more manageable.

Botox? AAG don't need no stinkin' Botox.

Really, it's wonderful. I feel like I can breathe. I feel like I can plan ahead, not just for the next ten or so years, but for the next thirty or forty. It's like being released from a beheading, only instead of running out and seeing everything with hyperkinetic joy and thankfulness I can actually slow down a little. Theoretically.

But maybe it's not just us on the insulated fringy-fringes. Maybe it's actually becoming more mainstream. Did you ever hear those stories about people getting it on in nursing homes? One of my fav stories I read in I think Reader's Digest, about two people who met in a nursing home that would stop the elevator between floors just so they could get some necking privacy. I say good for them.

But I still see it in every day conversations: "Old people having sex, ew." And I used to think that. And sometimes I look at old people and still think that. To my eyes, people who have gotten really up there have a strange topography to their bodies. Which, unless I improve my diet, make plans to undergo several cosmetic surgeries in the coming years, and lose all the fat that some of my fans find so attractive, will probably be just like how I look someday. Hell, someday my boobs might be down to my knees.

Thinking of it that way, you can't say "ew" anymore really. Every time you say "ew", you lose a little bit of your future leeway to fuck when you too are old people. When I'm 40 I expect to be at least 1,000 times more horny than I am now and the last thing I need while making out in the park with my silver-haired beau is a bunch of young twits going "Ew, old people making out! How disgusting!"

Cee says when I'm sixty I'm probably going to be an old pervy lady with a boy toy, but we'll ignore that part. Hell, maybe by that age I will have gotten brave enough to finally buy a vibrator.

____________________________________

*not even the sexy fat that happens in Feederism. In 30-year-old life projections that never happens.

**This really happened, folks. If enough people make inquiries I might even trot down memory lane to post about it.

***Dear everyone who finds this through their blog stats that is incensed at the use of the word "old people": By "old", I mean only "older than I am". Which really isn't very, because I am in my very early 20s. I just think it's fun to poke fun at you because I can. ;)

****It's a trend I see! You can't deny it!

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.

Well?

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.

Hic.

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

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

hic!

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.

hic!

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.

Ejaculation.

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.


Related:

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

Pervertables: or, Seeing My Own Fetish the Way Freud Sees Penises

If you read a lot of too many sex blogs, you might come across pervertables. As Amourous Propensistes says, a pervertable can be defined as, "When commonplace items are converted to erotic." BDSM people can have great fun with this (a spatula can whack a bottom as easily as a flogger). But conouseurs of other, rarer fetishes practice another form of perversion altogether: the scouring of movies, books, and Google for media that unknowingly dials the number of our own sick fantasies.

Anyone who is spending time on this site and has also seen Willy Wonka or the cartoon version of Charlotte's Web is nodding by now.

So it is with the deepest apologies to MikeCindynJoe, the author(s?) of the blog Shared Cindy, for pointing my readers to a post that begins with gluttony and ends with a fuckfest between two men and two women. Here's a snippet:

For myself I shamelessly devoured a bratwurst, 2 beef tamales, 2 teriyaki sticks, a BBQ'ed pulled-pork sandwich, an ear of roasted corn dripping with butter, and a warm funnel cake drizzled with smashed strawberries and dusted with powdered sugar. OMG! All of this was interspersed with numerous samples of beers from their respective countries of origin (burp).

It was dark when we finally left and we were so overstuffed we were practically in pain...

The next morning, a tender scene begins:

Seeing Cindy already in the process of getting spit-roasted caused Suzy to mock-pout and say, "Hey... no fair!" and she quickly crossed the room and gave Cindy a gentle shove that caused her to roll over onto her side, leaving Joe and me with stiff, wet erections throbbing in midair. Before Cindy could recover, Suzy quickly crawled onto the bed, took Cindy's place and her husband's stiff dick in her mouth and offered her upturned and shapely ass to me. Wow.

Read the whole post here.

You don't have a fetish, you're just selfish

Violet Blue critiqued an article by Psychology Today entitled "Typically Twisted" The article attempts to de-mystify many of the thoughts and behaviors people keep secret for fear of not being seen as "normal". Like fetishes, for example (direct quote):

A practice that is harmful, exploitative, or dangerous—such as pedophilia or public flashing—is deemed abnormal. But outside such clearly damaging obsessions, human-sexuality experts have a general rule: Unusual sexual practices are mostly harmless as long as they are part of a range of sexual responses. If you like dirty talk or get aroused by women's underwear, that's nothing to worry about...

Ok, I thought, until I finished the sentance:

... unless it's the only thing that turns you on.

Then it's usually called a paraphilia, defined as unconventional sexual behavior that's both obsessive and compulsive. For instance: A guy who can get off only when he's wearing diapers, or a woman who insists on dominating her partner. The person "is now substituting a behavior for a partner, and the behavior has become necessary for sexual satisfaction," sex educator and author Yvonne Fulbright explains.

A little bit of kink is a good thing if it spurs open-mindedness and a spirit of adventure. But when an object or a ritual becomes more important than the living, breathing partner, it gets in the way of a relationship and of sexual fulfillment.

Oh, crap.

I've had ten partners in my life, and I've never asked any of them to stuff themselves while having sex (mostly because until recently I wouldn't have been able to tell them what I wanted if they asked me). Instead I've pushed myself to be what--for me--might be termed "adventurous". With all the proper contraceptives and barriers in place (and sometimes not), I've been penetrated in all my holes. I've had penises and fingers and dildoes in my pussy, ass, and mouth. I've been sucked, licked, and fingered, experienced rimming, been handcuffed to a chair and even spanked (by my request). And there's never been a time when I've let my lover go before they've cum themselves. Usually, it's through my mouth on their dick, because I love to swallow sperm. Once, it was when I got a girl to squirt.

So much for just sexual reciprocity--how about emotional? Of the different people I've been with, some I've loved, some I've hated, some have just been a casual fling. Every one of the experiences has involved me reaching out to my partner, wanting to know what they liked, wanting to know about their lives. Some of these experiences have changed me forever, making me think deeply about how another's mind works, how I should treat people, and how I wanted to be treated myself.

But of all these varied experiences, not any of them has ever brought me to orgasm.

For a long time I was miserable over this. I've had partners feeling inadequate because they couldn't get me off. I thought there was something wrong with me. Then I thought I was just a normal woman. Then I thought it was just because my lovers couldn't find my clit. Then I found a lover that loved pussy and was willing to spend hours down there doing all kinds of things... but still nothing.

Then one day I was wandering around Myspace and saw this picture: instant orgasm.

This has brought me to only one conclusion: The only thing that's ever taken me "there"--the only thing that makes the blood flow and my clit swell and finally every muscle in my pussy convulse with delight--is watching a skinny boy eating until his slender belly bulges out into a tight dome. No exceptions.

I could go on like I have been. I could chalk it all up to some kind of strange narcissism on my part and find a partner that was only into normal sex--and by "normal" I mean light BDSM or vanilla. And then I'd never have an orgasm again--unless it was through masturbation. Now that's what I call selfish.

The thing that puzzles me most about this article is how it can simply be narcissism at work, when I've searched for years to find an alternative that would allow my partners to get me off?

But what do you guys think? How do you answer the question of balancing what gets you off with finding a partner you can connect with--especially if you only get turned on by something rare? Is it like being gay, something that cannot be changed and must be lived out in order to be a fully developed human being... or is it just as narrow as only seeing a skinny blonde chick (or a fat blonde chick) as attractive?

I've cross posted this on Myspace and Fantasy Feeder. At the end of the week I'll cull out the best answers for a new post. This is something I've been struggling to come to terms with, so I'd love you guys to comment with any of your thoughts, feelings, or experiences. This probably won't be my last post on this topic... the "Typically twisted" article is being hooted in several places, but it's gotten me thinking about how I and other tummy fetishists tick...and this will definitely not be my last post on the subject.

It DOES all sound the same!

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, baby, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..."

squeak squeak squeak squeak squeaksqueaksuqeaksqueaksqueek

"Ah... ah... ah... ah... AH... AH... AH... AH..."

Janie (one of my 5 housemates) has a boyfriend. The question as to whether or not they are having sex is now put to rest.

I am laying here in my room with the fucking gorgeous four poster bed--the room I'm "borrowing" until my 6th housemate A. returns. What will be *my* bed for the rest of the summer has arrived and was set up about a week ago in the room next door. Jaine and her boyfriend are christening the bed before I've even slept in it.

Now she's hyperventilating in tune with a series of slapping sounds--he must be riding her doggy style. Her rhythmic gasps mesh with the rhythmic squeaking of the bed: "ah-squeak-ah-squeak-ah-squeak".

I find myself wondering (as I'm sure everybody does when they hear someone fucking in the next room) is that what I sound like? They're fitting all the stereotypes: "Oh baby, oh yeah, oh god..." If it wasn't for the fact that I recognized their voices I'd think they were watching a porn video.

I wonder what it will be like to sleep in that bed when my housemate returns and I have to move back into that room.

"oh my god, oh my god... ah...ah...ah...ah, ah, ah, ah, ah.... oh my god... mmm-mmm... oh my god..."

Both of them just gave a loud moan at the same time.

The squeaking has stopped.

Once and For All

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Stuffer Stories: Water Bottles

Rihanna was awoken by a familiar, satisfied sigh.

Slowly, her body reminded her of where she was....her hair brushing her bare shoulders and back..wonderfully cool sheets against her bare skin...a hotel. She could feel a warm side pressed up against hers, and she grinned, pretending to still be asleep. When she was with Mister Six, there was no point in rushing things.

After a little while he stirred and stretched, rolling over. She heard it as he pushed the covers aside, careful not to wake her, and got out of bed. She opened her eyes just a bit, looking through her long lashes.

Mister Six was standing in front of the full-length mirror, caressing his rounded belly. Just in the few days they had been here, his belly had been filled to bursting and relaxed so many times that it had bloated out a couple more inches, swelling out of his slender, sharp hips. It was perfectly smooth, tight, and round, and had a small navel unhidden by softness. He caressed it, pressing on it gently where it began to swell out of his body, and rubbed its fullest part with a satisfied grin.

He looked quite different than when they had first met--he had been so skinny that Rihanna had been able to count the outline of each rib, and had often teased him about it. He had always had high cheekbones, large nipples, and a lovely round ass--his rump, Rihanna said, used to be the only part of him that stuck out. She had the idea that he had been unhappy before he had met her, and had neglected to eat or to swim simply because he did not care. He was famous for gunning his cars at breakneck speeds along the most dangerous roads like a stunt driver, and had once broken a rib and a collarbone in a bar fight that he had gotten mixed up in for no other reason than a kind of morbid curiosity. But then she had begun to soften him up, feeding him cake and champagne (and sometimes cheap fast food) until it was all he could do to rest his heavy stomach against her side and his head on her breast, belching contentedly and sighing with the Pleasure that filled him to bursting. He loved for her to massage his tight, swollen stomach more than anything: it was the pressure, they decided, the just-on-the-point-of-bursting, but never doing so, that made it so wonderful, his skin growing supersensitive as it stretched. She loved it too, and liked it best when he mounted her from behind, so that she could feel his stomach pressing against her back.

Now, several months later, he was nicely filled out, with hardly a rib to be seen...and he also had a lovely back and chest and nicely muscled arms, honed by hours and hours of work in between their weekly stuffings. His hips were sharp and narrow, his thighs strong and slightly rounded, like a woman's. His had lost none of his grace and his face no longer had the tight look of near-emaciation but was still delicate, keeping his high cheekbones. His eyes were a strange, flat blue, often shining with wickedness and now sleepy with satisfied hunger and lust.

He turned in the mirror, caressing his belly and looking at it from the sides and the front. Then his eyes wandered to the side table where there were four water bottles laid out, put there by the maid. She shut her eyes as he came over to get them, heard him take off their plastic tops and start drinking. He opened her eyes again to see his smooth belly right on her eye level, growing bigger and bigger, rounder and rounder, with each heavy gulp. After three bottles he gave a big belch and rubbed his expanding tummy, sitting back down on the bed so he could lean back against her legs, then started on the last one.

She decided to "wake up" then. "Started without me?" she asked, pushing down the comforter to look at him with teasing eyes.

"Not really," he said, swallowing and smiling. "Just water."

"Just a bottle or two," she said, sitting up and revealing her large, full breasts. "Stand up," she said, and she pulled him closer until she could squeeze his hips between her plump thighs, adorned with wrinkled thigh-high stockings. He gave one her breasts and upward flip with his hand, smiling down at her tangled hair.

"Drink that," she said, for he had forgotten the water bottle he still had in his hand. He chugged it obediently as she caressed the fullest part of his stomach in slow circles, and when he looked like he might have to stop pushed the end of the bottle up, making him finish it. He gasped when he was through, held his breath for a second, then belched again, looking quite pleased with himself. She fond herself squeezing him tighter, pressing an ear against his lightly distended belly so that she could listen to the tickings and purring of his insides. He laughed, rumpling her hair.

"You know what I could do to make it bigger?" he said, "I could get a bicycle pump, and put the tube up my ass, and--"

"Mister Six!" She took her head away. "That's disgusting!"

"You think so?" he said, pushing out his gut and running a fingertip from his navel to his collarbones. She saw by the wicked look in his eyes that he was having fun pulling her chain. "Of course it's disgusting--all sex is disgusting." He rubbed the curve of his pushed-out belly. "But it's fun and you like it, so who cares?" He pressed her down on the bed, kissing her breasts and tonguing her nipples and gently tickling her chubby sides.

"You're a liar--YOU like it too," she said.

"I do very much. But I think you'd like it if I was even fatter."

"Maybe."

"Maybe I could work out like crazy until I was too thin and then we could start all over again, hmm?" He nuzzled her, then pressed his tight, sloshing stomach up against her so that she could feel the gathering heat lower down.

"Or you could just drink more water," she said, rubbing his smooth side.

"That's a thought," he said, gently humping her through his clothes and the sheet.

"Or Coke and Mentos."

The thought made him stop humping her. In the sudden silence she heard his tummy gurgle. "I can't decide whether that would be awesome...or if it would make me actually explode."

"It might," she said, running a hand down the curve of his gut. "But then again, you've gotten pretty expandable. In fact," she said, pressing on his swelling tummy so that he moaned a little, "I think we could fill you up with a lot more."

"Mmm...You think so?"

"You might even be a little hungry."

"A little bit."

"Just a little?" She twisted his nipples, pinching his stomach just above the navel. "I think a lot."

"Starving," he agreed, his pupils large with the pleasure-pain.

"What would you like?"

* * *

Rhianna was always the one that stuffed him. She was the one who had gotten him to start, and was the one who decided how much he was eating and when she was going to let him stop. Outside of that, Mister Six always took the lead. He gave her the money for the pizza with very specific instructions, and she knew he wouldn't brook any contradiction.

The boy with the pizza broke into a big grin when she opened the door to hand him the money. And his jaw nearly dropped when she opened the door the rest of the way to take the box from him. He looked hardly old enough to have seen many naked women before, and especially not one so generously endowed.

She could tell he was pleased with her by the way that he looked at her when she came back. He was lying on his side, and she set the box next to him. Both of them were growing excited, and she knew that this was one of the times when he was going to challenge himself. He pushed down the waistband of his briefs and jeans a little bit in preparation for his belly to expand, but didn't undo the buttons and the zipper. Then, grinning at her, he took the first bite.

* * *

An hour later he had gorged himself until his stomach was ready to burst. He had devoured four slices within minutes, then a couple more, beginning to slow down and feel full. By then his stomach, already bloated by the water, was beginning to stick out quite a bit, and she massaged it, rubbing hard the way he liked. Then she coaxed him into eating two more...and, after a rest of twenty minutes, the very last. The box was empty, the entire pizza stuffed into his jutting stomach. He was laying on his back, trying to ease the pressure, when Rhianna poked him in the belly and told him that she wanted him to drink a few sodas.

Mister Six groaned happily. He ran his palms down his swelling sides and passed them over the front of his proud belly, which was starting to rumble in protest at having so much food crammed inside it. This was as stuffed as he'd ever been, and one could almost hear his skin straining across his enormous meal. "Nope," he said, grinning, "tummy's full."

"Are you sure?" she said, and ran her hand over his belly, caressing it from nipples to its fullest part, then rubbing it in smooth circles. He shut his eyes with pleasure, and she slipped her fingers inside his briefs, gently arranging his penis so the tip peaked out of the top of his underwear. "If you drink them like I ask--" she began, and finished by kissing him on the very end of his dick, closing her pouting lips about the head and sucking.

He drank them very fast, punching a hole in the bottom of each and finishing them off in a matter of seconds. It was called shotgunning, he told her, and since the contents went straight from the can to his stomach the carbonation should make his stomach bulge out even more. It also made him burp, and she giggled when he started hiccuping. This annoyed him so that he crushed the last can in one hand and pressed her face down into his swollen tummy with the other, making her unzip his jeans with her teeth. "Oh," he said, when she had at last undone the straining buttons, "oh." He was so full he had difficulty breathing, and lay over on his side with his pants undone, his huge stomach curving out above the waistband of his briefs. The enormous weight of his swollen gut made him helpless, sprawled across the rumpled bed in his skinny black jeans, and his drugged look, pale skin, delicate wrists and mussed hair was so evocative that she said without thinking, "You look like a Versache model."

He rolled his eyes at her, rubbing his huge, hard, tight belly, and gave an enormous, satisfied belch. "A binge-drinking Versache model." She spooned up against his back, pillowing his head on one of her rounded arms. He moaned, and she wrapped her other arm around his heavy belly, trying to support it as it rumbled and growled.

"I'm so full," he complained.

She snorted and gently slapped his tummy, making him hiccup. "You think?"

"I don't think I've ever been so stuffed in my entire life before," he said. "Never. My stomach's throbbing..."

"Aww," she said. She kissed him on the back of the neck, and suddenly realized that he was smiling. "What are you grinning about?" she asked, nipping him gently. "You look like you've swallowed a beach ball--you're ready to explode!"

"Mmm," he said. He painfully turned himself in her arms, his belly sloshing. He kissed her, snuggled his face into her shoulder, and gave a silly little hiccup, putting one of her hands on the curve of his stomach to make her caress him. In a little while he was asleep.

She laughed at him. As he drifted off to sleep she kissed him on the eyelids, on the nipples and the tight, tight skin of his belly. "Glutton," she said.

Russians

He calls me "doll" and "kitten"

I was looking at him, trying to re-aquaint myself with him. He was wearing a button-down blue shirt, tucked into black jeans, and worn-to-grey sneakers. He had a different camera. We stood in the doorway and on the stairwell, talking to my friend Elaine. Did his belly stick out now or had it always looked like that?

Elaine said she had to go get something, but would return to talk to us. He said we would still be here when she came back.

When she was gone he said, "Just be patient."

"You're mean," I said.

He said he liked my dress. "It makes your face look very white."

We managed to talk a little about cameras, and I asked him about his new one, how it worked. I was twisting my hair, talking, and he snapped a few pictures of me and said, "That's how it works."

I remember we were there for a long time. Elaine didn't come back, we finally went upstairs and found her in my hallway, talking with another girl. We joined them and talked even more until Elaine said she was going to lunch. We'd come later, he said, he needed to lock his camera and his laptop in my room so that he could hang out without fear of it getting stolen. Elaine bid us goodbye and went off with her friend.

* * *

He shut the door to my bedroom. "Now you have me all to yourself," he said, soothingly.

He said, "How are you?" as if we were meeting for the first time even though he had been here for hours, and his voice had changed, he meant it to me personally.

"I might just stay here tonight," he said, "would that be OK with you?"

"Oh," I said, loading my voice with sarcasm, "that would be so horrible." I had turned to the bed as I spoke, and smoothed out the covers.

He said, "Well, it's polite to ask."

I sat on the bed, facing him. He said, "Can I sit on your lap?"

No one had ever sat on my lap before. I was thinking we would kiss first, that it would be like before, where we would kiss standing up then copulate at once, but he came and sat on my lap, straddling my legs and putting his full warm weight on them, and I embraced him, pressing my cheek and breasts against his chest. I pressed the thin starched cloth of his shirt against his back, under my crossed arms.

"What are you going to do first?"

I unbuttoned his shirt and tongued his nipples.

"Cute," he said.

* * *
We were fucking. I was on top for the first time, and I liked it. He wanted to know where he should cum--on my breasts?

I told him that if he wanted to be a real bastard he could cum on my face, "like the Russians do."

"Do the Russians do this?" he said, twisting my nipple.

"Oh," I said.

He said, "You aren't answering--do Russian soliders do this?"

"No," I said.

He said, "Do you like that, little slut?"

He made "slut" into the sweetest word I had ever heard.