Fit vs. Fat

I realized something was off about me after my first few years of school. I felt no connection or common bond with anyone. I did not understand how these other children functioned. How they interacted with one another; so I learned how to behave through imitation of others.

It was not until middle school that I finally learned the truth about myself. I was looking through a psychology book when I came across the term 'sociopath.' As I read through the symptoms, I realized it read as a description of myself. Aggressiveness. Lack of empathy or attachment to others. Shallow emotions. Lack of guilt. Superficial charm. A need for stimulation. Manipulative. An incapacity for love. It all fit. Reading this was the first time I felt what may be categorized as 'relief.' I knew what I was now. I knew what secret my parents and my therapist had been hiding from me. I was a sociopath. And nothing could have me...happier, if you want it in terms you can easily relate too.

But the narcissism; the grandiose sense of self; that would come later...along with the promiscuous sexual behavior.

I did not let my parents know what I now knew. I kept on pretending that all was well; that I was one of the 'normal' people; and nobody knew any better.

I would say that my lack of understanding of other people's feelings defined the person I became. I would spend a lot of time observing people, studying them, learning what made them tick. I became a student of human behavior and learned better how to control those around me and how to mimic that behavior when necessary; teaching myself to cry on demand was the hardest, but most effective means of manipulation. Thus, I was able to blend into the background in my formative years until something changed, something that forced me from the background and onto everyone's radar; I grew breasts.

This is where the narcissism came in. Over the summer going into my senior year of high-school, I went from a pair of humble B-Cups to a set of whopping, bulging, firm, DD's. I would admit I was already a good-looking girl; though experience taught me I was in fact beautiful; but along with my developing breasts, I filled out in all the right places, developing a dramatic and pleasing curvature. I matured over the summer looks-wise, and I went from a pretty, yet unassuming, wallflower to a voluptuous knockout. And people took notice.

I had never been the center of attention before. It put me on my heels, but I was intelligent enough to use what I had gathered watching people to fit in. I learned more in the first few weeks of school that year than I had in the previous five years of people-watching, and definitely more than I ever learned in any class or book.

I quickly learned what a blessing my breasts were; sorry, my 'tits.' I learned what leering boys liked to call them; tits, boobs, mammaries, melons, hooters, and other assorted, low brow, colloquialisms. I learned that boys would fall over themselves because of them, eager to please me for something as little as a clear view down my blouse. I learned how useful they were in intimidating other girls; that there was a natural hierarchy attached to my physical development. I learned that my 'tits', and my new curves and perceived physical attractiveness in general gave me new power over others.

At first I did not know what to do with this newfound power. To most girls, sprouting tits was a means to 'getting laid.' To me, they were a tool. A tool to learn more about these people around me; how to provoke them and control them. Eventually, I learned how to wield them like a master. My wardrobe evolved from full-coverage shirts to tight, low cut, blouses. I learned how to flaunt my tits; how to garner attention. And the boys certainly noticed. And not just the boys, the men as well; namely the male teachers. It was funny how teachers who had graded me so tough before suddenly treated me so much better; not that I needed the help. My grades were impeccable, which frustrated and intimidated my teachers. I was smarter than them and did not recognize them as authority figures, and before I became attractive to them, they would seek to put me 'in my place.' Now they sought to gain my favor.

The puppets danced.

For awhile, I did not care about getting laid. I just did not understand why people did it. I knew you were supposed to only make love with those you have a perceived emotional attachment too, or 'love' as you would call it, and for a person like me, it is impossible to truly 'love' anyone but myself. I had trouble understanding people, let alone loving them.

I did not care about any of the boys who were titillated by my impressive figure. What I did care about was the fact that they reacted to me. Before, people treated me just like any other person. But once I developed tits, people were eager to be around me. Seeing people react to my body, or my looks, was thrilling in a way I could not describe. Inspiring reactions in other people was an addiction to me. I had never understood emotions, so making people react emotionally allowed me to experience them vicariously through them.

The puppets danced for my amusement.

This was my addiction. Making people feel something, making people react to my presence. I did not understand emotions, so provoking an emotional response in others was exhilarating. This addiction thrilled me in a way I did not understand for awhile, until I realized what it was doing. It was arousing me. It turned me on in a way I could barely understand. I chased this feeling for a long time.

I mastered flirting. Just testing out how far I could push boys, how wild I could drive them with naughty words or secret glimpses of my body. It was addicting! But it was not just the boys that were affected. The girls noticed as well. While the boys fell over themselves due to my hot bod, the girls hung in the background, fuming in jealousy.

Girls hated me.

Girls hated my body. Girls hated that I drove the boys wild. And this just engaged me. On one occasion, I flirted with a girl's boyfriend right in front of her. She was visibly furious, beet red and raging, but powerless; a frustrated and impotent ball of conflicting emotions! I knew I had the boy wrapped around my finger, that I could have left with him, but I left it at that.

I had to leave, and get some privacy immediately. I was so horny I could scream. I rubbed myself to my first orgasm in the bathroom. A nice, wet, screaming, squirting orgasm. That orgasm was the greatest thing I ever felt. I did not know I could feel things like that. I openly admit that I am emotionless, but an orgasm like that was about as strong of an emotion as you can get. I now understood why people had sex. I saw the appeal.

Let us just say, it did not take long for me to lose my virginity after that point. I had so many boys wrapped around my finger that I had my pick of the litter. I was a very busy girl that year.

I gladly received the best of what the male student body had to offer. Seeing all these guys driven nuts by little ole me was incredible. Admittedly, most of the guys I screwed were pretty forgettable. I kept pushing the limits as far as sex went. I was getting bored with the male student body, so it was inevitable that I would move on to the faculty. That was where the good stuff was.

Driving my teachers to distraction, teasing them with my hot body, teasing them till they had no choice but to fuck me, that was the good stuff. What made it sweeter was when they were married. Married men, driven to cheating on their loves with a slutty student, just drove me wild in a way I never had felt. Let us be clear, I did not care about any of the men I fucked. What drove me wild was the emotion I inspired. What turned me on was, by a few minor actions on my part, causing so much conflict and emotion in men. I loved the fact that I impacted their lives so significantly in such a short amount of time. I loved the fact that they so lusted for me that they would throw away their vows of marriage, and that I could not care less.

All the guys in the school wanted me, but the girls, the girls were a different story altogether. The girls hated me. They despised me. They seethed in jealously. They called me a slut. A skank. A whore. But they were powerless before me. They talked behind my back, but none of them said a word to my face. If one was brave enough to confront me, I would stand to my full height, and thrust my imposing chest out, and they would meekly retreat, intimidated and cowed, knowing that they did not compare.

I loved it.

The more the girls hated me, the more it turned me on.

I had left a wide swath of destruction in my wake by the time I graduated high school. I had affected so many lives, a mostly negative impact, by my own actions. Those people in that school would not be the same, because of me. That kind of power was... intoxicating.

I had originally decided to forgo college. I knew all that I needed to know. I was able to blend into society seamlessly, few suspecting my true nature. My ticket to affecting people was my hot body, so I became obsessed with maintaining it. I became a gym rat, and this eventually led me to pursue a career as a physical trainer; three years of College was a breeze.

My body was amazing, and I was just as effective at affecting people as I had been in high school. This is when the narcissism came in. I recognized how hot I was. I recognized how amazing my body was. It pleased me that I was hotter than just about every woman I came across. I was perfect.

My addiction to sex; no, rougher, dirtier...my addiction to fucking had not lessened. I loved to fuck like any good slut would. I would tease just about any man I would come across, but access to my tight little pussy was saved for the best. I no longer fucked just anyone. I never fucked bad boys. They were far too easy. No, my pussy was saved for the good guys. The guys who should know better than to fuck a slut like me. Ideally, a married guy.

Like I said, I disliked most people, and this Shannon woman was no different. She was a fat, sad little cow.

This was my usual clientele. I hated dealing with these people, and I only kept this job to make money, maintain my lifestyle, and meet men. I had gotten a fair amount of money from my many fuck-buddies, so I maintained a comfortable lifestyle, but not comfortable enough.

I wanted more.

Every time I looked at Shannon, I considered my ideal fantasy. I dreamed an occasion where I could meet some woman and just break her down; just ruin her life. So many of the women I dealt with were so comfortable with their place in life. The women I dealt with were rarely obese, just simply overweight. They did not need to see me, but they wanted to shave off a few pounds if they had the dedication and willpower. I was just simply a tool to them, a person who would allow them to achieve something, and who would play a small role in an otherwise happy and satisfying life.

But I was the puppeteer, not the puppet.

Just the thought of taking over that person's life, for no good reason, breaking her down, humiliating her, and maybe, just maybe, fucking her man. That was the dream. The thought of me, ruining the life of a woman I barely know, emotionally destroying her, was intoxicating.

Shannon had potential to fulfill my fantasy. She was friendly and seemingly happy with her life. But, I had not met her man. I had had candidates in the past, but their men left a lot to be desired. I could be patient. I would just treat her like shit and make her hate me, you know, my normal modus operandi. Amusingly enough, a lot of women responded to that form of motivation. I loved to make fun of other women, and my insults motivated them to lose weight. I have observed that less attractive women, such as Shannon, seek the validation of the more attractive women. They want to be acknowledged and feel included. Validation is the carrot I use to encourage obedience; one compliment for every fifty insults. My approval is the carrot I dangle before these sad sacks of crap. Shannon is no different, though she will have to work harder than most to get it.

Meanwhile, I waited patiently for her husband to join us. I would not get my hopes up. I needed to meet Shannon's husband before I finalized any future plans.

**********

(Ben)

I had heard horror stories from Shannon said about her trainer, and I figured it was time to meet her myself. I figured this woman probably wasn't as bad as Shannon made her out to be. She tended to over dramatize things like this.

I didn't really need any extra training myself. I kept myself in shape, a habit that stemmed from back in my football days. The main reason I played football was because of the exercise, and I stuck with it because it was good stress relief, I guess.

I never quite fit in with the other guys on the team. They were in it for different reasons than I was; unrealistic pipe dreams of making it and going pro. That was why when I got hurt, I viewed as a blessing in disguise. I was a good football player... a very good football player. I had no logical reason to stop playing football, since I was told repeatedly that I was being scouted as a favorite to graduate to the pro's. The money was there, but I didn't have the love for the game that other guys had; I just didn't have any passion for football. It wasn't important to me. I had fun playing it, but I never intended to pursue it as a career; but there was all this expectation being put on me, and my old man had big hopes for me, so I just went along with things while looking for a way out...then, thankfully, fate intervened in the form of a bad hit. I tore a ligament in my knee and ended up in the hospital. Dream over, and no one except me was hurt.

It was when I was rehabbing my knee that I met Shannon. She was so unlike the girls I typically met as the star QB of the football team. The girls I tended to meet could best be described shallow, phony, and to be honest, a bit trashy. Shannon was none of those things.

Shannon was, in a word, genuine. Everything she said and did seemed like it came from the heart. Everything she did was for the right reasons. As I got to know her, I felt no shame telling her things and letting her in. I told Shannon things that I would be too embarrassed to tell anyone else. Shannon is the only person alive that knows the truth about why I let go of my 'promising future' in football; no one else. She didn't judge me, she didn't pity me, she didn't try to change my mind. She just listened. It was then that when I realized that I loved this girl. It wasn't long before we were married.

I couldn't have been happier in life. I had a beautiful wife, a nice house, and a great job...a wholly satisfying job; I loved to teach. I was in good shape. I had great friends. I couldn't ask for anything else.

Shannon's mind worked a bit differently than mine. She was the type of person who would never be complacent. I knew she had some body-image issues, and I tried to calm her down whenever she nitpicked about her body. I didn't care that that she had some extra padding. It wouldn't matter if she was 400 lbs, I would still love her. I thought she looked perfect as is. I didn't need a woman to be a fitness model. I loved how she looked, and I loved making love with her. But she would not be happy unless she shed some weight.

I would of course be there to encourage her...all the way! She knew it didn't matter to me, but I knew it mattered to her, and I wanted to be supportive. I was happy to see her so focused on this. I told her that I would be there to help her out, but she convinced me that I didn't have to show up regularly. I did at least want to make an appearance and check out this trainer for myself; see if she lived up to Shannon's hype, and straighten her out if necessary.

I drove straight to the gym from work. I didn't subscribe to any kind of gym, opting to use the weight room at the school instead; one of the perks of the job. I generally woke up early for a morning run, then worked out in the weight room before class started. I would do this regularly, three times a week, with weekends off, and it had kept me in great shape. It had been awhile since I had actually been to a real gym, and I was a little excited about the prospect of really pushing myself again. I quickly changed in the locker room and went searching for my wife.

I made my way through the gym. I was greeted by some friendly female faces, and I just nodded politely as I walked; I was used to it. Women regularly hit on me when I was at the gym, for some reason. I always politely declined, of course, but couldn't help but be a bit flattered...it just felt good to be hit on, you know? I walked around for a few minutes before I found Shannon, in a private work out area.

I watched quietly through the observation window as Shannon exerted herself on the chest fly. I noticed her face screwed up with effort, and I smiled proudly; she just looked so cute. I just watched for a minute as she strained against the machine, working hard. I could see a woman with her back to me, next to Shannon, talking to her. This must be her trainer. This must be Alexis.

The entrance into the room they were in was around the corner, so I had to walk around. I entered the room with Shannon facing away from me. As I stepped inside, the trainer appeared to stop talking and turned to face me.

For the first time, I put a face to the name. And I had to admit, she had a face that was hard to forget; she was stunningly beautiful. She had a gorgeous face, with almond shaped eyes, soft lips, and a golden tan. She had dark brunette hair, tied in a pony-tail, which swung animatedly behind her as she turned. She looked me over, as if appraising me, before stepping away from Shannon and walking towards me; her eyes were a steely grey, and betrayed a calculating intelligence at work behind them. I couldn't help but take a quick glance at her body as she approached. Her body belied her profession, as she was incredibly fit. Her legs looked long and tautly muscled. And her arms were muscular without being masculine. She had a flat belly, with just a hint of abs. I generally wasn't the type of guy to linger, but I couldn't help but take notice of her incredibly large bust. They were, like, abnormally large for a woman with such an otherwise fit frame. Despite the fact she was wearing a sports bra, her bulging breasts still jiggled as she walked, and an immodest amount of cleavage was left exposed. I never considered myself a 'breast man', but even I had to admit those suckers she was strutting around with were spectacular. As she stepped up to me, her face lit up with a bright smile...a dazzling smile, to tell the truth.

"Can I help you?" she inquired cheerfully; her voice sweet and melodious.

"Hi, I'm Ben, Shannon's husband. I thought I could accompany her today." I answered with a smile, offering my hand.

"Oh, I've heard so much about you. I'm Alexis," she introduced herself, taking hold of my hand with an impressively firm grip, "But you can call me Lexy...all my friends do." she winked.

"Ah...well, I'll call you Alexis for now, till we get to know each other a bit better," I coughed awkwardly, thinking calling her a nickname immediately upon meeting her seemed a bit too forward and unprofessional...intimate. She smiled warmly and stifled a good humored laugh at my expense.

"Now, Shannon mentioned that you would be charging double for when I attend. I'm assuming that's still the case?" I asked. Alexis reached over and put her hand on my arm with an awkward amount of familiarity for someone I'd just met.

"Of course not. She must have misunderstood me. There won't be any extra charge," Alexis said with a giggle, "You're just supporting your wife...the only extra cost is your gym membership. Didn't she tell you?"