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Message-ID: <46924asstr$1077873010@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Reply-To: cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} A Perfect Likeness  (MF bbw anal)
Lines: 180
Date: Fri, 27 Feb 2004 04:10:10 -0500
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

First, I'd like to thank all you wonderful people for the nice comments
on my previously posted story, "Frigid." As they say, fanmail is second
only to royalties <g>.

Now for something new. Well, relatively new. I wrote this one a few months
back, and I hope you find it amusing.



A PERFECT LIKENESS
by O. Henry VIII (a.k.a. Carlos Malenkov)
Word Count: 1654
Copyright 2003, by Carlos Malenkov
The author grants ASSM the right to post and display this story,
but all other rights are reserved.



There was a parcel tightly wedged in the mailbox when Bill got home from
work. It wasn't all that big, but *damn*, it was heavy for its size.
Priority mail, and insured, too. Very mysterious. He couldn't remember
having ordered any merchandise recently.

Bubble wrap and plastic peanuts littered the floor under his kitchen table.
And *there*, up on the shelf above the stereo, there *it* stood. The
contents of the package. A statuette. An five-inch tall highly detailed
rendering of a nude woman. A very plump nude woman. And it was solid
metal, shiny, silvery metal. Silver? Nah, it couldn't be.

It was. A friend of his who worked at a jeweler's shop verified it.
Solid sterling silver. Four pounds of silver, worth something like $300
melted down. But Bill wouldn't be selling the silver statuette any
time soon. It was just too strange. Too fascinating. The exquisitely
rendered details. The erect nipples. Even the genital area, anatomically
correct right down to .  . . lust-engorged labia, the clitoris, and the
vaginal opening itself. The jutting, pear-shaped buttocks, the inviting
valley between them, and the enticingly puckered little anus. It was a
classically voluptuous body -- quite a *fat* body by modern standards
-- rendered in miniature, in a precious metal. And the facial features
reminded him of someone he used to know. Someone he hadn't thought about
for years. Someone he would have preferred to forget.

Brenda. Big-butt Brenda. His girlfriend for those two unforgettable
months back when he was a sophomore at East Hampton U. She was the
hottest, lustiest woman he had ever taken to bed. The problem was that
she had fallen for him . . . hard. He had lusted for her, but hadn't
really *loved* her. How could he? She was fat. Grossly fat. So fat
people made fun of her to her face. In public. Fat! And that huge ass
of hers. That ass he had so enjoyed bouncing against when he took her
from behind. That ass that he had wanted so badly to fuck, and that, on
one memorable night she had opened to him . . . that ass that made his
face burn with embarrassment when his buddies made jokes about it. Being
with her was damaging his rep. So he really hadn't had much choice. He
had dumped her, of course.

Fifteen years and a dozen girlfriends later, Bill still missed Brenda.
Missed her warmth and . . . the joy it brought him just to be near her.
Missed her laughter and her squeals of pleasure when she came. Missed her.
Ached for her.

The statuette ended up on the pillow next to him that night when he
drifted off to sleep. Somehow, it felt like it belonged there. And he
had such vivid dreams. He was making love to Brenda. She was stretched
full length on top of him, and he relished the feel of her 260 pounds
enveloping him in her yielding, fleshy warmth, grinding him deeply into
the mattress. (Damn, that was a sensation none of his later girlfriends
had been able to give him!) He awakened gasping for breath as his body let
loose its built-up tensions in a prolonged, throbbing gush. The bedsheet
reeked of sex . . . his sperm and something else. What? It smelled of
Brenda. He remembered her particular odor, that body smell that meant
she was horny, that she wanted him inside her. The smell hung heavily
in the air. There were tears in his eyes.

The statuette. Where was it? There! That lump under the covers. It
was . . .  it wasn't quite the same. Its limbs seemed to have changed
position, to have stretched out. And its face . . . The eyes were closed
now, and *there* was that expression of ecstatic abandon he had become
accustomed to seeing on Brenda's face after she'd had an especially
powerful orgasm. What the hell was going on here?

This was *way* too weird for him. He'd have to get to the bottom of this
or .  . . Or what? Well, one way to find out. He'd get a hold of Brenda
herself and clear up the mystery.

He managed to get her parents' phone number from Directory Assistance.
They still lived in the same town, though at a different address. Her
mother was not at all pleased to hear from him.

"Bill? Bill Hillyard? Yes, certainly I remember you. You were the one
who hurt Brenda so badly back when she was in school. She had told us how
much she loved you and how she hoped you might marry her some day. Then
you went and brutally trampled on her feelings. She was never the same
after that."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry. If I could only take back some of the things I said
to her . . . I realize, I realize now that she was, she could have been
the woman I've been looking for, the soulmate I've never found in all
these years. What I want, I think, is another chance, or at least for
her to hear me tell her how much I regret -- "

"It's a little late for that, Bill. Brenda, our Brenda, my little baby
. . . Brenda is no longer with us."

"She's -- she went away? Tell me she's all right. Please!"

"I'm afraid she's gone. Dead. And I lay a large part of the blame at your
door, Bill. Brenda went through two broken marriages, always haunted by
your memory. She would tell me how she used to wake up at night crying
out your name. You, only you could have saved her, I think. But, as
unhappy as she was, at least she -- she was still alive until last month."

"What -- what happened?"

"She went on a skiing trip with some friends. We thought it might break
her out of the cycle of depression, and she seemed to be really looking
forward to it, but . . . "

"But what?"

"They saw her do it. She screamed your name, then threw herself into a
deep crevasse. They haven't managed to recover her body, but there's no
doubt. None at all. I'm sorry, but I can't talk about it any more. Now,
if you'll excuse me . . . "

The line went dead. Dead. Just like Brenda. His lost love.

He took the statuette to bed again that night. The dreams came.

Brenda was clutching him fiercely to her. She had her tongue deep in
his mouth and she was squeezing his erect penis in her fist. "Do me. Do
me!" She was growling in his ear. And he did her. Did her twice, three
times. Fucked her thoroughly and completely the way she liked it. Entered
her from behind. Then he spread her ass cheeks and . . . and did what
he had only dared with her once in the past. He fucked her, fucked her
in the ass, and she screamed in pleasure, and he came, and she screamed
something else, and the world spun, and . . . and he awoke.

The statuette lay there on the bed. Cold metal. Cold, hard, unforgiving
metal. But still, somehow, alive. Its limbs had changed position again. It
was on its hands and knees, just as Brenda had been in the dream, the
dream where he had . . . had fucked her, fucked her in the . . . and
. . . there were shiny streaks, rivulets of moisture, of fluid trickling
from . . . what? It looked as if wetness was seeping from the exquisitely
detailed body openings on the torso. Seeping from the vagina and the
anus. Bill dabbed at the moistness with his index finger, then smelled
it. Sperm. His own sperm.

The following night he had a premonition that it would be the last time.
There was a last time for everything. His last conscious thoughts were
what the dream-Brenda had screamed at him just before he left her the
night before. His name, and then, "Join me! Come, join me forever!"


Sergeant Frances Furbelow was in charge of the detail investigating the
disappearance of William Hillyard. He had been reported missing a week
ago, but they were only now getting around to searching his apartment. It
was a matter of priorities, of course. With all the crime in the city,
missing persons were pretty low on the list when it came to priorities.

There was nothing that indicated foul play or gave any leads to his
whereabouts. But what was that strange lump under the mattress? Sergeant
Furbelow gingerly extracted a small object . . . what was it? It was a
statuette or figurine of some sort. The object was silvery in color and
fairly heavy. It was a meticulously accurate rendering of a naked male,
anatomically complete all the way down to an exquisitely detailed erect
penis. In all her years on the force, Sergeant Furbelow had never seen
anything like it, and it triggered strange feelings in her.

Fanny Furbelow felt the tears trickle down her cheeks. It had been more
than a year since her divorce and she hungered for physical closeness,
for human touch. She was lonely and horny and mightily depressed. The
figurine triggered something fundamental in her. She felt like . . .

Sergeant Frances Furbelow looked around. The other officers in the
apartment were busy with their assigned tasks and no one was looking
in her direction. Impulsively, she slipped the statuette into the side
pocket of her uniform coat. No one would ever know. No one. She groped
in the pocket for the cute little nub of the figurine's silver-metal
hardon. She felt stirrings of . . .  something. Maybe she'd keep the
thingie on the pillow at her side while she slept.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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