Lowering the Bar into the Dirt

 The summer of 2005 was a wasteland. After Magda, the well ran dry. I went months of drought, and for a man with my appetite, celibacy isn't a choice; it’s a sentence.

Hunger does strange things to a man’s standards. It lowers the bar until it’s burying itself in the dirt. I went back to the internet, casting a wide net. That’s how I caught Anabela.

Online, the conversation moved fast. She didn't want romance; she wanted sex. She was addicted to it, hungry for it. It was easy. But when we met for coffee, I understood why it was easy.

My internal monologue screamed: No way. Absolutely not.

Anabela was thirty-five, tall (1.75m), and heavy. And not "curvy" heavy like Vânia or "soft" heavy like Mónica. She was just fat. To be brutal, she was ugly. I drank my coffee, made polite excuses, and left.

But the hunger didn't go away. A few nights later, I was working late, horny and frustrated. I looked at my hand, then I looked at my phone. I did the math: Fucking an ugly woman is still better than jerking off alone. It was a survival decision.

I messaged her. Come over, she replied.

She lived outside the city, in a grim, soulless suburb full of concrete apartment blocks. The neighborhood was ugly, rough, and cheap—fitting, I thought cruelly, for the occasion. I arrived at 1:00 AM. She opened the door wearing nothing but a robe. She handed me a beer and sat on the couch.

There was no need for charm. No need to ask about her day. I wasn't there to talk. I took a sip of beer, put the bottle down, and grabbed her huge tits. That was the signal.

We moved to the bedroom. My mindset was cold and clinical: Let’s get this shit done.

I went down on her. Despite everything, a pussy is a pussy, and hers was surprisingly well-shaved and already soaking wet. I licked her, but I wanted to push the boundaries. She was a big woman, built for rough handling. While my tongue worked on her clit, I started sliding my fingers inside. Two, then three. I had never fisted a woman before, but with Anabela, I felt like experimenting. I pushed for four. I managed to get them in, stretching her, while she moaned loudly, thrashing on the bed. It was clear she loved the abuse. Her screams filled the small apartment.

I switched positions. I lay back, and she went to work. And here, justice must be done: Anabela might have been a disaster to look at, but she was a technician with her mouth.

She took a condom, placed it between her lips, and slid it onto my dick using only her mouth. It was a pro move, smooth and exciting. She sucked me with an intensity that almost made me forget the rest of the package.

When it came time to fuck, she straddled me. I played with her meaty tits while she bounced, taking all of it. She liked it hard. We moved to doggy style. The view of her massive ass triggered something primal. I started slapping it, hard, leaving red marks on the pale skin. Her moans turned into screams.

"I want your ass," I growled, spitting on my hand. "No!" she gasped. "I can't!"

She explained, breathless, that a previous bad fuck had damaged her asshole. It was off-limits. Damn it.

I kept pounding her pussy instead. She reached her third loud orgasm, shaking the bed frame. I was done. I pulled out and coated her body in sperm.

As the post-orgasm haze cleared, the reality of the concrete apartment and the woman in the bed crashed back in. I pulled my pants up. My balls were empty. Mission accomplished.