Swimming

I was fat. The folds of flab had reached over my lap and would rest midway between my thighs and knees when I sat. My upper arms wobbled as I walked, and my thighs rubbed together enough to cause a pimply rash. My lover said she adored my obesity, that women should not pander to male fantasies of beauty. She came hardest on the days I had my regular short-back and sides, and the rolls of flesh along my neck were more visibly protuberant over the collar of my man's extra outsized shirt.

I was fat. A big fat dyke. Fat, Out and Proud. My honey lost her hands and tongue in my orange-peel dimpled flesh. My flabby cunt lips squeezed over her red-lipsticked mouth, my huge dangling tits, the nipples pointing floorwards engulfed her as she buried her face between them.

My beloved. . My joy. My petite Mistress. My girl with the whip hand. My 32 B-cupped, tiny Mistress. How I quivered at her every command. How I tingled at the slap of her paddle on my dimpled buttocks. How I shuddered when she whispered in my fleshy ear "Yes, my fat slut", as she would grab rolls of fat in her hands and heave it from side to side.

She would push me on to my back and mount my huge belly, stroking my tits which flopped sideways across my torso. She would then turn and place her knees at my side, her arse pushed as high into the air as she could manage, as she commanded me to lick her fragrant pussy and rim her arsehole.

She liked nothing better than placing a collar around my burgeoning neck, the studs getting lost in the folds of my chins as they drooped towards my chest. Attaching a lead, this tiny Asian doll would lead me into our Playroom, where she would attach the chains and clamps to my engorged nipples, lie me on the leather lounge, and strirrup my legs to expose my gash, and watch my awed expression as she attached one of her numerous huge chickdicks into its harness and fuck me to a shuddering, quivering 300 lb mass of orgasmic flubber.

She liked me to be shaved smooth, and so once a week she attended to my grooming. I had long since lost the ability to see my own mound, lost as it was under the fleshy overhang, striped with silvery stretch marks. So my China Doll, my Amy, would push the fat aside and, after applying hot-as-I-could-bear towels, lather me up, then with an expert touch, hold the blubber at bay as she would shave with one-hand. The biggest challenge came as she would expertly remove the stubble from my outer flaps, all the while keeping her thumb pushed against my clit for protection.

I revelled in my sexuality, the embodiment of the fat, orgasmic dyke. I wrote about our relationship for both populist and academic lesbian publications. I made a meagre income as a freelance writer, but banked healthy sums for my best-selling FatDyke Lit. I pioneered the genre. My baby doll continued her work as a financial auditor, and I awaited her eagerly each night at 7pm, a wine spritzer ready for her as she turned the key in the lock of our apartment door.

Then Amy died. I was lost in despair, distraught with grief. I forgot to eat. I rarely went outside my door. Within 6 months I was half my former weight, and heading south. My hairy cunt was becoming visible, at least when I caught a glimpse in the mirror. My arms and legs and back and gut were lost in the folds of skin, no longer stretched tight over a mound of blubber. My tits hung to my waist as before, but now just elongated sacks of skin.

My body had changed, and along with it my thinking. I yearned for Amy's mistressly ways, her discipline, but in my grief I couldn't even look at another woman. I was so despondent I turned away from my former friends. I could not accept comfort. Or friendship.

Unconsciously, perhaps, I channelled my need for domination into a new sublimation.

A year after Amy left me, despite avoing I never would, I joined a gym. It was the antithesis of Life With Amy. I guess that's why. I was ugly, but I didn't hide my grossness from the startled looks and glances in the locker room. If Amy was no longer there, I didn't care. The gym is a perfect place for solitude. So many bodies sweating in their individual tortures and contortions. Anonymity guaranteed. There is very little sociability about the gym. My gym anyway. A tough environment, and many fall by the wayside. The most enthusiastic treadmiller one month; abandoned membership the next.

The gym has a pool, so I started to swim. I swam every day, twice a day. A mile in the morning and a mile at night. My skin started to feel alive once more, if only as I slipped through the water, feeling the silk-like texture against my body. I experimented with different ways of holding my arms, of kicking, of strokes. Sometimes the water around me became aerated and the fizz of tiny bubbles felt tingly along my arms and legs and torso. Other times I was like a slipstream enveloped in a warm cocoon. I ignored the directions to wear a swimming cap; I loved the first, cool rush of water against my shaven head.

After six months, as my muscles started to emerge, I found my skin and tits tiresome. I made an appointment with a plastic surgeon and went in for a "nip and tuck", or rather a full skin slicing, and a tit lift. I was swathed in bandages for some months, and lost much of my muscle tone. By the time I had been relieved of the excess flesh, and my tits remoulded into hard orbs, I was hungering to get back into the pool.

After a further six months, I was hard. Emotionally, still, a hard and brittle bereaved lover. Physically, a hard and sculpted body. I fell in love with the weights machines and spent even longer at the gym.

One day a former friend failed to recognise me on the street. Yet, I barely noticed the stares of astonishment from the other women in the locker room as I walked naked from the shower to my locker. I learned of this later, from Susan.

One soft, pink Spring day, as I slipped through the water, oblivious to any other swimmer, I reached the end of the pool and prior to making my customary tumble turn, I noticed another woman had dropped into my lane. I instinctively moved to one side, as lane etiquette requires – swim up one side, down the other, no longer directly above the endless black line...

I though about what I had seen underwater as I swam the next length. A lean body, long legs, in a yellow bikini with a floral pattern. I hoped she wouldn't flail around helplessly too much, I thought. Women not wearing a racing swimsuit usually did, I had long since decided. Lost as I was in this thought, I hardly noticed she was already at the other end when I got there. That set me thinking on my next lap. This time I became conscious of a slight ripple as she moved past me. Whoa – this mermaid really could swim! But then I reminded myself, there's stamina – I had got used to outlasting all other lappers over the past 2 years. I would swim for an hour or more, without a stop, not even a breather at one end or the other. So I kept on. Half an hour later, Bikini Girl was still pacing me.

I stopped. Yes. I stopped. I stood at one end of the pool, and lifted my goggles above my eyes. The pool was empty, save for me and Bikini Girl, sharing a lane. And here she came, back toward the wall I was standing against.

As she reached the end, rather than touch the wall next to me to avoid a collision, or even move over to effect a tumble turn, I felt her fingers move the crotch of my swimsuit to one side, and a gentle pressure on my clit.

I gasped as my body responded instictively, and the daisy print of her bikini top emerged from the ultramarine blue of the water as she stood in front of me, gripped my face between her hands, pressed her tits against mine, and opened my mouth with her tongue . . .