~BBW, Essay - Skinny guy with a inferiorirty complex is impressed by a BBW
Author's Note: Loosely inspired by my first brush with a BBW:
I had never seen anyone like her. Everyone in my family has always been thin; my parents were both health nuts and while I'm no fitness guru, I stay in shape. I'd never seen anyone who had so clearly reveled in life's pleasures.
She was healthy, first of all. My mother and sisters had been fit, of course, but they always had this brittle quality, like they were made of paper. This woman was vibrant and alive in a way that was absolutely foreign. Her hair was a luxurious copper sheet that cascaded over her rounded shoulders like a river of molten metal, with long bangs that barely shrouded piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow in the low evening light.
Her face was an ivory oval, perfectly smooth and peppered with freckles like a quail's egg. Her neck flowed into a chest out of a renaissance painting; full soft breasts rendered high-gloss by summertime sweat, perched above a rounded, supple belly.
I found my eyes couldn't focus on one part of her. She was all curves and smooth, flowing lines, always drawing the eye to another part of her to take it in anew.
So it was that my eyes, drawn from her face to her body, found her arms. Again I felt it necessary to contrast her with other women I had known. They had been bone and muscle and sinew and grit and angles, arms like twigs so that when they moved they seemed to be dead trees animated to walk the earth. She was not a dead tree. Where every move they made was a shade of life, geometrically precise as a protractor, her arms were round. No angles. The closest things to geometry I found were the endless circles and arcs that made her up. Even just standing there, barefoot in the grass, she had more energy, more motion, more life in her arms alone than every woman I had seen built up their whole bodies.
Her waist flared out dramatically, hips and bottom swelling half-again as far as everything else, narrowing again at the knees and below. Other women had a slight contrast between their waists and their hips, but this woman put them all to shame just comparing her hips to her calves. Every inch of this woman was perfection, her pale milky flesh luminescent in the deepening moonlight. My heart ached as i regarded her silently, knowing she could never be mine.
She turned and saw me, and I became acutely aware at how I must look to people like her. This boy made of twigs and straw, what could someone like her possibly care for in someone like him? Despite the disgust I could only imagine she held for me, she smiled. I smiled back, unable and unwilling to think. I beheld...
Author's Note: Loosely inspired by my first brush with a BBW:
Redhead in the Moonlight
by Stickman
by Stickman
I had never seen anyone like her. Everyone in my family has always been thin; my parents were both health nuts and while I'm no fitness guru, I stay in shape. I'd never seen anyone who had so clearly reveled in life's pleasures.
She was healthy, first of all. My mother and sisters had been fit, of course, but they always had this brittle quality, like they were made of paper. This woman was vibrant and alive in a way that was absolutely foreign. Her hair was a luxurious copper sheet that cascaded over her rounded shoulders like a river of molten metal, with long bangs that barely shrouded piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow in the low evening light.
Her face was an ivory oval, perfectly smooth and peppered with freckles like a quail's egg. Her neck flowed into a chest out of a renaissance painting; full soft breasts rendered high-gloss by summertime sweat, perched above a rounded, supple belly.
I found my eyes couldn't focus on one part of her. She was all curves and smooth, flowing lines, always drawing the eye to another part of her to take it in anew.
So it was that my eyes, drawn from her face to her body, found her arms. Again I felt it necessary to contrast her with other women I had known. They had been bone and muscle and sinew and grit and angles, arms like twigs so that when they moved they seemed to be dead trees animated to walk the earth. She was not a dead tree. Where every move they made was a shade of life, geometrically precise as a protractor, her arms were round. No angles. The closest things to geometry I found were the endless circles and arcs that made her up. Even just standing there, barefoot in the grass, she had more energy, more motion, more life in her arms alone than every woman I had seen built up their whole bodies.
Her waist flared out dramatically, hips and bottom swelling half-again as far as everything else, narrowing again at the knees and below. Other women had a slight contrast between their waists and their hips, but this woman put them all to shame just comparing her hips to her calves. Every inch of this woman was perfection, her pale milky flesh luminescent in the deepening moonlight. My heart ached as i regarded her silently, knowing she could never be mine.
She turned and saw me, and I became acutely aware at how I must look to people like her. This boy made of twigs and straw, what could someone like her possibly care for in someone like him? Despite the disgust I could only imagine she held for me, she smiled. I smiled back, unable and unwilling to think. I beheld...
