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.