Big Girls Do It Wetter
God, I was so close. I wanted it so bad. I was on the edge, just moments from making myself come, but...I couldn't. I'd tried, and tried, and tried. I lay on my bed, Mr. Pinky McVibrator in both hands, using all my tricks and all my best memories, but...nothing. I could get close, writhing on the bed, gasping and moaning and full of aching pressure between my thighs, but no matter what I did, I couldn't get myself past the edge into orgasm.
I had the vibrator turned to high, the humming audible in my silent bedroom, I had it plunging inside me, two fingers circling my aching, sensitive nub, and I had a firm image of Chase in my mind. In my fantasy, he was tied to a bed, hands and feet bound by his silky neckties, erection throbbing and dripping dew against his belly, just waiting for me to climb aboard and ride him like a prize bull.
I could almost feel him inside me, but...it didn't take me there. His hands weren't around my waist, urging me onward. His voice wasn't in my ear, whispering my name. He wasn't giving me gentle commands and wrapping his brawny arms around me.
He wasn't here, and I couldn't come without him.
It had been four days since I'd last orgasmed, and it was an eternity. Four days since I walked out of Chase's house, still aching between my thighs from the vigor of his lovemaking.
He watched me go, sadness in his eyes. He'd argued for a moment or two, but he realized I wasn't going to change my mind, and let me go.
I wanted to go with him. New York? Alone with Chase and his wonderful god-cock? Thanks, yes. But...he was going for his career. It was his big break. He didn't need me there, hanging on him, waiting for him to come back.
Besides, I'd known him for a week. One week. Two meetings. He'd kissed me the first day we met, and we'd slept together the second time.
Slept together. Such a trivial, meaningless phrase in the face of what really happened. Chase showed me what sex was like, what it could be, even for a big girl like me.
Big girl. I'd rolled that phrase around in my mind since he left. What did it mean, really? What did it signify? My clothes size? The number on the scale when I dared step on it? The shape of my body or the heft of my breasts and the swell of my backside?
No, what I realized was my use of the phrase "big girl" in reference to myself was nothing more than a self-categorization. I identified myself as that, so that's what I became.
Yeah, I know. Diets and exercise and eating right and it's not about what you eat but how much and why...blah blah blah. I'd tried it all. I could get to a certain point, and then my body stopped shrinking. It just held where it was and refused to change any more, until further efforts turned into bashing my head against the wall. So I kept myself at the point where I wouldn't lose any more weight and learned to accept it as the best I'd get.
But then I met Chase, and he thought I was beautiful. He didn't say it—well, he did, over and over again—but it was his actions that showed me he thought I was beautiful. It was in the way he touched me, in the way he kissed and me held me and made love to me. It was the fact that he considered it making love rather than having sex or fucking.
All this, from one night. Lordy lord. I was so mixed up, so completely screwed up in the head, now, and it was all Chase's fault. I was addicted to his body, to being in bed with him, from one night.
I had a friend in high school who tried crack once at a party. She tried it once, got high on it once, one single time, and that was it. She was hooked. OD'd a few years later.
Well, Chase was my drug. Once, and I was hooked.
The problem was, he was gone, and I couldn't get him back. Not without chasing him across the country. Chasing Chase.
I tossed the sex toy across the room, not bothering to clean it first. There was no point.
* * *
DJing that night was hellish. I'd begged off my last shift the weekend Chase left. I went home, got
God, I was so close. I wanted it so bad. I was on the edge, just moments from making myself come, but...I couldn't. I'd tried, and tried, and tried. I lay on my bed, Mr. Pinky McVibrator in both hands, using all my tricks and all my best memories, but...nothing. I could get close, writhing on the bed, gasping and moaning and full of aching pressure between my thighs, but no matter what I did, I couldn't get myself past the edge into orgasm.
I had the vibrator turned to high, the humming audible in my silent bedroom, I had it plunging inside me, two fingers circling my aching, sensitive nub, and I had a firm image of Chase in my mind. In my fantasy, he was tied to a bed, hands and feet bound by his silky neckties, erection throbbing and dripping dew against his belly, just waiting for me to climb aboard and ride him like a prize bull.
I could almost feel him inside me, but...it didn't take me there. His hands weren't around my waist, urging me onward. His voice wasn't in my ear, whispering my name. He wasn't giving me gentle commands and wrapping his brawny arms around me.
He wasn't here, and I couldn't come without him.
It had been four days since I'd last orgasmed, and it was an eternity. Four days since I walked out of Chase's house, still aching between my thighs from the vigor of his lovemaking.
He watched me go, sadness in his eyes. He'd argued for a moment or two, but he realized I wasn't going to change my mind, and let me go.
I wanted to go with him. New York? Alone with Chase and his wonderful god-cock? Thanks, yes. But...he was going for his career. It was his big break. He didn't need me there, hanging on him, waiting for him to come back.
Besides, I'd known him for a week. One week. Two meetings. He'd kissed me the first day we met, and we'd slept together the second time.
Slept together. Such a trivial, meaningless phrase in the face of what really happened. Chase showed me what sex was like, what it could be, even for a big girl like me.
Big girl. I'd rolled that phrase around in my mind since he left. What did it mean, really? What did it signify? My clothes size? The number on the scale when I dared step on it? The shape of my body or the heft of my breasts and the swell of my backside?
No, what I realized was my use of the phrase "big girl" in reference to myself was nothing more than a self-categorization. I identified myself as that, so that's what I became.
Yeah, I know. Diets and exercise and eating right and it's not about what you eat but how much and why...blah blah blah. I'd tried it all. I could get to a certain point, and then my body stopped shrinking. It just held where it was and refused to change any more, until further efforts turned into bashing my head against the wall. So I kept myself at the point where I wouldn't lose any more weight and learned to accept it as the best I'd get.
But then I met Chase, and he thought I was beautiful. He didn't say it—well, he did, over and over again—but it was his actions that showed me he thought I was beautiful. It was in the way he touched me, in the way he kissed and me held me and made love to me. It was the fact that he considered it making love rather than having sex or fucking.
All this, from one night. Lordy lord. I was so mixed up, so completely screwed up in the head, now, and it was all Chase's fault. I was addicted to his body, to being in bed with him, from one night.
I had a friend in high school who tried crack once at a party. She tried it once, got high on it once, one single time, and that was it. She was hooked. OD'd a few years later.
Well, Chase was my drug. Once, and I was hooked.
The problem was, he was gone, and I couldn't get him back. Not without chasing him across the country. Chasing Chase.
I tossed the sex toy across the room, not bothering to clean it first. There was no point.
* * *
DJing that night was hellish. I'd begged off my last shift the weekend Chase left. I went home, got
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