Trent and Chuck were best friends since grade school. They were always looking for beautiful girls at College State and since they were both very muscular and well-hung and independently wealthy they had no problem in that department. But Chuck had never met Trent's mom before so when I first saw Mrs. Smithson I couldn't believe my eyes! Though she was older and kind of big assed she was totally hot, with enormous tits easy to see through her sheer braless blouse unbuttoned down to her navel. "Hey Trent is it okay if I fuck your totally hot mom," I, Chuck, said, and Trent said "Hey bro why not I do it all the time--

Huysmans, the great Schmertzylvanian author of BBW erotica, set the story down and massaged his forehead in actual pain. As the world's most famous author of BBW erotica, a cult figure beloved throughout America (and into parts of Canada), he often received other authors' stories by email. Remembering his years of struggle and hardship, he was unfailingly courteous to these aspiring writers, but sometimes it was difficult...

Dear Rod Throbbin,

Huysmans thanks you from the bottom of his Schmertzylvanian heart for your generous offer to let him read and edit your true story, "Totally Hot Milf-Dicking With My Friend's Big-Assed Hot Mom." With regret Huysmans expresses the opinion that you should perhaps take another stab at writing hot BBW erotica before submitting stories to the world, which can be very cruel to beginning writer as Huysmans well remembers.

Huysmans believes in starting erotica story not with sex act desired but with characters drawn from real life. By sketching picture of such characters and the world in which they live, is more believable and sexy when sex enters the story. As famous Lord Chesterfield might have said if he had been teaching a night school writing class, are only so many sex acts, most of them ridiculous to outsiders; only by telling story of interesting, believable people finding their way to doing them can sex acts become dramatic and enthralling.

Huysmans thought of the inspirations that lay behind some of his stories. Sometimes it took no more than a face to conjure up an entire character-- the flush-faced yet mysteriously exhilarated middle-aged woman walking past the garden store who inspired "Hawaiian Baby Woodrose"; the round girl at the hot dog stand, long since torn down, whose dark and mysterious eyes had led him to write "The Goddess Ramona." Other times it was a place-- the inn out west that had started him thinking about what the lives of the people who worked there would be like, and thus led to "A Maid in Montana," or the bar in the tropics where things like "Big Beautiful Beach" happened all too easily, as Huysmans well knew from experience.

He saved the email on his laptop to send once the plane landed, and turned to the next story:

The next day it was most warm and as I sat in the courtyard of our binjhari I saw Auntie come up to me again. Her large breasts were most active inside her sheer kemara and it inspired lustful thoughts of which I was most ashamed, yet I desired heartily to place my dongabo inside her pichocha and frottage until the baby-juice erupted. "Oh Auntie, I am most tired, will you not lie next to me on my harari and aid me in my sleeping?" I asked. "Naughty boy, I think if I am to lie next to you there will be no sleeping but much agitation of the lower parts," she replied--

Dear Sanjay21,

Huysmans thanks you with the hearty gratitude of his Schmertzylvanian horsemen ancestors for allowing him to read your story, "Temptation in the Binjhari of Auntie." He understands your apprehension at sharing such a story with the world, but he does not feel that correcting your English (even if Huysmans were up to the task personally) is the answer. Though there are, to Huysmans' eye, ways in which your story does not read like that of American writer, still, it is precisely the authenticity of your story in its setting which makes it memorably erotic. Huysmans urges you to write like yourself for you, and not worry about sounding like American writer.

The stewardess called for electronic devices to be put away, and Huysmans shut his MacBookPro down. What city was he going to? He could scarcely remember from one flight to the next. Since the movie adaptation of The Sapphic Pirate Miranda with Anne Hathaway and Dawn French had come out, his life had been a whirlwind of book tours, signings ... and, of course, groupies. There was no shortage of BBW femaledom on hand at each signing, eager to experience firsthand the Schmertzylvanian lovemaking secrets of the world's most famous (and, with his waxed mustaches and aroma of horse-leather and brandy, dashingly handsome) writer of BBW erotica.

Once this would have been too absurd a dream even for one of his first stories, pecked out by hand on his TRS-80 and uploaded to the earliest and crudest erotica BBSs. The kind of ridiculous fantasy that made sex stories on the internet hard to swallow, even when the sex was well described. But now it was commonplace-- to walk into a Barnes & Noble and see hundreds of BBWs clutching his book, some young and sexually confident in their bellyshirts and piercings, others older and more reserved yet eager to explore the sexuality that his stories had unlocked, and to know that he could show a little favor to one or another and they would be his, tonight, in his hotel room.

It was a dream come true ... and so Huysmans prepared for it, yet again, third time this week.

He had signed 50 already, but the line of large women-- big bosoms, pear shaped behinds, rolling bellies like "A Girl at the Mall," apple cheeks like Andie Thorsen in "Better Than Watching Leno"-- still trailed around the corner and out of view.

Two young women appeared before him, obviously together. One was tall and sturdy, rolls of fat along her side, thighs straining the jeans they were encased within, a toothy smile and freckled complexion framed by an orange pageboy 'do. The other was shorter and rounder, blonde and soft-skinned, blue eyes like ... like ... after so long on the road, the only simile that came to Huysmans' mind was a hotel pool.

"Who shall I sign these to?" Huysmans asked.

"Make mine out to Trish," the orange-haired giantess said.

Huysmans opened the jacket and wrote, "To Trish, whose fiery hair shall set my nights aflame with desire, Huysmans." "And yours?" he said to the smaller blonde.

"I'm Muriel," she said.

Huysmans scribbled, "For Muriel, whose name sounds like 'la Mer' and whose blue eyes will flood my memory whenever I gaze upon water."

She looked at it and giggled nervously, as if she had something to say. But she couldn't get it out and so Trish stepped in. "So ... do you want a play date?"

Muriel said, "Let me talk to Trish first. Find out what day is good for her."

He recognized the dialogue, of course-- cribbed, a little confusedly, from "Play Date With Pam." Often this was how they approached him, with his own words. He looked at them. Youthful, nervous but eager, a pair of mismatched but equally lush peaches-- why not?

Pop! went the champagne bottle, waiting on the table in his hotel suite as the girls prepared themselves in the bathroom. He poured three glasses, and was about to do something else when they opened the door unexpectedly. He palmed the little blue pill and handed them their glasses, then raised his in a toast; as he sipped he slipped the pill into his mouth unnoticed.

Trish, as he might have guessed, was bolder in her lingerie, a slutty red teddy whose jagged neckline exposed much of the fetchingly freckled cleavage between her large dangling breasts. Muriel was more traditional in black and purple lace and satin, concealing rather than revealing the pepper-pot shape underneath, but most admirably dolled up with bright red lipstick and false eyelashes.

They wasted no time. The two of them grabbed Huysmans and started unbuttoning his shirt as Muriel stuck her beestung lips on his, and he felt her tongue probe hungrily inside. Hands roamed over his chest and pants as he felt Trish's butt under the soft satin and stroked his hand over the top of Muriel's large, heaving bosom. His belt was unbuckled and he was pushed backwards into the bedroom and onto a bed. Muriel was atop him first, her weight pressing him down as she rubbed her breasts still in their restraint across his face. Then Trish unsnapped them and they tumbled out, enormous and heavy, sweet-smelling and a little sticky where she'd sweated under the lingerie. He sucked one of the thumb-like nipples into his mouth and he felt someone cup his balls and stroke up and down. Trish took off her teddy and her breasts too fell free, swaying from side to side with every move she made. He took one of each in his hands and sucked from one to the other; then Muriel began moving down and took his cock in her hand, licking and kissing the head while Trish tongue-kissed him and he rubbed her soft, puffy belly.

As he licked and sucked her tits, he felt up her inner thighs into the warmth and steaminess deep inside her skirt. She backed up onto the bed and spread her legs. Now he couldn't see her face or her breasts; she was just a pair of legs attached to a big round ass, and it was his, all his. He pulled down her panties to reveal curly red hair there, too, and she let her thighs relax a bit and open to show the bright purple slit, a slight hint of dampness making a line which slowly opened the petals of her pussy. He kissed his way up the big soft thighs until he reached her pussy, and then he began to lick, slowly and carefully, around the outside of her lips. She squirmed, ticklish, and so he grabbed her meaty thighs and spread them wider, then touched tongue to slit for the first time.