Chapter 1

Dear Diary, I want to discuss something with you.

It's something that's been on my mind a lot lately, a kind of quiet reflection on the things I'm drawn to, the things that truly get to me. You see, I've never understood the world's obsession with sharp angles and flat stomachs. It's like they've never seen a woman who truly fills a space. A woman with curves, with a softness that promises warmth and comfort, she just… she just radiates a different kind of energy. A kind of "oomph" that a man can't help but be drawn to.

Watching a large woman move, with a slow, deliberate grace that’s all her own, is a kind of poetry. It’s a quiet confidence that just turns me on in a way I can't really explain. And those thighs… God, those thighs. Thick, strong, and so unbelievably soft. They are the very essence of femininity to me. Just the sight of them, the way they press together, makes me ache. When I get to wrap my arms around a large woman, it’s not just a hug—it's an embrace that feels full and satisfying. It's not about just holding her; it's about surrounding her, filling the space with my own body, and feeling her softness against me. It’s a sense of wholeness that I just can't find anywhere else.

And in those moments, I let my hands drift down, take a soft hold of her beautiful exterior, and lift it, there's a weight to it that feels… profound. It's a weight that feels like a responsibility, one I'm honored to carry. It's soft and giving, but with a firmness that promises strength, and the feeling of it in my palms is an invitation, a silent dare to explore and to take more and more. It's a connection, a feeling of being wanted and needed in a way that nothing else can replicate.

That’s where I know i cannot stop. I step behind her, my hands settling gently on the soft curves of her buttocks. A soft squeeze, just a preview of the pressure I'll bring later. She jumps with the squeeze. Then, slowly, my hands slide along her sides, across her back, until they come to rest on her shoulders.

From my height, I can look down on her body, and I feel like a mean, hungry python from a tree, gazing down, salivating at the sight of a sexy prey. I'm ready to pounce, to embrace her and slowly draw her into me, to possess all that beautiful meat.

But first, I allow the quiet moment to stretch....................... letting the anticipation build, the vibe to grow.

And her heart starts to hammer, a soft, frantic rhythm I can feel even from here. I watch her massive chest rise and fall, the sheer volume of her body shifting with each breath as it becomes heavier and deeper. The sight of her solid, thick arms resting by her sides captivates me—the large, thick palms and fingers flexing slightly, growing restless with building need. Watching the thickness tense and then relax, waiting for my touch, is an exquisite tease.

"Easy, love," I whisper, my voice a low rumble against her ear. "I haven't even started."

She doesn't speak. Instead, her heavy chest hitches with a breath she can't fully draw, and her thick arms press tight against her sides, all her focus now an intense, silent heat.

My hands slide from her shoulders, below her armpits, separating those smooth arms and leaving her open. I begin to gently play with her tummy, my forearms brushing against the magnificent weight of her tits. I don't touch them yet; I’m just preparing her. I give her tummy a playful squeeze, and she lets out a small laugh as her body jolts and her chest heaves, a beautiful mix of surprise and pure delight.

The laugh is so sweet, but what is sweetness without some spice? I hold the squeeze, tightening my grip on her tummy just enough to make her gasp, to make her body fold in a way, not only from delight, but from a breathless need for release. I love the way she struggles against my hands for just a second, a silent protest that melts into a yielding. It feels like she's on the verge of saying "please," and the power of that unspoken word is a rush.

I hold that tight, agonizing squeeze, letting her struggle against the weight of my arms. I admit that the way her breath hitched, the silent, desperate curve of her spine to escape my hold, was a pure, wicked pleasure. It's in these moments that I feel most potent—when her soft, beautiful mass yields, not to a request, but to sheer, unyielding power. I keep my eyes on her face, watching the delight melt into distress, and I refuse to release the pressure until I see that final, total surrender in her eyes, a silent confession that every bit of that delicious weight is now mine to consume.

"Delicious," I murmur, my lips brushing her ear. "Tell me, darling, how do my hands feel, tight around you like this?"

She tries to answer, but the words are caught by the pressure, emerging as a small, broken sound—a gasp followed by a throat-clearing silence. Finally, she manages a ragged exhale. "Ahhhh" is all she can manage

My eyes never leave her face as I feel the last of her struggles, sensing the exact moment she is about to say something. Not too soon. That's the key—an intoxicating game. I let the pressure linger just that perfect fraction of a second longer, and then, right on the precipice of her verbal plea, I release the punishing squeeze, allowing a slow, satisfied sigh to escape her. Me and my games!

I slowly shift my hands, sliding them to cradle and lift the generous curve of her belly. Despite my own large hands, her tummy is so bountiful that it spills wonderfully over my palms. I grab hold, beginning a soft, gentle play—a reward after the struggle. The touch is light at first, purely playful, but then, slowly, deliberately, I begin to tighten my grip, increasing the pressure. I can feel the soft, warm depth of her midsection in my grasp, the way it pushes back, and I know this: I love tummy play.

I keep my hands firmly on her, the generous curve of her belly remaining my primary focus. "Look at this," I whisper, my voice thick with admiration, "All this beautiful, soft weight in my hands. It's too much for me."
She lets out a soft, pleased sound, tipping her head back. "Is it, Sir? Or is it just... exactly what you need?"

I laugh, a low, satisfied sound against her neck. "Exactly what I need to take. Did I hurt you, my sweet?" I don't wait for a reply before I tighten my grip and bite deep into the soft curve of her neck, a sudden, punishing squeeze that makes her whole body lurch and tremble against me. She gives a guttural cry, part pain, part ecstasy, her large, heavy chest convulsing as she struggles and yields all at once. I feel that familiar, wicked rush of pleasure as her breath shatters in her throat, the entire beautiful mass of her body pressing back into my command.

i continue to play with her tummy tossing and slapping it around. The sound it makes, the way it moves. Poetry! and then i Squeeze. Again!

That little jolt she gives when I really lean into the squeeze? It’s not just a physical reaction; it’s a circuit closing. It's the moment the playful delight turns into a breathless, delicious need. And God, it works wonders. I can feel the heat radiating off her, the way her muscles tense and then slacken in immediate - desire! She is moving now, a subtle, undulating pressure back against me, her hips nudging upward, a silent, clumsy, irresistible request to shift my attention. She wants me to move up, to that other magnificent weight I've only just brushed.
I feel her head nudge my chin, a soft, impatient prod. She is trying to steer my hands toward her breasts.

"Not so fast, gorgeous," I chuckle, my fingers circling her belly button, pressing just right to send a current through her. "Use your words Darling. Tell me what your body is begging for."

She swallows hard, her voice a fragile whisper against the darkness. "Please… touch them."

I laugh again, a deep, satisfied rumble. "I can't hear you, love. The silence is too loud. You'll need to tell me exactly what you want." As I say this, I press my thumb into the very center of her navel, a pinprick of intense focus. She moans, a sound trapped in her throat.

"I want you to hold my tits! Please!" she finally chokes out, louder, more desperate.
"Ah, much better," I praise her, my voice turning soft and cruel. "But 'please' is a nice start, not the whole thing. Ask me nicely. Tell me how much you need it."

It is a beautiful agony watching her wrestle with the demand, her face a mask of shame and burning need. Her final plea is barely coherent, a string of whispered, hungry words that ends with a soft, broken, "I'll do anything, please."

She is in the zone now, utterly wet and prepared, her desire so palpable it feels like a heat wave in the dark room.

I release the punishing grip on her belly, tracing a gentle line up the silken skin, savoring the violent shudder it causes. I am in no hurry, and my hands move with agonizing slowness. Every second I delay simply sharpens the edge of her desire, making her utterly desperate. Her lovely, heavy breasts seem to throb and yearn for my touch, their magnificent weight shifting with her uneven breaths. And her nipples? They are already hard, dark pebbles, visibly straining against her skin, silently screaming for attention that I am determined to withhold—just for a little while longer.

Her eyes squeeze shut, her heavy chest moving with a desperate, ragged inhale. "Please," she whispers holding my hands for support as well as trying to push them up.
"What's the hurry, gorgeous," I chuckle, a deep, satisfied rumble.

My hands finally move to her breasts, the full, splendid weight of a large woman's chest. They are everything I love—soft, heavy over my strong hands. I have large palms but they are bigger. just the way i love them, the way they spill out of my palms.

I start softly, cupping them, lifting them as if testing their density, a light, teasing touch. I adjust my hands, sinking my vice-like grip into the soft, yielding mass. I squeeze hard, the sudden, intense pressure making her arch her back and squirm violently.

"Oh, God—YES!" she cries out, the sound swallowed and muffled by the sheer weight of her chest, her body instinctively struggling against the glorious pain.

The full, meaty feel of her breast compressed beneath my hands is an intoxicating power. I dedicate myself to the breast itself for a long, controlled moment. I knead the soft, deep flesh repeatedly, squeezing, mounding, and compressing the glorious volume until she is breathless and weeping from the internal buildup of sensation.

"Tell me how bad it is, darling," I demand, my voice low and dark.

"It... it's wonderful!" she manages, her voice a ragged, breathless plea.

I ignore the answer, content in the knowledge that I am tormenting her with what she doesn't have. I hold my position on the soft mass, feeling her entire body vibrate with the knowledge that the nipples are still untouched. I let her writhe in this suspense, allowing her desire to become a palpable agony.

Her hips begin to press forward desperately, a silent, frantic rhythm against my own body. She tries to nudge my hands, her breath coming in choked sobs.

"Please," she whimpers, burying her face against my neck. "I can't take it..."
"What do you want girl" i tease mockingly
"The nipples, Please sir! "

I hold my breath, savoring the sound of her complete surrender. "What have you done to deserve it? Tell me what you'll do for me."

She pulls back just enough for me to see the raw, burning need in her eyes. "Anything," she chokes out. "I'll be your good girl. I promise. Just... please, my nipples."

I look into her eyes, seeing the perfect, unadulterated desperation—what a sight. She deserves it, my cute little puppy. I long for the deafening screams of pleasure my hands are about to tear from her now.

I keep kneading her breasts as i lower my face and arch her neck. My lips lock into hers as i finally shift my focus. I move my thumb and forefinger to find her nipples, now firm, dark pebbles against the surrounding softness. The sudden touch makes her gasp as she lets out a burst of warm air into my mouth. I let go of her mouth as she rests on my shoulder enjoying her moment..

I begin to work on those lovely nips, alternating between a slow, excruciating squeeze and a frantic, intense kneading. I take the sensitive tissue between my thumb and forefinger and squeeze them flat, then begin to roll them tightly, slowly grinding the hard points until a gasp rips from her throat.
I ignore the gasp and shift tactics, grasping the nipple between my fingers and pulling it out as far as the skin will extend, holding the stretch until her cry turns into a whimper. "Is that what you wanted? More than you bargained for?"

She can only manage broken syllables, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming her ability to form words. "So... good... hurts... don't stop..."

I mock her gentle, helpless replies. "You sound like you've forgotten how to speak, darling! Is that what my hands do to you? Keep you on the edge until you can only stutter?" I laugh, a raw, triumphant sound.

"God, you are so sexy when I have you like this, caught between a scream and a sigh."
I ease the pressure slightly, letting her float for a moment, then press the heels of my hands into the soft, voluminous curves, shaping and mounding the flesh until it feels like she is drowning in her own body. "Are you wet for me, girl? Tell me how slick you are right now."

Her chest heaves with the effort of speaking. "So wet, Sir. Dripping."

I tighten my hands again, a new, dizzying kind of pressure. "Good. Now tell me, how much more can you take before you completely break for me? How much can you bear?"

A defiant, hungry light flashes in her eyes, even through the haze of pleasure. "A lot more," she rasps. "I can take anything you give me. Bring it."

My smile is purely wicked. I accept the challenge, plunging us back into the deep end. I increase the pace of the nipple play, twisting and yanking and pinching with relentless intensity, forcing her to push past her limit, until her defiant cries break down into helpless, broken gasps. I continue until every fiber of her body is screaming for release, for cessation, for anything.

The final wave hits her fast and hard. With one last, agonizing twist of her nipple, a final, bone-deep squeeze of her breast, she gives a cry that is pure, total release, her body going instantly limp against mine. She slides down the front of my chest, her entire beautiful, exhausted mass collapsing into my arms. She is done, reduced to soft, shivering weight.

I hold her there, panting, utterly satisfied. After a long moment, I tilt her face up to meet my eyes.

"Speak to me," I command softly. "Tell me exactly how that felt, love. Tell me about my hands."

Her eyes are glazed over, but slowly she focuses on me. "Oh, God," she whispers, her voice raspy. "Thank you. Your hands are... brilliant. So skillful."

I smirk, tracing a thumb across her full lower lip. "Skillful? And I haven't even used the tongue yet and my toys. And look at you—drained. You want more, don't you, little girl?"

She meets my eyes, a final flicker of intense heat in their depths. She nods, a deep thankfulness washing over her face, and her voice drops to a soft, utterly obedient breath. "Yes, sir."