an old story from Plumpers and Big Women

[farkas17]

Here's a piece I published back in 1996, not in BUF, which I also wrote for, but in Plumpers and Big Women:



TOUCH-TYPING

by

Aaron Farkas


"And here," gestured Old Man Davis as they entered a cluttered room with an ancient teletype in the corner, "is the newsroom." Faded headlines on yellowing paper announced bygone scoops, and the battered trashcan looked as if it had played the lead role in countless office basketball games. A large trestle table that had once supported typewriters now sprouted cables and computer link-ups, and a few reporters were desultorily pecking away at the keyboards. "THE DAILY EAGLE," proclaimed a framed motto hanging by the door, "ALWAYS A PLEASURE TO READ!"
What the hell--it was just a starter job, thought Bill Fogels, stretching a smile across his face for Old Man Davis. The Westville Daily Eagle in South Dakota had a readership of 30,000, just another small-town newspaper in the middle of nowhere, generating its small-time news. Fire on Elm Street, elementary school PTA meeting next Thursday. But it was where Bill had gotten employment, and he guessed it was going to be home for him and his girlfriend for the next year or so. Donna had already gotten a job as a teller at the First National. Pretty, zaftig Donna, whose big bosom warped her new bank suit visibly around the lapels. When he saw her headed off to work that morning, her large, rounded buttocks were warping her seams to the point of near-madness.
"Okay," said Bill, rubbing his hands together, "which terminal's mine?"
"None of them--yet." Old Man Davis lowered his green eyeshade so that his face was visible only from the nose down. "Right now we've only got enough machines for five reporters. And you're number six."
"So where does that leave me?" Bill was trying to control himself. This would never have happened at a modern, big-city paper. Suddenly, Old Man Davis, with his eyeshade and sleeve garters, looked like a character from Dickens.
"Over here." Old Man Davis pointed to a window sill where an old Royal typewriter sat, with rows of keys like a staircase. It looked both well-used and not used in a long time. "This machine belonged to Dan Rappaport, best damn reporter we ever had. There isn't one story Rappaport ever filed that wasn't dead accurate and on time, too."
Bill found it hard to hide his disappointment. "You mean I've got to hand in stories on that thing?"
"Son, ‘that thing,' as you call it, is a treasure. Maybe it'll bring out the reporter in you." He laid one hand on the carriage and seemed to clear away a tear in his eye with the other.
"So how come Rappaport isn't still using it?"
Old Man Davis looked at him coldly. "Because he's dead, Fogels. Now, maybe after a month or two I'll be able to get hold of another terminal. Meantime, you going to use that machine--or this?" He held out a yellow pencil from his shirt pocket and waggled it gently.
*
"So how was work?" Donna asked, as she stripped off her jacket. The striped blouse she wore as part of her uniform looked like a mercator projection of the world, seriously distorted around Greenland. Her dark blue skirt hugged her wide hips without mercy.
"Not great," said Bill. "Old Man Davis has me filing stories on an old typewriter sitting on a window sill, that's how well-equipped the Eagle is." He came up behind her to rub her shoulders, but his hands soon strayed down her broad back, and around to her swelling breasts.
"Hmm...that feels nice." She turned her neck to nibble his ear.
When he sat them down on the sofa, Donna sat in his lap, effectively immobilizing his legs. She was around 160 pounds, but he liked the feel of her heft, the way the undersides of her full thighs molded to his legs. And her plump buttocks pressing against his cock always made him stiffen.
"Do you do this for your customers?" he asked, easing off her blouse to kiss her bare round arm.
"Only those who make a special deposit," she laughed, her tits giggling, too. When the 38D bra came off with a whoof of air, the two ample globes rolled out to meet him, her fat pink nipples already stiffening into jujubes. He unhooked her skirt, and she swiveled around to face him, wrapping her thighs around his waist. Off came his shirt. The feel of her chest against his, the sheer weight of those boobs, the shiver-flesh of her thighs encircling him, was almost painful it felt so good. Briefly relieving him of her weight, she helped him shuck off his pants
"Hard day at work--hard at home, too," he complained humorously.
Donna reached out for his cock and began to stroke it with her small but strong hands. "Here, I'll make it harder for you." She rubbed it inside the soft crook of her arm, she squeezed it gently between her big breasts, and eventually she took it into her mouth, drawing him out until he felt almost a foot long. Finally, she mounted him and rode him like a bronco buster as he gripped the fat cheeks of her ass. As he shot upwards into her bulging quim, he groaned in pleasure. Occasionally, in fantasies that he barely admitted even to himself, he imagined Donna twice as big, and all that lovely weight bearing down on him.
*
The next morning, Donna was out by eight-thirty, Bill by noon. Two days a week, he had the afternoon fire and crime beat. "Poke around the station, ask some questions," Old Man Davis had told him. He was just on his way there when he heard fire engine sirens in the distance. Quickly, he shoved his Nissan into reverse and drove in the direction of the sound. It wasn't a long chase. The fire engine stopped on Oak Street--some shed had caught fire, and one of the firemen was already hosing it down vigorously. Bill hung around long enough to see the fire put out, ask a few questions of the distraught homeowner, then head to the office.
"Today's blaze at 57 Oak Street was caused by photographic chemicals that seeped from their original containers," typed Bill, reading from his crabbed notes--was that "57" or a "59"? Maybe he should check a phone book. The guy's name was McCullough, if he'd spelled it right. Accuracy had never been Bill's strong point at journalism school. Hell, that was what fact-checkers were for. He kept typing. When he was done, he handed it in, got an approving nod from Davis, and the piece ran the next day.
As a sort of retro-rubbernecking expedition, the next day, he drove by the house with the burned shed. At first, he thought he had passed it, since the house familiar to him was number 59. But the blackened shed was on the property of 57 Oak Street, right next door. Odd, he thought, to have gotten the number right and the memory of the house wrong. He drove on and spent the rest of the day talking with town hall, typing up an article on a sidewalk repair project. The Royal clanked and thunked, but it was serviceable and had a good solid feel.
The slack part of the week, he soon found out, was Friday afternoon, when the weekend edition had already been put to bed. He was in the newsroom, typing away at a proposal for a special feature on town zoning, when his mind began to wander. He looked out the window. He thought of Donna behind a bank window, her generous curves encompassing the teller's stool. He began to doodle on the typewriter. "She hunches forward," he tapped out, "straining the fabric of her skirt to the bursting point. At 170 pounds"--he'd meant to type "160," but let it ride--"Donna can no longer be contained in her severe bank suit. Her skirt splits a seam, exposing her plump white thigh. Her pneumatic breasts strain her bra to the limit, till the strap bursts, and she has to hastily retire to the women's room...." He typed a few more sentences, ripped it from the rollers, and guiltily shoved the page into his coat pocket.
*
"You what?"
"You heard me!" Donna was near tears as she walked in the door. "Luckily, the teller next to me had some safety pins, but it was so humiliating! I don't know, all of I sudden I felt so--uncontainable." She moved her arm from her skirt to reveal a straight run down the seam, with two safety pins straining to contain the damage. "Tell me, do I look any heavier?"
Bill made a sympathetic face as he considered the wisdom of an honest reply. She did look a little fuller, chiefly in the bust and the thighs--about 10 pounds or so, or maybe it was his imagination. "You look fine to me," he told her. "Now let me help you out of that skirt."
*
Coincidence? Or something else? What about the fire in the shed, mis-retyped and solidified into fact? So the next day, Bill purposely reported the score of the local high-school baseball game incorrectly as a 12-4 loss instead of 12-5--and when he called the coach to check the numbers, he found out it was now right. Shock gave way to a sudden, wrenching clarity. No wonder Rappaport never mis-reported a story. Whatever he typed was right, or soon became that way. Elated with the idea, he thought he'd reverse the score to make the local team win, but the Royal froze up on him when he tried that. So there was a limit to what he could do: shift digits, expand the borders of reality here and there. And speaking of expand....
"Donna now wears a size 18 instead of a 16," he typed. "Her swaying hips now rub slightly against the doorway when she comes home. The plump area above her snatch has grown into a womanly paunch, obscuring her waistband. Her upper arms, always heavy, now bulge like pregnant poles.... " After three more sentences, he could no longer restrain himself and left for home early. he wanted to be there when Donna walked in the door.
Donna was more than upset when she walked in, her hips scraping the doorway; she was mortified. "Bill, this is worse than PMS bloating--I don't know what's going on!" Her suit was larger, as Bill had typed, but it still strained against her fattened figure, and as she spoke, a button popped off her midriff. Her arms hung down at a higher angle to accommodate the new thickness of her shoulders and bosom.
"Maybe you're just chafing in the heat." He went over to her and began removing her blouse, which clung like a second skin to her belly.
"I don't think heat caused this. But the hell of it is I don't know what it is." She shook her head thoroughly, the movement making her body ripple. It was all Bill could do to keep from plunging his face into the middle of that soft white plumpness, the enlarged navel sagging like a squashed keyhole, her widened waist--as he unhooked her dress--imprinted with the tiny tire tracks of size-7 panties grown far too tight.
Somehow he managed to conquer her nervousness and began to explore her. When he nuzzled his head between her massive tits, she began to respond. When he tickled her deep cleavage with his hair, she giggled and clamped him in place with her ballooned arms. This was a bigger, softer Donna, and the increased weight as she swallowed him up between cushiony thighs was fantastic. When she bent over him, her spreading paunch forced him downwards. First, he licked at her enlarged snatch till she moaned, her fat clit growing erect. With her superior weight, she held him down, half-stifling him between two huge thighs, till he finished in a flow of pussy juice.
She smiled. "Now it's your turn." Pillowing his swollen penis between two soft rolls of all-encompassing flab, she made him grow huge. Then she guided him over the silky smooth rise of her mound right into her swollen vertical lips. Even her pussy seemed to have grown bigger and plumper, though she gripped him tighter than ever. Now when she rode him up and down, her royal weight really made itself felt: her global buttocks mashed his thighs, and her spilling breasts slapped noisily against his chest. He came like a hose, streaming into the depths of her fattened body. Afterwards, she cosseted him in the hollow between her armpit and breast, her plump flesh sloping against him from both sides. It was all he could do to stop from running to the newspaper office that night and typing a sequel. But he showed up for work an hour early the next day.
Over the next week, he found he could speed things up through poetic description, along with altering the figures. By the fifth day, he'd gotten her up to a size-24 suit, and his prose was soaring: "When Donna turns sideways, her rear end sticks out like a car bumper, balanced up front by a set of knockers like melons in a mesh-net bag. They shift and slide with every step she takes. Her inflated thighs press against each other to the point where they force each other outward, making her as wide as two regular-sized women. Her face retains its girlish charm, though her cheeks have plumped out like the moon in the sky, and her third chin descends staircase-style to her thick, columnar neck. Her blubber has become one large erogenous area."
Along the way, he did himself a little good, too, strengthening his stomach and leg muscles so he could support the new Donna, as well as brightening up their apartment through colorful description. For the readers of the Eagle's local news, he also increased the size of a lottery jackpot won by a housewife with five children, and reduced the sentence of a ten-year-old kid caught stealing a loaf of bread from the local bakery. He would have done more, like making money or typing himself into a better job, but right now he was focused on a single objective. Other life improvements could come later.
Meanwhile, Donna was half frantic, half ecstatic: terrified over her steady weight-gain and what the bank people would say, but cooing with pleasure over her expanded erotic zones. Now, when she reached out for him, her 22" upper arms hung low, exposing only a hint of the fleshy grottos her armpits had become. "It just feels like there's more of me to get aroused," she murmured to Bill as a roll of her paunch slapped against his face. Bill delicately bit the insides of her thighs, so soft and smothering, as he burrowed toward the sweet, swollen snatch half hidden by an apron of flab. When he began to tongue her plump pudenda, her funky juices almost drowned him. Penetrating her was the most sensual experience he'd ever had, as he hovered between ejaculation and suffocation, his air cut off by one wobbling breast bigger than his head. Afterwards, she coddled him against her massive tits, couching him between thighs as big around as his body.
By the sixth day, Donna was immense, and Bill was ready to confess to her. But first, he told himself, one last expansive bout on the typewriter. On the way to the office, he took out the piece of paper on which he'd scribbled some new sentences: "Donna is now into superwoman sizes. When she bends down, her giant lake of a belly spills onto the floor before her hands reach. Her breasts ride above her belly like barges, but soft and jiggly...."
He got to the office, his hands itching to hit those keys. But when he walked into the newsroom, the Royal was gone! The spot on the sill where it had sat looked oddly naked, and his first impulse was that he'd been robbed. But as he ran out of the room, he ran into Old Man Davis.
"Hey, where's my typewriter? What's happened to it?"
Davis cuffed him affectionately on the back. "What's the matter, Bill? Don't you think you deserve your new machine?"
"What--what do you mean?"
Davis turned him around and led him back into the newsroom. "There! Now, you're all hooked up."
On the trestle table was a brand new keyboard and monitor, with an accompanying chair. Bill stared at it for a long, horrid moment, and then began to backpedal furiously. "You don't understand, I really prefer the typewriter--I mean, I didn't in the beginning, but I've gotten used to it--couldn't write on anything else, you know, I just--"
"Nonsense, boy. You've done a fine job so far at the Eagle, and you deserve this!" Davis proffered him the chair and reached over to flick on the monitor. "Take it for a spin."
Bill dutifully tapped out a sentence: ‘The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.' "Works fine," he mumbled.
"Good, good!" Davis clapped him on the back. "Keep it up. We expect the world from you!"
"Um, Mr. Davis?" Bill called out as the old man was about to exit.
"Hmm?"
"Just out of curiosity, what did happen to that old Royal typewriter?"
"It's junk now." Davis frowned. "Too bad, really. The cleaning woman was working here last night, and a broomstroke or something knocked it off the sill. Fell five stories. Smash! The carriage was busted, the keys all twisted. It's in the dumpster. Or it was. They already came by for today's collection."
"Oh." In his mind's eye, Bill saw the hydraulic winch of a dumpster pickup bear down on his beloved typewriter, crushing it into a metal lozenge. "Well," he said with a bittersweet expression, the best he could manage for his boss, "it's the end of an era, I guess." And for the rest of the afternoon, he tapped morosely at his new keyboard. He even typed and printed out his new sentences, but they were for his delectation only. He even wondered gloomily, with the demise of the magic machine, whether everything would revert to its original state. At five, he quit to go home.
He had barely reached the apartment door when it was flung open from inside. Donna's more-than-generous bare arms reached out for him and pulled him into her. So that was the same, he thought gratefully, burying himself in her warm billows of flesh. And when he pulled back sufficiently to take notice of what she was wearing, he saw that she was wearing a huge red satin negligee--"the largest they had in the store," she proudly informed him. "Do you like it?"
"Yes." Then more emphatically: "Yes!"
"Oh, good." She smoothed down her bulging front with one plump hand, her trunklike thighs bare below the short frill. "Because I've come to a decision. You know, I've always enjoyed pleasing you, but I also want to please myself. And I'm so, so much happier now that I don't have to worry about weight. I mean, I don't know how I got this way, but there's nothing I can do about it. I may go back to the bank job, but I'll be damned if they can find a bank uniform big enough for me!"
Bill could only nod, and not even that too well. For one thing, Donna was forcing him onto the couch through her sheer weight. She had to be close to 400 pounds, a majesty of flesh. Her fat-happy belly was sloping heavily against him, making him captive.
"In fact," she cried as she began to undo the buttons on his shirt, "I'm going to get even bigger if I can. I want to be a superwoman! When I bend over, my belly will lap the ground before any other part of me does! I want my breasts to be as big as boats, and...." She rambled on as she undressed him, squeezing him between her thighs.
My sentiments exactly, he thought, since they corresponded with the last words he'd typed for her. Donna was above him, guiding his hands over every curve of her bulging flesh. And they both loved it. With a real soulmate, he sighed lustily, who needs magic?