	Fat Chance



Fat. Fatty. Fat. Fat. Fatso. Fat. Fatima. Why had her parents christened her that? 
Surely they knew that in an English Language culture it was a name that could always 
be used to mock her. Especially as they knew from their own corpulent frames that 
their daughter was unlikely to be svelte, slim or slender. And as second-generation 
immigrants themselves, not even especially religious ones, they understood enough 
English to know just how her name could always be used as a stick to beat her with.

Especially as it just happened to be true that she was fat.

Fatima hated being fat. She hated the word. If only she could ever think of 
herself as plump. Or tubby. Or stout. Or generously built. But Fatima knew that such 
words were just euphemisms for the same thing, Fat. Gross. Obese. She studied her 
naked reflection in the wall-length mirror, which was too narrow to encompass the 
whole of her girth. She was sure she wasn't ugly as such. She studied her face. Wasn't 
her face quite pretty from certain angles?

But from the chin down: fold after fold of light brown flesh, overflowing any 
clothes she wore. If she wore loose clothes, she looked like a sack of potatoes. If she 
wore tight clothes, it merely emphasised the swell of her folds of fat. 'Love-handles' 
she reflected on the indulgent name sometimes attached to the generous insulation 
around her waist. But handles that were far more substantial than they needed to be. 
Even with the mirror in front of her, she could barely see her own vagina. It was 
hidden under her engorged stomach. Even the pubic hairs were hidden from view. 
And her bosom. Perhaps the only part of her that was built to the proportions a man 
was supposed to like. Huge armfuls, which she had difficulty folding her arms over. 
Or under, for that matter. Her nipples, or at least the dark brown areola around them, 
were larger than her vagina. Each one almost the size of her face. But unlike the huge-
breasted women of male fantasy, her bosom rested on an even larger stomach. 

Fatima twirled around on her toes. Sometimes she found it a burden to even 
support her own weight. She turned her neck round to regard her buttocks, or their 
reflection in the mirror. Also huge. Also plump. Maybe they were designed to be 
comfortable to sit on, but not when squeezed into the narrow confines of a seat in a 
car, a train, a bus, or, worst of all, an aeroplane. 

And yet, despite her plumpness, she had a date. With a man. Or at least, she 
thought so. When she'd left Freddy last night, she was sure he'd agreed to let her see 
him again. She'd kissed him goodbye after their brief fuck, and when pressed he 
admitted that he'd not got anything planned for the day and that she could come by. 
Not perhaps the most encouraging of invitations, but Fatima was never one to 
relinquish her clutch on the most tenuous straws. And, of course, they'd fucked. Or 
he'd fucked her. The ultimate act of love and affection. Reputedly.

It hadn't been a very romantic fuck, Fatima knew. But precious few of the not 
many fucks in her life had really been much better. At least he hadn't laughed in her 
face when she'd suggested meeting again. And it had been him who had made the first 
move, when he placed his hand on her thigh. Though, naturally, Fatima made bloody 
sure that it wasn't going to end there. She pulled out his prick, long and thin and hairy, 
rather like Freddy himself. She licked and gobbled at it, hungry for its taste after so 
long. And then she made sure it went inside her. 

But it was over too soon. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. In. Out. In. Out. In fact, Fatima 
could barely feel the prick inside her at first, as it squeezed through the rolls of fat. 
But it was soon in. And Freddy was over her, his hands gripping on her enormous 
bosom to maintain his balance, his legs wedged between the fleshy grip of her thighs. 
In. Out. In. Out. Fatima was determined to get as much from it as she could. But 
before her anxieties of whether he'd continue for very long had passed and she was 
able to truthfully enjoy the pleasure of a man's cock in her cunt, reducing her to the 
creamy, slippery helplessness that she was sure was the final destination of 
lovemaking but which she'd never yet experienced, it was over. A squirt of come 
inside her. A damp puddle in her knickers. A stain on her sweatshirt. 

And then Freddy tucked his cock away. Buttoned up his trousers. And it was 
almost like nothing had happened. But it had! They had fucked. And Fatima was 
going to go over to visit him at the house he shared with all those students and 
unemployed actors and people with undefined jobs. Even though she wondered 
whether she had the courage for another rejection. And they could be so hurtful. Made 
her wonder whether there was any point in living. All she wanted was love and 
affection. And all she got was hurt and rejection. And all because she was fat. A fatty. 
A lardy. Overweight and undervalued. It would be a fat chance that she'd ever find a 
lover who'd truly appreciate her for the beautiful person inside her podgy body.

 "Yeah, sure he's in," said the slightly stoned young man who answered the 
door. "You're Fatima, aren't you? You were here last night, weren't you? Good gear, 
wasn't it?"

Fatima nodded. She had agonised on what clothes to wear. There was no way 
to conceal her corpulence, though. She opted for a skirt and sweatshirt, just as she'd 
worn the night before, as she thought it'd be the easier to pull off. Ever the optimist. 
She carried her make-up and things in a canvas bag she slung over her shoulder. Her 
sweatshirt misleadingly advertised Columbia University, although she'd never been to 
university and she'd never even been to the States. "Upstairs is he?"

"Yeah. Top floor. Seeya!" He disappeared back through the door he'd come 
from, while Fatima made her way up the badly carpeted staircase to Freddy's room, 
passing other rooms as she ascended, many of them pulsing to a different stereo beat. 

Fatima could hear some two-step garage coming out of Freddy's room. She 
smiled. So much better than that Hard House stuff she'd had to endure last time she 
was there. She pushed open Freddy's door, with a selection of rehearsed phrases 
competing for attention, along with the one that had only just occurred to her which 
was to compliment him on playing rather more melodic music. But she had barely 
said "Hi there, Freddy! How're you?" when she realised that almost anything she'd 
prepared to say would be wholly inappropriate. 

Freddy was there. And his bedroom was exactly as Fatima remembered it. 
Tatty posters advertising club nights that had ceased to exist years ago. A stack of 
clothes piled high on an armchair. A small TV and a much larger stereo. And a single 
bed taking centre-stage. And on that bed was Freddy. Unmistakably him. His lean thin 
face. The ragged hair. Not long but still lank. The perpetually unshaven chin. Those 
big hairy hands. And those hands were clasping into the thin, angular buttocks of a 
naked girl. One who was much, much, much thinner than Fatima ever was. Thin even 
compared to a thin girl. And those buttocks were pistoning up and down on Freddy's 
erect penis, which thrust up and down with rather less vigour than those buttocks 
pushed up and down on him. 

The girl was leaning forward, her weight resting on arms stretched onto 
Freddy's shoulders, tiny breasts, almost all nipple that were nevertheless big enough 
to shake with the girl's thrusts. Her dark brown hair was short, but her long earrings 
swang wildly as she pushed herself up and down on Freddy beneath her. And she was 
gasping in a low punctuated rhythm, immersed in her lovemaking, not wasting any 
energy in shouts or screams of greater abandon than was necessary. Freddy raised his 
head as he saw Fatima hover at the door entrance, her greeting suspended in empty air 
with no response. The girl turned her head round, still grunting and gasping, and 
smiled at Fatima.

She didn't pause in her lovemaking, and it was clearly not that easy to 
articulate as she continued to pump up and down on Freddy's prick, but she spoke to 
Fatima amiably enough. "Hi! You must be... uh! ... Fatima. I'm Ella.... Don't worry. 
We won't... uhhh! ... We won't be long."

And then she resumed her fucking, leaving Fatima feeling vaguely humiliated. 
But also rooted to the spot. She couldn't leave now she'd been welcomed. But wasn't 
this Ella, who'd greeted her so pleasantly, just emphasising again her own 
inadequacy? Less than a day after Fatima had made love to Freddy. And thought, well 
imagined, perhaps fantasised, that she'd at last found a boyfriend. Here was someone 
Fatima had never met before, with rather fewer than the many weeks of preparation 
that Fatima had invested in getting to know Freddy better, who had so effortlessly 
succeeded in bedding him. And had already, in the interval of fucking that she'd 
already witnessed, enjoyed making love with him for rather longer than Fatima had 
done. And stimulating rather more passion in the man than she had managed.

And they continued making love. If this wasn't long, it was already, 
humiliatingly longer than any time Fatima had ever spent being fucked by a man. If it 
went on for much longer, it might even exceed the sum total of all the fucks Fatima 
had ever had. And Freddy was enjoying it so much. Fatima felt like running away 
from the room. Let the tears that were welling behind her eyes come to the surface. 
Instead, she felt obliged to sit there, on one of the two poorly sprung second-hand 
armchairs in Freddy's room, mesmerised by the sight of real fucking, wishing that she 
were the one being fucked and not Ella.

Fatima had time to study the scene in detail. It was a little like the porn films 
she'd seen. Only there was none of that chintzy synthetic music: the soundtrack being 
the garage sound of Ayia Napia coming from the stereo and totally out-of-synch with 
the action. The grunts and wheezes and gasps and other noises were much more 
random and unstructured than in a movie. Sometimes building up together as the 
genitals ground together more furiously. Sometimes dying away as the thrusting 
became gentler or more relaxed. And without the camera angles, all Fatima could see 
was the view that was allowed by Ella's posture on top of the prostrate Freddy. And 
basically this was of a pair of testicles flopping up and down below a pair of angular, 
bony buttocks. Ella's body moved in rhythm with her buttocks. Angular sharp 
shoulders, and a back where the knobbles of the spine and the full details of the 
shoulder blades were delineated on her pale freckled skin. And the spine leading in a 
graceful arc along her neck to the one or two inch crop of her hair and those swinging 
earrings. The only thing she wore. Unlike Freddy, who still had on his socks and a tee 
shirt. And the earrings were of the cheap ethnic kind you could easily buy at Camden 
Lock or Portobello Road markets.

Finally, it was over. Ella jumped off and onto the carpet in front of Fatima.  
Fatima could see that the teat of Freddy's condom was full of the sperm he'd 
produced. This gentlemanly use of prophylactics demonstrated rather more concern 
for any fear that Ella might have for sexually transmitted diseases than he'd ever 
shown Fatima. Ella smiled at Fatima while Freddy unwrapped the condom from his 
limp penis.

"See! I told you I wouldn't be long. I guess you two will want to get it together 
now. I'll go and get some coffee. How do you have yours?"

Too startled to object to anything, Fatima could respond only mechanically. 
"White. One sugar." Her eyes darted from Ella to Freddy and back to Ella, as she 
pulled over her head an old tee shirt with 'Pacha' written across it and the skimpiest 
of cotton briefs that barely covered any of her lush pubic hair. And then out of 
Freddy's room and thundering down the stairs to the kitchen.

Freddy looked up at Fatima, as he sprawled on the bed, wearing only socks 
and tee shirt and a lifeless penis resting on his thigh, still shiny and sticky in the early 
evening sun. "Holy Fuck, Fatima. I didn't expect you here."

Fatima sat on the bed, too dazed to even contemplate upbraiding Freddy for 
his unfaithfulness. She didn't wish to face the humiliation of him telling her to her 
face that he didn't consider what they'd done together the day before as being of any 
consequence. "How come Ella knows who I am?"

"Does she? Yeah, I guess she does. She used your name, didn't she? Maybe 
she'd talked to the others in the house. They might have mentioned you. You've been 
quite a regular visitor the last few weeks. She moved in a couple of weeks ago. Her 
bedroom's down on the first floor."

"I've not met her before."

"Well, she keeps real irregular hours."

Fatima lowered herself onto the mattress next to Freddy and placed a hand on 
his thigh, emboldened by the fact that he didn't push her hand to one side. "She's got 
to know you pretty well, hasn't she?"

Freddy smiled. This was obviously something that rather pleased him. "Yeah. 
She has, hasn't she?"

Fatima idly stroked the hairs of Freddy's thigh, wondering whether she would 
ever get to know that prick of his again. It was tempting, lying there, even inert and 
exhausted. She wondered whether she could just lean over. Pinch it. Perhaps suck it. 
Bring it back to life. "Is she your girlfriend, Freddy?" she asked cautiously.

"'Girlfriend'? Fuck no!" Freddy replied, immediately reassuring Fatima. She 
smiled, but not for long. "I haven't got any girlfriends." Not even me? wondered 
Fatima. "She just fucks whoever she likes. In fact, she's fucked everyone in the house, 
I think. Well, perhaps not quite everyone. I don't think Giles quite realises what an 
easy pull she is."

"So, you're free still?" wondered Fatima, boldly placing a chubby hand on 
Freddy's sticky prick, hoping to bring it to life. Fat chance! It just stayed limp. 

"Oh. Fatima. I'm too tired. You can see that," said Freddy, lifting her hand off 
and placing it on the sheet. 

"Maybe later this evening?" Fatima pleaded.

Freddy frowned. "Fuck, Fatima. I've got other things arranged for tonight. 
What made you think it'd be a good idea to come round?"

"Well, after yesterday..."

"Yesterday?" Freddy frowned. "What do you mean?" Then his face lightened 
up. "Oh, I remember. Yeah. Well, don't worry about yesterday. These things happen."

"What do you mean? 'Don't worry about yesterday'? Are you saying that...?" 
Despite herself, Fatima could feel tears of frustration and self-pity surface and 
threaten to burst free.

"Oh. Fuck! Fatima! Don't make a scene," sighed an exasperated Freddy. 
"Look. We're friends, right. Yesterday was just one of those things. Just don't take it 
personal."

Fatima took her hand off Freddy's thigh and wedged it together with her other 
hand in the expansive comforting flesh between her round knees. Her shoulder-length 
bob fell forward over her round cheeks and hid her eyes from view.

It was actually quite a relief when Ella finally returned from the kitchen 
carrying a tray with three mugs on it. It had been a long three quarters of an hour for 
Fatima, sitting on the side of the bed, avoiding any conversation on the two things 
uppermost in her mind, namely her disillusionment with Freddy and her rapacious 
desire for sex. Freddy just lay there, his prick still on view, leaving it to Fatima to 
change the CD to another choice when the final vocal breaks had died away. Fatima 
chose the more relaxing sound of M J Cole, dismissing all the Hard House, Acid 
Techno and Breakbeat compilations that mostly dominated his collection. Freddy 
didn't complain about her choice for a change, but Fatima almost wished she'd chosen 
something with fewer lyrics and definitely fewer on the subject of love and romance. 
She could imagine herself in every heartfelt song, either relating to lost love or 
envying those who had it good.

"I was terribly afraid I'd not given you enough time together," Ella said with a 
smile as she handed out the coffees. "But you've definitely not wasted your time." 
Ella seemed oblivious to the lack of complicity to her comments in the sight of a 
Freddy who was collapsed in much the same state as he was when she'd left and a 
Fatima who was rolling up on the cover of one of Freddy's dance magazines. "I was 
talking to Barry down there. Seems everyone's out this evening 'cept me and you. 
And Fatima here."

"I'm out as well. I've got an appointment in South Ken," Freddy boasted.

Ella smiled. "Well then, it's just me and Fatima. But hey! We can always go 
down the Elephant. You fancy that, Fatima?"

"Yeah. Sure," Fatima agreed, sealing the seam of her three-skinner and 
tightening the twist. "Whatever."

Thank fuck for Lebanon's principal export, which ensured that the next few 
hours passed by with rather less stress and tension than it might otherwise have done. 
And also spared Fatima the embarrassment of seeing Ella and Freddy make love 
again. Even when it was her turn to wander down to the kitchen to refill the coffee 
mugs, and she got talking to Eunice about the dreadful stink coming out of the 
lavatory bowl, when she returned, half-expecting to see Freddy's prick inside Ella 
again, all there was to see was Freddy sorting out some clothes to wear and the back 
of Ella's arse, barely covered by her pale green undies, as she hunted for CDs of her 
choice in Freddy's extensive but not diverse CD collection. And so it was to the happy 
clappy handbag beat of one of Freddy's older compilations that the three of them 
prepared for their Tuesday evening out.

The Elephant & Firkin was not one of the trendiest pubs around, but it was the 
one that Freddy and the others from his house tended to visit most frequently. Ella 
ordered the first couple of drinks while Fatima sat in an alcove tapping the end of her 
Marlboro onto the table. She'd warmed to Ella as the evening progressed, and hadn't 
really minded too much when Freddy left them for the Northern Line. Though she felt 
a pang of regret as he kissed Ella goodbye for much longer than he had ever kissed 
her. And it didn't help that almost as soon as Freddy had gone, Ella was dissing his 
lack of imagination in bed. It wasn't imaginative lovemaking that Fatima missed. It 
was lovemaking of any kind. 

Ella was cheerful and fun to be with, dispelling many of Fatima's darker 
thoughts, as they sat together, cigarettes dangling from their fingers, watching the 
traffic of regular pubgoers through the blue haze of tobacco smoke. But Fatima 
wished that Ella wouldn't keep going on about sex. Sure, it was a subject of almost 
infinite interest, but her conversation only made Fatima feel the more inadequate. It 
wasn't only that she talked about Freddy. In fact, Freddy was barely mentioned at all. 
But there were too many names for Fatima to keep up with, and she knew only a small 
percentage of them. And the boys were all described in terms of sexual preferences 
and the sexual activity that Ella had enjoyed with them. Twosomes. Threesomes. 
Anal. Double entry. 

"Though I much prefer two in the front, rather than one in both hole," Ella 
asserted. "It can get quite sore in the arse, you know."

Fatima didn't know, but she nodded sagely.

Was there no combination that Ella hadn't enjoyed? Was there no place she'd 
not done it? She'd gone mad in Ibiza. She'd gone mad in Crete and Turkey. She'd 
done it on the dance floor. She'd done it at the bus stop. She'd done it on the beach at 
Brighton, after a night out at the Zap Club.

"So. What about you, Fatima? You ever gone mad?"

Fatima shook her head sadly. She just couldn't compete with Ella. And she 
didn't have the confidence to lie about it either. "I've never really gone mad. In that 
way. Ever." 

"What? You've never been to the Balearics or anything?"

"Yeah. I've been there. With a friend. But we never really got it off much."

"Surely you got fucked by someone? You can't go to Ibiza and not get 
fucked."

"Yeah. One guy did me. But it was pretty quick. And he was real drunk. I 
think he thought I was my mate, Nadia. Even though she's a lot thinner than me."

"Oh! Fatima!" sighed Ella, taking one of Fatima's plump hands in her own 
much more slender fingers. Her long thin arm was like a pale stick against the round 
contours of Fatima's arm. "You're upset because you're not thin, aren't you?"

Fatima nodded her head and lowered it. And then she suddenly burst into 
tears. They were silent tears, but tears nonetheless. Tears that came from deep, deep 
inside her. "It's not that I'm not thin. It's because I'm fat. Nobody wants to go out 
with a fat girl. No one wants to make love with me. Everyone looks at me and all they 
see is fat. Fat. Fat. And fat."

Ella squeezed Fatima's hand. "Don't be silly, Fatima. It's not what you look 
like that's the problem."

"Yes it is. Yes it is. You don't know, because you're thin. But I'm not. I'm fat. 
And all anyone can ever see is a fat person."

Ella wiped the tears off Fatima's face with a tissue. "Being fat isn't the worst 
thing there is. I used to have a bit of a complex about my figure too. I guess that's why 
I'm so skinny. And I guess that's why I fuck everything that moves. You know. Lack 
of self-esteem. I dunno.  I'm not a psychologist or anything. I used to binge eat and 
vomit when I was a teen. Bulimia. You must've heard of it. I don't do that now. Too 
busy fucking to care, I guess. But don't get a complex about your weight. I think you 
look quite cool. Neat. Not classical beauty, perhaps. But you've got a pretty face."

"Have I?" sniffed Fatima, smiling wanly.

Ella kissed her gently on the lips, a gesture that seemed absolutely natural and 
unthreatening. "Very pretty. Nice eyes, too. And anyway what's so wrong about being 
fat? It's just what you are, isn't it? You can't change that without being a different 
person." She squeezed Fatima's hand while pulling a couple of cigarettes out of her 
packet of Benson's. "And I quite like plump myself. I've had some plump lovers and 
they're not at all bad. More to nestle into, you know. Not such a bad thing at all. You 
can't have too much of a good thing!"

The evening went by so quickly. Several drinks later and the bar staff were 
already calling last orders. "Fancy some blow?" wondered Ella, as the two girls 
pushed their way out of the pub, the street now dark and intimidating. Fatima nodded, 
not even considering the difficulties of getting back home if she left much later.

They made their way back to Freddy's house, and up the stairs to Ella's room. 
Fatima looked around her. The room was relatively bare. A poster of a pre-Raphaelite 
painting, a chair, a bed and a wardrobe. Ella bounced onto the bed. Fatima sat next to 
her, the mattress sagging quite markedly under her weight. Ella picked up a remote, 
pointed it at her stereo from which came the sound of a late night dance station, and 
she placed a magazine over her lap where she commenced to roll a thin small number, 
but one which Fatima could soon verify was pretty strong and heady.

Fatima was not gay. Well, not gay in the sense that she ever identified with the 
gay rights movement, ever bought a gay newspaper or even bothered with films or 
television programs about gay people. But when Ella wrapped her arms around her 
neck and pecked her on the cheeks, Fatima knew exactly how to respond. And her 
enthusiasm wasn't only because she'd had a bit to drink and was now properly 
mellowed out. Even in the pub, Ella and she had held hands and cuddled close, and 
Fatima had felt warm and comfortable. So now, it really was no big deal to kiss and 
cuddle and stroke Ella. And not just to kiss on the cheeks and the forehead and the 
lips, but full locked-on, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, saliva drooling down the 
chin, proper kissing.

And then the clothes. Ella was so romantic. The clothes came off so gently. So 
discreetly. Fatima had already seen Ella naked. Only now, the sight was much more 
welcome. Freddy's prick was not pumping away inside her. And she could admire her 
small breasts. Her narrow waist. Her thin arms and thighs. The long spine curving 
from the top of the buttocks, castellating towards neck. Those swinging earrings. 

And Fatima's own flesh. Liberated from her clothes. The huge breasts. The 
stomach that swelled out and hid her sex under its folds. The body twice maybe three 
times the weight of Ella's, and certainly at least as much flesh again. At first Fatima 
was afraid that Ella would reject her as soon as she saw how very fat she was. As soon 
as she appreciated just how very plump. But no! Her lips went straight for Fatima's 
nipples, while she luxuriated in Fatima's very vastness.

As Fatima lay back, mostly receiving rather than giving, Ella's body sinking 
into hers, she could see how much better a slim body went together with a large one. 
Ella had no difficulty in navigating her flesh. Able to get hands into her vagina, 
fingers caressing her clitoris, a mostly forgotten delight, while her lips and teeth 
mushed at her breasts, each one the size of her head. Fatima ran her plump fingers up 
and down Ella's bare back, enjoying the touch of those bony vertebrae, and wriggling 
with pleasure as Ella's fingers pared and wormed their way into the inner spaces of 
her vagina. And then vagina crushed against vagina, Ella's earrings once again 
swaying back and forth with her motion, Fatima's stomach forcing her into a forty-
five degree slant, while her hands gripped on Fatima's bosom for support. 

And later, Ella's tongue was deep inside Fatima's vagina, the labia parted as 
the fingers pushed open, while Fatima curved up on her back as much as she could, 
Ella's knees on her ears, Fatima's tongue teasing the small hairs of her inner thigh, her 
plump fingers tweaking and stroking Ella's own crotch. This was a new sight to 
Fatima. She'd hardly really got to know her own vagina, hidden as it was beneath her 
belly, but here was another, hairy and hot, smelling strongly, but a smell so unlike that 
of a man's prick but also subtly different from her own smells that she'd sniffed on 
the tips of her fingers. As their bodies rolled and wobbled on Ella's mattress, her 
tongue soon found its way onto the vaginal lips, and she gobbled away, strands of hair 
in her nostrils, saliva on her chin and the rich sticky cream from inside Ella splattered 
onto her cheeks.

Fatima didn't know when she became aware of the noises that accompanied 
their lovemaking. Were those urgent gasps, and occasional shrieks, coming from the 
stereo? Fatima became aware only gradually, just as she became belatedly aware of 
the stream of sweat coming down her forehead and the pool of sweat on her stomach 
against which Ella slid so smoothly, but the sounds were coming from Ella. And also 
from Fatima herself.

Fatima had never had an orgasm before. She'd never been able to induce one 
in herself, despite her many attempts and her persistence. Nor had she ever 
experienced one from her time with men. They usually got their business finished far 
too soon. But now, for the first time, she was experiencing a strength of feeling, an 
urgent melting, a spasm that reached inside her, a presence of ecstasy, and a pure 
physical sensation that at last felt like what she'd read an orgasm should be. 

The sensation overwhelmed her. And when the two at last paused in their 
lovemaking, the sheets damp and ruffled, their breath coming in urgent exhausted 
pants, Fatima put her arms around Ella and squeezed her close to her bosom, her arms 
easily encompassing the thin waist and slender chest. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank 
you so much!"

Ella seemed a little embarrassed. "I don't quite know what you're thanking me 
for. It was fun for me too."

"But we'll do it again, won't we? It won't be the only time, will it?"

Ella smiled. "Of course we will!" she said reassuringly, running her fingers 
over Fatima's swelling stomach. 

Fatima smiled. She so much wanted to believe it. Although part of her still 
doubted it. In the cold light of day, would Ella truly prefer a plump woman such as her 
to all the men she could have? And Fatima still thought of a man as the natural partner 
even though she'd never had as much fun in bed with one as she'd just had with a 
woman. But for now she had what she'd wanted. What she'd always wanted. She'd 
had her chance and she'd taken it.



 








