	Size Discrimination
        ===================

Fanny regarded her teacher with fascination from where she sat at the 
back of the classroom. Qafira was so very thin. Were they all as thin as 
her where she came from? Almost all skin and bones. Hardly any fat 
on the woman at all. She knew that Qafira would get plenty of stick 
for her thinness. People would wonder whether she'd eaten well. Or 
whether she wasn't weak with hunger. But despite her skinniness, 
Fanny decided that Qafira was actually rather attractive. A difficult 
thing to admit to her friends, of course. They'd think she'd gone mad. 
Or, at least, lost her powers of discrimination.

She looked around at her classmates, all of whom were built on 
the same generous model as she was. As was only natural. Large 
breasts. Swelling stomachs. Full fleshy arms, generous buttocks, 
thighs that pressed together, and more than enough flesh for anyone. 
This was the way it should be. Like Tracey, her best friend, who as 
always was sitting next to her, her blouse revealingly open, and 
inevitably letting free a glimpse of a nipple She squeezed Tracey's 
hand, and her friend squeezed it in return. She placed a podgy hand on 
her friend's bulging thigh and Tracey smiled. 

"Wait till after school!" she whispered partly as a promise and 
partly to advise patience.

Fanny looked back at Qafira. She looked so very prim and 
restrained in her dress: a long dress that trailed down to below her 
knees. A blouse so loose and buttoned so high that it was difficult to 
be sure that she had a bosom at all. Hardly any flesh on display from 
her neck to her chest. Or from her ankles to her crotch. Perhaps she 
was just afraid to show off her body. Unlike Fanny. Or her friends. If 
you've got it girl, then flaunt it. And Fanny had plenty of flesh to 
show. Her blouse was short enough to show off almost all her proud 
stomach that overflowed and overhung the tight shorts that pinched at 
the flesh of her massive thighs. Fanny was proud of her body. She was 
probably the plumpest, most generously proportioned and therefore 
most beautiful girl in her class. 

Her theory that Qafira was a woman with few admirers was 
substantiated when, after her Geography lesson with Mr Walton, 
Fanny broached the subject to her teacher. They were lying together in 
the small bed in the storeroom at the back of the classroom where he 
normally entertained his pupils and, presumably, some of the other 
teachers. With effort, he rolled over off his front and dropped his legs 
over the side. His long thin penis was still sticky after having humped 
Fanny from behind. This was the most comfortable position to enter a 
girl as plump as Fanny, and Mr Walton was by no stretch of the 
imagination slim himself. This was probably why he was one of the 
few teachers to whom Fanny would regularly let have possession of 
her body. He stroked Fanny's huge thighs.

"Qafira's a damned freak, ain't she?" he snorted. "I can't 
imagine anyone, even a girl, going for someone as thin as her. Why! I 
bet you could almost see her ribs!"

Fanny scowled. What a thought? She could barely even feel 
her own ribs underneath the thick flesh on her chest and bosom. 

Mr Walton's opinion was echoed by Tracey and her other 
school-friends. But it was in her other teacher lover, Mrs Reagan, that 
Fanny found a more sympathetic hearing. They lay together in Mrs 
Reagan's bed while her husband was busying himself in his workshop, 
a much more comfortable place to make love than in the school 
storerooms, particularly as Mrs Reagan was prone to thrash about 
quite wildly when she was in passion. The combined weight of the two 
of them was just about all the bed could take. 

"Well, I don't fancy her exactly," Mrs Reagan mused. "All 
skin and bones, you know. But she's got a nice face. And I can't blame 
you for being curious of what it's like to make love with a thin 
woman. A bit perverse. But where Qafira comes from they're all 
skinny. And if you ever want to go travelling, I guess you're just going 
to have to get used to the thinner lover."

"It's not thin women I quite like, it's Qafira," Fanny remarked.

"Well, excuse me for being sceptical, but you haven't really 
got to know her very well. She's just your teacher. Are you sure that 
it's not just one of those terrible schoolgirl crushes? As soon as you 
get to know her better, it'll all come to tears."

"How can it be a schoolgirl crush? I make love with you. And 
Mr Walton. And I used to fuck with Mr Smith and Miss Watson and 
Mr Castille. They weren't teenage schoolgirl crushes."

"Of course it's not the same, sweetest, " Mrs Reagan agreed, 
running a podgy finger round and around Fanny's nipple. "It's normal 
in our country for teachers and pupils to have sex together. I know the 
score. Everyone does it. From the first time you stayed late after class 
and let your panties slip down, I knew exactly what it was you wanted 
and I was more than happy to give it to you. A plump girl like you. 
It's not an opportunity to ignore. You know the score too. But 
Qafira. I don't think it's the same at all. Not only would you be her 
only lover, which is odd enough, but she's. well. she is a little bit 
freakish."

Fanny frowned, but she was grateful for Mrs Reagan's advice. 
She leaned over and took her English teacher's mouth in hers and very 
soon the two of them were rolling around as violently and passionately 
as before. Certainly more than loud enough for Mr Reagan in the 
garden to know that his wife was enjoying her quality time with her 
pupil.

Fanny's mother was initially rather less supportive when her 
daughter told her whom she wanted to invite to her birthday party. She 
sat opposite Fanny in the kitchen, folding her arms in front of her and 
underneath the huge weight of her bosom. Except for the unfastened 
dressing gown she was wearing nothing. Clothes are such a nuisance 
around the home! But her stomach overhung her crotch, as it did 
Fanny's father's groin, so Fanny never had to feel that curious 
inappropriate feeling when one sees one's parents' genitals.

"Skinny, you say? How skinny?"

"Very skinny."

"Honestly, dear. How can you? You do have the choice still. 
You can just invite her to your party and not make love to her."

"But that would be wrong. That's not what I want at all. I want 
Qafira to come to my birthday dinner and afterwards, as is my right 
and privilege, I can choose who I want to fuck."

"Why not Tracey? Why not one of the boys? Bob or Frank or 
Terry?"

"It's Qafira I want."

"Qafira. Qafira. What a dumb name for a woman!"

Qafira had a similar opinion about the names of all the people 
she'd met ever since she first arrived in Further Quitchland to teach 
Modern Languages. In fact, almost everything about this country was 
taking a lot of getting used to. Not least of which being just how very 
fat everyone was. At first she regarded it with a mixture of disgust and 
humour. All these gross waddling bodies, barely able to support their 
own weight, overhanging seats and chairs. Huge chubby balls of lard. 
She'd heard that this was the result of many years of sexual selection. 
Overweight men and women were the ones who most attracted 
partners, so their genes simply became the most common. This 
tendency towards obesity must have been enormously assisted by a 
national diet that was excessively fatty and sugary. There were far too 
many carbohydrates and sugar in everything they ate. And the aversion 
to physical exercise, as well. Was it any wonder that people in Further 
Quitchland never weighed much less than a hundred kilos? 

After a while, Qafira learnt that there were more differences in 
the natives of Further Quitchland from those back home than just their 
relative corpulence. Not only were they quite content to be plump, 
they had almost no experience at all of thinner people. All the images 
they ever saw were of similarly overweight people. And the images of 
sexual attractiveness to which they aspired were of men and women 
who in Qafira's hometown would have been laughed at for their very 
obesity. And furthermore, these were people whose appetite for sex 
was way beyond what Qafira would have once considered decent. 
They were always at it. With almost no apparent discrimination as to 
who their partners were. It didn't seem to matter that men fucked men, 
women fucked women or men fucked women. There was no taboo as 
to teachers fucking pupils or bosses fucking secretaries or even there 
being a proper time or place. At least there were proper limits with 
regards to age and incest. That given, though, there seemed to be no 
other restrictions. 

It took a while for Qafira to get accustomed to seeing so much 
bare flesh. It was quite normal for her to see bare breasts in the 
classroom or the street. In fact, totally nudity wasn't that unusual. For 
her, initially, she found this parade of overflowing flab rather the 
opposite of sexy, but as she got more accustomed to her ample 
companions, she became more attuned to what could be considered 
physically attractive. Somehow, people here associated size with sex 
appeal. The more you had of one the more you had of the other. And 
very soon, Qafira realised that as she had very little flesh in 
comparison, she was considered to be equally lacking in physical 
beauty.

This alarmed her. She'd never thought of herself as especially 
thin. Her breasts were not especially small, her waistline refused to 
lose evidence of a stomach and she was actually quite thick-boned. 
But here she was quite simply the thinnest person that most people had 
ever seen. Wherever she went she was followed by voyeuristic stares, 
and sometimes by rather crude comments. And, furthermore, as she 
discovered, amongst all these over-sexed, promiscuous, licentious 
people who had sex everywhere, with everyone and with no restraint, 
she was not getting any sexual satisfaction herself.

At first, she thought it would just be a matter of time. She'd 
find someone, perhaps not quite as large as everyone else, with whom 
she could have a relationship. It had never been a problem back home, 
although she was strictly a serial lover and she preferred to stay with 
her lovers for months or even years. Now, after many months, she had 
not had a date or a goodnight kiss, let alone full, unrestrained sex. And 
now Qafira was beginning to rather yearn for it. It wasn't as if she 
cared especially whether it was with a man or a woman. And she was 
beginning to care rather less as to exactly how slim a lover needed to 
be. She would just like to feel again a lover's lips between her knees. 
She wanted once more to be lost in the passion that only came from 
being engaged in making love with another person. And she was also 
feeling rather lonely. In a society where sex was so rampant, there was 
almost nothing like a normal friendship with no sexual content. So, no 
one would go out with her for a drink, or to see a film, or to eat in a 
restaurant, for fear that other people would think that the two of them 
were lovers.

So, Qafira was rather surprised when Fanny asked her, rather 
sweetly and shyly, whether she could come to her birthday party. 
She'd never really noticed Fanny much before. She was just one of the 
many pupils who attended the dozen or so classes she taught. Not 
outstandingly bright, but not especially slow either. More 
conscientious than some of the pupils, particularly the boys. Somehow 
girls were more enthusiastic about Modern Languages than the boys 
who couldn't see any point in studying French, German, Arabic or 
Russian. She was one of the plumper pupils, but in a world of very fat 
people that was scarcely a matter that concerned her too much. That 
stomach of hers would have made her look permanently pregnant were 
it not part of a package of enormous breasts, a full round face, huge 
limbs and a bottom that overflowed even the very generous seats that 
pupils were supplied in the Further Quitchland schools. 

Qafira's initial instinct was to gratefully decline the offer, but 
after chatting in the staff room with Mrs Reagan, the English teacher, 
she decided that this would not be at all politic. 

"Surely there's got to be some kind of gulf between those who 
teach and those who are taught?" Qafira argued. "It would just 
compromise the normal teacher-pupil relationship."

Mrs Reagan frowned. "I don't see how. If anything it would 
surely strengthen that relationship. But I understand, my dear, that 
things are different for you back home, wherever that is. Here, it's just 
a normal thing. And in anycase, birthdays are rather special days in 
Further Quitchland. It is after all the only day where normal people are 
celebrated in their own right. It would not be very diplomatic to turn 
down an offer to attend a birthday. It's quite an honour to be invited. 
And it would be an insult not to go."

"I see," sighed Qafira, who had been rather dreading an 
evening of listening to adolescent pop music and watching adventure 
movies. "So I don't really have any choice?"

"Not if you want to retain the respect of your pupils and your 
fellow teachers," Mrs Reagan explained. She smiled indulgently. 
"However, if it's any consolation to you, you won't be the only teacher 
coming to Fanny's birthday. I shall be there as well."

Qafira was quite surprised. "So, Fanny's invited other teachers 
too?"

"Well, of course, Qafira sweetie. She wants to do what she can 
to improve her final grades from Fern Hill High."

When she arrived at Fanny's home, carrying a huge box of 
chocolates as a present, she was quite surprised at just how many other 
teachers had come, in addition to the two dozen or so her teenage 
friends. Why! Wasn't that Mr Walton in a rather unflattering Hawaiian 
shirt? And wasn't that Miss Watson, the Social Studies teacher, in an 
outfit that revealed every detail of her monstrous nipples and showed 
every centimetre of her titanic thighs? Fanny's home was large and 
opulent, as all houses seemed to be in the Fern Hill district, and the 
drive was full of cars as oversized as their drivers. Fanny was clearly a 
popular girl. And there was the birthday girl herself waddling down 
the steps of her house with a woman that looked quite similar to her, 
although substantially older, and was more than likely her mother.

"Hello, Qafira. I'm glad you could make it," said Fanny, 
kissing her on both cheeks and clasping her in her plump arms. "And 
some chocs as well! Belgian. My favourite. Is Belgium where you 
come from?"

"Well, no." Qafira began, but with no chance to answer fully 
before she was similarly greeted by Fanny's mother, who was, if 
anything, dressed even more scantily than her daughter. At least the 
nipples were hidden, although the thighs were on full display and the 
stomach swelled out, with the stud in her navel on very prominent 
view.

"So, you're Qafira?" remarked Fanny's mother. "You really 
are very thin! You must eat more, my dear. It hurts me to see such a 
wisp of a thing as you."

Qafira nodded, but as she soon found out that even if she ate 
more at the party than she'd ever eaten before in a single sitting it was 
barely nothing compared to the huge volumes of crisps, crˆpes, 
sausage-on-sticks, slices of quiche, chicken wings, cheeseburgers, 
pizza slices or cake that her fellow guests were managing to force 
down their gullets with absolutely no evidence that they were even the 
slightest bit satiated. This gluttony was accompanied by a relatively 
modest consumption of wine and beer, but Qafira was soon feeling 
relatively tipsy from the few glasses she had, although this was 
tempered by the fact that after she'd been introduced to everyone she 
was mostly left to her own devices as to how to entertain herself. 

She mooched about the quite large garden attached to Fanny's 
home, only too conscious of the stares that followed her as she strode 
by. Although she was convinced it was because people could 
somehow sense exactly how unaccustomed she was to alcoholic drink, 
the truth was that most guests were simply astonished by her thinness. 
She found her way to the swimming pool, a modest affair that was too 
small to allow very much actual swimming, but was ideally suited to 
paddling in. As indeed were two of Fanny's schoolfriends, both naked 
and splashing about relatively innocently. 

Qafira sat down on an enormous sunbed, surely enough to 
accommodate two or three people, and nursed the third glass of dry 
white wine in her hands. It was a nice sunny day and the heat together 
with the early evening sun was making her feel quite relaxed.

"So, you're Fanny's chosen partner for the night, you lucky 
girl!" suddenly announced Mrs Reagan, sitting next to Qafira on an 
adjacent sunbed.

Qafira furrowed her brow. She measured up Mrs Reagan, a 
truly enormous woman, the fat of her upper arms as thick and full as 
Qafira's thighs and whose thighs were in turn broader than Qafira's 
waist. Even after all these months, Qafira was still astonished by the 
sheer immensity of the people of Further Quitchland. Unlike her, 
though, Mrs Reagan was dressed appropriately for sitting by a pool, 
wearing only a very slim bikini top, barely enough to hide her 
monstrous nipples, and a suggestion of a bikini bottom hidden under 
the folds of her overflowing stomach.

"Fanny's chosen partner? We all are, aren't we? This is an 
invitation only party, isn't it?"

"'Invitation only'?" puzzled Mrs Reagan. "Well, of course." 
She trailed her pudgy fingers over Qafira's arm. "You mean Fanny 
hasn't told you yet?"

"Told me what?"

"Oh, nothing!" said Mrs Reagan, suddenly jumping up with a 
lightness that surprised Qafira in such a large woman. "Nothing at all. 
Nothing. But I must run. There's that nice Mr Garland. All by himself. 
Now that's a catch, if ever there was one. I wonder who his wife's 
with!" 

And then Qafira was left alone again as Mrs Reagan ran off to 
chat with another extremely corpulent man, who was wearing a bright 
blue shirt and truly elephantine shorts that could accommodate 
Qafira's waist in either leg. However, Qafira had got used to being left 
alone. It was always like this in Further Quitchland. People were 
somehow quite embarrassed about talking to her. And often when they 
did so, it was as if they wanted to talk about something else, but they 
were too embarrassed to actually mention what it was.

"Oh hi there!" sang Fanny's mother's voice, wandering along 
with two glasses of wine in her hand. "I'd wondered where you'd got 
to. Have another glass of Chardonnay. I noticed that's what you've 
been drinking. Not getting too bored, I hope?"

"No, not at all, Mrs Doyle," lied Qafira, who had already 
started plotting how she might make an early exit.

"Call me Milly, Qafira sweetheart. That's my name," smiled 
Fanny's mother sipping on her wine. "Well come along dear. It's time 
for Fanny to unwrap her presents."

"Presents?" wondered Qafira aghast. "I didn't know I had to 
bring any wrapped presents with me."

"No, that's not at all necessary," Mrs Doyle remarked. "Your 
presence is present enough! But come along, dear, everyone will be 
waiting for you!"

Qafira followed Mrs Doyle across the manicured lawn, past the 
garden sprinkler and the fat jolly garden gnomes to a shaded area on 
the lawn just by the patio where all the guests had already gathered 
and in the centre of which was Fanny who was eagerly opening her 
gifts. Through the slight haze of alcohol that was clouding her vision, 
Qafira could see that several guests had divested themselves of all 
their clothes, and not a few of these were her colleagues from the high 
school. Most of the guests were slumped down on the lawn and a 
seated Mrs Doyle patted the grass beside her to indicate that Qafira 
should do the same.

Qafira was slightly alarmed to see that Fanny was one of the 
people who were no longer clothed, but amongst all the folds and 
fullness of fat it was not immediately obvious to her. Somehow, full 
nudity just didn't seem so naked amongst people whose genitals were 
so hidden by their stomachs, although Fanny's nipples were truly 
immense. Qafira recalled her previous female lovers, and couldn't 
recall one whose nipples would have been nearly as much a mouthful 
as Fanny's.

Each present was opened by Fanny, who would first of all 
announce who had given her the present and then open it to delighted 
whoops and gales of laughter. Qafira became increasingly aware that 
she seemed to have been the only guest not to have brought Fanny a 
wrapped present, though it did cross her mind how strange it was that 
the guests seemed amazingly well apprised as to exactly what Fanny 
might want.

"How did Mr Merton, the Chemistry teacher, know that Fanny 
wanted a pair of purple trainers with air-filled soles?" Qafira 
whispered into Mrs Doyle's ear.

"It's all on the birthday list, dear."

"Birthday list?" This is the first time Qafira had heard of 
anything like that. And why hadn't she received one? She wanted to 
ask Mrs Doyle more, but her hostess chose that moment to stand up 
and stand by her daughter.

"Well, everyone." she announced to the assembled guests. 
"We've all had a very good time, haven't we?"

The guests agreed. "Hear! Hear!" "Splendid!" "Wonderful!"

"And Fanny here is very grateful for all her presents, aren't you 
dear?"

Fanny nodded. She was already eating some chocolates she'd 
got as a gift, but she swallowed the truffle and smiled. "It was 
wonderful! I especially liked the Grant Grifter CD! Thanks Mr 
Grenville." An elderly teacher in a tweed jacket that could never 
button across his chest visibly blushed. "And Tracey got me such a 
beautiful necklace. It's gonna look good on my new twinset."

Tracey laughed. "It'll look good on whatever you wear. And 
it'll look good even when you're in bed!"

Everyone laughed. Except Qafira, who was not sure she quite 
understood what was meant. 

She was even more puzzled when Fanny replied promptly: 
"And don't you already know all about that, sweetest!" 

And this invoked even more laughter and few ribald guffaws. 

"But now comes the serious part of the evening," announced 
Mrs Doyle when the laughter had subsided. "Now Fanny'll choose 
who the lucky one's going to be the one whose present to my darling 
daughter is wrapped not so much in paper and ribbon but in his or her 
own flesh. Some of you might have already guessed who it might be, 
but for those who haven't there's going to be a big surprise." Mrs 
Doyle smiled broadly. "So, Fanny, sweetheart. Who's the lucky one?"

"Why, Qafira, of course!" Fanny announced with a jump and 
an enthusiastic clap of her hands.

There may well have been other guests who were as surprised 
as Qafira that she was the chosen one, but the teacher had no idea who 
they could be. In amongst the applause and congratulations that 
suddenly engulfed the woman who had been almost studiously ignored 
or avoided since the party began, Qafira was almost totally 
bewildered. 'Unexpected' was not a word strong enough to describe 
how little Qafira had suspected that she would now be expected to 
have sex with her pupil as her birthday present to her. What could she 
do? And was there still an escape route?

Clearly not, as she soon discovered. The push of other guests 
and Fanny's clasped hand guided her through the patio doors and up 
the carpeted staircase towards Fanny's bedroom, while all the way she 
was congratulated and cheered, most particularly by her staff room 
colleagues, who appeared to be the ones most pleased for her. The 
alcohol wasn't the only thing blurring her senses as her confused eyes 
regarded Fanny's door getting ever closer and felt Fanny's huge arm 
and podgy hand easily encircling her waist.

And then, finally, what had before it happened seemed to be 
the respite from attention she'd been seeking, but was also what she'd 
been dreading most, the door to Fanny's bedroom was closed behind 
her, and it was just Qafira and her student together in a huge room 
dominated by a massive bed and decorated mostly in lilac, pinks and 
blues. The only additional eyes staring down on her were those of the 
grotesquely obese film and pop stars whose features were on every 
poster, except the one of a rather tubby gryphon just behind the bed 
rest.

"So! Alone at last!" exclaimed Fanny, standing in front of 
Qafira, her hands on either side of her teacher's hips.

"Yes. Alone," agreed Qafira, with no enthusiasm.

"So. Off with your clothes! Let's see what you're like!"

"My clothes?"

"Well, of course. Unless, that is," Fanny said with a sly wicked 
grin, "you prefer to make love fully clothed. That would be kinky!"

Qafira shook her head. She was still unsure what to do. It had 
never ever crossed her mind until then to have sex with Fanny. Or 
indeed with any other of her pupils. She wasn't even sure what she 
thought of Fanny. She was two, maybe three, times the size of any 
woman (or, for that matter, man) that she'd ever made love to before. 
She didn't know what to do. If only this ordeal could be over!

However, Fanny was less hesitant. She pressed her lips against 
Qafira's, a huge tongue finding its way into the mouth, while her 
pudgy hands undid the buttons on the back of her floral pattern dress. 
That tongue was still worrying its way around Qafira's mouth, her 
hands limply held onto the huge fat of Fanny's waist, when the dress 
fell to the ground. To be followed by her bra and then, with much 
more difficulty, her knickers. 

Fanny was an accomplished lover. That was for sure. She 
tenderly and gradually eased Qafira towards the bed. But each stage in 
the process was relished and enjoyed and enhanced. The knickers, for 
instance, weren't tugged down with the animal passion that Qafira's 
last lover insisted on, but eased slowly down the legs, Fanny's tongue 
licking the knees, the thighs, the ankles, and, when the knickers were 
finally removed, Qafira's crotch and unerringly to her clitoris, which 
was licked and massaged and twiddled and nibbled.

And then onto the bed. This was something new for both of 
them. Qafira had never tackled such a monstrous, whale-like bulk 
before. Fanny was terribly uncertain of what was possible with such a 
slender, almost delicate frame, unprotected from injury by any 
substantial cushion of flesh. But the two bodies grappled together. 
And gradually, bit by bit, cautious tongue by reticent nibble, Qafira 
was sufficiently reminded of her own passion with her lovers in the 
past, to return the passion that was offered her. And there was clearly 
something delightful about engaging with so much body. Even if it 
was difficult for her mouth to find its way to Fanny's crotch past the 
fleshy thighs squeezing against her ears

"Well, that's one thing you skinny types can do easily!" 
laughed Fanny, as Qafira nibbled at her clitoris, the smell of vaginal 
emissions overpowering her nostrils.

"What's that?" Qafira wondered, raiding her head to regard the 
top of her student's head over the massive bulk of the stomach and 
breasts.

"Get straight to the private parts. You're so much supple! And 
your own vagina! It's so easy to get to. Why! You can see all of it 
when you're just standing up. You might not have much in the way of 
a bosom, but you've got plenty of cunt. You can see all the hair and 
even the folds. I guess you don't go much for nudity back where you 
come from?"

"What me? No. I don't."

"No just you. Everyone. If everyone showed their genitals, 
instead of them being hidden, you know, as they should be, under the 
stomach, well, who knows what might happen!"

Qafira nodded. And returned her tongue and lips to the folds of 
vagina, already partially obscured by the folds of Fanny's huge thighs 
and overflowing belly.

Despite Qafira's dreads, her night of passion with Fanny was 
soon absorbed into the normal fabric of life. No one made any 
comments other than the most bland and she never had sex with Fanny 
again. However, a Rubicon had been crossed and more men and 
women felt confident enough to approach this strange foreign woman, 
perhaps curious to know what such a skeletal, frail lover would be 
like. And although Qafira never enjoyed the volume of lovemaking as 
her more popular colleagues, like Mrs Reagan or Mr Lincoln, she was 
no longer as lonely for the rest of her sabbatical in Further Quitchland.

And just as initially it had been strange to make love with such 
very fat people as she did now, she knew that when she returned home 
she would find it just as strange making love again with men and 
women so very much slimmer.










