Big Girls Do It Better

Big Girls Do It Better

Jasinda Wilder

This is an erotic short story, or
episode
. Each episode stands alone, like a TV episode, but is part of a larger story.

WARNING:
This story contains explicit sex and erotic scenes, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.

Two things get me into trouble: food, and my mouth. That's how it all started with Chase: first food, then my mouth. I had just finished DJing at a bar appropriately called The Dive, and I needed a snack. I headed to the twenty-four hour Ram's Horn a few miles away from the bar.

That night, I was way more sober than I usually was whenever I visited Ram's Horn. Let's just say the tips at The Dive were usually of the liquid variety, but that particular night, I hadn't been tipped as well as usual. Still, I'd had a couple, and I swayed as I made my way through the crowded parking lot. I stumbled through the door and bumped right into trouble of the tall, dark and handsome variety. He apologized as I looked away, flushing in embarrassment.

I snuck a peek, and embarrassment turned to lust. This guy was HOT. I couldn't make myself meet his eyes. I mumbled an apology and scurried to my usual corner booth, where I hid behind the menu. 

I pretended to peruse a menu I knew by heart. I've always had a passion for life and that translated into overindulgence. What can I say? I've never met a cupcake I didn't want to get to know better.

I was still staring at the menu when he came over. He was so sexy, even his pants were sexy.

"Can I sit with you?" His voice was like a mellow, throbbing bassline.

Anything you want, Mr. Sexypants,
I thought.  I blushed scarlet from my forehead all the way down to my ample cleavage. 

"Sure," I mumbled, acting like I didn't care either way. 

I looked up at him again, and he was twice as sexy as he'd been ten seconds before. I wanted to say something cool, but in my tipsy state, I could barely focus, and my menu kept shifting between single and double images.

Mr Sexypants ordered water, because he was just that cool. I thought about ordering salad, so I could be cool too, but when the waitress came and I actually opened up my mouth, I said "Lemon pie."

Pie? Really? Awesome job, Anna
, I scolded myself.

I played with my hair, twisting a lock of my bottle-blond hair between my fingers. It smelled like smoke. 

"You seem like you know your way around this place," Mr. Sexypants said. 

"No, not really," I lied. "I actually DJ down the street at The Dive." 

Why did I just tell him where I work? 

"You're a DJ?" 

"Yeah. I also sing and play music at a few local bars." 

"Oh, you sing," he said, flashing his absurdly straight and white teeth at me. "I'm a singer too." 

Of course Mr Sexypants would be a singer.
 

"Really?" I said. "Like at church?" 

"No, in a band. We're called 6 Feet Tall. We just got back from playing at CBGB's in New York." 

The waitress brought our food, I think. She must have, since food had appeared and I was eating it.

I smiled, ate my lemon pie, and twirled my hair again
. Is this actually happening to me right now?
I put my hand down onto my leg and pinched myself.
Yep, really happening.
  

I glanced down, more to get away from Mr Sexypants and his fiery brown eyes than anything else, and that was when I remembered what I was wearing: knee-high black hooker boots, fishnet stockings, and a size-eighteen sequined leopard-print dress. I went ten shades of scorching red all over again. 

"How's the pie?" He asked, still with that too-damn-cute smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was enjoying watching me squirm.

"Uh...great, thanks." I scarfed down the last couple bites. "I really need to get going." 

"The pie is on me," he said. "I was lonely, sitting all by myself. My name is Chase, by the way." 

"Nice to meet you Chase. I'm Anna." I shook his hand, trying desperately to ignore the sparks of heat that ran up my arm at the touch of his strong, calloused fingers. "Good luck with your band." 

With that, I scooted my butt out of the booth and into my car as quick as I could. I turned the key in my car and looked at the clock: three-thirty eight am. I needed to get home before my roommate Jamie started calling the police to look for my dead body. She hated my job and was always worried guys were going to attack me leaving the bar. I've tried explained to her several times that serial killers don't kill fat girls. I turned to check for a car before I started to pull out, but jammed the brakes when the passenger-side door opened. 

"I didn't want to let you go without getting your phone number." Chase's bassline voice washed over me from the open door. 

"My mother taught me not to give my phone number to strange men." 

"So I'm strange, now, huh?" He shot me the smirk again. 

 "You know what I meant. I don't know you." It took all my control to keep my voice even.

"What if I want to get to know you?" He smiled at me again and I swear I forgot what my name was. 

And then he kissed me. Not a tiny, friendly, introductory kiss either; it was a deep, almost-tongues-touching kiss. A soul-scorching kiss. My foot slid off the brake and the car started rolling, and he had to jump out of the way to avoid being run over. 

"Sorry about that," I mumbled, trying not to touch my lips where his had just been.

"I'll see you again, Anna. Real soon." He shut the car door before I could finish mumbling "Goodnight." 

He smiled at me as he turned to jog back to the restaurant. 

*   *   *

 He swaggered into The Dive the following week, wearing tight leather pants and a sleeveless black T-shirt. It was a look not many men could have pulled off, but he wore it like he'd invented it. I mean, damn, those pants hugged his ass like a second skin, and his arms were brawny, bulging, and writhing with gorgeous tattoos. He was lean in the hips, wide in the shoulders, and...

I was completely screwed. 

That was before he picked up the mic. He let a few others go first, some not-quite drunk regulars that had decent voices, people I could rely on to get the night started. Chase picked "All I Want" by Toad the Wet Sprocket. He took the mic in one hand, curled the cord around the other, standing with his weight on one foot, head down, tapping a toe to the opening notes. Most people, when waiting for their song to start, glance at their table of friends for encouragement, or stare with nervous eyes at the prompter, waiting for the lyrics to start turning blue. 

Chase milked the moment like a true performer. He drew everyone's eyes, and he knew it; rather than just waiting for the cue to start singing, he was building tension, making sure every eye was on him. The music shifted from the intro to the first verse, and Chase lifted the mic to his mouth, drew a deep breath...and blew me away. The man could sing. He worked the crowd, getting those who knew the song to join in on the chorus, got the rest clapping and trying to sing along. He turned a dingy dive bar into a concert hall before his first number was over.

Of course, at the time, all I could see was his glorious body and smooth skin. All I could feel was the rush of pure desire coursing through my body to gather in a damp pool between my thighs. I remembered the heat and pressure of his lips on mine one week ago, and desperately wanted more. 

His eyes burned into me as he owned the stage. Every time he glanced my way—which was often—I found myself pinned in place, my legs turned to jelly by the blaze of raw lust burning in his eyes. 

Why is he looking at ME like that?
I wondered. There were dozens of other women in the bar, prettier, richer, skinnier women half my size. Just about every woman in the bar was oozing desire for Chase, lining up around the stage area, all of them wearing sexy little outfits sized in the single digits instead of double.

Yet Chase had eyes only for me, with my size-eighteen mini skirt and three-inch heels elevating me to nearly six feet tall. I knew I looked good, for me, but compared to all these other model looking women, I knew I shouldn't have a chance in hell with a guy like Chase. But yet here he came, burly arms swinging, eyes fixed on me like he was a lion stalking a gazelle across the savannah. I was no gazelle, but he didn't seem to care.

"You've got a great selection," Chase said, his voice rolling over me. 

I was flustered enough to drop the CD I was holding. He was mere inches from me, gazing down at me with what could not possibly be, could never be, surely wasn't desire. 

"Selection?" I asked.

Am I popping out of my top?
I looked down at my chest, suddenly unable to put two thoughts together.  

Chase laughed, a low, amused chuckle. "Your song selection. You have a lot of songs to choose from."

I glanced back up to meet Chase's eyes, and as our gazes met, Chase let his slide down to my cleavage and hung there, an obvious, intentional ogle.

"Oh," I muttered. "Yeah...well, can't be a DJ without music."

"True. But your selection is especially...vast." He was talking about my tits, now. 

"You sounded great," I said, because it was true, and a complete sentence.

"Thanks." He reached past me, his arm going over my shoulder and brushing my face, his lips now mere inches from mine as the whole bar watched.

I thought he was going to kiss me, but he grabbed a song request slip from the waist-high counter running along the wall behind me. He took a mini-pencil and scribbled something on the slip, and then handed it to me.

"Sing with me," he said. It wasn't quite a direct command, but almost. 

I was tempted to say no, just to show him he couldn't order me around, but damn it, I wanted to sing with him. I was sure, in the same way I knew when I was a nailing song just right, Chase and I would sound incredible together. My deep alto voice would provide a perfect counterpoint to his powerful tenor.

We would make beautiful music together
, I thought. I had to suppress a naughty giggle, because the thought had nothing at all to do with singing.

"I would love to," I said, as I took the slip from his fingers.

Our fingers touched when I grabbed it from him, and I felt again an electric current zapping through my entire body from that one split-second contact. 

 If I felt such electricity from just our fingers touching, then dear god, what would it feel like to have his hands on my tits? Pinching my nipples and slipping his fingers into my—

I actually, literally gasped as I forced the thought from my mind. Chase was still gazing at me, and now the gleam of lust was bearing down on me full force, unmistakable and undeniable and focused on me.

"Stop looking at me like that," I said.

"Like what?" His voice was pitched low so only I could hear, even though with the fill music pounding from the speakers he could have spoken in a yell and no one would have heard. He spoke low on purpose, so I'd have to get closer to him. 

It worked, and I wasn't protesting.

"Like you want me."

His eyes sparked and flashed, and the corners of his luscious mouth tipped up in a smirk. "Oh, but I do."

"You can't," I said. 

"Why not?"

"Because I'm—" I started, and then had to cut myself off and grab for the mic, because the fill song had ended and the next number was up and needed introducing. 

I read the name and song title, my brain working on autopilot. Chase was still standing there, his brow furrowed in a frown. When I sat back down, he moved to rejoin me, but had to step aside for a line of people making song requests. I had to push him from my mind after that, busy with sorting CDs and prompter tracks and announcing songs, and by the time I looked out at the crowd again, he was gone. 

I took my break at midnight, slipping outside to the deserted alley behind the bar with a bottle of beer. This was my quiet time, my five or ten minutes away from the crush of the crowd to gather my thoughts and let my nerves settle. It was a dark, narrow alley, lit by a single light hanging from a string between adjacent buildings, shedding sickly orange light and long shadows. I leaned a shoulder against the rough brick of the bar's exterior wall and sipped my beer.