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Flesh On A Woman
© 2003 by Tulsa Brown



Warning: M/F sex, sensual weight gain



"Do you know what the difference between men and women is?" Michael asked against my ear.

I laughed, a single breath in the warm darkness. "This is a trick, right?"

"No, really.  And I'm not talking about naughty bits or the tilt of the pelvis—"

"Okay, what?" I squeezed his arm impatiently.

"Fat," Michael said.

He announced the word with a child-like pleasure, the boy at the back of the class who had the right answer.  I heard it with a small smack of alarm, three letters that sounded more wicked, more illicit than any four.

"Oh," I said.

"I found my old Atlas of Anatomy today," he continued dreamily. "There are three whole pages devoted to female fat, how it completely reshapes the hips and tummy, thighs and breasts.  When you think about it, fat creates a woman's body."

I was suddenly prickling with self-consciousness under his arm that cuddled me.  Yet between my legs I felt a distinct pulse of pleasure, like the nudge of a man's thick thumb against my clit.

"Every woman I know would be horrified to hear you say that."

"I know, it mystifies me.  And there are men who buy into the Barbie-doll myth, too, or they'd like you to think so.  But the truth is, that round shape just calls to us, the curves and softness.  We want to touch it, squeeze it.  We can't get enough."

I felt a faint push against my buttocks, his cock awakening again.

"It's an ancient instinct that society won't let us acknowledge anymore." He paused. "Like your sister, Brenda.  She doesn't know how beautiful she is."

I caught my breath at the pain.

Michael's an artist, I told myself shakily.  He thinks a Spanish onion is beautiful.

"Brenda's always struggled with her weight," I said.

"Well, she should just...relax.  Enjoy herself and be happy." He stroked my hip under the blanket, appreciative and reassuring. "You know I love to see a woman enjoy herself."

"Oh, sure.  And if I did that, I'd gain thirty pounds.  What would you think then?"

His cock surged against the cleft of my ass. "You'd drive me to madness," he whispered.

For a single instant I saw myself with Brenda's body, round belly curving above the panty line, full, pink thighs, heavy breasts spilling over the taut cups of a bra.  Voluptuous.  Decadent.  Indulgent.  The jolt of desire was so swift it was almost painful.  My clit reared up like a horse.

Then the rush of burning guilt.  I slipped out of Michael's grasp, right out of bed, and began fumbling for my clothes.

"Jane, what's the matter?"

"I should go home.  I have to work tomorrow."

He got to his feet, a pale, startled ghost in the moonlight, erection still bobbing.

"What did I do? Janey, lass, tell me." He caught me in his arms, the blouse in my hands crumpled between us.

I was embarrassed now, and tried to tease my way out of it. "Oh, stop.  I just need more clothes.  It's illegal for a woman to wear the same outfit two days in a row."

"Well, let me drive you home."

"I brought my car."

"Then I'll follow you in mine."

I laughed because he was so serious. "No, phone me at work tomorrow and tell me a dirty joke.  At ten.  I'll need it by then."

I dressed and he didn't, walking me to the door in his easy nakedness.  He was six feet tall, bone, muscle and sinew strung together with a loose grace that seemed miraculous to me.  He was as comfortable in his body as an athlete, or an animal.

"A dirty joke," he said.

"At ten."

He gathered me into an embrace that I saw in the full-length mirror at the end of his studio, his bare body wrapped around the green bundle of my coat.

I'd known Michael McInnes for six months, long enough to realize he was a dangerous man.  He had pale Celtic skin and remarkable red hair that shifted from auburn to copper, depending on the light.  He'd come from Scotland as a small child, and his accent had faded to a lilt over the years.  But it always thickened again along with his cock, a lusty, earthy love-voice that gave me goose bumps under the sheets.

At thirty Michael was a successful sculptor who'd already had two public commissions, and sold his other bronzes all over the country.  He argued like a demon with gallery owners, "just for the sport," he admitted with a grin, but he was as entranced as a child with the texture of things: velvet, clay, food.  In his loft apartment, he said he had two playgrounds, the studio and the kitchen.

"I hope you like to eat," he'd said on our first date, "because I love to cook."

A dangerous, dangerous man.

As I walked out to my car, the crisp autumn air did nothing to cool the heat that still flamed over my face, and between my legs.  What woman living in the twenty-first century didn't have an issue with food, I wondered.  Who hadn't grown up in the shadow of lust and terror, mother, sisters and aunts all counting calories and weighing portions, talking about cheesecakes as if they were lovers? And then there were the warnings that rang out at every turn:

"Don't eat that! It's loaded with grease."

"Careful, the women in our family really fill out in the hips."

And the worst judgment, spoken with hushed glee and triumph, "Ooh, boy, she's really let herself go.  You wouldn't believe how fat she is!"

By the time I was twelve, it had seemed that gaining weight was the most wicked, wanton thing a woman could do.  Yet when I'd looked at the old masters' paintings in art class, at the full-bodied women with their rolling curves and pink, glowing skin, I felt a shocking flush of desire between my legs, a slick wetness I could hardly keep myself from touching.  Those plump women gazed out at me with secret, rosebud smiles, taunting me from a place I would never dare to go.

At twenty-seven, I'd never been on a diet—there was no need.  I lived on teaspoon-sized servings of food, and deep draughts of my girlfriends' envy.  I kept my brown hair streaked blond and cut into a short, tousled mop, "because you're so sporty," my hairdresser chirped.  In truth I loathed sports, hated every minute I jumped and sweated with my friends at the gym.  I never looked at my nude body.  I covered it with the latest fashions and had been content with the dull-eyed men who tore them off, felt lucky with any orgasm I was able to get, as brief and plaintive as a kitten's meow.

Then tonight Michael had reached under my tidy, trendy surface and laid his sculptor's finger on my secret.  And I was still trembling.

It was two a.m.  I pulled into my underground parking stall, the cavern deserted except for the cars.  My panties were wet, soaked by the voluptuous image that had burned in me all through the drive.  As if it belonged to someone else, my hand pulled my coat open and wriggled under my loose skirt.  Through the damp cotton, I pressed hard on my erect clit.  Pleasure roared through my body, shamefully sweet, a desperate, clutching, throbbing release that left me gasping against the steering wheel.

Jane, girl, you are in trouble, I told myself.  You're in love with the most dangerous man.

Banks are terrible places to work.  I knew first hand.  Banks are run by pasty, balding, underpaid managers who satisfy themselves by playing God with money that isn't theirs.  Tellers can never hope for this power.  They are simply more poorly paid and frustrated, and when grouped together become a den of mewling jealousies.  The women I worked with had only three passions: weight, clothes and boyfriends.

At three minutes to ten I was called to the phone.  I felt eight pairs of eyes lift up as I walked past, checking out my new mulberry-colored knit outfit, and my figure in it.  That morning I felt the full thrust of resentment for the first time.  Who the hell did they think they were? Why the hell did it matter?!

"Hello," I snapped.

"I don't have a joke," Michael said ruefully. "All I have is an apology and a confession.  Which do you want first?"

I was so glad to hear his voice I almost laughed. "You choose."

He took a breath. "Janey, I might've said something last night...that made you think you weren't perfect.  And you are, my love, inside and out."

"Oh." My heart was tripping.

"I just stuck my foot in it because I go mad for flesh on a woman.  It's a weakness, I admit that.  But I never should have mentioned it.  However you want to be ­ that's perfect."

I felt a swell of heat at those words alone: flesh on a woman.  I was sitting on the edge of a desk and I crossed one leg over the other, pressing my sex lips together, imagining my thighs filling out my new skirt.  I felt sinful, excited, but most of all defiant.  I was in love and I dared the world to stop me.

"Michael, would you make dinner for me tonight?" I whispered.

He must have heard something in my voice because his own thickened with brogue. "Aye.  Ye know I love to cook for you."

Under the mulberry knit, my nipples hardened.

That night I leaned against a tall cupboard, drinking a glass of wine, working up my courage and watching Michael cook.  He prepared food with more delight than anyone I'd ever known, whipping around the kitchen with the enthusiasm of an explorer.

"Ah, look at how these onions are caramelizing.  It's all the sugar."

"Here, smell this." Thrusting forward a bag of fresh herbs, as fragrant as summer. "You'd never think of rosemary with beef, but just you wait!"

Michael had already chopped his other ingredients into brilliant heaps ­ yellow peppers, green asparagus ­ and was rubbing olive oil over the steaks, his strong, sensitive fingers massaging them like a lover.

"A little sea salt, a little fresh pepper," he said happily. "That's all a good rib-eye needs."

"Michael, I've decided.  I want to relax and enjoy myself."

It stopped him cold.  He looked up at me, waiting.

"I want to gain thirty pounds," I said.

"You don't have to do this for me, Janey." The words were quiet but breathless.

I shivered with the exhilarating, dangerous truth. "I want to do it for me."

Michael's hazel eyes turned smoky.  He turned off the stove elements and was over to me in two strides, arms around me, hands stroking me, his voice a thick, urgent rush against my ear.

"My beautiful, beautiful girl.  You'll be a queen to me, smooth and round, plump all over.  Look, just thinking about it and I'm coming out o' my clothes."

His pants were bulging already, his excitement rising up hard against my thigh.  My own need was just as sudden, the buxom, forbidden image licking me shamelessly between the legs.  I squirmed against him, trying to coax his hand under my skirt, yet still I managed to blurt out what I needed to say. "I'm...a little afraid."

"We'll take it safe and slow," he crooned. "Just natural.  A pound or two a week, just a woman enjoying herself.  Ah, you'll enjoy yourself—I'll see to that!"

He thrust against me and moaned, a deep sound that made my cunt contract.  Yet his knowledge of ‘safe and slow' tugged on me.

"Have you ever done this before?"

"No, lass, but I dreamed of it, fattening up the woman I love."

Lightning strike of shock and desire.  Fattened up, like a goose or a piglet.  The decadent, thrilling threat of it was beyond my fantasies.  I twisted and writhed with apprehension while my clit rose up, a hard bullet of pulsing want.  I could have mounted him in the kitchen.

We made it to the couch.  As he tugged off my pantyhose, the tight elastic band cut across the flesh of my thigh.  Michael paused and reached out to stroke the small curve above the elastic.

"Oh," he breathed, "just wait.  Ye'll burst these little britches by the time Michael's done."

I was going to die if he didn't fuck me.  I gripped his member, the huge, swollen cockhead gleaming with readiness, and pulled him to me.  He pushed into my soft wetness with a new moan, lifted my hips with hard, animal thrusts that made my hungry cunt clench with pleasure.  I imagined how it would be months from now, my full breasts bouncing with the force of him, round belly and hips quivering with lascivious, wanton, indulgent fat...

The kitten between my legs sat up and roared.

I gave up my apartment and moved into Michael's loft.  It was the top floor of a small, old building, three thousand square feet of ink-stained hardwood floors that had belonged to a printer.  There were only a few walls dividing the vast rooms, and a wrought-iron freight elevator that opened in the living room.  I trailed my fingers along the beautiful metal scroll work, mesmerized, thinking of Hansel and Gretel.

"It was the elevator that sold me," Michael admitted. "I got an angel stuck in a stairwell once, at my last place.  I had to saw her wings off and it broke my heart."

Angels had room to soar in his open studio now.  It had fifteen foot ceilings with three large skylights, and full length mirrors positioned to reflect the natural light.  Nudes in terra cotta and sculptors' plasticine rose up from the tables, a clay garden of powerful men and sultry women.

Michael's ‘other playground' was just as alluring: almond cupboards overhung with gleaming copper pans, wide, wooden cutting boards and a stainless steel restaurant refrigerator.  The counters were crowded with gadgets, and heavy crocks stuffed with whisks and spatulas.

"An artist needs his tools," he said with a smile.

I slipped into the most sensual, alarming days I'd ever known.  I didn't stuff myself, I simply ‘relaxed' and gave in to my appetite.  Michael bought me silky robes to wear, loose, flowing gowns that didn't restrict my body in any way.  He also threw himself into culinary creativity with fresh gusto.  He perused the sidewalk markets during his morning jog, and cruised the cooking channel in the afternoons, loading our table with lavish spreads, anything to tempt me into ‘just a wee bit more.'

And that was the alarming part ­ how easy it was.  Those last few bites that were beyond hunger, that were simply luxurious enjoyment, came effortlessly to me, despite the sudden flares of guilt.  I would hear my family harping in the back of my mind, and shrug them off with defiant pleasure.

Still, I avoided Brenda in those dreamy months, blocked her out of my mind whenever I could.  She was my only sister and I loved her, but for years our relationship had been measured on barbed-wire rungs.  My step up had always been my slender figure.

"It's not fair.  We have the same genes," she'd pout, then cast me a feline glance. "It might catch up to you, eventually."

I was too much in love to look over my shoulder.  The days were rapture and any meal could be an adventure.  One morning I woke up and Michael was already back from his morning's run, damp and sweet from the shower, creating in the kitchen.

"Aren't they beautiful?" he said, showing me the golden stack of pancakes, butter melting in a rich stream down the side. "And look at this!"

"Oh, Michael, not whipping cream," I protested.

"Don't you like it?"

"I love it."

His eyes took on a wicked, teasing glimmer.  He scooped a fluffy white spoonful out of the bowl. "Well, just have one taste, then."

I walked over, clit already starting to throb, and opened my mouth.  Creamy sweetness purred on my tongue.  He had the next spoonful ready, and the next.  I heard Michael's breath quicken, felt his free hand part the folds of my robe and reach between my thighs to stroke me through my panties.  My nipples hardened against the slippery fabric, and I spread my legs wider, back arching to thrust the first rounding of my stomach forward.

His voice was hushed with lust. "Aye, Michael knows what you want."

So did I.  Stepping back from him, I opened my robe with one hand.  With the other I reached into the bowl on the table, three fingers scooping out a healthy dollop that I daubed on both my breasts.  My fingers went into my mouth and I sucked them clean, like a greedy child.  Michael's spoon clattered to the floor, and he fell on me in a frenzy of licking.

I was late for work that morning.

Michael came to the bank sometimes at noon, his earthy, auburn-haired good looks sending a titter through the tellers' stalls.  More often, though, he sent lunch with me, leftovers from his previous night's extravaganza: gooey lasagna dripping with cheese; a generous serving of chicken tarragon.  Eight women pecking at their miserable salads eyed those lunches with a mixture of astonishment, envy and needling triumph.

"Jane's certainly blooming in love," I overheard one say to another.

"Yes, and at the rate she's going, she'll bloom right out of her skirts."

Their laughter snapped me like a riding crop, a sting that quickly flared into heat.  I felt radiantly sinful under their scrutiny, both ashamed and excited.  Other people could hide their lusts but a woman gaining weight as quickly as I was, had no secrets.  But what did it matter? I was happy, and so was Michael.

He was waiting at the end of every day, his frail, ratty work shirts smudged with rust clay, his eyes shining.

"Ah, you've got me in a trance, Janey girl.  That old bastard from Birchwood gallery phoned today, wanting the whole edition of Springtime Revel—at fifty percent, not sixty.  And I said yes! You'll be the ruin of me," he said, brushing the hair from my face to kiss me.

October, November, December.  I was alert to my body as I'd never been before, aroused by the growing fullness of it.  I felt it first in the tightening of my waistbands, an initial pulse of panic that eased into smoldering heat.  As the pounds added to my hips, I could feel a difference in my walk, a saucy sway, the slow friction of my thighs rubbing together.

I was aware of my blossoming shape, but Michael was utterly enraptured with it.  We would stand naked in his studio in front of a full length mirror, his hard, lean male body a sharp contrast to my growing roundness.  Sometimes he would trail his fingers reverently over the curves, sometimes he wanted to pinch or even gently spank the new plumpness, just to watch it ripple.  By the time he leaned me over a red-dusted worktable, I was slick with desire and he was panting.  In a dream of pleasure I stared at the mirror, watching that handsome man thrust against the full, quivering ass of the woman he was fattening...

I was woken one afternoon by a phone call.

"Where have you been?" Brenda demanded. "You don't return my messages."

"Oh, you know.  Busy.  In love." My face flushed hot and cold at the sound of her voice, an abrupt U-turn into my old life.  Just that week I'd hit the thirty-pound goal I'd promised Michael, maybe even passed it.

"Well, it's almost Christmas.  We have to get together." Excitement bubbled under the words. "Oh, I can't wait.  Jane, I lost twenty-five pounds!"

I said that was wonderful.  I said I would check with Michael about the visit, and call her.  I hung up the phone, told my supervisor I was ill, went home and self-destructed.

Poor Michael.  He sat on the couch looking bewildered, a tourist who'd found himself in a foreign country without knowing the language, customs or currency.

I paced, distraught. "I can't see her ­ I'll make up some excuse.  I'll go on a diet.  She can't see me like this! Oh, Michael.  How can I phone her back tonight?!"

"We'll do whatever you want, Jane, but..."

"But what?"

"I thought you were happy."

His wounded hazel eyes caused me even more pain, yet I couldn't stop. "I was ­ I am.  Except I feel so fat and ugly!" I burst into tears.

He stood to comfort me, but there was something grave, even stern in his voice.

"You can't talk that way about the woman I love."

I was so upset I kept babbling stupidly, that he couldn't possibly love this cow...

"Enough." Now he was angry. "I want you to see something."

He led me, still sniffling, into the studio.  From a darkened corner, he lifted out a two-foot figure draped by a piece of dirty burlap, and set it on the table.  When he gently peeled away the rag, I was speechless.

She was a little goddess in red clay, with generous, sloping curves, heavy breasts and round belly fully apparent under the Greek gown she wore.  Her finger was in her rosebud mouth, and she sucked it with an ethereal, absent-minded bliss, as if she'd just finished a succulent meal.  Or whipping cream.  She was a Renaissance beauty, blatantly sensual—and she was me, or as I would be in thirty more pounds.

"It was meant to be for Christmas," Michael said.

I threw my arms around him, hugged and kissed him until he was laughing. "Oh, please, let's have a cry more often!"

I had other plans. "Go make dinner," I whispered into his ear. "I'll tell you where I want it."

Michael raised his eyebrow, intrigued.

I dressed in the bedroom while he cooked.  More than once Michael had begged me to put on some of my old outfits, saucy things from my club-tart years, but I'd never had the nerve, knowing how I'd pour out of them.  Now I squeezed into a little black leather bustier that laced up the front ­ although it didn't anymore, the ties straining over the expanse of skin, my breasts bulging over the top like scoops of pink ice cream.  Squirming into the matching skirt, I managed to get the zipper halfway up.  A soft roll swelled over the waistband and my thighs were pressed tightly together, every leather seam tugged taut.  With fresh lipstick and my hair pulled up into a tiny bun, I looked like Gretel, grown up and gone very, very bad.

I slipped past the kitchen and into the living room, quietly sliding open the fancy metal cage of the freight elevator.  I locked it from the inside, my pussy already purring.

"In here, Michael," I called.  He almost dropped the plates when he saw me.

I was clutching two elegant bars, my breasts touching the scroll work.  He managed to squeeze one of his large hands through an opening to stroke me, his eyes riveted.

"Do you think these britches are ready to burst?" I asked with a smile.

"Oh, ye beautiful minx!" he gasped. "I'm mad for it!"

"Dinner first.  I don't think you'll get the plate through.  You'll have to feed me."

And he did, one morsel at a time, his hands trembling, cock straining so hungrily he had to strip down to his shorts.  I sucked his fingers and he moaned.  I leaned forward and he dropped to his knees, licking the soft flesh of my belly between the bars..  My sex was swimming, my erect clit pulsing with power and desire.  I felt like a goddess, laughing at old demons.

"Michael, this skirt is a little tight.  Would you unzip me?"

He thrust his hand eagerly into the enclosure.  The zipper made a gorgeous sound, like fabric ripping.  I sighed with relief as I wriggled the skirt off.

"And the top, too."

He plucked clumsily at the laces of my bustier, and my breasts surged forward into his waiting grasp.  He fondled and squeezed their heavy softness with one hand, the other helplessly rubbing his rock-hard rod.

"Please, lass, I'm going to toss off...I can't stop myself."

I unlocked the door and strode out, into his arms.  In the tumble of our silky bed I rode him like a Celtic horse, over and under, hard flesh and soft, sweet, violent fucking that made me cry out in joyful completeness.

Afterwards we held each other in the half-light, tucked in perfectly together, our skin still glowing with the warmth of a single creature.  The night spread out around me like a calm pool.

"I think I can phone Brenda now," I said. "I may even invite her for dinner."

"Aye," Michael said dreamily, "but not for dessert."

© 2003 Tulsa Brown.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written 

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Tulsa Brown

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The Principal of the Thing


By Sidney Durham
Junk Yard Goddess
I'm Only Shaving!
Stripes
Santa, Baby!
Sometimes I Can ...
Speaking of Escher
The Road Not Taken


By Tulsa Brown
Flesh On A Woman
Half Moon Girl
Debt of Honor


By Valentine Bonnaire
American Daddy-O
Bukowski Girls
Afterglowing
Viresence


By William Dean
Stranger in the Bonfire
Great Notion
Kiss Me And Then...
Switch Back
A Hand in the Bush
Buy Me Something
Forest for the Trees
Swap Meet
Burning Man
Port Said
Kler
Twisted Faith
Political Asylum
Torn


Screen Play
by A.F. Waddell

A Filing Fling
by Addison Long

Ménage A Cart
by Adhara Law

Elevator Shaft
by Alana James

Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid

May
by Angela Caperton

Tedia, Goddess of Boredom
by Arthur Chappell

The Lady-killer
by BJ Franklin

Cycle
by B.K. Bilicki

The Vacation
by Beth Vox

You Belong to Me
by C. Sanchez-Garcia

Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe

So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet

The Hand & I.
by EllaRegina

Safari Tuesday
by G. Gregory

The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice

One for the Road
by J. Corvo

Full Serviced
by J.D. Coltrane

Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe

The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands

Once Shy
by Jamie Smithe

Fresh
by Jean Roberta

Caitlin Comes Clean
by Jerry Rightson

Something To Make...
by Jim Parr

Melanie and Jay Go...
by jtallen

Peeping George
by Jude Mason

It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
by Kathleen Bradean

The Temp
by Kaye Heche

A Husband's Lesson
by Kim Bax

Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills

Page 12 - No. F
by LilyOrchid

In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele

The Classics
by Nettie Kestler

The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.

Stella
by Nick Santa Rosa

The Cabin
by P. E. Brink

Boom
by Raziel Moore

Post Mortem
by Riccardo Berra

Newly Reformed Woman...
by Seneca Mayfair

Idyll
by Teresa Lamai

Alter Christus
by Teresa Wymore

Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz