Fat Fatale

My name is Catherine, but they don’t call me Kate or Cath … They call me Cat. It rhymes with fat. I’m an average unconfident overweight teen.

The social worker smiles and writes something into his little black book. He looks right through me as if trying to find a tiny bit of consistency with what I look like and what I’ve done. I take a long sip of water to hide a smile behind the glass.


I shrug.

And you are, what… seventeen?

Eighteen. Will be. In two months.

He writes something again, stops, scratches his beard, and continues.

Got a boyfriend?

I shake my head, Uh-uh. But I do know a great deal about sex. I’ve read everything there’s to be read, sodomy, pederasty, pedophilia, necrophilia, S&M, fetish… You name it. I’ve tried many things. With myself. My folks were kind of… suppressed. Fuck, I’ve no idea how they even got me. I guess the stork does exist after all…

The social worker shakes his head and continues writing.

Not that I wouldn’t want one.

I lean back, so my breasts almost pop out of my tee and smile, and the social worker moves on his chair uncomfortably.


But what? I ask.

Not that you wouldn’t want a boyfriend, you said, but…?

Yeah, but boys were making fun of me all the time—look at me! I was the first girl with boobs in elementary school. Boys were bragging about what they did with their girlfriends, and when I would ask some of them, what, they usually shat themselves. If you ask me, the closest they got to sex was tearing the sticky pages of Playboy magazines to find nude photos, so they could scratch their little willies in the toilet.

The social worker smiles sympathetically.

There was a boy who actually dared to speak with me in the first grade of my secondary school… He asked me if I’d go to see a movie with him—don’t ask me which movie, ‘cause I can’t remember. He kept digging in my mouth with his tongue and squeezing my breasts and ass all the time. But after that he started ignoring me. I was sure he was ashamed to be seen with me, but later I was told that he made some kind of a bet. He lost but boy!, his pants were tight!

So, the boys made fun of you… What about other girls?

Mmmmmmm… I guess they quite liked my company. It made them more confident about themselves, and they looked prettier and superior when I was around. At least they felt that way.

The social worker writes frenetically and wipes his forehead every now and then. I’m hot too, there are stains of sweat growing under my tits and armpits.

What about girls… intimately? he utters uneasily.

Well, there was this girl who had to repeat the year in the second grade. We got on well together, she was on my side. Short hair, muscular, she showed me what a girl could give another girl. But men…


Men and women doing it still seems the most natural to me.

The social worker puts down his pen, trying to find the words.

So—what you had with Peter Newman was… natural?

Hey, I’d read all the literature about normal sex and about deviations, I’d read Bukowski, Miller, De Sade, but I hadn’t felt a real dick inside…


Until I started hitchhiking to school. I stood by the side of the road—it was hot and a couple of hitchhikers were already there, I lifted my thumb, I didn’t even have a written sign or anything. Peter stopped and picked me right in front of everyone standing there looking pissed.

He was trying to be as communicative and nice as he could… And he was, I mean, but he kept looking at my cleavage constantly.

The social worker’s hand slips into his pants and probably tries to fix his dick.

He had his hand in his pocket non-stop playing with his willy, then he took me home, opened a bottle of wine and…

You just went to his place like that?

I told you I hadn’t felt a real dick inside before. I finally got a chance to lose my virginity. When he started grabbing and kissing me, I didn’t even try to resist. As he was a bit clumsy I had to take some initiative—I sat on him and started riding with his face between my boobs…

I show him graphically what it must’ve looked like, and the social worker starts breathing heavily.

He was asphyxiating, but I just couldn’t let him go. I couldn’t. He was concrete hard and I was about to come. I rode up and down, up and down, and clutched his head until I had a colossal orgasm. When I stood up, his boner was still stiff although he was already dead. I sat upon it once more and came again, but unfortunately not as intensive as the first time. He took me to heaven and paid the highest price for the one way ticket. But he had a beautiful death, I guess, between the legs of a teen, hehe… Well, there was no going back for me either!

The social worker works in his pants with his left hand, and writes with his right what I’m telling him.
What about Max Hardy? he asks.

Max was… He was crazy about fatties. Somehow he stumbled upon my Facebook profile and started messaging me about what he would like to do to me if I only let him. As I started working weekends as a waitress at the Thirsty Joe, I invited him to come over for a couple of drinks. He parked at the bar one afternoon and hanged there until the end. Literally.

The social worker looks at me with questioning eyes.

While other younger guests made fun of my ass, he just stood there leaning on the bar and undressing me with his eyes. He never said a word—he was louder on Facebook, but I could feel his eyes caressing me gently… I felt him crawling over my back and squeezing my fat ass and boobs.

Now the social worker needs a sip of water.

When everyone left, he said My last beer, please… Oh, he can speak after all, I thought. I checked the cash, wiped the floor and cleaned the toilet, while he was slowly slurping his beer. His last beer, just like he wished. He stood there and watched. What do we do now, I asked. I wanted to go home. He straightened up and stepped behind the bar—he shoved his tongue into my mouth and grabbed my boobs passionately… Can you imagine?

I squeeze my boobs, and the social worker swallows deeply and wipes his forehead again.
He hugged my ass strongly and tried to lift me onto a bar, I continue. Of course I had to do it myself. He unzipped my jeans, dragged them down and started kissing my knees. He bit my thighs gently every now and then, sucked in and left a mark. His tongue crawled up to my crotch, where he did me for a while, and I ruffled his hair. He dug in with his tongue a couple of times and then he began sucking on my clit… It was amazing although not perfect… There was still something missing.

Another questioning look in the social worker’s eyes.

He sucked and sucked, and I pushed his head inside holding him tight with my thighs. I was going crazy, while he suffocated slowly, but persistently. We came simultaneously—well, I came to heaven, he came to hell. But it was all too clean again, almost immaculate, no blood, no taste of blood (except for my period, but that’s not the same, if you know what I mean). I wanted to taste blood!

The sweat is raining down from the social worker’s face. He scratches his crotch without even trying to hide it.

I lean back comfortably and shove my right hand into my jeans and start pinching my nipple with the left. The guy is drooling all over his little black book now. He moves back on his chair.

Co-come-sign-thi-this! he spits the syllables as he wanks off openly.

I stand up with a grin on my face, go around the table and take his pen. He pulls his pants and shorts down to his ankles. He unzips my jeans and drags them down, while I peel off my tee. I still hold his pen and position his boner with my free hand to mount on it. I dig his face into my breasts, but let him go, when he starts to resist. He smiles, relieved. I move back and forth slowly, and he puts his palms on my face and pulls it gently toward his—he bites my lower lip.

Just a moment before coming I stab him in his neck with the pen as hard as I can. He’s stunned, his blood sprays all over the place, on the floor, on his desk, and all over me, and his squealing is only intensifying my orgasm, I’m riding and coming and stabbing him like crazy—my new-found pleasure is interrupted by guards who break in and start beating and kicking and pulling me away from him, but I cling to the chair with my legs and think plea-ease-let-me-co-come-one-once-more…

2 comments to “Fat Fatale”
2 comments to “Fat Fatale”

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.