“Wenches don’t wear knickers. We’d better do something about that.”
One hand still worked on my tits, kneading and pressing them, while the other wrenched down the knickers, bringing to light the dimpled flesh beneath.
“So much lushness,” he whispered reverently, letting his palm glide over both my buttocks, then down the crack, reaching between my thighs and slapping their tender inner flesh gently, so that it wobbled. He pushed me down, so that my face fell against the rather rough bedcover, and proceeded to kiss my bottom all over, from the rounded cheeks and inward, to the dark furrow that bisected them. His tongue lapped at the sensitive hidden skin, and I began to twitch, my pussy convulsing, wanting him there, too, and yet still at my ass, and everywhere, all over my body, with simultaneous devilry.
Suddenly, his hands gripped my hips again, and he had me flat on my back, naked but for the black velvet bodice, legs spread and ready to envelop him in their ample warmth.
“I want to devour you,” he said. His stubble scratched its way up the insides of my thighs, striking sparks on the journey, ending at my parted, soaked lips, and drinking them in, a reward well earned.
I writhed against his tongue, wanting to bathe it in endless nectar, wanting to draw him up inside me. The ceiling fittings blurred and danced around the corners of my eyes, while everything else, from neck to toes, melted into one hot mess.
The tip of his tongue flicked my clit from side to side until I came the first time, crying out in wonderment, unleashed at last from the tummy-concealing, boob-enhancing, bottom-controlling day-to-day reality that had kept me hidden and trussed up, away from the simple freedoms of life.
“Ginny, Ginny, Ginny, you should see your face,” he told me, kneeling up between my thighs, grinning wicked white teeth down at me. “All that doubt and fear and confusion was gone. You looked like an erotic fucking goddess. Just as you should be.”
“A goddess, mmm.” I stretched my arms out above my head, enjoying the way my breasts lifted. “That must make you a god.”
“Hmm, well, if the cap fits . . .” He kissed a ring around my navel, laying his cheek against the ripples of my stomach for a moment.
He flipped me over again, placing the hard stuffed pillows under my hips, laying his own body over mine until our cheeks were side by side and his cock lay at the crease of thigh and perineum, ready to seat itself.
There was a pause for the application of the nonmedieval prophylactic, then a sweet, deep hiss of pleasure from us both as hard flesh met soft. My cunt was hungrier than my mouth, sucking him in, squeezing him tight, pushing back to beg an ever-firmer thrust, accompanied by the delicious slap of his pelvis against my broad bum cheeks.
Never had my weight felt better employed than in giving him extra handfuls to grab and slap and stroke. He certainly seemed to make the most of it, his hands and arms making contact with as much of my swaying surface area as they could, stilling my swinging breasts, pressing into my juddering thighs, finding the one small tight part of me with his cock and seating himself over and over again.
“Take thy master’s yard in thy heated quaint, wench,” he said, causing me to crane my neck around and query this odd statement.
“Yard? Quaint?”
My question gave me the opportunity to look at his glorious face, which had transformed—as a result of fierce concentration on the job at hand—from languid handsomeness to wicked beastliness.
His brow cleared for a moment. “Not a medievalist, Ginny? Ah well, I can educate you. Hmm. Now get on your back, wench. I want to see your face when you reach the moment of death. And I don’t mean literal death. It’s a euphemism for orgasm.”
“Wow,” I breathed, letting him flip me over and spread my thighs. “I’ve heard of getting medieval on someone’s ass, but this—”
“Cheeky wench,” he growled, and then he was back in, his lean lusciousness above me, his lips brushing mine. “I’ll brook not thine impertinence.”
“Okay, okay,” I laughed, distracted by the archaic language and wanting to get back to the twenty-first-century shag. “Just give me what you’ve got, milord. Or . . . render me . . . what thou . . . hast. Or whatever.”
He rendered me what he hadst in fine style, bringing us both to a steaming, boiling, sticky climax that tipped us both over the brink.
For me, it was my biggest and best (admittedly of a poor field), but even as the rush of ecstasy dissolved, I found myself falling back into my habitual thought patterns, sure that this was just an opportunistic fuck for my beautiful medievalist.
I was already resigning myself for a brief vote of thanks and a “See you around” before the shamefaced sneak-out. Determined to preempt it, I sat up briskly and reached for my discarded headscarf. “We’d better get going before Lady Bray finds us and I lose my job. That was nice. Thanks.”
He propped himself up, screwing his eyes beneath his gorgeously disheveled brow. “Are you giving me the brush off? Oh god. You have a boyfriend. Of course you do. A girl like you . . .”
“God, no! I’m single. You think I’m some kind of slut?”
“I know you are,” he said, winking. “The best kind.”
I melted. I couldn’t keep up this no-nonsense, don’t-care front.
“So . . . ?”
“So stop being so ridiculous and come back to my hotel with me. That was just a taster, my dear. I have plans for you.”
“Plans?”
“For acts far beyond the medieval scope.” He rebuttoned and tidied himself before extending a hand. I took it and followed him out of the bedroom and down the stone stairs, senses on high alert for signs of Lady Bray.
“Did you know, Ginny, that the medieval church frowned upon all sexual contact that wasn’t strictly missionary?”
“No.”
“Oh, yes. All sex had to be strictly for the purposes of procreation. And only on certain days of the year, too. That’s one of the things that makes me glad to be alive now.” We slunk through the kitchens—past the washers-up and the oblivious porters—to the scullery. “The only thing that really bugs me about modern times,” he sighed, “is the terrible shortage of wenches. But I think I’ve solved that problem now.”
“Yeah.” I laid my head on his shoulder as his arm wrapped tight around me. “Let’s hope so.”
What Girls Are Made Of
BY EVAN MORA
There’s this saying, maybe you know it, about what makes girls girls (sugar and spice and everything nice) and what makes boys boys (snips and snails and puppydog tails).
I would tell you that I think the “girl” part is absolutely true, because I’m most definitely sweet like sugar, and I can give you a rush that’s better than a whole Halloween pillowcase full of candy —and that, let me tell you, is everything nice. And spice? Hell, I’ve got that in abundance.
I love spice. It’s what fires people up, what makes them get all hot under the collar. It’s what makes a girl like me stand up and say I don’t care how fine the packaging is, snips and snails just ain’t gonna do it for me. Not when there’s so much sugar and spice out there.
As it turns out, these ingredients—sugar, spice, everything nice—can combine all kinds of wonderful ways. There are girls of every shape, size, and color imaginable, each with her own personal blend of sugar and spice.
I’m happy to say that I’ve sampled my fair share of the flavors out there. But my very favorite combo—the peanut butter and chocolate of them all—is a dapper butch woman with a little substance to her. Mmm-hmm. And I say this with no disrespect to all the lean-hipped, washboard-fit butches out there. You are certainly yummy in your own right. But give me a handsome woman tucked into a pair of 36-by-30s, and I start to melt in all the right places.
If I’m on the dance floor and I spy that fly butch woman moving to the beat, I’m going to make my way over there and dance alongside her; see what I can do to catch her eye. I’ve got moves of my own, and I’m certainly not shy, and if she’s appre
ciating me, and she sees that I’m appreciating her, then I’m going to move in a little closer and put my hand on her arm, give her a little smile, and say hi.
We’re going to start to sway together, she and I, and this is one of my very favorite things, because even though there’s a conversation made of small talk going on, there’s another one going on between hands and bodies, all at the same time. I’m going to run my hand up her arm, over her biceps and broad shoulder and’round to stroke the short soft hair at the back of her neck. She’s going to wrap a strong arm around my waist, bring me in nice and close, and press a solid thigh between mine.
Now, I mentioned I’ve got spice in abundance—I’m feisty, some might say. And I’m no dainty, delicate femme either; I can hold my own in just about any situation. And this woman I’m dancing with? She already knows I’m bold enough to make my way over here and make my intentions clear. And what she’s doing with that strong arm around my waist and solid thigh between mine? She’s letting me know that she can handle my shit. And there is nothing sexier than a big, capable woman who knows she’s got it going on.
She’s going to give me a sexy, knowing smile then, before leaning in and kissing me breathless, making me curl my toes inside my kitten heels. She’s going to slide her hand a little lower, cup my ass, and pull me a little tighter against her so I can feel the crush of her breasts beneath that freshly pressed shirt and the undeniable ridge of something strapped beneath those jeans. She’s going to whisper in my ear, ask me if I want to go someplace, and I’ll say yes, I know a place, and take her home.
I’m going to close my door, and she’s going to press me up against it, lift me up and settle my legs around her waist, my skirt bunched around my hips, those big strong hands gripping the undersides of my thighs. We’re going to move like that, tongues twining, hips rocking, breast to breast through all these layers of clothes. And when that’s not enough, when we’re all hot and bothered and those layers of clothes are too much to bear, I’ll whisper, “Follow me,” and lead her into my bedroom.
I’ll let her undress me, like a good butch should, and she’ll do it slow enough to let me know she’s enjoying every minute of it. She’ll have skilled hands, this woman, and a mouth that’s pure sin, and she’s going to put them to work, working me over until I need to come so bad I can’t hardly think, and the only words coming out of my mouth are “Please, baby . . .”
She’ll laugh then—a wicked, sexy sound that’ll go right to my pussy—and she’ll pick me up like I weigh nothing at all and drop me down, right in the center of my queen-size bed. She’ll kneel between my wide open legs, stroking that impressive looking bulge still tucked inside her jeans, and ask me if I’m ready for her. I’ll say “Yes, baby,” but she’ll shake her head. “I don’t think so,” she’ll say.
She’ll cover my body with hers then, pressing me down into the bed while she settles her weight onto her forearms and sets to work with that mouth again, teasing a trail from my earlobe down the sensitive skin of my neck, making me shiver before she captures my mouth with hers and tangles her tongue with mine. All the while, she’ll be rocking her hips up slowly against me, teasing me with the promise of that big fat cock I know she’s got, the scrape of denim against my swollen clit driving me wild with need.
I’m going to be pulling at the hem of her shirt, trying to get at her skin, but she’ll just capture my hands and pin them over my head, both my wrists held captive in one strong hand, and it won’t matter how much I struggle, she isn’t going to budge one bit. It turns me on, how strong and capable she is, how she holds me there without effort.
She’ll get back to business, mouth on my skin, licking and sucking and biting a wet trail down my body until I’m moaning and pleading and I’m so ready for her that I’m soaking through the front of that finely pressed shirt of hers and the smell of my sex is all around us.
She’ll let go of my wrists then, smooth that hand down the curve of my body and down between my thighs. She’ll tease my wetness with her blunt fingertips and then push two thick fingers inside. She’ll fuck me like that, curling her fingers a little, so that she’s hitting my spot just right. And each time she thrusts, the pad of her thumb will stroke against my clit until I’m just about out of my mind. “Oh yeah,” she’ll say, “you’re ready for me now,” and then she’ll suck my juices from her fingers. She’ll kiss me once more so I can taste myself on her, and then she’ll move off the bed so she can undress.
She’ll slide each button through its hole, nice and slow, knowing she’s got an appreciative audience, and when they’re all undone, she’ll shrug her shirt off, and her sports bra will follow close behind. She’s got big, beautiful breasts and a slightly tucked-in waist, and I love the juxtaposition of her feminine curves with the low-slung men’s jeans and the big silver buckle. She’s sugar and spice—but something else, too, and I love how it all blends together. She’s going to open that buckle, make slow work of the fly, while I bite my lip in anticipation. Then she’ll reach inside, pull out that fat cock, and stroke it in her hand. “You like what you see?” she’s going to say to me then, and I’ll tell her that I do.
I’m going to do more than that though. I’m going to show her just how much I like it. I’m going to climb off the bed and press myself up against her, slip my tongue into her mouth. I’m going to kiss her until she groans, until those big strong arms close around me. And here’s another thing I love—another seeming contradiction that makes me all weak in the knees—I love how soft she feels. She’s rock solid and strong and proud of it, you can tell, but she’s also deliciously soft and warm. I love the crush of her breasts against mine; the rounded curve of her belly pressed against me.
I’m going to kiss my way down the side of her neck, cup those big breasts with my hands. I’m going to tease her nipples until they’re nice and tight and then pull each one into my mouth. I know some girls like their butches looking a little more boyish, a little more androgynously flat. But not me: I like breasts that fill up my hands, and a woman who appreciates their sensitivity. I’m going to take my time and really love those breasts until I hear her making little sounds of pleasure.
And when I hear those sounds, I’m going to let my hands trail lower, slip beneath the waistband of those open jeans. I’m going to help them slide down, past the curve of her hips; I’ll kneel down and help her kick them off. I’m going to run my hands over her rounded calves and across the front of her wide, muscled thighs. Then I’m going to wrap my hand around that thick silicone dick and take it deep into my mouth. She’ll widen her stance, cup the back of my head, rock her hips forward just a little. “That’s it,” she’ll whisper, and I’ll work it a little faster, because I know the base of that dick is hitting her clit just right.
It won’t be very long, though, before she pulls me up and splays me wide on the edge of my bed. Then she’ll thrust into me, hard and deep, and I’ll wrap my legs around her hips, pull her in even tighter. I love the feel of all that strength pounding into me. Maybe later on we’ll do it again, nice and slow, but for now, I want it fast and rough; I want sweat and fierce hungry kisses; I want to grab handfuls of her and sink my nails deep into her skin and come with a loud wailing cry all over her big fat cock.
And maybe she’ll come, too, fucking me like that, and we’ll collapse in a tangled sweaty heap. Or maybe she’ll want to switch it up a little—want to lie on her back while I straddle those hips, sink down onto her cock, and grind my pussy against her until she explodes with a great heaving orgasm of her own. Maybe she’ll even unbuckle her harness and come on my fingers and tongue. You never know. Sugar and spice, right?
At some point, she’ll pick those 36-by-30s up off the floor and try to shake the wrinkles out of her shirt. She’ll put it all back together and tuck it in just right. She’ll check her reflection in the mirror above my dresser and will probably catch me checking out her ass. She’ll give me a wink, flash a cocky smile, and I’ll start to melt all over again.
Because a big butch woman who knows she’s got it going on? Gets me every time.
Appetite
BY ELIZABETH COLDWELL
My basket is heaving with goodies. I’ve made a slow circuit of the supermarket—which is beautifully quiet in this midmorning lull before the lunchtime shoppers descend—picking out everything I need. I have thick, yellow Cornish clotted cream, a jar of rich Belgian chocolate dipping sauce, and a tub of ready-made custard infused with the finest Madagascan vanilla seeds. My mouth is almost watering just looking at it all.
The woman in line at the next checkout keeps glancing at the contents of my basket, then back to me, trying her best to be surreptitious in her movements, as though I won’t realize what she’s doing. I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s made a mental note of all the rich, sweet, calorie-laden treats I’m buying, then attributed them to the heft of my hips and ass, the swell of my belly, the extra weight around my chin and the tops of my arms.
Because I’m fat, and because I’m buying all these things that seem designed purely to make me fatter, she’s deduced that I’m greedy and lazy and stupid; that I don’t take any care of my appearance; and that I am deserving of her contempt. By extension, she probably reckons I’m not getting any sex either.
On all these counts, she would be wrong.
While it’s true the black vest top and knee-length shorts I’m wearing aren’t exactly the most flattering items for a woman of my build, it’s an unseasonably hot day, and I don’t see the point in dressing up purely for a quick trip to the supermarket. And they’ll serve me perfectly well for putting in a few miles on the exercise bike in our basement when I get home.
There’s no denying it: I’m a big girl, and I have a big appetite. I love my food, and I always have. I’m not ashamed of that, and the pursed lips and disapproving glances of some self-righteous stranger in a checkout line aren’t going to change my attitude. She can think what she likes. She probably didn’t even notice all the fruit that’s also in my basket: the ripe, juicy peaches; the succulent strawberries, fresh from the fields of Kent. Or maybe she did, and she simply chose to ignore them so as not to prejudice her impression of me.
Curvy Girls Page 13
