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Mubea and the Big Petite By Mubea Murithi

We met in a bar. I was standing alone, casing the action, when I heard, right behind me, the sound of a sharp quick fart – like a wooden match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only the word ”humongous” could accurately depict – a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately the width of the Great Wall of China.

She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her method of getting my attention) and reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realized the opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn’t yet scored.

In a brief conversation – during which it occurred to me that she’d be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 120kgs – Petite told me she was a cateress (a career chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food access it offered); and that she was out to eat man meat.

Then she invited me to her hotel room.

(As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief.

”That’s it,” he nudged the customer slouched in front of him, ” that dude right there is the definition of drunk stupid”.)

At her hotel, the first thing Petite did was crack open, and inhale, the complete contents of a Nuttela jar. Then she ordered and devoured (in exactly what order I don’t recall) a full chicken, a combo plate of fries and a litre of Coke.

Finally she was good to go.

Now, the thing was – and my insistence that we leave on no more than the bathroom light was definitely a contributing factor – I could not for the life of me find Petite’s vulva. I’d heard that this was a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot longer than I would have expected. What was compounding the problem? Simply put, Petite’s body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the field of hazards and challenges it presented. I’m speaking of the twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the escarpments, the craters and the amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn’t believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one point, when I thought for sure that I’d located and entered the secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I’d inserted myself inside of what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What’s more, I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Petite’s anatomy.

You’re thinking that I had only myself to blame, that not to stop and ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just about to when I heard, in the distance, what sounded like the swift currents of a rushing river. Groping my way toward the sound it increased in volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew I was directly above its source. Reasonably confident that I’d located Petite’s stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings. In the absence of a compass I was looking for some sort of marker with which to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead of me was blocked by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain, I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism I began, then, to crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got when before too long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage, and then bathed in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring.

I was at last at the pleasure grove.

Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in the face of exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal other men would certainly have given up on. The moment was short-lived however. After effecting penetration my mettle was tested some more. Twice I was jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of becoming a ceiling fixture) by the astonishing power of Petite’s pelvic motion. It was really disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had to reach deep inside myself for a stick-to-itiveness that I wasn’t at all sure I possessed. But I hung tough and on my third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and proceeding with dispatch. At the treasure chest within minutes, I managed, this time, to more or less stay put and, let me tell you, like clinging to the back of a great whale in a high sea, those final seconds were every bit as exhilarating as a bungee jump from a hot air balloon.

In the morning, Petite, cheery and humming to herself (doubtless never before the object of such committed attention), seemed unaware of my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down with a litre of yoghurt, she asked me if she could take a selfie of the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across this picture, I am in it. That’s the top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her left ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her trip short and returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain in Nyahururu now, because no experience that she might imagine could possibly surpass her night with me.

Having completed my mission and worried she’d suggest that we get together again, I was enormously relieved by this and immediately supportive of her decision.

As I departed though, I did sense from her expression that she was maybe a little ambivalent about changing her plans; that she was thinking of something she might later regret missing. Not wishing to prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions, so I’ll never know just what the thing was. Yes, it could have been my herculean coital feat, but I suspect that more likely on her mind was forgoing the chance to discover a new food group.


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