The Fat Parlor - Part 2

I followed Guy upstairs past clusters of men in varying states of conversation and dress. Some gave me a look and a nod that told me they knew exactly what I was about to get up to. The faces were full of approval, and some even had a hint of jealousy.

Guy was wide enough to block the hallway--not that I knew where we were going to slip out in front. And besides, the sight of his lumbering bulk shifting from side to side with each step was hypnotic foreplay for me. I was already half hard in my jeans. I suspected that Guy knew exactly what sort of effect his backside has on customers and deliberately ensured they follow him. It was a good sales tactic. 

Not that I needed any convincing.

Besides the wide mounds of his buttocks and the thick rolls of love handle that were perfectly outlined in his tight wife beater, I could tell that Guy was hairy as hell. Of course, I knew from the photos that Guy could get away from calling himself a “bear,” but from the pelt that went from his neck and down his back I knew that “bear” might be underselling it. He was a swaggering beast that had caught another morsel and was proudly bringing it back to his den to be consumed.

The thought had me hard as all hell.

It was dark and Guy blocked my view of anything past him so I couldn’t tell when we’d arrived at our room. He simply stopped and I walked right into him, the tent in my jeans leading the way. My pole slammed into a mountain of soft flesh hard enough that it would’ve hurt had that mountain been anything but plush and pliable. It also completely gave away my excitement. 

I could see the flash of his pearly whites as he grinned over his shoulder. Then he led me into the room. 

It was small, with barely anywhere to walk. The room was completely dominated by a king-size bed and a small bedside table. Condoms and lube were there, along with a bottle of water and an ashtray. Apparently, Guy had one of the smoking rooms. 

With nowhere else to go, Guy slid onto the bed, his heft depressing the mattress to an almost comical degree. “Would you like some?” Guy offered, his pudgy hand holding what appeared to be a cigarette in the dim light.

“I don’t smoke,” I said. 

“Oh honey,” Guy chuckled, “this isn’t a cigarette.” 

Weed. He was offering me weed. I nodded, not remembering the last time I’d smoked marijuana. Guy reached into his shirt and miraculously produced a lighter (I’d learn later that this was another trick of the trade--he kept it tucked under the fold of his heavy mantits), lit the spliff, and then handed it to me. I inhaled as I thought I should and immediately felt the burning smoke infuse my lungs.

I collapsed to the bed in a coughing fit. Guy patted me on the back and offered me the bottle of water when I could inhale enough air that I could spare a breath to drink. He chuckled again, but his laugh somehow sounded sympathetic. 

Guy’s inhalation was deep and practiced. His exhalation filled the room with smoke. I almost deferred on his offer of another hit, but I thought better of my situation and tried again. Or maybe the weed had already affected my better judgment. It’s hard to say. 

I coughed less on my next inhale. After I handed the joint back, I laid down on the bed utterly relaxed, my tented pants completely forgotten. 

But not to Guy. After his next lungful, he tamped the spliff in the ashtray and leaned over me, his wide, looming face filled with an inviting smile. Hands that must have been twice the size of my own dance over my still-clothed torso before sausage fingers arrived at my groin. I smiled back and nodded. 

With a deftness that belied its size, Guy’s hand undid my fly and fished out my cock in seconds. He gave it a few tugs and leaned down closer so his face was mere centimeters from mine. There was a moment of examination, as though he was ensuring that despite my recent inebriation I was still eager for us to continue. My dumb, stoned grin must have met his approval since a heartbeat later he leaned his bulk into me for a kiss. 

His lips were soft, larger than mine--as everything else about him--and oh so inviting. It wasn’t long before I was responding in kind and our faces were locked in a deep embrace. I moaned around his tongue as his fat hands grasped my shaft firmly, coaxing the sound out of me. Our tongues interlocked briefly before he released, a strand of my saliva connecting our mouths for a brief moment before breaking. 

His smile was genuine. I guess I was a good kisser.