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Pizza Girl

I was in a rut. Another Friday night alone. Just like last Friday and the one before that. Sitting here watching some stupid info-mercial aimed at inbred trailer trash. My God- I was watching and thinking of buying the asinine product!!! I needed to do something…quick. Hell, I’ll just get a pizza and take it from there. Yeah, a pizza with everything. With shaking hands and trembling fingers, I picked up the telephone and triumphantly placed my order: “Three pizzas – the works, and a six pack of diet coke.” I impatiently waited for my gourmet feast to arrive. Needless to say, by the time the doorbell rang, I was hungry and horny. I had popped in the video and Ron Jeremy was already boffing Ginger’Lynn in a giant bowl of french salad. Both were smothered in mayonnaise and pickle relish (of all things!).

The doorbell rang. I lethargically lifted my body from my Laz-Y-Boy chair andslowly, cooly, walked to the door. (Mustn’t let on any show of anticipation to those pimple faced, lecherous pizza boys.) I methodically opened the door. My jaw dropped. My stomach wriggled. My words unconsciously slurred.

“Pizza” she said.

She! Yes! She! This was no pizza boy! No! This was a woman! And what a woman. 240 pounds of woman!!

“Pizza” she said, a bit impatiently, again.

“PPPllease cccome in.” I, through my extreme nervousness (it took all my conscious effort), calmly directed her into the living room and motioned toward the Laz-Y-Boy chair. She, without a bit of hesitation, without a bit of surprise – almost as if this was a regular occurrence during her nocturnal pizza travels – plopped herself down, opened a box of pizza and enthusiastically began to feed.

As she sat on the Laz-Y-Boy, I quietly sneaked into the kitchen, out of reach of her unsuspecting eyes. There I could get a better look at her features. She was big – about 240 pounds, blue eyed, and wore her hair in two tight pigtails, like a hefty farm girl, innocent to the ways of the world. She was, naturally, double chinned and her large, plump, rotund breasts must have weighed at least 15 pounds each. Her attire was the routine “pizza” blue and red. To be honest, her whole appearance was that of excess. But though, I must add, her physical appearance appealed to me, iit was the way she carried herself. The way she ate pizza, for instance. She grabbed the pie with both hands, unafraid of getting her palms greasy or oily. Then in laser-like succession, she would sink her teeth into a slice, devouring half of it in one mountainous bite. After finishing off a piece, she would cooly wipe her sauce-stained mouth with the back of her fleshy right hand and then continue on. She did this with twenty slices.

I stared, lost in the rapture and passion of the moment. It was truly love at first sight.

I came to my senses and walked back into the living room. The video was still playing. I looked intently into her eyes. No words were spoken. She knew my desires.

“Want some?” she indifferently asked.

There were four slices left in the third, and final, box. It was not pizza I wanted.

“NNNoo, III’mm really not hungry. Shouldn’t you be getting back?” This was only a formality. I thought it should be mentioned.

“You want me to leave?”

She read my mind, “No… No!”

“Well let’s put on some music!” she replied. She got up from the Laz-Y-Boy, turned off the tube, and went headfirst towards the record collection. Albums were subsequently strewn across the floor. She found she wanted. She awkwardly removed her top to reveal at least a 50DD bra which, with difficulty, contained two titanium-sized melons. She began to dance. Her stomach wriggled with each gyration, moving with the elegance of a ballerina. She continued this sensual writhing. Plumpy hands being lifted over her head, to the left, to the right, then her whole big body bending forward! For at least fifteen minutes she continued, then her jeans fell heavily to the floor. Heavily, I might add, but it was such a fluid motion, it seemed an essential part of the dance. All she had on where her panties and bra. Her oversized saddlebag ass now joined her oversized balloon orbs in the elegant bouncing and swaying. She then, without warning, did fifteen jumping jacks. The fat shook. The walls shook. The room shook. The vibrations of ecstacy… I, by this point, was in heat. I had the most massive hard-on and was all but ready to explode. She noticed my fevered state.

“Was’ a’ matter, big boy?” she laughed. Her double chin now bouncing in complete rhythmic synchronization with her breasts and buttocks. I lost control. I fell to the floor and wrapped my wanton arms around her sequoia-like thighs.

“I know I am nothing! But if you have any mercy at all, you’ll show me some meaty passion! I can’t go on much longer!” Why I said those exact words, I’ll never know. However, you know how it is during the heights of ecstacy. Anyway, she understood, and seeing the pitiful puppy dog expression in my eyes she took my hand and led me to the Laz-Y-Boy. She sat me down on the chair and proceeded to remove her bra and panties. Her breasts were larger than ever, at least 20 pounds each. Her nipples were the size of a bologna slice. She grabbed me head and massaged it between her fleshy orbs. The sensations of the flabby walls of breast fat rubbing up against both my sensitive cheeks almost sent me out of control. How I somehow managed to sustain control, I’ll never know. I was unequivocally in heaven.

After this lesson in sexuality, she grabbed my penis and – how can I describe it – well, she sort of rolled it up and down in her belly fat and implored me to, in her words, “Fuck my fat!”. It felt so good that I decided to ‘go with the flow’.

What transpired next is still a haze to me to this very day. I seems I was so completely immersed in the intense pleasure of the moment, I sincerely believe I left my physical body and entered some supreme spiritual state (I came six six times!). I do vaguely recall, however, removing my penis from her fantastic rolls and inserting it into her massive love tunnel. After numerous earth shaking orgasms, everything after that moment, unfortunately, is a complete blank.

When I finally awoke from my ‘passion stupor’, it was 3am. I quickly jumped to my feet and desperately searched, hoping to find… But it was too late.

The pizza was gone. The diet coke was gone. She was gone. All that was left was a food-stained note taped to the refrigerator door. It read:

Thanks for the Pizza

AND the sausage.

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