Tending to My Fat Mom Ch. 06

[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.