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From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
Subject: "Ice Cream Sundae" (FF) by Bronwen (Revised)
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WARNING: This is adult reading material. If you aren't, don't!
(c) BronwenSM 1998. Not to be used without permission.
@--}---}---}----
Ice Cream Sundae
(c) BronwenSM 1997/8
(FF)
@--}---}---}----
It started over a secondhand book. We were in a junk shop rootling
through the boxes when I called across: "Oh, look, Suzy! It's one of
those Second World War cookbooks."
"Weird, aren't they? I read one once. Full of instructions on how to
make things without the proper ingredients. Strawberry jam from
carrots. Stuff like that..." Suzy observed vaguely. "Gran told me all
about it. It must have been a strange time to live."
"Fuck, yes! And the War must have been really boring when you weren't
actually frightened. Rationing all the time. Utility this, utility
that - *so* depressing," I replied. "It's like that bloody bloke we're
stuck with in my Life Drawing class. He's about as utility as they
make 'em. Real government issue stuff."
"He can't be that bad!" giggled Suzy.
"He is," I said. "He's worse. Might as well draw a cereal box."
I'm studying art at a small local college, and the model we got for
nude life drawing had obviously come cheap. He was as homely as the
tired brown book in my hand. I tossed it back in the box and we walked
up the hill arm in arm towards the boozer.
"Does it really piss you off, this model business?" asked Suzy later,
after we'd downed a pint or three. It was lunchtime, but we took our
duties as debauched students seriously.
"Yes, it fucking does. It fucking does. It - fucking - does!" I
chanted. Once I've had more than one drink I gradually feel more and
more like a soon-to-be famous artist. For some reason this makes my
language worse.
"It's not as though he's ugly or anything. Might be more interesting
to draw if he was. But there's something so unfinished about him. No
power, no elegance. Nothing, in fact," I started giggling, "to get
your teeth into..."
I got up and went over to the jukebox. When I came back, Suzy was
obviously thinking hard. A tiny furrow wrinkled her white forehead.
She looked at me, hesitated, then spoke:
"W-why don't you draw me?" she asked, a little hesitantly. "You know
I'm always trying to get more in tune with my body. I can't go on
screwing with the lights out. My last boyfriend got really pissed off
about only ever seeing me in bed with my head poking over the top of
the covers. If you drew me it would kill two birds with one stone.
You'd get a model, and I'd get used to someone looking at me with no
clothes on."
"Brilliant idea," I said. So after we'd finished our drinks we stomped
off back to the flat.
On the way I sort of assumed she'd change her mind; lose her nerve.
Suzy is incredibly self-conscious about her body, well, she is
normally. At that moment she was pissed as a fart and full of bravado.
But she didn't change her mind. She piled up the stairs and went into
my room rather than hers, and plonked herself down on my double
mattress. She was unlacing her DMs by the time I'd navigated the
stairs.
I put a tape on, Spanish guitar music, and she must 've made some
subconscious connection with the instrument because she pulled all her
clothes off, higgledy-piggledy, and curled herself down on the far
corner of my bed with her bum towards me for all the world like a
great white cello.
A great white cello.... You see Suzy is doing hotel management, we
share a flat because we're at the same college, but her course
involves a lot more patisserie and profiteroles than mine
does. This is a *very* roundabout way of getting to the point....
Which is that Suzy's fat. She says so, anyway. She looks OK to me.
She's petite but at least 40 pounds overweight, with none of it round
her waist. Five feet tall, Big tits, big hips, tiny waist, long
mahogany-colored hair. She's always got a boyfriend so she can't be as
gross as she keeps telling me (and any other girl who'll listen.)
I got my sketch pad out, and my other bits, and propped myself up on
the edge of the mattress, leaning on one arm while drawing with the
other. I started to look at Suzy's narrow back, her broad bottom and
her vast white thighs. I stared for a bit, making mental notes, and
then I started to draw.
I was doing what everyone does when they're life drawing - look and
draw, look and draw, rub out a bit, look a bit more. Draw a bit. She
was starting to take shape on the paper. She was taking up nearly all
of it. And then very slowly I started to register what I was seeing;
what Suzy really looked like from that angle....
Suzy was maundering on drunkenly about what great mates we were, which
made all this was OK. It didn't count *me* seeing her like this. She
said she didn't feel nervous at all, but then she proved *that* wasn't
true by asking me to tell her she 'didn't look too awful, did I?' And
I said no, and murmured reassuring bits in the right places. My
replies were becoming increasingly vague, though, because something
astounding was happening to me.
Suzy's constant complaints about her body were ludicrous in the face
of the evidence. Suzy wasn't fat at all. There was nothing superfluous
about those lush contours - they were part of the grand design. She
must have had a 24 inch waist and 44 inch hips.
The sheer scale and sweep of the curves made my throat dry. Her skin,
in the afternoon light, made all Renoir's dappled beauties a reality.
Pearly, so soft-looking. Matte, but with a sheen. Just the quality of
her flesh made me breathless.
She looked like the Monte Carlo rally, she looked like a landscape
made out of marzipan - she looked edible. And she smelt too. I could
smell vanilla, talc or body lotion, and although I could force my
shameless eyes from the delectable hints of darker skin and the
glimpse of a peachy labia between her buttocks, I could not ignore
the fragrant trace - faint but unmistakable - of pussy scent that was
growing stronger as she lay there naked in the warmth.
I stopped drawing. I must have stopped talking. I know, for a moment,
I stopped breathing. And when I breathed again, my nostrils were
overwhelmed. "It was the smell, your honor," I would have to say in my
defense. So, like a girl on the springboard who can't not bounce, I
slowly leant forward and kissed that soft, cool creamy arse, right at
the bottom where her cheeks joined her huge sleek thighs.
Suzy gave a sort of shriek and convulsed, arching her back and
flinging her legs up. I don't think she can have been meaning to fight
me off, because my face ended up in her pussy. Slap bang, nose to
nose, so to speak. And she didn't move - or say anything. You know how
sometimes someone wants something but they can't say so? They just
become perfectly still so they can enjoy it without feeling they've
actually encouraged it.
I used to do it when I was a kid at the movies. Completely ignoring my
boyfriend's hand on my bra strap so I could pretend I hadn't
encouraged him to stroke and pet my tiny still-budding breasts.
Well, she did that.
I felt so weird. I was clearly the leader in this, and I wanted to go
on touching and kissing Suzy. But I wasn't at all clear what I
actually wanted to do in any detail. I mean I'd never though about it
before. My overwhelming desire was to sort of jump into her as if she
were a swimming pool or, more aptly, a great round bed with cream
satin covers.
This wasn't what you could call a practical idea - and it'd be bloody
uncomfortable for Suzy. But it crossed my mind whether blokes feel
like that at all when they gaze at the silky, rippling lavishness of a
beautiful fat woman. Whether they get the urge to just dive right in?
What sexless moron first described dimples as "cellulite"?
I started to lick at the top of her pussy, where her clit should be.
But she was much hairier than me, and I soon realized I was going to
have to get inside to get anywhere. Gently I slid my hands up by my
cheeks and started to ease her pussy open. I didn't want to move too
fast in case she felt she had to take notice of what she was
pretending I wasn't doing. Then I got the tips of my forefingers
inside her labia, ready to open her out. Shit, she was wet. Suzy was
honey-drenched. So much for her baby girl reluctance.
I moved my head back and pulled her pussy wide open Then I flung my
face into it. And shy little Suzy went "Nnnnghhh" deep in her throat,
and stopped pretending.
I lashed my tongue across that flat bit in the middle above the
opening and caught her hard little clit with the first pass. Once I
had it, I treated with great respect. I've had the top gnawed off mine
before now (or at least that's what it felt like), and I wasn't about
to make the same mistake...
I used the fingers of one hand to hold her open at the top and the
other to diddle her. She was extremely tight but running with juice.
When my fingers felt how narrow she was I imagined rolls of fat
pressing in on her from the inside, and appreciated for the first time
one of the many reasons for her popularity. I frigged her while I
tongued her, I lost myself in her dark center, my actions and my
feelings blurred. The highly-charged scent and taste of her sex made
me dizzy.
God, her pussy was amazing. It was like mine, but different. I suppose
every woman's is, it's like eye color or something. The same but
different. Spunk tastes different, from different men, and at
different times. Must be the same with women's juices and scent. She
had such a nice familiar taste - heaven only knows how often I've
sucked it absent-mindedly off my own fingers after a wank - and it was
a lovely feeling knowing for absolute certain that doing it to someone
else was as enjoyable as blokes said it was doing it to me.
I rested one hand on her leg for a moment, to lean back and look at
her. Her flesh was very smooth. Nothing is as smooth as perfect skin.
A baby's is softer, but a woman with skin like Suzy's is sleek like a
dolphin, like warm fluid marble. She was round on her back now, her
great soft breasts spread out on her chest. The nipples weren't big
and blobby like the girls in magazines, but small and tense and pink.
So I sucked them, and she put her arms round me. We didn't stay like
that. I reared up and started trying to take my own clothes off very
quickly. I had dungarees on, and a t-shirt, nothing else, but the
metal clips weren't doing her any good at all....
It's the only known case of inanimate objects being helpful - taking
your clothes off in these circumstances. Toast jam side down, car
breaks down miles from anywhere, dishwasher dies at Christmas - yes.
But be crazed with lust and mad for nakedness and your clothes will
fly off you like birds.
I was bare in her arms in less than a second. And now she was doing
stuff too. Her little hand was flat against my mons, pressing hard and
side to side. My clit, cushioned within my labia, felt spangled with
pleasure....
I stroked and then clutched at her big round breasts while she traced
the ends of mine with her thumb. Mine stick up a lot. She said, a
little sadly, "I am too fat though."
Not from where I'm lying," I said, smoothing her satiny shoulders.
"You're like a delicious creamy ice cream sundae with cherries on the
top." And she made a lunge at me, and we giggled.
It was amazing how relaxed we both were. I could only put it down to
us both being drunk enough to get started - and then once we were
started I know my own reaction was 'in for a penny...'
We snuggled and suckled, and then slowed down for a while, playing
gently with each other's titties and discussing them. Predictably I'd
always wanted more, while she'd always wanted higher. We commiserated
about it, had a smoke, and then she said, "My turn."
"But you didn't come yet," I said. "Let's sixty-nine it!"
So we did. It was delicious - it was so horny, so wet, so all-over. I
never realized before how much tactile stuff goes on during sex apart
from the fucking.
I mean - men are hard and hairy. That's what I'm used to. But when a
soft perfumed person with two-foot long freshly washed silky hair
starts doing things to you it feel fabulous. So soft. Such tiny
fingers. Such a gentle touch. And the smells. I could write a book
about smells. But I think someone already did.
But I couldn't come. I became aware of a longing. I tried to pretend
to myself. But every time I came close to orgasm my poor little fanny
would make a clutch for empty air. Where was that nice fat cock I
wanted? My cunt was speaking in Braille to her missing soul mate. I'm
into cocks in a big way. Or is that the wrong way round? In mid-making
love to your female room mate the mind gets readily confused.
Suzy did come, and I felt a flash of pride. But it was only a little
one, and her clit was as hard as ever. The beer was starting to wear
off, and I was determined to come before the whole thing dissolved
around us. Too goal-oriented, that's me. Specially for an art student.
Whatever happened I could never betray her trust by letting her know
she was not providing all I needed from a lover.
So I went on, pressing my mons up against her enthusiastic little
fingers, expressing my pleasure by little moans and squeaks. God, I
was close - but I wasn't there....
Sure that penetration was what I needed to tip me over the edge into
orgasm I started to finger-fuck her. She, as I hoped, followed suit.
But her hands were so small, and neither of us had even heard of
fist-fucking. Which would probably have been brilliant, given the size
of her fists..... I writhed against her palm, I clutched against her
fingers, but my mind was full of cock-longing.
Suddenly Suzy raised her head. "Bollocks to this for a game of
soldiers," she said in a silly voice. "I need some dick. Let's get
tarted up, go down the Bell and pull those twins you fancy.
For some reason I feel irresistible tonight." and she looked at me
under her eyebrows. Such mischievous eyes above her tiny cupid's bow
mouth. At first she put her hand over her mouth, trying to hide that
giggle, but she caught my own eyes, full of wicked merriment, and we
both started laughing. We rocked on the bed, snorting and giggling and
then, as we calmed down, clutched each other for support as we wiped
our eyes and reached for our clothes.
Not only was I grateful I hadn't hurt her feelings, but it reminded me
why I'd always liked Suzy quite so much.
@--}---}---}----
If you enjoyed this, please let me know (bronwen@anon.nymserver.com)
Remember Celeste's blow-job principle! <grin>
I've got a site at http://www.cyber-mall.com/Bronwen, courtesy of Joe
Parsons. Thanks, Joe! And a new one (without the naughty pictures) at
http://members.tripod.com/~Bronwen_98/
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