Submission With a Stranger (A Curvy Girl Erotic Adventure)

Submission With a Stranger (A Curvy Girl Erotic Adventure)


by Lucy St. Vincent
Copyright © 2013 by Lucy St.Vincent

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A Curvy Girl Erotic Adventure - Book One

I’ll just say it like it is: I am a plus-sized woman and men absolutely adore me. In fact, I am so sexy that men can’t get enough of me. It’s not that I am sexy in spite of being bounteous, either: it is part of my allure. It’s a package deal. You can’t be plus-sized and have a pretty face. That’s bullshit. Your entirety is what makes you beautiful. I am a bodacious woman oozing with sex appeal.

I didn’t always feel beautiful, and I haven’t always felt so comfortable about being curvy. It was one particularly hot experience that I had in my mid-twenties that helped me to see that all of me is gorgeous. Since then, I’ve gone on to have many experiences that confirm this. But today I’ll just tell you this one story.

I’d finished my day’s work and research at the university and was waiting for the Broadway bus on a rainy Vancouver day. I was shivering in my bones and couldn’t wait to get home and crank up the heat and put on my flannel pajamas. I was wearing woolen tights that were sagging in the crotch, my Mary Janes were reservoirs of water and my hair had become a scraggly mess; my retro chic dress and my black wool cardigan were sodden. No doubt my mascara was running as well and my dark rimmed glasses were steamed up, just like the day. I was well and truly soaked all the way to my under-wire bra that had been digging into my breasts all day. Needless to say, I neither looked nor felt divine.

As I sat and waited on the damp bench in the rain shelter, I was too cold to read the historical romance I had stowed away in my briefcase that I usually saved for waits like these. Being an academic, I used to be embarrassed reading romance novels on the bus, but then one day I decided, “Who cares what people think of me?” I was sure that at first glance people probably thought of me as some pathetic fat chick whose only romantic outlet was reading trashy novels on buses. In fact, they were right. I was apathetic and listless. I had really hit a new low.

I finally boarded the Broadway bus and found a vacant seat, squishing myself past an old lady with arthritic-gnarled hands she was wringing obsessively and who possessively guarded the edge of her seat. I squeezed against the window to avoid physical contact with her, embarrassed by my girth next to her frailty. We sat in miserable silence.

When she got off at the Dunbar Loop a fiftyish-something man with gray, close-cropped hair and a well-defined jaw got on. He carried a large black umbrella with a wooden handle and wore a black tailored raincoat. Unlike most of the bus patrons, he was dry.

He squeezed in next to me, saying, “You don’t mind, do you?”

I replied, “No, of course not. I hope you don’t mind; I’m soaking.”

“On the contrary,” he answered, smiling. “I’m grateful to be sitting next to a lovely woman.”

I blushed at the nicety. We were silent for a moment. I began to dig in my briefcase for my novel. I pulled out the tattered library copy and found the folded-over page I had ceased reading on my morning commute into the university where I was working on my PhD in 19th century classics. (This, of course, made it even more embarrassing that I was reading a romance novel of questionable integrity.)

“You like romance, do you?”

It startled me that he actually commented on my reading material. No one ever had.

“It’s good escapism,” I answered. “Good for a laugh,” I added.

“Yes, escapism is good,” he agreed.

I started pretending to read, feeling vaguely uncomfortable.

“Do you indulge in any other forms of escapism?” he asked with his proper English accent that so complimented his debonair appearance. It seemed a rather personal question, and I wasn’t sure what he meant.

Sensing my confusion he said, “It’s all very well to read about someone else’s desires and escapes, but do you ever do just exactly what it is you want?”

I still wasn’t sure what he was getting at, though it seemed tantalizing. He was certainly bold.

“Are you talking about sex?” I asked. I’m quite bold myself when provoked, and there was no use beating around the bush with a man such as this.


I looked around to see if any of the other passengers were eavesdropping on what was beginning to be a titillating conversation. They looked impassive and disinterested: in their own universes.

“Frankly, no I do not. Never had the opportunity,” I replied.

This was becoming rather fun; I felt a spark igniting that hadn’t been lit in a very long time.

“Never had the opportunity?” he asked. “You are so luxurious and lovely. It’s unimaginable that you have never had the opportunity to indulge yourself.”

His speech was something straight out of a romance novel, accent included, and I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere or playing some kind of game with me. In that moment, however, I made a conscious choice to carry on the conversation and see where it led, come what may. Sometimes a gal has to take chances and this was one of those times.

“I’m flattered,” I replied. “By the way, my name is Angela.”

“Michael,” he said and smiled. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise.” I smiled at him and felt suddenly just slightly sexy.

“So Angela, will you have drinks with me tonight?”

At that moment I was shivering, sodden, and not very comfortable. I couldn’t imagine someone such as me having drinks with a gentleman such as him in this state or in any other state. For a moment, however, I let myself contemplate how I could transform myself, and how delightful it would be to take my time getting ready for an evening rendezvous: getting ready for something that I hoped was going to happen.

“I would need to go home, dry off and change into something a little more evening-worthy,” I replied, surprising myself.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled at me with delight. “Yes, I’m sure you could use a nice hot shower and time to get yourself ready,” he answered.

Being the street-smart gal that I am, I recalled all the horror stories of giving a man your address and having him come up and rape you later. I remembered it wasn’t a safe world and I had to be careful. He seemed to read my thoughts.

“Angela, let me assure you that I am a perfect gentleman. I do not want to do anything that you wouldn’t want me to. I won’t hurt you or take advantage of you. I wish I had some references to prove that.”

My instincts told me he could be trusted; my body told me that I needed to indulge. It had been a long time indeed, and I didn’t remember a time when a partner had actually seemed delighted with my plentitude. It didn’t seem to bother Michael in the least.

“Let me think about it,” I said. My voice trembled a little, and our eyes met. I felt wet and not just from the rain. I shivered just a little bit.

“Here,” he said, unbuttoning his raincoat. “The inside of my coat is fleece. Let me drape it on your lap. Perhaps it will warm you up.”

I looked around. The bus was packed by this time, all the commuters on their early-evening rush home; there were people all around us crammed into unnatural standing positions. Surely some of them must be listening. I acquiesced with a slight nod of my head and he laid his coat atop my lap.

“Tell me if you don’t want me to do this,” he said suddenly in a voice I had to strain to hear. “I promise if you don’t, I will get off at the next stop and you’ll never see me again.”

“Do what?” I asked. I was thrilled by this exchange. It was amazing that I was actually experiencing it and not reading it in my novel.

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to slip my hand under the coat and just touch you. I’m very turned on by you, Angela.”

I grew red and flustered. And wetter yet. There were faces looming all around me. I glanced around furtively. This was so exciting.

“Okay,” I half whispered. “But when I tell you to stop, you have to do it.”

“I promise,” he said.

With that, he took his right hand and slipped it under the coat while tugging part of the coat onto his lap as well.

Just pretend you know me,’ he whispered. “If you want, put your head on my shoulder and close your eyes. Everybody will think we are together.”

I did as he suggested. His hand was on top of my thin rayon dress, slowly and gingerly slipping it up, teasing me with the sensation. My breathing heightened.

“Try to relax,” he said. “Open your legs a little.”

I listened, opening them just slightly. His hand brushed the inside of my thigh. I gasped.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

I shook my head. He started kneading my inner thighs slowly and sensuously. My breath came in ragged gasps. I was immensely turned on by what he was doing, and also by the fact that there were people all around me.

The light touching and kneading continued. I looked out the window and saw that I had missed my stop. It was getting dark and the sky was a murderous twilit blue as only it can get in Vancouver. I regretted the tights I was wearing. How was he going to get to where I needed him to get? I was so excited that I had to hold my breath in order not to gasp out loud, but every few seconds I found myself making a soft mewing sound, barely audible.

“Listen, Angela,” he whispered, “I want you to become very, very quiet. If you do, I will continue. If you don’t, I shall have to stop.”

He thrilled me. I sucked in my breath and tensed my body.

Every part of me wanted him. I wanted his hands and his mouth all over me. He continued working the hem of my dress and slowly up my legs. And then it was at my waist.

Before I had a chance to be embarrassed by his hands tugging my tights and feeling the soft flesh underneath, he murmured, “Angela, you are so sensual. I wish I could see you right now, not just touch you. I am so turned on by you.”

Suddenly his hand was reaching down into my warmth and wetness, on my vulva, circling it gently, his middle finger just barely entering my lush opening. I was enraptured. He continued ever-so-lightly touching me. Then he found my clitoris and began gently stimulating it, plucking it with his thumb. He was breathing heavily and I could tell he too was massively turned on. I was beyond turned on. I felt as though I would orgasm any second.

“Angela, no coming on the bus,” he chided as my entire body tensed up, ready to give in to this ecstasy. “We’re in a public place, you know.”

With that he removed his hand. I gasped in combined relief and disappointment. He pulled down my dress, patted me on the leg, and removed the coat from our bodies.

“Besides,” he said. “We’ve got to save something for later. The next stop is mine. Meet me tonight at the lounge in The Hotel Vancouver. I’ll be there at nine.”

And he was gone. Just like that. Had it even happened? I gathered myself, got off the bus at the next stop, and crossed the street. I waited another ten minutes in the pouring rain for a bus to take me back to my missed stop. Needless to say, it had been worth it.

Of course, I had every intention of meeting Michael. I didn’t know anything about him, even where he came from. My instincts told me I was safe with him, but I was glad we were meeting in a public place and that he had no idea where I lived. I sensed he wanted it that way, too.

Meantime, I was having an identity crisis. All I could think was, “How can a man like that be possibly turned on by someone like me?” All the information I had been peddled in my twenty-odd years was that men did not like abundant women such as myself. Yet he seemed so sincere. He had wanted to touch me. He had touched me.

After a deliciously hot and soapy shower, with much deliberation I chose my white blouse with a plunging neckline to pair with a black pencil skirt and my black pointy heels that I hadn’t worn since the last wedding I’d been at. I had a lacy bra and panty set along with a pair of stockings with a garter belt that a friend had persuaded me to buy on a shopping spree earlier in the year. I slipped the black lace belt around my waist and then clipped the sheer black stockings on with metal hourglass clips and locked them in place. I turned my own self on just doing it. I chuckled at the irony of “locking myself up” when I planned to do just the opposite in a few hours.

My hair is long and dark and curly. On this night I wore it down, letting it fall in my face in decadent, plush curls. I always wore make up, but this time I took the time to apply it just right: cat eyes, long lashes, dark lips, flushed cheeks. I looked in the mirror long and hard after I had dressed and primped, and I was amazed at my transformation. I actually felt beautiful.

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