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“Ashley,” he said, holding both of my hands, “we need to talk.”
I started crying. I mean, what woman hasn’t heard those words as a prelude to, “it’s over.” And I didn’t want it to be over. I was still in love with my husband. I worked hard to look good for him. I kept a good house and I thought I kept him happy. But there it was, the dreaded phrase.
To make things worse, I am not pretty when I cry. I know there are women who can pull it off. But I’m not one of them. I turned away so he wouldn’t see how my nose had swollen, my eyes were puffy, my nose was running. I’m not pretty when I cry not that I’m ever really pretty.
He had released my hands and put his on my shoulders, turning me to face him.
When I didn’t look up he did that two fingers under the chin thing all men seem to know how to do from about puberty and lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“What in the world is wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t,” and then I broke down again.
He pulled me to him, only adding to my shame as I felt snot and tears soaking his shirt.
“It’s okay,” he said, “Dave’s here, I’ve got you.”
He went on like that in a soft voice, calming me, gentling me almost as he would a frightened fawn or something.
Finally, I cried myself out.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I said into his chest, not looking up.
He started laughing then, and my sorrow was instantly replaced with anger.
“What!?” I yelled, “you think it’s funny.”
He wrapped me tightly in a bear hug. I guess he knew my next move would be to hit him.
“Honey,” he said, his laughter under control but still talking around chuckles, “what in the world made you think you would lose me?”
I leaned back and looked up at him then.
“‘We need to talk’ always means that,” I said.
“Well,” he said, “not this time.”
“Really?” I said, wiping my nose with my arm.
He chuckled and kissed me, snot slick lips and all. When he broke the kiss a silver string connected us until it broke.
“Yes,” he said, “really. Now come over here and sit with me.”
He went to the couch and I started to sit next to him but he held up his hand in the universal “stop” signal and said, “lay down honey, with your head in my lap.”
So I started to lay on my belly, thinking he wanted oral sex, and he laughed again.
“No baby,” he said, “on your back so I can see that pretty face.”
I turned my face away almost automatically but he reached out, cat-quick from all of those hours he had spent in a karate dojo, grabbed my hand, and pulled me down.
I laid my head in his lap and closed my eyes when he started caressing my forehead and brushing my hair back.
“Ashley,” he said, his voice soft and low, “I have no intention of leaving you. I love you. You should know that.”
He stroked my hair and my forehead more and I managed, “I know but…..”
He touched his finger to my lips, shushing me.
“But we do need to talk,” he said and I felt that sudden rush of weakness in my legs from an adrenaline rush.
“Okay,” I managed, meeting his eyes.
“Ashley,” he said, his fingertips caressing my cheeks, “what can I do to get you to stop dieting?”
It was so unexpected I was speechless. All I could manage was, “huh?”
“Honey,” he said, “I’ve watched you for seven years now and you’re always worried about your weight. I’ve seen you pass up things I know you enjoy, and I’ve heard you in the bathroom when you don’t think I’m awake with your feather throwing up. You’re unhappy, and I don’t want you to be unhappy. It’s that simple.” He was smiling and stroking my hair as he talked.
“But,” I started and again he touched his finger to my lips.
“Look at me,” he said, smiling. “I’m easy on the eyes. I’m a bit of a savant when it comes to spotting market trends and I’ve made ridiculous amounts of money. I’m a catch. Don’t you think if I wanted a skinny woman I could have had one?”
“I’m always surprised you chose me,” I managed.
Again he chuckled.
“And I’m always surprised you said yes,” he said.
“David,” I started but he put his finger on my lips once again.
“Ashley,” he said, smiling down at me and tickling my face lightly with his fingertips, “I told the folks at the office they’re on their own from now on. I’m retired and I’m devoting my life to taking care of you.
“David,” I said, and this time he didn’t stop me, “are you serious?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, chuckling, “what’s the point of making all that money if I can’t enjoy it.”
I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my face.
“And just what,” I said, trying to put a bit of coquettish on my face and in my voice, “does ‘taking care’ of me mean?”
His grin was boyish and he reached across the arm of the couch and brought out a white box with Krispy Kreme printed across the top.
“For starters,” he said, opening the box one-handed with a flourish, “it means getting off of your stupid diet and letting you enjoy eating again.”
I started to say something but he shushed görükle escort me again, this time by putting a chocolate glazed donut in my mouth.
It was delicious, and it had been so long since I had enjoyed the simple pleasure of a donut I closed my eyes and let the pure bliss flow through me. When he touched my lips with the donut I opened my mouth hungrily.
He fed me like that for I don’t really know how long that first time.
He would touch my lips and I would open my mouth while he pushed more of the delicious pastry in it. Soon my cheeks were bulging and I knew my mouth was smeared with chocolate and icing. When he told me I was beautiful, in that instant I believed him.
And there was that pressure, that wonderful, sensual pressure building slowly deep in my belly. It was different from when we made love. There was no urgency, no frantic need. This was more pure than anything I ever imagined.
When I came, my cheeks bulging, completely relaxed, chewing and enjoying the way he stuffed the next piece of donut into my mouth, it was different too. There were no sudden muscular contractions as I associated with orgasm. Rather, the cup of my excitement just ran over. I could feel the flowing between my legs, and my nipples were so hard they ached.
And unlike an orgasm, it didn’t end. He kept feeding me, needing more force now to push the next bite in since my jaws were tiring and I was having trouble chewing. But my ecstasy kept going. My mouth was too full to breathe through, and my nose was still swollen from my crying. I felt snot bubbles expand and pop, kept chewing as fast as I could, and between my legs, I just kept flowing.
Finally, he tossed the box, empty now, to the floor and stroked my face and my hair while I finished chewing and swallowing.
My womanscent, redolent with pheromones, was strong in the air.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, still stroking my hair, “how did I get so lucky?”
I giggled and reached up, grabbing his hair, and pulled him down for a kiss.
My mouth was sticky with chocolate and slick with snot.
It was a good kiss.
Then, my fingers still entwined in his hair, I pulled him away and looked into his eyes.
“Are you sure about this David?” I asked, wondering if I hoped he would say “yes” or say “no.”
He smiled, kissed me again, and said, “absolutely.”
I was crying again before I knew it.
And then I slept.
Over the next month, we settled into our new life. David was home, he really had retired although he spent an hour or so a day on the computer doing whatever it is he does.
He would bring me breakfast, always a big breakfast, in bed and feed me, giving me that first pleasure, it’s hard to call something so gentle and lingering an orgasm, of the day. Breakfast was often something like a four egg omelet, fried potatoes, a half dozen slices of bacon, french toast swimming in butter and syrup, orange juice, very sweet coffee, and whole milk. My feeding usually took an hour or so.
He would walk me into the bathroom, hold my hand as I peed and pooped, telling me I was beautiful as I took care of morning needs, and then carefully wiping me when I was done.
Then it was into a hot bath, redolent with the soft scent of the bubble bath he used. I would lay back, completely relaxed as he bathed me, taking his time, all the while telling me I was beautiful. He would wash my face, shampoo my hair, and then slowly, and very thoroughly, wash my body. When he was finished with my front I would lean forward for him to do my back and then roll forward, up on all fours, so he could clean my ass and my pussy.
I was being pampered and wallowing in it.
When he would help me out of the tub, I was utterly relaxed and, if we’re being honest, I was already starting to find my extra weight a problem to move around. Then he would dry me and, as I stood on the thick bath mat, go over every inch of my skin, especially the creases getting deeper and deeper at my belly and high on my back, and put Desitin wherever it looked like I was getting a rash. It was so intimate I would be aroused by the time he walked me back to bed.
Then we would make love for the first time of the day.
I was no longer ashamed of my weight or my body. I loved the way he would gather a double handful of my belly fat and squeeze, making me jiggle, as they say, like a bowl full of jelly. Sometimes he would push that apron of flesh, what he called a fat girl’s natural modesty, up out of the way and use his mouth and tongue to bring me a true orgasm. Sometimes he would use his fingers, while his mouth covered mine, and my face, and my forehead, and my eyelids with soft kisses, bringing me to the edge and holding me right there until I was pleading for my release. Sometimes he would roll me over and take me from behind, either doggie fashion vaginally or anally, sometimes using his mouth first, sometimes not.
He was being creative and I was so lost in the sensations I just waited to see what would come next.
While I bursa merkez escort was getting fat he was getting hard. I don’t mean just his erection although there was plenty of that. David had always been pretty trim, and now that he was only working an hour or so a day, when he wasn’t tending to me he was working out in his home gym. By the end of that first month, he was a trim 5’10”, 170 pounds with about three ounces of body fat. When we would stand together before the full-length mirror, getting ready to go out, we were perfect opposites.
When we had finished making love, laying together, him telling me I was beautiful and me telling him I was lucky, he would make a mid-morning snack, often something like a gallon of ice cream (Rocky Road for me) with chocolate syrup made into a giant sundae, and feed me in bed. When he fed me it was always the same, him putting the food into my mouth a little faster than I could chew and swallow, making my cheeks bulge and leaving my mouth and chin smeared, often with residue running down my chin onto my boobs, my nose running, and me being thoroughly content.
When I was finished with whatever he had brought me, he would carefully clean me up, my face, and my boobs and, if it had gotten too messy he would help me to the chair while he changed the sheets. And I would watch him, moving around, naked, trim, beautiful, and wonder how I had gotten so incredibly lucky.
I would nap for a while then, sated.
When he woke me for lunch it might be something he cooked, he was getting to be a world-class cook, or, as today, fast food. He knew my weakness for Mcdonald’s and today he woke me with a tray containing four Big Macs, two large french fry orders, and two large vanilla shakes. He fed me for an hour, bringing that pressure in my belly along with the pleasant feeling in my stomach along until I was squirming as he stuffed my mouth.
While I was sucking on the vanilla shake, thick as McDonald’s shakes are making me work at it, his finger slipped between my legs and he brought me to the second, third, and fourth orgasms of the day.
Spent, soaked, Big Mac residue smearing the bottom half of my face, highlighted by vanilla shake overflow, I laid back, smiling, as he slowly circled the bed, his camera clicking.
“I think you need some dessert,” he said, grinning, and pushing down his jeans, kicking them off, and then his boxers.
I was captivated watching him, his hard body so different from my own, and, of course, his beautiful cock, hairless now since he was waxing, demonstrating his interest with his erection standing straight up.
As he approached the bed I opened my mouth, offering him what he wanted.
I had a mouth full of milkshake as he entered, making him gasp as I clamped down with my lips, holding him in.
He pulled out and pushed a dozen french fries into my mouth before putting his erection back in and I damn near came right then. The blow job lasted since he would pull out, stuff my mouth, and then put it back in. I was flowing with the wonderful feeding pleasure and then suddenly cumming, hard, as he thrust balls deep, gagging me before pulling out and cumming on my face and hair.
As I laid back, sated sexually, he spooned the rest of the milkshake into my mouth and then latched onto my nipple. I went to sleep with him nursing.
He woke me with an orgasm, his fingers busy between my legs.
When I relaxed again he smiled and said, “up sleepyhead, we’re going out.”
He walked me into the bathroom, again kissing me while I peed and then wiping me, and then led helped me step into the tub for a quick shower this time.
It wasn’t as sensual as when he bathed me, but it was still damn nice, having my face, hair, and body cleaned and then dried.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror as he picked out what I would wear that evening.
As I took inventory I realized I was no longer depressed or revolted by the woman looking back from the mirror. I found her to be sexy. I lifted a double handful of my belly fat and dropped it, with an audible slap, and thought it was cute.
I’m one of those women whose fat settles in her hips and thighs and upper arms. And it had really settled since he started feeding me.
“At least,” I thought, looking in the mirror and lifting my breasts, “the rest of me is finally catching up with these.”
I had hit puberty at 11 and by seventh grade was a C cup, suffering unending teasing. By 16 I was already fighting weight, and my DD cup boobs were already sagging. Now, they were still full, but my nipples, dark tan on dark areolas the size of coffee cups, pointed straight at the ground. When I dropped them there was another audible slap.
I lifted my arms, seeing David move up behind me, put my hands behind my head, and slowly moved my arms forward and back, making the soft flesh hanging from my upper arms sway. He cupped it with his hands, kissed the back of my neck, and whispered, “you are so damn beautiful, maybe I’ll just stay here and look at you.”
I bursa sınırsız escort giggled and said, “you promised a night out.”
He slapped my ass, making me yelp, and said, “pushy, aren’t you?”
I turned, put my arms around his neck, kissed him, and whispered, “I am what you made me my love.”
He chuckled at that and squeezed a double handful of my big ass.
“I am showing you off tonight,” he said.
“Oh?” I said, doing my best giggle.
He crooked his finger and I followed him.
In the bedroom, he had laid out an outfit I had never seen before.
I giggled and held up a scrap of bright green material. It would barely cover my boobs, basically a bright green tit sack.
The skirt was the same material and the same lack of it. It would leave my ass peeking out when I moved, let alone if I bent over. I saw fishnet nylons and a garter belt but I saw no panties.
“Sit first,” he said and so I sat at my little makeup table. I Love it when he does my makeup. He had me a bit over made up, a bit slutty, a bit exotic. The green eyeshadow he used matched the material of the outfit. I liked the look.
“David,” I said, “where can I wear this?”
He smiled and said, “told you. I’m showing you off tonight. A new place.”
He helped me into the outfit, adjusting my boobs into the tit sacks, then getting the fishnet nylons up and hooked to the garter belt. He showed me the matching green “fuck-me” shoes, high heeled, open-toed, with ankle straps, before he put them on me.
When he helped me stand I tottered a bit. I’m not used to heels.
“Come on, beautiful,” he said.
He called an Uber rather than driving and gave them an address I didn’t recognize.
It was a place on the outskirts of town where things get, you know, a little “sketchy.”
It was one of those big buildings that might once have been a warehouse or something. The outside was done in shades of pink and a big bright pink neon sign announced it as “The Cow Barn.”
Inside the motif was pink as well, with a sort of corridor leading to the entry to the main room. A doorman, big enough to be called a bouncer, sat at a counter. David showed some sort of card, laminated like an ID card. The doorman pointed to a little pad and said, “ladies here first.”
I stepped onto the pad and saw a red LED sign light up.
It said “268.”
“Oh shit,” I said when I realized it was scales.
The doorman handed me a lanyard with a handwritten “268” on it.
David hung the lanyard around my neck, smiling. “I told you I was going to show you off,” he said.
“David, I,” I started but he touched my lips, shushing me.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and in that instant, I believed him and I knew, on some level, I was lost.
He led me into the place, a classic nightclub with a couple of dozen small tables, mostly four-tops as my brief excursion into waitressing had taught me, with a big bar, a moderately sized dance floor, and a raised stage with a not-too-bad live band doing, of all things, a passable rendition of “16 Candles,” a classic from the 1950s. We sat, ordered drinks, scotch and water for him, a pitcher of beer for me, and watched the band and the dancers.
It was obvious that I was not the biggest woman in the place. Hell, I was right in the middle if we’re being honest here. As I watched, a very handsome man I guessed in his 50s came in with a young woman, she couldn’t have been out of her 20s, who was so big she was using one of those cart things. He held her hand as she used her other to guide the cart to the table the hostess led them to. The lanyard around HER neck read “486.”
“What IS this place,” I asked David.
He smiled, reached across the table and covered my hand, and said, “this is a club for men who have finally got their women to quit dieting.”
The waitress was back and we ordered. The prime rib, loaded baked potato, creamed corn, and a small house salad with Russian dressing for me. A Caesar salad for him light on the dressing. I ordered a double helping of sauteed mushrooms as an appetizer.
“Is that what you want for me?” I asked, nodding to the couple coming in with her on the scooter.
He grinned and said, “she’s still a bit skinny for my taste.”
When the band started into Elvis Presley’s amazing version of “Fools Rush In,” he stood and offered his hand.
On the dance floor, I felt like every eye in the place was on me. I giggled and said, “DAVID!” when his hands slipped down and lifted my skirt, showing my big (and bare) ass.
He grinned and pulled me closer and said, “toldya, I’m showing you off.”
Dinner was excellent and we ate in companionable silence, mostly people watching.
And they were interesting people to watch. It quickly became obvious to me that I was in a fetish club. Every couple was a relatively small man with a much bigger woman. Ages didn’t seem to matter. One skinny, very old man, he had to be 80, was attending to a girl who was probably lying about being of age, with a lanyard reading “292.” At the other extreme, a young man who had to be a college student, he had that look around him, was feeding, being careful to wipe her lips after every bit, a white-haired woman whose face was a mass of wrinkles, and whose lanyard read “468.” She was immense.
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