3 comments/ 28572 views/ 9 favorites Thunder Thighs at Thunder Bay By: BartlebyWaylon There's a sort of running joke among my friends about how clueless I can be with women, with being able to tell whether they're interested in me. Usually when a friend is busting my chops about this, they are referring to what you might call my "false negatives"—the situations in which a woman has to "hit me over the head" to make me aware of her interest in me. My friends all say I can't take a hint. What they don't realize is that I've had my share of false positives as well, and that these experiences have left me a tad gun-shy. I can't tell you how many times I've been a half-hour into what I thought was a mutually flirtatious conversation at a cocktail party only to have the woman finally mention a husband, boyfriend, or fiancée. I evidently just have trouble reading women in general. Teresa was a classic example of one of my false negatives. Actually, it isn't that I didn't think she was interested; it's just that I didn't trust myself to make a move. I met her a few summers ago when I was in Thunder Bay for the wedding of an old friend from college. I was invited to be a groomsman and she a bridesmaid, so we both arrived on Thursday night in order to be there for Friday's rehearsals; the ceremony was late Saturday. And although I took an instant liking to her, and suspected that she reciprocated, I felt the stakes were too high to try anything overt: we had friends and friends-of-friends in common through Brad and Liz (the happy couple), and I didn't want to embarrass myself or get a reputation for being "that guy," the one who shows up stag and has smarm enough to try to get laid at the wedding. And there didn't seem to be much to gain either—we practically lived on opposite sides of the United States and so were unlikely to start having any kind of relationship. So I just flirted miserably, but refrained from saying anything that would constitute an actual "pass." I was in my early thirties, white, slim, medium height, short dirty-blonde hair. Teresa was a positively gorgeous BBW brunette in her mid to late 20s, her mostly creamy white skin slightly reddened in places from the late summer sun, and her lustrous black hair in a lopsided, boyish bob. I don't really have a "type" when it comes to women, except that I do love the larger ladies. I have dated all shapes, sizes, and colors but, below a certain dress size it takes something very special to turn my head. Teresa did not have that problem. At 5'6" or 5'7", she was probably carrying 220 pounds, gathered voluptuously in a high, broad bottom, a pronounced endearing belly that ringed her middle and protruded beyond her beltline, and big gorgeous boobs that flopped freely and lazily over her midriff. The first time I saw her she was in a sky blue half-cami, a pair of cutoff jean shorts, and flip flops—an enchanting ensemble that displayed the whole package, exposing milky thighs, thick meaty arms, a deep valley of cleavage and a protuberant bare belly. My only complaint was the hair. She had the kind of hair that I'm sure would have cascaded luminously down those broad pink shoulders had she let it grow long. But even worn short, her hair sexily framed a cute round face with high round cheeks and a sharp, v-shaped chin softened by a slight packet of double-chin fat beneath. She wore a sort of permanent smirk that made her appear forever on the verge of making a smart-ass comment—which, by the way, turned out not to be very far from the truth; she definitely had the kind of sharp, quick wit you often see with sexy, intelligent fat chicks, as though their street-smarts have been honed by the conflicting experiences of having been ridiculed in their youth for their weight, only to find themselves very attractive to most men in adulthood (whether the men admit it or not), even as women with similar builds remain bewilderingly absent from fashion magazine covers or marquee roles in Hollywood blockbusters. She seemed like the sort of person who was fully capable of enjoying her life, but who had learned how to use words as a weapons when she had to. That first Thursday night, the only guests to have arrived were the members of the wedding party—family members were supposed to start rolling into town Friday afternoon and other guests Saturday morning—so it was a mostly twenty-something set in a holiday mood and game for a late-ish night. Brad and Liz took the whole wedding party out for pizza and beers at a small patio café near the lake. There were ten of us in the party, and I clearly remember Liz introducing the groomsmen to the bridesmaids they'd be paired with during the procession. I remember how the lone fat chick in the party of skinny girls immediately caught my eye. I recall mentally reciting, as though in mock prayer: Please let me get her, please let me get her. "And this," Liz was saying, "is Teresa." The fat chick—Teresa—waved to all of us. "And Teresa, you'll be accompanied by..." Pick me! Pick me! "Bart Waylon." YES! "Pleased to meet you," I said. When it came time to sit down I made a point of sitting across from her at the end of one of the wooden, picnic-style patio tables. "So, Teresa was it? Looks like I'm with you." "Yep. So you just do exactly what I say and we won't have any trouble," she cracked. "Ha. What exactly are our responsibilities in all this?" I asked, pouring the first pint from the nearby pitcher and giving it to her. "Thanks," she said, taking a slice of pizza from the nearest pan. "I suspect all will be revealed at the rehearsal dinner." "But you don't have some inkling?" I poured myself a pint and picked up a slice. "Walking, mostly, I think. Just walking. I mean, best man and maid of honor have to say a few words at the reception but us, we've got a pretty cush gig. Just walk up and stand there." "I uh. I haven't been to a lot of weddings." "I try to avoid them generally. Like the plague actually. Especially being in wedding parties because, you know, ninth ring of hell, right? My strategy somehow failed me this time." "Strategy?" "I try to hover at around 150, 175 percent of my ideal BMI so people won't ask me to be a bridesmaid," she said in mock explanation, and then broke out into a cockeyed smile, shattering her deadpan. "No one like's a whale in the wedding party." My heart leaped anxiously in my chest. I never know what to say when a woman references her own weight in a sarcastic, self-deprecating way. I've been an admirer of fat women all my life and yet I've never come up with a subtle way to communicate this fact in a way that doesn't make my appreciation sound like some sort of weird fetish. The problem was compounded in this case because, of course, I did not want to sound like I was making a pass. So instead of deflecting I just laughed at her joke and said: "Fat fail, eh? What do you suppose went wrong?" "Liz. Known her since childhood. Wouldn't let me off the hook.... Bitch." We both chuckled and sat for a moment in comfortable silence down at our end of the table. It was serene; there was a cool, fresh-smelling breeze off the lake and the patio was lit by strings of Christmasy lights that cast colorful shadows over her shiny round face. "So, what's your story?" she asked . We continued like this, exchanging the usual icebreaking chit-chat, and I grew more intoxicated with her wit and charm (to say nothing of the beer!). I wanted so badly to ask her to break away from the company and go for a walk with me but I concluded that it was simply not possible. There were ten of us in total; we had to mingle; I had to avoid embarrassing myself by trying to lay a bridesmaid. The evening wound down and I returned to the hotel room I shared with Marty, another one of Brad's groomsmen. I recall lying in the dark staring at the ceiling as Marty snored that night, unable to sleep thinking of Teresa. I thought about trying to rub one out in the bathroom but decided against it. I was unlikely to wake Marty but, if I did, it would be the basis for another story I didn't want circulating among my friends: I didn't want the title of The Guy who Couldn't Go One Day Without Spanking It. I turned over on my side and waited for sleep. * * * The rehearsal dinner and related events gave us yet another opportunity for flirt and banter. Friday she wore a high-waist ruffle dress, fire engine red, with thin shoulder straps that showed plenty of those beautiful arms and shoulders, a plunging scoop-neck that left the cleavage on display, and a faux sash just below the bosom. She seemed taller today, thanks to high-heeled patent leather boots ("my hooker boots" she called them), and the way the material of her dress flared down and out over her lower back and big pear-shaped bottom—which was even more pronounced today thanks to the high heels—seemed almost calculated to drive me crazy. As the day's events wore on I was powerless to stop trying to steal glances when she wasn't looking but, after a while, the chance that I was succeeding in being at all inconspicuous seemed very poor indeed. By this time the party had expanded to include about thirty more people and, even if Teresa herself didn't catch me checking her out, it is doubtful that I went entirely unobserved. The ceremony itself was to take place outdoors in a lakefront park, and the reception would be in a small deconsecrated church that had been converted into a recreation hall. The rehearsal and the dinner both took place in the hall. The event planner (or wedding director, or whatever she was called) was a compact, Napoleonic woman with a Brooklyn accent and a shrill, strident, gym-coach's timbre; she was hustling about barking all sorts of instructions and explanations that seemed either tedious or obvious or both. "Okay, if I could have everybody line up with your partners facing the stage—pretend the stage is the lake." Teresa appeared beside me with a can of beer. "You're starting early," I observed. "Over here, captain. You're on my right. Sip?" "No thanks," I said, and she laced her arm through mine. We were both standing still and looking straight ahead and I was suddenly awash in her assorted aromas, beer, sunburn and shampoo. I inhaled deeply and held my arm stiffly—too stiffly, evidently, for she noticed and patted my bicep reassuringly. "Relax," she said, "you're so tense. Here, really, have a sip." I gave in and took a long pull from her can. "That's better," she said, hugging my arm affectionately. "You don't have anything to be nervous about." She paused a moment and then, as though reconsidering, said: "Well, I do have one thing I suppose I should warn you about." "What's that?" "I will have to goose you for the group photo. That's just how it's got to go down. Sorry, it's been decided." My heart skipped a beat and I started swelling in my pants (not now!, I thought, not now!). "Wha-why are you going to goose me for the photo?" "An exercise in precision timing. To capture your face in mid-goose, just as the shutter clicks, your shock immortalized in celluloid. It's part sport, part art." I smiled stupidly, with no answer to this bizarre overture. Finally I managed: "But, if the point is to surprise me, doesn't it kind of defeat the purpose to tell me in advance?" "Makes it a challenge," she explained, as if in all earnestness. "See if I can make you jump even after warning you it was coming." She smiled brightly and winked up at me. Just then the director indicated that it was time for the procession to move, sparing me from having to match Teresa's wit any longer—at which I fear I would have failed. It was a relief to be finally under way, but I was worrying that the beginnings of a boner would show though my pants as I walked up the aisle. Then, suddenly: "Here, quick, take this," Teresa thrust her half-full beer can into my hand just as we started to walk. "Four paces apart, people, four paces! In time with the march, two, three four, good and split!" As each groomsman-and-bridesmaid pair reached the appointed location, the director felt the need to repeat (belabor, really) the shouted instruction "Split!" indicating that the couple was to separate and move to their respective wings of the stage. Teresa and I were third—the last couple before the best man and maid of honor, second to last before Liz and her dad were to walk up, so it was by now very obvious where the split point was. Nevertheless, as we drew near: "Two, three, four, split!" came the abrasive direction. I let go of Teresa's arm and turned 90 degrees when, in a scolding tone, I heard the director shout "Very classy, sir! Won't have a can of beer tomorrow I hope!" I couldn't help myself—I felt my brow furrow in angry incredulity and I glared back over my shoulder indignantly at the director. She was obviously taking herself way too seriously if she thought it was her job to scold an invited guest for having a beer in the rehearsal. What difference could it possibly make? Then, in my periphery, I could see Teresa looking back over her shoulder at me with a mischievous smirk. She saw me notice her and pointed at me, mouthing the word "busted." I chuckled and shook my head. The vows rehearsal was a welcome break. I stood there quietly on stage, not really paying attention, defiantly sipping from what remained of Teresa's beer, and trying to process everything I had observed. Fact: Teresa was hot as a skillet. I wanted her very, very badly. Fact: Teresa was flirting like crazy; she had hugged my arm close; we had shared beer; she had essentially informed me that before the weekend was over she intended to pinch my ass. On the other hand, fact: different people have different senses of humor and, without really knowing Teresa, I couldn't be certain that she wasn't just this way with "all the boys." Fact: I've made terrible, humiliating mistakes in the past, misreading women's cues. And, alas, fact: the stakes still favored containing myself. If she was flirting, the most I had to lose by staying mum was perhaps one brief fling; if I was wrong, however, and this was just her version of un-sexual banter, then hitting on her overtly would be a potentially embarrassing faux pas. As the minister droned on and on about what he would be saying about the sacrament tomorrow, I took sips of beer, my semi-hard cock softening, and my faltering resolve now hardening: I was going to be good, I determined. I was going to get through this weekend and not try to do anything about Teresa, except enjoy her company. Teresa, it turns out, had other plans. * * * She never goosed me. The occasion just never arose. There were dozens, possibly hundreds of photos taken that weekend but none where she was in position. There ceremony proceeded without incident the next day, and then there was the awkward longueur of the receiving line followed by the professional magazine-chic photography session down by the beach before the whole procession made its way fitfully across town to the reception hall, most everybody by that point very much in need of a drink. At dinner, a sad accident of seating had landed me far away from my newfound favorite and, if there was any doubt about who had been doing the heavy lifting in that easy banter of ours, it was removed by the miserable, awkwardly punctuated silence in which I passed the evening trying to converse with Marty and two of Liz's other maids. "Um, and, how long have you worked there? I see. And what's the weather like down there this time of year?" It was a yawn a minute. Teresa, by contrast, seemed to be holding forth, at least according to the evidence of my stolen glances at where she sat a few tables away. Every time I looked up she seemed to be laughing heartily, or else talking in an animated way to the delight of her interlocutors. I was feeling quite sullen. Speeches were made over the long desert course and, at long last, as the red wine I had been gulping all night finally began to blunt the edges of the evening, the band took to the stage and people began dancing. Almost immediately I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Hey, cowboy, aren't you supposed to offer me the first dance?" "I, uh. I'm not really much of a dancer," I stammered. "Shocking!" she gasped in sarcastic surprise. Then she simply extended her hand. I rose, took it, and stood stupidly still. I stepped back and took a long moment to drink in her sumptuous beauty. In this short weekend I had only seen her in three different outfits, but it was quite a range: from beach casual to night-on-the-town evening wear to high formal. And after a weekend of stewing in futile admiration this last presentation was almost unbearable. The dress was a full-length royal violet with godet pleats, ruching up the left-side seam and, across the bosom (the first time her cleavage had been covered all weekend), a broad lavender sash that rose and became a single shoulder strap over the right shoulder. A matching lavender bustle accentuated her already enormous ass and, just under her double chin gleamed an elegant pearl choker. To top it all off she had even managed to pin her hair up in some sort of coiffure I won't try to describe; all I know is that it surprised me, as I wouldn't have thought she would have enough hair to put up. In sum, she was stunning. "Um," she finally said, "you know you're the one who's supposed to lead me to the dance floor, right? Being equipped with the penis and all." I took her cue and escorted her out onto the crowded dance floor. Two inane fast songs passed before a slow number came up and allowed us to converse. She opened the conversation with: "So, do you ever post on internet dating sites?" "Sometimes." "You know what 'DDF' means?" "DDF? Ummm... divorced...? Uh, divorced-something-female?" "Sometimes you'll see it 'DD-free'?" "Oh! Drug and disease free? Sure." "So? Are you?" "Am I what? DD-free? Why are you asking me this?" She ignored the question and asked: "Do you know what BBW means?" Her eyes twinkled and she may have actually blushed a little. "Ha! I know exactly what that means." I smiled, pleased with myself that I'd had the presence of mind to place enthusiastic emphasis on the word "exactly." Maybe I was emboldened by the wine but, at last, what had been unspoken all weekend was in the open. In that one sentence—in that one word—I had managed to imply how hot I found her. "So, then, you know why I'm asking." "Uh, not exactly," I flubbed. She sighed. "They told me you were kind of clueless about these things." "They?! Who's this 'they'?" "They. Said I'd have to spell shit out for you. So permit me to do so now. Bart, I am about to propose that we, that is, you and I, quietly excuse ourselves from this dance floor and find a secluded place to have unprotected sex without a condom and I figured I should make sure you were DDF. And into BBW." Oh my god! My heart was pounding and my already semi-solid cock started to stir at this brazen proposition, but I couldn't resist continuing the banter a moment longer. "That's a little redundant isn't it?" Realizing what she'd said she now blushed, eyes closed, "Oh yeah. Duh. You know what I mean." "I mean," I persisted, "I suppose we could have protected sex without a condom, maybe wear a hard hat or a flak jacket or something." It felt good to turn the tables, to be picking on her for a change, instead of the other way around. "Alright," she smiled, still blushing, "that's enough." "I mean I'm just clueless so..." She gave me a playful smack on the deltoid and said "You keep this up you're going to talk your way out of a piece of ass." "Yes," I finally relented. "I am. DD-free that is. And I'm assuming you are too?" "Indeed." "And you're just going to trust me about this?" Thunder Thighs at Thunder Bay "Are you just going to trust me?" "I suppose we could get condoms." She nodded. "Indeed we could." "Where would we do that?" She shook her head. "No idea." I thought about this for a moment, and probably wasn't thinking straight for how itchily aroused I had become. It wasn't the hardest boner in the world—part of me was managing to keep a mental check on it somehow, to keep my tuxedo pants from tenting noticeably—but it was hard enough now to be pressing into her fat thigh during the slow dance and, even at half-strength it was achy, not to be ignored. If suddenly she had turned around and walked away, I could have proceeded straight to my hotel room and effortlessly rubbed one out in about 90 seconds. And it would have been a big one. It was in this agitated state, ill-conducive to sound reasoning, that I weighed the risks of barebacking a near-total stranger against the delay and inconvenience of searching for a condom. As strangers go, she came somewhat prescreened. She had a lot of friends on the bride side, some of whom knew people I knew on the groom side. It wasn't as though we were completely anonymous here, like two random strangers at a bar. And after all, she led with that disease thing—it was the first thing she asked me. I slipped out of my reverie and found myself looking her straight in the eye. "Do you have a room at the hotel?" I finally asked. "Sharing it with another maid. You?" "Same here. With a groomsman that is." "That basement rumpus room off the kitchenette? Where the caterers were set up? They've probably cleared out by now." "Caterers gone already, you think? We just finished desert." "Separate desert caterer," she gestured with her pinky to where the desert chef had set up her operations in a room off the hall's first-floor vestibule. "That dinner crew downstairs has had close to two hours now to break down and pack up." "There has to be a bathroom down there," I thought out loud. "My thoughts exactly. I'll go first, you follow me in five minutes." I left the dance floor and made my way to the men's room where I did a quick booger check in the mirror and then hid out in the stall for the appointed five minutes, where I very seriously thought about rubbing one out just to make sure I didn't embarrass myself. I wouldn't say I've ever had a real "prematurity" problem—I usually have pretty good control over things in that department—but sometimes I do get a little over-stimulated and, when I do, I can tell in advance that it will be hard to contain myself. When that happens I like to take compensatory measures. For example, I'll go down on my partner and make sure she gets off first at least once so I won't feel so bad if it runs away from me once we get going. But I didn't think I was going to have that opportunity here, and now it was kind of a perfect storm brewing: I was sharing a room with a guy and so hadn't had the chance to jerk off in the past 48 hours; I had just met this woman so there was going to be all the excitement that comes with newness; and I wasn't even going to have the benefit of a condom. Still, in the end I decided against pre-gaming. The five minutes, it seemed, would be better spent just taking deep breaths and letting my boner soften. I pulled open the bathroom door and, checking down the hall to ensure I was unobserved, slipped into the stairwell and crept down the stairs. I emerged in the darkened basement where, only hours before, the catering company had set up rows of steam trays on folding tables piled high with pink prime rib and tarragon chicken; the aroma still hung in the air, mingling uneasily with that faintly musty old-church smell. It was eerily quiet, the only sound being the muted bass of the music coming through the ceiling from the dance upstairs, and the only light coming from the battery lamps on the occasional fire alarms and red exit signs. "T- hello?" I called softly into the dark, catching myself before using her name. She appeared from the shadows and quietly extended a hand. "Come on," she said, "there's a couch over in the corner." She took my hand and led me across the darkened room at a brisk pace. "Um, wait—a couch?" The room was a wide open and sparsely furnished basement. If someone came downstairs and flipped a light switch there would be no hiding. "I thought the plan was the bathroom." "The couch is softer." Reaching the corner, she spun me around and gave me a surprisingly forceful push on the chest with the flats of her palms. I fell backward into darkness, landing on a big plush sofa cushion. Still bouncing, with no time to reorient, I was suddenly aware of her eager hands manipulating my zipper, followed by a rush of cool air as she popped me out of my pants. Then I gasped as her warm wet tongue and lips closed around the engorged head of my penis. I wasn't prepared and was suddenly way over-stimulated as she effortfully skirted gagging herself, the better to rapidly moisten my whole throbbing shaft. I regained my composure long enough to remember my concerns about the risk of being caught and managed to say something about it: "Teresa, seriously, what if someone comes down here?" With a slurping sound as she suctioned off the excess, she lifted her head to face me in the dark and promptly began climbing up on my body. My eyes had adjusted to the dim light and I could see her gleaming eyes quite clearly now. With a mischievous smirk she asked: "You honestly think someone's going to come down here in the next 60 seconds?" I was floored. I had met this woman not even 48 hours ago, and yet she could somehow tell how worked up I was—that, as the saying goes, a stiff breeze would have blown me over. I had no idea how she could be so confident in this assessment (accurate though it was), nor where she got the audacity to forecast it aloud like that—like Babe Ruth signaling right field. And, of course, she seemed to be inviting it—excusing in advance how little I would be able to contribute to her pleasure under the circumstances. With one hand she began she began gathering up the godets of her dress and the slip beneath and then, having bunched the material and pinned it to her side with her elbow and, supporting herself with her other hand planted on the couch back above my shoulder, she reached down and pulled her panties to one side. I anxiously panned the dark room, peering at the putty-colored metal doors beneath the backlit exit signs when, all of a sudden— "Oooooh my gooood!" I moaned involuntarily, as I found myself plunged deliciously deep into the warm satisfying wetness of her tight vagina. I looked up at her in a state of stupid semi-shock, hardly able to believe what was happening to me. She smiled broadly, brightly, as, pinning me in the straddle of her gorgeous fat white thighs, she rose and fell, rose and fell, in smooth, medium-speed strokes, her enormous round bottom landing heavily on my quadriceps with each downstroke. "Don't try to hold it," she advised, smiling brightly and removing all doubt about her expectations for me. "Don't fight because you'll totally lose." I surrendered; I let my head fall back on the sofa cushion, and just let it happen. And happen it did! There was a lot of obstruction—the bunched up material from her gown, the fact that my pants were still on—and I certainly would have loved to feel the whole length and breadth of her warm naked skin again my own. But even through all of this fabric I could feel the soft, heavy, reassuring comfort of her big round belly, her large motherly boobs crushing against my chest and stomach and torso with each enthusiastic stroke. My God, there is nothing in this world like a pretty fat woman! With her patient, deliberate rhythm, it was as though every nerve ending was being overloaded, as I could feel every contour of her dripping pussy as it swallowed my length and girth. In and out, cool and warm, I was out of my mind in almost painful pleasure before—I'd like to think it was more than her predicted sixty seconds, but it wasn't long—I began to seize up and then—sweet relief! It felt so good when that pent up tension finally burst out of me with frenetic jets of jizm cascading into her lovely pussy. I think I was coming for more than 15 seconds, my back arched, my hands clutching her massive ass through the satiny material of her dress. "Atta boy," she was saying, though she sounded far away now. She was holding still, waiting for my spasms to pass and, when I finally settled, she very gingerly withdrew herself from my lap and simply let her panties snap back into place and let her gown fall, apparently unconcerned that my seed would any minute be trickling out of her. After a moment, I withdrew the pocket square from my tux pocket and began cleaning myself with it. She was running her fingers through my bangs. "God I've been wanted to do that all fucking weekend," she said. "Yeah, me too." "Get out, really?!" "All right, all right, always with the sarcasm!" She smiled sweetly and gave me a good natured sock in the arm. "We should be getting back soon," she said. "We'll be missed." "But, uh, what about you?" "Uh-uh," she said, shaking her head. "'Uh-uh'?" "Yeah. Just, uh-uh." "But... if not now, when." "Ummmm, probably not this trip actually, I'm afraid. I'm on the first flight out in the morning." I let out a disappointed whimper. "Oh poor baby," she said (un-sarcastically, I think), taking my chin between thumb and fore-knuckle. "Don't worry about me, Bart. I got exactly what I wanted. And expected. I knew full well I was basically gonna have to pop you like a zit." "Ew!" She let out a hearty laugh before continuing. "If it's meant to be, maybe someday..." She hummed the relevant bars from Dame Vera Lynn. "Then you can have a rematch. But I'm afraid today we must leave it: Bart, 0, Teresa, 1." With that she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek and then, as though thinking better of leaving it at that, engaged me in a passionate few minutes of tongue kissing. Afterward she stood up and said: "Give me five minutes head start again?" "Sure. See you upstairs."