chapter 1

A story published in the early 2000's by Tulsa Brown on the now defunct website 'Scarlet Letters'. Republished here without permission, but because it's no longer available anywhere online and it's absolutely superb.

Flesh on A Woman
By Tulsa Brown


"Do you know what the difference between men and women is?" Michael asked against my ear.

I laughed, a single breath in the warm darkness. "This is a trick, right?"

"No, really. And I'm not talking about naughty bits or the tilt of the pelvis �"

"Okay, what?" I squeezed his arm impatiently.

"Fat," Michael said.

He announced the word with a child-like pleasure, the boy at the back of the class who had the right answer. I heard it with a small smack of alarm, three letters that sounded more wicked, more illicit than any four.

"Oh," I said.

"I found my old Atlas of Anatomy today," he continued dreamily. "There are three whole pages devoted to female fat, how it completely reshapes the hips and tummy, thighs and breasts. When you think about it, fat creates a woman's body."

I was suddenly prickling with self-consciousness under his arm. Yet between my legs I felt a distinct pulse of pleasure, like the nudge of a thick thumb against my clit.

"Every woman I know would be horrified to hear you say that."

"I know. It mystifies me. And there are men who buy into the Barbie-doll myth, too, or they'd like you to think so. But the truth is, that round shape just calls to us, the curves and softness. We want to touch it, squeeze it. We can't get enough."

I felt a faint push against my buttocks, his cock awakening again.

"It's an ancient instinct that society won't let us acknowledge anymore." He paused. "Like your sister, Brenda. She doesn't know how beautiful she is."

I caught my breath at the jealous pang. Michael's an artist, I told myself shakily. He thinks a Spanish onion is beautiful.

"Brenda's always struggled with her weight," I said.

"Well, she should just...relax. Enjoy herself and be happy." He stroked my hip under the blanket, appreciative and reassuring. "You know I love to see a woman enjoy herself."

"Oh, sure. And if I did that, I'd gain thirty pounds. What would you think then?"

His cock surged against the cleft of my ass. "You'd drive me to madness," he whispered.

For a single instant I saw myself with Brenda's body, round belly curving above the panty line, full, pink thighs, heavy breasts spilling over the taut cups of a bra. Voluptuous. Decadent. Indulgent. The jolt of desire was so swift it was almost painful. My clit reared up like a horse.

Then the rush of burning guilt. I slipped out of Michael's grasp, right out of bed, and began fumbling for my clothes.

"Jane, what's the matter?"

"I should go home. I have to work tomorrow."

He got to his feet, a pale, startled ghost in the moonlight, erection still bobbing.

"What did I do? Janey, lass, tell me." He caught me in his arms, the blouse in my hands crumpled between us.

I was embarrassed now, and tried to tease my way out of it. "Oh, stop. I just need more clothes. It's illegal for a woman to wear the same outfit two days in a row."

"Well, let me drive you home."

"I brought my car."

"Then I'll follow you in mine."

I laughed because he was so serious. "No, phone me at work tomorrow and tell me a dirty joke. At ten. I'll need it by then."

I dressed and he didn't, walking me to the door in his easy nakedness. He was six feet tall, bone, muscle and sinew strung together with a loose grace that seemed miraculous to me. He was as comfortable in his body as an athlete, or an animal.

"A dirty joke," he said.

"At ten."

He gathered me into an embrace that I saw in the full-length mirror at the end of his studio, his bare body wrapped around the green bundle of my coat.

I'd known Michael McInnes for six months, long enough to realize he was a dangerous man. He had pale Celtic skin and remarkable red hair that shifted from auburn to copper, depending on the light. He'd come from Scotland as a small child, and his accent had faded to a lilt over the years. But it always thickened again along with his cock, a lusty, earthy love-voice that gave me goose bumps under the sheets.

At thirty Michael was a successful sculptor who'd already had two public commissions, and sold his bronzes all over the country. He argued like a demon with gallery owners, "just for the sport," he admitted with a grin, but he was as entranced as a child with the texture of things: velvet, clay, food. In his loft apartment, he said he had two playgrounds, the studio and the kitchen.

"I hope you like to eat," he'd said on our first date, "because I love to cook."

A dangerous, dangerous man.

As I walked out to my car, the crisp autumn air did nothing to cool the heat that still flamed over my face, and between my legs. What woman living in the twenty-first century didn't have an issue with food, I wondered. Who hadn't grown up in the shadow of lust and terror, mother, sisters and aunts all counting calories and weighing portions, talking about cheesecakes as if they were lovers? And then there were the warnings that rang out at every turn:

"Don't eat that. It's loaded with grease."

"Careful, the women in our family really fill out in the hips."

And the worst judgment, spoken with hushed glee and triumph, "Ooh, boy, she's really let herself go. You wouldn't believe how fat she is."