Size Discrimination
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Fanny regarded her teacher with fascination from where she sat at the back of the classroom. Qafira was so very thin. Were they all as thin as her where she came from? Almost all skin and bones. Hardly any fat on the woman at all. She knew that Qafira would get plenty of stick for her thinness. People would wonder whether she'd eaten well. Or whether she wasn't weak with hunger. But despite her skinniness, Fanny decided that Qafira was actually rather attractive. A difficult thing to admit to her friends, of course. They'd think she'd gone mad. Or, at least, lost her powers of discrimination.
She looked around at her classmates, all of whom were built on the same generous model as she was. As was only natural. Large breasts. Swelling stomachs. Full fleshy arms, generous buttocks, thighs that pressed together, and more than enough flesh for anyone. This was the way it should be. Like Tracey, her best friend, who as always was sitting next to her, her blouse revealingly open, and inevitably letting free a glimpse of a nipple She squeezed Tracey's hand, and her friend squeezed it in return. She placed a podgy hand on her friend's bulging thigh and Tracey smiled.
"Wait till after school!" she whispered partly as a promise and partly to advise patience.
Fanny looked back at Qafira. She looked so very prim and restrained in her dress: a long dress that trailed down to below her knees. A blouse so loose and buttoned so high that it was difficult to be sure that she had a bosom at all. Hardly any flesh on display from her neck to her chest. Or from her ankles to her crotch. Perhaps she was just afraid to show off her body. Unlike Fanny. Or her friends. If you've got it girl, then flaunt it. And Fanny had plenty of flesh to show. Her blouse was short enough to show off almost all her proud stomach that overflowed and overhung the tight shorts that pinched at the flesh of her massive thighs. Fanny was proud of her body. She was probably the plumpest, most generously proportioned and therefore most beautiful girl in her class.
Her theory that Qafira was a woman with few admirers was substantiated when, after her Geography lesson with Mr Walton, Fanny broached the subject to her teacher. They were lying together in the small bed in the storeroom at the back of the classroom where he normally entertained his pupils and, presumably, some of the other teachers. With effort, he rolled over off his front and dropped his legs over the side. His long thin penis was still sticky after having humped Fanny from behind. This was the most comfortable position to enter a girl as plump as Fanny, and Mr Walton was by no stretch of the imagination slim himself. This was probably why he was one of the few teachers to whom Fanny would regularly let have possession of her body. He stroked Fanny's huge thighs.
"Qafira's a damned freak, ain't she?" he snorted. "I can't imagine anyone, even a girl, going for someone as thin as her. Why! I bet you could almost see her ribs!"
Fanny scowled. What a thought? She could barely even feel her own ribs underneath the thick flesh on her chest and bosom.
Mr Walton's opinion was echoed by Tracey and her other school-friends. But it was in her other teacher lover, Mrs Reagan, that Fanny found a more sympathetic hearing. They lay together in Mrs Reagan's bed while her husband was busying himself in his workshop, a much more comfortable place to make love than in the school storerooms, particularly as Mrs Reagan was prone to thrash about quite wildly when she was in passion. The combined weight of the two of them was just about all the bed could take.
"Well, I don't fancy her exactly," Mrs Reagan mused. "All skin and bones, you know. But she's got a nice face. And I can't blame you for being curious of what it's like to make love with a thin woman. A bit perverse. But where Qafira comes from they're all skinny. And if you ever want to go travelling, I guess you're just going to have to get used to the thinner lover."
"It's not thin women I quite like, it's Qafira," Fanny remarked.
"Well, excuse me for being sceptical, but you haven't really got to know her very well. She's just your teacher. Are you sure that it's not just one of those terrible schoolgirl crushes? As soon as you get to know her better, it'll all come to tears."
"How can it be a schoolgirl crush? I make love with you. And Mr Walton. And I used to fuck with Mr Smith and Miss Watson and Mr Castille. They weren't teenage schoolgirl crushes."
"Of course it's not the same, sweetest, " Mrs Reagan agreed, running a podgy finger round and around Fanny's nipple. "It's normal in our country for teachers and pupils to have sex together. I know the score. Everyone does it. From the first time you stayed late after class and let your panties slip down, I knew exactly what it was you wanted and I was more than happy to give it to you. A plump girl like you... It's not an opportunity to ignore. You know the score too. But Qafira... I don't think it's the same at all. Not only would you be her only lover, which is odd enough, but she's... well... she is a little bit freakish..."
Fanny frowned, but she was grateful for Mrs Reagan's advice. She leaned over and took her English teacher's mouth in hers and very soon the two of them were rolling around as violently and passionately as before. Certainly more than loud enough for Mr Reagan in the garden to know that his wife was enjoying her quality time with her pupil.
Fanny's mother was initially rather less supportive when her daughter told her whom she wanted to invite to her birthday party. She sat opposite Fanny in the kitchen, folding her arms in front of her and underneath the huge weight of her bosom. Except for the unfastened dressing gown she was wearing nothing. Clothes are such a nuisance around the home! But her stomach overhung her crotch, as it did Fanny's father's groin, so Fanny never had to feel that curious inappropriate feeling when one sees one's parents' genitals.
"Skinny, you say? How skinny?"
"Very skinny."
"Honestly, dear. How can you? You do have the choice still. You can just invite her to your party and not make love to her."
"But that would be wrong. That's not what I want at all. I want Qafira to come to my birthday dinner and afterwards, as is my right and privilege, I can choose who I want to fuck."
"Why not Tracey? Why not one of the boys? Bob or Frank or Terry?"
"It's Qafira I want."
"Qafira. Qafira. What a dumb name for a woman!"
Qafira had a similar opinion about the names of all the people she'd met ever since she first arrived in Further Quitchland to teach Modern Languages. In fact, almost everything about this country was taking a lot of getting used to. Not least of which being just how very fat everyone was. At first she regarded it with a mixture of disgust and humour. All these gross waddling bodies, barely able to support their own weight, overhanging seats and chairs. Huge chubby balls of lard. She'd heard that this was the result of many years of sexual selection. Overweight men and women were the ones who most attracted partners, so their genes simply became the most common. This tendency towards obesity must have been enormously assisted by a national diet that was excessively fatty and sugary. There were far too many carbohydrates and sugar in everything they ate. And the aversion to physical exercise, as well. Was it any wonder that people in Further Quitchland never weighed much less than a hundred kilos?
After a while, Qafira learnt that there were more differences in the natives of Further Quitchland from those back home than just their relative corpulence. Not only were they quite content to be plump, they had almost no experience at all of thinner people. All the images they ever saw were of similarly overweight people. And the images of sexual attractiveness to which they aspired were of men and women who in Qafira's hometown would have been laughed at for their very obesity. And furthermore, these were people whose appetite for sex was way beyond what Qafira would have once considered decent. They were always at it. With almost no apparent discrimination as to who their partners were. It didn't seem to matter that men fucked men, women fucked women or men fucked women. There was no taboo as to teachers fucking pupils or bosses fucking secretaries or even there being a proper time or place. At least there were proper limits with regards to age and incest. That given, though, there seemed to be no other restrictions.
It took a while for Qafira to get accustomed to seeing so much bare flesh. It was quite normal for her to see bare breasts in the classroom or the street. In fact, totally nudity wasn't that unusual. For her, initially, she found this parade of overflowing flab rather the opposite of sexy, but as she got more accustomed to her ample companions, she became more attuned to what could be considered physically attractive. Somehow, people here associated size with sex appeal. The more you had of one the more you had of the other. And very soon, Qafira realised that as she had very little flesh in comparison, she was considered to be equally lacking in physical beauty.
This alarmed her. She'd never thought of herself as especially thin. Her breasts were not especially small, her waistline refused to lose evidence of a stomach and she was actually quite thick-boned. But here she was quite simply the thinnest person that most people had ever seen. Wherever she went she was followed by voyeuristic stares, and sometimes by rather crude comments. And, furthermore, as she discovered, amongst all these over-sexed, promiscuous, licentious people who had sex everywhere, with everyone and with no restraint, she was not getting any sexual satisfaction herself.
At first, she thought it would just be a matter of time. She'd find someone, perhaps not quite as large as everyone else, with whom she could have a relationship. It had never been a problem back home, although she was strictly a serial lover and she preferred to stay with her lovers for months or even years. Now, after many months, she had not had a date or a goodnight kiss, let alone full, unrestrained sex. And now Qafira was beginning to rather yearn for it. It wasn't as if she cared especially whether it was with a man or a woman. And she was beginning to care rather less as to exactly how slim a lover needed to be. She would just like to feel again a lover's lips between her knees. She wanted once more to be lost in the passion that only came from being engaged in making love with another person. And she was also feeling rather lonely. In a society where sex was so rampant, there was almost nothing like a normal friendship with no sexual content. So, no one would go out with her for a drink, or to see a film, or to eat in a restaurant, for fear that other people would think that the two of them were lovers.
So, Qafira was rather surprised when Fanny asked her, rather sweetly and shyly, whether she could come to her birthday party. She'd never really noticed Fanny much before. She was just one of the many pupils who attended the dozen or so classes she taught. Not outstandingly bright, but not especially slow either. More conscientious than some of the pupils, particularly the boys. Somehow girls were more enthusiastic about Modern Languages than the boys who couldn't see any point in studying French, German, Arabic or Russian. She was one of the plumper pupils, but in a world of very fat people that was scarcely a matter that concerned her too much. That stomach of hers would have made her look permanently pregnant were it not part of a package of enormous breasts, a full round face, huge limbs and a bottom that overflowed even the very generous seats that pupils were supplied in the Further Quitchland schools.
Qafira's initial instinct was to gratefully decline the offer, but after chatting in the staff room with Mrs Reagan, the English teacher, she decided that this would not be at all politic.
"Surely there's got to be some kind of gulf between those who teach and those who are taught?" Qafira argued. "It would just compromise the normal teacher-pupil relationship."
Mrs Reagan frowned. "I don't see how. If anything it would surely strengthen that relationship. But I understand, my dear, that things are different for you back home, wherever that is. Here, it's just a normal thing. And in anycase, birthdays are rather special days in Further Quitchland. It is after all the only day where normal people are celebrated in their own right. It would not be very diplomatic to turn down an offer to attend a birthday. It's quite an honour to be invited. And it would be an insult not to go."
"I see," sighed Qafira, who had been rather dreading an evening of listening to adolescent pop music and watching adventure movies. "So I don't really have any choice?"
"Not if you want to retain the respect of your pupils and your fellow teachers," Mrs Reagan explained. She smiled indulgently. "However, if it's any consolation to you, you won't be the only teacher coming to Fanny's birthday. I shall be there as well."
Qafira was quite surprised. "So, Fanny's invited other teachers too?"
"Well, of course, Qafira sweetie. She wants to do what she can to improve her final grades from Fern Hill High."
When she arrived at Fanny's home, carrying a huge box of chocolates as a present, she was quite surprised at just how many other teachers had come, in addition to the two dozen or so her teenage friends. Why! Wasn't that Mr Walton in a rather unflattering Hawaiian shirt? And wasn't that Miss Watson, the Social Studies teacher, in an outfit that revealed every detail of her monstrous nipples and showed every centimetre of her titanic thighs? Fanny's home was large and opulent, as all houses seemed to be in the Fern Hill district, and the drive was full of cars as oversized as their drivers. Fanny was clearly a popular girl. And there was the birthday girl herself waddling down the steps of her house with a woman that looked quite similar to her, although substantially older, and was more than likely her mother.
"Hello, Qafira. I'm glad you could make it," said Fanny, kissing her on both cheeks and clasping her in her plump arms. "And some chocs as well! Belgian. My favourite. Is Belgium where you come from?"
Aspen
- 28.09.2020
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