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Message-ID: <48969asstr$1093371002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Fat  (MF rom slow bbw)
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Date: Tue, 24 Aug 2004 14:10:02 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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FAT
by Carlos Malenkov <cmalenkov@linuxwaves.com>
Word Count: 2158
Copyright (c) 2003 by Carlos Malenkov
Posting and archiving rights granted to ASSM. All other rights reserved.


She peeked over her shoulder at the cruel wardrobe mirror. The new
jeans more or less fit, but, oh, those gigantic globes jutting out like
basketballs. That huge ass of hers ruined everything. Everything. Too fat!

Jenna was just too damn fat. Even on her big-boned 5'10" frame, 280 pounds
was way too much payload, and much of the weight was below the waist and
concentrated especially in that enormous, pear-shaped ass. Just think,
she measured 58 inches around the hips!

She had been dieting all her life it seemed. Nothing helped. The pounds
gradually accumulated and they stuck.

A couple of Jen's friends had had finally opted for the magic bullet --
bariatric surgery -- the "fat girl operation." They had slimmed down
fast after that, all right, but, at what cost? Imagine having most of
your stomach tied off or outright amputated. Imagine being able to eat
only mini-portions at meals, and still suffering from chronic vomiting or
diarrhea -- take your pick, according to what kind of bypass the surgeon
installed. Imagine the significant risk of medical complications, not
to mention shortened lifespan. Imagine mutilating yourself just because
friends and family and the general public expect you to look like a
supermodel. She had just three words for that -- NO EFFIN' WAY!

And yet . . . imagine not being taunted by strangers every time you
go out on the street. Imagine having a boyfriend to share your life
with. Imagine being like everyone else and living a normal life.



This guy knew the score. Rubens truly appreciated beautiful female
flesh. Looking up at the paintings, Jen wished she had lived in the
seventeenth century, so her body would attract admiration, not derision.
If only . . .

"Remarkable, isn't it?"

Jen jumped at the sound. The man behind her looked barely out of his
teens. He stood a full six inches shorter than her. Skinny as a rail,
too. Kind of cute, though.

"Mister, I'm sorry if I blocked your view -- "

"No, it's perfectly all right. Better than all right, ma'am. Your presence
here seems to actually enhance the paintings. Somehow, you fit right into
this ambience. It's as if you were the proud embodiment of all the women
on the canvas."

"What? You mean because I'm *fat* like they are? WATCH IT, LITTLE MAN.
I could stomp you flat before you knew what hit you."

"Milady, if you stomped me flat, not only would it cause me at least
middling discomfort, but it would deprive me of the opportunity to explain
how much of the radiance, the luminous serenity, the classic beauty you
share with these women who walked the earth in a far nobler age. Rubens
might well have immortalized you, too, had you lived in that particular
time and place. . . . "

"CUT THE CRAP!"

He reddened and fell silent.

"I don't know if this is some kind of creative pickup line or -- "

"Or what? Can't you simply accept an unfeigned compliment? Please! Tell
me if I'm wasting my time. Am I speaking from the heart to a brainwashed
slave of pop culture, to a woman who hates her body, who hates *herself*
for being gloriously fat?"

It was her turn to redden.

"And who the bloody hell are *you* to impose your unwanted company on me,
buddy boy? As if I needed your, or anyone else's compliments."

"Allon Markov, at your service, milady. My friends call me Lonnie." He
smiled and bowed deeply from the waist. "I regret having angered you
and will immediately remove my wretched self from your presence if that
would restore your harmony."

She paused, then held up both hands, palms forward. "No need, no need.
We've both expressed our feelings, and I find you possess at least the
bare rudiments of culture. I do believe I can tolerate your company at
least a few moments longer. I'm Jenna Trepper. *My* friends call me Jen."

"Jen, pleased to meet you. Would you permit me to give you a guided tour
of the exhibits?"

"I think I would like that."

Despite her momentary flare of rage at the unexpected interloper, Jen had
felt a rush of warmth at being the object of attention -- no, admiration
-- of a man. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened.

She couldn't believe it. She was actually starting enjoy the company of
this sawed-off little pipsqueak. He had to tilt his head up to look her in
the eye and she must weigh easily double what he did. Not to mention that
he had to be -- what -- ten or fifteen years younger than she was. Yet,
she felt some sort of weird . . .  attraction to him. The way he looked
at her made her feel . . . desired . . . even beautiful.



"Thank you for a lovely evening, Jen."

They were standing at the doorway to her apartment building, and he
reached for her hand.

'Bedamned if I'll let this guy get away with just a handshake,' she
though. Before he knew what had hit him, she had reached down and kissed
him full on the lips. Hard. His arms went around her without conscious
volition. Her arms in turn wrapped around his skinny little body. Neither
of them wanted to break the embrace.

"I guess there's no help for it," she sighed. "Come on up with me. Let's
get to know each other."

And they did get to know each other that night. In the biblical sense.

At dawn's first light he lay pinned beneath her massive body. She
was stretched out prone atop him, her full weight pressing him deeply
into the soft mattress. His right hand encircled her, clutching at the
massive twin mounds of her ass. His head was buried between her breasts,
and his penis was buried . . .

"I won't let you up. No. You're mine. You're my prisoner, my prisoner
of love."

"Jen, darling, they'll be expecting me at work. I need that damned job
to pay the rent."

"Fuck your job!"

"It's you I want to fuck, baby. Only you."

"You just said the magic words, Lonnie boy. I release you. Conditionally.
Temporarily. Call me tonight, you hear?"

"Yes, dear."



Word got around. It always does. People started giving Lonnie strange
looks. His friends delicately skirted the subject. At work, his merit
raise somehow got buried in the paperwork. His neighbors whispered behind
his back. He had violated one of society's most potent taboos -- he had
taken a romantic interest in a fat woman. He was a loser.

Lonnie prided himself on his problem-solving abilities. And this was by
no means the most fiendishly complicated problem he had ever tackled. It
was, in fact, fairly straightforward: how could he get social sanction
for his relationship with a fat woman?

He'd enlist Jen's help on this one. She had a fine logical mind and a
much better grasp of the workings of the social machinery than he did.
Surely they could come up with something if they put their heads together.

"Look, Jen. It doesn't much bother me if people give me a hard time about
us being together. I've never been one to care what others think. But it
really pisses me off that they're hassling *you*."

"Lonnie, I've had to put up with this sort of thing all my life. Fat!
Gross and ugly! Morbidly obese! Blimp! Lose a hundred pounds, you fat pig!

"It's no longer acceptable to persecute ethnic minorities, but fat people
are still fair game. We're everybody's scapegoat.

"And don't forget how much money there is in the weight loss industry. How
much profit there is to be made off women who hate their bodies and hate
themselves. These are powerful vested interests we're talking about."

"You're right on the money, Jen. I've done some research. It seems that
the turnaround in public attitudes toward fat women began in the decade
following World War II. The culprit was the fashion industry. Designing
clothes for ever skinnier models and then brainwashing the American
public that this was the ideal female look."

"So, Lonnie, it's all an insidious conspiracy to exploit women and make
money off them? That makes sense, I guess, but how can the two of us
take on the whole world?"

"Looks hopeless, doesn't it babe? Good thing I've got an ace up my
sleeve."



Lonnie had an ace, all right, but in fact it wasn't up his sleeve. The
ace was an ex-lover of his, the very woman who had initiated him into
the mysteries. He called her on a private line at the consulting firm
she owned.

"Kari, darling, I need a small favor."

"Lonnie, is that you? Of course. It would tickle my fancy to help out
my dear little sweet meat. How's your love life lately, by the way?"

"No complaints, and that isn't what I need help with. Well, not directly,
anyhow. What I'd like to know is whether there's any way to change
society's attitude toward non-standard sized women. I'm deeply involved
with a wonderful lady who just happens to be, well, let's say chubby,
and we're both catching major flak over it."

"Lonnie, I can well understand both your problem and your predilection
for classically voluptuous women. You and I both recall that you lost
your virginity not so very long ago, with a slight assist from me as it
happens, to one of those selfsame butterballs. And, yes, fat women and
the men who love them happen to be on the receiving end of ridicule and
outright persecution nowadays. Give me a few days to think on this."



Journalists are so easy to suborn. Chronically underappreciated, they
respond gratefully to any opportunity to supplement their income.

Articles on the abrupt shift in the perception of feminine beauty began
appearing in certain influential periodicals. It seemed that "thin was
no longer in." After a lapse of decades, men were once more finding
attractive classically curvy women, women with breasts and pronounced
hips. Women with lush, rounded posteriors. The anorexic "supermodel"
look was passĂ(C). Doomed.


      "A new study calls into question previous findings that overweight
       persons are at risk for . . . "
          From June 5 issue of "Scalpel"
          (official journal of the American Society of Physicians and
          Surgeons).


Clothing designers have always been notoriously corrupt. They follow
orders and pocket the accompanying gratuity without breaking stride.


       FAT CHIC
       by J. Thurston McNeill
       Staff writer, "Female Fashion Monthly"

       Thursday, June 24.

       The rag trade hasn't seen anything like it since Christian Dior's
       "New Look" altered the landscape back in '48. The big news is
       that the industry has come to the earth-shattering realization
       that women have breasts and hips and round fannies. Unbelievable.

       Models built like teenage boys from the waist down are suddenly
       oh-you-tee. Unemployment checks, anyone? Supermodel Olivia
       Keene was recently glimpsed at the deli counter stocking up
       on cheesecake and Boston cream pies. The Dorf Agency issued a
       call for classically feminine models, i.e., voluptuously chubby
       ones. It's like waking up and finding out the moon is made out
       of green cheese.


The big fall fashion shows in New York and Paris featured large-sized
curvy women. Some of the models were even, horror of horrors, fat.
Very fat. The women in the audience gave the designers a standing
ovation. Sales of the new Fat Look reached record levels.

A rapidly-growing organization, called Weight Gainers, opened offices
in major cities. It emphasized maintaining a healthy "pleasingly plump"
look. Women waited in long lines to join.

High-fat weight gain products appeared on supermarket shelves. Reports
of anorexia and bulimia declined precipitously. Cars began sporting
"No Skinny Chicks" bumper stickers.



Lonnie's friends have lately been telling him how lucky he is to have
such a fine looking girlfriend. Jenna attracts admiring looks on the
street. When they're together, people tell them what an attractive
couple they make. They've been talking about making their relationship
permanent.



"Tell me, how did you pull it off, Kari?"

"No big deal, Lonnie boy. Consider it a minor exercise in societal
re-engineering. I dug out an old dogeared copy of a research paper my
mentor, Dr. Abelian, had written way back before you were born. He's
known for his pioneering studies on the physiology of sex, but his
lesser-known work on mass psychology and the behavior of crowds has
some interesting implications.  Just think of it this way -- people are
sheep. You can herd them if you use the proper techniques."

"So, am I a sheep?"

"No, Lonnie. You're a goat. A randy old goat, too, as I recall from our
time together. Too bad you're spoken for right now. But I guess I don't
stand a chance against your fat girlfriend."

"Well, maybe if you'd put on about a hundred pounds . . . "

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