Curvy – Part 1 (L)

(L) – This story contains strong language. 

I stood in front of the full-length mirror, barely recognizing myself.  The vision in my mind of the petite, slender, and perky twenty-something woman I remembered stood in stark contrast to the reflection looking back at me.

The lines around my eyes I could deal with, but my firm B-cups with nipples pointing in the right direction were gone, along with my flat mid-section.  In their place were sagging D-cups with much larger nipples pointing mostly south, and, well, not a flat mid-section.

Sighing heavily, I took a few steps away and looked at my wedding photo on the wall.  I looked happy.  I smiled briefly at the memory, but was quickly overwhelmed with the knowledge that I was now twice the woman in the picture.

My husband never seemed bothered by my weight and did his best to reaffirm his love and his attraction to me.  I didn’t doubt his love, but I wasn’t sure he actually found me attractive.  How could he?  I could barely stand to see myself; how could he still want me?

To his credit, he did make the effort, and he had tried again last night, but I’d brushed his hands away.  He rolled over frustrated and mumbling, then I cried myself to sleep.

My heart sank a little further when I noticed the time, and I forced myself to dress for my doctor’s appointment.  I held onto a little hope that he could offer some solution for my weight, or at least some explanation.

I dressed as slouchily as I could while still looking suitable enough to leave the house, then made my way across town.

The paper on the table crinkled beneath me as I waited for the doctor.  At least I didn’t have to undress this time.  The wait was long, and when he did finally come in, he was far too cheery for my mood.

The results were good, in a sense.  Aside from a couple of age-related issues, I was perfectly healthy.  The doctor’s words were simultaneously a relief and a heavy weight—a weight that I gloomily thought matched my own.

I put on a dutiful but fake smile, thanked him, and paid the receptionist. I barely made it to my car before drenching my cheeks with tears.

Stretching the seatbelt across my waist only added to my sorrow, and I felt every jiggle and tug on the ride home.  Once there, I ran into the house, collapsed onto the bed and just wept. 

I barely heard him come inside.

His words were first soft and reassuring, as they always were, but I was so sad that I didn’t really pay attention until his tone changed.  It shifted first to one of mild annoyance, then to one of anger.  It was so strange to hear him speak to me this way that my tears stopped immediately and I rolled over to face him.  The look in his eyes matched the emotion in his voice.  Shock spread through me when he spoke next.

“I am so damn tired of you ignoring my advances, dismissing my words, love, and feelings, and I’m fucking over it!”

The words stung, but before I could react, he had leapt from the bed and stormed to my closet. Clothes started hitting the floor while he continued to mumble angrily.  “Do you hear me?”

I really hadn’t.  I was too stunned at what he had first said and what he was doing to listen.  Then he repeated himself.  “I said, we are going shopping.  We are tossing all of this dull, drab, excessively large stuff, and then we are going to buy you clothes that show off every curve, and I’m going to spend the rest of my days staring at and lusting for the sexiest woman that I’ve ever seen.”

With that, his face softened and he walked to the bed, laid a dress beside me, and kissed what I discovered to be my still-open mouth.  “When we’re done shopping, I’m going to take you to dinner, then I’m going to bring you home and fuck you.”

He turned around and left the room.

I don’t know how much time passed before I finally closed my mouth and decided that I really wanted to be angry.  That just wasn’t him.  That’s just not how he treated me.  I could count on one hand the times that he had raised his voice to me, and I didn’t like it.  I dropped back to the mattress in a huff and had half a mind to stomp down the stairs and give him what for, but then my overthinking brain began to pick through what he said: “Sexiest woman I’ve ever seen . . . show off every curve . . . then I’m going to fuck you.” 

Reasoning my way through those words, I realized he wasn’t trying to hurt me.  He was just reaffirming what he’d been saying for months.  A feeling not unfamiliar but long-neglected surfaced, and somewhat involuntarily, the anger vanished.  My heart felt reassured and safe, and my brain and body slipped unexpectedly into arousal.

The last five minutes began to replay.  His words became more broken and focused in my mind: “Sexiest woman . . . every curve . . . going to fuck you.”  I let out a soft moan, and unbidden, my hand found its way underneath my panties.  My clit responded immediately and sent shockwaves throughout my body when my fingers made contact.

My pussy clenched around nothing, so I moved my other hand down and inserted two fingers with no resistance.  My hands started slowly but steadily increased their pace.  Working in unison, they brought me to the peak very quickly.  My scent filled my nostrils, my thighs squeezed shut, and I moaned out my first orgasm in a long time.

My chest heaved at my exertions and I kept my eyes closed to savor the bliss.  My breathing finally slowed and when my eyes fluttered open, my husband was standing in the doorway with his arms folded and a very satisfied smirk on his lips.

His eyes roved over me before finally settling on my own.  “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

With that, he walked away again.  This new side of him was getting maddeningly annoying.  There I was in the post-orgasm glow with both hands still on my pussy.  I wouldn’t have brushed his hands away this time.

With a frustrated but subdued groan, I pulled my wet fingers from my panties and stood on shaky legs.  Glancing at the dress, I knew it was a size too small and a little too short, but something told me he was aware of that fact.

“Every curve,” he’d said.

I picked up the dress and held it in front of me, viewing myself in the mirror.  He would definitely see every curve with this one.

My normal answer would have been a quick no, but the post-orgasm brain fog—or perhaps clarity—coupled with the new attitude he displayed, had me thinking differently.

I held the dress up once more, and with a small confidence I hadn’t felt in a while, I smiled to myself and headed to the shower.