TIGHT JEANS

"These jeans make my ass look big!"

Her voice came from somewhere behind me. I was standing in the aisle next
to Women's Wear. The lady posing in front of the full-length mirror at
the entrance to the dressing rooms seemed to be talking to herself. Other
than me, there was no one in her immediate vicinity. And yes, the jeans
were a bit tight on her. In fact, she was literally bursting out of
them. Bottom-heavy, she was, and her ass would look big under *any*
circumstances, tight jeans or no. It didn't just *look* big, it *was*
big -- big and lush and pear-shaped. That ass, that huge beautiful ass,
was the fulfillment of every erotic fantasy I had ever had.

She was looking back over her shoulder. She was looking *straight at me*.
She had caught me staring! My guts turned to jelly and I started to turn
away. Where was the nearest exit? But . . . was that a hint of a smile
on her face? A mysterious smile. Yes. Making fun of me? Or . . .

She was beckoning toward me. *Me?* I pointed at my chest and she nodded
vigorously. Well, why the hell not? I slowly made my way toward her.

"You. Yes, *you*. I saw you looking at me. What's the matter, guy? Never
seen a fat bottom before?"

"Well . . . none quite as nicely shaped as yours."

She began laughing, then slapped me on the back. It damn near knocked me
over. She was several inches taller than I was, and had to outweigh me
by easily a hundred pounds. Just that big ass of hers alone must weigh
nearly as much as I did. But I felt no pain. In fact, I was gawking in
open admiration at her bouncing breasts as she laughed. Her blouse was
a bit tight, too.

"So, what do you think? Should I buy the damn jeans?"

"Oh yes, definitely. They fit you like a . . . I mean, they show off
your figure to perfection."

"You admire a classically voluptuous woman, do you? That being the case,
I'm pleased to meet you. I'm Fiona."

She paid for the jeans, and we agreed to continue our discussion in a
more congenial setting. For example, over dinner.


"Best meal I've had in ages." Well, not actually the best, but at least
as good as I'd gotten in the fast food joints where I'd been eating all
too often lately.

"I enjoy cooking for friends." She was humming under her breath as she
cleared the table. "Would you like some dessert?"

I'd like that luscious pear-shaped ass for dessert. Now, how to phrase
that delicately?

"Why thank you, Fiona. Do you have anything sweet?"

"Chocolate fudge and . . ."

"And?"

"And, well . . ." She blushed. "I know this is only our first date,
but . . . "

"But?"

"But I just can't wait. I'm sorry, but I seem to have fallen in lust
with you. Why don't we have *each other* for dessert?"

"You just *had* to pick the most expensive item on the menu, didn't you?"


That big ass of hers looked even better in the flesh. Bare-naked flesh.
It felt good, too. I couldn't keep my hands off it. Those round, juicy
globes were a work of art.

She had what was once called an "hourglass" figure -- full breasts
tapering down to a shockingly slim waist, then flaring out to wide,
generously upholstered hips framing that glorious ass. Looking at her rear
view in the flickering illumination of the bedside lamp, I could almost
picture her as a mythical centaur, with a humanoid torso growing out of
a massive equine rump. Those wonderfully sculpted haunches! Now she was
down on hands and knees, and those magnificent globes, like twin moons,
completely dominated the heavens. Later, hours later, as we lay in
each other's arms, she told me she measured a full 56 inches at the hip,
that is to say, around the ass.

That ass. I couldn't keep my hands off it. I savored the soft, cushy feel
as I fondled it. The warm, fleshy resilience of her buttocks as I entered
her from behind (which turned out to be her favorite position). The
freshly powdered scent of wanton femininity tickling my nose when I rubbed
my cheek against her plush bottom. I wanted it, all of it. I wanted to
plumb its depths. I had a sudden raging desire to *fuck* that ass.

In those early morning hours, as we lay entwined, I whispered into her ear
the details my fascination with that magical, wondrous ass. I hinted at
my dark hunger to explore its hidden richness, to insert myself into its
mysterious interior. Her body spasmed in my arms. For a moment I thought
I had offended her, that she was shaken by disgust and outrage. But she
was only laughing softly. She kissed me moistly on the lips, then made
a mock farting sound.

"My hot, passionate lover. I've opened my most private self, my private
parts, my very *cunt* to you. Do you think I'd deny you my *ass*? As it
happens, having it up the ass is one of my . . . my secret masturbation
fantasies. It's just that I've never found a man I've wanted to realize
it with. Until now."

There just happened to be a tube of "XE-41 Industrial Strength
Recreational Lubricant" in the top drawer of her dresser. Just behind
several stacks of panties. Very curious. Could be she had already
rehearsed her little fantasy, possibly with the active participation of
a silicone sex toy or two . . .

She knew the moves all right. Her heavenly gate, the entrance to her ass,
dimpled inward, then relaxed and dilated as I gently entered into her
innermost mystery. She was hot and buttery-slick inside and I glided past
her sphincter ring with no resistance. She groaned, then reached behind
and pulled me farther into her. I began a slow pumping rhythm of long,
deep strokes, and shortly afterwards felt the contractions rippling
out from her depths that meant she was having her third orgasm of the
night. She cried out softly and called my name.

My name? What name? What *was* my name? Who was I? I couldn't seem to
remember. My identity, my past existence prior to seeing her at the store
. . . had flickered out, faded . . . didn't exist. In fact, I didn't
exist . . .  except as a figment of imagination, Fiona's imagination. As
consciousness dimmed, the last thing I heard was:

"Yes, yes! My most successful creation  -- a highly detailed demon
lover, a phantom conjured out of a dream. You! You are a creation of my
imagination. You don't actually exist in the flesh . . . yet.

"Somewhere, somewhere out there, perhaps among the readers of this very
story, there is someone who can fill your role, someone who can love
me as I'm truly meant to be loved. Someone who believes that there is a
big-assed Fiona out there waiting for him . . . somewhere. Someone whose
belief is strong and unwavering and who will not despair and lose faith
if at first he doesn't find his Fiona in Women's Wear. Someone who will
continue searching -- searching until that day when he hears a voice
ask whether the jeans make her ass look fat . . . "

The bedroom light comes on. There! On the far side of the bed. Is that a
faint indentation, as if perhaps a man had slept there? Possibly. Over
there, by the clothes closet, in front of the full-length mirror,
a woman is struggling to pull a pair of too-tight jeans over her ripe
posterior. She is crying softly and calling out a name.

Whose name? Yours.