I cry out as he grabs my belly again, taking a moment to knead it with a deep groan. His manhandling feels exciting rather than embarrassing with the new context, though still taboo. All my life, I’ve been taught to hate my fupa. When I was a pre-teen, the boy I had a crush on asked me if I was pregnant. My mom only bought me swimsuits that had an attached skirt or wrap so the cut of the leg wouldn’t reveal the roll where my stomach meets my thighs. Magazines provided infinite exercises and diets to target a stubborn low belly. It’s a part of me that’s supposed to be pointedly ignored, not
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