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Message-ID: <57873asstr$1215785402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Joris Huysmans <joriskhuysmans@hotmail.com>
Importance: Normal
Subject: {ASSM} HILDA THE BBW PINUP (BBW, MF, FF, voy)
Lines: 261
Date: Fri, 11 Jul 2008 10:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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HILDA THE BBW PINUP by Joris K.  Huysmans

   (A tribute story to the legendary BBW pinup gal created by Duane Bryers
and still published by the Brown & Bigelow Co.  If you've never heard of
her, search "Hilda Duane Bryers" and you'll discover one of the hidden in
plain sight classics of BBW admiration; Les Toil's site is especially
recommended.)

   * * *

   The sun peeked through the calico curtains, and Hilda's nose twitched.
Oh, let me sleep another half hour, she thought, wriggling her bountiful
bottom into the feather mattress, and accidentally kicking Rex, her little
white dog, who snorted and rearranged himself, then went back to dreams of
chasing pussycats.  But it was no use; the old stove had gone dead hours
earlier, and the cabin was too chilly to allow further sleep.  She
stretched her arms above her head, savoring the last moment of warmth in
bed-- and then she leaped up, putting bare feet to the wood floor and
scattering crackers from last night's snack onto the floor as she clutched
her red flannel union suit around her.

   She lit a match and in a moment the old iron stove was glowing again. 
She held her hands in front of the growing fire, then turned around and
shimmied her capacious behind in front of it, her round breasts bouncing
back and forth under the coarse red flannel like a gunnysack full of
polecats, her nipples swelling excitedly as they brushed back and forth
against the rough cloth with the full weight of her breasts behind them. 
Then she noticed the cracker crumbs, and grabbed the dustpan to sweep them
up.  As she bent over to do so, her red hair fell in her face, and her
breasts nearly spilled out of the top of the union suit.

   It's too cold to be the first of May, she thought, as she admired the
sexy new image on the calendar.  A little dancing would warm me up, she
thought, so she cranked up the Victrola and "Fascinatin' Rhythm" as sung by
Ukulele Ike began to boom from the large metal horn.  She began to dance to
the music and Rex quickly ran for cover, observing the buttons in the rear
straining as her ample bottom tested their strength and fearing that at any
moment, one of them might fly his way at bb gun speed.

   By the time breakfast was finished, the day had warmed considerably, and
so Hilda slipped out of her union suit and put on the bikini she had made
out of an old flour sack, then gathered up her watercolor kit and brushes.
"C'mon, Rex, you old stick in the mud," she said teasingly, and Rex rolled
his eyes and resigned himself to accompanying her to whatever trouble she
would find today.

   It was in fact a beautiful day, and butterflies and songbirds
accompanied her as she strolled through the meadow.  "Why so gloomy?" she
cried out to the bull in the neighboring pasture, who merely scowled back
at her.  She well remembered the time she had tried to saddle and ride him,
and found herself thrown onto her bottom.  Fortunately, there was plenty of
it to absorb the shock.

   She came to an old wooden fence and an idea struck her.  Years ago, when
Pappy was alive, she had gone to the circus with him, and admired the
tightrope walkers.  It was not a skill she expected she could master-- they
were such thin girls-- but the fence was a little broader, it seemed worth
a try.  So she climbed up onto it and with her parasol for balance, began
to try to walk along it.  She made it about five feet before shouting
"Whoa-oh-ohhhhh!" and tumbling backwards, luckily into a haystack piled up
just by the fence.  As she looked up, dazedly, a squirrel glanced at her,
shook his head, and ran off.

   She stood up and then she looked down.  Something was missing-- her
bikini top!  It must have popped off in the fall.  Covering her round bosom
with her arm, she looked around for it, but it was nowhere to be seen. 
What in heaven's name could she do?

   She noticed some vines dangling from the chestnut tree a few yards away.
In a few moments, she had snatched some leaves from the chestnut tree and
attached them to the vine, making a makeshift bikini top out of the leaves.
To be honest, it revealed as much as it covered, the swell of her ample
breasts easily discernable between the patches of green.  But it would
serve for the morning, as she always had the pasture to herself.  No one
would see her.

   She continued on her way until she reached a favorite spot overlooking
the river.  Sitting on a giant toadstool, she set up her easel and began to
paint while Rex sniffed around for a place to nap.  She had only painted a
few moments, though, when he spotted a hummingbird and ran after it in high
pursuit.  Hilda ignored him at first, but a few moments later, there was a
splash.  He had followed the bird right off the dock and into the water.

   "You naughty, naughty Rex!" she admonished him as she stepped onto the
dock to retrieve him.  The timbers must have rotted since last she used it,
however, because soon the two ends of the dock began to move in opposite
directions, and Hilda found herself being split in half.  With a shriek,
she tumbled forward as the dock halves gave way, and soon she too was in
the river, with Rex.

   A few moments later she stood on the bank, dripping water as she wrung
out her bikini bottom, revealing both the curves of her behind and the
mound in front.  The bikini bottom would have to hang to dry, the thick
flour sack burlap being no match for the fast-drying synthetics worn by
more sophisticated bathers.  Again she plucked vines and leaves and quickly
wove them into a garment, which she was just about to put over her sex when
suddenly a voice called out-- "Oh, don't cover it up, I was just thinking
how much I liked a natural redhead."

   Her response to this was to let out a bloodcurdling shriek, like none
she had emitted since the night she was reading the volume of ghost stories
and the Jessops' tomcat turned out to be hiding under her bed.  That
expression of surprise past, however, she took in a look at her unexpected
audience-- and she had to confess to a lot of liking for what she saw, six
feet of tall, lean, well-dressed city slicker, with a fedora hat and a
pencil-thin mustache.

   "Shapely's the name, Waldo Shapely," he said, as the Chesterfield on his
lower lip dangled without falling.  "Representative of the American
Butter-Churn Company, it's the way it vibrates that produces all the
cream."

   "I-I use oleo," Hilda stammered.  "For my figure."

   "Don't tell me a lovely bounteous gal like yourself is one of those
diet-fad types trying to make yourself as skinny as a spinster schoolmarm,"
Shapely said, walking toward her.  "Why, a fellow doesn't want to hold his
sweetie and feel nothing but elbows and ribs.  He likes the feel of a real
gal with flesh to grab hold of," and he grabbed her breast in its leafy
covering, "and a bottom that gives when he pushes into it," and he grabbed
with his other hand one of her buttocks, "and a face that is soft and
tender, not as full of angles as a Cincinatti card game," and he brought
her lips up to his, and bestowed on her the first kiss she'd had in nearly
two years, not counting the ones she planted regularly on an unwilling but
resigned Rex.

   It had been so long, and Hilda was a gal with a lot of love built up in
her, like steam in a kettle.  She could hardly believe what she was
allowing this traveling salesman to do to her, but in a moment he had
popped the vine on her bikini top and was cupping her big round breasts in
her hands, and she reached down the line of his seersucker trousers and
felt the hard bony thing in his pants, and he led her backwards toward a
sheltered little knoll, and then she lay on the grass, panting, her legs
spread wide to reveal her treasure, wet and slippery, and he slipped out of
his suspenders and dropped his trousers, and there it was, that hard thing,
and all she knew was that she wanted it in her that instant, and she kicked
her legs up in the air and he climbed onto her and jabbed it in, and she
shrieked again, with pain but also pleasure, as he thrust it into her, her
big bottom rolling up and down with each thrust, her hands roaming all over
his back while he chugged at her.

   It was 30 or 40 seconds of bliss, and then he bayed at the moon like a
hound, and before she could even comprehend what was happening, he was
standing up, fixing his suspenders and picking bits of grass off his front,
and she realized that the cigarette had never even left his lips.  "Sister,
Shapely thanks you for a fine time, and if you're ever in the market for a
butter churn, don't hesitate to telegraph the main office in Terre Haute,"
he said, and in a moment, he was walking away.

   That was it?  she thought.  No kissing and hugging, no rubbing my
womanly parts with your soft cityfied hands, no tickling my bush with that
mustache?  She might have expected no more from a local boy, but she had
often dreamed of the lovemaking of a sophisticated type, like Cary Grant or
Ronald Colman, and imagined all the things they might do to her body that
the crude farmhands she occasionally invited to her cabin (since Pappy had
died and left her the revenues from the oil wells on the property, anyway)
could never have dreamed of.  How disappointing to find that city men were
no more imaginative or responsive to her needs, to the ache in her loins,
than the local Clems and Duanes.

   With wistful regret, she went back into the river, washed her loins out,
then gathered her bikini bottom and made herself another top out of leaves
and vines.  It would be a lonely night tonight, playing the musical saw to
amuse herself, no doubt finishing off the box of water crackers and the
salami before settling into bed to pleasure herself.

   As she walked up the hill she saw a bus pull up and stop.  Funny, hard
to imagine that the bus from Millboro had any reason to stop out here. 
Then she remembered that someone had bought the old Kilbride place--
supposed to be a city woman who drew fashion pictures or something and
bought the place to be her studio.  Sure enough, as the bus pulled away it
was a tall, smartly-dressed woman carrying two bags of groceries, leafy
celery protruding from the bag at the top-- the spitting image of the gal
on the calendar back in her cabin, Hilda thought with amazement.  The lady
greeted the workmen in her front yard-- but as the bus whipped past her,
building up speed, a gust of wind caught her skirt and Hilda, in horror,
saw her underwear catch the wind and slide down her legs, gathering at her
feet.  The woman saw it too and stood there, paralyzed with horror, as the
workmen gawked at her with greasy leers.

   "Art Frahm!  Gil Evgren!  Hain't none of you ever seen a woman before
that you have to gawk at this fine lady's misfortune?" Hilda stomped across
the road and nearly charged them like the bull in the pasture, shouting at
the ungracious workmen with her hands on her hips.  "Well, take a look at
me all you want, but let a lady gather up her garments and let her be
without worrying about the dirty minds of the likes of you!" The poor lady
grabbed her wayward unmentionables and hurried inside while Hilda's ample,
nearly uncovered womanhood kept the ruffians' attention for the moment.

   She was just about to walk off when the front door opened.  "Perhaps
you'd like a cup of tea," the woman, still plainly mortified, said.

   A few moments later Hilda was inside, explaining how she came to be
dressed in nothing but a flour sack and leaves.  The woman stared at her
open-eyed, apparently unable to feel certain that any of this was quite
real.  "Well, as soon as your husband gets her, I'd have him fire those
louts and hire some real gentlemen to work on your property," she advised
the woman, whose name was Danielle.

   "I don't have a husband," she said.  "I work in the fashion industry. 
The men I work with, mostly prefer...  the company of other men."

   "Oh," Hilda said.  She had read about men like that in the Encyclopedia
of World Mating Rituals Pappy had ordered on the installment plan.  How
dreadful!  How...  big city sophisticated.

   "And many of the women who work there...  prefer a similar company to
their own, too," she said, touching Hilda's cheek with her hand.

   From that single touch Hilda knew that here was a sophisticated city
type who knew all the ways to bring pleasure to a body like Hilda's.  The
thought had never crossed her mind of letting a woman make love to her, but
now, well, when did she ever let convention get in her way?

   She smiled at Danielle and Danielle leaned forward, kissing her
delicately on the lips.  Hilda kissed back vigorously and Danielle returned
the kiss with vigor, running a hand along Hilda's side, feeling the weight
of her breast, the spongy curves along her side, the roundness of her
buttocks.  Danielle unbuttoned her top and opened it, well, she had the
shape Shapely had spoken against, bony elbows and ribs, but Hilda didn't
mind.  She rubbed Danielle's breasts as the other woman climbed over her,
spreading her thighs apart to reveal her sex, still wet with the excitement
of earlier in the day.  Danielle lowered her face to Hilda's sex, wrapping
her arms around her rounded buttocks, and the first electric touch of her
tongue to Hilda's slit sent a shock through her.  Danielle sank to the
floor on her knees and licked her expertly, so that within moments Hilda
felt the orgasm building in her loins, causing her to buck her bottom and
wiggle her thick thighs, practically clamping around the other woman's
head. As she did she saw Art and Gil peering in through the window, and
stuck her tongue out at them.  When they saw that she saw them, they ran
away.

   Sated for the moment, she leaned back on the couch as Danielle rested
her head on Hilda's vast and squishy belly.  She noticed the bag of
groceries, still sitting on the endtable, one vegetable in particular
protruding erect from the brown bag.  "So did you buy that celery for any
special purpose?" she said, and Danielle looked up at her with a knowing
glint in her eye.

   _________________________________________________________________ The
i'm Talkaton.  Can 30-days of conversation change the world? 
http://www.imtalkathon.com/?source=EML_WLH_Talkathon_ChangeWorld

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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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