Mrs. Partridge

"... What do we have to choose, then? Heaviness or lightness? This is the problem. One thing was certain: the opposition heavy-light is the most mysterious and most ambiguous of all opposition. "
Milan Kundera

     Mrs. Partridge had been the cause, in a completely unintentional way, of my first sexual arousal.

I must have been at the end of my childhood when she and her husband came to live next to our house. I met her for the first time on a Sunday afternoon, while she was unloading the moving boxes on their driveway; she greeted me with a friendly smile, and began to go back and forth carrying her things into the house.

She was a mature lady, at least to my young boy’s eyes, although with hindsight she was probably then in her thirties. She meant nothing special to me – she was  just a woman like any other, as insignificant in my life as all my mother's friends. Compared to them she was perhaps a little more meaty. Not fat, just rounded. She often wore tight jeans, with her hips so filling them to capacity that I  had to wonder how she managed to get into them.

She meant nothing special to me, that is, until one early summer afternoon I saw her sunbathing in the back yard of their home, on her back. She was lying on a lawn-chair, wearing a red bikini embroidered with flowers; she held a magazine, resting it on her slightly flexed legs, and her relaxed body was a true revelation to me. She was round, everywhere. Strong and muscular legs, a small but pronounced pot-belly, and – especially -  two huge boobs. Or at least huge to me - at the time I had never seen  a pair of breasts that big. As I watched secretly from the window of my bedroom, I wondered how it was that I hadn’t realize earlier that she was extraordinarily beautiful. She inspired ... inspired in me something, I did not know exactly what, at the time ... a kind of physical attraction, thoughts of touching her, massaging those massive thighs, feeling the texture of those soft, round arms ...

Each of us probably has a vivid memory of the first image  that caused symptoms of stiffening in our nether regions, and this was mine - Mrs. Partridge lying blissfully in the sun.

Every day that summer, just after lunch I would run up to my room and make sure that she was still there, still stimulating those weird feelings I felt inside. I admired her when she was on her belly, with those swelling buttocks rising up, and her calves and feet raised and crossed at the ankles; I admired her when she was on her back, with one arm folded under her neck; and I partiucalrly admired her when she would lie on her side and her fat breasts spilled out in front of her, settling down heavily one atop the other. I would spend hours looking at her, staying there until she got a phone call and had to go back inside or, in more fortunate cases, later until the shadow of the trees in her garden crept up and covered the patio. After that first day, every little wave that  she dispensed to me when I saw her, became a source of indescribable joy. I seriously thought that I was in love with her.

Unfortunately, that happy period of my life lasted only a few months. Her husband was in the military, US Navy I think, and one day we learned that he had died in an accident somewhere in the Pacific. Mrs. Partridge moved, and with that my first sexual fantasies came to an end. I didn’t see her for years, and her memory faded in my mind, replaced by other images, other women, other stories. Until that day, at WalMart.

     I did not recognize her immediately. I noticed her, of course, because you couldn’t help but notice her. She was pushing a shopping cart overflowing with groceries. Gallons of carbonated beverages, cans of chocolate milk, frozen foods, family-size packages of donuts. And she ... well, she was very bloated. She looked like a pachyderm moving slowly through the aisles. From behind, her figure completely hid the shopping cart. I remember that she was so big that she couldn’t get through the cashier’s aisle - she had to put everything on the counter, walk around all the check-out lines, and go to the end of the aisle where she could reach her food and pile it back in her cart – this delay an obvious annoyance to the other customers.

It was she, who knows how, who recognized me, as I was starting out to the parking lot. 

"But … you're Jason, aren’t you? Mrs. Smith’s son?"  I turned toward this voice, not knowing what to expect, and I recognized her. Her now round and chubby face still had that lively look, those blue eyes framed by long, dark eyelashes.

"Mrs. Partridge? Is that you?"

"Of course it is!" she said, smiling. “You’re looking fit and well! And you've become a nice big guy; how old are you now?"

"Twenty-five, Mrs. Partridge ... and you look in good shape."

"Yes, good big shape, I would say." She laughed. I suddenly felt embarrassed. I said the first thing, obviously the most stupid, that crossed my mind.

"You did a lot of shopping. Must  be for a large family." She looked at the cart.

"Oh, this is just the first load - now I’m gonna go back for the second. So I don’t have to come to the WalMart every day. Anyway, I live alone." Her tone of voice grew heavy.

"After Martin’s death ... I haven’t thought about starting a new family." We stood a few moments in silence, facing each other.

"But I'm fine, thank God. And you, what are you doing with your life?"

"Well, not so much at the moment." I was toying with my keychain; I don’t know if she was noticing, but I couldn’t help glancing from time to time at her figure. She was tall, taller than I remembered, maybe five ten, but her blowsy fleshiness made her seem even bigger. She wore a large sundress with straps, from which protruded two rounded shoulders, and arms as big as loaves; her hands seemed excessively small in comparison, like those of a child. Her breasts had grown dramatically, bulking out to the size of two large watermelons, and from the dress, below her knees, swelled two calves twice as wide as my thighs. But what left me speechless in amazement were her hips – those hips that were so wide she couldn’t fit through the checkout aisle, up close were even larger, so wide you couldn’t believe they were real. Her whole body was full, cushioned everywhere with fat. No sign of bones; the clavicles had disappeared, the elbows were just two small hollows in her arms.

  I was amazed. From the size of her huge body, and from the change that she had undergone in those thirteen years. Yet, somehow, immediately, back to my mind came the same gut feeling of excitement I felt as a kid, seeing her lying in the sun. Her smile was still causing a strong, pleasant churning in my stomach.

  I repeated myself absently, "Well, not so much for now. I'm a delivery boy for a pizzeria, the past couple of months. I’m waiting for better times, let’s say."

"So, you do home deliveries?"

"That's right, Mrs. Partridge. I drive  around the city with a van and take the pizzas to people's houses." I looked at her overflowing cart.

"By the way, ours are a lot better."

"What, sorry?" She looked puzzled. I laughed, and pointed to the stack of frozen pizzas about to fall out of her cart.

"I said that our pizzas are very good, much better than these. Ours arrives hot and steaming, just like straight out of the oven."

"Well, then you have to give me your phone number,  I absolutely love pizza."

I returned her smile. "Really glad to do it! Indeed, if the lady permits, I would be honored to offer  you the first one on the house." She laughed uproariously.

"Yes, with one pizza ... but out of curiosity, when you finish the deliveries, don’t you have any unsold pizzas?"

"Always - people who aren’t at home, fucking prank phone calls, people that can’t find the money to pay me ..."

"Then let’s make a deal! I leave you my phone number and my address, and when you have finished your route, you call me and I'll pay you half price for all the pizzas you have left. What do you think?"

"That’s a great idea, Mrs. Partridge. But the first round is on me, gladly offered, anyway. "

"Well, it’s a deal." She opened the car, a big expensive SUV, and from the instrument panel she took pen and paper. She wrote down her address and phone number and handed it to me, holding out her right hand simultaneously. I shook her warm, soft hand in a friendly way. Her grip was firm and strong, and she held my hand in hers for a long moment, looking into my eyes.

"I highly recommend it, Jason ... I’m depending on you. Even tonight, if you want. "

"Certainly, Mrs. Partridge. See you tonight, then.” I waved, standing stock-still, and watched her lumbering  slowly towards the entrance of the store. I read the address: 31 Alcott Drive.

I really hadn’t even thought for a moment of going to her at the end of the evening and giving her all the leftover pizzas. After six hours spent driving all over the city, I was going to go home, have a good shower, and call Barbara and ask if she wanted some company for the night.

Yet, as I cruised the streets in search of customers' addresses, the thought of Mrs. Partridge grew in my head until it became an obsession. I began to imagine her lying on the couch, maybe with nothing but a simple slip on, smiling as usual. The more I thought about her, I almost felt a strange shiver coursing through my body. And after midnight, the thought I was trying to drive from my head had become a certainty - I dropped off the last delivery and headed south, across town.
She lived in a residential neighborhood - many houses all the same, as small as those in which I used to live as a boy. I got out of the van, took the cartons and walked up the driveway toward the front door. I rang, realizing in that moment that I had not even given her notice of my impending arrival with a phone call.

"Come on in, the door is open." I walked into a small entranceway, and from there to the living room that opened to my right side. She was in the living room, half-reclining on a giant couch, almost a double bed with a backrest. She wasn’t wearing a petticoat, as I had imagined, but a large black robe. She was a big shapeless figure, lying on a big couch. The television was on, and the coffee table in front of her was filled with cartons from a Chinese takeout. I smiled in greeting.

"Put everything on the table with the rest of the food." She seemed very intent on what was showing on TV, so I entered the room and I obeyed. I looked around - to my left was a large adjoining kitchen, where I stacked the boxes of pizza.

"You shouldn’t leave the door open at this hour of night, Mrs. Partridge."

She responded to me without taking her eyes off the screen.

"Oh, but people don’t know that it’s open."

"Yeah, but it could have been somebody else instead of me. I didn’t even  tell you that I was coming."

"I have some experience about home delivery hours. And I knew you'd come."

"You knew?" Only then did she look up at me.

"Sure. I have always had the impression that you’re a good boy." She slowly stood up,  using her arms to help push her huge body off the couch, and came over to me. She looked at the stacked boxes.

"So, how did it go tonight?"

"Poorly. At least from my point of view. Eight pizzas left."

"And they charge them to you?"

"Oh, no way! Usually I bring them back to the shop and the next day they warm them up in the oven and we deliver them as if they were just made ... Although I probably shouldn’t say that."

She began to open the boxes, as I stood motionless with my arms folded.

"Cheese, tomato, cheese, mushroom, cheese ... not very tasty. Let's see if I have something to make them a little more appetizing." She opened a huge refrigerator and pulled out a one-pound jar of salsa and a tray filled with thick slices of salami. Then she took a large plate, and started to stack the pizzas one on top of the other, and threw in between them whatever she could find in the icebox. She made a pretty big pie, almost a half foot high, put everything in the microwave, and in a couple of minutes  she served it on the table. With a large knife she cut it into eight parts, and then stood there, hands on hips, satisfied with her artwork.

"Ya, should be okay like this. Did you eat, Jason?"

"Yes, Mrs. Partridge, I did already." She waved a hand toward the kitchen.

"Well, at least drink something with me. There must be some beer in the icebox." I took two bottles and put them on the table. We sat facing each other; I poured the beer into two glasses, and then started to observe her.

She started to eat the first stack of slices, and ate it all in less than a minute. She was moving her jaws really slowly, so that she didn’t even seem to chew the food - she would gulp a slice and then down half a glass of beer. I wanted to say something, just to break the silence of those minutes, but I was enchanted to see her eat all that gooey food so fast. Just  like the sensation, disgusting and mesmerizing at the same time, that you feel while seeing a snake swallowing a mouse. And, anyway, she didn’t seem interested in any kind of conversation; she was totally dedicated to gorging herself with everything on the plate. And she did it in just over five minutes. Only then did she lean back in her chair and look up at me. I smiled, satisfied that she could read the wonder in my eyes.

"Well, the pizza was really good. It could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship." I smiled back at her.

"I told you. If you like, I can also pass by every night. Maybe not always at eight." She didn’t answer, still staring at me with those piercing blue eyes, and I was starting to feel that strange feeling that I had in my stomach that same  morning.

"You’ve really become a nice guy, Jason. Do you play any sports?"

"I go to the gym from time to time," I said. "I used to play baseball at college, quite well, but now I have no time. Just some friendly matches with my mates on the weekend ..." She kept looking at me, nodding her head.

"And you, Mrs. Partridge, what do you do in life?"

She laughed suddenly.

"What am I doing? Do you really want to know?"

"Sure I’d like to." She threw her arms up stretching and yawning, put her hand to her mouth to stifle a burp, before answering.

"I do ... I entertain men." She continued to giggle as she said that, and it struck me as rather strange. I repeated her last words, like a perfect idiot.

"Entertain men?"

"Yeah. Entertain men. They really enjoy it a lot." I looked at her quizzically, still not understanding.

"You mean, you do some the kind of comedy shows?" Then she burst into a laugh that seemed to never end. Eventually she regained her composure.

"You are really funny, Jason. Yes, I do shows." She stayed silent for a moment, then she said: "Do you want me to show you?" I nodded my head; I honestly didn’t know what to expect. She leaned over the table, holding her hands out.

"Okay, give me your right hand and close your eyes.”

 I did as she asked ... I felt her hands on mine, massaging the palm as she spoke softly.

"What do you weigh, Jason?"

"About one - seventy, Mrs. Partridge."

"Well. So, not even close to a third of what I weigh. I bet you couldn’t imagine a woman so gigantically fat, could you? Now, usually my show begins like this. Please, do not open your eyes until I tell you." I felt the table drawer open, and a slight metallic noise; then something cold was clasped around my wrist, with an audible snap. I couldn’t resist and looked at Mrs. Partridge, who was tightening the other half of the handcuffs on her left wrist.

"What are you doing?"

She gave me a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but certainly did not have that effect. Not that I was afraid, but the situation had become at once strange and disturbing.

"Maybe I better go. I have to return the van, and I'm already late," I said.

"Oh no, dear Jason - when you start the show, then you have to enjoy it until the end. Come on, stand up." Mrs. Partridge got up, turning slowly around the table. She stopped laughing, and the tone of her voice had suddenly changed. When she saw that I wasn’t moving at all, she gave me a yank that almost dislocated my shoulder.

"Come on, Jason!  If you cooperate, it will be a lot more fun." When she saw I didn’t obey she simply went to the couch, and I literally fell off the chair. She dragged me over, without any apparent effort, to the foot of the couch, with the same ease with which she would take a dog for a walk. I managed to say something.

"Look, Mrs. Partridge; this kind of thing doesn’t make me laugh at all!"

She answered in a flat tone, not even looking at me. She had picked up the remote and turned off the TV.

"I did not say that it was to make you laugh; I said it's funny." With another couple of jerks she invited me to get up.

"Come on, drop your pants."

"What?"

She snorted.

"Jason, you're a nice guy, but I remembered you as a little smarter. Pull your pants and underwear off and sit on the bed, quickly." I obeyed. She took a look between my legs. She seemed satisfied.

"You see? In the end,  you’re finding it pretty funny, too." In fact, my dick, without my permission, had become stiff as a piece of wood. I looked up and saw that she was undoing the knot that tied the robe over her left shoulder; the robe fell down, and I admired, completely paralyzed, her naked body, in front of me. She was immense. Seeing her dressed had given me no idea of how enormously obese she was. Her hips completely covered the 45-inch TV screen. Her belly was as big as a barrel, so huge and sprawling that it covered part of her thighs; and resting on top of her gross belly, those enormous breasts, two mountains of shiny white flesh, topped by two huge areolae and pink nipples barely noticeable on the acres of breastflesh. I couldn’t even lift one of those blimp-tits with both hands, I thought.

But the impression Mrs. Partridge gave wasn’t of a flabby body, indeed; it brought to my mind a Japanese Sumo wrestler, giant, massive and compact.

"At this point, I usually garner a lot of compliments from my audience, Jason." I was amazed:  both at the sheer size of her, and from the fact that I felt as excited as when I was a little boy. It seemed to me that it made no sense to be so excited when confronted with such a spectacle, but it was the truth. She probably didn’t like my silence, because she gave me a slap on the chest, slamming my body back onto the sofa. Then I saw her grunt and put one knee on the pillows,  to lift a big leg up high over my head, and straddle my chest, presenting her back to me. Every movement she made was slow and measured, like an elephant. She sat on me, and her colossal buttocks rested on my body, making me feel all her weight. She repeated the question with a more demanding tone.

"So, Jason: you don’t have anything to say? You don’t like my body? "

"It ... yes, I like it," I said hesitantly.

"I don’t feel you’re convinced, Jason. I must confess I’m a little touchy, and I don’t like not being appreciated for what I am."

She leaned her hands on my thighs, rose slightly and moved her pelvis over to my head, then settled down again; my face was covered by the wide sprawl of her enormous buttocks. At that point I couldn’t see or hear anything, just feel her incredible weight on me. I tried to breathe, but I was completely buried under her flesh - after a period of time that seemed endless to me, she stood up. I breathed heavily, like a man who emerges from the depths of the sea. I tried to arch my back, wriggling, but any effort was useless: her six hundred pounds would not be moved except when she decided to move it.

"So, Jason?"

I answered as fast as I could.

"Yes ... Mrs. Partridge, I can’t breathe down here, Iprayyouiamchok ..." I was again overwhelmed by her buttocks, big and heavy as boulders. This time the apnea lasted much longer, and I thought seriously I wasn’t going to get out alive. When she got up I was panting like a bellows.

"Now I'll let you feel how it is to be buried under a six-hundred-and-fifty-pound woman ... " She leaned forward, and completely covered my body - her swollen belly lying  on my chest, her huge breasts on my thighs. I felt her expanding over me, like a warm and heavy gelatinous mass. I would have breathed in, if only I could move my chest, but her weight was crushing me like a walnut.

Yet, despite the pain I was feeling in every joint in my body ... the warmth and softness of her flesh, the scent of her skin was incredibly exciting. She got on her knees, lifting her pelvis and letting me breathe.

I heard her say: "Well, I know you loved to look at my body while I was sunbathing in the backyard. Isn’t that true, Jason?"

"But … I really don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Partridge."

"Tsk tsk tsk, Jason, don’t make me angry at you." She settled on me once again, sinking her buttocks down on my body.

"So, wasn’t it true that you spent entire afternoons looking at me and touching your little dick?" I heard her voice muffled, as if coming from far away.

"Now I’m going to get up a little bit, and I want to hear you admit that you were crazy about my fat body, my big hanging titties, and my butt." She did ease some of her weight off me, and when I had enough breath to answer, I admitted it.

"You’re right, Mrs. Partridge! I was madly in love with you, I loved seeing you lying down,  smearing the cream on your body and polishing your nails!"

"Well done, Jason - I really appreciate sincerity in men. Now tell me honestly: Was I better then, or do you prefer me now?"

For a moment I thought my life  was going to depend on my answer. I had remained silent a moment too long, because the butt of Mrs. Partridge fell back on me, and stayed there until I felt my life force fail me. I struggled, like a hooked fish, but no way could I get out from under that avalanche of blubber. When I felt her weight ease up a little I breathed in quickly, and told her exactly what I was thinking in that moment.

"Mrs. Partridge, I beg you. At that time I was just a kid and this was the first real woman I had ever seen in a bathing suit, but I must honestly say that your body now is something incredible, unique and extraordinary. I love its weight, its strength, its softness, I love to feel the touch of your skin with every inch of my body. I would like to mount you, like I was climbing a mountain, and fuck you, and make you come up and scream for pleasure."

She got up, finally. She was on all fours over me with, her sagging belly resting on my body.

"Thank you, Jason. We women are very sensitive to compliments." Her voice had regained the sweet tone of the first part of the evening.

"Unfortunately, I can’t  satisfy you. I'm not a whore, I only entertain men ..." She got on her knees, took the key of the handcuffs from her necklace, and freed my wrist.

"But in honor of our newfound friendship, I'll leave you a souvenir." I heard her slam her fat, big breasts each against the other. The flesh against flesh produced a pop sound that was only a hint of the incredible heaviness of those gigantic udders. She wrapped them around my cock, and began to press them together, massaging each other as well as my cock . From beneath her body I couldn’t see, but what I was privileged to get in those few minutes was the best sexual experience of my life. I came, and streams of hot liquid gushed from the deep furrow of those mountains of soft flesh. At the end she rose, took a towel from a chair and threw it to me.

"Come on, clean yourself off, dress up, and get out of here. I have to take a shower." She had already put on her black robe.

"Yes, Mrs. Partridge." I nodded, but I didn’t know where to begin. I felt as if someone had run over my entire body with a truck. I finally managed to sit up, and then stand. I pulled on my pants and stood there in the middle of the living room. She looked at me, as if waiting for my wave of departure.

"Mrs. Partridge ... "

"Yes, Jason?"

"The pizza ... if you’d like, I can come around, from time to time ..."

"Of course, Jason. I would love it if you came around again."

"Okay, so maybe Saturday night." Then I added in a low voice: "Mrs. Partridge, I have never had an experience as exciting and engaging as the one I had this evening ... "

"You can come whenever you like, Jason. Of course, it's like for the pizzas - the first round is on the house. But I'm glad you enjoyed it. Come back and see me, okay?"

I went out into the darkness of the night, started the engine and left. I lowered my window and enjoyed the fresh air on my face. I felt euphoric. The first thought that came to me was Barbara; Saturday night we were going out to dinner, and then I was planning on ending up at her apartment.

I imagined Barbara above me, squirming her one hundred and ten pounds of lean and elegant poor body, with its small, round breasts and her waist that I could held between my two hands. This was not to be: Saturday night I had more serious things to do.

"Jason?"
"Barbara?"
"May I ask what happened to you last night? I called you for two hours!"
I was still in bed, completely exhausted and with no desire to get up. The tone of Barbara's voice brought me sharply to reality. Just what had I done the night before? Then, in an instant, everything came back to my mind. The problem now was, what could I come up with on the spur of the moment to tell her?
"Oh, honey, I'm sorry. I got off work tired, really worn out, and I didn't feel at all well. I should have called you, I know, but I just collapsed from exhaustion."
"Well? Not even a message? That didn't occur to you? And all the while I was here waiting?"
"Waiting? I don't remember ... we had a date? Because ... " Her voice was now hysterical as she  interrupted me.

"Look, fuck you, Jason! Call me when you've got your head straight!" Then there was a short silence.

"And just to make it clear, until you show some respect for me, don't let me see you around here. And don't call and ask me out for next Saturday, because I  already have a commitment, okay?"

It was typical of Barbara to end all her sentences with a question, for which of course no answer was required. So I just said  'okay', even though she had already hung up. I tried to get up, and pain all over my body immediately reminded me of what had happened the night before. Mrs. Partridge, her gross body, huge buttocks, the bulk of her monstrous breasts ... the mere thought of the fat woman stiffened up my equipment immediately. I needed a cold shower, and some serious reflection on what had happened. If nothing else, one problem was already solved - Saturday evening I was free as a bird. And clearly  I had to pay another visit to Mrs. Partridge.

While I dressed, I was trying to figure out why I wanted to see her again. In a sense I was puzzled by my reaction. I never in my life thought that I would have a sexual relationship with a woman of such colossal obesity - I was never attracted to fat girls, let alone enormously fat girls. In fact, when I saw a real circus-fat-lady obesity on the street, I almost felt a surge of compassion for any woman who had to lug around the burden of all that blubber. And if some circus fat lady had made a pass at me, I would have taken to my heels and run straight home. 

Yet last night, standing there in front of Mrs. Partridge, under the gaze of those blue eyes that seemed to read my thoughts ... it brought back vivid memories of a horny kid being teased by the young wife flaunting that big soft belly and those heavy, sagging breasts in her back yard. Her determination last night to get me and throw me on the couch, then squash me with her huge body so easily and casually, left me feeling completely overwhelmed.

Here was perhaps the thing that really excited me the most -  for half an hour I was completely subjugated to her will. She could do anything to myself or my body: I ​​could have been crushed, or easily suffocated to death, if she wanted. It was a unique feeling, and difficult to describe: her domination of me, the physical pain I had felt, the realization that I was completely subservient to her will. And in the end, the reward for my suffering – getting to enjoy her mountainous fleshy body, literally exciting me to orgasm.

I looked at the clock -  still ten minutes until I had to show up at the pizzeria and start my shift for the evening deliveries.

It was two days until Saturday evening, and in all honesty I must have spent at least thirty of the forty-eight hours thinking about her. Including nights. I could not get her out of my head, whatever I did.

Going through every moment of Wednesday  evening, as if it were a movie, trying to remember every detail ... And I lived in a state of constant, unrelieved arousal. In a sense it was good that I'd had the fight with Barbara, because some things did not escape her notice, and it wouldn't have been easy to invent justifications for my mood.

I even dreamed about Mrs. Partridge. Which was incredible, because I hadn't had an erotic dream in who knows how long. But this grossly fat mature woman appeared to me in my sleep. She was wearing the same red bikini with flowers that she had worn sunning herself many years before, only this bikini was ten or twenty sizes bigger on her body from back then. I approached her, aroused by the sight of that same fat, round stomach, as she lay there with her bellyflab wobbling under the warm sun ... I stood over her, looking down at her lying on her side with those impressive balloon-fat breasts lying in front of her. She said, "Well done, Jason, I knew you would come. Please lotion me. Climb up and rub the sunscreen in. Everywhere, I really want you to touch me all over.”. I obeyed, getting astride her huge buttocks, and while I massaged her flab, the woman's whole body seemed to expand, becoming bigger and bigger. In the dream I felt - more than excitement - rather a childlike wonder and happiness: I was riding a huge woman, who had reached the size of a giant elephant. "Enough, Jason, come down from up there and let me rest," she said and I obeyed, standing there next to her and admiring her sprawling flesh.

"Mrs. Partridge … "

"Yes, Jason?"

"I ... I want to make love to you ..." At that point she started to laugh, hearty  and loud, laughing to the point of tears, her entire body  jiggling,  every part of the huge form of her cushioned with several inches of soft fat that wobbled to her slightest motion. She stroked my arm, with a big hand three times the size of mine.

"But Jason, I'm not a whore. I just entertain men ... And then you're still young, Jason."

This time I made sure to call before I arrived. When the phone kept ringing I felt a growing concern that she was not at home. But then I heard that voice, soft and velvety.

"Hello, Jason. Half past midnight is fine. First I have to do a few things, but I'll be waiting then ... "

There were still a couple of hours and eight deliveries to go, but from that moment on it seemed that the time would never pass. I appeared in front of her door perhaps a little ahead of time and rang the bell.

"It's open!"

I went in, and when I saw her sprawled all over on the couch just as before, I was in seventh heaven. In fact, she seemed quite happy to see me again. Well, not unhappy - she continued to watch television while eating a whole doughnut cake laid on the table in front of her.

"Can I come in?" I said shyly.

"Sure, Jason, come right in. Go ahead and put everything in the kitchen. In fact, if you don't mind, go ahead and get the pizzas ready. You saw how I did it the other night, right?"

"Certainly, Mrs. Partridge." I got everything ready, getting the extras out of the icebox and stacking the pile of pizza; then putting them in the microwave to get hot. When the bell sounded I pulled the pizzas out of the microwave,  and cut the stack into eight parts.

"Oh, Jason, bring them over here to the table, please." She nodded her head at the TV. "I'm just crazy about this program." I cast an eye at the show she was watching - one of the most vulgar and sophomoric broadcasts on cable television. It was one of those cringe-inducing spectacles in which two women, surrounded by their families, husbands or lovers or both, fight it out live to settle a disagreement over some derelict boyfriend. She deigned to look at me only when they cut to an advertisement. And her eyes did not betray any emotion.
"So, how was your day?"

"Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Partridge. There weren't many pizzas, only six - so I thought I'd just bring to you a little present..." I had also stopped in at a drug store up the street, and bought the biggest box of chocolates  they had. She looked bored, then motioned me to give them to her.

"I hope you like them … they're vanilla ..." She began to unwrap the box, then opened it and emptied the contents into a big bowl in front of her. She unceremoniously took them by the handful, ten in her mouth at a time, gulping down each handful in only a few seconds – not much more than a minute for the entire box. Then came the pizza, and I sat silently in the chair in front of her. I was mesmerized by the scene, like the previous evening – watching her eat was a real show. And when she finished the snack, she finally looked at me, almost casually.

"And you, how was your day, Mrs. Partridge?" I hazarded. She stood up and went to the refrigerator, taking out a five-liter container of milk. She hoisted it with one hand, and took a long gulp. Swinging a heavy container around like that was not easy, even for me, and she noted my astonishment, and lowered the jug and asked: "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, it's just … that's a full five liters ..." She looked puzzled.

"What?"

"That's pretty heavy for a woman like you."

"You know what, Jason? People see how obese I am, and that I'm a woman, but you all forget that to carry around more than six hundred pounds, also takes muscle." She was coming towards me, with her slow, labored pace. "Put your hand out."

"What did you say?"

She snorted. "Take my right hand, and squeeze with all the strength you can."

I stood hesitating, but then did as I was ordered. I exerted a slight pressure, convinced that she would ask me to stop. But her only answer was to lift the container of milk and take another long drink. Then she lowered it to the table.

"I don't feel anything, Jason." I gripped harder and harder, until the tendons in my forearm were  taut cords. I looked straight at  her, and she was almost smiling. Then she herself began to squeeze: her fingers became a vice, and gradually I felt the pain grow  and grow to become unbearable. I broke out in a cold sweat; I didn't want to show the pain I was feeling, but it hurt like the devil. I finally had to give up.

"Okay, I know what you mean, Mrs. Partridge, I understand that you're a really strong ..."

"I'm not even trying, Jason, I can do better." She squeezed even more and the pain escalated to a thick throbbing, and then I heard her say, "Kneel." I obeyed without question. At that moment I was literally terrified of her. I looked up at her from below, and she seemed even more gigantic.

"How much money in your pocket, Jason?" I added up the evening’s take in my head, and answered, "About two hundred dollars, Mrs. Partridge."

"Take out the wallet and give it to me."

 I complied, taking longer with just the one free hand. She took my wallet and threw it on the table. She motioned to me to get up, then, with ease, put her arm between my legs and lifted me up in the air, dumping me on the couch.

"Tonight you do not need the handcuffs, right Jason?" I shook my head.

"Well. Then strip. In a hurry." I did as I was ordered. And then I was naked, lying on the couch. Mrs. Partridge had taken a rubber band from her wrist and was gathering her hair in a long ponytail. She looked at me, blankly, not seeming to feel the slightest emotion toward me. Then she spoke.

"So you'd like to fuck, you said the other night ... and make my pleasure mount, until I scream with pleasure." The sickness in my stomach had turned into a thrill at what I was going through; the thrill coursed throughout my body. My cock was hard and erect like a piece of wood, and there could be no doubt that I was as excited as an animal in heat.

"I ... I find you extremely attractive, Mrs. Partridge."

"Do not tell lies, Jason."

"No! That's what I really think."

"Bullshit. You'd never be able to repeat these words in front of anyone you know. You're a little hypocrite, like everyone else." She undid her robe and dropped it on the ground. Once again I was dumbfounded. Her body was a mountain of soft, pink, stretchmarked flesh. Her gigantic breasts swayed slowly, as she bent over the couch and started to straddle my chest.

I felt her weight on me, her warmth, her breath. From beneath her, those hugely oversized breasts looked like two giant dirigibles.

I gathered up the strength to speak: "Mrs. Partridge, I swear: you are beautiful, and I'll say that to anyone who wants to know." She seemed to not even be listening to me. She leaned forward and completely buried – submerged - my face in her overflowing belly. And again I experienced that feeling of fear and excitement brought to the breaking point. Her gross paunch was heavy, extremely heavy.

With both hands free this time, unlike the night before, I tried to lift her mammoth gut just a little.

"Be a good Jason. Keep your hands to yourself and I'll do you no harm. But if you make me angry …"

She casually leaned forward and let her enormous belly weigh on me just a fraction more, and  the pressure on me got even worse, making me groan in pain. My hands had sunk deep into her blubber, and I immediately pulled them out and began to whimper an apology.

"Bravo, I see that you understand! What's that, you have something to say? I think I hear something."

"Mrs. Partridge, please, go ahead and kill me with your weight if you want to, so long as this continues. I just want to touch you, keep stroking this incredible big, soft body of yours."

In response the fat woman grabbed the arm of the couch, heaving herself up and squatting right on my head. She hovered a moment, and I breathed deeply of the smell of her vagina just above me. In the midst of those huge thighs her sex seemed small and delicate, with just a little bit of hair around it. But immediately her pelvis descended, her sprawling thighs shook, and it was completely dark.

I heard her say, "Well, Jason … So let's make a pact. If you are so convinced of being able to make me feel something, prove it and I'll let you out alive from under me. Otherwise, you're just a small mediocre man, and I will not have pity on you. You would not be the first, you know? Now, you show Mrs. Partridge what you can do. Go ahead.” She laughed. “I'm so fat, and my belly is so big, I don't think I'll be able to get up unless you really excite me."

She had raised just a little, allowing me to breathe. I began to lick: sliding my tongue over those plump lips, following the contours of her labia. I was waiting for a reaction, but she just stayed squatting over me, still and motionless.

"Jason, I cannot hear you. And you would like to screw me, little baby? You think you're up to fucking one of the fattest women in town?" She squeezed her legs together and pressed down on my face. I was frightened to death, yet I continued to lap at her, trying to penetrate her with my tongue.

"You're doing noting more than tickling.”

I was out of breath, and out of energy. I thought seriously that she would crush the life out of me with  minimal effort, not exerting herself any more than needed to kill a puppy. Yet I continued to be excited: her vulva began to excrete sweet juices, to swell and expand. I found her clitoris, swollen and turgid, and squeezed it between my lips gently. Then I licked hungrily, with short poking tongue strokes, and finally I heard a response. I heard her moaning above me, starting out as a sigh but growing more pronounced, and this gave me the strength to continue.

She said nothing, but the movement of her pelvis made me realize that I was hearing animal grunts of passion. Then the wailing became a moan of pleasure, first whispered, then growing in intensity. She began to move faster over me, and the couch began to sway like a boat.

I was buried under more than a quarter-ton of fatty womanflesh, completely blind, and I never felt so helpless and defenseless. And yet, the confirmation of being able to excite Mrs. Partridge was so intoxicating that I felt myself to be the happiest man on earth. It was not just sexual fulfillment - it was the full satisfaction of my desire to make her orgasm and gain her recognition. The licking, like sucking a ripe fruit ... she began to sway and moan uncontrollably, her flaccid body jiggling and wobbling. Then her movements became more frenzied - I felt the couch actually move on the floor. I was in the throes of a unique force of nature - a woman who was enjoying herself while her huge body enveloped me completely, moving and writhing. I do not know what I would have paid, to be able to look at her face in that instant, to see what she was feeling. But my only thought at that time was lick, lick and suck all I could, with all the strength I had left in my body. Abruptly the fat woman squealed, let out a loud scream that tapered of with a choking sound … and that was the last thing I heard before I lost consciousness.

I still do not know what happened exactly on those three strange days of my life.

What was that irresistible attraction that I was moved by, when I saw Mrs. Partridge again? It was perhaps only the fortuitous and successful conclusion of a fantasy that I had had many years ago - the fulfillment of a forgotten dream? Or was it not rather something far more profound, something approaching the high and noble sentiment which is commonly called love?

I sensed then, in a confused way, without fully understanding it,  that my attraction to Mrs. Partridge was something primal. It was the devotion that you feel toward a person who is all-important to your fate, your emotions, your life itself. It was the desire we all have to be protected, cared for, reared. It was a sentiment which, come to think of it, only compares to the love of a son for his mother.

And yet the words she had said that night - that I would never have the courage to admit my feelings for her and her grossly obese body, in front of anybody I knew - hit me like a punch in the stomach.

Because that expressed her profound disillusionment in men, and also a deep truth.

I could not see Mrs Partridge's face or read her expression, but there was no doubt at that moment that my obsession with her physically, mentally and emotionally was absolute, and more intense than ever. My obsession was strong enough to make any other feelings I had ever had, minor and uninteresting. In those three days I would do anything for that woman, I would prostrate myself at her feet, I would allow myself to be totally humiliated in front of her, and I'd be happy if only I received a bit of gratitude in return. And instead she gave me much more - she had offered up her body and the most intimate parts of herself.

When I regained consciousness, I was staring at those blue eyes - those very  deep-blue eyes.

"You want to know why and how a woman gets to over six hundred pounds, don't you? You probably think I'm some poor middle-aged woman with a serious eating disorder, who can't control her appetite. But that's not it. I chose to be who I am." She patted the rolls of fat hanging around her waist.

"After the death of Martin, I  had several men in my life. Short affairs, tumultuous, often violent. And with every disappointment I felt increasingly inadequate: I thought myself incapable of having a serious relationship with anyone. I always loved food, and I had a nice potbelly even as a teenager, but now my appetite was out of control. I ate and ate and ate, and three years after Martin's death I was four hundred pounds, and my frustrations only added to my guilt over this body of mine getting fat so fast …"

She paused, perhaps undecided whether to continue, and finally resumed.

"Then one day a man approached me in a bar. He said I was an extraordinary woman, I had a great physique … nonsense like that. I told him to go to hell, but he persisted. Until I succumbed. The evening was nothing to brag about, but it made me realize one very important thing -  there are a lot of men who will do anything to get me into bed. And I'm content with that. " She sighed.

"Each of us needs to make sense of their lives, and this is mine. It may seem stupid or perverse - I don't know. But I decided to be who I am. A very, very fat woman who can provide men with excitement that no other kind of girl can match."

She looked at me one last time, smiling.

"It was great, Jason. Now take your wallet and get out of here. And don't come back."

I obeyed, of course.

I was deeply grateful to Mrs. Partridge, because she consciously chose to be what she was, and made me the gift of herself, and because - between lightness and heaviness – she chose heaviness.