Misadventures of a Curvy Girl

by Sierra Simone

  To our surprise, Ireland is just as eager to go. She changes into fresh clothes and slings her camera around her shoulder.

  “What?” she asks, catching Ben and me looking at her.

  “You don’t have to come,” I tell her gently. “It’s not your town, and anyway, I don’t know how much there will be to do—”

  “There will be plenty to do, for one thing, and for another, while this may not be my home, it is yours. I’m not a totally heartless city girl; I want to help, and I can help, and I’m coming along too. So long as it won’t be hard on Ben.”

  Ben crosses over to her and yanks her close. “I swear it won’t be,” he murmurs, training those intense, dark eyes on Ireland’s mouth. And then he gives her a kiss like he’s just come home from the war all over again.

  Holm is flooded with people when we get there—police cars and pickup trucks crowd the debris-choked streets—but Ireland is right. Even with so many people here, there’s plenty to do. While Ben focuses on the tavern, Ireland and I spend the next five or six hours working to help shift rubble and sort through wreckage. We work deep into the humid dark, Greta sticking close and providing moral support by licking everyone’s hands and doing enough tail-wagging for an entire pack of dogs. And Ireland frequently pauses in order to snap pictures of the town at work righting itself.

  I don’t know much about photography beyond taking pictures of used farm equipment to sell it on the internet, but even I can see her pictures are striking. An older woman crying in front of the flattened house where her sister died. Dirt-streaked faces gazing out at the sunset. Ben, head bowed in misery as he stands in the doorway of the tavern.

  The pictures give me chills, and as we’re sitting around the kitchen table, each with a well-earned glass of bourbon as the night presses in through the windows, I ask her, “Why didn’t you become a photographer for real? Why go work for Drew?” I like Drew quite a lot, but that doesn’t mean Ireland isn’t wasted writing tweets for microbreweries or creating brand strategy for a sandwich chain. Pictures like these could be in newspapers, on the covers of magazines; she could be anywhere, with her pick of people wanting her pictures.

  Ireland takes a long drink of bourbon and reaches out to idly finger a sunflower sitting in an old jelly jar on the table. I saw the bloom as we walked in, still fresh and healthy and sheltered from the storm by the porch stairs—knowing Ireland’s fascination with them, I made sure to come out and pick it for her while she got cleaned up. I’m glad I did, because watching her face soften as she studies the flower makes my chest puff out with pride. “I, uh, I turned down a photography scholarship in college,” she says eventually, eyes still on the flower. “And decided to stay local. Major in something more practical.”

  It sounds plausible enough—hell, I did the same, choosing a college only two hours away so I could be close to the farm while I got my degree in Ag Econ—but there’s something about the way she doesn’t look at us as she answers that makes me think there’s more to the story than she’s willing to share right now.

  She’s saved from me pressing further by Ben’s stifled yawn, and we abandon our bourbon for a shower and sleep. Ben surprises me by climbing into bed with us, folding Ireland into his big arms, and reaching out with one foot to touch mine like we used to do when we were boys sharing a bed. But when I stir in the middle of the night, I find Ireland in my arms instead, my foot encountering nothing but cool sheets under her tucked-up legs.

  He still doesn’t trust himself to sleep with us the whole night through.

  “…haven’t talked to them yet at all. I wanted to ask you first, of course.”

  Ireland’s voice filters through my groggy brain, and I roll over to see her perched on the edge of the bed, her legs curled up beside her, a phone to her ear. Like this, the mouthwatering angles of her hips and ass are perfectly delineated by the morning sunshine pouring in through the window. I move closer to her and start shamelessly squeezing her curves and stroking her stomach. She ineffectively bats at me as she keeps talking.

  “I’m so glad you like them, and we’re going back today, so I’ll take more. I think this is a much stronger pitch in the long run, but I’ll need to come back a few more times. I want to capture all the rebuilding efforts and stuff like that.”

  I hear Drew’s voice on the other end, but I ignore it, busy exploring Ireland’s body and teasing fingers over her hip to the soft vee of her pussy.

  She gives a delicious shiver, and her voice when she answers her boss is a little strained. “Yes, let’s make sure to add this to the meeting tomorrow. I want everybody’s feedback.”

  They exchange a few more words before she hangs up, and I curl my hand possessively over my new favorite toy.

  “You’re going back to Kansas City,” I say. I knew she’d have to, but I can’t fight the irrational urge to truss her up to my bed and keep her here at the farm forever.

  She sighs and parts her legs enough for me to pet her cunt properly. “I’ll leave tonight, since my meeting is first thing tomorrow. I’m going to see if we can pitch a different angle to the Tourism Board. Rather than ‘farmers at work’ for Real Kansas, I want to show Holm. The citizens working together after the storm, grieving together and helping each other.”

  I think of her pictures last night, of the goose bumps they gave me, and make an approving noise. “I like that idea.”

  “So does Drew, so it’s really down to convincing the client. At any rate,” Ireland says, her eyes shyly glancing away, “Drew thinks I should sell some of the pictures too. He’s reaching out to his friends at some local and national papers now.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I slide my arms around her and tug her even closer so I can reward this good news with more caresses and strokes where she’s growing wet and needy. “Your pictures should be in every paper, in every magazine.”

  “You’re just saying that because you want to have sex with me again,” she mutters, but she blushes.

  “No, I’m saying that and I want to have sex with you again. Now, I’m going to holler for Ben, and when he gets in here, I suggest you be ready.”

  Watching Ireland leave is painful, even with as tired as Ben and I are from working in town all day. We each kiss her senseless before she climbs into the car, crowding her against the car door and taking turns with her lush mouth until we’re all breathless and she can barely stand.

  “Come back to us,” I plead against her lips.

  “You’re ours,” Ben says simply, and then he leans down and bites at her neck. She shudders against us.

  “Yours.” She smiles. “I’m yours.”

  She calls us every night, and for once, the internet connection at the farmhouse is strong enough for the three of us to use video chat for its best purpose—so she can see Ben and me stroke off for her while she leisurely fingerfucks herself. From her calls, we also learn the Tourism Board is thrilled about the new pitch and that the Kansas City Star has been running her pictures with the promise to buy more.

  She awkwardly, adorably, asks if she can come visit this weekend.

  “How about you move in,” Ben says.

  She laughs, but I know he’s not joking. The time away from her has done nothing to dull our certainty that she’s our girl, the missing piece to our hearts, and every moment she’s away from us is painful. After she offhandedly mentions being able to work remotely, it makes it impossible not to dream and hope of a time when she can stay here always. But Ben and I agree not to push her too fast. We’ve had years and years to adjust to the way we like our love and our sex, but Ireland’s only had a week.

  We can be patient. Maybe.

  When she returns on Friday afternoon in her gravel-dusted Prius and with a fresh coat of lavender lipstick on that irresistible mouth, Ben and I are waiting.

  She parks in the driveway and climbs out of the car, looking a bit shy, like she’s not sure what it will be like to be with us in person again. She’s wearing another pencil skirt, this
time with heels and a clingy cardigan thing that shows off all my favorite parts of her breasts and stomach and waist. The pencil skirt hugs her tightly enough that I can easily perceive the inverted triangle of her crotch, and even though I was already hard with anticipation simply knowing she was on the way, seeing her in the flesh is like a kick of heat right to my dick. My balls tighten and my shaft swells even more, needing to be buried inside her at the first opportunity.

  Ben is the first to move, prowling toward her like a wolf and then seizing her in a lewd kiss that has her nipples poking through her sweater.

  “Inside,” he growls, all beast to Ireland’s beauty. “Fucking now.”

  We go inside, and we fuck Ireland in her pencil skirt, and then in nothing but her heels, and then again in nothing but her lipstick.

  “Move in,” Ben says again as we all lie in bed that night, naked and sweaty and spent.

  Ireland laughs again, burrowing into us and falling asleep in a record amount of time.

  This time, Ben almost manages to stay the entire night with us before creeping back to his own bed where he feels safe.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ireland

  “No way,” I say firmly. “Uh-uh. Nothing doing.”

  It’s my fourth weekend with the boys—my boys—and the miserable August heat has driven us to the big farm pond at the back of the property. I thought we were heading back here simply to sit beside the water and let the breeze cool us off, but that notion evaporated the minute we reached the small wooden dock and both Caleb and Ben stripped completely naked. I barely had a chance to ogle their big, muscled bodies with those delightfully taut asses and heavy, semihard cocks, before they launched themselves into the water.

  Completely naked.

  “Come on, peach!” Caleb says with his customary grin. “It feels amazing!”

  I shake my head vigorously. It’s hot as hell out here, and while I normally love swimming, I love swimming in a swimsuit. One that has been carefully selected to support and flatter. The idea of stripping naked in all this bright sunlight, every wobbly inch of me exposed, and then jumping into the water with all those wobbly inches at maximum wobble is enough to make me wince.

  It’s strange, because a month ago, I would have avowed the new Ireland was confident and fierce and no longer cared about wobbles at all. And you would think having two hunky farm boys jumping my bones every few hours would have cured me of any insecurity at all!

  I’m annoyed with myself about it. It feels like I’m going backward…and with no good reason. These boys adore me. I adore them. They’ve never done anything to make me feel anything but the sexiest woman alive.

  But, if I’m honest, when Ben and I fought and I left, there was this tiny part of me that said, Oh. Of course. What did I expect would happen? Plus-sized girls don’t date cute, fit guys. Men like them won’t want to keep you around.

  I know it was his war trauma talking, and Ben never made that moment about my body—but I did. I definitely did. And there’s this weird little place in my mind that won’t let go of it, like a dog with a bone. Just chewing over this insecurity until it’s gross and splintery and rank. Until it whispers things like how long do you really think this can last? How long until they really look at your body and decide not to want you anymore?

  “I don’t like swimming with fish,” I lie, sitting on the dock instead. I stretch out my legs and smooth my skirt primly down my thighs. The fabric sticks to my skin because I’m so sweaty, and I try not to think about how cold the swimming hole looks right now. How refreshing. “I prefer to swim in clean water. Without living things in it.”

  “The fish are very nice fish,” Caleb promises. “They haven’t eaten a person in years.”

  “Funny,” I reply. “Very funny. I’m still not coming in.”

  “I think you are,” Ben says from next to the dock. The water flows gracefully over his strong shoulders as he effortlessly treads in place, the tantalizing lines of his firm body disappearing into the green depths and hiding the most interesting parts from view.

  I try to catch a glimpse anyway.

  I bet even the cool water swallowing up his body is doing nothing to diminish that perfect penis of his.

  Caleb is the first to haul himself up the dock ladder, but Ben follows right after, and then I don’t have to crane my neck anymore to see their beautiful cocks because they’re right in front of me.

  “No,” I say, having a feeling where this is going. “I’m not going in.”

  “You’re all flushed, peach,” Caleb coaxes. Even as he says the words, a drop of sweat drips down from my hairline. “A nice dip would make you feel better.”

  Ben just stares down at me with that penetrating way of his, like he can see all the things I don’t want him to see.

  I look away, pretending to fuss with the hem of my skirt and also pretending my dress isn’t sweat-soaked and clinging to my back because I’m dying in the sun. “I’m not actually that hot,” I fib. “The breeze off the water is enough to cool me down.”

  Ben drops to his knees and moves over me so he’s straddling my legs. He plants his hands on either side of my hips and leans forward, his lips grazing my jaw. “If you don’t get into the water, I’m pulling you in.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

  He shrugs without answering, leaning in to kiss my neck, heedless of the sweat there.

  “You monster,” I accuse. “What if I can’t swim?”

  At this he pulls back and searches my face. “But you can swim, can’t you? This isn’t about swimming at all. There’s something else holding you back.”

  He’s so close and so beautiful and his expression is unnervingly kind. I can’t keep looking at him; the gross little voice in my head won’t let me.

  “Ireland,” Ben warns. “Talk or be thrown in.”

  “I’m not doing either—”

  With a movement so quick I barely see it, he’s on his feet and has one of my hands while Caleb has the other. I’m yanked up, and before I can catch my balance, I’m in the water, my toes touching soft, cool mud before I kick back up to the surface, spluttering.

  They stand naked above me, looking very proud of themselves. “There,” Caleb says, laughter in his voice. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Aren’t you cooler now?”

  “This dress is dry-clean only, you dicks,” I grouse. But I can’t lie… The water does feel good.

  “Now that it’s all wet, you should take it off,” Caleb suggests. His cock seems to agree, thickening as he peers down at me in the water. “Your underthings too. You know, in case they’re also dry-clean only.”

  I think for a moment. I can’t help but be squeamish about the idea of stripping in the bright, unforgiving light of the summer sun, but if I get in the water right away, maybe it won’t feel so exposing…

  I swim toward the ladder and pull myself up, and before I can reach for my zipper, Caleb and Ben are helping me unzip and peel off the wet dress. I shoo them away out of instinct, and with schoolboy laughing and whooping, they jump back into the water.

  Too late I realize my mistake. Right next to me, they wouldn’t have been able to properly see my body, but now that they’re back in the water, I’m totally exposed again. It’s like being on a fucking runway, and their view up at me is far from the ideal angle.

  Just finish undressing quickly and get down the ladder, I coach myself, turning away before I unhook my bra. Then I discover facing away from them means they’ll see more of the cellulite on my ass and on the backs of my thighs—but being in profile means they’ll see my belly. Facing them means they’ll see my breasts under the cruel duress of gravity.

  Fuck.

  But when I drop the bra and turn, I don’t see two pairs of judgmental eyes cataloging my every stretch mark and dimple. Instead, both men have swum to the edge of the dock and are watching me with hot gazes full of hunger. One of Caleb’s hands is moving lazily under the water, and I flush when I realize w
hat he’s doing.

  “Now your panties,” Ben grates out. He’s breathing hard as he watches me. “Those too.”

  Their hungry stares fill me with power, and my insecurity melts away as if it were never there. I shimmy out of my panties and even give a little hip swivel as I do.

  “Fuck me,” Caleb groans. “Get in here, peach. Now.”

  I do. I run and jump in, wobbles forgotten, and later that afternoon, when the three of us fuck under the shade of a big cottonwood tree, I can’t even remember what it feels like to be embarrassed at all.

  The nightlight in Caleb’s room is for Ben.

  I have this epiphany as I’m gently turned into Caleb’s arms and Ben slides out of the bed to go to his room.

  The nightlight is so Ben can find his way in the dark.

  Away from us.

  My heart squeezes as I press my face into Caleb’s warm chest and let the steady swell of his breathing lull me back to sleep.

  I wake alone in the morning, which is normal for us. Ben never sleeps the whole night in here, and Caleb gets up around dawn to tend to the farm. I stretch and sigh at the darkened nightlight. I want Ben to stay the night with us. His bed is only a twin—something I think was an intentional choice, meaning no one could ever sleep in his bed with him—so it has to be Caleb’s bed. I wish there was a way to tell him I’d be happy to sleep with lights on, the television on, anything he needed, without it becoming awkward, but I can’t think of the right words. The words to reassure him that I don’t think he’s broken or damaged, that I simply want to share everything with him. Sleep included.

  I’m going to talk to him about it, I decide as I shower and get dressed. Today. If it’s nightmares, then we’ll work through it. If it’s space, then I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll do anything it takes, but it makes me miserable to feel him slipping away every night when the answer could be within our reach.