Fat. Fatty. Fat. Fat. Fatso. Fat. Fatima. Why had her parents christened her that? Surely they knew that in an English Language culture it was a name that could always be used to mock her. Especially as they knew from their own corpulent frames that their daughter was unlikely to be svelte, slim or slender. And as second-generation immigrants themselves, not even especially religious ones, they understood enough English to know just how her name could always be used as a stick to beat her with.
Especially as it just happened to be true that she was fat.
Fatima hated being fat. She hated the word. If only she could ever think of herself as plump. Or tubby. Or stout. Or generously built. But Fatima knew that such words were just euphemisms for the same thing, Fat. Gross. Obese. She studied her naked reflection in the wall-length mirror, which was too narrow to encompass the whole of her girth. She was sure she wasn't ugly as such. She studied her face. Wasn't her face quite pretty from certain angles?
But from the chin down: fold after fold of light brown flesh, overflowing any clothes she wore. If she wore loose clothes, she looked like a sack of potatoes. If she wore tight clothes, it merely emphasised the swell of her folds of fat. 'Love-handles' she reflected on the indulgent name sometimes attached to the generous insulation around her waist. But handles that were far more substantial than they needed to be. Even with the mirror in front of her, she could barely see her own vagina. It was hidden under her engorged stomach. Even the pubic hairs were hidden from view. And her bosom. Perhaps the only part of her that was built to the proportions a man was supposed to like. Huge armfuls, which she had difficulty folding her arms over. Or under, for that matter. Her nipples, or at least the dark brown areola around them, were larger than her vagina. Each one almost the size of her face. But unlike the huge-breasted women of male fantasy, her bosom rested on an even larger stomach.
Fatima twirled around on her toes. Sometimes she found it a burden to even support her own weight. She turned her neck round to regard her buttocks, or their reflection in the mirror. Also huge. Also plump. Maybe they were designed to be comfortable to sit on, but not when squeezed into the narrow confines of a seat in a car, a train, a bus, or, worst of all, an aeroplane.
And yet, despite her plumpness, she had a date. With a man. Or at least, she thought so. When she'd left Freddy last night, she was sure he'd agreed to let her see him again. She'd kissed him goodbye after their brief fuck, and when pressed he admitted that he'd not got anything planned for the day and that she could come by. Not perhaps the most encouraging of invitations, but Fatima was never one to relinquish her clutch on the most tenuous straws. And, of course, they'd fucked. Or he'd fucked her. The ultimate act of love and affection. Reputedly.
It hadn't been a very romantic fuck, Fatima knew. But precious few of the not many fucks in her life had really been much better. At least he hadn't laughed in her face when she'd suggested meeting again. And it had been him who had made the first move, when he placed his hand on her thigh. Though, naturally, Fatima made bloody sure that it wasn't going to end there. She pulled out his prick, long and thin and hairy, rather like Freddy himself. She licked and gobbled at it, hungry for its taste after so long. And then she made sure it went inside her.
But it was over too soon. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. In. Out. In. Out. In fact, Fatima could barely feel the prick inside her at first, as it squeezed through the rolls of fat. But it was soon in. And Freddy was over her, his hands gripping on her enormous bosom to maintain his balance, his legs wedged between the fleshy grip of her thighs. In. Out. In. Out. Fatima was determined to get as much from it as she could. But before her anxieties of whether he'd continue for very long had passed and she was able to truthfully enjoy the pleasure of a man's cock in her cunt, reducing her to the creamy, slippery helplessness that she was sure was the final destination of lovemaking but which she'd never yet experienced, it was over. A squirt of come inside her. A damp puddle in her knickers. A stain on her sweatshirt.
And then Freddy tucked his cock away. Buttoned up his trousers. And it was almost like nothing had happened. But it had! They had fucked. And Fatima was going to go over to visit him at the house he shared with all those students and unemployed actors and people with undefined jobs. Even though she wondered whether she had the courage for another rejection. And they could be so hurtful. Made her wonder whether there was any point in living. All she wanted was love and affection. And all she got was hurt and rejection. And all because she was fat. A fatty. A lardy. Overweight and undervalued. It would be a fat chance that she'd ever find a lover who'd truly appreciate her for the beautiful person inside her podgy body.
"Yeah, sure he's in," said the slightly stoned young man who answered the door. "You're Fatima, aren't you? You were here last night, weren't you? Good gear, wasn't it?"
Fatima nodded. She had agonised on what clothes to wear. There was no way to conceal her corpulence, though. She opted for a skirt and sweatshirt, just as she'd worn the night before, as she thought it'd be the easier to pull off. Ever the optimist. She carried her make-up and things in a canvas bag she slung over her shoulder. Her sweatshirt misleadingly advertised Columbia University, although she'd never been to university and she'd never even been to the States. "Upstairs is he?"
"Yeah. Top floor. Seeya!" He disappeared back through the door he'd come from, while Fatima made her way up the badly carpeted staircase to Freddy's room, passing other rooms as she ascended, many of them pulsing to a different stereo beat.
Fatima could hear some two-step garage coming out of Freddy's room. She smiled. So much better than that Hard House stuff she'd had to endure last time she was there. She pushed open Freddy's door, with a selection of rehearsed phrases competing for attention, along with the one that had only just occurred to her which was to compliment him on playing rather more melodic music. But she had barely said "Hi there, Freddy! How're you?" when she realised that almost anything she'd prepared to say would be wholly inappropriate.
Freddy was there. And his bedroom was exactly as Fatima remembered it. Tatty posters advertising club nights that had ceased to exist years ago. A stack of clothes piled high on an armchair. A small TV and a much larger stereo. And a single bed taking centre-stage. And on that bed was Freddy. Unmistakably him. His lean thin face. The ragged hair. Not long but still lank. The perpetually unshaven chin. Those big hairy hands. And those hands were clasping into the thin, angular buttocks of a naked girl. One who was much, much, much thinner than Fatima ever was. Thin even compared to a thin girl. And those buttocks were pistoning up and down on Freddy's erect penis, which thrust up and down with rather less vigour than those buttocks pushed up and down on him.
The girl was leaning forward, her weight resting on arms stretched onto Freddy's shoulders, tiny breasts, almost all nipple that were nevertheless big enough to shake with the girl's thrusts. Her dark brown hair was short, but her long earrings swang wildly as she pushed herself up and down on Freddy beneath her. And she was gasping in a low punctuated rhythm, immersed in her lovemaking, not wasting any energy in shouts or screams of greater abandon than was necessary. Freddy raised his head as he saw Fatima hover at the door entrance, her greeting suspended in empty air with no response. The girl turned her head round, still grunting and gasping, and smiled at Fatima.
She didn't pause in her lovemaking, and it was clearly not that easy to articulate as she continued to pump up and down on Freddy's prick, but she spoke to Fatima amiably enough. "Hi! You must be... uh!... Fatima. I'm Ella... Don't worry. We won't... uhhh!... We won't be long."
And then she resumed her fucking, leaving Fatima feeling vaguely humiliated. But also rooted to the spot. She couldn't leave now she'd been welcomed. But wasn't this Ella, who'd greeted her so pleasantly, just emphasising again her own inadequacy? Less than a day after Fatima had made love to Freddy. And thought, well imagined, perhaps fantasised, that she'd at last found a boyfriend. Here was someone Fatima had never met before, with rather fewer than the many weeks of preparation that Fatima had invested in getting to know Freddy better, who had so effortlessly succeeded in bedding him. And had already, in the interval of fucking that she'd already witnessed, enjoyed making love with him for rather longer than Fatima had done. And stimulating rather more passion in the man than she had managed.
And they continued making love. If this wasn't long, it was already, humiliatingly longer than any time Fatima had ever spent being fucked by a man. If it went on for much longer, it might even exceed the sum total of all the fucks Fatima had ever had. And Freddy was enjoying it so much. Fatima felt like running away from the room. Let the tears that were welling behind her eyes come to the surface. Instead, she felt obliged to sit there, on one of the two poorly sprung second-hand armchairs in Freddy's room, mesmerised by the sight of real fucking, wishing that she were the one being fucked and not Ella.
.... There is more of this story ...