Sarah Jones sat on the subway seat with her back inches from the backrest. From years of experience she knew that if she got more comfortable on the seat the stifling heat would fuse her back to the upholstery and her blouse would be soaking when she got off the train.
And she was in no mood to get comfortable. She was just about to act on a decision that would change her life, or, at least, she hoped it would, change her life like it needed to be changed.
She was alone now, alone to make her own decisions. Her mother had died a week before after a long and difficult illness — an illness with a fascinating irony: an obese body slowly shrunk to a skeleton.
Sarah had made the decision on the day of the funeral: she would take a different path from her mother; she would travel the high road; the mountain trail, up steep slopes, through rocky terrain — for the rest of her life. Never once, not for a single step would she trod the downward, comfortable slope to destruction. That's why she was getting off the train in two subway stops: so she could walk the three miles to her home.
In her bedroom, she peeled the soaking blouse from her body, glad that she had stored the stand-up mirror in her mother's room. She knew what was beneath the huge sexless bra that in doing its job cut into her shoulders and cinched tight to her back, like a saddle on a horse. She reached behind and when she set it free she sighed and threw it in the hamper then undid her skirt. She had to sit down now. She knew she couldn't take off her pantyhose, sausage skins as she thought of them, balancing on one foot. She had no balance; she was top heavy, ass heavy, thigh heavy — she was a corpulent, featureless mess and when she threw her pantyhose at the hamper, she felt the bile of self-disgust, then she discarded her panties with the same revulsion; they were huge and worn and wet, the very symbol of the 25 year old woman who wore them.
She didn't cry today. That surprised her, she always cried when she came home, she cried about her awful job, her empty evenings, her sick and now dead mother — she cried about her life, once so filled with promise, now so destroyed by fat.
Why didn't she cry? She thought about that for a moment: maybe she was just too empty to care any more … or maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to imagine a glimmer of hope.
She reached for the large bag on the floor and shook it over the bed. Out tumbled new jogging suits and jog bras, sports socks and underwear, walking shoes and sweat bands.
Just before she left her apartment she opened the journal on the kitchen table and wrote 'Day 1: Walked three miles home. Going on three mile walk.'
Day 42 was cold and wet and she was cold and wet but she wanted to make her entry before her bath. The first target: Six Weeks, 'don't even think about what you are doing until you have made it to six weeks.' That's what the book said, and she had embraced the advice, she didn't think about her walking, she just did it, she walked for as long as she could, everyday, in the morning, in the evening and at lunch, too, instead of eating. After six weeks, the book promised, it would get a whole lot easier.
She wrote: 'Walked a total of four hours and 14 minutes today.'
Six weeks is up: now what? She opened the book on the table and found 'Stage Two' in the index. The Chapter began unexpectedly: 'First, take a moment, imagine who you want to be and what you want to look like; do that today, your 42nd day, and then celebrate, don't forget to celebrate — but not with food.'
When she eased herself into the hot water she was surprised that she felt almost pain-free. She was tired, sure, she had been bone tired for six weeks but the pain in her arches, calves, back and shoulder seemed to be gone or almost gone, reason enough to celebrate. But how to celebrate? Is wine food? Probably, it means calories, so with food and drink out, what's left? Not much.
Right from the start she had vowed not to set targets, just do it, just do what the bloody book said: don't think, do! Now the book told her to reflect. As the salubrious waters washed over her she dared to imagine what she wanted to look like and a clear image soon emerged: she wanted to look like her mother did three months into her illness when the disease had eaten away half her weight and her face and body took a kind of fat-free definition. She was beautiful, if only for a few weeks, she looked like the pictures of her youth and in her mother, sick and dying, she could see a hint of herself — a self that was buried deep beneath the fat of self-indulgence.
She relaxed and glared into nothingness. The image of her new self danced in her mind, literally, in colourful clinging clothes, a thin, lithe body in the arms of an adoring man, holding her, swinging her in a blurring arc of happiness.
She had noticed it a few days before, just a hint, but the hint had slowly built to a feeling and the feeling was in her now. At first she didn't know what it was, she had never felt it before but as it grew stronger it became ever more obvious: she was feeling her own emerging sexuality. It was the first dividend of fitness and she didn't know what to do with it; it was like an itch that she didn't dare scratch.
She knew about masturbation, she had read about it, had read that it wasn't for everyone and she had known it wasn't for her. She looked down at the large melons spilling off her chest and her huge pink belly rounding from the water like a grotesque, bald island. She was ugly, repulsive — yes, but not as ugly, not so repulsive as before and she felt a little more alive; life seemed to be just a little bit more promising. Maybe. Just maybe ….
She struggled from the tub and quickly dried herself and she looked in the cabinet, moving bottles and jars until she found it.
It is day 42: 'Who do you want to be?' That's what the book asked and it stated, emphatically: celebrate.
Who is that girl in the dress at the dance? Watch her. See her climb onto the bed with the jar in her hand, see her kick back the duvet and sheets to lie down with her head on the pillow. She is a pretty girl with intelligent black eyes, a thin elegant nose, wide full lips and a strong determined chin, all surrounded by thick black hair, the same colour as the bush between her elegant legs, stretched wide on the sheet. She really is beautiful, sexy even … even desirable.
As her fingers move slowly to her thigh, she opens her legs wider and let her fingers crawl, not on puckered flaccid fat but on the trim brown thighs of her imagination. The tingle was stronger now and her breathing more rapid but when she looked, she didn't see a heavy heaving chest, she saw instead the erotic perky tits of the girl, large and firm and feminine, with nipples stiff and erect.
When her fingers found the gully of her crotch she let out a sigh, a sound she had never heard before — the feeling was so strange, so foreign, so intimate. She was encouraged, she willed her fingers on.
The hair of her crotch was sparse and stiff, not like the delicate cover of her pussy, so soft and sensitive. She shifted excitedly on the sheet, bunching the pillow under her head, the better to see the trim young body of her dream. Her fingers were in the tangled hair of her mound and they found her crack, but she didn't go in, instead, she followed it slowly along its length, squirming to open herself wider and when she got to the bottom her fingers joined a small river that flowed to the puckered mystery between her cheeks.
Another sound escaped from her now gaping lips, a little scary this time, but exciting, too and she shifted further on the bed, no longer needing to watch, now intent on the feeling, the feeling of her fingers probing at her anus, not deep, just to the gateway, where she pushed gently, wanting to go further … and then she remembered the jar. It was on the bed, beside her and without moving she reached it, pried off the lid and with two fingers scooped out the viscous jelly, swathing it on her bud. It felt cool and oddly sexual, as if it should be there, there between the trim tight cheeks of her dream.
She sat up now, fascinated. What is happening she asked herself, as she brought her heels to her cheeks and, as she gazed across her hairy mound she stretched her knees wider apart and pushed her ass at her finger, a middle finger that carefully forced against her bud. At first it refused entry, but she persisted and it relented and she was through, sliding on a skiff of oily slickness past the tight rim and the sound that came from within her was a sound of joy, exquisite, animal joy that encouraged her to probe, to go deeper, to twirl round the forbidden zone as the feeling built and built and built and when it hit her she bucked spastically on the bed, clamping her hand in the tight vice of her thighs and the sudden scream was only partly muffled as she forced her face into the fat of her shoulder.
She lay like that, not wanting to remove her finger, not caring about the pool of drool beside her mouth. The lithe, brown body looked so lovely curled around the arm, the arm that reached between the thin brown legs.
As she washed the clinging jelly from her fingers she stole a glance in the mirror and was surprised to see a smile. Oh, God, what a joy it is to be naughty and oh, how she wanted to be that thin brown body she had imagined on the bed, the lithe body squirming against the wet probing fingers, so sexual, so alive. Could she be me? Is that possible?
And then she thought of Stage Two and she couldn't wait to begin.
She tapped her pen on the page entitled 'Day 84,' and re-read her entry. 'Finished six weeks of walking and the gym. I am healthier, stronger and fitter — and I'm thinner! How much thinner?' How could that be measured? When she started her program she didn't dare step on a scale and didn't dare put a tape measure to her body, so how could she calculate her loss? She couldn't but suddenly she had an idea. She hurried to her bedroom and scooped out everything from her top draw and threw it on the bed and then she began to separate and in less then a minute there was her answer.
She had saved a single pair of white panties from when she started her fitness-nutrition program 12 weeks ago. She smoothed them out on the bed and selected another pair, blue ones that she knew she had bought on Day 42. She put these on top of the first and smoothed them out and then placed a yellow pair on top of these, panties she had bought three weeks ago, and finally she selected the red cotton panties she had bought just yesterday and she placed these on top of the pile and smoothed them out. She looked at the little stack, so neatly rainbowed, for just a minute and tried to imagine the final pair that would rest on top of the pile. But she checked herself and rolled the little stack into a tube and placed it back in the drawer before throwing in the others. When she returned to her notebook she wrote: 'See panty drawer!'
She hadn't yet had the courage to shower at the gym, just a five minute walk from her apartment. If she was going to take her clothes off in front of others it was damn well going to be the new girl, not the old one, but the new girl hadn't yet fully emerged. But she was getting close, she could feel it as she rubbed the bar of soap against her taunt skin. Yes, there are folds she didn't want, but they weren't so deep as before and there weren't so many either and she was feeling so much better, really, remarkably better and she had so much more energy.
And tonight, Day 126, her energy wasn't yet fully spent so after her shower and after her tuna salad, she faced a task she had long delayed; she opened the door to her mother's room and went to work with focused concentration.
She had been dreading the chore but was surprised at how easy it was. She had desperately loved her mother, couldn't imagine living without her, but she was now living without her, and living much better. 'Trust a Commerce major to be so rational,' she said to herself, as she boxed up her mother's clothing. But she had already done her mourning; she had spent her pent-up grief walking the sidewalks of the city. Now, there was nothing left but memories, and these, too, were disappearing into the boxes — the clothing, pictures, booklets, mementos and knick knacks.
Within two hours, the large bedroom in the three bedroom condominium- apartment, fully paid for and now hers, had been stripped of sentiment, but not yet of memories. Though it was the largest and brightest bedroom in the place, it was too soon to be hers.
The other bedroom had long been her computer room and she went there now, as she did one night a week to log-on on to literotica.com. When she hit the new submissions she looked for the only stories she would read — stories about transformation or, more precisely, metamorphosis, like her own. Though she was often disappointed, tonight there appeared to be two and when she began to read she was hoping to be transported to an exciting new world of discovery.
She seemed skeptical at first, her eyes coolly darting across the page but soon she leaned in, closer to the screen and a hand gently cupped a breast, a thumb absently stroking a nipple. In four paragraphs she knew she was interested so she stood up and quickly pushed down her sweat pants and kicked them off and sat back down again with her fingers on her pink, nylon panties.
It didn't take very long, it never did. Soon she could see the lithe young woman with the thin brown legs. She was so sexy, so adventurous, so willing to try anything — to enjoy everyone. And when the lithe young woman with the thin brown legs finally morphed into her self, she slipped her hand beneath her wet panties and touched the spot that would, for a moment, merge her with her dream.
Call it idiosyncratic, but we can often enjoy in others what we hate in ourselves.
The man had been coming to the gym each day for the past two weeks, clearly on an exercise kick to lose some of the immense weight that burdened his hulking frame. The moment she saw him, from eyes squinting through sweat, Sarah wanted to go up to him, to encourage him, to say 'I know you can do it,' but she didn't, not for two weeks, but she did today. “It's tough, isn't it?”
He looked out of place on the exercise bike, like an adult on a tricycle. “Awful.” The word was almost inaudible through the panting.
“Would you like to get a drink later?”
The man's head, which had been bowed in determination, shot up, “Really?”
Sarah nodded, “In, say, an hour?”
They met in the lobby. “Do you live nearby?”
The man nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead, “Two minutes away.”
“Great,” she said, “which way?” As she changed the bag that contained her office clothes from her right to her left hand, she reached out to him, “I'm Sarah Jones.”
“Rick Bradley,” he said, clearly confused.
They talked haltingly about the neighbourhood as they walked along, side by side, and Sarah explained how she hated to go to bars and was so pleased he had invited her back to his place. “It's a bit of a mess,” he said, as he unlocked the apartment door, “tomorrow's usually my cleaning day.”
Sarah wasn't even through the door when she said, “Do you mind if I take a quick shower,” then, reading his face, she added, “I never shower at the gym, it's just too public for me.”
“Ah, sure, no problem, just give me a minute, I'll find a towel.”
She was alone in the living room, made more tiny by the jumble of pizza boxes, styrofoam burger containers and large plastic pop bottles. She impulsively reached for a box, meaning to begin cleaning up but she checked herself. Where would she put all the stuff?
“Is this OK?” He handed her a beach towel.
“Great, thanks, I'll be just a few minutes,” and she headed through the door he had just exited.
The washroom was just as grottie as the living room, but she ignore it and quickly stripped off her still wet gym clothes and stepped into the tub. She was nervous, this was all so new to her, but she was excited, too; she was turning to an entirely new page in her life. What would she write in her journal?
He had cleared the room of its more portable detritus and two cans of beer were sweating on the peeling coffee table when she returned, toweling her hair.
“This is all I have,” he said, motioning to the beer. “I hope it's OK.”
“It's fine,” she smiled, reaching for one of the cans and saluted him with it. “Here's to friendships,” she tried not to wince at the unfamiliar taste, then she sat on the couch and looked at him expectantly. “I'm so glad to be here with you.”
“Yes, yes,” he blustered, “I'm glad to be here with you,” and he awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
She patted the couch beside her, “Sit with me.”
He hesitated for a moment then moved slowly to the couch and when he sat down she shifted over to press herself against his arm. They sat awkwardly for a minute then she said, “Would you put your arm around me?”
She moved away as he clumsily pulled his arm up and placed it around her shoulders and when he did, she moved in to him, pressing herself against him, pushing her cheek into his chest. “You feel so soft and warm. This is wonderful,” she said, snuggling even closer.
“You feel soft and warm yourself,” he muttered.
She brought her left arm across his huge belly and gave him a hug and then ran her hand up and down his shirt, wet with nervous sweat. She waited, hoping he would caress her arm or kiss her hair or pull her into him, but he did nothing so she finally said, “Can we go into the other room?” And she looked up at him, smiling expectantly.
“The other room?”
She stood up and took his hand, “Your bedroom,” and when she pulled at his hand he struggled to his feet and followed her.
The room was no less a mess then the others: the bed was a tangle of sheets on top of which was a pizza box holding four crusts, a bundle of clothes and two open Playboys, one sprawling its centerfold. As he hurried to swipe the Playboys and the clothes onto the floor, Sarah moved to the glaring window and pulled the heavy curtains closed, “I'm a little shy,” she said, as she pulled the light shirt over her head and pushed her skirt to the floor.
He stood staring at her, the only hint that he knew what was happening was the growing tent in his pants.
Dressed only in white bra and pink panties, she walked forward and stopping in front of him, she unbuttoned his shirt and when she finished it fell from his enormous stomach like curtains opening onto a stage. Her fingers were on his belt now and she was struggling with it, so he helped her and soon his pants were piled at his ankles and she was pulling down his underwear. She kissed him on the cheek and gently motioned him to the bed and when he sat down she removed her bra and stripped off her panties and climbed onto the bed, rolling over to lie in the middle, pulling the pillow under her head.
The sun peeped in between the curtains so in the grey light she could see him turn on the bed and lie down beside her. She lay there for a moment, feeling his huge bulk next to her, feeling her flesh wanting to rush to his, to rub against his fat, to feel his folds and sweat, to be smothered in his skin, to nestle her face in the flab of his neck. “Hold me,” she said, as she moved in to him, and when he reached for her she climbed onto him and felt his stiff prick poke into her groin, into the side of her pussy and she lay still, clinging to him, feeling the heat of his fat spill into her, as her mother's fat used to do, warm and soft and surrounding, like a cocoon, like the safe place it had always been.
They lay like that for a few minutes and she noticed he was lightly panting, little groans seemed to escape with his breath and she thought she could feel a new wetness on her leg so she sat up and reached for his penis.