Curvy Girls Read online

  “I’m not invisible,” Fred said, his words slow and creamy. “I’m here. I’m real.”

  He slid his fingers under the edge of her bra, sliding them back to the clasp, and deftly unhooked it. Betsy drew in a sharp pull of cool air as he freed her body. As the globes of her breasts fell from the cups and into his hands, a low vibration echoed in his throat, a feral sound that melted her. Her pussy ached with wanting, with the need of feeling him inside her. His fingers caressed her full, heavy breasts, teasing the nipples to even harder peaks, cradling them in his hands before he lowered his head and worshiped them. She wanted to scream, wanted the glorious sensation of his mouth lapping and suckling her breasts to be known to the world, but instead, she bit her lip and stared up at the Queen, exuberance hers as the wild excitement of being blessed by this manifest deity rained down upon her. Fred’s lips and teeth exploited her breasts, his enthusiastic appreciation of their size and sensitivity beyond her imagining. As if the ravished tits were wired directly to her pussy, Betsy’s clit tingled and pulsed, her wetness almost embarrassing.

  She tugged at his belt, needing his stiff cock in her hands before he put it into the wetness. Lowering his trousers and pulling his cock through the slit of his boxers, she bolted closer to orgasm as her fingers closed around it. It was eight inches and generously veined; her mouth watered now, too.

  He kissed her, hot and hungry, then slid his hand into her panties, fingers instantly coated in her juices.

  “My god,” he groaned against her mouth. He circled her clit, the flesh slick with need, and Betsy moved against his hand, following the rhythm of his possessive strokes. He kissed her neck, nipped along her shoulder, and relentlessly fingered her. As the orgasm crested, he sealed her cry with his lips, her body one blessed exposed nerve, limbs trembling and golden light crashing over every inch of skin. His kiss held her, owned her, as if he was taking her pleasure through his lips and tongue.

  She panted, and her heart raced as he broke the kiss and smiled at her. He brought his fingers to her lips, smeared her juices onto them, then kissed her again. “You’re delicious,” he whispered, “and I want more.”

  He moved her to the end of the wide bench in front of the Queen and kissed her as he sat her down onto the dimpled leather. He gently pushed her back, but Betsy resisted.

  “No, wait,” she whispered, and stood up again, the wicked delight of her inspiration as exciting as his questioning, almost fearful look. She moved to stand with the bench between her and the painting and removed her drenched panties. When she knelt on the wide expanse of leather, her legs spread and ready for him, she looked back and saw Fred’s cock visibly jump. She grinned, thrilled to see the mix of shock and lust gloss his eyes. She crooked her finger, inviting him in.

  He quickly dropped his pants and his boxers, the glistening tip of his cock shining amber in the low lights of the hall. He stepped behind her, into the saddle of her stocking-covered legs. Heat radiated from him, and though her pussy still tingled from his fingers, she wanted his cock buried deep inside her—and she wanted it here, with her, the Queen of his obsession. Was she offering herself to some higher power, or to Corso’s ghost? She felt divine, a priestess, a celebrant in some faith as old as mankind. She knelt, a sacrifice to art patronage, willing to give as much as she took.

  As his hand stroked and kneaded the soft flesh of her ass, she arched, her breasts hanging down, her belly round and tight. He stroked her pussy again, cupping it, rubbing her clit between his index and middle finger. She moaned—so hot, so ready—staring at the Queen and basking in the benediction of color and timeless beauty, bare before her and ready for her to bless the moment.

  When his cock slid along the outside of her pussy, she squirmed, wanting the hot flesh to be inside her. He didn’t tease her for long. When his cockhead rested at the gate, her first instinct was to push back—to envelop him and clench tight, locking him in—but she resisted, allowing him the filling stroke. When his cock entered, she gasped, amazed at how glorious he felt, the generous girth filling her perfectly. He slid in all the way, didn’t stop until his balls touched her pussy lips, and she soared high on the thick wave of pleasure each inch gave her. Then he froze, didn’t move, just stayed buried in her, and she looked back over her shoulder at him. He was staring at the painting, just as she had, and a needle of jealousy pricked her heart.

  Until he began to move.

  His rhythm was maddened, hard, demanding. He fucked her, and she reveled in the hard slam of his cock into her, in his greedy hands gripping her belly, groping her breasts, slapping her ass. She ground back against him, equal in her passion. He reached around her, stroked her clit, rocketing her reckless beyond sweat and flesh into nothing less than nirvana. The orgasm ripped through her, exposing her spine to air, baring her heart to the shared heat and lust. Her body trembled, her vision watered, the golden Queen blurred into a window of renewal, born of precious, shared flames.

  He came in her, filling her, their spend dripping onto the leather and the floor. Both of them struggled for breath, but as his cock softened, he continued to thrust into her, the wet finishing strokes precious to her, the final prayer of a powerful ritual.

  She sank onto the bench, her legs spreading wider. When his cock slipped out of her, Fred wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against him. They moved onto the bench, spooning on the cool leather, both of them facing the Autumn Queen, their breath returning to normal, their bodies sticky and whole.

  Betsy stared at the painting, loving the sensation of Fred’s hands lazily exploring the layers of her flesh. The Queen, frozen for eternity, arching toward an unseen hand, didn’t frown, didn’t smile, but remained unchanged—and yet Betsy saw her new, the red of her hair just a little more lively; the leaves, suspended in time, were filigree treasures of perfect brushwork. This moment would never come again, Betsy thought with a twinge of sadness. What followed such transcendence?

  She stroked Fred’s arm and lifted his hand to her lips, kissing it lightly. “What do you see when you look at her, at the Queen?”

  He kissed the back of her head and squeezed her just below her breasts. “What do I see? Don’t you know?” He nuzzled her neck.

  “I see you.”

  Champagne & Cheesecake

  BY A. M. HARTNETT

  She called them her “victory tits.”

  A whole year without smoking, and Sylvia had packed on thirty pounds, but she was no longer sorry for a single ounce of the blubber. In fact, now that she was staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror of the luxurious hotel room, she was feeling pretty good about the added girth. Her round face was even rounder now and was perfectly framed by newly tinted red curls. Her corset was cinched to accentuate her shape without diminishing what was there. The demi-bra was snug but not too snug, lifting her tits just enough to accentuate their plumpness without overflowing.

  Sylvia struck a hand-on-hip pose. She’d been tempted to go with the ruffled boyshorts, but in the end, she hadn’t been able to resist the lure of the lacy red panties-and-garters combo. Traditional and irresistible, and nicely paired with black stockings, the kind with the seam along the back.

  She went to the closet and slipped on her five-inch heels, then returned to the mirror for another look. She wasn’t yet used to carrying around an extra thirty pounds, and she felt it more on her feet than anywhere else, but the heels made her look and feel like a bombshell, so she sucked it up.

  She lifted her hair off her neck and blew a kiss at her reflection. The image was so bombshell. She couldn’t help but laugh out loud as she let her hair tumble over her shoulders, leaving her appearance softer than before.

  Her boys were going to go crazy when they saw what she had to offer now.

  She’d been keeping her appointment with Vaughn and MacLean for ten years now. They’d met in an Internet chat room for sci-fi geeks, way back when they were all still in college. The two boys had been part of a group plotting to meet in C
hicago, where Sylvia was, for an upcoming convention, but as the months turned to weeks, everyone else in the group dropped out—either too poor or just not serious enough—and Sylvia was left with the prospect of playing host to two University of North Carolina students en route to their home bases in Minneapolis.

  The first night, they’d all gotten too drunk to stand. The second night, they’d stayed up all night playing video games. On the third night, they’d cracked open a bottle of wine and started fooling around in front of the fire. The first had been Vaughn, who was sheepish when Sylvia pulled his cock out of his shorts and started sucking him. In the beginning, MacLean was content to watch, but after a while, he moved behind Sylvia and unzipped.

  Since then, they’d grown up, graduated, and gotten jobs. As for Sylvia, she’d finished school in Chicago and continued to live and work there. Vaughn settled in Arizona, and MacLean bounced around for a while—from Seattle to California to as close as Indianapolis—before landing his dream job in Hawaii.

  Sometimes it seemed impossible that they were all still unattached, still in touch, still meeting up every summer. Sometimes, but not today.

  Covering up her ensemble by slipping on a little black dress, Sylvia swept a quick gaze around the luxurious hotel room—a king suite with a lake view, Jacuzzi tub, a shower big enough to fit three, and champagne chilling on the table by the window. Though she still lived in Chicago and could easily have the boys at her place, there was something about fucking in a hotel, even a nice one, that made it dirtier. And the cost wasn’t a problem: She’d used the money she saved by quitting the smokes to pay for the room.

  She was checking out the enormous bathroom when she heard the door beep and the men enter. Excitement swirled through her belly as she stepped out of the bathroom to greet them with a big smile.

  MacLean, dark and bespectacled, was in front and the first to look upon her. As his gaze went from head to toe, a sprig of self-consciousness broke through the surface of Sylvia’s confidence. She crossed her arms over her chest and flushed. MacLean’s green eyes softened. “I know I already told you on video chat last night,” he said, “but I have to say it again. You look unbelievable.”

  “I know what you mean,” Vaughn chimed in. “Sylvia, you look better than ever. I’ve been dying to get my hands on what I could only see on the screen.”

  Sylvia smiled. “You have to say that. Otherwise I might change my mind and leave you here to watch porn by yourselves all night.”

  Vaughn approached her and slipped his arms around her waist. “You’re so wrong on both counts,” he said. “I don’t have to say a damn thing, and you’re not going anywhere.” As he lowered his mouth to hers, she cupped the back of his head and tightened her fingers in his reddish hair. It all felt so natural. She still felt small in his arms, and the flowing, euphoric feeling banished any thought of being too big now.

  Vaughn’s hands slid across her hips and over the hump of her ass. With his stiffening cock pressing between her legs, Sylvia forgot all about feeling self-conscious, or even feeling like a bombshell. She forgot about victory tits and garters and ten-year anniversaries. She even forgot that there was someone still missing from the equation—at least until a low chuckle from MacLean reminded her.

  Sylvia broke away from Vaughn and giggled as she looked to MacLean. “Look at you, always waiting your turn. Come and give me a hug, like you should have done when you first walked in.”

  “How could I, with his hand on your ass and his tongue in your mouth?”

  Vaughn snorted. “In my defense, my tongue never got a chance to get into her mouth.”

  MacLean’s embrace was different, more exploratory. The hug was quick, and then his hands were on her shoulders, pushing her hair away from her neck. Sylvia wet her lips and held her breath as he brushed his mouth over hers. His hot tongue darted across her lower lip and back again, touching hers midway. She moaned. Heat zipped from the tip of her tongue to her toes while his hands moved down to her breasts. He brushed his thumbs over the hard peaks pressing against the taut bodice, and a heavy heat settled between her legs, spawning an ache she knew wouldn’t be sated completely for hours.

  The kiss ended, and he withdrew. She was woozy on her feet as they stood side by side and regarded her. There wasn’t an ounce of self-consciousness left in her body. She felt desirable and electric with what was to come.

  Clearing her throat, she turned and headed toward the minibar. “Why don’t I play hostess for one of you while the other showers. Then we can order up some room service, crack a bottle, and get this party started.”

  Having flown nonstop for eight hours, Vaughn hit the shower first and could be heard moaning his relief as he stood under the spray. Sylvia had a Captain and Coke waiting for him when he emerged, the same drink she had prepared for MacLean.

  By the time the meal arrived, both men looked fresher. When Sylvia finished her cheesecake and coffee and melted back in her chair, comfortably full, it was already growing dark outside. MacLean turned on a couple of table lamps, then watched her a moment. “Is it killing you, not smoking after dinner?”

  “Oh, hell yeah. After dinner, after a cup of tea, and after an orgasm.”

  Vaughn leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “So tonight you might be sent screaming back to the smokes. ‘Screaming’ being the key word here.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve had a lot of practice,” she said. “Though maybe that’s the equivalent of someone who’s used to running a 5k saying they’re ready for the Boston marathon.” It would definitely be a new challenge.

  MacLean gathered the plates onto the tray and carried it to the door. When he returned, he was grasping the champagne bottle by the neck.

  “I feel like we should have something more extravagant planned,” he said. “It’s been ten years since we met—plus one year since Sylvia kicked the smokes.”

  Vaughn nodded. “He’s right. We should have gone to a resort or something.”

  The champagne was uncorked with a pop, and Sylvia held out her glass to be filled. “Come on,” she said. “You can’t beat this. Look at that view. Look at this room.”

  MacLean filled two other flute glasses and held his up. “Still. Cheers?”

  “Hang on,” Sylvia said. Struck with inspiration, she set her glass aside and stepped away from the table. She reached under her hair and loosened the clasp that held her dress together.

  Neither man said a word as Sylvia shimmied out of the little black dress. Vaughn bit his lip. MacLean ran his hand through his dark hair and then swiped it over his chin.

  Stripped down to her lovely skivvies, Sylvia leaned against the edge of the table. She reclaimed her glass and raised it in front of her. “Since we’re not going anywhere, I figured I might as well get comfortable.”

  Vaughn let out a whistle through his teeth. “Jesus Christ, even in that little dress I had no idea just how much you’ve changed.” His gaze took in every inch, his cheeks filling with color and his chest rising and falling a little faster with every breath he took. “You’re just so . . . voluptuous.”

  “Amen, and cheers.” MacLean clinked his glass against hers, and then Vaughn’s, and took a drink.

  Sylvia sipped her drink and suppressed a smile while the boys took big gulps. It was like she had lit a fuse by stripping down. While Vaughn seemed jumpy with impatience, MacLean had become tight as a drum. Whether he realized it or not, Sylvia could see that he was settling into an old pattern, simmering on the sidelines while she and Vaughn finished their champagne.

  Grinning at Vaughn, Sylvia sauntered to the edge of the bed and sat facing MacLean and the floor-to-ceiling window. Vaughn joined her and leaned in closer for a kiss, but she moved just out of reach and held up her glass. “This is expensive stuff, you know. I want to at least enjoy the first glass uninterrupted.”

  Vaughn groaned. “Tease.”

  Sylvia ran a hand over his thigh. “Tell you what. For every sip I take, I’ll let you
take something off.”

  “Mine’s already gone,” Vaughn said. “I guess that means I need to catch up.” He stood and started on his belt buckle. “Since we’re not going anywhere.”

  She smiled up at Vaughn as he pulled off his T-shirt and revealed a flat chest speckled with reddish hair. When he was down to his briefs, she turned her attention to the other man. “What about you, MacLean? You’re almost through with your second glass. You seem to have even more catching up to do.”

  He shrugged and put his feet up on a chair. “I’m fine over here. It takes me a bit longer to catch up.”

  “MacLean likes to watch, you know that,” Vaughn said. Free from his briefs, his uncircumcised cock bobbed up. He huddled closer and ran his fingertips between her shoulder blades, down to unhook her bra. As the garment slackened, Sylvia shimmied the straps down and let the bra buckle.

  “Baby, you’re so soft now,” he muttered, slipping his arms under hers and nuzzling the slope of her neck.

  Her nipples hardened as he worked them between his fingers, sending hot little shards of pain throughout her body. As the heat of Vaughn’s mouth sought hers, she turned her head to meet his tongue. For a moment, she felt suspended, captive in Vaughn’s arms, while MacLean sat calmly sipping his champagne.

  “Take another sip, Sylvia,” Vaughn whispered against her mouth and dropped his head low.

  Sylvia chuckled. “I can take a hint.” She drank, and as the bubbly brew tingled in her throat, Vaughn nibbled along her throat. One by one, he unhooked her garters, but he didn’t go for her stockings. Instead, he ran a hand along the inside of her thigh.