spelbynder
Virgin
- Joined
- Apr 26, 2001
- Posts
- 11
The Fat of the Land
Did you ever notice that "tasteful" decor has no real flavor? The lines are simple, the colors are neutral or perfectly coordinated. The eye slides easily over them without interruption. There are no surprises.
"Tasteful" demands nothing of you.
"Tasteless", on the other hand, is spicy and rich, a riot of clashing color and line, brazen, suggestive of earthy delights. "Tasteless" captures your attention, if only for the moment that it takes to gawk at the flaking gold leaf cherubs, their tiny, soft penises on display for all to see.
"Tasteless" is the curry to "Tasteful"'s hint of hazelnut. Tastelessness embraces lust.
There are different kinds of lust. One is the vanilla sexual lust you find in romance novels, the lust for women whose hangtags advertize "impish", "willowy", "leonine",
"smouldering". The tastefully-put-together women that, no matter how naughty or promiscuous they become, remain easy on the eye, demanding nothing of our imaginations.
Another kind of lust is the lust you feel in a flourishing garden, or eyeing a luxurious feast. It's a lust for life and bounty and comfort and all good things. A lust that makes you want to dip in with both hands and eat directly from them, smearing your face, spitting out seeds, throwing bones over your shoulder and reaching for more. A lust that sends you out to a freshly tilled field to roll around in the dirt and breathe in the rich dark smell, or lie outside at night and imagine the feeling of being fucked by the stars, fertilized by them, growing a universe in your belly that shines out your eyes, mouth and fingertips.
The object of my lust is a fat woman. Not pleasantly plump or carrying a few extra pounds; she is fat[italicized]. Not the kind of fat that looks as though a thin person has been slung with sandbags they can barely drag along. She wears her weight lightly, like a summer mantle.
She was born to be fat. It's as much a part of her as her head or her navel. She walks weightless as a fairy, graceful in all her movements. She eats as delicately as a cat. Her voice is sweet and light. But she inspires lust, the lust for more than enough.
The words that describe her describe a hunger that demands satiation,surfeit: "Bounteous", "luscious", "ample","succulent", "meaty", "juicy", "sumptuous", "a feast for the eyes". She is a strawberry sundae, mounds of creamy white with pink tips. She is a savory meal, rich with aromas both pungent and subtle. She is a soft down comforter, wrapping you in warmth. She is the vastness of the universe, come down to fuck you. She's the image of the goddess of fertility, brimming with life and possibility and creation, her loins the source of all things, her breasts an eternal fountain of nourishment. She is the fat of the land. She is more than enough.
Did you ever notice that "tasteful" decor has no real flavor? The lines are simple, the colors are neutral or perfectly coordinated. The eye slides easily over them without interruption. There are no surprises.
"Tasteful" demands nothing of you.
"Tasteless", on the other hand, is spicy and rich, a riot of clashing color and line, brazen, suggestive of earthy delights. "Tasteless" captures your attention, if only for the moment that it takes to gawk at the flaking gold leaf cherubs, their tiny, soft penises on display for all to see.
"Tasteless" is the curry to "Tasteful"'s hint of hazelnut. Tastelessness embraces lust.
There are different kinds of lust. One is the vanilla sexual lust you find in romance novels, the lust for women whose hangtags advertize "impish", "willowy", "leonine",
"smouldering". The tastefully-put-together women that, no matter how naughty or promiscuous they become, remain easy on the eye, demanding nothing of our imaginations.
Another kind of lust is the lust you feel in a flourishing garden, or eyeing a luxurious feast. It's a lust for life and bounty and comfort and all good things. A lust that makes you want to dip in with both hands and eat directly from them, smearing your face, spitting out seeds, throwing bones over your shoulder and reaching for more. A lust that sends you out to a freshly tilled field to roll around in the dirt and breathe in the rich dark smell, or lie outside at night and imagine the feeling of being fucked by the stars, fertilized by them, growing a universe in your belly that shines out your eyes, mouth and fingertips.
The object of my lust is a fat woman. Not pleasantly plump or carrying a few extra pounds; she is fat[italicized]. Not the kind of fat that looks as though a thin person has been slung with sandbags they can barely drag along. She wears her weight lightly, like a summer mantle.
She was born to be fat. It's as much a part of her as her head or her navel. She walks weightless as a fairy, graceful in all her movements. She eats as delicately as a cat. Her voice is sweet and light. But she inspires lust, the lust for more than enough.
The words that describe her describe a hunger that demands satiation,surfeit: "Bounteous", "luscious", "ample","succulent", "meaty", "juicy", "sumptuous", "a feast for the eyes". She is a strawberry sundae, mounds of creamy white with pink tips. She is a savory meal, rich with aromas both pungent and subtle. She is a soft down comforter, wrapping you in warmth. She is the vastness of the universe, come down to fuck you. She's the image of the goddess of fertility, brimming with life and possibility and creation, her loins the source of all things, her breasts an eternal fountain of nourishment. She is the fat of the land. She is more than enough.
