Chapter 1

She sits so lovely, so gracefully, so softly, it is by the slightest tip of her glass does the wine slither into her mouth, past her tongue, down her throat, and down to the softest, and oh so roundest of stomachs. She does not realize, the man from across the bar, gazing at her beauty, she does not realize, and the sweat that beads at her head, arms, legs, and bare pierced belly. Nor does she realize that the glass was her fourth, the fourth which she still believes is her second. Her scarlet lipstick stains the edge of her glass, as she sets it down upon the marble bar. The music plays lightly, she tapping her foot to the lively beat.

She is wearing a tight, crimson tank top that hugs her olive colored skin. Her hair is red as well, like that of a burning fire that will cannot cease. She is wearing a pair of black jeans, that squeeze her plump thighs, and rear. Her belly is in crested with a jewel at its center, a diamond belly ring that is being swallowed by her girth. She runs her, cold, yet sweating hands down from her halfway exposed chest, to the diamond. Her emerald eyes are closed, as she bobs her head lightly to the music. Running her hands down farther, which are painted with a cherry nail polish, she unbuttons her pants, allowing for her belly to lie freely upon her lap.

Oh how the man at the other end of the bar admires, without a care. Oh how he wishes to lay with that woman, the might of his attraction almost too much to handle. He sits, in the shadows, with a beer in his hand, and a collection of his closest friends around him. He is a writer, a famous one no doubt, as he conceals himself from the populous of the bar that dance and gyrate on the dance floor. Across this sea of people, the writer observes, with silence, as she slaps her belly, and whimpers sensually, too low for anyone not paying attention to hear. Oh but he hears it, he hears her lustful call, beaconing him forth, to snatch the woman from her lonely state.

The Writer is in dark clothes; his black trench coat hides most of his muscular frame. Dark shades, rest at the bridge of his wide nose. He is a handsome man, who has just recently grown out of his boyish features. As you see, this man is only 19, his fame and fortune coming to him, in fact at the tender age of 16. In his youth, he has grown over zealous, and has yet to put much effort into anything, until now. Never had he met a woman so sexy, so alluring, and the funny thing was that he hadn’t even spoken to her yet.

He slips his beer, past his lips, as the cold draft of the opening club door, sweeps in. The woman at the bar, feels the chill, and is struck out of her entranced state. She looks down at herself, plump, and sweet, she giggles, lazily pulling her tank top over the belly which reaches past her open belt buckle, zipper, and button.

The writer, has an attraction for women of the larger size, yet to this day has yet to find a woman who has truly satisfied his desire. The flashing lights, and bursts of obnoxious conversation, had always irritated the young writer, but he had never come for the dancing, nor the drinks, no had he come for the women.

The scarlet woman, calls for the burly bartender, who stands at the other end of the bar. He goes to her, and here’s what she has to say while cleaning out a glass with a partially dirty rag. From afar, the Writer can hear it, and softly she says into the bartender’s ear:

‘A plate of hot wings please,’