Blue, Light and Dark (Chubby Chasers, Inc. Series Book 2)

by Brashears, Angie M.

  Angie M. Brashears

  Blue, Light and Dark

  Copyright © 2015 by Angie M. Brashears

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Book Cover Design and Interior Formatting by Deborah at Tugboat Design

  www.tugboatdesign.net

  Editing by Eagle F. at Aquila Editing

  www.aquilaediting.com

  Photography by My Boudoir

  www.myboudoir.co.uk

  Cover Model – Georgina Horne

  For Jimmy, my Happily Ever After

  Javilogue

  I pull into the strip mall after gassing up the Suburban. It’s the first of the month, time to get the mail. It’s more of the same, taking care of the Ladies, and I go about my day on autopilot. I pull in, pissed about the amount of cars in the lot. Packed in like sardines. I have to circle around twice before finding a spot big enough for the truck. It’s on the edge of the lot, next to a beat to shit Sentra. I wonder if it’s been abandoned after an over-enthusiastic joy ride while I guide the truck in next to it. The color of the heap is anybody’s guess. A layer of grime so thick even sunlight can’t penetrate it coats the surface. There’s cardboard, Scotch taped to the back passenger window—I laugh out loud at this—and Bondo spots on the doors. In other words, it’s a real shit-box. I turn off the engine, reach over to grab safety deposit keys from my knapsack, and my hand freezes in mid-air. I see her, a vision from my dreams come to life.

  My heart misses a beat as I watch her feed. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Instinctively, I scoot down in my seat, low enough to watch and not be seen. A voluptuous, raven-haired beauty, quietly shoving junk food into her mouth, cheeks impossibly full, as she sits behind the wheel of the abused Sentra. All business, her eyes never leave her lap as she methodically stuffs more in. I watch her finish a Twinkie in two bites, her delicate pinky darting out to catch a smear of cream from the corner of her mouth. She does nothing about the glistening tears that streak down her cheeks.

  My monkey twitches in my pants at the sight before me. This is a damsel in distress who needs me. My tender loving care.

  It’s pornographic, the way she works through her stash of food. My hand moves down to my dick, which is painfully hard and pressing into my button fly. The sight of her profile has my balls aching. I’ve performed every dirty thing the Ladies need done to complete their Favors, yet this is the first time I’ve wanted something illicit of my own. My eyes peek at her through the bottom of the passenger window.

  Chips—Funyons—are meticulously shoved into her mouth. Chewing slowly, a wounded expression passes over her face. She’s ashamed. A feeling I know all too well.

  My hand strokes my shaft, but it’s not enough. A thunderous pressure is building in my head. I scan the parking lot, and realize we’re alone. There are others here, parking and heading into the Women’s Club, but they’re far away, closer to the buildings. Only she and I are here, her eating her shame and me relishing it. My hands work at loosening my belt buckle.

  I might get caught, but who gives a fuck? I lift my narrow hips and slide the worn jeans down to free myself. My engorged cock feels like it might bust, a rare treat for me. I feel drunk with desire. Spitting into my hand proves difficult. My mouth is desert dry, all the liquid in my body is pulsing to my cock. I give in to the lust, stroking my long thick shaft, dry, welcoming the burn. All the while taking her in.

  Bite after bite of a king-sized Snickers disappears into her mouth. My balls crawl up into my sac at the sight. I’ve got something king-sized for you, Bonita.

  Her head is bowed; she’s concentrating on the task at hand. All I want, more than anything, is for her to lift up her face, gaze into my lust-filled eyes, and give me a glimpse of those beautiful tears. I moan low in the back of my throat, feeling close to relief. My hand strokes faster as I imagine the wetness of her fat cunt drowning me, milking the ache from me. My eyes want to close, but I fight to keep them open, cataloging each and every chew.

  Reaching down, fumbling in a bag next to her, her hand rises to her luscious lips, holding a dripping Drumstick. I want to fuck her pussy with that melting ice-cream cone, then eat every piece of it. Coring her out with my tongue until every sticky drop is gone. As her head tilts, licking the drips from the side, I catch a glimpse, just a peek, of a pink tongue as it drags along the side of the sugar cone, and it is my undoing.

  I cum hard, spurting streams of white, ropy semen onto my steering wheel, dripping onto my hard thighs. The contrast of the white liquid on my dark skin only makes me think of her creamy thighs wrapped around me. My dick starts to get hard again. The danger of being out in the open, fondling myself while watching this Bonita eat an ice-cream cone-maybe getting caught-only serves to spark my underused libido.

  I reach into the back of the Suburban, feeling for a towel or something to clean up my mess, my eyes never leaving her. Adrenaline races through me as I watch her devour the cone, check herself in the mirror, and get out of the car. Standing next to my passenger window, all she’d have to do is turn a little to the left and I’d be caught. Just one quarter of an inch and I’d go from anonymous to America’s Most Wanted. Dick in my hand, literally. Fear grips my belly. I could be in jail in the next hour if she turns her head in the slightest, and damn it if my monkey isn’t trying to sit up and draw her attention.

  I freeze, trying not to breathe. Wanting her, but not wanting her to see me like this. Meet me like this. Because we will meet. Of that I am sure.

  For one moment, that stretches forever, she stares at the building in front of us and to the left, and I’m sure she sees me. Her back straightens, her shoulders square. Her ample bosom juts out, and just when I think she’ll scream, “Masher!” and out me, she heads in the direction of the building. That Women’s Club, without even a look my way. Sweat coats my armpits from the thrill of my unexpected activities.

  I clean my mess, but my eyes remain on her ample ass. It sways with each step, jiggling in all the right places as she steps over the curb and onto the sidewalk. I’m mesmerized by it, wanting to bite it, up high, right where her thigh meets the swell of her ass. Shit. I’ve lost sight of her. She turned the corner and walked out of my sight. With my pants down, I can do nothing but get dressed and wait for her to return.

  When I look halfway decent, it’s not enough to just sit around and wait. I feel like I can’t get a deep breath. My skin doesn’t fit right. I know this feeling. It demands action, and I give in to it. I walk to the back of my Suburban, lift the rear window, and pretend to look for something. Really, I’m just buying time while I memorize her plates. I have to know everything about her. Who she is, where she lives, every bit of information my sick mind can find. This vision, she’s mine.

  I lean on the back of my truck, take a deep breath, and try to find and hold onto the last bit of my sanity. I’ve never felt this way about another woman ever. She wouldn’t fall into the out-of-bounds zone that the bosses and I have with the girls at the house. I’ve found her, she’s mine. They can’t take her away, could they? A surge of anger heats my blood at the thought. I don’t think the bosses would object to my new obsession, but why risk it? If I could nab her when she comes out of the building, take her, get set up somewhere—maybe at the cabin—where would the harm
be in that? They’d never know. I’d just ask for some vacation time.

  Then what? I think, angry with this selfish streak that is just now making itself known.

  Who would get the mail for the ladies? Who would keep them safe, secure, from crazies like me? Guys who would like nothing better than to catch them, pen them like cattle, and feed them till they bust.

  My dick hardens at the thought.

  Ugh, I’d rather hurt myself than hurt the ladies. No, I think, feeling anger at the deprivation my life has become. Look, but no roping. Touch, but no feeding. Live with us, love us, but not to death. So many restrictions can drive a man to…? What? Kidnapping? Insanity?

  My eyes scan the front of the squat building. Whatever she’s in there for is in full swing; there’s no one’s out front. She was the last to enter the building, and it takes every ounce of the willpower I possess not to bust in there, toss her over my shoulder, and run out, stealing her away. To someplace where it’s just her and me. No shame at her need to eat. No fear of my need to feed her.

  I shut the back of the Suburban and inch along the other side, towards the passenger door. I open the door wide, careful not to touch the Bonita’s car, not that another dent would make much of a difference. I use my open door as a shield while I peer into her driver’s side window.

  Candy wrappers, all different kinds, litter her passenger seat and the floor. So many to choose from; the choices must make her dizzy. It’s all I can do to keep my cock from getting any harder, envisioning myself rolling around with her among the wrappers and discarded cellophane. There’s wadded-up fast-food bags peeking out from under the seat. As if she’s embarrassed by her need to feed. I shake my head, saddened that she feels the need to hide.

  I would never make her hide. In fact, I’d need to personally handle and feed her every morsel, reveling in my need to own her. To have her submit fully to me. Not to be whipped or mistreated. No, only to be loved and fed.

  I snap a quick photo with my iPhone, needing the visual evidence of her gluttony to pore over later in private. The memory of the need in her is something I’ll keep forever. When I’m done, I shut my passenger door, holding the handle tightly, trying to keep myself here and away from her.

  I’m not successful. I have to get in there, in that building, and find out what she’s here for. I stride across the parking lot, towards the entrance. Rage burns right under the surface. If she’s here for what I think she’s here for, there will be no controlling me.

  The blasphemous chatter smacks me in the face, sickening me, as soon as I make my way into the cool, darkened entrance. No one’s out here, which is a good thing. I only have so much restraint and can’t be held responsible if I see one of the hatemongers who run these meetings. Berating the big girls, trying to change them. Stamp them into the cookie-cutter skinny shapes that everyone finds so attractive these days.

  Well, everyone except me, and those like me, who believe bigger is better, and biggest is the best. A voice drones on and on from a room to my left, door chocked open for late arrivals. Propaganda about denying yourself the simple pleasures of life reaches my ears. It pains me to know that my Bonita is at this very minute swallowing every line they feed her. She should have only my words, encouraging and nurturing, to listen to, to make love to as I push a spoon heaped with food through her soft, sensuous lips.

  Thoughts of her at my feet, taking what I give her, makes my vision go red. I can’t stay here, not with all these witnesses. The cops will have us before I even get her out of the parking lot. My boots clomp against the linoleum as I flee this place and all the evil it represents. I run to the truck, thinking of all the ways to nab her before they convert her over to the dark side. She’s a skittish filly, and despite my good looks and charm, I’ll need more than a smile to get her to come with me.

  I hope to have her before the night is out.

  Javi Pre-Blue

  The bosses, Gretchen—who I have a sweet spot for—and Sasha—who I have the utmost respect for—block my exit, keeping me from what’s mine. I love them both for giving my life a purpose, to care for them and others like them—but I’ve never felt this all-consuming, turbulent inferno building inside myself before. Even with my mother, it was a slow burn, easily managed. But with her, my Bonita, I’m consumed.

  The act of torture she submitted to, shoveling the food in though clearly confused, at odds with her feelings and the need to stuff them down, has me so tuned up I can’t even think straight.

  Not wanting to hurt the ladies, I pace, venting my frustration and the impending need to Hurry! Damn it, grab her! They both speak in soothing words, but nothing penetrates my need. I’ll listen, give the required nods, and leave. Hopefully, I’ll get a head start before the search for my Bonita starts. Gretchen keeps time with me, pacing, and for once, thank God, is quiet.

  I know this fast pacing is hard on her knees, and because I care for her, I gradually slow down. Her eyes, heavy with unshed tears, catch me off guard. I stop, mistaking her tears for pain. She reaches up to me, hugging me tightly to her ample bosom. It’s too much; she knows my past. It’s a trigger. My entire body tightens under her hands, but I won’t hurt her. She doesn’t like feasting; we’ve tried in the past. She got as far as being tied to the chair. Once the feeding started, I scared her and she begged for hours to be let loose. It was a look that crossed my face, she’d told me later. Pure domination, which if left to run loose, felt like it would overtake me, make me feed her till she burst, and it was terrifying.

  She could never understand that I wouldn’t do that to her. While I love her and want to nurture her, I’ve never been attracted to her in that way…a sexual way.

  Stroking my hair, she whispers questions to me. At first, I don’t answer. I don’t want her to know about my Bonita. I’m selfish. She’s mine. I won’t share her. Not even with my two best friends, and certainly not with our kinky fetish clients. No, she will eat only for me. She coaxes me, so similar to my mother and her ways, that I find myself telling her, hell, even showing her the pics I snapped of Bonita’s car interior. Nodding, she understands my obsession. I’ve never once pulled rank, but in this instance, I’d like nothing more than to kick every last one of these women out of my house, leaving me a silent sanctuary in which to bring Bonita home to and do with as I wish.

  Sasha says nothing, only observes. In the four years that she’s known me, it’s always been Sasha to come close to guessing at the level of my depravity. But she doesn’t judge, just helps me work on my issues to keep them at bay. Something in my eyes-despondency? -makes her look away, but Gretchen just pulls me tighter to her, whispering encouragement. I can’t relax. Her words do nothing to soothe the ache, the need, to have that vision from the parking lot come to life.

  “We’ll get her for you,” she says, just above a whisper. Sasha gasps, looks between the two of us, sees the desperation clinging to me, and nods. I almost faint, I’m so full of love for the two of them. My kidnap kit falls to the ground. It’s one less burden to carry.

  I know they think I’ll let her work for them, content to gaze at her from afar like I do with all the rest of them. But that’s not going to happen. I want her, and I’ll have her. Just not today. Rules are laid out by both ladies, things they want from me in order to help me. I listen, tears rolling down my cheeks. It’s all I can do not to run to my pool house and start planning the menu. Soon, if I follow along with the plan, she’ll be here. And she’ll be hungry.

  Over the next two weeks, I find her address and much more. Her apartment, a studio walk-up in a bad part of town, is on the verge of being rundown. The liquor store and bars on her street make the possessive feelings squirm in me, wanting to shelter her now. Only the promise I made to the ladies holds me at bay. My contact is limited to recon, gathering intel for them. Nothing freaky. No breaking into her apartment and stocking her fridge with all of her favorite treats, or proclaiming my undying love for her from the top of the building across the street.
I promised, and I’ll give them a chance to deliver on their promise. With minimal interference. Sasha has a plan. I won’t step in until I’ve given her plan a chance to work.

  Edgy and out of sorts, I work out twice a day, hoping to burn the energy that only a good kidnapping can cure. I jack off to shake the rust off. I’ve touched myself more in the last two weeks than I have in all of my twenty-eight years. The chaffing only adds to my resolve. I pore over pictures I’ve taken of the outside of her apartment, her windows, even her cat. Not ever having a pet of my own, I’m fascinated as I watch her stroke it, play with it, the loving gaze on her face unmistakable. I hope to have her look at my monkey like that one day.

  The cat stays, anything to make her transition to being mine easier for her.

  I’ve taken pics of her shopping, pushing a cart, inventorying what she loads up on. I will have all of her favorite foods for her. It’s the least I can do. Feed her what she likes. Anytime she’s out of sight of my binoculars, I go through her trash looking for clues. It makes me feel close to her.

  Her mail—what little she gets—gives me no clues. Impersonal, mostly flyers, nothing to indicate there’s a family, friends, and surprisingly, no boyfriend anywhere. At night, I watch TV with her, via binoculars. I laugh at the same parts in the silly sitcoms she laughs at. It makes me feel like I’m in there with her. Instead of here, on the outside.

  By the amount of junk food amassed in her shopping cart, I know the day’s drawing close that she’ll hit the next WW meeting. She’s binging. I, of all people, know the signs. It’s so cute, her hunger. Before she tries, yet again, to starve herself. I shake my head, not understanding what goes through women’s minds. I head back to the house once her lights are off for the night to report my findings to the Ladies.

  Gretchen’s working, so it’s me and Sasha, who takes meticulous notes. She writes down everything I can remember from the Bonita’s cart. “What kind of snack foods?” she asks. I give them to her, all the specifics I remember.