Jillian 2

Cut the crap. I met Jillian online.

She'd posted an ad looking for sex, and I'd responded offering a cuddle. Women who'll post for raw sex will melt at the suggestion of some touchy-feely. We chatted on MSN, then traded pics.

Jillian is a big, beautiful woman. I don't want to limit her to the 'BBW' acronym, which zooms past your eyes and leaves you with the simplistic impression of a chubby mass being fucked on her back in a half-lit porn studio.

No. Jillian is a big woman and Jillian is a beautiful woman. She's a head shorter than me, and fills out her customary casuals very nicely. She's conservative in a cute way. Considering she basically went on a website to say 'do me hard', I was tickled when she refused point-blank to meet commando. Her mum told her to wear underwear always ... because what if she got in a road accident? That's Jillian for you!

We met on a street corner halfway between her place and mine and walked to hers. She'd skipped lunch, so as she sat down on her bed in her small studio to munch on cereal, we exchanged bits about life and love. Jillian (Jill, by now) had been a born-again Christian, selling off her TV because it took her away from Jesus. Eventually, though, she came around to be a born-again slut, and found she was getting to see God more often. I was human dildo number seven.

She was done with her cereal. I offered to clean the bowl for her. As I worked in her tiny kitchenette, she came up behind me and ran her finger down my side in a sensuous, spontaneous gesture.

*

Back in bed, tentatively reaching for each other's clothes. Sure, we knew what we wanted and bad, but there's no reason to hurry a good thing. Sex is a performing art.

We kissed, her soft lips meeting mine while I removed her tee and she tore out of her brassiere. Jill, like many larger women, has breasts that look disproportionately small, but don't disappoint. As I traced spirals around her hazel nipples, she reached for my pants, teasing me with a gentle but firm crotch-grab before getting down to business. She lifted her ass for me to discard of her scanties (who's commando now?) and we faced each other on all fours like a pair of wildcats ready to tear each other to the bone.

Yes, I know what you're thinking. Cock meets pussy. Throat meets cock. Tongue meets clit. Weather Channel sex.

We had better listings in mind. Jill lay on her stomach while I knelt, straddling her prodigious behind, my cock buried comfortably (and impatiently) in her cheeks. Good sex, like good wine, needs brewing, and I'm as ready as any vintner to earn my vintage. In front of me lay the white, bare expanse of a woman ready to trust her body to me and a bottle of baby oil. Acres of gently sloping countryside, inviting the loving care that will bring a Chianti to perfection.

I rubbed the oil into my hands, warming it. Cold oil contracts muscles instead of relaxing them. I stroked her back, feeling literally the pleasure of flesh under my hand. I pinched her neck, releasing tension and eliciting a warm groan. Slowly, deftly, we learnt what to expect of each others bodies. She moved to present her front to me (ooh, and such a front!). I charted every undulating valley, every gentle hill on that willing prisoner to my tender attentions. She rubbed oil in her own hands and returned the favour. Slick with oil and burning with desire, we moved clumsily into each others slippery embrace. Groping with each other's bodies, we swam through flesh and, at some point in the blur, I entered her.

We stopped.

Jill had had her eyes closed, her head thrown back with a regal, feline air. Now she purred, then opened her eyes to look straight into mine, green boring into black. I pushed into her, she responding magnificently to every move of my body. We fucked till her ninth orgasm and my third, by which time I was hurting and her sheets were drenched in sweat. I crashed into sleep, following her into the exhausted dreamland. Dawn, I thought, and I'll go home and nurse my smarting stiff.

*

The next morning, she woke me up with a blowjob.

It was so soft, so careful, and so perfectly executed, I might have had to wipe a tear. Jill is a British-Canadian dame in a rather full sense of the word, with English, Irish and Welsh blood coursing through the lips that held my cock like a fleshy vice and the tongue that had all the power and talent of a dominatrix who is a ballerina by day. She stung like a bee and floated like a butterfly. I moaned like possessed and came as she obsessed over an full-blown blowing technique.

I couldn't stay for breakfast, so we dressed in silence, gorging on each other's naked form disappearing under subsequent layers of society and shame. I turned at the door, and held her eye. She presented her cheek like a little girl, and I pecked it with a promise for a second date.

I walked down the stairs and I out into the cold, Montréal air, becoming one again with a world groping for a pleasure that only minutes ago had been sleeping next to me in an oily bed, soft, warm, and sexy.