Thunder Thighs at Thunder Bay

"Are you just going to trust me?"

"I suppose we could get condoms."

She nodded. "Indeed we could."

"Where would we do that?"

She shook her head. "No idea."

I thought about this for a moment, and probably wasn't thinking straight for how itchily aroused I had become. It wasn't the hardest boner in the world—part of me was managing to keep a mental check on it somehow, to keep my tuxedo pants from tenting noticeably—but it was hard enough now to be pressing into her fat thigh during the slow dance and, even at half-strength it was achy, not to be ignored. If suddenly she had turned around and walked away, I could have proceeded straight to my hotel room and effortlessly rubbed one out in about 90 seconds. And it would have been a big one.

It was in this agitated state, ill-conducive to sound reasoning, that I weighed the risks of barebacking a near-total stranger against the delay and inconvenience of searching for a condom. As strangers go, she came somewhat prescreened. She had a lot of friends on the bride side, some of whom knew people I knew on the groom side. It wasn't as though we were completely anonymous here, like two random strangers at a bar. And after all, she led with that disease thing—it was the first thing she asked me. I slipped out of my reverie and found myself looking her straight in the eye. "Do you have a room at the hotel?" I finally asked.

"Sharing it with another maid. You?"

"Same here. With a groomsman that is."

"That basement rumpus room off the kitchenette? Where the caterers were set up? They've probably cleared out by now."

"Caterers gone already, you think? We just finished desert."

"Separate desert caterer," she gestured with her pinky to where the desert chef had set up her operations in a room off the hall's first-floor vestibule. "That dinner crew downstairs has had close to two hours now to break down and pack up."

"There has to be a bathroom down there," I thought out loud.

"My thoughts exactly. I'll go first, you follow me in five minutes."

I left the dance floor and made my way to the men's room where I did a quick booger check in the mirror and then hid out in the stall for the appointed five minutes, where I very seriously thought about rubbing one out just to make sure I didn't embarrass myself. I wouldn't say I've ever had a real "prematurity" problem—I usually have pretty good control over things in that department—but sometimes I do get a little over-stimulated and, when I do, I can tell in advance that it will be hard to contain myself. When that happens I like to take compensatory measures. For example, I'll go down on my partner and make sure she gets off first at least once so I won't feel so bad if it runs away from me once we get going. But I didn't think I was going to have that opportunity here, and now it was kind of a perfect storm brewing: I was sharing a room with a guy and so hadn't had the chance to jerk off in the past 48 hours; I had just met this woman so there was going to be all the excitement that comes with newness; and I wasn't even going to have the benefit of a condom.

Still, in the end I decided against pre-gaming. The five minutes, it seemed, would be better spent just taking deep breaths and letting my boner soften. I pulled open the bathroom door and, checking down the hall to ensure I was unobserved, slipped into the stairwell and crept down the stairs. I emerged in the darkened basement where, only hours before, the catering company had set up rows of steam trays on folding tables piled high with pink prime rib and tarragon chicken; the aroma still hung in the air, mingling uneasily with that faintly musty old-church smell. It was eerily quiet, the only sound being the muted bass of the music coming through the ceiling from the dance upstairs, and the only light coming from the battery lamps on the occasional fire alarms and red exit signs.

"T- hello?" I called softly into the dark, catching myself before using her name.

She appeared from the shadows and quietly extended a hand. "Come on," she said, "there's a couch over in the corner." She took my hand and led me across the darkened room at a brisk pace.

"Um, wait—a couch?" The room was a wide open and sparsely furnished basement. If someone came downstairs and flipped a light switch there would be no hiding. "I thought the plan was the bathroom."

"The couch is softer." Reaching the corner, she spun me around and gave me a surprisingly forceful push on the chest with the flats of her palms. I fell backward into darkness, landing on a big plush sofa cushion. Still bouncing, with no time to reorient, I was suddenly aware of her eager hands manipulating my zipper, followed by a rush of cool air as she popped me out of my pants. Then I gasped as her warm wet tongue and lips closed around the engorged head of my penis. I wasn't prepared and was suddenly way over-stimulated as she effortfully skirted gagging herself, the better to rapidly moisten my whole throbbing shaft.

I regained my composure long enough to remember my concerns about the risk of being caught and managed to say something about it: "Teresa, seriously, what if someone comes down here?"

With a slurping sound as she suctioned off the excess, she lifted her head to face me in the dark and promptly began climbing up on my body. My eyes had adjusted to the dim light and I could see her gleaming eyes quite clearly now. With a mischievous smirk she asked: "You honestly think someone's going to come down here in the next 60 seconds?"

I was floored. I had met this woman not even 48 hours ago, and yet she could somehow tell how worked up I was—that, as the saying goes, a stiff breeze would have blown me over. I had no idea how she could be so confident in this assessment (accurate though it was), nor where she got the audacity to forecast it aloud like that—like Babe Ruth signaling right field. And, of course, she seemed to be inviting it—excusing in advance how little I would be able to contribute to her pleasure under the circumstances.

With one hand she began she began gathering up the godets of her dress and the slip beneath and then, having bunched the material and pinned it to her side with her elbow and, supporting herself with her other hand planted on the couch back above my shoulder, she reached down and pulled her panties to one side. I anxiously panned the dark room, peering at the putty-colored metal doors beneath the backlit exit signs when, all of a sudden—

"Oooooh my gooood!" I moaned involuntarily, as I found myself plunged deliciously deep into the warm satisfying wetness of her tight vagina. I looked up at her in a state of stupid semi-shock, hardly able to believe what was happening to me. She smiled broadly, brightly, as, pinning me in the straddle of her gorgeous fat white thighs, she rose and fell, rose and fell, in smooth, medium-speed strokes, her enormous round bottom landing heavily on my quadriceps with each downstroke.

"Don't try to hold it," she advised, smiling brightly and removing all doubt about her expectations for me. "Don't fight because you'll totally lose."

I surrendered; I let my head fall back on the sofa cushion, and just let it happen. And happen it did! There was a lot of obstruction—the bunched up material from her gown, the fact that my pants were still on—and I certainly would have loved to feel the whole length and breadth of her warm naked skin again my own. But even through all of this fabric I could feel the soft, heavy, reassuring comfort of her big round belly, her large motherly boobs crushing against my chest and stomach and torso with each enthusiastic stroke. My God, there is nothing in this world like a pretty fat woman!

With her patient, deliberate rhythm, it was as though every nerve ending was being overloaded, as I could feel every contour of her dripping pussy as it swallowed my length and girth. In and out, cool and warm, I was out of my mind in almost painful pleasure before—I'd like to think it was more than her predicted sixty seconds, but it wasn't long—I began to seize up and then—sweet relief! It felt so good when that pent up tension finally burst out of me with frenetic jets of jizm cascading into her lovely pussy. I think I was coming for more than 15 seconds, my back arched, my hands clutching her massive ass through the satiny material of her dress.

"Atta boy," she was saying, though she sounded far away now. She was holding still, waiting for my spasms to pass and, when I finally settled, she very gingerly withdrew herself from my lap and simply let her panties snap back into place and let her gown fall, apparently unconcerned that my seed would any minute be trickling out of her. After a moment, I withdrew the pocket square from my tux pocket and began cleaning myself with it.

She was running her fingers through my bangs. "God I've been wanted to do that all fucking weekend," she said.

"Yeah, me too."

"Get out, really?!"

"All right, all right, always with the sarcasm!"

She smiled sweetly and gave me a good natured sock in the arm. "We should be getting back soon," she said. "We'll be missed."

"But, uh, what about you?"

"Uh-uh," she said, shaking her head.

"'Uh-uh'?"

"Yeah. Just, uh-uh."

"But... if not now, when."

"Ummmm, probably not this trip actually, I'm afraid. I'm on the first flight out in the morning." I let out a disappointed whimper. "Oh poor baby," she said (un-sarcastically, I think), taking my chin between thumb and fore-knuckle. "Don't worry about me, Bart. I got exactly what I wanted. And expected. I knew full well I was basically gonna have to pop you like a zit."

"Ew!"

She let out a hearty laugh before continuing. "If it's meant to be, maybe someday..." She hummed the relevant bars from Dame Vera Lynn. "Then you can have a rematch. But I'm afraid today we must leave it: Bart, 0, Teresa, 1." With that she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek and then, as though thinking better of leaving it at that, engaged me in a passionate few minutes of tongue kissing.

Afterward she stood up and said: "Give me five minutes head start again?"

"Sure. See you upstairs."