Fathouse in Schmertzylvania

Ben Esra telefonda seni boaltmam ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bbw

The stewardess was blonde, skinny and bored, and so was Huysmans. (Well, the last one anyway.) “Please put up your tray tables in preparation for landing in Snerdsk, capitol of great nation of Schmertzylvania,” she droned. Then she turned her face toward Huysmans with the crack of a secret policeman’s baton during an interrogation. “Use of mustache wax not allowed during final 15 minutes of flight,” she said firmly.

Huysmans put away his small jar and slumped in his chair. Schmertzylvanian hospitality, once the envy from the Volga to the Bosphorus, had declined into sullenness during the long, tedious reign of First Citizen Klodna. But there was one local tradition that even Klodna’s pleasure-killing regime could not extinguish, and that had roared back since his accidental heart attack/falling off a balcony/being run over by a tank in ’91. The legendary bathhouses of Snerdsk, or, as they were known to the secret underworld of devotees of plumper women, the Fathouses.

Huysmans, world-famous author of what the West called BBW erotica, thought back on the many and formative experiences he had had as a young man in the Fathouses— a reverie of vast shaking bosoms, thunderous thighs, and grunting, sweating masseuses in thin white blouses. But just as he was recalling a particularly steamy moment in the sauna a few weeks before he defected as a teenager, he was jerked back to fluorescent-lit reality by a voice at his side. It was the absurdly fit, black-glasses-wearing American businessman seated next to him, who had pretended not to recognize Huysmans (despite his having made the rounds of all the talk shows upon the release of the recent sequel to the movie made from one of his stories, The Sapphic Pirate Miranda 2: Between the Mounds of Hell).

“Pardon me,” he said nervously. “Aren’t you… that Huysmans guy who writes about…”

“Beeg byootiful vimmin,” Huysmans interjected.

The American ducked his head down as if he had said something shameful. As if anyone could not guess why he would be traveling to Schmertzylvania! “So… is it true what they say about the… er, bathhouses?”

And suddenly, Huysmans had his inspiration for a story.

* * *

The American walked down the cobblestone street as a dusk sky rapidly soaked up the spilled India ink of night. The cheap plexiglass sign announcing “HYTL NPRYMKCHK”— Hotel Nepomuk—was a blemish on the much older stone building behind it, all orientalist curves and filigree. The place he was going was not a hotel, and it certainly had nothing to do with St. John of Nepomuk, whose eponymous cathedral had sat at the end of the street until Klodna, with the Bolshevist’s sure sense of what would appeal to the tourist trade, had demolished it for the largest hay storage facility in Europe. Nevertheless, it was famous for what happened inside, however much that would have made the good Czech saint blush.

He opened the door and bare bulbs blazed inside, reflecting off the greenish tile; whatever discretion one had shown creeping down this street in the dark was lost in the flashbulb glare of the entryway, illuminating your desires to the world. A sullen woman whose skin reflected the green of the tiles looked up at him, barely. He started to speak in simplified English, but she rolled her eyes toward the sign on the wall in equally brusque Schmertzylvanian, German, Spanish, English, Russian and Japanese. The American surveyed the choices, could make little sense out of them, but reasoned that the highest-priced one must contain everything one could want, and still only came to about $19 American. He pointed to it, and pulled out a sheaf of bills the color of pickled cabbage. Once he had paid he stood there, waiting, while the woman ignored him as if he had ceased corporeal existence at that instant.

Suddenly a wooden door swung open with the sound of a cat being stepped on, and there was another woman, more buxom and with brisk efficiency set in her square jaw and narrow eyes. She held a towel and a cheap cotton cloth, and behind her billowed a briny cloud of steam and chlorine, making her look like a demon trailing brimstone. She nodded toward the hallway behind her and then turned as precisely as if there were a spindle running up her backside, clomping down a stone passage lined with tiles plainly older and grander than the rather grim entryway şişli üniversiteli escort had boasted.

The American followed as she turned and then arrived at a hallway of rooms. She pointed, once, to a tiny changing room with a locker in it, and then once more, to a massage room with a wooden table, which smelled vaguely of medicine. Then she handed him his towel and cloth, and waited until he shut the door, and changed.

If he thought his gym-trained American physique would at last excite some flicker of femininity in his guide as he emerged, he was mistaken. She stood before the massage table as expressionless as if she were waiting for a customer to fall from the sky. But at least one thing had changed: she had taken off her outer labcoat, revealing a thin white blouse and the husky, flushed arms that sprouted from it. In the center, though the neckline was demure, he could see the beginnings of a capacious bosom, likewise flushed and freckled in the middle.

He lay, face down, on the table; the cloth managed the remarkable feat of being both paper-thin and scratchy. A second later brusque hands took hold of him and began to knead his back like pretzel dough, making shapes of it he fully expected to prove permanent. It was painful and yet rejuvenating, as toxins and endorphins seemed to be extruded with every press of her hands.

Gradually, she worked to a finer grind, and as she did she leaned in closer to him, her beefy breasts rubbing against his back, the warmth of her exertions enveloping him. His cock, pressed against the table, began to stiffen. She moved around and leaned over his head, her belly resting against him, her mound riding the table as she scooped the muscles of his lower spine and then began twisting and manipulating his muscular buttocks. He had only a view of one thigh and the beginnings of the triangle next to it, but watching it flex and jiggle with her exercises made him eager for the moment when, no doubt, she would flip him over and zero in on the erection ill-concealed by the thin cloth and bring him to a happy ending.

He thought back on the things he had read about Schmertzylvania and how it had come to this unique position as the capitol of buxom female sexuality. It went back to the 1870s, when the famous and decidedly rotund madam Slubenka led an uprising with pirates against the priestly tyrant Father Goruvnik, who ruled in the name of the weakling Dimitor II. Slaughtering Goruvnik and forcing Dimitor into exile, Slubenka threw her support behind his dissipated cousin Wolodmir, inaugurating not only a Schmertzylvanian golden age (usually referred to as The Era of Adequate Heating) but a unique notion of plus-sized female sexuality as the font of society’s prosperity.

Thin women lived lives of ordinary morality. But those who reached a certain bulk and abundance were indulged in every sort of license, including as habitues of the bathhouses, where it was common for them to pop in on their way home from work, even in the Klodna era, and enjoy an hour or two of unbridled lust and debauchery before returning to their drunken husbands in their drafty flats– assuming that their husbands had not, themselves, visited the bathhouses that night.

She stood back and tapped him smartly on the shoulder. He looked up, taking an extra moment to savor what was before him– the thin white blouse clinging to the massive breasts with the sweat and steam of the room, the pale flesh flushed on the cheeks, the arms, under the neck; the thick round thighs coming together in the triangle he imagined himself teasing open with a persistent tongue. He lingered just a moment with these thoughts and then rolled over, his cock unfolding to push the cloth up in a gesture of unmistakable meaning. He lay back, and waited for her touch.

“Hhhkhh-hhmm,” she coughed, and he looked up. She gestured, equally unmistakably, toward the door.

He looked at her, puzzled, imploring; he got back all the sympathy of a codfish. There was no question that she was finished, that she planned to touch his cock about as much as she planned to burst out in a chorus of the Schmertzylvanian national anthem, “‘Twixt Mighty Peaks and Fishy Caverns.” Hurt, confused, feeling ripped off (even if $19 was a fraction of what a massage like that would cost in the taksim anal yapan escort West), he slid off the table and started to slink to the changing room opposite.

“Nonononono,” she muttered again. He turned and she pointed further down the hallway, where a distant sound of splashing could be heard, echoing off a zig zag of walls. Now he understood; she was merely the preparation for what happened even further into the baths. He thanked her, and began walking, gingerly in his bare feet, down the hall.

* * *

His glasses clouded as he drew nearer. He had to look down to make sure his feet would not step off a step unawares. At the end of the corridor he turned and there was a round pool, its domed ceiling covered with lapis lazuli tiles– a beautiful evocation of the sky, especially for what was so often a gray and drab country. As he entered, three heads turned in unison toward him. Male heads, awaiting fresh meat. At least one, a lizard-like older man with swept-back silver hair, seemed to think he’d do just fine.

Again he wondered if he had completely misunderstood the nature of what was going on here. But as he walked the perimeter of the pool, he passed a little room off to one side— and inside there were two large women, one older and immense, the other younger, pear-shaped and blonde, kissing with wet tongues. The younger one had her breasts out of the thin white sheet and the older one’s fat, stubby fingers squeezed them vigorously as they moaned together. Then the blonde glared at him in no uncertain terms and he moved on, nervously. There was a little laughter from the men in the pool.

He was still confused what to do, so for lack of other ideas, he sat down on the steps in the pool, submerging himself up to his stomach. That seemed to excite some comment from the other men, as well, but thankfully, no one approached him. At least the water was warm, and he could keep his glasses from steaming over by dipping them every few minutes.

There were voices coming from the corridor at the other end, and then two women, laughing and gesturing, emerged from the doorway, wrapped in white sheets. Yet the sheets could not hide the voluptuousness of their figures. One was dark, strong-featured, dark eyes and a single heavy eyebrow and an imperiously large nose; the other all roundness and dimples, blonde and soft and squeezable, lips mashed together. They looked over the men in the pool and then the dark one came toward the American. She was not so much fat as broad in the beam, muscular. She stopped next to him and then lifted a bare foot, pointing it like a ballerina until it reached his face and began to graze his cheek downward. He showed his appreciation, admiring the thickness of her long, firm legs– then she hooked her toes under his chin and yanked upward, gesturing toward the hallway behind her.

He began to rise from the pool, trying to distract attention from his erection, but the wet cloth outlined it perfectly. The men at the other end laughed among themselves, but he didn’t care. He followed this woman, large, almost ugly with her strong mannish features, yet hypnotically sexual as her vast square buttocks shifted beneath the thin cloth‚ as they left the bath and went down another tile hallway, voices echoing like old ghosts, until they reached a steam room with wooden benches.

In the instant before his glasses fogged again, the American saw that there was a narrow-eyed man, with the look of a policeman, sitting in the corner. Again fear overtook him but it was groundless; the soft round blonde, whom the American had to admit he fancied more, sat down next to the man and so far as he could see, began to gently stroke the man’s cock under his towel while he nuzzled her neck.

In front of him, though, the dark woman pushed him onto a bench and began to do a sort of dance for him, her legs apart, hiking up her cloth with each step until it revealed an extravagantly hairy bush, black as a coal mine, as unruly as a flock of crows. This furry monster came closer and closer to his face and there was to be only one thing to do with it. As her wrap dropped from around her, revealing her abundant yet muscular figure, her jutting large breasts, one with a prominent dark mole like a second hairy nipple on it, he grabbed her haunches with taksim bdsm escort his hands and pulled her dark, untamed pussy to his mouth, licking deeply inside a slick, fragrant slit which gave off aromas of steam and oyster and garlic.

The other couple laughed appreciatively as the American turned to his work with gusto, kneading her large buttocks while her pussy ground his face. She rode him lasciviously, rutting up and down on his face as his tongue licked furiously. Then she pulled away from him and turned around, thrusting her ass into his face. He spread the massive hams apart, thankful to find her relatively clean after the ablutions of the bath, and squeezed his face into the crack as the massive cheeks squeezed his face almost painfully. He found her hole and traced its wrinkles with his tongue, and she murmured appreciatively. Then he jabbed his tongue in as far as it could go, and she laughed, languorously, as if to say to her friend, I found a live one here!

He looked around her ass, no easy feat while licking its epicenter, and saw that the blonde was now on her knees, her soft breasts swaying back and forth as the man slowly slid a large purple dildo into— her ass? It looked that way from the position. In any case she rode it gratefully, meditatively, all thought turned to the sensation of the purple cock inside her as her soft, curvy ass shimmied and sashayed up and down, her soft belly and pillowy breasts swaying as if in a summer breeze. Suddenly her eyes opened and locked directly onto the American’s; there was no looking away. She said something— it had to be, essentially, “You like?”— and some words passed between the two women.

Now the dark one pulled him up, and she dropped to her knees, grabbing the American’s cock and licking her lips around the head, sucking up the glistening droplets that had formed at its end. Meanwhile the blonde came around and, pressing her delectably soft breasts against his back, kissed him on the neck while rubbing her hand over his ass. The dark one sucked harder, and then the blonde spread his buttocks apart and slid a hand along his wet ass, tickling her way to his asshole. A finger went inside; he stiffened, but it was unimaginable leaving while the dark woman sucked so intently at his aching-to-be-relieved cock.

The blonde took some lotion in her hand and pressed again, this time slipping her finger well inside him. In his peripheral vision he could see the man moving, but he couldn’t tell what was going on. He might have come then if not for the apprehension he felt. Now the dark woman stood up and lay back on the bench on a towel, a vision of blackhaired animalistic lust, waiting to be fucked. Yet he couldn’t move yet, because the blonde had something in mind as she slid her fingers in and out of her ass, and it was a sensation too exquisite to abandon. Finally she slid them out and nudged him toward her friend.

He climbed on top of her, those trunklike thighs, the broad belly, the third hairy nipple looking up at him, and he felt his cock work its way through the thicket between her legs and find a path to slide in. He had only thrust a few times when he felt the blonde woman climb on top of him, enveloping him in feminine warmth and soft, smooth skin. But that was not all she had in mind; he felt her reach and grapple with something, there was a bit of fabric somewhere on her— and then he knew as a strap-on dildo began to penetrate his asshole, spreading him open. He tried to protest but she bucked against him, forcing him more deeply into her friend, and he knew at that instant that it was useless to resist two such abundant and powerful women as they used him for their pleasure. What happens in Schmertzylvania stays in Schmertzylvania, he thought, as his ass was ripped open by the mighty thrust of a soft chubby blonde with a purple cock, and his own quite purple cock slid hungrily through the nether wetness of his dark-eyed, angular Amazon.

* * *

A few days later Huysmans was sitting in a cafe in Slubenka Square, formerly Pavilion of the Selfless Service of First Citizen Klodna, chatting with some young writers from one of the many literary journals that had sprung up in recent years, when he saw the American go by. Huysmans raised a hand and nodded to him, but the American kept his head down and pretended not to see him. Huysmans made a note to himself in his marmot-skin journal: “Contact Ministry of Tourism about possible DVD-Schmertzylvanian travel tie-in in America.”

(If you enjoyed this story, enjoy more erotic fiction about Schmertzylvania in my stories Train to Schmertzylvania and The Sapphic Pirate Miranda, and about Huysmans in Satin Sheets and Book Tour Groupies.)

Ben Esra telefonda seni boaltmam ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

İlk yorum yapan olun

Bir yanıt bırakın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak.


*