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Message-ID: <36049asstr$1018469405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: richarddonnehy@netscape.net
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Subject: {ASSM} BBW Blues in Baltimore Part 2
Date: Wed, 10 Apr 2002 16:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Part 2

**************


She lies down on my bed, and I crawl in beside her. Pure joy: I'm
enveloped in her soft, abundant flesh.  My hands are on her
breasts again, playing with her nipples.  She's moaning into my
mouth.  I take one of the nipples between my lips and suck. She
starts trembling, panting, squealing.  I shift to the other
breast.  I'm on top of her now, my leg is between her thighs, and
she's squeezing and thrusting her groin against it.  She lets out
a long, contralto wail, and goes rigid, then limp.  "Oh Paul, I
came, just from you sucking my tits."

In a haze of euphoria and lust, I kiss my way down her beautiful,
flabby belly, and nuzzle my head between her thighs.

"Oh, God,  Paul.  Oh my God!  What are you ... Oouh ... ohhh." 
My face is buried in her luscious wetness, and my tongue is doing
circles around her stiff, hot clitoris.  She tastes tart and
fresh, like citrus fruit.  Her massive thighs clamp down over my
ears, and her hands shove my face deeper into her pussy.  I drink
her lemony nectar as she comes again. 
"I want your penis inside me," she pants.  "Now ... please ..." 
I get up, open the box of condoms, and roll one onto my rock-hard
dick. 

Back in bed, I kneel between her spread thighs.  Her body looks
like some kind of luscious marshmallow confection.  She's lifting
her belly, revealing her hairy pussy, wet and open, like a
tropical flower.  I feel a wave of tenderness mixing with my lust
for her.  "Amy, you're so beautiful ..."

She takes me in her arms, her calves wrap around my thighs, and
my cock slides into her hot, tight wetness in one smooth thrust.
"Oh Paul!  Yes ... oh yes ... oh *fuck* that's so good."

I'm slamming into her now, encouraged by her eager cries of
pleasure, and by the sight of her magnificent breasts and belly
rippling and bouncing at each thrust.  She's coming again, and I
can't hold back a second longer.  I come, crying her name,
gushing inside her, my hardness breaking.  I collapse on her
heaving bosom.

She kisses me again, and then I see she's crying. 

"I've never met anyone like you before, Paul.  I had a boyfriend
in college, but he didn't want anyone to know he was dating Fat
Amy.  I let him have sex with me a few times.  But you made love
to me.  I feel so good with you ...  "

"I love you, Amy."

"You ... love me?  Really?"

"If there's such a thing as love at first sight, then that's when
it started.  I looked at you dancing to the blues, with your big
beautiful body, and I felt something connect.  I knew we'd be
good for each other.  We only really met this morning, but ..."

"C'mere, scrumptious."  She guides my head down onto her bosom. 
"I love you too.  You're right: we're going to be very good for
each other."
    * * *

    We lie together, basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking.
Her stomach suddenly gurgles.

    She blushes.  "Was that me?"

    I chuckle.  "I think you're getting hungry.  I am too. I'd
better finish making dinner."

    I pull on my underpants and slacks, and go out to the
kitchen.  I coat the salmon steaks in the batter and quickly
pan-fry them.  Amy comes out, wearing a short, diaphanous white
peignoir that barely covers her behind. 

    "Wow.  Where did that come from?"

    "I bought it today, with my yellow dress.  I was hoping I'd
have an opportunity to wear it for you.  It was in my backpack."

    "I hope you brought a toothbrush too."

    "Yup.  Everything a girl might need for an overnight date
with Paul Keller, Esquire."  She wraps her arms around my waist.

    "Excellent.  Could you pour the wine?"

    "Sure.  Whatever you're making there, it smells fantastic."
   
    We set the table and sit down to eat.

    " Mmm.  I was right.  This is fantastic.  What is it?"

    "Salmon."

    "I didn't know fish could taste like this." 

I wish I could capture her on videotape: I love the way she
talks, the way she waves her fork for emphasis, that adorable
chipmunk smile she keeps breaking into.  It's too precious -
these moments should be recorded for posterity.   What a weekend
I have ahead of me.

    Suddenly I remember I'm supposed to be boosting my billable
hours this weekend.  "Shit."

    "What, Paul?" 

    "I just remembered, I've got to in to work tomorrow.  I wish
I could spend the whole weekend in bed with you."

    "I could come over after you get home from work.  Maybe I
could cook for you?  I make a mean Swedish meatball.  And you
could spend all Saturday night in bed with me."

    "Amy, you have no idea how good that sounds to me." 

    I tell her about my conversation with Jaeger, about
fast-tracking me for partnership. 

    "Paul, that's wonderful!  Making partnership three years out
of law school - that's really impressive.  You should be
celebrating."

    "I can't think of any way I'd rather be celebrating than
this.  A loaf of bread, a jug of wine ... and the world's cutest,
sexiest woman, in my apartment wearing a flimsy little robe with
nothing underneath."

    Grinning mischievously, she lifts the peignoir, giving me a
beaver flash. 
    * * *

    We've been dating for two months now.  Though she hasn't
formally given up her room with the Peabody students yet, for all
intents and purposes, she's living with me. We seem to fit
together, intellectually, emotionally, and of course sexually. To
say that we enjoy sex with each other is like saying
tyrannosauruses enjoyed meat.  If only I didn't have to put in
these eighty-hour weeks at work.  I go in to the office at eight
in the morning, come home at nine p.m., spend the next two or
three hours fucking Amy's brains out, or having Amy fuck my
brains out, collapse in exhaustion, and get up at seven the next
morning to do it all over again.

One day Amy and I are on a lunch date, and I see Stan walk by. 
He looks at me with a questioning expression, but doesn't stop. 
That afternoon, he calls me at work suggesting we get together. 
I mention that I've got a new girlfriend.  Silence.   "You don't
mean that Ms. Piggy impersonator is saw you with earlier." I tell
him I love her.  He replies, "That is so gross.  I don't even
want to think about it.  You are one weird dude, you know that?"
He hangs up.  Stan and I were buddies in law school.  We got each
other through law school, one could say.  Actually, now that I
think about it, *I* got *him* through law school.  Well, good
riddance to you, Stan.
    * * *

    Today's Sunday, and for once, I'm not going in to work.  My
billable hours are by now the highest in the firm, by a long
shot.  I've been invited to dinner at Amy's parents' house in
Towson.  We sleep in, spend the early afternoon eating brunch off
each other's bodies.  And to think I used to be ticklish.  The
sheets are full of crumbs, and sticky with jam.  Amy pulls the
sheets off the bed and tosses them in the washing machine.  We
shower together. I let her make me come the way she wanted to
that first time, squeezing her soapy ass cheeks around my dick. 
Then I make her come with my fingers on her clit, and my thumb in
her anus.  At three, we get in my car and drive up to Towson.

    There's some bachelor lore to the effect that the antidote
for wanting to marry any woman is meeting her mother.  If Amy
looks like her mom in thirty years, I'll be a happy man. Libby
Magnusson is heavy, quite well endowed, like her daughter, and
strikingly attractive for a woman of fifty-five.  She's also one
of the most hospitable people you'll ever meet.  Thirty seconds
after we walk through the door, Libby has me sitting in the den,
my feet up on an ottoman, and a gin and tonic in my hand.  Amy
disappears into the kitchen. 

    "Amy's told us so many wonderful things about you, Paul. 
We're glad we finally get to meet you."  She asks me about my
family, about growing up in Lochearn.  I've little family to tell
her about.  No siblings.  My mother died of cancer when I was
seventeen.  My father, who I was never really close to, promptly
remarried, and moved with his new bride to the west coast.  He
sent me money for a while, enough to put me through college.  But
then he stopped communicating altogether.   I don't even have an
address for him anymore. 

Amy's dad, Eric, emerges from the kitchen.  He's a slight man,
with a  gray beard, balding.  He's not much taller than me.  He
seems shy.   Lastly, her brother Lars the drummer comes out of
his bedroom.  I realize now that he's only a teenager, maybe
eighteen or nineteen.  He shakes my hand.  Typical drummer: his
speech is a series of vague grunts and shrugs.  I gather he's
heard I like Lightnin' Hopkins, and expresses enthusiasm about
this.  He goes off to the corner and puts his headphones on, and
we don't hear from him again till dinner is ready. 
   
    Her dad sits down next to me and asks me about how I like Van
de Graf, Skolnik.  He tells me about his firm, Magnusson and
Dempsey, here in Towson.  They do mostly real estate closings and
estates.  "We don't handle any big money deals," he adds, "like
the downtown firms.  Of course, none of the Baltimore firms see
really big money; you have to go New York or D.C. for that.  But
I found I prefer dealing with ordinary people to dealing with
corporations."  He says 'corporations' with distaste, as though
it were a dirty word.  I like this guy.  "I used to be with
Peebles and Mulberry, you know."  This last bit is a piece of
obvious namedropping intended to impress me: Peebles and Mulberry
is the most prestigious firm in the city.   
   
    Amy comes into the den, sashaying her huge jean-clad behind
across the room, sitting down practically on top of me, her arm
draped around my neck, proudly asserting her ownership.  I'm not
complaining at all. 

    We sit down to dinner.  The food is bland suburban American
fare; but the atmosphere is convivial, and the beer is flowing
liberally.  Her dad comes more and more out of his shell as the
afternoon goes on.   We start talking politics, and it's clear
that I'm among a nest of bourgeois closet radicals.  Eric begins
fulminating against corporate globalization, and President Bush's
eagerness for open-ended war anywhere in the third world.  This
is such a breath of fresh air for me, surrounded as I am by
lawyers who live to kiss corporate ass.      
    * * *

    After dinner, I help Libby load up the dishwasher.  "Paul, I
can't tell you how happy Amy seems these days, since she met you.
 Thank you." 

    "Libby, your daughter is the best thing that's ever happened
to me.  I should be thanking you for raising such a wonderful
girl."

    "Ah, you're a sweet-talking old smoothie, Paul," she laughs.
"No wonder Amy's gaga over you."

    I blush.  Eric comes into the kitchen.  He's heard I play
ping-pong and invites me down to the basement for a match.  I'm
out of practice, and he beats me, though I give him a bit of a
challenge.  Afterwards, we sit in the basement, drinking beer. 

    "Paul, Amy tells me your firm is talking about making you a
partner."

    "Yeah.  In a few months."

    "And they've been asking you to put in insane hours lately?"

    "Well, yeah, I've been working pretty heavily."

    He hesitates, looks a little uncomfortable.  "Paul, I don't
want to be the proverbial wet blanket here about your career
prospects, but have you heard of the Wall Street Shuffle?"

    "No..."

    " It's a nasty trick some firms play on their senior
associates.  They dangle partnerships in front of them, make a
fortune on the huge number of billable hours the associates put
in, then give them the sack, and hire a bunch of new associates
fresh out of law school at half the salary.  The big Wall Street
firms do it all the time."

    I'm stung.  I've been proud about becoming a partner in Van
de Graf, Skolnik.  Eric is suggesting that I'm a big sucker, that
I'm deluding myself about my legal talent, that I have nothing to
be proud about.  Sure, some of the partners Van de Graf, Skolnik
are assholes, Mr. Blount in particular, but Frank Jaeger wouldn't
jerk me around like that.  Would he?  I'm feeling angry now.  I
go upstairs, collect Amy, and head back to Mt. Vernon.  I find
myself unable to talk to Amy about this.  For the first night
since we met, we fall asleep without making love. 
    * * *

    Monday morning, Mr. Jaeger comes by my office to drop a file
on my desk.  An employment discrimination complaint, he says,
against our client DBA Enterprises.  I need to answer the
complaint, general and specific denial, and answer the
interrogatories and document requests. 

    I leaf through the file.  It appears that DBA Enterprises has
been buying up various bars and restaurants around Baltimore and
the surrounding area, creating a chain called "Slam-Dunkers".  
According to the complaint, Slam-Dunkers' strategy is to boost
the clientele by "Hooterizing," i.e. getting rid of middle-aged,
unattractive serving personnel, and replacing them with slender,
young, silicone-upholstered blondes.  The plaintiffs are two
black woman, two white women over forty, and one Salvadoran man,
employees of various restaurants which Slam-Dunkers bought out. 

I continue leafing through the file.  I arrive at a series of
internal corporate documents, a sort of policy manual, absurdly
entitled "Slam-Dunkers' Managerial Philosophy and Lifestyle: Top
Secret."  It begins with a breezy sort of essay on "what patrons
want" when they go to a bar.  Most patrons are male, it says. 
"They want courteous and *attractive* service.  Not some fat old
pig waitress or barmaid."  The manual goes on to cite marketing
studies that show that white males prefer to be served by
"non-Negroid, non-Mongoloid, non-Semitic, non-Latinoid (sic),
non-fat personnel."  Holy shit.  This manual is a smoking gun. 
Later documents advise management to create pretexts for firing
"unattractive" personnel, such as falsely accusing them of
stealing food, or encouraging such personnel to resign by making
their jobs "hell on earth."  Jesus!  The plaintiffs will win on
summary judgment if the judge sees this stuff.  If it does go to
a jury, they'll get soaked.  This smells like a huge punitive
damages award.  I write up a memo to Mr. Jaeger, explaining, with
choice citation of offensive language from the manual, that DBA
Enterprises should be advised to settle with the plaintiffs as
fast as it can.

That afternoon, Jaeger calls me into his office.  "Paul, what the
hell is this shit you've written?  I told you to answer the
complaint and the interrogatories, didn't I?  What part of the
assignment didn't you understand?"

I'm completely taken aback.  "But, Mr. Jaeger, we can't possibly
win this case."

"Oh?  Why not?"  He's looking strangely hostile.

"Did you read the language in the Slam-Dunkers' manual?"

"What does that have to do with it?  You don't think we're going
to let the plaintiffs see those documents, do you?"

"But, they specifically request documents relating to ..."

"Paul, I don't know what kind of bullshit ethics you learned in
law school, but this is the real world.  We'd be breaching our
duty of zealous representation if we turned those documents over,
not to mention pissing off an important client."

"But ..."

"But nothing.  You don't get it, do you?  You go into a
restaurant, what would you rather see?  Some fat-assed blimp
waitress, or a nubile blonde?  It's good business sense.  Are you
telling me I should tell our client that they can't exercise good
business sense?"

My mouth is dry.  I'm furious now.  I think of my beautiful Amy,
and the kind of treatment DBA Enterprises, Jaeger, and their ilk
would subject her to, if they could get away with it.  "Mr.
Jaeger - I can't believe I'm hearing this from you - it's
"zealous representation within the bounds of the law"; and you
know as well as I do what the Rules of Civil Procedure say. 
We're legally required to turn those documents over."

"Listen Mr. Dipshit Keller Graduate of Columbia University Law
School, who the fuck do you think you are, talking like that to
me?  To ME!  What a pathetic asshole you are.  What a chump.  Did
you really think we were going to make a partner?  We might have
kept you on for a couple more months.  But after this display of
... of legal incompetence, your employment with Van de Graf,
Skolnik and Blount is terminated, effective immediately."

"Oh, Mr. Jaeger, by the way, I'd prefer the fat-assed blimp, any
day of the week.  You've obviously never made it with one."  I
leave him staring as I walk back to my office.  My cheeks are
burning.  I take the Slam-Dunkers file to the photocopier, and
quickly copy the manual, and my memo to Jaeger.  I gather my
suitcoat, my briefcase, my coffee mug, my fountain pen, my
photocopies, and I walk home in the late September heat, at three
in the afternoon.  The air is still, the sky leaden.   
    * * *

    Amy is not home.  I shower and change. Then I try her number
at St. Paul Street.  Her roommate Lisa tells me she's at her
parents'.  I look up their phone number. Her mother answers the
phone. In the background, I hear Libby saying, "No, Amy, you've
got to talk to him." She puts Amy on the phone.

"Paul, I don't know what my dad said to you yesterday, but you
had no right to take it out on me.  You stormed out of her with
me yesterday, and hardly uttered a word to me last night.  It was
like I was seeing a completely different person.  It scared me,
Paul.  I ... I can't face you tonight."

"Amy, please ... I'm so sorry," I sob. "Tell you father he was
completely right about the Wall Street Shuffle.  They fired me,
Amy.  God, I need you right now." 

"They what?  What are you talking about?" 

"They fired me.  Jaeger called me a pathetic asshole, and fired
me, because I told him he had to turn over some documents. 
Please Amy, can I come up there and see you?  I need you so
badly."

"Oh, Paul, baby, yes.  Oh God!  Paul ... I'm sorry I flipped out
about last night ...  I want to be there for you."  She's crying
now too.  "You're still my Scrumptious."

"I'm on my way, Chipmunk.  I'll be there in fifteen minutes. 
Don't go anywhere."
    * * *

It's spitting rain as I drive up the Jones Falls Expressway.  A
cool, refreshing breeze begins to blow.  Amy is waiting for me on
the front step.  She wraps her arms around me, enfolding me,
offering me the soft comfort of her body.  She leads me into the
house.   Her parents are there in the living room.  They hug me
too.  "Do you want a drink, Paul?" her mother offers.  I nod. 
"Gin and tonic?"  I nod.  She hesitates.  "C'mon, Eric, let's let
Amy and Paul be alone for a while."

Amy takes me to her room.  It's full of frilly pink things,
mementos of Amy's taste when she was ten.  She leads me to the
little bed, then lifts her t-shirt and offers me her breast.  I'm
so grateful for this woman.  This is all that matters.  I see
that now.  My career is of zero importance, compared to the soft
breast filling my mouth.

"I love you, Scrumptious," she coos.  I look up at her, and she
reads the need in my eyes.  She pulls off her jeans and panties.
I kneel beside the bed, and she takes my head between her thick
thighs, offering her cunt to my parched mouth.  I bury my face in
her wet folds, savoring her lemony taste and smell.  My lips
encircle her precious clitoris, and I gently suck.  Quietly, she
comes for me. 

At last, I raise my face to hers, and we kiss, deeply.  We lie
back on the cramped bed, and she strokes my hair.  I hide my face
in her soft tits.  Outside her bedroom window, the rain is coming
down in sheets.

"You ready for that gin and tonic?" she asks.

"Yeah.  Would you join me?"

"Sure."

We get up off the bed, and she pulls her clothes back on.  We go
back to the living room.  There's a cocktail shaker and some
glasses on the coffee table.  Amy pours one for me and one for
her. 

"Here's to the Wall Street Shuffle, and to 'attractive'
personnel." 

"What does that mean?"

Eric and Libby come into the living room and sit down.  He's
holding my file with the DBA Enterprises documents.  "It means
were gonna soak those bastards.  Paul, I read through this.  I
hope you don't mind.  I assumed you brought it along to showus."

"Yeah, I suppose I did."

"You've got an airtight wrongful discharge claim of your own,
against Van de Graf, Skolnik.  They fired you for trying to
comply with the law, so that they could protect a bunch of
racist, sexist ... " he looks at Amy ... "SIZE-ist scumbags.  And
through this lawsuit, we can apprise the Slam-Dunkers plaintiffs
of this manual, without you breaching attorney-client privilege.
It'll be there in the public record.  What do you say, Paul?  Can
I represent you?"   

"Well, the idea does appeal to me.  I'd like to give Jaeger a
case of the BBW blues.  Can you take it on contingency?"

"Contingency nothing.  Pro bono.  I mean, after all -- you *are*
gonna be my son-in-law, aren't you?"

I look at Amy.  "Well, Chipmunk?  Am I gonna be his son-in-law?"

"You betcha, Scrumptious." 

    "Boy, this gets my blood flowing," Eric continues.  "I forgot
how much fun litigation can be.  I guess there's still some
Viking spirit left in this old Magnusson: I'd just love to sack
and pillage Van de Graf, Skolnik.  We're gonna give those
sonsabitches the BBW blues and then some.  And once we extract a
nice *fat* settlement, pun intended, we'll have a talk about
bringing you into Magnusson & Dempsey as a partner.  That is,
unless you want to move to another firm."

    "Eric, listen to you blathering on about litigation and
partners.  He just proposed to her, didn't you hear him?  Oh,
Amy, I'm so happy for you, baby.  And for you too, Paul."

    "Thanks, Libby."

    "You'd better call me 'Mom' now."

    "Thanks, Mom."

    "So, no pressure, but when are you gonna give us
grandchildren?  Huh?"

    Amy looks at me and we both burst out laughing.
    
    "We'll start working on it right away," I say.

    "Well, if you ask me, Paul," chimes in Eric, "I'd say you and
Amy need a vacation.  I mean, Amy may find you handsome, but,
frankly, to me you look like an overworked zombie.  Judge Hirsch
is a good friend of mine: I can ask him to marry you tomorrow,
and you two can take a couple of months' honeymoon somewhere
while I get this litigation underway.  Your mother and I will
foot the bill."

    "Thank you Daddy," Amy cries, giving him a hug.  
   
    "Why don't you kids go visit Sweden and Denmark?" suggests
Libby.  "Amy's got scads of cousins there who'd love to put you
up and show you around.  Oh, and don't worry, they'd give plenty
of privacy to newlyweds.  That's how your dad and I did our
honeymoon.  Remember, Sweetums?"

    "You think I'd forget our honeymoon, Cupcake?"  Eric takes
Libby's big body in his arms and squeezes her, then kisses her on
the lips.

    "Speaking of privacy, why don't the two of you drive back to
your apartment? That downpour has stopped now.  Go get to work on
those grandkids. And, besides, your dad and I want to be alone
for a while," she winks.



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