SATIN SHEETS, OR: SHE SLEPT WITH THE WRITER
by Joris K. Huysmans

A foot sticks out from the edge of the bed, chubby little pink toes with red toenails on a small puffy foot. The rest of you is covered, satin sheets curving like rolling hills over your voluptuous body, blonde frizzy curls cascading over your face. Daylight has begun to light the room, but you are still asleep; only the foot looks ready for play. Hours ago I was sucking those toes as I gave you what you wanted, what you begged for. Now they just hang out in space, being adorable. Calling me.

I sit down next to your foot and rub my hand along your sturdy thigh, the satin sheet in between. You stir, slightly, and as you do so your big round breasts roll around under the sheets. I can't quite make out their shape but the sight of them jiggling about under there is tantalizing. My cock begins to rise and as it does the head brushes against the bottom of your foot. Eyes still closed, you smile when you realize what's touching you. You wriggle your large curvy bottom against the bed, scooting down to where your foot can get a better feel, and begin massaging my crotch with the ball of your foot.

I continue rubbing my hand against your thigh and follow the line of it up to your hip, feeling the broad hips, then the scratchy triangle of fur under the satin. My cock is erect now and your foot is pressing it against my stomach, rubbing the glans. It's a little too rough-- your foot hasn't done this often, I imagine-- so I pull the sheet back a little to reveal your other foot and, in the process, one of your big round breasts. I move my leg onto the bed and position my cock between your feet. You smile even more broadly and begin to rub my cock between two gorgeously chubby feet, toes extended, the line of each calf rounded and muscular at the same time, like a dancer on point (Alexandra Beller more than Margot Fonteyn, admittedly).

I savor the feeling of your soft, supple feet massaging my stiff cock for a few moments, looking at your beauty as you lay there, eyes closed but between sleep and wakefulness. The multitudes of curls, going this way and that on the pillow. The cherubic face, round cheeked and full-lipped, the little mischievous smile, the baby fat under your chin which I nuzzled while I was thrusting into you so that I could enjoy your scent. The sweet-sweaty smell you gave off as you worked up that sweat riding me thrust for thrust. And then the one breast that peeks out to look at me, full and voluptuous, sliding off to one side, making a little chubby triangle of flesh between arm and chest, a soft spot along the side of your ribcage, good for stroking as I had you face down and licked at you from behind.

I would love to come on your chubby little toes, the mental image of them sticking out of the bed with stripes of white cum is quite entrancing, but I have other things in mind and so I slide up the bed now, kissing your soft neck, the upper part of your chest. I slide the sheet down over the other breast and see them both now, round and ripe, sliding off their perches with their weight. I nuzzle the place in between and rub them against my face, so large and heavy, so soft. They are enough to almost cover my face with, exquisitely big, yet delicate, ending in a small pink-red point which I lick and suck at. You wriggle appreciatively against the bed.

I keep moving down. Now to your belly, soft and smooth, I rub my face against its velvety expanse. It was one of the things that attracted me first to you, in the marketing meeting to discuss promotional tie-ins for "The Sapphic Pirate Miranda"-- my lesbian pirate story that had become a nationwide sensation. You were showing me concept sketches for Happy Meal toys, but all I could see was you, exactly the sort of voluptuously luscious woman who my stories were about. When I suggested that we meet for dinner, you knew that here, at last, was a man who truly appreciated the beauty and sexiness of a full-sized woman such as yourself. Dinner was short, the ride back to my hotel excruciatingly long, the time after that... unforgettable.

Now I am between your legs. I spread them apart, I feel heat coming from your moist pussy. The lips are still inflamed from the pounding I gave them, I can tell as I lick the outer edges gently, opening them up with my tongue. Your juices are thick, still mingled with my own. It doesn't bother me, it excites me, and I dive in further, feeling you spread apart as I run my tongue up the hot, slippery labia...

... but it's too much for you, you're tender after last night and you push my head away regretfully. Your wetness (ours, now that I think of it) still on my face, I move up next to you as you turn on your side and we kiss, less hungrily than last night, but savoring the taste of each other on our faces. I run my hand along your hip, enjoying your mountainous curves as they slope from the broadness of your hips and the roundness of your bottom to the strong, sturdy thighs at one end, the soft ticklish tummy at the other. I rub the top of my hand along your round tummy and you take my cock in your hand, rubbing the head of it gently against the soft cushiony flesh. I move up and now you're jacking me off while rubbing the head against your velvet-soft tummy; I give in, transported by the sensation, my cock-head slipping around in a little spot of its own lube on your stomach.

I press against your belly harder and you cup my balls as I rub them against your soft tummy too. Again, the mental image of shooting all over your tummy, rubbing the goo around on your soft white flesh is intoxicating-- but again one of us has a different idea in mind. You push me back against the bed and slide down, still grasping my cock. At first your big round tits brush against my cock, and I'm thinking, if you're thinking what I'm thinking that will be really nice. But then you move all the way down and push my cock up, and I feel your tongue licking my balls, coating them, enveloping them. A moment of that and then your tongue moves down further, you push my legs back and I feel your tongue tickling my asshole, pushing against it to open it up. I moan with the sheer sensory overload of it, and within a moment I have to stop you, now it's my turn to be simply too worn out after last night's ecstasy.

We lay there for a moment, looking at each other, me up on the bed and you halfway down my body, wondering what's next. I know what I want but I'm still too blissed out to make my body move toward getting it.

Finally you start to roll back onto your back and I motion no, onto your stomach. Now it's my turn to embrace your beautiful big ass, to rub my face against the massive round cheeks, feel my way up from your meaty thighs to your soft mashed breasts underneath you. I spread your cheeks apart and jab my tongue straight into your ass, feeling it open more and more as the point of my tongue probes your wrinkled hole.

I move up and press my cock into the crack of your ass, laying atop your large gorgeous body. You purr contentedly under my weight, pressed against the mattress. In the heat of last night's passion I would have loved to take your ass, and I have a feeling you would have cried for it, but it seems too brusque a thing to do now, in this gentle morning light, this sleepy contentment. So I reach into the outer folds of your pussy, dripping wet again, and come up with a handful of thick juices which I smear along the line of your bottom, and onto my cock.

Then I slip my cock back into the crack of your ass, and begin to rub myself up and down in your crack, feeling your ass buck back against my thrusts, loving the sight of that big round ass being pushed and kneaded by my hips. It only takes a few moments of the sight and feel of you under me like this, face down onto the bed, my cock rubbing in your ass before I start spraying gooey cum into your crack and up your back, more than I would have thought was left in me. I fall off of you, exhausted, and you lay there, smiling at me as an oyster-like glob slides down your crack and vanishes in the furry wilderness below.

* * *

Later, as we dress, you ask me if I will write about this.

"That is who I am," I say, in my thick accent, as I refresh my moustache wax and pull my jodhpurs back on. "I am Huysmans, most famous writer of BBW erotica. I must write about you, as I must write about every big beautiful woman who I meet."

She understands; understands that this comes with the territory, that she, like all the other women before her, has helped make me the writer I am, made stories like The Sapphic Pirate Miranda what they are, going all the way back to that first bus ride on the way to the fiction seminar in college. (Why I was growing up in small American town, when I have Schmertzylvanian accent to this day, is mystery Huysmans is not prepared to solve at this time.)

But then, as we kiss for the last time, as I hold her voluptuousness against me, savor for my memories the roundness of her curves, the powerful sexiness of her size, she looks at me with a question in her eyes. She asks: "Will you make me beautiful?"

"You are already beautiful," I say, sincerely. "It is job of Huysmans to make you ravishing, to make you most irresistibly seductive thing anyone has ever read about online. So that even American men who think they love skinny little waifs will wish they could spend one night, lost in the rapturous abundance of your curvaceousness, tossing on the tempestuous seas of your ripe womanly voluptuousness."

"Without using too many adjectives," she said.

"Right," I said. "Purple prose is occupational hazard for Huysmans, that is why better to stick to concrete details."

"Hmm," she said, as she slipped one arm into the loop of her bra, then the other, hoisting her large round breasts and creating a soft, creamy expanse of cleavage which I yearned to nuzzle my face in one more time. "So how would you begin our story?" she asked as she raised her blouse over her head and I saw for an instant the slightest bulge of soft chubby skin between each armpit and the breast below it-- before the curtain of her blouse descended and she was respectably dressed. "In the meeting about promotional items for Miranda? That seems kind of boring."

"Huysmans would not begin erotic story with Powerpoint presentation," I said as she sat down on a chair with her high heels in her hand. I admired her toes one last time as they, too, disappeared within the armor of the business day, and thought back on all the parts they had played in the night and morning of ecstasy we had enjoyed. "Best to start right in the middle of things. Maybe even past the middle. Like tell the story of this morning, with just little flashbacks to the night before."

"Interesting," she said, snapping her last earring on. "So how would you begin it," she asked, as she looked around for her keys and cell phone. "What's the concrete detail that brings back the whole experience for you?"

"You sure like to put Huysmans on spot," I said. "Hard to say. Maybe something like this."

"'A foot sticks out from the edge of the bed, chubby little pink toes with red toenails on a small puffy foot... '"