A Serialized Novel by Wilson Barbers
Bob decided to quit his job at the Patterns Children's Home the day a thirteen-year-old bit him for not being allowed his turn at bat. The precipitating event occurred at an Illinois Inter-Agency Athletic event, a grudge match between Patterns and a residential facility from the boy's home town. Seeing all his cronies had apparently been too much for the kid, a young state ward named Jared from the slum and soybean processing section of Decatur. He was mouthy all afternoon and finally had to be pulled from the game after calling one too many staff members "motherfucker." He did not take the punishment well. As Bob and a cohort tried to lead him back to the agency van, Jared went amuck. The result: Bob got it in the arm and was allowed to go home early.
The human mouth, Bob reflected as his girlfriend Ann cleaned the bite-shaped wound with hydrogen peroxide, is dirtier than any domestic animal's: you had more reason to worry about a kid bite than a dog's. He sniffed the acrid scent of antiseptic as his girlfriend made sympathetic noises, and he thought about his job. He'd been working as a therapeutic recreation counselor at Patterns for the past year-and-a-half and seen more than enough bites and kicks and violent child behavior to last a lifetime. This was the first time he'd been on the receiving end, though. Once was enough: he had to get into something new.
He said as much to Ann that evening. She was wringing the washcloth out in the bathtub, her lean body snug in a pair of cut-off jeans and tee-shirt, her pert end announcing itself to him as he sat with his arm draped over the bathroom sink. His arm was throbbing, but not so badly that it dimmed the excitement he felt at her closeness. A couple of Motrin and he'd be ready to act on that arousal.
"So what do you wanna do?" she asked, turning back to Bob and putting his thoughts back on the conversation he'd started.
"Something in my field," he answered, reaching around to get the pain pills from the medicine cabinet. "Got to do something with all that education. . ." He caught a glimpse of himself in the cabinet mirror: a blond male in his late twenties with the kind of basic guy looks that had served him well when he was unattached. He was definitely showing the strain of the day, though. "I don't know. I'll have to look around."
Ann straddled his legs, reaching to the sink for a glass of water. She offered it to him, and he gulped down two caplets. "You're not planning anything foolish like quitting before you find something else, are you?" she asked. Ann worked as a teller in a downtown bank and had the typical banker's caution; she balanced his occasional bursts of recklessness.
"Don't worry," he replied, lightly kissing her on the lips. "You know me: I'm Mr. Careful."
"Yeah. Right," she snorted.
But he was true to his word.
Next day, Bob phoned a school buddy working in Chicago at the offices of a university placement service and asked for a current list of jobs in his field. It took a week for the envelope to arrive and a month for him to find the right job, one close enough to home and in his field. He didn't tell Ann a thing about it until he'd gone through the whole interview. He wanted to surprise her, prove he could be both patient and responsible.
A bottle of Ruinite in his hand, Bob returned to their shared duplex with the news: he'd just been offered a position as recreation counselor at Camp Venn.
"Camp Venn?" Ann asked, spooning out two plates of taco salad, spicy meat sauce dripping between slices of tomato, cheese and lettuce. "Why does the name sound so familiar to me?" She had switched out of her professional garb and was dressed in a lightweight summer dress, her smooth shoulders glinting in the fluorescent kitchenette light. Definitely tasty, Bob thought.
"You saw that news segment on it several months ago," he answered as he stood by the counter and worked on opening his bottle of wine. "Remember? The talk show hostess who went to Venn last summer?"
"And lost fifty pounds? And devoted an entire show to bragging about her weight loss?" Ann shouted. She brandished a bag of salt-free corn chips for emphasis. "Sure I remember! Camp Venn is a fat farm!" She gestured to the kitchenette table, and they sat down to dinner.
"We prefer to call it a Nutrition and Exercise Center," Bob said, sipping his wine and winking at his slender paramour. "But, then, your skinny self wouldn't know about such things."
"Are you kidding?" Ann said indignantly, pushing her fork through a taco chip for emphasis. "You've seen my parents and my sister: blimpdom is in my genes! I've had to work hard to keep myself this way!" She took a careful forkful of salad, then swirled her wineglass in front of him. He was a little surprised at the intensity of her response to his teasing, but on reflection it made sense. Bob remembered how uncomfortable she'd been the first time she'd brought him back to her home town.
Come to think of it, he also recalled a brief argument they'd had in the car on the way home: at the time he'd been more uncomfortable by Ann's ongoing under-breath comments than he had by her family's size.
"I thought you liked me like this: what's with this 'skinny' crap?" she accused. "Have I been living with a closet 'chubby chaser'?"
Bob looked into her wide eyes and smiled, then took a long examining gaze over her boyish form. They ate in silence for a time, alternating between savoring the meal and maintaining eye contact. Occasionally, he would let his eyes wander downwards. Ann's neck was long and slender; the cleavage of her dress inviting. Her breasts were small but fully round, with prominent aureolae and nipples. "Just giving you grief," he apologized. "You know I'm turned on by the sight of you just the way you are."
"So you say now," she said, shrugging, letting a strap drop off her right shoulder, "but what'll you be like, spending all your days with a bunch of half-dressed fat chicks?"
"I'll just be more eager for you," Bob said, reaching across the table and grabbing her forearm, elbow brushing the dregs of salad on his plate.
"Is this a challenge?" He stood and led her into the living room. Flipping on the stereo receiver, Bob sat her down on the couch and began to slide her dress up her muscular legs. In the background, Roy Orbison started to sing about a girl who "had it." Ann's nipples started to proclaim her interest.
Her thighs were smooth and slender with a slight gap between them. Bob traced this gap with his fingertips, sliding toward her flat stomach and pubic region. Ann started to nibble on his right ear lobe, the scent of talc wafting to his nostrils. Placing his palm down between her legs, he began to massage her upper left leg. She opened her thighs in response, moved her tongue into his ear and began to salaciously lick. Through one ear he could hear Orbison moaning worshipfully.
Ann unbuttoned his shirt, twining her fingernails in his chest hairs and tweaking his nipples. In response, Bob turned to face and kiss her: though the rest of her was slim, her lips were full and sensual. They invited his tongue, and he felt his way around and through them. Her mouth was still flavorful from dinner.
Bob's shirt was fully unfastened now, and Ann had her slim arms around him, scratching his back. Her dress was up and over her hips, so he started to explore the hairy region masking her vagina. The curly strands were damp from her building excitement.
Member rising, Bob stood and shucked his pants. Ann lifted her dress over her head and threw it in the direction of the kitchenette where it fluttered to the linoleum floor. As she stretched in display on the couch, Bob eyed her body. Her well-formed calves. Her perky, rounded rear. Her graceful upper torso with its classically formed breasts that resisted gravity and continued to jut outwards. Her angular face with its high ckeekbones and those devourable lips. The sight of her made him stiffen further.
"Interested, huh?" Ann said. "Guess you like this skinny bod, after all. . ."
He responded by pushing the wrought iron coffee table away from the couch, crouching and placing his mouth on her closest breast. Her mam jiggled as he planted his lips around her nipple and began to bite it lightly. Moaning and shifting, Ann arched her back as he trailed his hand around her navel. He sucked and pushed his face into her breast, all the while moving his right hand back down to her damp pubic region. Using his fingertips, Bob parted her labial walls and slowly moved his middle finger into her - probing and pushing until he got to the nub of her clitoris. Ann let out a gasp.
"Found it," he said with a grin, as he continued to ring her with his fingertip. She grew more excited the longer he did this. Pulling him away from her breasts, Ann clasped his mouth against hers and kissed so strongly that he thought he might lose his breath. He grew larger in reply, his erection feeling so long and hard that it threatened to push the couch away.
Bob released her and moved back, turned and shoved all the magazines off the coffee table, then sat on the table's sturdy top. Ann slowly sidled off the couch and stood before him, pubic hair glistening in the living room light. On the stereo, a southern pop band was telling Bob to "stand." Part of him very definitely was.
Ann stood over his legs and lowered herself onto his shaft, letting out a small groan as his fat member pushed into her. She felt slick and firm around him, and he was ready to explode with the feel of her tautness. But he held back, concentrating on the act of using both his legs and arms to push himself upwards.
Sweat dripped from her short-cropped hair onto his face. He licked the salt from his upper lip and smiled into her lust-filled eyes. Her breasts brushed against his chest as she wildly squirmed on top of him. The sound of the radio had totally washed away.
He felt himself filling and unable to stem it. At this point, he was past trying. Bob shot into her, hot liquid erupting and causing Ann to halt and savor the sensation. Her face was flushed; her eyes aimed toward the ceiling. He pulsed inside her, and she groaned with every throb.
Bob stayed stiff for some time. She rested atop him, her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him happily. Sex, he thought, was both relaxing and exciting for them. They finally separated and went back to their dinner without bothering to dress. The meat was cold, but neither cared. All that exercise had made them hungry; they avidly spooned out second helpings of taco salad.
"So where is this camp, anyway?" Ann asked when they got to the end of the best part of their salads. "Not too far away, is it?"
"About a forty minute commute," Bob answered. "It's near the Wisconsin border in a fairly isolated area."
"And when do you start at Flabby Farm?" She picked a limp chip off the edge of her plate and reflectively watched it fold over in her hands.
"Gave my notice today," Bob said, standing to carry their plates to the dishwasher. The steel of the chair arms had left indentations on his naked arms. "In two weeks I'll be working in an environment where fear of arm bites is unknown." He turned his right arm over and examined the scar on his wrist.
"I don't know," Ann joked, standing and gathering the bowls together. The back of her thighs, he noticed, were textured from the chair weave. Even the skinniest of us had fat somewhere, Bob realized. "What if you get a camper who's really hungry?"
"I'll just tell her I'm not on the menu," Bob said with a grin.