Outnumbered, Outweighed, Overwhelmed

Dear FemdomU,

I’m in my forties now, retired, slower around the knees, and probably a lot softer around the middle than the young man I used to be. But there’s one period of my life I still think about almost every night before I fall asleep. Funny enough, it happened while I worked at a Weight Watchers center in my twenties.

Now before anyone jumps to conclusions, I wasn’t there because I disliked big women. Quite the opposite. I worshipped them.

Always had.

Even as a teenager, I was drawn to large, confident women. Broad hips. Thick thighs. Heavy breasts. The way a big woman could fill a room without apologizing for it. To me, they looked powerful in a way skinny women never did. I was a short guy myself, barely 5’6”, but wiry and muscular from construction work and the gym. That contrast became my obsession. I loved standing next to a woman who outweighed me by a hundred pounds and knowing she could physically dominate the situation if she wanted to.

And many of them knew it.

Working the front desk at that center was like living in a private heaven designed specifically for my tastes. Women coming and going all day. Tight sweaters stretched over enormous chests. Leggings hugging wide hips and thick asses. Perfume mixed with coffee and winter coats. Some were shy. Some flirted openly. Some treated me like a harmless little toy they could tease while checking in for meetings.

I loved every second of it. And I was usually hard most of the day!

The thing people misunderstand about big women is how different each one carries her size. Some moved softly and slowly, almost maternal. Others radiated authority. There were women who laughed loudly and slapped my shoulder hard enough to stagger me. Women who cornered me behind the reception desk just to whisper filthy jokes in my ear and watch me blush.

And I blushed a lot.

I became known as the ‘cute little desk boy.’ I pretended to be embarrassed by it, but truthfully, hearing those women laugh while they towered around me was intoxicating. Sometimes one of them would grab my chin between her fingers while talking to me. Sometimes they’d press against me in a crowded hallway and make no effort whatsoever to move.

I remember every one of those moments.

But there was one night I never forgot.

Two sisters had been attending meetings for months. Both gorgeous. Both huge. Not sloppy or careless, but gloriously, overwhelmingly thick. One was loud and commanding, always making jokes about how tiny I looked standing next to her. The other was quieter, but somehow even more dangerous because she stared at me like she already knew exactly what I fantasized about.

One evening after closing, they invited me over for drinks.

I knew exactly what that meant.

I was nervous the entire drive there. I remember gripping the steering wheel so hard my hands hurt. Part of me thought maybe I’d misunderstood. Maybe they were just being friendly. But the second I walked into that apartment and saw the way they looked at me together, I knew I was in trouble.

Good trouble.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, and smelled like vanilla candles and fabric softener. Both of them were already barefoot and relaxed, wearing oversized shirts that barely covered their thighs. I felt tiny the moment I sat down between them on the couch.

They touched me constantly.

A hand on my chest. Fingers in my hair. Thick thighs pressing against my legs from both sides. They teased me openly about how small I looked trapped between them. One sister kept calling me ‘pretty boy.’ The other laughed every time I got visibly flustered.

And eventually, they stopped teasing and started taking control.

What I remember most wasn’t even the sex itself. It was the sheer physical experience of them. The weight of them. The heat. Being pinned beneath soft flesh while they laughed and encouraged each other. One straddling my lap while the other leaned over the back of the couch to kiss me. Their confidence completely erased any illusion that I was in charge of anything happening in that room.

At one point, I was flat on my back on their sofa, completely overwhelmed, while one sister rode me with slow, deliberate confidence while the other settled herself above my face, grinning down at me like she knew exactly how impossible the situation was for me to resist.

And honestly?

I didn’t want to resist.

I was drowning in softness, sweat, perfume, laughter, and control. Crushed beneath two enormous women who treated me like their personal entertainment for the evening. Every insecurity I’d ever had about my height or size vanished in that moment because those women adored the contrast as much as I did.

That was the revelation.

I realized then that my fetish was never just about body size. It was about surrender. About feeling physically outmatched. About a woman’s body becoming an expression of confidence, indulgence, and power.

Those sisters made me feel owned that night.

Not cruelly. Not maliciously.

Joyfully.

Even now, decades later, I still think about the sound of them laughing together while I disappeared underneath them.

And if I’m being honest, part of me never really came back up.

Sincerely,
Jared from Long Beach, CA