Trent and Chuck were best friends since grade school.  They were always looking for beautiful girls at College State and since they were both very muscular and well-hung and independently wealthy they had no problem in that department.  But Chuck had never met Trent's mom before so when I first saw Mrs. Smithson I couldn't believe my eyes!  Though she was older and kind of big assed she was totally hot, with enormous tits easy to see through her sheer braless blouse unbuttoned down to her navel.  "Hey Trent is it okay if I fuck your totally hot mom," I, Chuck, said, and Trent said "Hey bro why not I do it all the time--

*  *  *

Huysmans, the great Schmertzylvanian author of BBW erotica, set the story down and massaged his forehead in actual pain.  As the world's most famous author of BBW erotica, a cult figure beloved throughout America (and into parts of Canada), he often received other authors' stories by email.  Remembering his years of struggle and hardship, he was unfailingly courteous to these aspiring writers, but sometimes it was difficult...

*  *  *

Dear Rod Throbbin,

Huysmans thanks you from the bottom of his Schmertzylvanian heart for your generous offer to let him read and edit your true story, "Totally Hot Milf-Dicking With My Friend's Big-Assed Hot Mom."  With regret Huysmans expresses the opinion that you should perhaps take another stab at writing hot BBW erotica before submitting stories to the world, which can be very cruel to beginning writer as Huysmans well remembers.  

Huysmans believes in starting erotica story not with sex act desired but with characters drawn from real life.  By sketching picture of such characters and the world in which they live, is more believable and sexy when sex enters the story.  As famous Lord Chesterfield might have said if he had been teaching a night school writing class, are only so many sex acts, most of them ridiculous to outsiders; only by telling story of interesting, believable people finding their way to doing them can sex acts become dramatic and enthralling.

*  *  *

Huysmans thought of the inspirations that lay behind some of his stories. Sometimes it took no more than a face to conjure up an entire character-- the flush-faced yet mysteriously exhilarated middle-aged woman walking past the garden store who inspired "Hawaiian Baby Woodrose"; the round girl at the hot dog stand, long since torn down, whose dark and mysterious eyes had led him to write "The Goddess Ramona."  Other times it was a place-- the inn out west that had started him thinking about what the lives of the people who worked there would be like, and thus led to "A Maid in Montana," or the bar in the tropics where things like "Big Beautiful Beach" happened all too easily, as Huysmans well knew from experience.

He saved the email on his laptop to send once the plane landed, and turned to the next story:

*  *  *

The next day it was most warm and as I sat in the courtyard of our binjhari I saw Auntie come up to me again.  Her large breasts were most active inside her sheer kemara and it inspired lustful thoughts of which I was most ashamed, yet I desired heartily to place my dongabo inside her pichocha and frottage until the baby-juice erupted.  "Oh Auntie, I am most tired, will you not lie next to me on my harari and aid me in my sleeping?" I asked.  "Naughty boy, I think if I am to lie next to you there will be no sleeping but much agitation of the lower parts," she replied--

*  *  *

Dear Sanjay21,

Huysmans thanks you with the hearty gratitude of his Schmertzylvanian horsemen ancestors for allowing him to read your story, "Temptation in the Binjhari of Auntie."  He understands your apprehension at sharing such a story with the world, but he does not feel that correcting your English (even if Huysmans were up to the task personally) is the answer.  Though there are, to Huysmans' eye, ways in which your story does not read like that of American writer, still, it is precisely the authenticity of your story in its setting which makes it memorably erotic.  Huysmans urges you to write like yourself for you, and not worry about sounding like American writer.

*  *  *

The stewardess called for electronic devices to be put away, and Huysmans shut his MacBookPro down.  What city was he going to?  He could scarcely remember from one flight to the next.  Since the movie adaptation of The Sapphic Pirate Miranda with Anne Hathaway and Dawn French had come out, his life had been a whirlwind of book tours, signings... and, of course, groupies.  There was no shortage of BBW femaledom on hand at each signing, eager to experience firsthand the Schmertzylvanian lovemaking secrets of the world's most famous (and, with his waxed mustaches and aroma of horse-leather and brandy, dashingly handsome) writer of BBW erotica.  

Once this would have been too absurd a dream even for one of his first stories, pecked out by hand on his TRS-80 and uploaded to the earliest and crudest erotica BBSs.  The kind of ridiculous fantasy that made sex stories on the internet hard to swallow, even when the sex was well described.  But now it was commonplace-- to walk into a Barnes & Noble and see hundreds of BBWs clutching his book, some young and sexually confident in their bellyshirts and piercings, others older and more reserved yet eager to explore the sexuality that his stories had unlocked, and to know that he could show a little favor to one or another and they would be his, tonight, in his hotel room.  

It was a dream come true... and so Huysmans prepared for it, yet again, third time this week.

*  *  *

He had signed 50 already, but the line of large women-- big bosoms, pear shaped behinds, rolling bellies like "A Girl at the Mall," apple cheeks like Andie Thorsen in "Better Than Watching Leno"-- still trailed around the corner and out of view.

Two young women appeared before him, obviously together.  One was tall and sturdy, rolls of fat along her side, thighs straining the jeans they were encased within, a toothy smile and freckled complexion framed by an orange pageboy `do.  The other was shorter and rounder, blonde and soft-skinned, blue eyes like... like... after so long on the road, the only simile that came to Huysmans' mind was a hotel pool.

"Who shall I sign these to?" Huysmans asked.

"Make mine out to Trish," the orange-haired giantess said.

Huysmans opened the jacket and wrote, "To Trish, whose fiery hair shall set my nights aflame with desire, Huysmans."  "And yours?" he said to the smaller blonde.

"I'm Muriel," she said.

Huysmans scribbled, "For Muriel, whose name sounds like `la Mer' and whose blue eyes will flood my memory whenever I gaze upon water."

She looked at it and giggled nervously, as if she had something to say.  But she couldn't get it out and so Trish stepped in.  "So... do you want a play date?"

Muriel said, "Let me talk to Trish first.  Find out what day is good for her."

He recognized the dialogue, of course-- cribbed, a little confusedly, from "Play Date With Pam."  Often this was how they approached him, with his own words.  He looked at them.  Youthful, nervous but eager, a pair of mismatched but equally lush peaches-- why not?  

*  *  *

Pop! went the champagne bottle, waiting on the table in his hotel suite as the girls prepared themselves in the bathroom.  He poured three glasses, and was about to do something else when they opened the door unexpectedly.  He palmed the little blue pill and handed them their glasses, then raised his in a toast; as he sipped he slipped the pill into his mouth unnoticed.

Trish, as he might have guessed, was bolder in her lingerie, a slutty red teddy whose jagged neckline exposed much of the fetchingly freckled cleavage between her large dangling breasts.  Muriel was more traditional in black and purple lace and satin, concealing rather than revealing the pepper-pot shape underneath, but most admirably dolled up with bright red lipstick and false eyelashes.

They wasted no time.  The two of them grabbed Huysmans and started unbuttoning his shirt as Muriel stuck her beestung lips on his, and he felt her tongue probe hungrily inside. Hands roamed over his chest and pants as he felt Trish's butt under the soft satin and stroked his hand over the top of Muriel's large, heaving bosom. His belt was unbuckled and he was pushed backwards into the bedroom and onto a bed. Muriel was atop him first, her weight pressing him down as she rubbed her breasts still in their restraint across his face. Then Trish unsnapped them and they tumbled out, enormous and heavy, sweet-smelling and a little sticky where she'd sweated under the lingerie. He sucked one of the thumb-like nipples into his mouth and he felt someone cup his balls and stroke up and down. Trish took off her teddy and her breasts too fell free, swaying from side to side with every move she made. He took one of each in his hands and sucked from one to the other; then Muriel began moving down and took his cock in her hand, licking and kissing the head while Trish tongue-kissed him and he rubbed her soft, puffy belly.

As he licked and sucked her tits, he felt up her inner thighs into the warmth and steaminess deep inside her skirt. She backed up onto the bed and spread her legs. Now he couldn't see her face or her breasts; she was just a pair of legs attached to a big round ass, and it was his, all his. He pulled down her panties to reveal curly red hair there, too, and she let her thighs relax a bit and open to show the bright purple slit, a slight hint of dampness making a line which slowly opened the petals of her pussy. He kissed his way up the big soft thighs until he reached her pussy, and then he began to lick, slowly and carefully, around the outside of her lips. She squirmed, ticklish, and so he grabbed her meaty thighs and spread them wider, then touched tongue to slit for the first time.

She squealed and shivered. "You liked that?" he whispered.

"I thought for a second you shot me with the electroprod again," she said, quoting "Escape From Thinopolis," and then her lower half seemed to call him back to his work. "Get on with it!"

He licked away, tongue rammed up as far as it could reach, and then he had an idea. She rolled over quickly and stuck her big round ass up in the air as he spread her legs again and started to lick her pussy from behind. Soon he was smashing his face between those fat round globes and moving his tongue.  It didn't take long of his tongue working its way as far as it would go into her asshole (which was less than half an inch) before he could tell that she had reached down and started masturbating as he did it.

As Trish got into herself he decided to help her out in another way. He slid a finger into her pussy and then started tickling her ass with the next one. That seemed to get a good moan in response, so he started to slide it in, wetting it some more as it went in. She moaned harder and so he began fucking her with his fingers, one in her pussy and one in her ass, and she bucked and rode his fingers as they slid in and out in unison and he could feel each one on the other side of the thin muscle wall in between.

By this point he had twisted to where his cock was out of Muriel's reach, and so she pushed him over so that his ass was in the air.

Before he had time to be apprehensive-- well, before he had time to act on it, anyway-- she had spread him open and was licking up and down his crack, then jamming her tongue into his ass. Then he heard the cap on the lube open and a moment later he felt her finger slide into his ass, gently and caringly. She stood up but continued to slide her finger in and out, slowly and seductively, stroking his balls as they hung below and his hard dick swung back and forth. He heard some sort of movement, a clicking and rubbing sound, and then her finger came out, but he was too dazed to move.

Suddenly something was at his asshole again. He felt something press against it and then in an instant it had popped inside him. It slid all the way in, and then he felt her thighs pressing against his and he knew what it was. Muriel was fucking him with a strap-on dildo. He was powerless, he could only accept it, that he was being ass-fucked by a fat lady who acted like she owned him.  Just like in his story "Tech Support."

Trish scooted back to watch as Muriel pounded Huysmans' ass, and once she was settled she pressed her foot against his cock, while playing with one of her tits. She squeezed the nipple, then licked at it and sucked it into her mouth. As her chunky thigh pistoned up and down, her foot working his cock, he moaned and saw glistening spurts of his seed fly up, catch moonlight, and fall down upon her foot and between her toes.

He collapsed, exhausted.  Trish looked at him, and then she shook her foot, spattered with his cum, and whispered, "Don't you think you better clean it up?"

Oh God, not "Temptress in the Temple." "Get on your knees," she said, "and clean my foot with your tongue."

Huysmans was revolted-- and yet the command of a big beautiful woman, to lick her foot, to suck on those toes, was irresistible. He bent down and touched his tongue to the cool cum and sucked it inside. It wasn't horrible, he sucked it down and swallowed the first glob quickly enough; the second one he kept on his tongue and swirled around her big toe before swallowing it and licking it clean, bobbing his head up and down on the toe. 

He rolled over, exhausted, as the girls, not yet satiated, now turned toward each other.  Muriel pushed Trish's legs apart to show her beautiful feminine flowers. She kissed her way up those fat jiggly thighs, cupped her broad round ass under her arms and squeezed her fat ass cheeks, kneading them so that her pussy and asshole each smooshed together with each squeeze.

Then, at last, she put her tongue out and ran it along Trish's sweet orchid, her slippery purple labia, getting that first tongue-on-metal taste as her tongue skated across the top of it. Trish shivered and moaned "Oh God, yes." Muriel dove in again, lifting the petals apart with her tongue, past the thicker skin of the outer lips and finding her way into the smoother, wetter velvet inside. Her nose burrowed into Trish's pubic hair as her tongue went deep into that hot slippery hole and my hands kneaded that enormous ass like it was dough. 

Trish started writhing, her massive tits bounding up and down on either side of her, that alabaster whale tummy shifting up and down, and Muriel picked up the pace on her rubbery clit. She pushed her legs up, revealing the wrinkly brown hole below her love tunnel, and as she rubbed her clit with her finger she let her tongue dive into that peppery pucker below. She practically screamed, biting the pillow she clutched in one hand as the other massaged one of those giant tits. Muriel switched back to chewing on her clit but rubbed her asshole with her index finger, and her ass practically sucked it inside. She kept up the rhythm, licking her clit as she pile-drove her asshole with her finger, and it was only a few more moments before Trish came, her ass pulsing around Muriel's finger and her cunt throbbing in Muriel's face.

*  *  *

After the girls had left Huysmans sat on the bed, his erection still not entirely gone thanks to the blue pill.  He had been all Old World courtesy to the girls as they dressed and prepared to leave, but as he had bid them farewell he had felt saddened, that their dynamism and enthusiasm deserved something better than his jaded, ennui-ridden self.  Here he was, at the pinnacle of his fame, able to have almost any BBW he desired with just a wink and a nod-- and yet it had become boring, this endless round of sex acts which he could not help but think of in the terms of his stories.  He no longer enjoyed the novelty of desire and conquest; now every act seemed to have been lifted straight from the pages of something he had already written and long since put behind him.

That night he made a resolution.  There was a week before his next appearance; he had no obligations until then.  He arose early the next morning, rented a convertible sports car at a nearby agency, tossed a small bag in the back and left the rest to be shipped home, and lit out of the city.

In 20 minutes he was in the suburbs.  In another 10 he was in true farm country, far from urbanity and celebrity.  It suddenly occurred to him that he had not eaten breakfast, and he wasn't sure when an opportunity to do so would present itself-- and then he saw an old white clapboard restaurant with a faded sign, Stop Inn Cafe.  It might have closed forty years ago, by the look of it, but the trucks in the parking lot suggested otherwise.  He swerved in and parked, pausing only to grab a hardback copy of "The Sapphic Pirate Miranda And Other Stories" from his bag.

He saw her the minute he opened the door.  Dark eyed and dark haired, soft pink skin, cheeks like a pillow he could rest in for months.  Broad hips, an hourglass waist (well, a couple of hours' glass), big round breasts like a pair of bowling balls let loose to roll around under the plain pink cotton of her waitress's uniform.  He sat at the counter, and unobtrusively placed his book, cover side up, beside him.

A faint flicker of a smile at Huysmans' exotic appearance, but the word that came out was all business.  "Coffee?"

"Please."  He turned the book over, revealing the author photo on the back.

She poured his coffee.  "Do you know what you want or do you need a few minutes?"

Oh, he knew what he wanted.  It was intoxicating just seeing her lean against the counter, the edge swallowed up in the soft folds of her belly, her breasts jutting into her space, the softness of her chubby arms (no ring, he noted quickly), almost close enough to nuzzle as she held the ordering pad over him.  Ever the author, he began to notice details that hinted at a life lived yet half-mysterious-- the shoe-shaped scar on her forearm, a tattoo of a heart and a cartoon cat on her neckline, a photo of herself and some other girl taped to the cash register, labeled "Akron or Bust!!!"  Then he noticed something else-- impatience.  "Two eggs, sunny side up, hash browns, wheat toast, please."

"Comin' right up," she said, and disappeared.

She hadn't noticed the book.  Maybe she'd never even heard of the book, of "The Sapphic Pirate Miranda," of him.  A BBW who had no idea who the great author Huysmans was!  The thought tantalized him.  Seducing her, savoring those big round breasts, burying himself in those sturdy thighs, kissing that puffy neck and stroking those soft pink cheeks-- it would take more than just pointing and beckoning.  It would take getting to her know her, slowly, unthreateningly, it would take asking her out, not rushing things, not expecting anything.  It would take understanding her world, being interested in her and making her interested in him, all before the sex acts which are interesting only when they come naturally from the characters of real human beings.

He put the book at his feet.  His pulse was quickening.  The chase was on.  He felt alive again.  When the time came, if it came, if he was so fortunate, he wouldn't need any little blue pill.