Curve Lullaby (A BBW Billionaire Wicked Short)

 
  1. About Curve Lullaby
  2. Curve Lullaby
  3. Now That You're Done
  4. Pesky Legal Junk

About Curve Lullaby

Big girl Starla Parks has spent two frustrating years working for wealthy philanthropist Cole Mason as his personal assistant. Don't get her wrong, the man is a saint -- with the body and face of a very dirty angel. Deep down, however, she is certain no matter how egalitarian and sweet Cole really is, he's just too rich, too handsome, too everything to notice the way his plump Girl Friday feels about him. She's just happy to work by his side and entertain a few choice fantasies after hours.

Happy, that is, until she stumbles across a secret folder on his laptop, one filled with plus-size sleeping beauties ravished as they slumber. When Cole requires Starla to spend that very weekend at his private estate on a rush charity project, she begins to wonder -- what would happen if she staged her own sleep in? Could his secret kink make her fantasy finally come true?

********************

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Curve Lullaby

 

If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, 
Let her lie still and dream. 

 

Cloten, from William Shakespeare's
Cymbeline
 

 

With my cellphone caged between my ear and shoulder, I jabbed at the keyboard of my boss Cole Mason as I searched his computer for the preliminary report on the South Bend redevelopment project. Not helping my concentration, Cole nattered in my ear about the Chicago conference he had just attended as a keynote speaker. His words blended with those I typed, his deep rumbling baritone like a warm hand against the back of my neck.

He'd been out of the office for three days and I missed him like hell. My ears missed him, my eyes missed him, my nose missed him. Only faint traces of his scent remained in the room, just a teasing hint of citrus and vanilla that clung to his leather office chair from the long hours he spent in it.

I turned into the chair and quietly inhaled like a junkie sniffing a line of coke. I expelled the air in a question. "Are you sure you downloaded the file? What did you name it?"

"Something South Bendy."

The engines on the jet muted his laugh, but I felt the same familiar heat spark deep in my gut as if his lips were against my ear. He did that sometimes, his lips against my ear, a conspiratorial whisper dripping from his honeyed tongue. He forgets who he is, who I am, makes me forget. Billionaires aren't supposed to whisper in the ear of their plump Girl Friday, especially when the billionaire in question has the face and body of a very, very dirty angel.

"South Bendy," I repeated as I typed
SB
in a last ditch attempt to locate the file. A folder popped up in the search results. "Eureka!"

I double clicked on the folder’s icon. A password request appeared.

“It’s locked.” I mumbled the words, surprised that the file was protected.

“Must have done that by accident,” he laughed then fired off a string of numbers I partially recognized.

“You’re not supposed to have your birthday as part of a password,” I scolded, my mind trying to make sense of the remaining numbers. They seemed random, the smallest numbers listed first and progressing in order.

“You can spank me later.” His voice dropped low, its weight settling deep inside my belly.

Damn him for not knowing the effect he had on me when he spoke in that tone. Bad enough he could melt my panties in an instant when he sounded raspy, but he had to mention spanking, as well.

My ass wiggled in his expensive leather chair as I thought of a retort. Nothing came to mind other than the image of his hand landing roughly on my extra-wide and very bare bottom. I wiggled again and bit at my bottom lip as my eyes and legs squeezed tightly together. I blew a bit of hot air at the receiver.

Cole chuckled. “Why do I have the feeling you’re plotting something evil, dear Starla? You won’t have Ben there to carry out the task, will you?”

“Um, no.” All the heat left my lower body at the idea of Ben Fielding, our should-have-retired-a-decade-ago security guard, spanking anyone’s bottom. Old Ben was round like me, but with wrinkles, white hair and a rather outrageously long beard. “Security Santa would never put you on his naughty list, anyway. He knows you’re goody-goody through and through.”

Another chuckle rumbled over the phone. “Plane just started to taxi. I’ll have to disillusion you on how good I am another time, sweetling. See you when I get back.”

With that, he was gone.

I sat there a few minutes, eyes glazed over in thought. My two-year anniversary as Cole’s assistant had passed a few weeks before. In all the time I had worked for him, he’d never given me the slightest reason to think he wasn’t a great guy. Certainly, he could be stern. That usually happened with vendors who thought they could swap quality materials they’d listed in a bid with cheap ones just because it was a charity project. They didn’t expect Cole to show up on site, knowledgeable about every last detail of the build and ready to stand off against a bulldozer to make the contractors follow through.

I sighed as one of my favorite memories of my boss surfaced. Dressed in jeans, a tight red t-shirt and a hard hat, he really had gone toe-to-toe with a bulldozer and the angry foreman driving it while I had frantically called the police. I learned that day and countless others that no one wins a game of chicken with Cole Mason.

Smiling at the ridiculous assertion that he was anything other than an excessively virtuous do-gooder, I double clicked the
SB
folder. Sub-folders populated the screen and I started a small prayer that I didn’t run into any more passwords.

Finally reading the names on the sub-folders, the prayer died on my lips.

Betty

Charlotte

Gabrielle

Pulse accelerating, my body grew warm again. Clearly, this was not the South Bend redevelopment folder but something else entirely. My finger hovered over the computer mouse as I struggled with which impulse to follow: the one that urged me in strident tones to X out of the entire
SB
folder and find the South Bend file or the low rumbling whisper urging me to click on the folder named “Betty.”

Betty won, of course. How could I not click on a folder on my boss’s computer with a woman’s name when I had been crushing hard on him for the last two years?

Inside the folder, I found a video file and another folder marked JPEGS. Heart racing ever faster, I click the JPEGS. Thumbnails greeted me. Even at their small size, I could tell most of the pictures were X-rated.

I closed my eyes and asked myself if I really wanted to open one of the image files. For two years, I had entertained a series of fantasies about Cole. What heterosexual woman wouldn’t make him the star of her dirty dreams if she had to work with him day after day? He had a swimmer’s body, powerful across the chest, arms and legs with a narrow waist to form a sexy, but masculine, hourglass.

Even if I had only ever seen him in business attire, I would have daydreamed about licking all over his body. But I also saw him in work clothes at build sites, veins bulging on his thick biceps as he wrangled jackhammers. At least three times a week, I saw him in the office on his way to or from the building’s gym, drool dripping onto my desk from the way the clingy t-shirts and shorts hugged his muscles.

His face was every bit as gorgeous as the rest of him. Steel gray eyes threatened to paralyze me whenever I met his gaze. The large, mobile mouth that was invariably thinned in contemplation or broadly grinning made my pussy ache. I wanted to thread my fingers in his wavy, dark chocolate hair and bring his mouth to my cunt, putting his too clever tongue to better use than verbally sparring with me.

My crush on Cole ran so deep, I only survived working for him because of a single factor -- I didn’t know his preferences. From what I could tell before today, the man was a monk. Certainly, he’d been photographed with women before. Big name models and actresses, most of them no larger than a size six, could be seen on his arm in old press clippings.

But those women never re-materialized in the two years I had worked for him. Even though Cole had doubled, then tripled the charity efforts his company funded he went to outside events alone. When he threw his own fundraiser, he had me serve as hostess.

Without those slim women thrown in my face on a regular basis, I could pretend that my fantasies weren’t the pathetic imaginings of a fat girl that would earn me nothing more than a gentle laugh if my gorgeous boss found out. Now, my hand shaking as I jiggled the mouse with uncertainty, I was faced with the choice of continuing to pretend Cole could be interested in a girl like me or finding out just what kind of woman he preferred.

I clicked blindly then opened my eyes.

“Betty” appeared with long black hair curling around her shoulders. She wore a light pink negligee that stopped at her thighs. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted to display just a hint of tongue and teeth. It took several long seconds before I noticed her face or clothing because my mind was too busy taking in her size.

Generous breasts, thick but rounded hips, thighs that pressed softly into one another.

Betty was big -- and not just fashion industry big, with their silly size eights as the standard for plus models. She had padded arms and thighs, a softly rounded face with lush lips. Beneath the sheer material of the negligee, I spotted a genuine belly roll.

I closed the picture and clicked another one with a higher number.

My clit started to tingle as I examined the photo. Taken from further away, I could see Betty on a divan, eyes still closed but her negligee pushed up to reveal her large breasts. Her panties were off and her legs separated so that the foot of one rested on the floor. Between her thighs, a blond haired male licked at her pussy.

Taking a large gulp of air, I left the JPEGS folder and clicked on the video file.

Sleeping Beauty Productions
appeared on the screen. I wrinkled my nose at the name. The pictures in the subfolder didn’t look like they were taken in a fairy tale setting. Betty appeared on screen, a bathrobe around her broad shoulders. Yawning, she stretched then stripped the robe off and placed it over the back of the divan. She took a seat and treated the audience to another exaggerated gesture of sleepiness.

“Such a long day,” Betty sighed and settled against the cushion. “I’m all worn...”

Her eyes closed as she spoke, her sentenced unfinished as sleep claimed her. The camera panned over her body, starting with the lovely, full face. She had smoky eyes with fake lashes and heavy mascara. Her frosted pink lips quickly parted and her face contorted as if she had already fallen into an erotic dream.

Little moans left her, her body squirming with need as the camera moved lower down her body. Her moans increased in volume as the wiggling intensified. A knock sounded offscreen and a masculine voice inquired if she was okay.

Seriously?

I hit pause, telling myself once more I should stop prying in a folder Cole never intended me to discover. I closed the video player and backed out of Betty’s folder. Almost out of the SB file, I swooped the mouse’s pointer left then right then left again.

Curiosity stabbed at my chest.

Was Betty the only big girl in the Sleeping Beauty folder?

From what little I’d seen of dirty movies aimed at males, chances were that the remaining folders were filled with Barbie proportioned blondes, the dark haired, full bodied Betty a rare exception.

I clicked on Charlotte and went to the last picture in her JPEGS folder.

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