***
NOTE: This is a "BBW" story as well as an incest-tale. If you don't like fat girls, begone!
***
I had wanted for years to fuck my sister Amanda, when, on Thanksgiving Break from my third year of college, I offered to drive her to our family reunion in Carthage, Tennessee. The suggestion emerged from a joke—we'd been avoiding these reunions since we'd both been in middle school. You see, our father's branch of the family is... what would be PC? They clearly instantiate traditional Carthage culture. Now, I don't need to ask if you've ever been to Carthage. You have not, unless perhaps you got lost on a road trip. Even then, you wouldn't have noticed if you blinked. Population: 2000-ish. All of them dirt poor. About half of them my family.
Now poverty can be respectable, and farming certainly so. Better a poor farmer than a soulless Wall Street CEO. But let me paint a picture. When last we were in Carthage, I was thirteen and Amanda was eleven. Our uncles gave us beer. Fine and good. But they also gave us weed. Riiiight. And offered us amphetamines. And began to take off their pants....
Ahhh, the rural south.
Our daily life was different. Our mother's family was ethnic Indo-Pakistani, basically of shabby-noble stock. Her parents had immigrated to the States when the partition occurred, whenever that was in the '40s. I've never visited; honestly, I've never cared that much. To my discredit, I can't speak the language at all. But anyway my father pulled himself out of the backwater by his bootstraps, met our mom at college—and here we are today. We did our AP classes, learned a few white-people languages, went on to start Reputable Lives without ever thinking of Carthage.
Until the Thanksgiving when Amanda asked, "Do you remember Daddy Toadstool?"
Reader, this won't make sense, but I must try to explain. For reasons unknown, the Carthage relatives nickname each other after various organisms. Often strange ones. There's Aunt Llama, Pappy Walrus, even Doc Plankton. Who else? Marge Mealworm, whose connection to us is obscure. And others. But Daddy Toadstool—oh, I hadn't forgotten him. He really looked like a mushroom. He head was large, bald, and exceedingly spotty. His chin trailed wispy threads of hair, like—like hyphae, I suppose. His body was straight and stocky, and he always wore gray or brown. Perhaps for the sake of irony, or just per the proper nature of a saprobe, he also enjoyed eating fungi. When last we'd visited, he'd downed two whole bowls of boiled Chanterelles.
So, Amanda's question made me laugh. "Mmm-hmm," I said at last. "How could I forget! And do you remember Miley—or should I say 'Pullet'?"
"Our cousin?"
"Yeah. The fat one."
Actually, that didn't narrow it down. They were all fat. It seems to be in the Carthage genes. My mother's side doesn't carry it, and I'm (so far) immune; but not so Amanda. Now eighteen years old, Amanda was easily 200 pounds, maybe slightly more. But, oh my God. It was in all the right places. Her body is incredibly curvy and voluptuous. Her tits are enormous: H cups, as I have learned. When tightly restrained, they create amazing cleavage—but still swell to both sides and cascade nearly to her navel. Her thighs are thick and beg to be parted; her belly is very large and round, but smooth and soft like butter. When she wears tight pants, which she does surprisingly often, her cute fat paunch hangs over her waistline, her belly-button a pussy-like fold. When she walks, her chubby legs rub together and make her tits and thick ass jiggle. When she wears bikinis... mmhh. I always needed a moment alone.
Now, my sister is especially hot, presumably because our Pakistani blood contributes radiant, flowing black hair and mysterious dark eyes to her overall voluptuousness. Yet certain of our Carthage-kin shared her generous proportions. This could go quite badly, of course—as for most of the men. But some of the women were beautiful. Certainly Aunt Rosemary (her real name) was always popular with her cousins.
At age thirteen, I'd been popular with mine. At least I was with Miley, who was older than me by one year. She'd taken me into one of the trailers that encircled the fire pit, told me to close my eyes, and squeezed out of her large shirt. But when I'd peeked, I'd panicked. For God's sake, I was a kid! I didn't know any better! I'd fled, and nothing had happened. Now, I wished that it had.
When I said "fat," Amanda punched me. She didn't seem to realize that I thought the word was hot. I wanted to slap her back and squeeze her tits in the process; but of course I chickened out. She hadn't the vaguest suspicion that I wanted her so much. I settled for just saying, "Well, Miley, she used to raise these massive frogs. Remember?"
"Hah! I do; yeah, for sure I do. She kept them in her bedroom, right? And she had to keep the door closed all the time! But when she showed us, a couple got out anyway, and we had to hunt them down!"
"I wonder what's become of those frogs."
"Yeah—and what's become of Miley. And old Dad Toadstool. And all the rest. Have you ever wanted to go back? Just—to see what's up these days?"
"Not really; but I guess it might be fun. The uncles will be pretty old these days, and I dare say they'd leave us alone. We're probably too old now for their tastes, anyway."
"Gross, Tariq! But... but yeah, I guess you're right. Uh. Do you think they were really going to...?"
"Probably. I doubt they wanted to show off their new tattoos! But then, you never know—sometimes people aren't what they seem to be."
***
When we told our parents we were going to Carthage for the reunion, they raised their eyebrows—but didn't hold us back. They'd never known what had (almost) happened last time, either with the uncles or with Miley. So we packed the car, headed west, and reached the Old Homestead right after noon.
The place had hardly changed. The old well, still usable if none too clean, stood between two rusty cars. Mangy dogs chewed corn cobs; chickens pecked for food in hubcaps. Thanksgiving tables rose by the fire pit; people, mostly heavy, sat in lawn chairs or cheated at croquet.
The first to spot us was Mealworm. "My goodn—is it Amanda? And Tariq! What a wonderful surprise! Come; come join us! Like some cider?"
Actually, we found it all quite fun. A lot of the older faces were gone—maybe dead, or just asleep, or possibly in jail—and most of the crowd was of the twenties-to-early-forties set. There were few children, oddly. I couldn't help but notice how... hot... some of the younger women had become. Many shapely plumpers filled out their shirts admirably. Stereotypically, most fat country folk are lumpy; but not so in this family. Our women have great curves. Maybe that's why we keep banging them.
Miley was hottest of all. Almost as fat as Amanda, she wore an obscenely short skirt and a tight, faded flannel-print tank. Her huge, chubby boobs bounced against her round, plump belly while she walked, and her large nipples clearly protruded. She obviously wasn't wearing a bra. Her dirty blonde hair stuck up in two fluffy, disheveled pigtails. Miley was just as I remembered her, except for having gained some weight. When she saw me, she squealed—and pecked my mouth. "Kissin' cousins," she breathed in my ear. So! She still wanted me. And this time, I knew what I wanted. When no one was watching, I kissed her back—and slipped my tongue into her lips.
"Spoonin' leads to forkin'," I stated, as somberly as I could. Miley giggled. Then, after a furtive glance around, she heaved up her shirt. "Remember these?" she said.
