superodalisque
Well-Known Member
BBW, Very explicit sex
Luis Velez Posada was born in Abejorral, and from an early age his sensitive soul revealed an inclination for art and the beauty of landscapes. People who knew him as a child say that in this period he painted the renowned sunsets of the region, capturing in watercolor all the subtleties of the twilight’s luminous red and yellow clouds. Later he achieved remarkable results in still life. Fruits in rich, warm colors, pitchers, enormous knives and other kitchen utensils took over his imagination and became the center of his artistic concerns. Now all that remained for him to tackle was the human figure.
He often saw walking in front of his house a young woman with appetizing thighs and firm round breasts. He thought Amparo—for that was her name—looked good enough to eat. What a great model she would be! Finally, overcoming his shyness, he managed to make friends with her and convince her, little by little, of the great service she would be doing to art by posing for him. What a fine morsel she was!
The atmosphere of the studio could not have been more favorable. She took off her clothes slowly, while Velez Posada’s eyes literally popped out as each piece of clothing fell softly to the floor.
He made her lie down on the bed that he had in front of his easel. He took his revolver out of its case and, with steady aim, fired a shot through her heart. Then, taking out the enormous knives that he kept carefully stored away, he started cutting slices from every part of her, and, as he ate with relish, he thought that he would never find another model as delicious as Amparo.
- Fernanando Botero
Amparo - Felice reclined on a chaise draped in yellow silk. Her skin was reflective in its amber light—a golden odalisque. The image was of the indelible and immense possibilities of life, a deliberate manipulation of the convention in western art. One arm was draped languidly over the rolled back of the lounge. Curved honey colored and supple it spread wide from the pressure of its weight. Her fat limb swelled from a delicately rounded shoulder that led up to a plump neck. The other disappeared around a rotund and tenderly draped belly that rose and fell in response to her light slumber. The short black hairs on the nape of her neck curled themselves upward in the summer sun resembling the cilia of a sundew. Full cheeks accentuated succulent lips. Amparo was still. Nothing in the studio moved except Luis’ eyes from one aspect of her to another. They were hot and dry. The artist had not dared to blink in several moments, afraid that if he did she would somehow disappear.
Amparo’s nude back presented like a generous Boucher painting. The model’s softly curved waist extended to vast hips and decadently corpulent thighs. Her luxuriant ass mounded on itself—one cheek heavily atop the other. Luis watched the dimples depressions and indentations almost as though he could see the imperceptible changes brought on by the three pieces of golden apple pie she’d consumed. Harsh illumination from the large window filtered through her fat flesh in a crimson translucent halo glowing beneath her honey skin. The clock ticked in the hallway. When he finally blinked a small gummy sound seemed to come from his dry lids. The time piece struck the hour. Luis cursed the pendulum. Light had begun to slant through the window noting the coming of evening.
With the sound of chimes she stirred. Moved. The spell was broken. But, her change in position generated a series of physiological events re-establishing its own kind of enchantment; he was enchanted. The thrill that rippled through his body was not unlike the undulation of the masses of fluffy cellulite on her thighs. She was not at all like the Botero paintings that were so popular. She was not a square shapeless woman. Not a statement of a woman but woman herself. She was huge and monumental, but with breasts, hips and a defined waist. And there was not that sense of marble solidity about her. She was soft, fluid and malleable. Somewhere through the artist’s arid mind drifted the term liquid hermosa. It took her great effort to raise the 400lb figure to a sitting position. She bent forward and took a sash from the floor before her. Luis glimpsed a portion of Amparo’s breast long pendulous and resplendent dangling beneath her right arm. He saw that her belly hung light in its semi-transparent skin when she bent to gather her robe about her shoulders. It was a Degas moment. But frustration touched his work. The artist’s pastel rasped independently along the rough paper pretending as though it had been productive for the entire afternoon. Smooth strokes had become both harsh and angry sending wispy tendrils of pigment through the dry air. Amparo reached behind her for the sash. The cascading curtain of rolls on her back folded one upon the other. Luis. enthralled, absently closed the sketchbook to hide the incomprehensible markings he had made during the previous day lit hours. A cloud of fine yellow dust settled on his hands in the parched air. He took off his shirt and began wiping it briskly away, a terse _expression on his face.
She turned finally to face him. Dark lashes lowered to cover her strangely innocent eyes. Amparo smiled at him but her deeper feelings were veiled. She gave all of her attention to gathering her slippers and keys. She seemed to make a point not to look up at him. Luis continued his adoration from afar. His eyes t raveled with delight over the curve of her tremendously excessive thigh. Amparo glanced up at him unexpectedly. The artist moved his forearm quickly to cover himself. But he knew she had seen him straining painfully inside his tint stained jeans. It enraged him that his distress appeared not to touch her. She was the only woman he had known who was so large and lovely and enjoyed her body. He knew she was different. He had glimpsed her as she preened and caressed herself in apparent privacy. She reveled in her grandiose fullness. It was clear she loved herself. Luis longed to be where her perfume was; behind the lavish folds of her knees, the bend of her chubby arms, along her downy neck, beneath her lovely hanging breasts. He wanted to talk intimately with her, sit near her, hold her. She was the very embodiment of beauty to him—a very fat Venus. She was extremely gentle and dangerously heavy. If he tried with her he could actually be hurt. It only made him desire her more. He was in agony. He hungered for her.
He had enigmatic erotic dreams. In his bed of heat he devoured her. He was a great and tawny lion of the veldt. Gigantic ochre paws spread her huge jiggling thighs. He ate her. In his imaginings she had screamed and cried with pleasure while his enormous tongue lapped and lapped and lapped. She arched her back and her large breasts rolled and jerked across her torso. He took her, orgasm after orgasm. He rode her Tsunami wave as her flabby hips bucked and swayed. The tall blonde grasses of the waterless plain swished around them. Fat knees squeezed his lion’s mane between them. Amparo had pulled his fur. He awoke in the bright golden light of morning hot and exhausted among sticky sheets. Large amounts of cum dried on his tanned thighs. But, still the hunger persisted. During the day the visions haunted him. He threw things in disgust across his studio space at the smallest provocation. He took cold baths and ate copious amounts of chilled melon. But still he felt famished. He was thirsty. He could not be sated. He took on a gaunt appearance. And, sometimes when he was with her, he even felt he had to stifle a roar. Was he losing his mind? losing his sanity? Going crazy? He thought the answer must be yes, yes and yes.
She finally turned to him. This is my last day” she said calmly in her quiet childlike tone. Something inside him fell to the floor and broke. “But why?” was all he could manage. His already large eyes grew even wider. “I know your feelings” she said almost sadly. “But, you could never give me what I need. I am just a fetish and an obsession for you. If I stay with you any longer I might come to care for you, and that would be a tragedy for me. It is an old story; the artist and his delicious model. I won’t allow it to happen. King Eurystheus, if you had the golden apples what would you do with them? It’s time for me to stop playing this game. I have to go.” There was a finality in her words... ______________________________________
form the archives of The Superodalisque[
YELLOW
The Painter and his Delicious Model
by Superdalisque
by Superdalisque
Luis Velez Posada was born in Abejorral, and from an early age his sensitive soul revealed an inclination for art and the beauty of landscapes. People who knew him as a child say that in this period he painted the renowned sunsets of the region, capturing in watercolor all the subtleties of the twilight’s luminous red and yellow clouds. Later he achieved remarkable results in still life. Fruits in rich, warm colors, pitchers, enormous knives and other kitchen utensils took over his imagination and became the center of his artistic concerns. Now all that remained for him to tackle was the human figure.
He often saw walking in front of his house a young woman with appetizing thighs and firm round breasts. He thought Amparo—for that was her name—looked good enough to eat. What a great model she would be! Finally, overcoming his shyness, he managed to make friends with her and convince her, little by little, of the great service she would be doing to art by posing for him. What a fine morsel she was!
The atmosphere of the studio could not have been more favorable. She took off her clothes slowly, while Velez Posada’s eyes literally popped out as each piece of clothing fell softly to the floor.
He made her lie down on the bed that he had in front of his easel. He took his revolver out of its case and, with steady aim, fired a shot through her heart. Then, taking out the enormous knives that he kept carefully stored away, he started cutting slices from every part of her, and, as he ate with relish, he thought that he would never find another model as delicious as Amparo.
- Fernanando Botero
Amparo - Felice reclined on a chaise draped in yellow silk. Her skin was reflective in its amber light—a golden odalisque. The image was of the indelible and immense possibilities of life, a deliberate manipulation of the convention in western art. One arm was draped languidly over the rolled back of the lounge. Curved honey colored and supple it spread wide from the pressure of its weight. Her fat limb swelled from a delicately rounded shoulder that led up to a plump neck. The other disappeared around a rotund and tenderly draped belly that rose and fell in response to her light slumber. The short black hairs on the nape of her neck curled themselves upward in the summer sun resembling the cilia of a sundew. Full cheeks accentuated succulent lips. Amparo was still. Nothing in the studio moved except Luis’ eyes from one aspect of her to another. They were hot and dry. The artist had not dared to blink in several moments, afraid that if he did she would somehow disappear.
Amparo’s nude back presented like a generous Boucher painting. The model’s softly curved waist extended to vast hips and decadently corpulent thighs. Her luxuriant ass mounded on itself—one cheek heavily atop the other. Luis watched the dimples depressions and indentations almost as though he could see the imperceptible changes brought on by the three pieces of golden apple pie she’d consumed. Harsh illumination from the large window filtered through her fat flesh in a crimson translucent halo glowing beneath her honey skin. The clock ticked in the hallway. When he finally blinked a small gummy sound seemed to come from his dry lids. The time piece struck the hour. Luis cursed the pendulum. Light had begun to slant through the window noting the coming of evening.
With the sound of chimes she stirred. Moved. The spell was broken. But, her change in position generated a series of physiological events re-establishing its own kind of enchantment; he was enchanted. The thrill that rippled through his body was not unlike the undulation of the masses of fluffy cellulite on her thighs. She was not at all like the Botero paintings that were so popular. She was not a square shapeless woman. Not a statement of a woman but woman herself. She was huge and monumental, but with breasts, hips and a defined waist. And there was not that sense of marble solidity about her. She was soft, fluid and malleable. Somewhere through the artist’s arid mind drifted the term liquid hermosa. It took her great effort to raise the 400lb figure to a sitting position. She bent forward and took a sash from the floor before her. Luis glimpsed a portion of Amparo’s breast long pendulous and resplendent dangling beneath her right arm. He saw that her belly hung light in its semi-transparent skin when she bent to gather her robe about her shoulders. It was a Degas moment. But frustration touched his work. The artist’s pastel rasped independently along the rough paper pretending as though it had been productive for the entire afternoon. Smooth strokes had become both harsh and angry sending wispy tendrils of pigment through the dry air. Amparo reached behind her for the sash. The cascading curtain of rolls on her back folded one upon the other. Luis. enthralled, absently closed the sketchbook to hide the incomprehensible markings he had made during the previous day lit hours. A cloud of fine yellow dust settled on his hands in the parched air. He took off his shirt and began wiping it briskly away, a terse _expression on his face.
She turned finally to face him. Dark lashes lowered to cover her strangely innocent eyes. Amparo smiled at him but her deeper feelings were veiled. She gave all of her attention to gathering her slippers and keys. She seemed to make a point not to look up at him. Luis continued his adoration from afar. His eyes t raveled with delight over the curve of her tremendously excessive thigh. Amparo glanced up at him unexpectedly. The artist moved his forearm quickly to cover himself. But he knew she had seen him straining painfully inside his tint stained jeans. It enraged him that his distress appeared not to touch her. She was the only woman he had known who was so large and lovely and enjoyed her body. He knew she was different. He had glimpsed her as she preened and caressed herself in apparent privacy. She reveled in her grandiose fullness. It was clear she loved herself. Luis longed to be where her perfume was; behind the lavish folds of her knees, the bend of her chubby arms, along her downy neck, beneath her lovely hanging breasts. He wanted to talk intimately with her, sit near her, hold her. She was the very embodiment of beauty to him—a very fat Venus. She was extremely gentle and dangerously heavy. If he tried with her he could actually be hurt. It only made him desire her more. He was in agony. He hungered for her.
He had enigmatic erotic dreams. In his bed of heat he devoured her. He was a great and tawny lion of the veldt. Gigantic ochre paws spread her huge jiggling thighs. He ate her. In his imaginings she had screamed and cried with pleasure while his enormous tongue lapped and lapped and lapped. She arched her back and her large breasts rolled and jerked across her torso. He took her, orgasm after orgasm. He rode her Tsunami wave as her flabby hips bucked and swayed. The tall blonde grasses of the waterless plain swished around them. Fat knees squeezed his lion’s mane between them. Amparo had pulled his fur. He awoke in the bright golden light of morning hot and exhausted among sticky sheets. Large amounts of cum dried on his tanned thighs. But, still the hunger persisted. During the day the visions haunted him. He threw things in disgust across his studio space at the smallest provocation. He took cold baths and ate copious amounts of chilled melon. But still he felt famished. He was thirsty. He could not be sated. He took on a gaunt appearance. And, sometimes when he was with her, he even felt he had to stifle a roar. Was he losing his mind? losing his sanity? Going crazy? He thought the answer must be yes, yes and yes.
She finally turned to him. This is my last day” she said calmly in her quiet childlike tone. Something inside him fell to the floor and broke. “But why?” was all he could manage. His already large eyes grew even wider. “I know your feelings” she said almost sadly. “But, you could never give me what I need. I am just a fetish and an obsession for you. If I stay with you any longer I might come to care for you, and that would be a tragedy for me. It is an old story; the artist and his delicious model. I won’t allow it to happen. King Eurystheus, if you had the golden apples what would you do with them? It’s time for me to stop playing this game. I have to go.” There was a finality in her words... ______________________________________
form the archives of The Superodalisque[
