It was hidden under her engorged stomach. Even the pubic hairs were hidden from view. And her bosom. Perhaps the only part of her that was built to the proportions a man was supposed to like. Huge armfuls, which she had difficulty folding her arms over. Or under, for that matter. Her nipples, or at least the dark brown areola around them, were larger than her vagina. Each one almost the size of her face. But unlike the huge-breasted women of male fantasy, her bosom rested on an even larger stomach. Fatima twirled around on her toes. Sometimes she found it a burden to even support her own weight. She turned her neck round to regard her buttocks, or their reflection in the mirror. Also huge. Also plump. Maybe they were designed to be comfortable to sit on, but not when squeezed into the narrow confines of a seat in a car, a train, a bus, or, worst of all, an aeroplane. And yet, despite her plumpness, she had a date. With a man. Or at least, she thought so. When she’d left Freddy last. In fact, she almost seemed a little scared. “Relax, I have no intentions of forcing myself on you. In fact, if you want me to leave, I’ll go right now,” I said. Then grabbing her hair and pulling her face closer to mine, “but I don’t think that’s what you want.” “Oh fine,” she finally growled, returning to her previous state of mind. “I guess it’s only fair that my play thing get at least something in return. But make it quick. I’m already getting bored with this.” Plaything? Is that was I was? Is that what we were calling this whole deal? Fuck it. I didn’t care. I had no illusions of relationships with this woman. She wanted to use me to get off, and that was fine with me. If those were to be the rules, we were both clear on them. I was standing over her now as she still lay back on her desk. We paused for a moment, the sound of the rain and approaching thunder filling the void left by her moans. Without warning, I grabbed her shirt and ripped it open sending buttons flying in.
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