5 comments/ 21067 views/ 7 favorites Zaftig Society Ch. 01 By: JorisKHuysmans A jangle of keys, then the slight suction of the door opening, as the weatherstripping let the doorframe go with a rubbery smack. Doreen pushed the door wide with the shopping bag and set her purse down on the foyer table under the mirror, nudging the dried flowers slightly. Then the bag was set down with a thump on the floor. The house was silent, not just the absence of activity but the absence of any reason for activity, like a shuttered business, an empty bank vault. At first, after Paul's death, the silence had unnerved her; two years on, it was simply how the world was, airless and still. The door closed behind her and the vault was sealed. She hoisted the bag up again off the floor and carried it to the kitchen, swaying back and forth with each step, like a penguin. Part of that was being put off balance by the bag— too many jars, but there had been specials on single serving spaghetti sauces— but part of it was her weight. Once her hips had swayed around to make her butt wiggle; now they swayed to get around her thick thighs. She put the bag on the counter, then sank into one of the barstools, its metal legs creaking under her. A droplet of sweat ran down her neck and into her considerable cleavage, presently the color of blush on a peach. She could see her dyed hair reflected in the stainless range hood; no one would mistake the red-brown for a natural color at her age, but it favored her all the same, she liked it. It gave the impression that there might be someone to find her attractive. She would put the groceries away in a minute but first she wanted to check the mail, which she had pulled out of the box in a bundle and dropped in the bag. Advertising circulars, credit card and funeral pre-planning offers— as quickly as they were picked up, they were dropped into the trash can. But then there was a square envelope, like an invitation. She tried to think if anyone's children she could think of were getting married. She flipped it over and there was a simple sketch, hardly more than a few lines, of a shape— —the shape of a woman? It was vague enough that you could read a number of things into it. But as soon as she saw a woman's body, she could see nothing else in those lines. You're imagining things out of desire, she laughed at herself. It couldn't be meant to be a woman, she thought. Because if it was a woman, it was a fat one, and who would have meant it to look like that. She popped the seal on the envelope and pulled out a handwritten card. At the top was the same simple drawing and the words "Zaftig Society." Below that was written: "It has been suggested by one of our members that you are an unattached woman of the sort that appeals to our club. You are invited to our meetings. We assure you of the utmost respect and discretion from our membership, male and female. Dress code: glAmorous." Beneath that were listings of a few addresses and dates; the next one was this Friday. What in God's name? she thought. A prank, a joke. What else could it be. She dropped it in the trash, too, and in a moment she had forgotten it. * * *
 But she hadn't. The next day at the travel agency she owned, that she and Paul had owned, the strange card came into her mind. At first she couldn't even think of the name of it— Zippy, Zazzy— but it came to her. She decided to ask Muriel, one of the agents. Muriel was older than she was by a couple of decades, but she was one of those leather-voiced old gals who you know had once been quite the wild dish, back in her day. Which was the one being celebrated on "Mad Men" these days, more or less. "Muriel, have you ever heard of something called the Zaftig Society?" Muriel's eyes widened and she let out a laugh that could have come from a seal and smelled of cigarettes stretching back to the Kennedy years. "Now where did you hear that name?" Something told Doreen that she should distance herself quickly from too close an identification with this topic. "I-- I heard a client say it to someone in his office," she said. Muriel narrowed her eyes. "Well, let's hope he was talking about you," she said. "Why? What does it mean?" Doreen said. She could feel herself blushing. "It was a club, back when I was younger," she said. "A... swinger's club. A very posh one." "Oh my!" Doreen said. "I hope he wasn't referring to me!" "Take compliments where you can get 'em, honey," Muriel said. "It was a club for married people who liked a little action, but they weren't like most of them that were always trying to get the cute young secretaries. Like me," she said, and sighed. "They seemed to go for a more mature type of female." "So they're not around any more, I hope." "Christ, if there's any of 'em still around they'd be a hunnerd years old," Muriel said. "It'd have to be somebody pretty old to even remember the name. Who was it, old man Ferguson or somebody? That old goat—" "I shouldn't say," Doreen said. "Doesn't matter." She went back to work, and was quiet and efficient for the rest of the day. * * *
 

Friday came. The fact of there being a meeting of that club— that's how she thought of it, that club, the club whose name she didn't even say in her head— crossed her mind several times that day. Astonishing, to think that such things are going on in her town. That a nice house in Belle Plaine— that was the part of town the address was in— should have such secrets behind its front. That people should just do such things, at a real place with an actual address, and not far away in some half-real distant land... astonishing.

She made herself a little piece of fish and some canned corn, then watched one of those TV dancing contest shows. The overt sexuality of the dancing, doing such blatantly suggestive bump and grind on TV— that too suddenly astonished her, that people would go and do things like that in front of a few million. It was one thing for actors, who were playing someone other than themselves, but dancers were, well, themselves. Was everyone like that now? Was she the last person alive who kept her sexuality out of public view, like all respectable women once did? 
She dressed in a white nightgown and climbed into bed, and read a mystery book for a few minutes. But her thoughts kept turning back to the idea that all that was happening right now... she was too distracted to read, so she set the book aside and turned out her light. A few minutes on her stomach and she was uncomfortable; she flopped onto her back, the bed bouncing a few times with her weight. Her hand rubbed lightly across her belly, brushing her breast. Then it did it again, no accident this time. Her fingers circled her nipple and a tingle ran through her. Ran through her like the distant echo of a much greater storm some miles away. She let both her hands rub her fat, floppy breasts, thinking what it had once been like to have Paul rub them, much more roughly with his big hands. Had she enjoyed sex with him? She enjoyed intimacy, yes, but not in the same hungry, carnal way that he seemed to. That was the difference between men and women, she supposed. Only she felt much less difference just at this moment, and she permitted herself to do what she had done only a very few times since Paul's death— she ran a hand down into her pajama bottoms, wrenched her fat thighs open and spread her labia apart, sliding a finger into the wetness between. She began to rub, up and down, and to push back against her finger with her hips. She thought what it would be like to have a man on top of her again— plowing into her, forcing her walls apart with his flesh, driving her broad bottom into the mattress. They were doing that right now, she imagined. Well, of course, many people were all over the world, one supposed, but in particular— she knew exactly where they were doing it, at this very moment, something she had never known about anyone else's sex life before. A picture came into her head; she knew instantly it was nothing like what this Zaftig Society was really like but somewhere, out of movies or something (though she couldn't think of any time she had watched this kind of movie). She saw a dozen beds, arranged as if the hours on a clock, and a dozen women lying on them, and a dozen men rotating from one to the next, climbing aboard, and penetrating them, sliding in and out, pressing their hairy flesh down on them. She rubbed more furiously at the thought. A dozen women being... being fucked by a dozen men not their husbands, no one to them at all. Random men, landing on them like the hands of the clock and pushing their... cocks into them. She slid her fingers rapidly over her clit, rubbery and slippery and warming with blood and friction; her fat ass wriggled more furiously against the sheets, her big flopped breasts jiggled up and down, the bed beneath her was becoming wet as she frigged her clitoris and the feeling of orgasm began to build in her. Everything about how one chose a man to have sex with was abandoned here— it was just fucking, a cock and a pussy coming together heedless of who they belonged to. It was against everything she lived her life by, but right now she was imagining it, imagining it happening to her, and as the orgasm exploded in her, she clamped her heavy thighs around her fingers and felt her pussy throb rhythmically, contracting one after another, around a finger. A finger, which wasn't big enough to be what she needed to feel in her right then. Zaftig Society Ch. 02 The story so far: Doreen, a lonely, plus-sized middle-aged widow, receives an invitation from something called The Zaftig Society for what appears to be a swingers' party. She does not attend, but when the night of the party comes, she can't help thinking about it... and pleasures herself. * Doreen was in a store on the other side of town, which she had never visited before. No one knew her there, or seemed especially interested in her as she shopped for a dress... a dress that would accentuate her curves and bulk as much as everything she currently owned did its best to hide them. What did she need such a dress for? She told herself that it was just, well, time to start feeling better about her body. But why did she feel the need to feel like this now, at this moment in her life? Where did she plan to go, who did she hope to be seen by? These were things she could not answer, or would not, even to herself. She settled on a wine-colored dress in a subtly shiny material, which draped well over her curves but also had strategically-placed gatherings of material which created curves of its own. The result framed her curves, but obscured the precise shape of her form. It left you wanting to see more... if Doreen's figure was something you might want to see more of in the first place. Which she was not convinced would be the case for any man. She went home, and when she got there she opened her desk and pulled the invitation out from its discreet spot under a box of checks. She looked at it idly, at the rough and indistinct sketch at its top that she now could only see as a naked female, a fat, bounteous one. If she had thrown the invitation away in the kitchen, it would have been long gone, but by chance she had tossed it into the rarely-used basket on the other side of her counter by the telephone, where it had sat for weeks before she fished it out. The second of the three dates and places listed on it was Friday. She refused to think about what would really happen there, because to do so would be to... what? To be a slut. To do unspeakable things with strangers. To abandon everything about who she was. She was a person of a certain age and position in life and she would no more... with a man she didn't know than she would rob a bank. But then there was the dress she had bought. Why? What use would she ever have for such a dress? To be buried in and give them one last surprise, she thought bitterly. Or first surprise, rather. She had a sudden urge to try it on, even though she had seen it on her body barely an hour before. She took it out of its box and put it on a hanger and hung it up, letting it unfold. Then she pulled her blouse up over her head. The body she saw— white bra that screamed function over sexiness, pale flesh, rolls of soft flesh— was not one that she expected anyone to be wildly attracted to. And yet, evidently someone— a whole society— was. She shimmied her pants over her round hips and butt, and stood there now in white, featureless underwear, wisps of curly black hair around the edges. Suddenly she had a wish she had bought some other kind of undergarments, something that didn't look like a plaster bandage but accentuated her round body. This was where the problem would come, if she did what of course she would not do— once the dress came off, everything under it would take the steel out of the men, so to speak. A mischievous thought came over her. There was another choice. She unsnapped her bra and tossed it aside, letting her big flat breasts flop out. Then she slipped the utilitarian underwear off. This was her— white, lumpy, marked with the imprints of tight-fitting undergarments. She took the dress off its hanger and slipped it over her head, shaking and wriggling to get it on, letting it drape and find its shape again. She looked in the mirror and suddenly— her breath was taken away. The dress had looked good enough when she was in it in her sturdily-structured bra, but now it curved with the shape of her breasts, the roundness of her hips. Before it helped hide her shape, now it... accentuated it. Made you desire the breasts that filled it out, the nipples that jutted out under it, the way it shook and rolled with her form. And she felt underneath the absence of underwear. The secret that her innermost place was there, waiting to be found and taken. She felt along her leg and began drawing the skirt upward, until she saw the thicket of dark hair. She stood with her legs apart and rubbed the center of her patch of fur, as it began to spread with her moistness. Her finger ran along the now-wet slit, slipped inside her. She imagined someone else doing this to her, feeling his way up her dress and spreading her legs apart, her lips apart, and then a rough cock forcing its way into, her shuddering as she was plowed with one thrust after another... She came for the first time in her new dress. Carefully she pulled her hand out and let the fabric fall, then wiped off her fingers before pulling it over her head again. * * * She parked a block away and then walked to the large Colonial home in wealthy Belle Plaine. Each heartbeat pounded in her ears; every tottering step in her heels seemed to pitch the world off balance. Was she really going to do this? It seemed impossible, mad— and then she grabbed the brass knocker and rapped it, once timidly, the second time firmly. In a moment the door opened and an older man dressed as if for boating smiled graciously at her and said, "We are so pleased that you accepted our invitation. Do come in..." ...she sat on a barstool as a bartender with a face as impassive as a photograph of the long dead made her a vodka and tonic. She sipped it hurriedly through the plastic stirrers. There were only a handful of people in the living room, a couple sitting closely on a sofa, a couple of older men talking by the bookshelves. This was, to her, more horrible than if a full-fledged orgy had been happening in front of her; so few meant everyone would know what you were doing, no anonymity in the crowd. She thought of leaving, but before she could put the thought into action there was another gentleman of expensively conservative dress at her side. "So glad you could come, my dear," he said. She recognized him; a doctor of some prominence, whose wife had died several years earlier. "When you care to go upstairs, I'll be happy to show you the way." So that was it, she thought? She was expected to just go up there and start... fucking? He must have sensed what she was thinking, because he added, "There are private rooms for the ladies, and quite an interesting group in the lounge. My home is yours for the evening," he said, and then bowed and backed away... 
...now that's what I had in mind, she thought, as she turned at the top of the stairs and found a couple passionately kissing on the landing. They were both in plush robes, and his arm was under her robe, her legs spread halfway apart. She was heavier than Doreen, and as they writhed together, the woman's capacious breasts were working at shaking themselves free. Doreen continued walking past them, and the woman looked at her with a frankly carnal gaze. Was that an invitation? To join in, on a bisexual basis? Astonishing, nothing like it had ever occurred to Doreen before... ...behind a door, she could hear a bed creaking, a woman panting and grunting. She came to the lounge— and stopped cold. A woman— a woman she had seen at church— was completely nude, riding atop a man on a chaise lounge, her drooping breasts and flopping belly flying about with each bounce on the man below her. As she did, with one finger she rubbed her thatch of fur, but with the other hand, she held a penis to her mouth, licking around it carelessly as she... fucked. She was fucking one... cock and sucking another. And seeing Doreen, she looked at her, pulled the penis from her mouth and said "Better come get some of this, honey," and— and pointed the cock at Doreen... ...she turned the corner and ran straight into the doctor who owned the house. He too was in a robe now, and seeing her distress, asked her with genuine concern what had happened. Her explanation was too jumbled to make sense to him— something about it being awful, and animalistic, and yet— He took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. It was her choice, now, and she knew, as awful as it was, what she wanted, what she had to have... ...the woman she knew from church was on her back now, and was being fucked by a potbellied man, perhaps Greek or middle-eastern. Her floppy breasts flew up and smacked against the stomach of the cock she was sucking now. Doreen stopped at a couch and leaned against its back. The doctor was behind her and she took his hands, then pulled him close against her back as she watched the woman fuck two men. He began caressing her breasts over the fabric of the dress while nuzzling her neck. She reached behind her and hiked the skirt up and he moved one hand to her broad ass, caressing her fat hams. She felt inside the robe until suddenly her hand felt a cock, soft and rubbery. It took her a moment to realize the reason— he was shaved around his scrotum. She stroked his cock as she watched the woman licking the balls, then tonguing the ass of one partner while the other continued fucking her from in front. The doctor's cock grew hard in her hand, which she felt a surge of pride at. Then he separated her thighs and his hand slipped into her wet pussy between. Two fingers rubbed her inside while she pumped his cock. The woman being fucked watched her. She directed the cock to her pussy— and suddenly she was the woman being fucked, too... ... the cum sprayed on the woman's stomach. The cock slid into Doreen's pussy... ...the woman turned over, her flat dangling breasts swaying as she sucked at the cock in front of her. Doreen pushed back against the cock inside her as his hands roamed under her dress, around her broad butt, her round heavy breasts, her belly... ...fucking harder, sucking as cum filled her mouth, grunting as she wanted it hard and deep inside her, feeling his balls slap against her, his body split her crack apart with each thrust... ...she pulled off of him, a ribbon of cum fell against her leg, shockingly cold. She looked at him. The first man she had had sex with, other than Paul, in more than 25 years. She looked down at his cock, going soft. She could not regret this. It was what she had needed and denied herself for too long. But she couldn't face him, not as a person now. He had been the cock she needed, now she needed to be alone, to understand who she was now. * * * A curious thing happened while she was at the bar, drinking another vodka and tonic, more seriously. A man came up to her and said he was glad to see her again. That he had been sorry about Paul's death, but that he was glad she was back after a few years and that she looked more lovely than ever. She began to protest that she and Paul had never been there before, but she could hardly get the words out; she couldn't say anything that even identified her, acknowledged that she was who he said she was. For a moment she thought, could Paul have come here? But the man had been certain they had come together, which meant he must be wrong. She sat by the pool for a while. Guests frolicked, probably post-fucking. They laughed. They had the joy of life. She had lived with death for too long. This was life, coarse and animalistic but alive. If the price of feeling alive in the company of others was to fuck and suck, it was a fair bargain. She knew then that she would be back. * * * It was on the way home that an idea began to form in her mind. She rejected it at first, too too awful, but as it fought to assemble itself in her doubting mind, she felt it become true, inescapably true. And as it did, the bottom fell out of her world, and she had to pull over to the side of the road and sob, loudly, like a wounded animal. She knew why that man had thought she and Paul had come to these parties, in the past. She knew it for a fact. And she hated it, and wished she were dead, as dead as Paul as she sobbed her agonizing new knowledge out. Zaftig Society Ch. 03 This is the belated third part to a story; you should read the first two first to build the anticipation properly. That said, the story so far: Doreen, a lonely, plus-sized middle-aged widow, receives an invitation from something called The Zaftig Society for what appears to be a swingers' party. She attends and surprises herself by allowing a man to have sex with her while she watches others having sex. But when a few of them seem to think they know her, she comes to a realization which sends her home in tears. * She opened the door to her home, her tomb-like home, the evening in ashes. Once the door was shut she sobbed, loudly and drily, her wet tears exhausted on the drive home. She knew, she knew, it was awful, the most awful thing she could know, she knew it. It was the only explanation, because it explained everything. Robotically she undressed for bed; the purple dress, once worn with such pride and anticipation, was tossed in a corner like trash. She put on the nondescript nightgown she often wore when she knew no one would see her in it, and crawled into bed, hoping for sleep to carry her off quickly. It did not. Men at the party believed that she had been there before. They knew Paul, so if they said he had been there, he must have been. But Doreen had never been there. There was only one way to make sense of these facts. Doreen had a sister, Lauren. There was a time when the two of them could almost have been mistaken for twins; but as Doreen, married, grew larger and aged into middle-age, mother and daughter came to be as likely a guess. Lauren was curvy, bountifully so, but never heavy, like Doreen was. Lauren seemed youthful and energetic when Doreen knew she did not. Lauren had lived in Florida for many years but she had moved back to town half a dozen years ago. Doreen, happy to have her sister back in town, had made her a part of her and Paul's life, and Paul seemed contented, in an absent-minded way, with this. Looking back, Doreen wondered where the deception started. She could vaguely remember Paul running Doreen to an exercise class she was taking, Paul giving Doreen a lift downtown to meet up with friends on an evening when he had work to do at the office. The schedule of the Zaftig Society was infrequent enough that a number of different excuses could have been used for Lauren and Paul to leave the house together, without Doreen becoming suspicious. So they went, together, to the Zaftig Society. And they fucked, as they would never have dared to do at home. They fucked and sucked. Paul ate her pussy. He held her hips while watching another man's cock go in and out of her cunt, come inside her. They kissed as she was fucked, as he fucked another woman. Whatever was done at the Zaftig Society, they did it together. They shared something that Paul had never shared with his own wife— they enjoyed carnal satisfactions that Paul never suggested to his own wife. That he robbed her of all those years while they had the perfunctory, routine sex of a husband and wife for whom desire had ceased being of importance. And then Paul had died suddenly. A heart attack while driving to a client's office and he was gone for good. Doreen's world had been shattered, but what she had seen, resented at the time, but never really understood was how hard it had hit Lauren as well. In some ways she had found Lauren's reaction immature— he was my husband, she had no right to be so upset by his death, she thought. Her job was to help Doreen, not demand attention and sympathy for herself. It was sibling rivalry, she felt deep down somewhere, and she was not sorry when Lauren moved away six months or so later. But now she knew. He had not been her husband, at the heart of his sensuality. He had been Lauren's; the most intimate acts of his life had been with Lauren, not with Doreen. Over the days to come, she would first rage at Paul for having deprived her of this pleasure, for having kept her from being a part of this other life in which he showed who he really was. Then the fire cooled in her and she looked back on their marriage, almost as if it were a case study and she did not know the people involved. If this was Paul's chosen life, what kind of wife had she been to him that he felt he could not share it with her? What did he think of her that he sought to do these things not with his own wife, but with a revised version of her, younger and more attractive to be sure, but also— Doreen knew— more freespirited, more sensual, simply more fun to be around? Yet the bitterest irony was knowing that he had simply gauged her wrong. That it had only taken a single invitation and she was at once engaged in exactly what he had never even dared breathe a hint of to her. He had not only robbed her of that pleasure, of that deepest intimacy of marriage, he had robbed himself of it. He had been a fool, and died never knowing what sort of creature he had married and shared a bed with. And over the next two weeks she went from the bleakest depths of depression and lethargy to a steely determination. Paul was dead, but she was not. He had deprived her of things; she would not deprive herself of anything, ever again. * * * The door opened. Doreen was standing there in another, newly-bought green dress which hugged her boxy form, made curves out of her heavy breasts and broad hips. Carl, the doctor who owned the house, welcomed her with warmth but a veneer of discretion; he might never have been closer to her than two people at the same table. No sign that he had once pounded his cock into her from behind as she watched others fuck. She gave him a peck on the cheek and they went inside. Inside she took his hands and explained very simply what she wanted. He nodded with understanding and then he took her upstairs. They passed the room where she had been fucked the week before and came to a door at the end of the hall. He opened and it was his master bedroom, clearly. At first glance it seemed perfectly respectable, masculine; only after you looked at it for a moment did the furnishings seem a bit too much, almost lubricious. He pointed to a large mahogany bureau and unlocked it with a key on his chain, explaining that if there were any special devices she might want for the evening, they would be found inside. She marveled at the idea; it had never occurred to her to ever use such a thing in the act of sex, let alone that someone might keep them at hand like that. He pulled the door behind her and she looked at herself in the closet mirror. The sight that had once disappointed her, vaguely, that had made her ashamed, she now knew to be desirable. She pulled the skirt up and then the entire dress over her head, revealing the other thing she had bought recently: silk lingerie. She had liked this one in particular— well, for one, for not being white like a shroud; it was a kind of bronze color. But also for the way it pushed her large breasts up, making appealing and bounteous cleavage, while following her form loosely below. She shimmied in it and admired how her hips and ass jiggled. We'll see how much this old ass can jiggle tonight, she thought to herself. There was a knock and she said come in. It was Carl again, bringing her the cocktail she had asked for. It would surely help her nerves, she thought. He complimented her on her lingerie and she smiled, genuinely. How long since she had heard such a thing? She moved toward him, pressed her body against his. He was still fully dressed but that was not a problem. She felt at his fly and he seemed to respond, by what she felt. She unzipped it, felt around roughly and, she thought, clumsily, but soon enough had the warmth of a cock in her hands, for the first time in two years. She knelt down, wet her lips, and took his cock in her mouth. She had done it with Paul, not unenthusiastically, she believed, but at this moment she felt hunger like she never had before. To have a hard pole in her mouth, throbbing with life— it was such a wonderful thing. Why did we not do this all the time? She licked down the shaft and then to his wrinkly balls dangling below. She could not remember paying that much attention to Paul's balls but suddenly they were the most remarkable thing in the world, she licked the soft, rubbery skin to feel the balls inside, felt the cock flop against her cheek, smear her with her own saliva. Then she had to have it in her mouth again, and she sucked the head. Then she had to have it somewhere else, too. She unbuttoned his shirt, tenderly, giving kisses to his nipples, which sagged a little with age but to her seemed the most beautiful things she had ever seen, so petite next to her own. Then she unbuckled his belt and his pants dropped. She backed away from him, a smile on her lips, and lay back on the bed. There were no panties under the bronze negligee, and what was hinted at in her face seemed to explode in the color of dark fur, purple lips, shimmering wetness between her fat thighs. She reached down and pulled her pussy apart; it was wet enough, she did not have time for licking. He came forward and was on top of her and then inside her, almost in one move. As he fucked her she loved the feeling of his flesh against her thighs but only his weight riding against the silky negligee; it was as if she were in a condom, she thought, laughing to herself. Fucking. This is good. This is the meaning of life. This is what I was made for. These were the thoughts in her mind as he plowed into her, with each thrust of his weight upon her, as she jiggled in all directions, her sagging breasts, her fat belly, her round ass. At a certain point his head arched up and she felt him coming inside her. He was finished; she knew she was nowhere near that. After a few minutes of lying there next to her, he began to stir. She whispered what she wanted. He kissed her and told her to wait a moment. He dressed quickly and went out. She lay back on the bed, idly rubbing her freshly fucked pussy. Two men in bathrobes came in. She had never seen them before. One of them, a tall rangy man with sandy hair, asked if she had just had someone cum in her. It was a funny question, she thought, but she thought nothing of answering it in this context, and said yes. Immediately he was on his knees at the edge of the bed, licking her pussy and holding on to her broad ass. The other, a shorter, dark-faced fellow, Italian or Greek, stood there as if unsure what to do. She reached over to him and pulled his robe apart, revealing his cock underneath. It was a chubby little thing, with fat little balls beneath. She found it adorable and leaned over to lick it all over. The chubby cock grew to a decent length and she sucked it, hard, as the tall man licked away at her pussy. Suddenly he climbed on top of her and thrust into her, hard. He filled her like the doctor had not. It took her a moment before she even realized the milestone she had just passed— two cocks, one in her pussy, one in her mouth. What kind of whore takes two cocks at once? An alive one. She sucked all the more vigorously with the thought. In a moment she could feel the cock in her mouth ready to spurt. She squealed and the man fucking her began ramming her harder. From the corner of her eye she could see— my God, the door was ajar and there was a couple standing there watching. She began fucking harder, shaking the bed, shaking her own fat up and down until it started to build in her. She had practically forgotten the cock in her mouth when suddenly she felt warm slippery cum fill her mouth. She sucked it down greedily and swallowed it and then she came, screaming, trying to suck the cock in her pussy all the way inside her with her powerful thigh muscles. The man came a few moments later, she felt her pussy grow slicker with a second load. She lay there, lost in thought, and suddenly she realized that the couple had slid in beside her. A beautiful woman, a few years younger than herself, was looking at her... admiringly? Perhaps. Suddenly she wanted to do a thing she had never done in her life— well, that was happening a lot today. She leaned her head forward to kiss the woman. Her lips, her face— so soft, so different from a man's. Was there so much pleasure to be had with women, too? It had never occurred to her. They kissed and Doreen rolled onto her side so she could feel the woman's curvy body, so soft and velvety. She didn't even notice what the man was doing until she suddenly felt some kind of cold slippery gel on the crack of her ass. Then something was pressing at her ass, but she could tell by where the man was that he wasn't trying to insert his cock. She felt her hole begin to open and something slide in. A toy from the cabinet. It was nothing like a cock in her pussy— it was painful yet delicious, it was an invasion, it was total surrender. She wanted this, too, now, things in her ass. The man slowly pushed it in and out of her ass as Doreen licked her way down to the woman's breasts. Like her own, the breasts flattened out but Doreen found she could shape them back into globes with her hands and suck on the big nipples. Down she moved until she had the woman's vagina before her. Her tongue jumped up and run up and down the labia, tasting a metallic taste as the lips parted for her and her tongue found more oozing wetness inside. It was marvelous, alive and welcoming, pussy was. Why had she not been licking it her whole life? She sucked and licked at the velvety skin and as she did the toy was pulled from her ass. Now a cock was at her ass, and she felt the head press against her. It started to spread the ring of her hole open, and she pushed against it, beckoning it more fully within her. Slowly, as she pushed, she felt the full cock slip inside her, burying her face in the pussy before her and letting the pain she felt out through more vigorous licking of the vagina in her face. Soon it was in, fully, and she rode the cock in her ass in a rhythm with the pussy she licked. She had no idea how much time passed, all she knew was that sensation followed sensation. She was laying backwards on top of a black man, his cock in her pussy, while his friend, also black, licked at both of them, her pussy and the balls bouncing against her. She sat in the lap of another man while his woman licked at her nipples; eventually the man splattered cum on her breasts and the woman and she laughed as she and the woman shared the cum as she licked it up. She was in the bathroom, sucking at two cocks alternately, then together, their cum spurting over her face. A woman came and licked her clean, like a cat grooming. The two women were sitting in the shower and a man came toward them, pointing his soft cock at them until piss started to flow from it, a warm rain all over their breasts, splashing their faces. They kissed and licked at each other, the saltiness of the piss another new thing. Washed off, they climbed into the bed and Dorene went from licking her pussy to rolling her over and licking her ass, smashing her big round buttocks around her face as her tongue forced her way inside. Dorene fucked the other woman's pussy with the toy while she slid one finger in and out of the woman's ass. She fell asleep, laying against the other woman, savoring her warmth and the feeling of sex, of sex having taken place everywhere on her body at once. * * * She woke up alone. In a moment she realized that she had slept in the doctor's bed, and was vaguely embarrassed at the thought that she'd probably forced him to spend the night on a couch. Then she realized it was probably a foolish thought— there was certainly more than one bed in this house. She dressed and went, tentatively, downstairs. Carl was sitting by the pool with a couple. It took her a moment and then she realized, with a couple of whom, she had had the man's cock in her ass and eaten the woman's pussy. She waved at them shyly, and they smiled back. Oh god, she thought, how do you do this? Carl got up and opened the screen door to come inside. He was dressed as if for tennis, and gave her a polite peck on the cheek. It was astonishing how easily others could switch back and forth, she thought; she felt like the scarlet whore of the universe. "Did you have a good sleep?" She lit up as red as a stoplight. "Just come with me," she said, taking his hand. She felt like she couldn't have a normal conversation; the only way to have one was to be in the same position, naked in body and soul, lovers. Carl waved to the others that he was headed upstairs and they nodded, as if fucking on a moment's desire were the most natural thing in the world. * * * They were laying in Carl's bed, curled together, freshly licked and fucked. "So what now?" she asked. "In what sense?" he said. "What do I do now? I'm a whore."

"Tsk, tsk--"
 "No, it's true. And I love it. I regret all the years I didn't do this. I know that now," she said, gravely, thoughts of dead Paul and her own mortality around the edges. "But what do I do? How do I live like this?" "Ah," he said. "Well, obviously the Zaftig Society is organized with discretion, so that members can participate while maintaining a normal life in the community." "So that's it? I just come here once a month and... do it?" She frowned. "There's a little something of the brood cow about that." Carl adjusted himself up onto one elbow. "Actually, this is jumping the gun a bit, but I had something in mind and, well." "What?" "You know that I'm a widower." "Yes." "And although my basic needs are certainly met by this social circle..."

"They certainly were just now, I hope," she smirked, running her hands over his soft cock and balls. "Very well, I must say," he said, and nuzzled her neck. Then he backed off and looked at her. "But I'm lonely. It's a lonely house, in need of a feminine touch. And, frankly, the Society needs a hostess."

She was surprised. "Are you saying..." "We're certainly sexually compatible. I'm not saying that we rush into it. But I would be very happy if... if you would consider... well, besides our relationship here," he said, gesturing toward the bed, "maybe we could think about a relationship together. Sharing a life together, all of it." The word "sharing" brought her up short, even more than the idea that she was, in a rather practical adult way, being proposed to. But it gave her pause. She had never expected to be with anyone again, and now a door to a remarkable world had just opened for her. She was not prepared to close it again, to close her world down again to what it had been with Paul, one man and one woman. "I'm flattered, and... I'm touched," she said, tracing something on his chest. "But... I've just discovered who I really am. I can't turn back from that. Would being your wife... would it mean the end of all this and being solely for you?" "Good heavens no," he said. "This is how I live. I want it to be with you, shared with you. Doing whatever you want to do. Nothing could be more exciting to me." She thought for a minute, then climbed on top of him again, resting her hanging breasts and belly on his. "All right then," she said. "Do you think your friends downstairs would be willing to come up here for a little bit?"