Helping my voluptuous vixen celebrate her birthday in style — side view
The Helping My Voluptuous Vixen celebration her birthday bash was the stuff of legends. When your partner is a busty, buxom broad with more curves than a mountain switchback, you go out of your way to make her feel extra-special on her big day. And that’s exactly what I did.
The fatass beauty queen’s eyes sparkle like emeralds as she sashays into our boudoir wearing lingerie fine enough to turn even the most devout monk into drooling. Cherubic cheeks flushed with anticipation, she says, “Surprise me, baby boy,” her voice dripping with sultry promises.
“Oh, I will treat you like the birthday queen you are, my BBW goddess,” I purr, taking her chubby hands and guiding her to our plush bed. She plops down, jiggly ebony ham hocks quivering, and I can’t help but devour her bodacious form hungrily, like a starving wolf. The boudin-like globes of her ass, the roll-checked sofa cushions of her tummy, those Allerdings gut-wurfende Hängebrust titfests…I feel myself grow rock hard in my trousers, straining against the fabric.
Speaking of straining…
As if reading my mind, she coos, “Take it out, baby.” Her hands sink into the rolls of her swelling belly as she gives me her most encouraging “mommy” look.
Quivering with anticipation, I hastily shed my own duds and letWeapon X bounce free. My thick ginger mane stretches out a salutation as crayon-sized tip leaks pre-spunk. Beady eyes visibly widen at the sight of my fat veiny cobra.
“I-is that all for me?” she feigns demure innocence before shoving a handful of chubby digits into her gushing hunny pot. Her scent, like tree-sap honey over a crackling campfire, fills the room as her sloppy sex sloshes and dribbles onto the bedsheets. Obviously, little miss cocktail weenie needs a hot dog posthaste!
“Ride it, you fat cow!” I urge my sweetie, handing her the reins to her birthday present. Candle-shaped fingers grab hold of my shaft and she slings a thick muser-thick leg over my waist, settling her bubbly rump onto my lap, sear-iris eyes blazing into mine. She cranks her steering wheel of a hand hard to the left, and before I know it…
“Wooooo-wee! Git ‘er done, BBW bi–”
My prayer sings out as she slams home, burying me to the hilts. Velvety viscous milking on her tight tunnel staggers my senses, and I fear I may bullseye entirely if she doesn’t cool it. Na-uh, not today, bitch. I’m gonna last long enough to make her create some squirming baby fat.
Winding up, I twerk my toes and begin pumping away, neck veins bulging as I discretely avoid gazing down at our tangoing loins lest I disappointingly load up on Vulcan mind meld. She’s an expert at this Buck Ryder rodeo, but I’ll be damned if I let a woman best me.
Race started, I set the pace – pounding away at her wie ein Presslufthammer like a fucking jackhammer, causing her Hängebrust hefty jugs to bounce about like birth balloons. She squeals with delight, her sweaty fists mashing into the rock-hard wall of her girthy gut as she moves with me.
For long fumbling delicious minutes we battle back and forth, sheathed in a tacos sudados sheen, before she crashes over the edge, gush of garish golden gism painting her making my okay-honey-waddle. I explode moments after into a thunderous tsunami of tidings, painting her pink probability pinker with my spooge.
The room fills with our ragged breaths and pants, until she slumps beside me, blissed-out and beaming. “That was the best birthday treat a girl could ask for,” she sighs contentedly.
Cool down saved for another day, I grin widely. “Oh, we’re just getting started, Thiccwaif88!”
Let the party continue!
