“I think you should take off your clothes now,” you tell me.
It isn’t a request.
I’m already barefoot. My hands go to the buttons of my floral top-the first two are already strategically undone, a hint of cleavage for you.
I wish I’d worn something nicer, even if it was just going to come off within minutes.
But, between taking care of things at home and coming to meet you, I just didn’t have time.
So you get me in my civilian clothes.
I undo the buttons, one by one. My breasts are big and heavy, veined and pleated with stretch marks. They’re encased in a sheer purple balconette that scarcely holds them, and hides nothing underneath.
Okay, so I did wear some nice things.
I just had to put them on hours in advance.
(I visited the bathroom on more than one occasion, to tuck my tits back into place. Big bodies and small lingerie make a hazard out of sneezing, laughing, bumping into things…)
I undo the fly of my high-waisted jeans. My pale skin is red where the waistband dug a furrow into the fat of my hips and my belly. I shimmy them down, then straighten out my sheer purple boyshort panties.
“No, no,” you say. “Take those off too.”
I do as I’m told. I wriggle out of the panties and kick them away with my jeans.
I’ve got a few days of pubic hair growth-I did my best to tidy it up for you this morning. Its natural lay flows outwards from my hidden clitoral hood, like an abstract drawing of a tree or an explosion.
I stand at attention in just my bra, awaiting your next command. I feel nervous-I rarely present so much bare skin for someone’s approval.
But we rarely see each other, and my heart is pounding with excitement.
“Lie down,” you tell me.
I turn towards the king size bed, but you stop me.
“No,” you say. “On the floor. Put a towel down.”
Okay, I think to myself. I’d almost forgotten.
I take one of the big towels from the luggage rack near the bed. Gingerly, I crouch down and lay myself out on the towel, like a body in a tomb.
For such a nice hotel, the towel is awfully rough, especially against my ass and the backs of my soft legs.
I watch you expectantly, wondering how you’ll possibly crouch down in that pencil skirt, which looks vacuum-sealed to your big hips and generous thighs.
“Wait here,” you say, and vanish into the bathroom.
You’re in there for a few minutes. My imagination and my expectations are firing in all different directions at once.
This is torture.
I’m so freaking wet.
You emerge in your sheer thigh high stockings and a short terrycloth robe with nothing on underneath it-I know this because you haven’t bothered to cinch it.
It barely covers your modest breasts. It bares your plush tummy roll, which is lined with a red waistband mark similar to my own. It frames the wispy trail that leads down to your dense thicket of pubic hair.
Breasts aside, our bodies are very alike. On the handful of occasions we’ve been out together, we’ve been mistaken for sisters more than once.
Falling in love with your body has gone along way towards helping me love my own.
I watch you over the hills of my breasts and my belly as you stride over to me. Your robe flows in the air, revealing a little more of you as you walk.
You stand over me. You plant your feet on the towel to either side of my waist. I look up at you; you tower over me. I see you from the same angle that tourists see Michelangelo’s Statue of David.
With your thighs spread apart, I can see just a hint of your vulva, the color of a fresh bruise, through pubic hair you’ve so proudly let grow unhindered in defiance of people’s expectations of you.
“Are you mine?” you say.
“I can’t hear your head rattle.”
“I’m yours,” I say.
“You belong to me.”
“I belong to you.”
“You’re an object in my possession. To do with as I please.”
“I’m an object in your possession. You can do anything to me that you please.”
“I didn’t ask for permission.”
To this, I say nothing.
“I’m going to mark you as mine,” you say.
I say nothing.
“Tell me you want me to mark you as mine,” you say.
“I want you to mark me as yours,” I say, truthfully.
You crouch, just a little, and you part your pubic hair and your outer labia with both hands. I can see your prominent clitoral hood.
The first squirt of urine lurches out, hitting the towel next to my head and splashing the side of my face. A little of it gets into my short hair. It’s odorless, nearly clear.
Then your pee stream evens itself out. Some of it runs down your inner thighs and pools on the towel at your stocking feet. Much of it dribbles down onto my belly and my bra.
It’s a strange sensation-the splatter of sudden wetness, the warmth, then the rapid cooling. The cold makes my big nipples hard and prominent like fingertips under the damp fabric of the balconette.
One of the earliest times you did this, some of it got into my mouth. That was unpleasant-a part of the act I’d rather not repeat.
But, as I learned from you, such little accidents are no big deal in the grand scheme of play.
This is our familiar ritual. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
You survey my body, a pale canvas splattered in archipelagoes of watery piss.
“Babe,” you say, “I’m so hot. Are you hot?”
“I don’t believe you,” you say. “Spread your legs.”
I hike my knees up and spread them apart, exposing my dimpled inner thighs and thick outer labia.
You balance yourself on one foot and prod my vulva with the other. Your big toe slides shallowly inside me. It’s a strange sensation, the contact between sheer stocking fabric and my delicate inner labia.
“Ooh, babe,” you say, “you’re soaking wet.”
By way of demonstration, you remove your toe from me and put it under my nose. I sniff politely.
Apparently dissatisfied, you step on my face.
You don’t put weight on it-just pressure.
I inhale deeply.
I smell my own pussy, earthy and buttery and musky, and the scent of your foot, slightly sour from a day’s travel while encased in a heeled shoe, and a hint of the urine that soaked into the stocking.
You press a little harder with your foot, and my face goes sideways. The ball of your foot is pushing into my chubby cheek. The stocking feels rough.
I glance sideways with my eyes. In the periphery of my vision, I have a worm’s eye view of your. Your legs apart, your hand in your abundant pubic hair, making little circles on your vulva.
You see me looking, and our eyes meet.
“I’m going to step on you and you’re going to watch me make myself come,” you say, breathing heavily. “Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I say, slurring a little. My face is a little misshapen under the pressure.
Even through the pungence of your foot, I can smell you. It’s a strong, dense, delicious girlfunk-something you’ve always had, you’ve told me, any time you’ve gotten horny for as long as you can remember.
I feel droplets on my belly. I notice the thick foam of translucent cum between your swirling fingers and your pubic hair, beading up and falling away. Something else your body has apparently always done.
You take your foot off of me and clumsily stand with your feet wide apart to either side of my face, crouching slightly, like a golfer’s stance.
I have a full overhead view of your body beneath your robe-the generous overhang of your ass and belly, your rippled thighs, the mohawk of pubic hair from your asscrack to your navel.
Your pussy, frothy and quivering beneath your increasingly frantic fingertips.
You gasp, you cry out, your face a contorted grimace that might be comical if it weren’t so overpoweringly erotic.
As promised, you come for me. A solo performance, a live sex show for my benefit. My only job, my burden, is to lie here and watch it and not move my hands unless otherwise permitted.
I want so badly to touch my own pussy.
I don’t dare.
I watch your body shudder and flush and sweat as your orgasm comes.
The sound of your moaning will be a fixture in my brain forever.
Before too long, your knees are steady again. You once again stand up straight, a picture of composure.
“Let’s take a shower,” you say cheerily.
I get up, taking care to dab the liquids on my skin with the towel, and follow you into the luxury bathroom.
Ahead of me, you drop your robe, revealing to me the broad expanse of your back, creased with rolls at the sides, the curves and crinkles of your stupendous ass.
You bend over. Adroitly, you shuck your stockings and step out of them. I catch a brief glimpse of the dugout of your asshole and your perineum, all tinted skin and curly hair.
You reach into the spacious shower stall and turn it on. The room is quickly fogged with steam.
You look back at me over your shoulder.
“Take that off,” you say.
I obey. You watch as I reach behind, unclasp the back of the bra, and shrug it from my shoulders. Without its meager support, my breasts are weighty and pendulous; they rest heavy on my ribcage.
You step into the shower, and I follow.
Standing in front of you, up close, I’m actually a little taller than you.
Under the hot spray, dried piss and flecks of girlcum sluice off my body. Steam opens my pores, goes to my head, makes everything slippery and soft.
You look my body up and down. A look of appreciation flits across your face. You put your hands on my belly, run your fingers over the roll of fat above my pubis, squeeze it roughly as though kneading dough.
But it feels good.
You keep squeezing, not quite hard enough to visibly bruise. You keep going until my eyes are tearing up, until I’m certain it’ll be sore for days, and only then do you stop.
“Turn around,” you say.
I turn around. I’m facing the wall of the shower, which is made of thick glass. It’s opaque with condensation.
“I tested it before you got here,” I hear you say from behind me. “It won’t break.”
I take the hint. I bend over, steadying myself with my forearms against the wall. My ass is aimed at you.
I do as you say.
I hear the high wet fart of shower gel being squeezed from a tiny bottle, one of the complimentary ones they leave in the shower.
Then I feel the prodding of your small, dainty finger in the crack of my ass, deep between the cheeks, finding my asshole. Lubed by a thick coating of liquid soap, you circle the ridges of my taut anus.
I sigh deeply, inhaling a lungful of steam and soapy smell. It’s just a dollop, a drop of badly needed attention to my sensitive places.
But it’s still attention.
Then I gasp as I feel you insert a finger-your thumb, I think. A melange of the pleasure of anal penetration, the psychology of my body being invaded by yours, the sting of soap on mucus membrane.
Then I feel pressure, the thumb pressing into me, then withdrawing a little, then pressing in again. It has some mass behind it.
I think you’re pressing your thumb into me with your body. Yes, you’re humping me, with your fist between my ass and your soft pubis. You’re fucking me, your thumb a tiny but effective cock.
I feel your other hand come around my hip, up to my breast. You palm my sensitive nipple, mashing it broadly, taking care not to stimulate it too directly. I wince all the same; it’s a lot.
You hump me, you grip my boob, and I take it gratefully, my body quickly acclimating to the rush of sensations.
You begin thumbing my nipple, eliciting a feeling deep within my breast and my belly that could bring me to orgasm on its own, if you keep it up long enough.
But you decide otherwise.
You let your hand slide away, down over my bruised tummy, pausing briefly to finger my deep navel like another orifice.
Then you steal your way down to my pubic hair, and to my vulva. You hold me tight, your arm snaked around me just under the roll of fat above my pubis.
You’re slow and gentle at first. Carefully, you skirt my sensitive clitoris. I’m spread for you, I’m gaping for you. I’m soaking wet for you. I invite your slick fingers. Harder, faster, more.
My pussy has been on fire for you. Now, in here, my face and forearms against fogged glass, your ersatz erection pumping away at my burning asshole, you take what belongs to you, with well-practiced precision.
It doesn’t take long.
My breath catches in the wet, heavy air. The muscles in my core begin to pulse as the warmth of orgasm spreads through me. My asshole grabs frantically at your rigid thumb.
“Yes, baby,” I hear you say, husky, aggressive, “come for me.”
The release happens fast, tightening me and loosening me all at once.
I nearly fall over. I catch myself, splayed on the glass, my face and arms and breasts flattened against the cool surface.
You don’t stop right away. You stroke me and you fuck me, expertly modulating your attentions to accommodate my increased sensitivity, until you’re certain I’m done.
At some point-I don’t remember-I slide down the glass and sit on the tile floor of the shower. The spray that isn’t blocked by your body splatters my skin and soaks my hair.
I come to.
I must have been in a daze.
I look up. Towering over me, standing beneath the showerhead, I see you washing yourself, nonchalant, businesslike, apparently taking special care to clean your pussy and your asshole.
Then you’re standing directly in front of me. I’m eye level with your bountiful bush, which appears to be holding water like a sponge.
My eyes travel upward, over your luxurious belly, your petite tits, their pale silver dollar nipples, to your face. You look down at me, meeting my gaze.
“You are the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” you say, as if giving a stern warning.
I’ve heard it before.
But, from you, I believe it.
“I’m going to need to get off again,” you say.
“What do you need?” I ask.
I’ll do anything. And I mean that.
You turn around.
I’m nose to crack with your ass.
You reach behind you, pulling your heavy buttcheeks apart with the tips of your fingers, exposing your hairy asshole to me. You pull hard; it gapes, pink inside.
Then you release. Your cheeks come back together, jiggling a little.
“Eat me,” you say, over your shoulder.
I put my hands on your asscheeks and pull them apart. And I oblige.
I’m pretty sure I’m doing a novice job of it. I get my tongue good and spitty and stick it out like a frog, swirling it around your anus and periodically probing inside with the tip of it.
It’s an unfamiliar taste. At first, the offensive tang of lingering soap, which quickly gives way to a much milder flavor, sort of sour and waxy. It’s strange at first. But I’m quickly learning to love it.
If you have any objection to my amateurishness, you say nothing.
You press your ass into my face, almost sitting on me, smothering me in soft flesh. Between that and the water running down your asscrack onto my face, it’s a little tricky to breathe.
I feel your body rocking-you’re masturbating while I lick your asshole, strumming your pussy in earnest this second time, no longer dedicating your attention to putting on a show for my benefit.
When you come, it’s my turn to hold you. I wrap my arms around your hips and hug your ass to my face, steadying you on your feet and listening to your uncharacteristically feminine cries of pleasure.
Then the cries subside, and the shuddering stops, and you stand there for a hot moment, huffing and puffing in the steaming air.
When you’re able, you invite me to my feet. We embrace, we kiss, mingling spit and lingering traces of ass. Shower water collects in the crevices between our pressed-together bodies.
We snooze for a while in the big bed, our naked bodies damp and drying atop the covers. You spoon me, your body pressed into my back, draping a small hand on one of my big breasts.
I wake up after a couple hours. It’s late afternoon. You’re gone already.
I wish you’d stay longer, but this is always your way. You have other girlfriends to see while you’re in town, and your business trips are usually short.
I’m staying behind in the luxury hotel room your company put you up in. I don’t want to leave just yet-I’ll make an evening of it with the king size bed, a bottle of wine, and a magic wand.
I’ll check out for you in the morning. Then I’ll get back home to my husband.
As usual, he’ll want to hear everything.
If he does exactly as he’s told, maybe I’ll tell him some of it.