Lardibutts
Aged Member
Eating Explicit Sex WG - The wandering eye of a FA catches the attention of two lsrge ladies who apparently know what they want as well
Author's note: The beginning of this piece was inspired by an unforgettable real encounter with a “larger than life” outrageous mother and her daughter recalled here as accurately as I am able.
But unlike the rest of my story, the spectacular two departed after thanking me, to pass out of my life forever - except in memory. So what follows is lustful fantasy, a fabrication (in every sense of the word) collaged from a lifetime of covert people watching and fantasising about the best of my missed opportunities.
It is told in the first person by a devious Flemish chocolateer, a role I sometimes adopt in the darker recesses of my head.
1 Ciampino contact
She was an extraordinary vision teetering along on ridiculous heels in the sweaty crowd clustering into the run down terminal at Ciampino airport, Roma. A coating of heavy operatic make-up overlaid a lurid painted-on sun tan. She’d be in her 40s but dolled up like a teenager.
I homed in on her because it looked like she was carrying spectacular bodywork on her medium height frame. A scanty claret silk underwear-like top trimmed with black lace exposed round fat shoulders. It also brazenly advertised the overflowings of a thick white strapped industrial bra dramatically failing to keep abreast of its responsibilities.
But there was something more that really got me hookd. It was the show stopping sight of her bottom half, vastly wider than her already ample torso. From boyhood I have always fantasized about the feeling of a hugely pear shaped naked woman lowering herself onto my lap.
I began day dreaming about this now as I tried to keep her in vision ahead of me, struggling along with quivering blubbery beachball buttocks. They were animating a billowing long skirt, shot through with black and claret that matched her top. A long slit flashed glimpses of breathtakingly fat legs squashed into the heels of ludicrously spindly raffia sandals. She ended up alongside me queuing for the single immigration policeman. Two or three cut price flights had just arrived together from different corners of Europe, completely swamping the old military airport’s facilities.
Perhaps I should more truthfully say I’d manoeuvred through the crush of people so we would end up together. I looked down at her long hair, dyed fiercely auburn, and just below the split ends, my eye locked onto to a butterfly tattooed on the flowing curve of her left shoulder just above a blubbery droop of soft upper arm fat. These were deliciously ajiggle as she tried locating her passport in her handbag while at the same time manipulating her trail-bag and the jacket over her arm.
She’d become flustered.
I lent a hand, staying back with her till she’d found it. She flashed a brilliant smile. I noted beads of sweat – then how her lavish full lipped mouth seemed appliquéd onto a flood of rearranging flesh and chins. Now she was thanking me in the hardest Dublin accent, confirmed for me on the arrivals board above us: Ryanair from Dublin. As we advanced to the barrier, I asked was she on holiday?
No she said, her daughter was meeting her. It was then I detected the broken Italian English syntax underlying the Irish brogue.
Once through the gate and into the low dark hall, I was left standing with both our trailer bags and holding her jacket as she rushed forward and embraced her daughter in joyous Italian exclamations.
Oh Boy! And what a daughter!
Around twenty and about the same height as mum, she was totally black chic clad: a clingy T-shirt cum dress top above tailored trousers. If mum was a way overripe mushy pear, daughter was a no less amazing apple. My first impression was she seemed all belly – this apple was still swelling, still ripening on the bough. Her top defined high round breasts, then, hugging close around successive rolls of fat, curved luxuriously outwards over the belly of a Buddah.
Mother drew attention to the size of daughter’s belly, eyebrows raised in stagey over-acted astonishment. She hefted it before kissing the girl’s cheek adoringly. The daughter laughed. Now, tossing her mane of black hair, daughter bounced mum’s vast arse vigorously in return.
Then Mama remembered me, saw me watching, and struck a mock pose with daughter for me as for a photo.
They collected mother’s baggage from me and I watched them depart across the old marble lobby. If mum had to be pushing 180 kgs (400lb), daughter was maybe 45 kgs (100lb) or so behind her. I ogled the two wantonly fat women proudly battling their way out of the building. The rhythm of their rolling backsides burnt into my brain in slow motion. I also noted how they’d caught everyone else’s attention, the vision was totally erotic.
Then it struck me. I’d just let them walk out of my life with no attempt at establishing a follow up contact. Pathetic.
By the time I’d calmed down, I discovered I’d missed the airport bus into Rome. As I was searching for a taxi, a little shuttle bus breezed up for the local train station. But the train station proved lifeless. It was an hour and twenty minutes before the next train into Rome Termini. It was baking hot and it was lunch time. Opposite was a Bar Tavola Caldo. I crossed the empty street, parted a bead curtain and entered.
“Ah! There you go. You have come to eat with us Signor?”
Yes, there they were, mother and daughter, well spread out around a table being fussed over by the proprietor.
“We are taking just a little pasta until the train arrives.”
Wow! Did they eat?
Dish after dish was born aloft in by the proprietor’s wife and his daughters
I was in heaven watching the two stuffing themselves as they chattered animatedly in Italian. They were completely oblivious to time, so eventually it was up to me to reinsert myself into their lives, heaving them up and getting them out onto the pavement.
I drove them before me like geese, waddling across the street to the train station and onto the right platform. It was huge fun pushing each in turn, from below, up the steps and through the door into the train. We occupied a whole bay right across the carriage.
By the time we came into Rome, I’d learnt they were back for a family reunion in the marble mountains behind Lucca. Claudia (the mum) ran an Italian seaside café restaurant business outside Dublin. Daughter Gina had been in Italy two years now studying. She was in Parma, the epicentre of Italy’s finest cooking, doing a degree in Slow Food (Italy’s civilised answer to Fast Food and McDonalds). Finishing for the summer, she’d come down to meet mum to go help with preparations for the Lucca reunion.
Claudia’s sister, Gina’s aunt Sophia was driving down in a few days to collect them . They were spending a few days shopping in Rome beforehand.
About me: they discovered I was on a short holiday from Antwerp. They’d laughed at my being Belgian.
Why does the whole world laugh at us Belgians?
Maybe they’d also been laughing at how I resembled a stick insect, long gangly and in my early fifties. They asked was I a diamond trader and laughed even more when I admitted to making traditional hand made chocolates.
“Allora! If we did that we would get so fat, we would get completely stuck” Gina pronounced, prodding Mama who jiggled and giggled.
I tried not to look as very turned on by this line of thought as was the actual truth..
Once onto Termini concourse, they began jostling down the escalator to the underground shopping mall to get some provisions at the supermarket; they by now sort of assumed I would come along too and help them. Of course I acquiesed.
The two fat women completely took over the supermarket, closely and critically examining everything. Pasta, oil, tomato paste, bottled water, ice cream was agonised over and acquired with great disdain.
I was lost in admiration for the two goddesses as they flaunted themselves along the aisles. I swear they’d cottoned on to this as they thrust their bouncing bellies out further, set flapping great upper arms aquiver right in my face and repeatedly biffed their extravagant soft hips right into me. I was in my element craning bottles down from top shelves at their behest for them to peer and pout at, then reject dramatically.
Eventually they were done and there was further bustling and barging as they mustered themselves and baggage prior to locating a taxi. They asked what I was to do now and I said I was off to find a hotel.
“Where?” Gina demanded.
When I said “Well some where just outside the train station I expect”, she exclaimed “That is so crap! So why don’t you come with us, we are in a beautiful Locanda, right in the heart of all the action, near Piazza Colonne.
She rang on her mobile, confirmed there was a room available and next thing I was shoe horned in with them and their shopping into a Fiat Multiplia taxi, tyres screeching through the late afternoon traffic.
I awoke from a deep sleep with no idea of time or where I was. I found myself stretched out along a sofa, blotto from the effects of too much drinking and excessive eating. Through the open balcony doors beside me, the late-night buzzing of a Vespa drifted up, reverberating around empty streets far below. On a matching sofa across from me, illuminated by a soft table lamp, was a truly astonishing sight.
Two colossally fat women lay spread out unconscious in a state of utter abandon. They had partially undressed to ease their discomfort. Now with a hot rush of blood, everything came back to me. This was Claudia sprawled along the expansive leather sofa snoring. Her arms were cradled around her daughter’s ballooning middle.
I eased myself upright, and, on tiptoe, made to leave the flat for my room out along the passageway. In passing, I glanced down over Claudia and marvelled at the full effect of her bulk. Her legs were indeed huge, one was partially exposed, revealing loose slabs of pale blubber. She wore a light housecoat which gaped. A colossal breast was adrift and stretch marked striated belly flab flowed over the edge of the sofa. Breast and belly flab quivered with her breathing.
Gina too had loosened her clothing. As she breathed, a dome of exposed belly rose and fell. I noted now how the two wore identical gold chains coiling over their lavish mammaries, though Gina’s caramel smooth young fat contrasted markedly with her mother’s well lived in acres. As I turned to leave, Claudia opened her eyes, saw me, smiled and mouthed what I understood to be Ciao. I waved my fingers in response.
I was just climbing into a narrow single bed when my phone rang.
“So why did you abandon us yer bastard?” came the unmistakable Irish Italian rasp. “Don’t you want to come back for an Irish coffee?”
“But I’m just getting into bed”
“Well suit yerself yer Belgian prick. I’m having one myself and there is one here for you if you want it!”
Continued in post 3 of this thread
Author's note: The beginning of this piece was inspired by an unforgettable real encounter with a “larger than life” outrageous mother and her daughter recalled here as accurately as I am able.
But unlike the rest of my story, the spectacular two departed after thanking me, to pass out of my life forever - except in memory. So what follows is lustful fantasy, a fabrication (in every sense of the word) collaged from a lifetime of covert people watching and fantasising about the best of my missed opportunities.
It is told in the first person by a devious Flemish chocolateer, a role I sometimes adopt in the darker recesses of my head.
SLOW FOOD
so much sexier than fast food
by N van Laaden
so much sexier than fast food
by N van Laaden
1 Ciampino contact
She was an extraordinary vision teetering along on ridiculous heels in the sweaty crowd clustering into the run down terminal at Ciampino airport, Roma. A coating of heavy operatic make-up overlaid a lurid painted-on sun tan. She’d be in her 40s but dolled up like a teenager.
I homed in on her because it looked like she was carrying spectacular bodywork on her medium height frame. A scanty claret silk underwear-like top trimmed with black lace exposed round fat shoulders. It also brazenly advertised the overflowings of a thick white strapped industrial bra dramatically failing to keep abreast of its responsibilities.
But there was something more that really got me hookd. It was the show stopping sight of her bottom half, vastly wider than her already ample torso. From boyhood I have always fantasized about the feeling of a hugely pear shaped naked woman lowering herself onto my lap.
I began day dreaming about this now as I tried to keep her in vision ahead of me, struggling along with quivering blubbery beachball buttocks. They were animating a billowing long skirt, shot through with black and claret that matched her top. A long slit flashed glimpses of breathtakingly fat legs squashed into the heels of ludicrously spindly raffia sandals. She ended up alongside me queuing for the single immigration policeman. Two or three cut price flights had just arrived together from different corners of Europe, completely swamping the old military airport’s facilities.
Perhaps I should more truthfully say I’d manoeuvred through the crush of people so we would end up together. I looked down at her long hair, dyed fiercely auburn, and just below the split ends, my eye locked onto to a butterfly tattooed on the flowing curve of her left shoulder just above a blubbery droop of soft upper arm fat. These were deliciously ajiggle as she tried locating her passport in her handbag while at the same time manipulating her trail-bag and the jacket over her arm.
She’d become flustered.
I lent a hand, staying back with her till she’d found it. She flashed a brilliant smile. I noted beads of sweat – then how her lavish full lipped mouth seemed appliquéd onto a flood of rearranging flesh and chins. Now she was thanking me in the hardest Dublin accent, confirmed for me on the arrivals board above us: Ryanair from Dublin. As we advanced to the barrier, I asked was she on holiday?
No she said, her daughter was meeting her. It was then I detected the broken Italian English syntax underlying the Irish brogue.
Once through the gate and into the low dark hall, I was left standing with both our trailer bags and holding her jacket as she rushed forward and embraced her daughter in joyous Italian exclamations.
Oh Boy! And what a daughter!
Around twenty and about the same height as mum, she was totally black chic clad: a clingy T-shirt cum dress top above tailored trousers. If mum was a way overripe mushy pear, daughter was a no less amazing apple. My first impression was she seemed all belly – this apple was still swelling, still ripening on the bough. Her top defined high round breasts, then, hugging close around successive rolls of fat, curved luxuriously outwards over the belly of a Buddah.
Mother drew attention to the size of daughter’s belly, eyebrows raised in stagey over-acted astonishment. She hefted it before kissing the girl’s cheek adoringly. The daughter laughed. Now, tossing her mane of black hair, daughter bounced mum’s vast arse vigorously in return.
Then Mama remembered me, saw me watching, and struck a mock pose with daughter for me as for a photo.
They collected mother’s baggage from me and I watched them depart across the old marble lobby. If mum had to be pushing 180 kgs (400lb), daughter was maybe 45 kgs (100lb) or so behind her. I ogled the two wantonly fat women proudly battling their way out of the building. The rhythm of their rolling backsides burnt into my brain in slow motion. I also noted how they’d caught everyone else’s attention, the vision was totally erotic.
Then it struck me. I’d just let them walk out of my life with no attempt at establishing a follow up contact. Pathetic.
By the time I’d calmed down, I discovered I’d missed the airport bus into Rome. As I was searching for a taxi, a little shuttle bus breezed up for the local train station. But the train station proved lifeless. It was an hour and twenty minutes before the next train into Rome Termini. It was baking hot and it was lunch time. Opposite was a Bar Tavola Caldo. I crossed the empty street, parted a bead curtain and entered.
“Ah! There you go. You have come to eat with us Signor?”
Yes, there they were, mother and daughter, well spread out around a table being fussed over by the proprietor.
“We are taking just a little pasta until the train arrives.”
Wow! Did they eat?
Dish after dish was born aloft in by the proprietor’s wife and his daughters
I was in heaven watching the two stuffing themselves as they chattered animatedly in Italian. They were completely oblivious to time, so eventually it was up to me to reinsert myself into their lives, heaving them up and getting them out onto the pavement.
I drove them before me like geese, waddling across the street to the train station and onto the right platform. It was huge fun pushing each in turn, from below, up the steps and through the door into the train. We occupied a whole bay right across the carriage.
By the time we came into Rome, I’d learnt they were back for a family reunion in the marble mountains behind Lucca. Claudia (the mum) ran an Italian seaside café restaurant business outside Dublin. Daughter Gina had been in Italy two years now studying. She was in Parma, the epicentre of Italy’s finest cooking, doing a degree in Slow Food (Italy’s civilised answer to Fast Food and McDonalds). Finishing for the summer, she’d come down to meet mum to go help with preparations for the Lucca reunion.
Claudia’s sister, Gina’s aunt Sophia was driving down in a few days to collect them . They were spending a few days shopping in Rome beforehand.
About me: they discovered I was on a short holiday from Antwerp. They’d laughed at my being Belgian.
Why does the whole world laugh at us Belgians?
Maybe they’d also been laughing at how I resembled a stick insect, long gangly and in my early fifties. They asked was I a diamond trader and laughed even more when I admitted to making traditional hand made chocolates.
“Allora! If we did that we would get so fat, we would get completely stuck” Gina pronounced, prodding Mama who jiggled and giggled.
I tried not to look as very turned on by this line of thought as was the actual truth..
Once onto Termini concourse, they began jostling down the escalator to the underground shopping mall to get some provisions at the supermarket; they by now sort of assumed I would come along too and help them. Of course I acquiesed.
The two fat women completely took over the supermarket, closely and critically examining everything. Pasta, oil, tomato paste, bottled water, ice cream was agonised over and acquired with great disdain.
I was lost in admiration for the two goddesses as they flaunted themselves along the aisles. I swear they’d cottoned on to this as they thrust their bouncing bellies out further, set flapping great upper arms aquiver right in my face and repeatedly biffed their extravagant soft hips right into me. I was in my element craning bottles down from top shelves at their behest for them to peer and pout at, then reject dramatically.
Eventually they were done and there was further bustling and barging as they mustered themselves and baggage prior to locating a taxi. They asked what I was to do now and I said I was off to find a hotel.
“Where?” Gina demanded.
When I said “Well some where just outside the train station I expect”, she exclaimed “That is so crap! So why don’t you come with us, we are in a beautiful Locanda, right in the heart of all the action, near Piazza Colonne.
She rang on her mobile, confirmed there was a room available and next thing I was shoe horned in with them and their shopping into a Fiat Multiplia taxi, tyres screeching through the late afternoon traffic.
__________________
I awoke from a deep sleep with no idea of time or where I was. I found myself stretched out along a sofa, blotto from the effects of too much drinking and excessive eating. Through the open balcony doors beside me, the late-night buzzing of a Vespa drifted up, reverberating around empty streets far below. On a matching sofa across from me, illuminated by a soft table lamp, was a truly astonishing sight.
Two colossally fat women lay spread out unconscious in a state of utter abandon. They had partially undressed to ease their discomfort. Now with a hot rush of blood, everything came back to me. This was Claudia sprawled along the expansive leather sofa snoring. Her arms were cradled around her daughter’s ballooning middle.
I eased myself upright, and, on tiptoe, made to leave the flat for my room out along the passageway. In passing, I glanced down over Claudia and marvelled at the full effect of her bulk. Her legs were indeed huge, one was partially exposed, revealing loose slabs of pale blubber. She wore a light housecoat which gaped. A colossal breast was adrift and stretch marked striated belly flab flowed over the edge of the sofa. Breast and belly flab quivered with her breathing.
Gina too had loosened her clothing. As she breathed, a dome of exposed belly rose and fell. I noted now how the two wore identical gold chains coiling over their lavish mammaries, though Gina’s caramel smooth young fat contrasted markedly with her mother’s well lived in acres. As I turned to leave, Claudia opened her eyes, saw me, smiled and mouthed what I understood to be Ciao. I waved my fingers in response.
I was just climbing into a narrow single bed when my phone rang.
“So why did you abandon us yer bastard?” came the unmistakable Irish Italian rasp. “Don’t you want to come back for an Irish coffee?”
“But I’m just getting into bed”
“Well suit yerself yer Belgian prick. I’m having one myself and there is one here for you if you want it!”
Continued in post 3 of this thread
