Chapter 2: The Fat Men's Praise
The screen’s blue glow carved hollows under Sheila’s eyes. Her fingers, sticky and trembling, hovered over the keyboard. The words from SlimPickings91 and BonyTony pulsed behind her eyelids like a bruise.4/10.Fat distribution poor. But just below their comments, a new one from ThroatGoat69 flashed: ‘MOVE YOUR HANDS, LET’S SEE THOSE TITS!!STOP BEING A TEASE.’
The dichotomy was paralyzing. One group saw only flaws, the baseline cruelty of their ratings echoing Derek’s dismissal. The other group—the ThroatGoats, the Hammer612s—they saw a feast. They used words like ‘delicious,’ ‘meal,’ ‘perfect.’ Their language was filth, but it was hungry filth. A perverse logic, twisted by whiskey and heartbreak, began to crystallize in her mind. Maybe the skinny guys, the ones who looked like Derek’s gym-rat friends, they were the arbiters of a beauty she could never achieve. But the others… the bigger, hungrier men society ignored… they were the ones who truly craged what she had. Their desire was a blunt, physical fact.It wasn’t polite.It wasn’t safe.But it was real.
Her cunt throbbed, a hot, slick ache that mocked her confusion. The physical craving for validation was outpacing the mental shame. She was wet, shamefully wet, and the source wasn’t love or affection—it was the raw, obscene need pouring from the screen.
Another comment popped up from DickDamage: ‘YOUR ASS LOOKS DELICIOUS! I WANT TO TONGUE FUCK AND EAT IT! SHOW US YOUR STARFISH, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.’
A shudder ran through her. “Starfish.” The vulgarity was so complete it circled back to being almost clinical.She felt a fresh gush of wetness between her legs.
She felt a fresh gush of wetness between her legs.Her breath hitched. She stared at the words ‘starfish’ and ‘tongue fuck,’ her mind reeling.Sheila was shocked. She asked herself, “Did people really find buttholes sexy?” The thought was so alien, so deeply private, it felt like peeling back a layer of her soul she didn’t know existed. “I can’t show that, that would be too much,” she whispered to the empty, neon-lit room. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum of panic and a dark, curious thrill. “I’ve already gone far enough. I will show my boobs first, without covering them with my hands and see what they think.”
Her decision, a feeble attempt at a boundary, felt monumental. She shifted on the chair, the plastic cold and unyielding against her naked skin. She raised her arms, crossing them behind her neck in a pose she’d seen in a perfume ad, arching her back until her breasts jutted forward.
The fluorescent light was unforgiving, casting stark shadows underneath her heavy breasts. Her nipples, hard and pebbled from the cold and the adrenaline, pointed directly at the camera lens.She held the position, her muscles trembling, and took the picture.
She uploaded it without a caption.The response was instantaneous, a tsunami of pure id.
User: ThroatGoat69: FUCKING FINALLY.10/10. GODDAMN.Those are perfect.Sag is just right.Nipples look biteable.
User: LoadMaster: Would suck on those until you came.Then I’d slap my cock on them. Cover them in cum.User: Rex_Havoc: Good girl. Now show us that tight little asshole.Pull those cheeks apart.Let us see everything you have.
The praise was a drug, hotter and more immediate than the whiskey. It seeped into the cracks of her shattered confidence, filling them with a molten, dangerous pride. Her hand slid down her body again, her fingers gliding effortlessly through her own slickness. She found her clit, swollen and throbbing, and circled it with a firm, knowing pressure.A low moan escaped her lips. She was touching herself openly now, performing for an audience of ghosts, her eyes glued to the scrolling validation. Each crude comment was a spark on her skin.“Would fuck those tits raw,” one wrote. “Bet she’s masturbating right now,” guessed another.She was. Her hips began a slow, rolling grind against her own hand.Two fingers slipped inside herself, and she gasped at the fullness. She was so wet it was a shameful squelch in the quiet room.
“I am,” she typed with her free hand, the letters clumsy. “I’m touching myself.” Sending the confession felt like jumping off a cliff.The forum erupted.New users poured into the thread. The comments came faster, more graphic, a choreography of vulgarity dictating the rhythm of her fingers.
User: DankKnight99: Play with that clit.Make yourself cum for us.
User: DickDamage: Tell us what you’re thinking about, slut.Thinking about a real cock?
Thinking about a real cock? The question pulsed on the screen, a direct line to the chaos churning inside her. Sheila’s fingers worked deeper, the heel of her hand grinding against her clit with a rough, desperate rhythm. “Yes,” she typed, the confession a hot whisper in the silent room. “I’m thinking about a stranger’s cock fucking me.”
Leah couldn’t believe she was touching herself, and couldn’t believe she was touching herself and admitting it online.The comments consumed her. She had never felt this excited before, so seen and wanted. The screen was no longer a window but a mirror reflecting a version of herself that was all heat and need, a body divorced from a plain face. Every filthy compliment was a stitch sewing shut the hole Derek had torn in her. Yet the demands to see her asshole continued, a chorus of lurid chants that now felt like the next inevitable price for this validation.
She felt shy, she was already self conscious about her ass. The cruel nickname ‘butter face’ haunted her, but the fear of a ‘dumpy’ ass was just as potent.So she found a solution. Her eyes darted to her dresser drawer, the one filled with things she never wore. She pushed back from the desk, her skin slick with sweat, and rummaged with trembling hands. She pulled out a thin pair of thong undies, a lacy black pair she’d bought on a dare from herself and never worn.The fabric was a whisper against her calloused fingers.
She bent over, gripping the edge of her desk.The cold laminate bit into her palms. She guided the flimsy material up her thighs, the lace settling in the cleft of her ass. Her ass swallowed the thong, the narrow strip vanishing between her cheeks. Behind it, you could see the outline of her starfish, the dark, puckered knot visible through the sheer black lace. It was a compromise, a veil over the most private part. She took a pic, the angle obscuring her face, highlighting only the desperate, vulnerable offering.She uploaded it. The thread seemed to stall for a heartbeat, a vacuum of anticipation.Then it exploded.
User: ThroatGoat69: FUCKING HELL.THAT’S IT. I NEED TO PUT MY TONGUE IN THAT ASS.LACE IS GETTING RIPPED OFF WITH MY TEETH.
User: DickDamage: Now we’re talking.That’s a hungry little hole. Bet it’s never been touched. I’d spit on my thumb and work it in while I finger-fucked that wet cunt.User: Rex_Havoc: Good girl.You’re learning. Now take them off.Show us the bare pink.Let us see it winking for us.
The command hung there, a dare blinking in the artificial light. Sheila’s breath caught, her lungs tight. She stared at the words ‘bare pink’ and ‘winking,’ her mind recoiling even as her cunt gave another desperate, wet pulse. This was the line.The one she never knew existed until this shattered hour. Prior to this, Sheila never considered doing anything sexual with her ass.It was just… there.A private, unnoticed part. And yet there was a chorus of men begging to eat and fuck it. The vulgarity was a shock, but beneath the shock, a terrifying curiosity unfurled. It was a whole new world, dark and promising a type of attention so absolute it felt like annihilation.
Her fingers hooked into the thin sides of the black lace thong.The material was flimsy, a ridiculous barrier. “Okay,” she whispered to the glowing screen, to the faceless Rex_Havoc. “Okay, you win.” She peeled the fabric down slowly, the lace catching for a second on the damp swell of her ass cheek before surrendering.Cold air kissed skin that had never felt exposed like this. She was utterly open, bent over her desk, her bare ass presented to the camera’s unblinking eye.She took the picture.The flash was a physical jolt. She didn’t look at the image before uploading it. She just sent it into the digital void, a sacrifice to their hungry eyes.The response was a unified, convulsive groan typed across her screen. ‘YES.’ ‘PERFECT.’ ‘FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.’ ThroatGoat69 wrote: ‘I can almost smell it. Would bury my face so deep.’ Her own smell, musky and intimate, seemed to fill the room.A fresh wave of slickness soaked her inner thighs. Her left hand, acting on its own, slid back from her clit, down through her soaking folds, and further back. The pads of her fingers brushed against the tight, clenched knot of her asshole.She gasped, a sharp, startled sound in the quiet.It felt strange. Forbidden.The skin was different, ultrasensitive.
“Touch it,” she muttered, parroting the commands scrolling past. “Just touch it.” She pressed a single, trembling fingertip against the resistant pucker.It was a shocking intimacy, a violation she was performing on herself for their applause. The sensation was sharp, a bright wire of unfamiliar feeling. She circled it, her finger slick now with her own juices from her cunt.The external pressure sent a strange, deep echo through her pelvis. Her other hand resumed working her clit, the rhythm becoming jagged, unsynchronized.
“Fuck, I’m doing it,” she breathed, her forehead resting against the cool desk. Her asshole began to relax under the persistent, circling pressure. It gave way, just slightly, allowing the very tip of her finger to press inward. The intrusion was minute, barely past the outer ring, but the fullness was profound and entirely new.A full-body shudder wracked her. Her hips jerked forward, then back onto her own finger. The dual sensations—the familiar, frantic friction on her clit and the deep, unsettling fullness behind—collided inside her nervous system.
The comments were a fever dream now. ‘Finger that tight asshole.’ ‘Make it loose for us.’ ‘Think about a thick cock stretching it open.’ She did.She thought about it. The imagery was crude, pixelated, but potent. She pictured a stranger, faceless and huge, taking her like this, bent over this very desk.The fantasy wasn’t romantic. It was raw, a transaction of pure, degrading need. And in her current state, shattered and drunk on validation, it was the most arousing thought she’d ever had.
Her finger pushed deeper into her ass, a slow, burning invasion. Her other hand mashed her clit, circles dissolving into a frantic, punishing vibration.She was panting, drooling slightly onto her own textbook. The pleasure was no longer a wave but a riptide, pulling her under from two directions at once. It built in her core, a coiling, unbearable pressure that had nothing to do with love or tenderness. It was filthy.It was animal.It was everything Derek said she wasn’t.
“Oh god, oh fuck,” she choked, her voice ragged. The climax tore through her with a violence that stole her breath.It wasn’t a release but an detonation. Her back arched sharply, a pained curve. Her inner walls clamped down on nothing while her asshole clenched viscously around her intruding finger. A sound ripped from her throat, a raw, guttural cry that was part sob, part scream of triumph.White lights flashed behind her closed eyelids. She touched herself while reading the comments and experienced the most incredible orgasm of her life, a seismic event that left her trembling, finger still lodged inside her, dripping and utterly spent.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her own ragged breathing and the relentless hum of the dorm fridge. The blue light of the screen bathed her slumped form. Slowly, she pulled her finger out with a soft, wet sound that made her flinch.She pushed herself upright, her body feeling heavy and used. She looked at the forum.The comments were still pouring in, a river of obscene congratulations. ‘Knew she’d come.’ ‘Bet that asshole is twitching now.’ ‘Good little slut.’
The words, which had fueled her, now looked like graffiti on a ruined wall. The frantic heat drained from her skin, leaving a chilled, sticky shame in its wake.She had done it. She had given them everything.The validation was there, in digital perpetuity. But as she sat there naked in the sudden, silent aftermath, the hole inside her felt wider and darker than ever. It yawned open, hungry in a new way. The echo of her own cry seemed to hang in the air, a question she couldn’t yet form.
The echo of her own cry seemed to hang in the air, a question she couldn’t yet form. It was swallowed by the rhythmic thrum of her laptop fan and the distant, mundane flush of a toilet down the hall. Her body was a puppet with cut strings, slumped and sweating in the chair. The sharp, coppery smell of her own arousal mixed with the stale whiskey on her breath.She stared at the screen, now a chaotic monument to her degradation. The comments still scrolled, slower now, a landscape of leering emojis and parting shots. ‘U are a good slut.’ ‘Saved the pics for later.’ Her gaze skipped over the critiques from the bony, angular usernames, their words already fossilizing in her memory. Instead, her eyes locked onto the praise from ThroatGoat69, from Hammer612. Their language was graphic, obscene, a culinary review of her flesh. ‘A meal.’ ‘Would ruin that ass.’ ‘Perfect tits.’
A hollow ache yawned inside her, deeper than the physical tremors. Derek’s voice was there, a persistent whisper calling her ‘vanilla,’ a ‘sweet girl.’ But these other voices were louder, a chorus of crude, hungry men who saw her not as plain Sheila but as a collection of fuckable parts they desperately wanted.They didn’t want her to be sweet. They wanted her to be their feast.A cold, clear realization dripped into the emptiness. The skinny guys, the Dereks of the world, they took.They judged.They found her lacking. But the bigger men, the ones whose own bodies were deemed undesirable, they craved hers. Their validation was immediate, visceral, and paid for in the currency of her own exposed skin. In the silence of the ruined room, amid the sticky evidence on her fingers and the chair, Sheila developed a hunger for fat men, men who validated her, who found her sexy. It wasn’t a romantic longing.It was a stark, physiological craving. She wanted to be the object of that specific, desperate hunger, to feel desired not in spite of her body, but because of it.
She wanted to be the object of that specific, desperate hunger, to feel desired not in spite of her body, but because of it. The thought was a warm, drowsy blanket, pulling her down into the chair. Her limbs were liquid lead. The screen’s glow began to strobe as her eyelids grew impossibly heavy. The last thing she registered was a new comment from ‘ThroatGoat69’ that read simply, ‘You belong to us now, slut.’
A sharp, drilling pain behind her left eye woke her. It pulsed in time with the cheap digital alarm clock’s red numbers: 8:17 AM. Sunlight, vicious and uncompromising, sliced through the gap in her blinds, laying a hot bar across her face. She groaned, a sound that scraped her dry throat. Her mouth tasted of sour whiskey and copper. The smell hit her next—a stale, sweet musk of sex and sweat and spilled alcohol that made her stomach lurch.
She was in bed, still naked. The thin blanket was twisted around her legs. She had no memory of moving from the chair. A wave of nausea rolled through her, thick and oily. She squeezed her eyes shut against the light, against the throbbing in her skull. It was just a hangover. A bad one. The remnants of a terrible dream.
Fragments swirled behind her closed eyelids. A keyboard. Blue light. The cold press of laminate against her cheek. A raw, screaming pleasure that felt more like punishment. She shook her head, a tiny movement that sent fresh agony through her temples. Just a nightmare. A stress dream. Derek. The breakup. She clung to that explanation, a life raft in a sea of physical misery.
She forced herself to sit up. The room tilted. Her bare feet touched the cold linoleum. She saw her desk. The whiskey bottle, empty, lay on its side next to her laptop, which was closed. A normal sight. A relief. Then her gaze drifted lower.
Her clothes were in a heap by the chair. Her gray sweatpants, her plain cotton panties, the oversized hoodie. And there, a small, dark spill of fabric apart from the rest. A black lace thong. She never wore thongs. She stared at it. A cold, greasy feeling, separate from the hangover, began to coat her insides.
She stood, her body protesting. She walked to the desk, each step a careful negotiation. Her fingers, trembling, lifted the laptop lid. The screen remained black, the battery dead. The simple, logical reason for its silence did nothing to calm the frantic bird now beating its wings against her ribs. She plugged it in. The charger light glowed amber.
While it booted, she saw her phone on the floor. She picked it up, her thumb smearing the greasy screen. She woke it. The browser was still open. The last tab displayed a familiar, text-heavy layout. A forum. The thread title screamed up at her: POST YOUR PIC. GET HONEST FEEDBACK. NO HOLDS BARRED.
A high, thin whine started in her ears, drowning out the hum of the fridge. It wasn’t a dream. The coffee shop. Derek’s sneer. The whiskey. The photos. Her fingers on her clit, in her ass, while strangers typed their approval. It all crashed down on her, not as a memory but as a physical reality, vile and permanent. Her stomach clenched violently. She stumbled to her small, shared bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before she vomited, a bitter, burning gush of whiskey and bile.
She retched until there was nothing left, her forehead slick with sweat against the cool porcelain. She flushed, the sound obscenely loud. She rinsed her mouth, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She couldn’t look. Not yet.
Back in her room, the laptop screen was alive, bright and accusing. The forum page was still there. Her username. Her posts. The pictures. They hadn’t magically disappeared. There they were, in pixelated permanence: her breasts, her ass, the final, explicit shot of her most private self, exposed and offered. The comments had multiplied overnight. Hundreds of them. New usernames. ‘CumSlutShawn.’ ‘AssMan99.’ Their words blurred, a swarm of obscene insects.
A sound escaped her, a choked gasp of pure horror. She slammed the laptop shut. The silence that followed was absolute and deafening. She stood in the center of her dorm room, naked, hungover, and utterly, completely ruined. The validation she’d craved was now a poison. The hunger she’d wanted to feed was a beast she’d let into her room, and it had left its stink on everything. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the chill was in her bones. She told herself it was just a nightmare, a terrible, vivid nightmare.
But the taste of bile in her mouth and the image burned onto the back of her eyelids were proof. She knew what she had done.