An elegant dinner at the finest restaurant. You spare no expense. Her favorite musical is playing at the plush and prestigious Performing Arts Center. Orchestra, center is the only seating she will consider. You’re resourceful. You’ve pulled some prohibitively expensive strings, and you’ve made it happen. She refuses to ride in your Lexus, insisting on nothing less than stretch limo with all the add-ons. You booked it well in advance. On the way to dinner, she drinks melon martinis in the limo and flaunts her fat, gorgeous legs in that skin-tight mini-skirt and towering slip-on high heels. She is already driving you crazy and you ask playfully if you can kiss her thigh.
“No,” she says, “but you may sit down here on the floor next to me and have a closer look. But make me another drink first.”
You do just that. A perfect melon martini and then you curl up at her feet on the floor of the limo. She crosses her legs slowly, expertly, and, unable to control yourself, you let out the faint precursor to a whimper as a little tremor of electricity zips through your being. She smiles knowingly, but says nothing. You wait for a moment, sipping your bourbon on the limo floor, before she crosses her legs back the other way; even more slowly this time and that hot little nothing of a skirt rides WAY up so that you get a perfect-panty upskirt that makes you squirm. This time she giggles a short, arrogant giggle and shakes her finger in your face…just in case you were getting any ideas. This continues all the way to the theater and by the time you arrive your body is tingling with pent-up anxiety and sexual longing.
She creates quite a scene inside the concert hall. Though the audience is a mix of people from all strata of life, not many are accustomed to seeing a smokin’ hot 410lb. woman wearing a shrink-wrap black tube mini-dress and 10-story heels. She’s a spectacle indeed. You get through the performance, spending the vast majority of the evening peeking down at those spectacular, monstrous legs, which are pretty much fully revealed, you know, on account of the dress. After the show, your corpulent cutie wants to party till the wee hours, so it’s off to the trendiest night club to spend another small fortune while she teases you mercilessly. Though she reminds you periodically that she’s going home with you, she nevertheless spends the majority of the time at the club talking, flirting, and dancing with other guys while you warm your chair and hold the table. You know that she’s making you feel this way on purpose, and what’s more you know that SHE knows that you know. It’s all part of her game.
Eventually, the club closes and at last, it’s time to go home. Back at your place, she makes a few rude comments about how you don’t have the nicest place or the best furnishings, or the newest state-of-the-art big screen, computer, etc. You listen and you take it because not only does the potential for an off-the-chart sexual experience fall into a very high-percentage bracket, but the fact that she is almost three times your size and strength makes you extra careful about staying on your best behavior. This woman could kill you if she wanted to, and as emotionally cold as she’s been all night—since you met her, in fact—you can’t rule out anything when it comes to what she might be capable of. She orders you around again; bring me another drink, something to snack on, play this or that on the stereo. You’re fully obedient. You keep doing a great job of complying with her incessant demands. You show no signs of annoyance or discontent with the way she’s treating you. You are happy to provide her with what she wants, and it is THIS, it seems, that is getting her pissed off.
She gets up from the sofa, her martini in hand, and commands you to follow her into the kitchen…on your knees, like an obedient Pekinese, she says. She wants your face close to her ass as you follow her. As she leads the way, you’re beginning to come unglued watching her massive and ungodly beautiful ass swirl from side to side like some impossible gargantuan gyroscope. It’s playing tricks on your brain along with the sharp, powerful clopping of her killer high heels on the tile. She tells you to get closer. She wants your nose right up her ass as you follow her and you have to crawl at a previously unattained speed in order to keep up. She’s not much amused that you managed to do so, but you made it to the kitchen.
She scans the kitchen, apparently in search of something, and asks you if you have any idea how strong her legs are. You say no, but that you’d guess they were very strong indeed. She says you’re right, that she could easily kill you with them, which you already had accurately suspected. She tells you then to lift her skirt up over her big seriously powerful ass and to move close, very close, within one inch and no closer, and to smell her. What you discover beneath that skirt was everything you thought it was and more. Sheer beauty, power, sex, intimidation, the most devastating body you’ve ever imagined. She points enticingly to a particular point along the delicious circumference off her ass cheek. You inhale deeply, then exhale quickly so as to inhale again asap. When you exhale, she gets upset. She says not to breath on her leg and calls you a stupid fuck and a dip-shit. She turns half way around and slaps your face, really hard. It hurt like hell, but you keep your cool. You correct your technique. Inhale deeply, exhale downward through your nose. None gets on her that way. She’s checking you out, looking bawdily down at you from over her shoulder. It’s so fucking sexy. And the scent of her sizzling flesh! It’s otherworldly, exotic; the perfect blend of the pure smell of her body and whatever magic potion of a perfume she’s got on. You’re right there. Within a goddamn inch. It’s really jacking you up now. You start to get hot, really hot. You’re traveling quickly and noticeably into deeper levels as a result of this little task she’s entrusted to you.
She knows exactly where you are in head, heart, internals; she’s got meters that gauge all of it; can define your arousal level by factors and down to the decimal point. She steps away from you, keeping the dress up around her waist and turns to face you. Now you get the fronts of those monstrous legs and you quiver a little extra shimmy at the sight from that angle while she lets out a witchy little two-syllable giggle that scares the living bejeezus out of you. It’s all downhill now. Worship her thighs, she says. Oh god. You know what that means to you, but what if she means something different. You go into prayer mode while she shifts her weight from one leg to the other, indescribable jostling of power-flesh and right in your face. Wouldn’t you like to kiss the inner thigh, she asks, the outer thigh, or shove your nose straight in, directly between the mammoth columns, and penetrate—just slightly—the lips of that magnificent cunt? You can smell it, along with the elegant perfume. She’s already wet. You see it darkening the lace white thong bottom and you’re at the end of rationality. No. You just slipped beyond it.
Because you’ve now opted to start moaning and whimpering (quietly, but uncontrollably) she has pronounced you unworthy. She informs you that the jig is up, time to face the music, pay the piper, take your medicine, accept your sad and sorry fate, your destiny. The tears almost come, but somehow they don’t. Then, wonder of wonders, she informs you that there is one way out, a chance—one chance only—for redemption. Now you discover what she seemed to be searching for when you first entered the kitchen. The trash canister you keep by the back door. You have a moment of relief knowing that whatever she has in mind, at least you had the foresight to take out the trash before bringing your date into the house. She checks it, and then pulls her skirt back down into position. She says Let’s go, but you don’t know to where. She tells you it’s out to the trash; Where do you keep the trash? is what she asks you. You say that it’s in the garage until trash day, which isn’t till Tuesday. Since you parked in the driveway, she asks if there’s another car in the garage. You say no. Then she asks if you only have the one car. You say yes, and she tells you that you must be a real loser if you only have one car. You don’t know what to do or say, so you just nod tearfully. She asks if you’re sure the garage door is closed, that we’re not going outside. You say yes, and she tells you to watch this. She artfully pulls the dress up over her head and off, revealing her gigantic breasts, which are popping out of her lace white bra in a sierra grande of cleavage. Now, you sense impending doom. The sight of her in her bra and panties, those ultra-high high heels and gorgeous, shapely flesh everywhere takes it into the next level of ‘deep.’ It’s dark down here and you’ve never had to find your way before.
Again, she tells you Let’s go and she goes with you just like she is into the garage. She asks how bright it goes in here and to turn on all the lights. You do, but it’s not super-bright. She says Show me the trash, and you take her over to it. She makes you open it and pull out the fullest bag and then to open that and show her what’s inside. There’s a lot of paper stuff and some food remnants. That’s about it. She tells you to take out the next one. Not quite what she’s looking for. One more; not right either. You get to the last one. It’s fucking ripe. Nearly a week old and pretty gross. Food, coffee grounds, egg shells, funky cheese dip that wasn’t finished, various other clean-ups and remains of macaroni, sauces, and—just your luck—some bad potato salad that you just knew you should have put down the garbage disposal. But you didn’t. All in all, pretty fucking disgusting. She tells you to drag it over by the workbench where the light is brightest. You do not have a good feeling about THIS. But god, just look at her. You’d be her slave forever, if only…
Down on your knees now, she says, and while you get down there, perched over the fetid, gag-worthy stench of week-old garbage, she’s looking around. There, in the corner, your brooms, mops, buckets, dustpans, all the good stuff for the cleaning lady. She slinks over there, her unfathomable movements like Hiroshima---BOOM! Nagasaki---BOOM! She finds a mop handle and it’s just what she was looking for. She tests it a few times, smacking it into the palm of her left hand. Nice and sturdy. Now the insanity of watching her walk back toward you. She is beginning to take on the qualities of some sort of fabulous, delicious monster, a freaky sexed-out Godzilla. She’s SO HOT! SO TERRIFYING! She returns with the mop handle and stands over you looking down at the bag. With the mop handle she points to a parcel of sludge in the garbage bag. Eat it, she says. You only hesitate for a millisecond, being sure your brain processed the order. She smacks you hard with the mop handle, upside the head. She says you are being insolent and orders you to stand up and take off your clothes. Trembling, you stand up and start to strip. You’re pretty much a nervous wreck by now and as you bend down to untie your shoes, your fingers fumble at the laces and you end up with a knot, which won’t come undone. The mop handle comes down across your back. Definitely gets your attention. You rip the shoes off without untying them, and cast off the socks in two quick, fluid motions. Then you go for the pants but you can’t seem to get the buttoning to cooperate. Another smack, this time on your shaky hands. Smarts like a bitch on your knuckles. You speed it up, practically tearing them off. Then the shirt. No problems here as you somehow manage the buttons properly while staring at the devastating body that stands before you. A flick of the underwear and you’re done. Naked as ordered.
Then she tells you to get down to the bag again and eat the mush of garbage she had pointed to. She taps the mop handle at the spot just to make sure you didn’t misunderstand. Away you go. You never thought this would be in the cards for you. It’s pretty sickening, but you munch heartily, seeing only her chubby, but surprisingly delicate bare feet in those fabulous high heels maybe a foot from your face. Then she makes you look up at her while you’re chewing because she doesn’t want you cheating. You’re to swallow every last bite. After you finish off that little section, she stirs around with the mop handle and points to another glob. This one’s got the eggshells, rotted yoke, and god-knows what else. You go for it, and your stomach begins to rebel. You keep chewing, looking up at her massive legs rising above you like Towers of Babel. She stomps one leg down in place, causing her leg flesh to spasm delightfully and she laughs as you struggle to handle it. You’re also struggling to keep from heaving, but you finish the round. There’s more. She points again, and this is a large blob containing the bad potato salad, spoiled dressing, filthy paper towels that cleaned up you know not what, and salad remains that are rotten through and through—pure compost. You’re on it, but this isn’t going to work out. You pause and she cracks you across the face with the mop handle. She says don’t you dare stop or else and you go for more. You manage two more bites…it’s getting so hard. You hear her demonic laughter, driving you to untold heights of arousal. You feel your cock growing huge, growing sticky. She pokes at it with that mop handle and laughs again. She’s the devil in female form. Satan in skyscraper heels. You know this. You try another bite and that’s it. You hurl helplessly down into the bag.
She is exceedingly angry at this development. She throws down the mop handle, reaches down to take you violently by the hair and shoves your face down into the whole mess and holds it there. Then she tells you to eat it. The vomit first, THEN back to the trash. That we’re not leaving this garage until you do what you’re told. She’s bent over you, shoving your face down into that muck. She’s ordering you now in a super-pissed-off kind of voice to Eat it, goddammit. Eat every bit of it. You’re slurping some of that puke, terrified out of your wits now because it’s coming again and there’s nothing you can do. You hurl again/She gets pissed/She slaps you, punches you in the face—hard, punishing fists, and blasts you in the head and abdomen with fierce knee bashes from those mammoth pistons that are her legs. How did it come to this? You think that for just a second before she pulls your poor head up again by the hair, jerks it into position right in front of her thighs and watches you flip & flop like a mackerel at the sight of them. Big, fat, beautiful woman beating the living shit out of you and you’re about ready to cum the un-dreamable cum. If this is where you go down, you decide it’s fine. You make your peace with death by huge, beautiful vixen. She fires an explosion of a knee lift into your gut. It feels like a medieval battering ram and it’s just about as big. It doubles you over like a cheap wallet and you throw up again—violently. She stands over you, calling you a worthless, dumb-fuck slug and laughing that hellish laugh again as you convulse on the ground.
Then, she informs you that it’s not over yet, that you’ve been a miserably willful and disobedient piece of shit, and that she’s going to teach you one final lesson. She drags you, cave woman style by the hair, across the floor of the garage back near the trash bag and the foul mixture within. She tells you to roll over onto your back. She has to help you because you can’t do it on your own, so badly have you been beaten already. She says to stay put but to keep your eyes on her. She walks over to another corner and you try to scream out from watching her walk but you can’t because she knocked the fucking wind out of you before and you’re still heaving, gasping for breath. She comes back with a garden shovel, and you know exactly what’s coming. She bends over you and shovels up a mouthful of funk from the garbage bag and tells you to open wide. Crying now, you obey. She shovels it into your mouth and commands you to chew and then to swallow. God knows what will happen now. You try to chew but you’re choking and you’re not going to be able to swallow. You start to spit some of the garbage out, but she steps down onto your face, covering your mouth with the sole of her high-heeled foot. Still, you can’t keep it down and some forces its way out. Then, the unthinkable. She steps across your body and stands directly above your head. All you can see are giant pillars of leg with an ass the size of Jupiter hovering above them. Terrified, tyrannized, beaten and battered, you begin to pray.
She explains to you that you are finished, and reiterates the fact that you are a living pile of shit without value or merit. She says that the kindest thing she could do for you would be to kill you. But, she says, she’s not in the mood for kindness. With that, she slides her thong bottom down and slips it over one foot at a time; sensually, so enticingly. Your dick is a monster in its own right, a pre-cum geyser right about now, pumping its steady currents onto your stomach. She squats down right over your face and commands you to open wide.
You do, even as you’re still gagging on garbage. With the aim of a seasoned pro, she pisses directly into your mouth. She tells you it’ll help wash down the garbage. She also admonishes you to drink down every last drop. Before that happens though, it overflows onto your face. She giggles hysterically at your humiliation, your complete subjection to her will. She then stands up over you again and reaches down into the bag with that shovel, bringing out another load of compost. She says Open Sesame and shovels it into your mouth. She says chew and swallow. Chew and swallow. You struggle harder. Crying, gagging, convulsing, begging incoherently. She squats down again (the very motions of standing and squatting over you have you ready to explode, but you fear making any effort to jerk off without her permission) and orders you to open wide. Somehow you do, and this time, o god, she takes a huge shit into your mouth. She says she hopes she doesn’t overflow her toilet but that she’s been known to. She asks if you’re a good little toilet, but your mind has just snapped. The smell, the taste of shit; it makes your whole being recoil, and yet you're infatuated with it, adoring of it, longing to swallow it all down, to make every last drop of it yours...because it is hers. You’re far too busy gagging, trying to swallow, and moaning in some weird combination of bliss and agony to indicate an answer. This makes her mad and she shits more down onto your face. She insists that you answer whether you’re a good little toilet and didn't her shit taste terrific? You moan something completely formless, something pre-historic, something pre-language. She gets a serious kick out of that and laughs her ass off.
It takes a while, but you eventually swallow all the shit and piss, though you throw up a few more times in the process and suffer more of her extraordinary wrath each time. When you’ve finally finished, she informs you that you have to clean her, that you must lick her ass clean, perfectly clean. She pulls you up by the hair into a squatting position on your knees in order to perform this task, and while you’re licking away you are commanded to wrap your arms around her and to be feeling her legs all over during the entire process. The combination of having your face jammed into her ass and feeling the indescribably electricity of her leg flesh at the same time quickly makes you explode with a turbulent orgasm, which she also finds entertaining. It takes a while, but at length you finish a perfect job of cleaning her ass, and she tosses you aside like an oily rag. You’re exhausted, battered, and sexually spent, but she has one more little gift for you before she leaves. She snatches you up by the hair and punishes you with severe knee bashes to the face, head, and gut until you slump to the floor, unconscious. She then dumps the whole bag of garbage and vomit onto your face, goes back into the house, dresses and leaves.
You regain consciousness a bit later, wipe as much of the garbage off of you as possible, and drag yourself into the kitchen. You've seen better days. Your whole body is a house of pain, and your face looks like a truck ran over it. You collapse on the living room sofa where you remain until morning. When you awaken the next day, your mind will not attach itself to anything but last night. You can think of nothing but her. You go through each moment of the evening in your mind. Over and over. Then you begin to count the cost. It was high, for your station in life at any rate. All together, you figure it cost you a shade over $3000.00 to be treated to a near-death experience. Then the thought goes through your mind that if only she would agree to see you again.
I hear the sounds of your movements. Nearby. A room? A forgotten, dark hallway? Heavy sounds. The sounds of a monster. Something huge, something omnipotent, an embodied universe. Moving. Closer.
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