Chapter 1 growing into the job
Floating here immobile in my pool, I can see that they have now well and truly got hold of
little Sis too. What will happen to her?
"She's big enough to look after herself", they used to tell me, back in Virginia. Oh God, its
just the opposite here in Dolores. Already she's gotten way too big to look after herself;
they've blown her up way past 500 pounds. She's giggling helplessly as they pour great
pitcher after pitcher down her gullet.
I have this vivid snapshot in my mind of how it all started. As I came out of the arrivals side of
Dolores little airport, I had gawped with amazement at three giggling women, two with butts
so huge they spread out back of them along the ground. "They're part of our Royal Family"
whispered the leader of my welcoming party. I had burst out laughing. It was too late to cover
my gaff, the women stopped their petting and jiggling of one another's backsides in delighted
greeting and turned to glare at me. As I left with my welcome party, out of the corner of my
eye, I saw one of the Royals point me out to one of the burly aides in white gloves who were
helping them turn around before slapping their vast bodies into motion out across the hall.
Now, completely filling my section of pool, at least the top layers of it, I remind myself of
those who "do cream and mantle like a standing pond" - a line from Shakespeare's Merchant
of Venice. This, you may remember, is a play about a pound of flesh, which is where
comparison gets swamped, for my flesh is measured in gallonage. If a wind eddy ripples my
surface, both aureolae and nipples can be driven across like water lilies. It is a nice tickly
sensation. I like it too when divers come and snuckle about deep down underneath me.
Already women come in the mornings and fill their buckets with me to carry away to make
Shlum, the national drink. The raw material they get from baling me out (and the rest of us in
the pools) is called Shlue, a glutinous oily liquid, like half set Jell-O. After they have added
other ingredients to it like sweet potato mash, coconut milk and honey etc., the result is a
creamy fermented kind of beer, best quaffed cool and fresh. Like everyone else in the
Dolores Islands, I got well and truly hooked on it; I must have sunk tankerfuls of it over the
past ten years. I learnt, perhaps too late, that it is the main driving force, shaping and
swelling this tiny island's vastly oversized population. The nation's people are made of
Shlum, and Shlum is made from the people themselves. It is a kind of immortality, the
biggest of each generation shaping the next.
The other derivative from buckets of Shlue, my Shlue, is a grease called Shlubber. This
made from drying out Shlue in shallow open air rock pans. It has two main uses I know of:
one is for rubbing into parts of the body one desires to enlarge, a kind of sexy body sculpture
aid, to keep the figure in balance as it swells. This is always great fun in the hands of new
lovers as they play out their fantasies on one another - within an hour or so the results are
there to see - then they dare one another to outdo the last application. It was also found to
be the base for some evil concentrates the Gut Buster gangs used in their Body Splurging
spray guns.
The other use I know about is more prosaic: a kind of building material, spread in several
thicknesses over sun dried sculpted mud walls and floors and then kept well oiled. It creates
a fleshlike soft lining to rooms, rendering furniture and beds unnecessary; very sensuous. I
have always loved wallowing around on the softly yielding contoured surfaces after a feast,
massaging myself and getting off against the Shlubber before dropping asleep, the breeze
gently wafting under the light palm thatch roof.
You can say I grew into this job. From girlhood in Newport Mews, I was always destined for
the navy. Once in the service, because I jutted in the right places, I got volunteered to act as
junior assistant to the high rankers on shore. You get the picture - it was straightforward
crude Lewinsky. At 160 pounds on a 5' 7" frame (38,26,38) I loved to bounce about in the
uniform, especially the starchy whites - I knew I had those freckled old guys clutching at their
pacemakers as I swung my hips around the corridors. After some sweaty summers in the
Pentagon, one hand inside a guy's flies, the other on his files, I got my first foreign
assignment
About as far from the sea as you can get in West Africa, a tight arsed Navy guy was running
a Jefferson Center, a multi-cultural resource library in a dusty caravan town up on the edge
of the Sahara. He expected me to play the bobby-sox secretary role. But the real job was
collecting info about Gaddafi. The serious work went on at weekends around a big pool
belonging to some trucking big shot. Important guys here were called "Big men" and carried it
all before them in huge yard deep guts and boy did they they like their women supersize too.
They wobbled about in wonderful embroidered silks. My favourites were outrageously tight
trouser suits that strained and quivered across 50 inch wide blubbery beachball backsides.
Such women vented their scorn on Westerners with "no bottom" who could not seduce men
when High Life dancing.
To stay in business, I filled out a bit to 44 hips and inhabited a swimming cos that was two
piece with a netting bit that connected top and bottom. That, together with a deep oily sun tan
and big sun glasses, got those fat guys clamouring around me like moths, when I lolled on
the lounger. They competed over feeding me choice morsels from the barbeque, garnished
with any scraps of Libyan info they knew would interest me. Occasionally I arose to make a
stately foray across to the pool ladder, rolling those hips real slow for them to savour. I would
display myself for a bit at the pool edge, then ease myself into the water for a lazy few breast
strokes. Someone always contrived to get their face sat on as I launched away from the
ladder. Heaving myself back out and shaking and wringing the water out of my long heavy
hair was another high, I enjoyed every eye watching the rivulets of water draining off my
breasts, midriff rolls and thick oily thighs. It was plain to everyone, I had blown that skinny
Navy guy right out of the water.
By the time I had built myself to 220 or so, I got flown back to Washington. At 30,000 feet I
sat back smiling as I traced across the expanded softness of my thighs with my fingers;
sunburnt stretch marks always turn me on. Nevertheless, I do remember airplane seats made
themselves noticeable on my derriere for the first time on this trip.
Obviously my figure showed the weight well. Eyeing me up and down, appreciatively, the old
Pentagon admiral leant into my cleavage, stroked my thigh and said, "My, oh my! They were
absolutely right! I am more than ever certain you are woman enough for the job." I was being
briefed on my very own station, a new Jeffersonian Center, within a tiny group of Polynesian
islets called the Dolores in the Western Pacific. "You see maam, they are all foodies down
there, generally carrying about 300 pounds, the king has gotten so big he has to be carried
about, but I am confident you will be able to hold your own." He went on: "we need a relaxed
presence, someone who will grow in the job. You know the Pacific is the big growth area of
the future and we want to stay with it. We expect you to spread the good news about the
American way of life and use our email procedures to report any dirt back about maritime
piracy that is becoming a problem right now in that region."
"Since that's about it, would you accept dinner from me tonight? I'd like to get you into
training for the new posting"
The salty old bastard had reserved a secluded hotel suite, where he just sat watching me
stuff plate after plate of room service fare down while he fingered himself. I lured him into the
action by getting him to loosen off the zip on my silk trouser suit bottoms gently between the
cheeks of my expanding but. Finally of course, we ended up naked across the bed with him
lying between my thighs massaging my great golden brown stomach and me groaning for all I
was worth like a fog warning in the Norfolk Roads.
Chapter 2 lard arsed fliers
After a week spent down in Florida staying with mum and sis, I flew out to Dolores, on four
successive flights via Hawaii.
Boy, was that a draining experience, especially the last four hour island-hopping leg in an old
pot bellied flying pig of a Russian turbo-prop, flown by Yuri, a droopy great bear of a man
wearing a kind of Snoopy flying helmet.
The Air Dolores departure desk had been easy to spot, enormous hampers of food were
being pushed or heaved by a crowd of spectacularly fat people bumping and jostling one
another, to claim the attention of a trio of supersizers bursting out of plum coloured aircrew
uniforms. Almost at random, people were identified and allowed through to check in. Before
boarding, Yuri had us all line up for weighing, one at a time, on an old aircargo balance
scale. It was just our body weight he wanted, he wasn't concerned with hand baggage.
People clustered around watching closely, patting one another and clapping at the weights. I
balanced out at 235 pounds, one of the lightest (Holy Shit! How had 15 pounds gotten stuffed
down my gut in Washington?). One of the busty Air Dolores staffers totalled us laboriously on
a calculator. Then, her tight skirt straining, she wobbled her way as fast as her ass would
permit, across the crowded hall to pass the passenger list and weights to Yuri. He called my
name and said "You sit by me, I like to talk American today. I don't want no fat asses getting
in my way."
Inside, the plane was padded out in what I later learnt was shlubber. It was soft, almost
skinlike, and smelt vaguely sickly sweet. We all just flopped down into it and the stewards,
now in their shirtsleeves, blouses gaping, leant over strapping in the more bulky passengers.
It was steamily hot, perspiration ran down my neck over my breasts and into my cleavage,
collecting in the new roll of fat across the top of my gut, I felt it flowing down into the cleft of
my ass; I longed to be airborne.
The seat belt signs went off as we flew out low and slow over the ocean. Immediately the
passengers started clamouring for service. The stewards undid a net holding back a great
stack of cartons, then struggled round, dumping three or four or more of these cartons of the
sticky Dolorean beer "Shlum", on each passenger. It was the first I time I had encountered
the brew, I asked Yuri whether he wanted one of my cartons and he snorted with contempt.
"I drink proper drink when I arrive, not this puke."
But the second officer accepted and stowed it under her seat.
Around me and at back, the Shlum poured down throats. Within about forty minutes the cabin
was reduced to a mass of inert slumbering lumps, the creamy substance continuing to trickle
across bodies and down into the shlubber under the fat flesh of snoring Doloreans. I glanced
back and the stewards were also out for the count, one draped over the great dome of a
sleeping passenger's paunch. It was one great orgy scene.
"You see American, that's why you talk to me; otherwise I sleep, we crash."
I said the only bit of Cold War Russian I remembered: "Ya paio y Yuri paiot" - "I sing and wee
Georgie sings also". Yuri roared and turned round and slapped and felt my thigh
appreciatively. "Bravo, now we eat !" He tossed rye bread and salami back to me and we
stuck in. Great doorsteps of sandwich were passed to and fro; I started into the Shlum to
wash it down. It wasn't half bad and I finished off a couple of quart cartons. He laughed and
said "you got to watch blubbering your cute little American ass with that muck. Look how my
second pilot snores over her gut, I stick to the coffee."
I awoke as we bounced down along a pitted runway, the stewards had squeezed themselves
back once more into their plum outfits, other passengers were stirring. Yuri turned, once the
second officer was taxiing the plane and said "You were no good American, you sleep, I
sleep, we all sleep, only old Anna Antonov she know the way to Dolores!"
We almost fell onto the ground in the dusk from the low slung wide double doors, overcome
by the wall of humid heat that met us. My gut felt tight and my head throbbed. That's when I
committed my gaff with the three fat Dolorean queens when stumbling out of customs.
Four people were waiting to welcome me: first, Carlo, a short fat Philippino guy, agent for
Kellogg's, Hershey and a whole collection of other US food corporations, who acts as a kind of
unofficial American Consul. He introduced a huge polished pear of a Government protocol
young man and two drivers: Carlo's and a government staffer. My gear got piled into the
Government people carrier and Carlo and I went in convoy with the other.
We had a drive of about 15 miles from the old World War II airfield at the south of the island,
Cape Butt, up to Dolores Town. The whole nation was less than 400,000 people living on
three islands, one of which was no more than a rock. We passed along what quickly turned
into a continual linear shopping bazaar, lined with food markets and open air tables and
chairs under trees and the inevitable concrete Chinese shop houses. There were no street
lights and the road thronged with people gorging themselves, dancing and gesticulating to
our headlights.
Carlo quickly gave me a run down. The protocol guy was called Arpul, a young son of the
king, a minor prince, keen to make friends hoping to develop business contacts. Arpul had an
old building in mind for me to set up in which I should be diplomatic about. Also my transport
had arrived, waiting for customs clearance, I should clear that with his driver first thing in the
morning. While he ran through all this, I glimpsed the sea glinting out to our left now and
again until we ran right onto the top of the beach and stopped under the palms.
"This is 'Inn on the Sea' I've booked you in here, I think you'll like it." We walked into the
dying embers of a party, under a great palm thatch roof, the sand continuing under our feet.
An enormously fat woman, sixty or seventy years old, her burred walnut blubber billowing
over a minuscule bikini, presided behind one end of the central bar-cum-everything counter.
"Get zose clothes off, vee don't stand on ceremony here by zer ocean!" she barked in
greeting. The party was well run down, even though it wasn't yet 11 o'clock. Portly,
seemingly naked figures were draped around each other, drunkenly trying to dance and feed
each other at the same time. Carlo said it looked like I should catch up with some sleep and
Arpul, the protocol pear, said he would call on me tomorrow afternoon. The old German lady
Ilsa gestured a plump boy in a bathing costume to lead me off along the strand to my
bungalow.
I stripped in front of a full length mirror and looked at myself, first over one shoulder then the
other, Oh God! The extra deadweight of Stateside flab hung round my gut. I needed to
repack that 15 pounds where it would jump out at the guys, killing the heavyweight Dolorean
competition. I tried pushing it up into my breasts by massaged and noted the tan well faded,
my eyes red with fatigue. The door banged back on its hinges as the fat boy returned laden
with the rest of my luggage, I did my best to look nonchalant, prancing about naked in front of
the mirror, but not an eyelid did the bell hop bat.
"Madam should shower, I prepare it." He started the spray and came back with towels.
"Is now OK, Maam"
I came back in the room after showering to find him laying a great supper on a low table by
the bed. "Madam Ilsa said to take care of you.", "so I dry you, then you eat"
He reached for the big white fluffy towel, and slipping off the little one I had used, coiled the
large one round me and gently patted me dry through it. He watched me with a strange smile
in the mirror as he did so.
Now you lie on the bed and I oil you. He lifted what I had thought was salad oil from the low
table and began applying it gently and rhythmically. I stopped being apprehensive about
what was going on, and went with the strokes. He was very experienced and murmured
"relax some more" as he worked. I fell asleep. When I awoke, he was sitting there waiting to
serve supper. I found my appetite and willingly tackled a plate of cold salads, peppered
creamy yogurts and sea foods plus a second helping and a huge dish of fresh fruit salad.
While eating, I asked him about himself. He was fourteen and called Hiccu. His ambition was
to be a Gut Buster.
"A what?" I said.
"They're the guys that run the place. They're the fattest, the best fighters. They eat big, they
make big money and they sex big"
"Already I practice every day, but I need to grow. They fight like this," and he crouched in a
Sumo pose, "You'll see them on the Strand tomorrow."
"Well I like you just as you are."
He blushed, then changed tack: "Why are foreigners so thin?"
I chuckled and said "Boy! I'm not thought of as thin at home. I am Fat So!"
I told him to quit the Maam bit and call me Sam.
"That's a man's name like Uncle Sam" he said, laughing, I explained about Samantha and he
said:
"OK I call you Aunty Sam" and my nickname in Dolores started right there.
He told me all young people in Dolores have to learn how to help grown ups to move about.
Often people are so big they can't shower themselves and go to the bathroom. When you are
really big, if you don't shower and dry properly everyday, he said, you get nasty fungus in all
the folds.
"You should sleep now " he said, dabbing my mouth with a napkin. He lifted my feet onto the
bed and placed the sheet over me, dousing the light.
"I don't think I'm going to sleep", I said, "my brain is still spinning after the journey"
"Try this Aunty Sam", he eased me onto my side in the fetal position, led my fingers into my
groin and then lay behind me gently stroking his fingers along the line of my hip, back and
shoulders.
I heard the sound of the shore. I felt his fingers, I felt mine. I came in no time at all, shivering
uncontrollably, then relaxed and slept.
Chapter 3 lubricating my thighs
"Aunty Sam, breakfast ready. You take outside"
I came to, and focused on a soft protruding belly. Hiccu, still in his bathing costume, stood I
over me. I stretched out a lazy hand and caressed his warm tummy, smiling at him. He held
out a flowered beachrobe at me, like a plump little bullfighter, I charged him low, caught him
and hugged him into my cleavage. He led me by the hand outside, fruit, pancakes, coffee,
the works were stacked on the verandah table. The beach, dotted with a few figures,
stretched beyond, calm in the morning light.
"The driver waits for you, he say he take you Customs at 7.30."
"What should I wear for the Customs, Hiccu?" I said, licking the honey off my chin from one
too many pancakes. "The men wear formal white shirts, Auntie Sam"
I wore white trainers and socks, a pair of my African white shorts and a white blouse tied
around my midriff. I chose the fold under the new small topmost spare tire to run the two ties
around, leaving the two lower blubber rings exposed. The shorts really did show how much
weight I'd stacked on, the legs cut into my thighs above my knees and I had to leave the top
button undone.
For Hiccu, watching the show intently, I held up my arms, pirouetted and said "Now that is
FAT!"
No Aunty Sam, you are too thin. I make you big for Dolores."
"You do that and I bust your cute little ass Hiccu" and I gave it a playful bunt as I bustled out.
The Custom House was Hell.
It was already hot at 8.00am, noisy, thronged with people and permeated with the sickly
sweet smell of Shlum. By nine I had still gotten No Where!
My temperature was rising.
A young guy in loose white shorts and a white tee shirt riding high up a happy great tummy,
took pity on me. "Hey Maam, you're not working it right. Come outside and I tell you how"
He was Angelo, "Jell-O, my friends say," and his dad had the Coca Cola franchise for
Dolores and I don't know what else.
Of course he knew Carlo, "Then you should have brought Kellogg's with you." I said Carlo's
driver was parked out back, the vehicle loaded with wholesale cartons. "They're all for the
Customs" said Jell-O.
By noon I was sitting in my car, a silver Grand Cherokee - standard issue. To get this far, Jell-O and Carlo's driver had set the entire long room up, it seemed, with boxes of Crunchy Nut
Cornflakes and with Cokes. Everyone, everywhere, in Dolores snacks continually from jumbo
packs of Crunchy Nut flakes, so Jell-O told me.
The next problem was finding the clutch and brakes had seized up in shipping. No problem
said Jell-O, he got some guys to push and shove and to bounce, then the vehicle shot off
along the quayside.
"Hey what a motor" he said, still behind the wheel.
"Then you can drive me back to Inn on the Sea," I said, "and I'll buy you lunch for your
efforts".
He patted his belly and said "It had better be a big one."
Jell-O seriously damaged the poolside buffet. He knew how to stack a tall plate. He and the
waiters competed in showing me the tricks. My shorts split down the backside, as I sat down
with my third plate.
A grinning Hiccu arrived with a spare bikini for me, "looks like Aunty Sam bust her own arse"
he said, to guffaws from the waiters. Slumped in loungers afterwards, Jell-O and I burped
and farted together in overstuffed triumph. He leant his hand across and massaged my too
tight belly.
"You sure got a lot to learn Aunty Sam."
"Then why don't you stay and teach me" I said.
"I'm sort of fixed up already" he mumbled in embarrassment.
"I don't mean like that, Jell-O, come and work for the Center. Drive the truck!."
"Oh Wow!" he said.
He rushed off to insure the truck and fix privilege license plates.
Next Arpul showed up, the polished protocol pear, very smooth, very golden in white drapes.
He had the government People Carrier and wanted to show me where he had in mind for the
Center. He waited while I twisted a light cotton wrap around my waist over my bikini and
grabbed a broad brimmed sunhat. Uh Oh, something new happening here! I was aware of my
thighs jobbling softly past one another as I walked to the car; I'd oiled them during lunch and
now, enjoying the silky sensation, I slowed to a stately pace.
The real estate genuinely knocked me out. It was an old shipping line office, a quarter mile in
towards the center of town from the Custom House at Steamer Point, where we had spent
the morning. There was a story height mud wall enclosing a great compound with a two
story verandahed building fronting onto the strand. We both enjoyed visualizing how it
would be. We agreed, that I should live over the shop and the library would open onto the
courtyard, where he showed me an old stone fountain. There was an overgrown tennis court
and various outhouses. He was very pressing that the center piece should be an American
style Soda Fountain.
He offered to walk me back to the Inn, which he pointed out, lay just round the creek. We
walked slowly, my thighs swishing together seductively as we strolled. A brace of classic
schooners lay at anchor in the creek but the rest were mostly glitzy fatso cruisers. He pointed
out the palace at the head of the creek and, just beside it, an extraordinary gaggle of black
clad grossly fat youths in tee shirts and baggy sweats lolled around a counter snack bar.
Some could hardly move, though still stuffing themselves. Others were barging one another
with their enormous bellies and bellowing.
"They're the Gut Busters as we call them", he gave an indulgent laugh.
I remembered Hiccu's ambition. They looked like buffoons.
Back at the Inn, I returned to the bungalow, Hiccu arrived with a huge snack for me and
looked hurt when I just grabbed a sandwich and said "now go eat the rest, sunshine."
I showered, and slapped sun oil on myself as Hiccu continued to hover.
"I saw your Gut Busters today. They're unbelievable!"
Hiccu assumed some Sumo poses, then said "Master Coca, he came for you."
"Coca? Ah! Coca Cola, you mean Jell-O?"
"He leave key for you and say will come tomorrow."
I wriggled and tugged myself into my old African showstopper black costume. Then I
practiced my slow strut, now with newly oiled "thigh glide", along through the coconut palms. I
could seriously arouse myself just moving slowly and being aware of my body.
At the pool, Arpul lay back in swimming trunks, looking more than ever like a great golden
pear
"My God, it looks like the protocol has slipped way down the torso here". I said.
The pear laughed, wobbling his polished boobs. "Ah! Be careful! Never let your guard slip.
Dolores is too small. For sure, someone always wants to watch you."
We settled into great glass bowls of iced Shlum served as a kind of giant fruit salad. The sun
dipped into sunset as folk rolled in from the town then rolled into the pool, The Shlum was
accompanied with trays of prawn snacks, then a long bulky supper. Piles of crabs arrived,
corncobs, dripping in butter, a yard long complete fish - expertly dispensed by Arpul, pork
ribs, platters of vegetables, mountains of rice, sweet and sour pineapples, marinated
chicken. Several times I had to ease my swelling stomach up out of the constricting bikini
waistband of my bathing suit.
I found I could cope with the sheer volume of food better if I diverted my attention into
conversation. So I worked Arpul over hard: Prince? Palace? Dad? Is he the King? What
about mum?
Everyone is a Prince in the Palace he said, maybe 150 of us. He doesn't know them all, one
is his boss, the Minister. He will take me to see him and show me the Palace.
Yes the King is his dad, father to all the Princes, but he hasn't seen him in years. No one
sees the King these days, he rules through his brother.
When did Arpul last see his dad?
"When I was seven."
"Why seven?"
"Seven is when one is weaned away from breastmilk."
"You mean your mum breastfed you till you were seven? That is just Gross!"
"Not gross, it was paradise! All the queens want to breastfeed, we just chased from one to
another, wrestling each other for the biggest and best."
Then he told me the extraordinary story about his mum.
Every year there is a competition on the island for which village can offer the King the
plumpest new Queen (like you have May Queens, Arpul added helpful). Crowds gather in the
Palace yard to watch the procession of young girls with their retinues, adorned in all their
finery. Great feasting then takes place, and each girl is fed in a competition to see who can
outdo the rest. Afterwards, the hushed crowd watches to see how many of the girls can still
manage to stand up from the feast, before being walked across to be weighed. The winner is
then taken into the Palace by the King - or these days the Prince Regent.
Naturally it is a great honour for the winning village, and for a year they get priority treatment.
His mother was Queen Liya, and the year she won, her village was chosen for the National
Stadium of Sports and Culture, he would take me there.
"Was Queen Liya? You mean she is dead?"
"Oh no, she just floats in a pool in the palace."
I prised the rest out of him. After winning the Mayfest, Queen Liya never quite managed to
walk unaided again. When Arpul was three, his earliest memories of her, she weighed maybe
half a ton, he reckons now. She loved him to come and bounce on her front and to wriggle
and slide over her ass and down between her cheeks. He remembered her shrieking and
quivering with delight, crying out for more. There was a change in his voice as he said this
and I saw tears in his eyes; I touched his arm and he paused a while.
I fed him pieces of peach and he resumed. Because she needed more and more helpers to
move her, she spent increasing amounts of time in the pool. Then she just stayed in the pool
permanently and Arpul had to go and swim around her vast softness, tickling her to stir her
into any kind of response. She had to be towed into a bigger pool, and eventually, when she
completely filled that, suspended in her own pool of liquid fat, she was moved into the great
canal stretching across the Palace estate. It is called the Queens Canal. He doesn't know
for certain where she is now, but he walks there often, looking into the waters, uncertain
which jelly mass might be his mother.
"Lets drink to her" he said, "or rather, of her, I should say" and he downed a pint of Shlum
without it touching the sides.
Couples had begun dancing slowly on the sand. I yawned; Arpul let the protocol slip further,
as his head lolled lower and finally rested on the shelf of paunch that had appeared under
my swimsuit top. Eventually I made to move, then an eye opened, and the pear slid an arm
around me. "We need a night cap" he insisted. A brandy bottle, ice bucket and the inevitable
Shlum arrived and he concocted balloon glassfuls for us.
Next he asked me to dance, "Please say yes," he said, looking little boy lost, "Americans are
so special."
We moved together, he loomed large over me, the golden fat rolls of his hairless boobs
brushing against my cheeks and nose. He nuzzled the top of my head and I felt his lower
paunch rise up against me as his organ stiffened under the roll of flesh. My old costume was
weaving its magic once more, now I knew what the night had in store. I said to myself "I'm
glad I oiled my thighs, you cannot be too careful where protocol is concerned."
To be continued
The Last Assignment of
Aunty Sam, Undercover US Navy Blimp
by Lindsey Lamass
