by Violet Blue
He gave a little grunt and tried to thrust into me deeper. I remained still, making him work for access. Even bound up, he used his hips like a pro, pushing a little deeper inside me with every thrust. It felt incredible, the sensation of his muscles twisting and straining beneath me just for the privilege of experiencing my pussy.
Dalton looked half drunk with lust now, his blond hair darkened with sweat. I reached beneath me and lightly stroked my clit. A warm whirlpool was building inside me, an insistent demand to sit all the way down on his cock, but there was a specific response I wanted from him first.
“Nina, please. Please just fuck me.”
I loved being begged. A rush of euphoria shot through me and I moved back until I was completely enveloping his cock. This was the nexus of domination for me, being craved and needed so desperately that the enslaved boy at my feet lost all pride and control. A strangled noise of gratitude escaped Dalton as my pussy surrounded every inch of him, and I began to move and twist on top of him until he was bucking desperately beneath me.
“Don’t stop,” he cried. “Please, don’t stop…”
I might have punished a different sub for such an outburst. But I knew Dalton’s plea was born out of desperation, that we weren’t mistress and sub or teacher and student anymore but us, Nina and Dalton, fucking our hearts out from a need that had been there all along. I leaned over and gripped his damp blond hair in my fists like the reins of a horse, and rode him with a vengeance. Our rhythm was urgent and primal now, his enormous cock ramming me into the most delicious kind of soreness. My every nerve was drowning in fire. He struggled beneath me against the cuffs and spreader bar, a spectacle of beautiful, bound helplessness, and as he groaned again, I began coming in mindless wet shudders. Dalton let go and followed suit, hips working furiously to pump out his orgasm.
When we caught our breath, I climbed off him and looked at the clock. Time to shower and get ready for the night audit. I unlocked Dalton.
He rolled over onto his stomach, shaking out his legs and arms. He didn’t speak at first and I wondered if I had pushed him too far. Finally he got up and began to dress without meeting my eyes.
“Thanks,” he said. “I have to say, I would never have guessed that you were submissive.”
“I’m not.”
He looked confused. “You said…”
“I didn’t say anything. I smiled and you assumed.”
Now he gave me a wary look of suspicion, as if I had tricked him. But he nodded finally and said, “You’re hard to read, Nina… I admire that about you.”
I knew he meant it as a compliment. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you more pointers on how to dominate your clients,” I said. “I suppose this wasn’t that helpful.”
He avoided my eyes again. “Yeah. We should probably do it a few more times, so I can take notes or something.”
He scurried out without saying good-bye. I didn’t let myself watch him vanish down the corridor past all those other rooms he had been inside before. Instead I fell back on the bed, reveling in my solitude in that generic hotel room, where everything was temporary and I could be anyone, and every secret wish granted was a stepping stone to transformation.
THE FATTENING ROOM
Giselle Renarde
Jeremy was scared shitless of Nigeria, but he wasn’t about to tell Nneka that.
“Say again?” his cousin Stephanie asked. Her smile was so saccharine it gave him a toothache.
Nneka wasn’t all that complicated a name. Why could nobody get it on the first pass? If his fiancée were named Nina, nobody would ask for repetition.
“Neh-nee-kah.” She pronounced her name slowly for Steph, over-enunciating every syllable. That made Jeremy smile. Nneka would never roll over for anyone.
Cousin Stephanie clung to her wineglass like a lifeline. “And you’re from Nairobi?”
Everybody else at this family gathering was entirely nonchalant about him marrying an African woman. Why did Steph have to act like a dink?
“She’s from Nigeria,” Jeremy corrected.
Stephanie nodded a few times then cocked her head. “And that’s in Kenya?”
“No, Nairobi is in Kenya,” Nneka said. “Nigeria is a country.”
“Are you from the North or the South?”
Jeremy swung around to find Uncle Stu standing behind him. He hadn’t realized anyone was listening in on their conversation, but at least his uncle was a little more worldly than his darling daughter.
Nneka looked at Uncle Stu with what seemed like a combination of apprehension and amusement. “From the South.”
Uncle Stu tapped the base of his scotch glass with his middle finger. “Then your people would be Yoruba or…Ibo?”
Nneka seemed blown away by his knowledge of her home country. “Yeah, Ibo.”
“Wow, Daddy,” Stephanie gushed. “How did you know?”
At thirty-five, she really was too old to call her father “Daddy.”
“Oh, it was all in the news during the Biafran War—not that any of you kids are old enough to remember those days. But I bet your parents have told you a great deal about it, Nneka.”
She smiled widely when he pronounced her name right. “My grandparents, too. I’ve been living here since I was four years old, but every time my brother and I go back home, my grandmother tells me all about the old days.”
Cousin Steph walked away, gravitating to a more entertaining conversation as Jeremy and his uncle shifted across the room. They sat in the wingchairs by the window like spectators while Nneka stood before them, speaking excitedly of Nigeria.
For as long as Jeremy had known Nneka, he’d never thought of her as a girl from another country, a girl who was any less Canadian than himself. She’d never spoken with an accent, at least not one that he could perceive. Now, the more Nneka talked about the place of her birth, sharing her grandmother’s stories, the more her speech patterns changed. None of the usual concise, clipped pronunciations. Everything expanded. Phrases grew fat in her mouth. Her manner of discourse became slow, swaying the way her hips did when they walked along the beach. She told the old tales.
Nneka was a brainiac. Nneka was an academic. As Jeremy listened to his normally reserved fiancée talking like a tribal storyteller, he felt uncomfortable. He didn’t want to feel that way, but he kept thinking how she’d done such a good job of impressing his family so far. Why ruin it with stories from the African fire pit? God, he didn’t want to get married in Nigeria. He didn’t want to go anywhere near Nigeria.
All the way home, Jeremy tried to formulate the perfect question, but everything he came up with sounded either judgmental or downright ignorant. “You seemed to enjoy telling my Uncle Stu all your grandmother’s stories,” he finally said when they arrived back at the condo.
“Not all of them,” she replied, obviously missing the point.
“I just meant…” Jeremy opened the refrigerator door by rote. He stared inside. “I’ve never heard you talk like that before.”
“Meaning what?” Nneka was taking off her jewelry. He could hear the signature clink of gold hitting the ceramic dish in the bedroom.
“Meaning…” Christ, he didn’t know what he was trying to say. He was going to end up in the doghouse if he went too far down this road. “Just…I’ve never heard you speak with an accent. It was…strange.”
There was a long stretch of silence from the bedroom. A long stretch. Jeremy grabbed the bottle of Perrier on the door, wanting to drink it all down, but he didn’t dare budge until he knew what he was in for. Was she pissed? She must be pissed.
And then, thank god, Nneka laughed. It wasn’t even her “You’re a bastard” cackle—it was genuine “I’m amused” laughter. Sauntering into the hallway, Nneka sang, “Who’s afraid of the big black girl?”
Jeremy nearly dropped the Perrier when he realized she’d stripped down to her slip. He knew she wore it as a slimming garment, but he didn’t give a fuck what purpose it served. To him, that skin-
tight black underdress spelled instant erection. When his gaze landed in her ample cleavage, he couldn’t remember what the hell they’d been talking about.
“You cooling yourself down in the fridge, there?” Nneka laughed at him, but he didn’t care. She’d left on those strappy black sandals he loved so much. God, he’d probably come before he got his pants off.
“I’m…you…wow…”
Nneka sauntered into the living room, snapping on the reading lamp in the corner. “I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?” She stood in front of their floor-to-ceiling window like an exhibitionist, and Jeremy was jealous of everyone down at street level. Those lucky bastards could see her from behind.
Setting the Perrier bottle on the counter, Jeremy tripped over his feet to get close to her. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard…”
“Sit.” She pointed to the sofa, and he followed her instruction without reflection. Her face, illuminated by the soft yellow glow of the table lamp, seemed both joyful and stern. He wasn’t sure just yet if he was going to get it or if he was going to get it. “Did I ever tell you about the fattening room?”
“Fattening room?” Jeremy was stupid with arousal. He shook his head. He didn’t care. He just wanted to shove his face between her big thighs and take in the scent of her hot cunt. He wanted to eat her pussy until she was so turned on she trapped him there between her legs. When the fat of her thighs blocked all sound from his ears, he could swear he heard the voice of God.
Nneka came close and stood between his open legs. She fondled the back of his neck with both hands as he looked past her big boobs and into her dark eyes. When he grabbed her ass, she backed away, wagging her finger at him like he’d been a naughty, naughty boy. She reached for the stereo and danced in place to the world music that came through the speakers. This was all strange, so unlike the Nneka he knew, but he didn’t care anymore. He was intrigued and enamored, and horny as hell!
“In my country, the men, they like their women fat.” Nneka’s words were heavy and slow, like thick syrup. She pronounced the like dee, they like dey. She was channeling her grandmother again, and this time Jeremy wasn’t afraid of the big black girl. In every sense possible, he wanted her.
“Fat…” Jeremy reached for her hands, but she waggled both index fingers at him this time. No, no, no. She danced without lifting her feet from the carpet.
“When my grandmother was a girl, she was promised to a man in the town. Before the ceremony take place, her mother put her in the fattening room. The women, they lock her up inside, and for six month they fatten her up for the man. Her husband want his wife fat.”
“Fat…” The word rumbled in Jeremy’s belly like a hunger, and then rumbled lower like a different kind of hunger.
“For six month, the women feed her meat, feed her fat. She eat cassava, plantain, fufu, banga soup. They feed her one meal, and when she finish, they feed her the next. One food after another after another, and she wear the bones from the meat around her big belly. She get fat, my lover. She get big and fat all over.”
Jeremy felt a timidity come over him as Nneka approached, closer and closer, moving and gyrating right in front of him. It was like getting a lap dance from another man’s wife. His fiancée was possessed…or released? When he reached for her this time, she didn’t shoo his hands away. He ran his fingers down the outsides of her thighs and back up again. God, she was beautiful. He tore down the top of her slip, pressing his eager face between her big breasts as they toppled out of those sturdy cups.
Nneka gasped when he sucked her nipples. She pressed his head flush to her tits and continued her grandmother’s story: “On ceremony day, the women rub her body with camwood and uli to make her skin dark and smooth. They dress her in wraps of every color, and they take her to meet her husband. Everybody so happy when they see how fat she get, they all sing and they dance her round the market. And her husband, he love her fat. He take her home and make love to her fat.”
Jeremy couldn’t stand any more. Her voice, that raspy velvet she’d put on to tell this story, made his head spin. He was too dizzy to stand, too giddy to do anything but suck her tits and fondle her ass. “Fat,” he heard himself saying as he squeezed her flesh with both hands. “We gotta make you fat, woman. You’re getting married in three months.”
“Put me in the fattening room?” Nneka’s voice was still not her own, but Jeremy didn’t care. He tugged the clinging fabric down her body, pulling it hard past the roundness of her belly, yanking it over her ass, pushing it to the floor.
He was surprised to find in himself the fortitude not only to stand, but to press his fiancée down on the couch. Racing to the kitchen, he caught sight of the Perrier bottle he’d left on the counter. Little good that would do him now. He opened up the freezer and pulled out the tub of chocolate ice cream. He scooped it into a big bowl and added every topping he could find: whipped marshmallow, chocolate sauce, caramel, and at least six cherries on top.
“Here,” he said, handing her the huge bowl of ice cream. He didn’t know what he was saying anymore. He’d totally lost control. “This man wants his woman fat.”
She didn’t mention the gown she’d have to squeeze into for the ceremony. Maybe she’d decided to go with traditional Ibo wedding apparel. Before tonight, Jeremy would have objected—in fact, before tonight he had objected. Not anymore. Now he wanted what she wanted, and he wanted the fullness of her. Nneka was more than just a nice buttoned-down Canadian girl; she was her grandmother’s granddaughter, too. There was so much inside of her, so much she must have suppressed to fit in in this country—to fit in with him, even. He felt a little ashamed of himself for keeping her down all this time. But all that was going to change.
Her body was so big, so full, and Jeremy sat beside her as she savored her dessert. His hands had minds of their own—they took off across the expanse of her thighs, kneading that supple flesh. Thighs, belly…oh, so much belly…wide hips, big tits. She was so beautiful, so dark, so wonderfully edible. Her skin gleamed with cocoa butter. She smelled good enough to eat, and Jeremy didn’t even try to resist.
“Eat,” Jeremy instructed. She was just sitting there watching him, highly amused. “Eat and get fat, woman.”
Nneka leaned back like an odalisque against the side arm of the sofa. She raised an eyebrow—he’d never called her “woman” before tonight—but scooped melting ice cream onto her spoon. After dunking it in marshmallow and a deep well of fudge and caramel, she raised it up to her lips. When she paused, he prayed it would drop. Jeremy wanted to watch that spoonful drizzle down her breast. Rubbing her thighs up and down, building hot friction, he silently begged the ice cream to fall off the spoon. It didn’t. Nneka shuttled it into her mouth, and it emerged clean as a whistle. She licked hot fudge from her full lips, and Jeremy wanted that tongue, that mouth. He wanted everything, and he didn’t know why.
Like a child, Jeremy stole the ice-cream dish back from his fiancée.
“Give it,” she commanded, steeling her gaze. She didn’t even reach for it.
“You want it?” he asked. He wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into, here. How would she react when he scooped up a spoonful of chocolate ice cream and hot fudge, and drizzled it down the length of her belly? What would she do when he coated her tits in marshmallow and her thighs in caramel?
Nneka gasped when the cold met her flesh, but she laughed at everything else. “My lover want to fatten himself up?”
Jeremy returned a smile as he fell to his knees on the floor beside the couch. “I could stand to put on a few pounds.”
When he handed her the ice-cream bowl, she purred like Eartha Kitt. “I eat ice cream, you eat me?”
“That’s the idea,” Jeremy replied before diving at her left thigh. The caramel spread across her flesh was heavy and sweet, and he licked it like an animal, working his way up for chocolate from her belly and marshmallow from her breast. Everything was too saccharine, but the combination made it all bearable. He
could taste the salt of Nneka’s flesh as he licked her, and the cocoa butter that made her skin gleam.
The clink of the spoon against the glass bowl drew Jeremy’s gaze upward, and he savored the image of Nneka naked, eyes closed, lost in the bliss of a chocolate orgasm. She made sounds, lots of sounds, as he licked her and she ate: “Mmmm… ohhhhhh…yesssss…” Her face was so beautiful like that, like it was both pained and thoroughly relaxed. She looked like she’d risen to another plane of existence.
“Get fat,” Jeremy encouraged. He could play this game now. He understood. “This man wants his woman fat.”
“I am fat,” Nneka cooed, drizzling chocolate sauce across her breasts for him to lick. “But I will get fatter.”
He sucked her mammoth tits through clouds of marshmallow. His chin, his nose, his cheeks were all sticky with sauces. The sugar made his head buzz—or was that the arousal? Was that the big, black, beautiful woman lying naked on the couch? Her ecstasy ran through him as he ducked between her thighs, opening them as wide as he could, pressing them apart. Her pussy glistened at the apex, and the very sight of those shimmering pink folds made him growl. She opened for him, beckoning his tongue more effectively even than the syrups drizzled the length of her flesh.
Nneka was a mess of sauces now, all sticky and sweet, but nothing could possibly tempt him more than the candy flesh dripping nectar down, down, down until it disappeared from sight. She scooped ice cream into her mouth, moaning after every spoonful. He needed her now. He needed to taste that inner part of the woman he would soon wed, and he nuzzled her pussy, rubbing his lips against her erect clit. She was so wet, so damnably wet, and he opened his mouth to consume her. He couldn’t resist.
When he licked her that first time, with his tongue still sweet from syrup, she jumped. Her hips rose up from the couch and Jeremy slipped his hands beneath the roundness of her ass. Her flesh melted in his grasp, and when he squeezed, she moaned.