Actually, I Love Your Big Butt

Transcript

It's hard to say what came first, the depression or the pounds. Your whole life it's been the same story, one feeding the other. You've had good years and difficult years, months where you actually put your gym membership to use and, well, months when it was just burning a hole in your bank account.

And sometimes you really don't know what the hell is going on. Lord knows you've been strict about what you put in your body, to the point of misery. You're hungry, damn it.

You want to blame your period for what you see in the mirror, the extra fluff, the water weight. But it's been weeks. You don't know who to be angry at.

You'd rather be angry than upset. Fuck it. You're upset.

Why do you care? Why does it matter? No, why does it hurt is the real question.

You tell yourself it's not about a man. You tell yourself this is about your body, not the ever-present male gaze, my gaze. But we started dating when you were really milking the hell out of the treadmill and hot yoga.

That girl was exhausted all the time, dizzy more often than not, but she fit a couple skirts you haven't worn in a while. The skirt you're wearing now, it's not the same. You tell yourself you don't have time to break down.

You need to pull the clothes out of the dryer, you need to put a shirt on and get to work. You fiddle with your bra as you head to the laundry room, wondering if it's the frayed clasp or its size that's causing it to pinch at your skin. And you wonder, too, if it's healthier to keep the uncomfortable thing, to ignore the discomfort as a kind of self-flagellation, or bite the bullet and go get resized.

At least it can still do its job, you think, as you bend over to retrieve your shirt from the tumble. You're so self-conscious now that you can feel all your weight shift as you bend your stomach, your tits, your nose, as you sift through the staticky linens. The wolf whistle makes you bang your head in surprise.

I've run over to you, gathered you up in my arms, cooing with an apology and trying to hold you, but you won't have it. You're pushing me away, telling me I'm an idiot. Why did I scare you as I try to hug you, rub your head and say, baby, baby, I'm sorry? At last, you give up.

You can't fight my strength. You let me wrap you up in a fierce bear hug and kiss the top of your head. I'm so, so sorry, honey.

I just saw your ass sticking out of the side of the dryer, and I needed to sing about it. You're still mad at me, and you're not really hugging me back. You're a bit like a cat in a child's grubby arms, stiff, uncomfortable, caught, and incapable of escape.

You wouldn't be dressed like this, undressed like this, if you thought I was home. So I've not only embarrassed you, you feel vulnerable. You ask me what I'm still doing here.

I left my phone, I say. You're going to be late for work, you tell me. You're trying to make me let go, aren't you? You won't make eye contact with me.

How do you expect me to just stroll into work after catching you like this? In that skirt? In this thing? I crook my chin at the bedeviling bra.

You don't want to hear it. You feel the warmth of my body against your bare belly, and the comfort of that sensation is all but killed by your anxiety. Can I ask you something? What, you finally huff.

Have you, I don't know, done something different? You ask me what I'm talking about. I separate from you and step back, still holding your hands.

I sweep your arms out and give you an appraising once over. I'm trying to figure out what it is. Is it this skirt? I haven't seen it before.

Your hair? You roll your eyes. No, you say.

I pull you back to me and run my hands down your sides. My fingers are strong, searching, and they slide hungrily down your back and buttocks. Over the skirt, to grip your ass.

You ask me what I think I'm doing. I lick my lips. Ironically, I look more like a wolf now than ever.

It's just, you feel, I squeeze you, I mean, I really squeeze you. And suddenly you feel what I can't seem to put into words, feel that hard pull in my pants. When I saw you behind the dryer door, I swear for a second I, I don't know, I know it's stupid to think that some random woman broke into the place to do laundry, but I saw your legs, your ass, and I felt bad because I, shit, I was really turned on.

I guess maybe I haven't seen your legs in a while. I feel like you haven't been naked around me in a few weeks. It isn't bad, but you bite your lip.

The ache at the back of your skull has dulled somewhat, or maybe it's just hard to focus on it now that I've started rubbing you against my front. You tell me quietly that you have to go to work too. Just tell me what you've been doing, I tell you in an almost desperate whisper.

What is this witchcraft, woman? Your cheeks go hot and you slide your hands down my chest. It isn't anything, you say quietly, you've just gained some weight.

Oh, I groan as I pull your skirt slowly over your buttocks. Now it makes sense. While you haven't, let me see you.

My fingers sink into both soft cheeks and spread them apart, because you don't know. You echo me, don't know, don't know what. The attention on your ass is making your panties twist and ride up against your pussy.

Reflexively you begin to wiggle. You try to stop yourself, but I'm grunting in your ear, pulling you against me and it's getting harder to concentrate. You don't know that this big ass drives me fucking crazy.

My hands glide down your sides, taking firm hold of you, the full shape of you. You tell me I'm just trying to make you feel better. Shut up, I growl.

I'm not trying to make you feel better, you silly little slut. I pull you harder into my body and you stumble against me, overpowered and pinned against my pulsing cock. You will admit one thing, if the compliment is empty, my dick certainly isn't.

It digs into you with a rough, insistent pressure. Why would I be trying to make you feel better, I intone. My hand slides between your legs and I grip your inner curve.

You're the one teasing me with these fucking thighs. Work, you say again, feebly. You're not sure if you're referring to your work or mine, but somebody should probably be putting a stop to this.

Oh, I'm going to work. For all the weight you think you've gained, it doesn't stop me from picking you up and dropping you on the dryer. Your butt hits it with a raucous metal clang and you can't even complain before your panties are being whipped off, skirt flipped up and my head descends between your open, flailing pillows.

I go to town on that pussy of yours. All that grinding was getting you moistened up, but now I'm on you like a rabid dog. You swear you can feel foam at the corners of my lips as I make a meal of you and through it all you hear my muffled voice chastising you and praising you in equal measure.

Your fucking thighs, I groan. This fucking ass, I felt it when we've been cuddling in the bed, on the couch, and you've been keeping it from me. From me.

I'm actually mad at you. I pull you off the dryer and you stumble into my arms. You have no time to protest or encourage this behavior as I roughly whip you around to get at your bra.

It pops off, tumbling down your arms as I force you up against the dryer. You yell, work, work, but you're not even sure if you're trying to stop me or make me hornier. No one's going to work, I growl as I bend you over the dryer.

I spank your ass and you hear me moan like you've never heard me moan before. God damn, look at that thing. I spank you again and whimper as I watch it jiggle.

For the first time in your life, objectification feels kind of nice. My belt hits the floor, my boxers go with them, and I roll myself up and down your flushed crack. I spank you again, growing more belligerent with every blow.

This is what the Greeks sailed Detroit for. You don't fucking get it. My fingers dig into your buttocks and pre-cum dribbles over your tender skin.

I kneel behind you and bite down on one cheek. You yelp, need it. I growl.

You turn around to tell me off, only to see my cock bigger and meaner than you've ever seen it before. You watch it rise up between your thighs and your eyes roll back as I grip that meaty shaft and force it inside you. Your fingers squeeze the edge of the dryer, sucking at the air as Daddy pushes your aching walls apart.

Oh God, I mutter, reaching around to clutch your soft belly. Nothing looks better than seeing you jiggle around my cock. I grunt, pumping into you with angry strokes.

I want to grab you, honey. I want to feel you. I want you to be fucking happy.

Don't you know that? Your jaw nearly dislocates as I give you one full, high-riding thrust and then suddenly pull out. Once again, you're roughly whipped around, thrown back up on the dryer, and my wet cock invades you from the front.

You throw your arms around my shoulders. Your eyes are wide, your whole body flushed. This is not how you expected this morning to go.

Don't you know that, baby? I ask.