Perfection Ch 01 1

Introduction

I met Beulah at the first family reunion I attended after coming home from my four-year stint of doing my trick for my country of which three years were spent in northern Japan. It was while I was there that I had fallen in love with plus-size women. Kimiko, the Japanese mama-san with whom I shared my off-base house for my last year and a half was 147 cm (about four feet ten inches for you Luddites who stick with the old-fashioned measurements) and 104 kg (call it 230 pounds) of unapologetic horniness. I was young, dumb, and in love but she refused my proposal, giggling and bouncing on my cock in that way she had that would keep me hard until she was completely satisfied.

So there I was, getting re-acquainted with people I hadn't seen in years.

"Do you feel as awkward as I do?" she asked by way of greeting and introduction.

I knew her in that vague way you know the people in your extended family but only see once every three or four years when someone organizes a reunion. It turned out we were what my Grammi would have called "elbow kinfolk." I'm sure Grammi could have sorted it out but what do you call the woman who is your second cousin's (my father's cousin) step-father's ex-wife's step-daughter?

I was smitten from her first words, spoken in a whisky and cigarette-coarsened voice that made me think of June Allyson from those old movies I like.

It was the combination of her face and her size that got to me at first. She was cute in that round-faced way of big women the world over. The extra fat under her skin kept it taut. Her curly blonde hair formed a frame around her face. That she was a natural blonde was obvious from her pale eyebrows. Her skin was pink and smooth, and I thought of that first meeting years later when I saw the scene from

Big Bang Theory

when Amy asked Penny - "Do you even have pores?" Her eyes were a true blue. Her nose was a little button. Her mouth was full and "pouty," framed nicely with full round apple cheeks.

And I liked, very much, that she wasn't trying to hide her size. Oh, she wasn't "flaunting" it, but she wasn't ashamed of it either. On this warm June day, she wore a T-shirt advertising

Darrell's Diner

from a place called Bad Axe, Michigan. The shirt was tight enough that it showed the way her bra cut, as it held very small breasts. Her cut-off jeans weren't exactly "Daisy Dukes," but they did leave plenty of pale, lightly cellulite-dimpled thigh on display. Her calves were oddly slender, the perfect canvas for the Roman sandals she wore.

I won't bore you with the conversation that followed. Take any mature woman coming on pretty obviously to a younger man, cut a few yards of that first meeting, and you have it.

It turned out that my cousin Marji had insisted that Beulah come to the get-together and if you know Marji you know she's a force of nature and almost impossible to refuse.

So here we were, two fish out of water.

Things might have turned out differently in my life if she hadn't been so damn good at that two-hands-on-the-arm thing that some women do that signals both their claim on a man and her willingness to consummate that claim. But she WAS that good and when she suggested we "find a place to talk" I didn't hesitate.

We split up, making our manners, as my Grammi would have put it.

I promised a couple of dozen aunts, uncles, cousins, and old friends that I'd keep in touch. I collected a dozen addresses and phone numbers, a couple given by cousins of the female persuasion who made it clear they would like to share some pillow talk, and one of the male persuasion who made it just as clear.

The reunion was held in a public park and I spotted Beulah standing, surprising me not at all, by a big red Ram pickup.

I said, "Your town, I'll follow you," and then watched as she mounted into the cab of the truck offering an interesting view of an oversized ass as she did so.

I found my

Gremlin

, the silly little car purchased used for five hundred dollars cash, and the total price ballooning to almost eight hundred after I put new tires on it. It was slow, funny looking, and the perfect car for a recently separated veteran living on the GI bill.

I followed her, working the little car hard to keep her in sight as we worked our way through the city traffic to the outskirts where she pulled into one of those old-fashioned motor hotels. You know the ones. A series of duplex buildings formed a semi-circle around the swimming pool/playground that was the centerpiece of the place. I couldn't help but notice there was a bar adjoining the motor court.

She pulled into a slot in front of number 8 and I pulled in next to her.

"I think I could use a drink," she said, smiling that smile that brightened her face.

"I understand," I said, taking her hand and heading to the bar.

We shared a pitcher of beer, an absolutely excellent

Blooming Onion

wannabe, and our mutual stories. She knew the rough outlines of my backstory, my alcoholic mother, and being taken away by my father after Mom died. I, on the other hand, knew pretty much nothing of hers.

She told me of getting pregnant in her junior year of high school, of how abusive her husband had been before he left her with a year-old son, of how she had struggled as a single mom but how proud she was that he had graduated with honors and was now an engineer with a pretty wife who had just delivered her first granddaughter. Of her friendship with Marji.

"Okay," I said, smiling, holding up my hand, "Hold on there, Gramma, how old are you?"

She smiled and said, "Do the arithmetic, David."

So I counted it out.

"Knocked up at seventeen then," I said.

"Sixteen," she interrupted.

I smiled and said, "To continue. Knocked up at sixteen, making you thirty-four when he graduates high school, thirty-eight when he graduates college."

I paused.

"Graduate degree?" I asked.

"Masters," she replied.

"Soooooooooo, forty when he finishes his Masters degree, and now a Gramma at," I paused dramatically, "Forty-two?"

"Close," she said, "I'm Forty-four."

I couldn't help but laugh.

"You cougar, you," I said laughing, "you are exactly twice my age."

She smiled.

"Have I scared you off then?" she asked.

"Ohhhhhhhhh, no," I said, "I've always had mommy issues."

She giggled at that, finished her beer with a flourish, put the mug back on the table with a loud clatter, and said, "Come on youngster, let's see what you got."

We played a couple of games of darts at which she was very good, and shot a game of pool at which I am very good.

"That buffet was pretty sketchy," she said, so we ordered bar food. In this case, the house specialty was something called a

Slopper

, two quarter-pound patties served open-faced on a bun, swimming in an absolutely delicious green chili sauce. The onion rings were the best I ever ate and a meal in themselves. We washed it all down with a second beer.

I was surprised and liked that she paid. I had been prepared to blow my entertainment budget for the month.

At her room, she opened the door and then did the sort of bow/wave thing indicating I should enter first.

Then I was in her arms.

She was very much the aggressor and I found that I liked it. I guess my diminutive butterball Kimiko had taught me well.

That first kiss was something straight out of a movie, not quite a pornographic movie but definitely a Rom-Com with strong sexual undertones.

And God DAMN the woman could kiss. Her mouth was a living thing, devouring mine while her tongue sought mine and explored my mouth finding my tongue along with my teeth, gums, and the inside of my lips. I had never imagined any kiss so intimate.

She was still holding that first kiss when her hands found the hem of my T-shirt and peeled it up. She broke the kiss just long enough to get it off and then we were kissing again.

She finally broke the kiss and eased to her knees.

I damn near fell when she lifted my foot and untied my tennis shoe, pulled the shoe and sock off, and then ran the nail of her little finger up the arch of my foot forcing me to hold onto her shoulders to keep from falling.

She did the other foot and then, with experienced fingers, loosened my belt, unzipped my jeans, and peeled the jeans along with my shorts down in one quick move.

Then she had me in her mouth and about 30 seconds later I came.

She swallowed, noisily, not wasting a drop of my semen.

She held me in her mouth after I finished, looking up across my belly until the tension left my body.

She released me then, stood, smiled, licked her lips, and then said, "Now that that's taken care of, you can undress me."

I guess I was kind of speechless at that point.

I just reached down, caught the hem of her T-shirt in my fingers, and peeled it up and off of her.

I watched her eyes watch mine as I looked her up and down.

When my eyes lingered on her bra, showing that she had small breasts, that cold, analytical part of my mind that never seems to turn off, hell, that I can't turn off, thought,

"A bit old for a training bra, aren't you?"

"Not much there," she said, and I laughed.

"Beulah," I said, using that name that screamed PEASANT, "there's more to a woman than her udders."

She giggled and then lifted her arms slightly when I started tracing the material of her bra with my fingertips. I reached for the hooks in the back and kissed her as I started working them. I was surprised to find six since her small breasts didn't require much support and then realized that a wide strap wouldn't cut the soft layer of fat on her body as much as a narrower strap would.

She stood very still as I pushed myself back far enough to focus on her.

Her breasts were as small as I imagined. Her nipples and areolas, though, were surprisingly large. The areolas covered almost half of the small rise of her breast, and her nipples were big, almost inch-long hot dog ends atop the dark tan cone of her areolas.

"Very nice," I breathed, bending forward and kissing the top of each breast in turn.

"Whew," she breathed, giggling, "at least you're not a boob man."

"Boobs are fun," I said, letting my hands slowly roam over the pads of fat on the backs of her arms, "but there's a lot more to a woman."

I slipped away from her arms as she tried to wrap me in an embrace, and eased to my knees.

I worked on the button of her cut-offs, loving the way they clung and loving, even more, the way the softness of her belly bulged out as the zipper made a "V" shape for it to escape.

There was my weird mind again, working overtime, as the image developed of a tube of Pillsbury biscuits just after you break the spiral seam on the cardboard tube, the way the dough pushes out once the confinement is broken.

The flesh was very pale, almost white, very soft, very warm, and very deeply dimpled with cellulite.

I couldn't resist, hell, I didn't want to resist, so I kissed it. It was as warm and soft as I imagined. There was the faintest hint of clean girlsweat scent, and I liked it. I realized that, at her size, she probably sweated easily and almost immediately the thought followed that I wanted to MAKE her sweat.

I worked the cutoffs down and off, taking her panties with them.

I deliberately kept my eyes on her sandals as I got the buckle loose and then worked the straps off.

I closed my eyes and took two careful steps back, I was aware how badly I'd fuck up the image if I fell on my ass before I opened them and took her in, so I was very careful.

We've all read the phrase "his breath caught" from time to time.

Now I understand what it means.

My breath caught.

"Oh, Jesus," I thought, "I now have the mathematically perfect definition of the ideal shape for a woman."

We've all heard of those four basic shapes for a woman, right? You know - - hourglass (Marilyn Monroe), pear (Sigourney Weaver with those magnificent hips), tube (Christine Baranski), and apple (Melissa McCarthy).

What I was looking at combined three of those basic shapes into one gorgeous angel-come-to-earth.

Her cute, round face with its second, third, and fourth chins was pure apple. If that was all you saw of her you'd know she was an apple. Add in the soft pads of very pale fat at the backs of her arms and the thighs that showed a distinct chub rub where her legs parted and you'd be sure.

But then there were her tiny breasts and complete lack of waist. Oh, you'd NEVER call her skinny or even, for that matter, slender. But she was, based on that part of her, from the neck to the belly button, a tube.

The shelf of her hips and the amazing bubble butt that jutted behind were pure pear the way they expanded from her relatively narrow waist. "Relative" is the the keyword in that sentence since her waist, well, where her waist probably once was, measured in at 36 inches, something I found out later.

There was no hint of hourglass but, as the old

Meat Loaf

song might have put it, "three out of four ain't bad."

I took this all in in about the time it takes to write, "My breath caught."

I had never believed in "love at first sight."

That changed as I just stood and looked.

"Jesus, David," she said, and I loved that she was blushing, "take a picture, it lasts longer."

I stared for a full minute although it seemed much longer to both of us.

The blush spread down her chins to her chest, even bringing color to her pale breasts.

I took the two steps to close the distance between us, smiled, and dropped to my knees. I pushed the soft roll of her belly up, exposing the soft pouch of her

mons veneris

, that beautiful Mound of Venus that highlights a woman's sex.

She was smooth and the top of her mons showed a chub rub from her belly roll. The skin there was thick when I kissed it.

I bumped her mons with my forehead, like a calf trying to get the milk flowing from its mother's udders, and she did a slight side step, parting her legs a little, offering herself.

I accepted the offer, moving my face from side to side as if I was shaking my head slowly, thoughtfully, "no" to a question I had been asked, working my way deeper into the crease of her sex, drawing the womanscent into my lungs and taking the womantaste onto my tongue.

Those pads of fat were covering my cheeks by the time my probing tongue found the hard little button of her clitoris. With each breath, her pheromone-laden womanscent filled my lungs until I felt like I had been smoking a good joint as I started to get lightheaded from oxygen starvation and pheromone overload.

My hands found the big, soft pads of her ass and held her to me as I felt her body start to respond.

I was hard again, surprising me, as I worked my face deeper into the hot, wet trench of her sex.

I could feel her body now, trembling, as I brought her along with my lips and tongue. Her salty nectar, the natural lubricant of a woman, was hot and watery at first but as she got more aroused it got thicker and developed a hint of an odd undertaste, slightly bitter but not unpleasant. Hell, about the farthest thing from unpleasant I can imagine. I was drinking her as I felt her fingers entwine in my hair, pulling me even deeper into that beautiful, hot, wet, canyon.

She cried out when she came, a harsh, guttural sound pulled from deep in her throat. Her body tensed and I was suddenly being bathed in her release.

Christ, I thought at first that her bladder control had failed but the scent was pure womanscent and the taste was that salty Nectar of the Gods that all men love.

When I felt her start to relax I worked my tongue as hard and fast as I could, deliberately masturbating her clitoris.

"Oh JESUS!" she cried and came a second time, her release thinner this time, watery.

I held her to me again, my fingers digging into the softness of her ass when she tried to pull away.

I felt the pressure of her trying to get away, then the relaxation, and I took her over the top for a third time.

This time there was a faint hint of urine as she jerked me away by the hair and sprayed, soaking my chest.

"Oh, Jesus," she moaned, "enough, God, shit, Baby, enough, please," she breathed between sharp gasps.

I stood then, my face and hair dripping as if I had just stepped out of the shower.

"Now that we have that out of the way," I said, a little breathless, mirroring what she said earlier.

She laughed then, a big belly laugh full of pure happiness, as she pulled me back, her fingers still in my hair, and just looked me in the eye.

I held her look, understanding that this was, somehow, an important moment between us.

"Tell me," I said, my voice soft, "does a beautiful woman know what she does to men?"

She broke eye contact then, looking down at the floor.

"If I find a beautiful woman, I'll tell you what she says," she said.

"You honestly don't know, do you?" I asked, doing that two-fingers-under-the-chin thing my cousin taught me, lifting her face to meet my eyes again.

"That I'm fat and forty?" she asked, "Oh, I know that very well."

"No," I said, my hands on her cheeks now, holding her eyes, "That you are beautiful."

"Don't overplay your hand, David," she said, smiling, "you're going to get what you want."

"Is that a promise?" I asked, smiling, not letting her look away.

She giggled then, very softly, and said, "Yes."

"Good," I said, and kissed her quickly, "how soon can you get some time off for the honeymoon?"

Her eyes got big.

"A little premature to talk about honeymoons, isn't it?" she asked.

I laughed again.

"No," I said simply, "I've found my goddess, the condensation of all women into one beautiful person, and I intend to marry her."

"Ummmmm," she hummed, "you haven't even said you love me."

"I love you," I said without hesitation and she started crying.

No, she started bawling. Great whooping, wracking sobs.

I just held her, saying nothing. I didn't try to calm her or "gentle" her or anything. I just held her while I felt the warm wetness of tears and the thick sticky wetness of snot on my chest.

"You shouldn't tease the fat girl, David," she said, finally, "it's not really sporting. She's too easy."

I grinned and dropped to one knee in that classic "proposal pose" you've seen in a dozen old movies.

"What is your middle name?" I asked and watched her eyes get big at the

non sequitur

.

"Isabella," she said, at last.

"Beulah Isabella Aronson, you have captured my heart," I said, "I have found the perfect woman. I need look no more. Will you marry me?"

She stared at me, tears dripping from her chin.

"You can change your mind in the morning," I said.

She took a theatrically deep breath, let it out very slowly, and said, "Yes."

We consummated our engagement on the bed.

I as hard again and we quickly worked out the necessary positions. Her legs were spread until she was pretty much doing the splits, her knees pulled back, offering me access to her sex. I used my fingers to play with her mons, the big pad of fat plump flesh so big and prominent it was almost like a separate body part. The slot of her sex was shiny with her arousal and I slipped in easily.

Our consummation was in the missionary position with me on top, slowly letting myself just sink into that soft round roll of her belly. I kissed her tiny breasts, suckled at her nipples, and felt the amazing strength of her vaginal muscles when she squeezed with her orgasm.

She had, as she put it, "taken care of that" earlier, so I had staying power and I stayed with her through a half dozen orgasms until she was exhausted. She lay back, panting, sweating, laughing softly, and saying, very softly, "Fill me up, Honey."

My ejaculation was almost painful as my body struggled to push out what wasn't there after my ejaculation earlier.