Tending to My Fat Mom

[Author's Note: For those who enjoy this tale of David and his Mom, I apologize. Those who follow me know I tend to have many storylines going at any one time and this one kind of got lost in the stack. This is surprising to me since this is the most autobiographical of all of my stories. Anyway, accept my apologies. And let's see how things are developing with our recently returned veteran and his Mom.]

She continued to enjoy our morning sessions when I would go over her body, tending to rashes and blemishes, using the

Desitin

and the

Proactiv

liberally. Her skin was almost flawless now.

But when we made love there was no doubt who was in charge. Even when she had me on top it was her guiding, demanding, and I was only too happy to help her fulfill her every fantasy.

She still liked being on top, and I liked that too. The weight of her taking away my ability to breathe added to the sexual arousal and when I came, often as I was losing consciousness, it was a full-body event. EVERY muscle would clench with my release.

She had accepted her size by the time our, well, our relationship was a half-year-old. She enjoyed her feedings. I'm a good student and researcher and had learned the term "stuffing," and that's what we did. By the time I was putting the last handful of the second order of French Fries (large of course) and the last bite of her fourth Big Mac in her mouth, she would have to work to get it swallowed.

One day, after I bathed her, I had her stand and carefully took her measurements. She was 48-72-50. Her belly had become the fat girl's natural modesty, and the heavy bag of fat hung well down her thighs. I thought she was beautiful and I decided it was time to show her off.

As I dressed her in the shapeless muumuu she favored, no longer ashamed but not yet proud of her size, I patted her ass and said, "Come on toots, we're going shopping."

She giggled and said, "On my credit card of course."

"Of course," I said, dropping onto my knees to put on her shoes. She was far beyond being able to tie them.

"Okay," I said, "let's get you dolled up. It's Date Night."

She giggled again. "Really?" she said.

"I've been wanting to show you off since I got home," I said, "so tonight's the night for your debut."

She laughed at that, her full-on belly laugh, throwing her head back and letting it go.

"Am I a debutante then?" she asked when she got herself under control.

I smiled and said, "Well, you're a bit old for that label, but I am definitely going to show you off."

"Where?" she asked.

I grinned then, that wolfish grin I had practiced over the years, and said, "Trust me."

She smiled and said, "Always."

I put on jeans then, fitting me since I had bought new ones, and one of my T-shirts, this one proclaiming "Peace-Love-Guitars" with about 20 different guitars arranged in the shape of the 1960s peace symbol ☮. White socks and white tennis shoes, my relatively new Reeboks, finished my outfit.

One of the things I learned in the Air Force was computers and the internet. I'm a very good researcher, finding things others in my classes couldn't. It had been easy to find clothing stores devoted to big women and not much harder to find

Victoria's Secret

equivalents that catered to plus-sizes. The harder part had been finding a place, a Club in the end, that catered to men who loved their big women. The final search had been for a spa that catered to women of Mom's size.

But I persevered and found them all.

At a place called

Naughty and Nice

a sales girl even bigger than Mom, who introduced herself as Cinnamon, walked her through the store while I drank complimentary coffee and thought how lucky I was to live in the 21st century where such places existed.

Over the next hour, Mom modeled a half dozen sets of lingerie. Matching bras, panties, garter belts, and nylons were on display, and I whistled at them. We relied on Cinnamon's judgment, no, I did not ask if that was what was on her birth certificate, for the final selection but I had to agree when she said the bright green, bright turquoise, bright yellow, and black sets worked well with mom's auburn hair and skin coloring. Cinnamon talked us into a couple of Babydoll nightie sets and one long, sheer robe thing, I later learned it's called a peignoir (pronounced "penwah") as well. I didn't look at the bill, just offered Mom's credit card. She didn't ask for a photo ID as the signature line on the back of the card required.

A short drive took us to

Martha's

, another shop my internet skills had found. This was an innocuous storefront in one of those strip malls that are everywhere. I thought it was strange, almost surreal, that the sales lady that met us was so skinny that I was sure she was anorexic. After all, this was a place that catered to big women. Once again, we did the modeling thing, this time with me drinking a Coke rather than coffee. And once again we left with a half dozen boxes. I insisted she wear her new Daisy Duke cutoff jeans, cut so short, especially in the back, that about the bottom third of her ass peeked out, and a halter top that barely covered the roll that included her nipples. Her feet, I thought, looked terrific in the platform sandals that laced up her calf like something out of a movie featuring a Roman legion and the high heels did good things for her calves.

The final stop for the day was a place called

His Eyes Only,

which, according to the internet anyway, specialized in making a man's "special lady" look her best in a way that he likes. Mom was kind of big-eyed as we walked in and I started telling Mei Li, the tiny woman, obviously oriental, perhaps Chinese or Japanese or maybe Korean, what I wanted.

"Ummmmmm, do I get a say?" Mom asked and Mei Li and I both said, "No."

"Oh," she said, but she was giggling.

I started at her hair, describing how I wanted it cut and the color I wanted, then down, telling them I wanted every hair removed from her body from the neck down. I finished by choosing the color and shape for her fingernails and toenails.

"How long?" I asked.

"Oh, a couple of hours," Mei Li said.

I grinned, said, "You be good now," to Mom, and headed to my last stop.

Bolshoi i Tolstoyy

is Russian for "Big and Fat." I assumed it had been chosen for an interesting double-entendre name although, if we're being honest, maybe someone named Ivan owned the place. I don't care to be honest. All I knew for sure was it was a club where big women were celebrated and I wanted Mom's first night out to be special.

At the Hostess's stand, a giantess greeted me. She had to be 6'4" tall and weigh around 300 pounds. And the thing is, she was fucking gorgeous. She had blonde hair piled up in a Dolly Parton do, I suspected it was a wig, a skin-tight blouse so sheer you could read a newspaper through it and, more importantly, see her nipples clearly. Hell, you could even see the blue veins on her boobs through it. Skin-tight slacks and high heels, not full-on stilettos but pumps with a three-inch heel, finished her uniform.

"I thought I knew all of the members," she said, her smile so white it showed a generous use of bleach.

"I'm not a member," I said.

"Well," she said, and her smile never wavered, "you can have a one-time visit for one hundred dollars but after that, the initiation fee is five hundred dollars and monthly dues are one hundred dollars but we'll discount it to one thousand dollars a year if you pay in one lump sum."

"I see," I said, taking this in. "Can I get a reservation for tonight? Say eight o'clock?"

She looked at her computer screen, smiled, and said, "Name?"

"David Morgan," I said.

"I'll need your driver's license," she said.

"Why," I asked.

"I told you," she said, her smile still there, still inviting, "it's a one-time offer for not-yet-members and I need to get you into the system."

I handed over my license and she pulled a professional-looking barcode scanner, zapped the back of my license, heard the little ding, and handed it back. I looked at the back and saw one of those little QR codes I had never noticed before. I figured that was new after my four years away.

"Can I look?" I asked.

She laughed and said, "Sure, come on."

She walked me past the curtained entrance to the actual restaurant. And it was just that, a restaurant. Well, more of a supper club I suppose. Most of the space, and it was a big space, was taken up with tables, what my brief foray into food service as a boy had taught me were called two-tops, hubcap-sized tables, with a few larger four-tops scattered around, all, to my semi-professional eye, very well laid out to promote easy access for the wait staff as well as easy ingress and egress for customers. I did notice that the carefully camouflaged aisles for customers and wait staff were a little out of scale and I realized there were wider by several inches than any I had ever worked in. Along one wall was a fairly big bar, well equipped, and along another was a small stage suggesting live entertainment from time to time.

But when you got down to it, it was a restaurant. Nothing special until I let my eyes track down and look at the few afternoon diners.

There were a half dozen couples sitting, scattered around the room, and in every case, it was a big person coupled with a much smaller one. Four of the six couples were big women being attended by much smaller men. It, obviously, wasn't an age thing. Three of the four big woman-small man couples were mature, in one case simply old, women with much younger men. But in one it was a very young woman with what I guessed to be a septuagenarian escort. In both of the cases where it was a big man and a small woman, the man was much younger than the woman in attendance.

The most striking thing was that the big half of each couple was dressed to be shown off.

I liked the place.

"Thank you," I said to the giantess and she escorted me to the door. It was that kind of a place.

Back at

His Eyes Only,

I had to chuckle as Mei Li made a production of sweeping the curtain aside to "reveal" Mom's new look.

And she looked TERRIFIC!

Her round face was framed in a halo of curls slightly redder than they had been when we came in. Not a huge change, but noticeable to me. In the same way, her makeup was subtle and truly excellent. A light touch highlighted cheekbones, gave eyes a slightly exotic look, and made lips slightly fuller and very VERY red.

"You are worth every dime," I said to Mei Li, handing Mom's credit card over. When the ticket came back I added a healthy tip. I expected to be back and wanted good service.

Back home she was funny. "God," she said, "I feel like I'm in Junior High School going on my first date."

I grinned as I took things out of their boxes and hung the outer garments while I took the new undies into the laundry room, carefully set the washing machine to "Delicate" and started it. Later, when the buzzer went off I transferred them to the dryer, and set it to "Fluff."

She looked so nervous it was actually kind of funny. I kissed her hand, not wanting to mess up Mei Li's handiwork, and said, "You're beautiful and I cannot WAIT to show you off."

We killed time, just watching the news and talking. She was nervous and I tried to put her at ease.

At seven I said, "Come on, Cinderella, time for the ball."

"David," she said, "I'm not sure," but I cut her off with a kiss.

"Nuh-uh," I said, grinning, "I'm showing you off tonight."

"Oh, God," she sort of moaned, but she stood and followed me to the bedroom.

"Oh, God," she moaned again when she saw what I had laid out for her.

I picked out the green, thinking it would highlight her newly reddened hair.

"Oh, God," she said for the third time and I chuckled.

"That's getting monotonous," I said.

"Davey," she said but, again, I hushed her with a kiss and started dressing her.

It was fun.

I started from the bottom, working first the nylons, simple Suntan color, size Q4, working them up from toes across heels and then calves and up thighs. Next, I worked to make sure the seams were ruler-straight before getting her into the garter belt and then the French-cut panties. She stood, looked at me, and then without a word went to the bedroom door where she swung it shut and looked at herself in the full-length mirror.

"Nice, huh," I said, chuckling and moving up behind her to kiss the back of her neck.

"Davey, I," she started and kind of wound down, but she was smiling.

"You're beautiful," I said, walking her back and having her stand beside the bed while I got her WonderBra hooked and her breasts adjusted. The WonderBra, as advertised, did wonders and she showed a delightful expanse of blue-veined cleavage.

"Arms up," I said, and when she did as I asked I threaded the bright green sundress through her arms and over her head before I let it drop.

Damn, she looked good. The bright green color showed her hair and pale skin to good advantage. The way it was cut, with broad straps across her shoulders, those big, soft arms were displayed. Open panels for her belly and back put her on display. The skirt was short enough that the darker bands at the tops of her nylons were showing and I'm not sure I ever saw anything sexier than those little rubber-tipped snap closures that held the nylons to her garter belt, as they peeked out.

The last step was to hold the pumps, not a full six-inch stiletto heel, but the three-inch pumps still did good things for her legs, as she stepped into them.

"God DAMN!" I said, "I could eat you up."

"Okay," she said, giggling, "we can stay home and do that."

"Nuh-uh," I said, "I'm showing you off tonight."

And she moaned.

As I watched I saw her accept that I was serious.

"Okay, buster," she said, "let's go put my fat ass on display and see how many run screaming from the room."

I grinned and said, "Go ahead, keep putting yourself down. See how hard the spanking that fat ass earns if you do."

Her eyes got big at that.

"Yes," I said, smiling and brushing her cheek with the lightest kiss, not wanting to mess up her perfect makeup, "I mean it."

"Tell me I'm beautiful," she said.

I grinned and said, "You are absolutely gorgeous."

She took a deep breath, huffed it out, and said, "Okay, take me to my debut."

We took an Uber since I planned to do some drinking.

At

Bolshoi i Tolstoyy

we were escorted right in and offered a table near the dance floor. I was kind of surprised when the hostess, this one a stunning blonde butterball with Bambi showing on her plastic name tag, seated us, not across the table but on the two sides of the right triangle of a corner. As I looked around I realized why. Most of the couples involved one feeding the other.

When I pointed this out to Mom she said she had noticed and then, with a sly little smile, added, "I understand."

We sat quietly for a few minutes, just taking the place in. And there was a lot to take in. The place was pretty much at capacity. At any time there would be no more than a few tables open. The diners were mostly couples, like Mom and me, sitting side by side at their two-top tables. And all of them were "mixed" couples in terms of one being big and one small, again like Mom and me. Mostly it was a big woman with a smaller man although there were a few fat men being attended to by smaller women.

The four-top tables offered the most opportunity for people watching and commenting. We discussed the probably incestuous relationship among one foursome with an enormous man and woman, both looking to be in their 60s at least being attended to by a much younger and slender couple, I thought a brother and sister, who might not yet be in their 20s.

"Gramma and grandpa have the grandkids well trained," I said and Mom said, "Mmmmmmm, yummy, do I have any grandsons I don't know about."

I laughed, and told the waitress, a poor thing so skinny she had to be anorexic, dressed only in a leather harness arrangement, and a nametag identifying her as Jezebel, to bring a pitcher of beer and one mug.

"No grandkids," I said, standing, "Now let's dance."

She looked up at me with one of those deer-in-the-headlights looks but then smiled, accepted my hand, and stood with a grunt.

There was no live music yet, but a good sound system was playing a mix of soft rock and there were a few other couples dancing.

We danced well together. We should, of course. She had taught me when I was getting ready for my first eighth-grade dance, and although we didn't put on a ballroom dance exhibition we did a passable box step.

As we danced I realized that the restaurant's thermostat was set a little warm. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't hot but it was warm. And for a woman like Mom, warm was enough to induce sweat. I liked the feeling of dampness under my hand as it lay on her back.

Now that I was aware of it, I couldn't help but notice the effect it had on the plus-size patrons.

As we walked back to the table I noticed a stunning blonde, still in her 20s and already well north of 300 pounds, who had sweated through the blouse she wore while her attendant, a septuagenarian who could not have weighed 150 pounds blotted her forehead with a white napkin while popping another bite of what was left of a Porterhouse steak the size of a pot roast into her mouth.

The minor exercise of our slow dance was enough to have beads of sweat popping out on Mom's forehead too.

I couldn't resist when I saw a "Cajun" section on the menu. I ordered Jambalaya and Etouffee, and blackened shrimp.

Mom was looking at me in that lips-pursed-and-pulled-to-the-side way no one with a Y chromosome can ever really pull off.

"You know," she said, smiling, "if you want to see me sweat you don't need to order this spicy stuff. You can just take me out on the dance floor for a quick twist when the music speeds up."

"This way is more fun," I said, tipping the beer mug up to her lips.

But I couldn't resist when the PA system started with

Twist and Shout

and she was right, she was sweating heavily when I walked her back to the table. I did NOT wipe her forehead this time. Honestly, I kind of liked the oversized Tina Turner look.

Dinner came then, and it was delicious. I took about one bite for every three or four I fed to Mom and by the time the plate was empty she was stuffed and I was full. I couldn't resist the chocolate lava cake dessert and she had to struggle to get that all in.

Another dance and she had sweated through, staining the dress's green several shades darker. I thought she looked wonderful.

"Tell me I'm beautiful," she said, smiling at me and holding my hand in hers as we walked back to the table.

"You're beautiful," I said dutifully.

"Now tell me," she said, "is it my imagination or is every eye on the place on me."

I chuckled and said, "A little of both I imagine. But those that are looking," and I stopped, taking my time and deliberately looking around the room, "are looking with admiration."

"God help me," she said, "I can believe you right now. So take me home, buster, and make love to me. Take your time and tonight you do all the work."

I laughed at that and said, "Please, please Br'er Fox, not the briar patch."

We sat long enough to get the check which I paid using Mom's credit card. I left a good tip. It had been a good meal with good service.

"Soooooooo," I said after a couple of minutes of silence on the ride home, "here's the deal. I am going to do anything you want tonight, but you have to ask for it."

She gave me that sidelong, one-eyebrow-raised look only the genetically enabled can pull off, and said, "Anything?"

I grinned.

"Anything," I said.

She smiled, sighed theatrically, and leaned back in the car seat, rubbing her chin between her thumb and forefinger, the universal symbol for "I'm thinking."