“Big girls don’t wear bikinis.”  At least that’s what my mother told me.  My parents were taking us to the beach, our first trip since I had blossomed into early maturity.  I was the youngest of three sisters and by far the heaviest.  They had picked out the skimpiest things my dad would allow, but my mother took what I had picked out of my hands and replaced it with a rather drab one-piece and skirt.

I don’t think she meant to hurt me, but thousands of times since when holding up any piece of clothing, I had asked myself if a big girl would wear this.  Most of the time, the answer was no.  It has always infuriated my husband.

We met when I was at my heaviest to date at a bowling alley.  He literally bumped into me, spilling my coke all over to my blouse.  I was forced to run into the bathroom and change into the shirt I had snuck into my purse – the one I knew my mother wouldn’t let me wear.

I had planned on changing in the back of my friend’s car, but lost my nerve.  Now, with no choice, I stood looking at myself in the mirror. Bought secretly with babysitting money, the new blouse was form-fitting, showed a little too much cleavage, and was probably the most daring thing I had ever bought without my mother’s knowledge.

As I stood fiddling with the fit, “A big girl wouldn’t wear this,” played through my mind in my mother’s voice.  I hung my head, but at the moment, I didn’t have another option.

When I opened the ladies’ room door, there he stood, the guy that ruined my blouse.  His eyes lit up when he saw me, and I couldn’t help but notice him scan me from head to toe.  He was tall, well-built, and had the most piercing eyes I had ever seen.  I blushed and started to bolt, but the kindness in his voice captured me.  I have been his ever since.

That was a long time and three kids ago, but the memory still made me smile.  We were married before I told him of the words my mother said to me.  He was angry – at her.  He fussed at the ridiculousness of it all, told me how beautiful I was, then unceremoniously stripped my clothes off and did me over the kitchen bar.

There had been many of those encounters.  Almost every time I would complain about my weight, say depressing things, or wear something overly-frumpy, he’d say the same things and do me, if not right where we were, then the first quiet spot he could find.

There was no doubt he loved me and found me attractive, as evidenced by my frequently sore pussy, but to this day, I still struggled with my mother’s words.  They echoed again in my head as I stood in front of the dressing room mirror fiddling first with the bandeau top, then with the full-coverage briefs.

It was technically a bikini, as my husband specified for our anniversary trip, but even with the amount of skin on display, I knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with this choice.  He had been hinting at this certain beach trip for a while, and not so subtlety suggesting what I wear.

The thought both thrilled and terrified me.  I knew my husband thought I was beautiful, and I’d even started seeing myself that way, but the thought of someone on the beach sharing my mother’s opinion brought up all the feelings of fear and doubt.  Not that this would be for them, but still, I didn’t need to feel bad about myself.

Huffing at my reflection, I thought about opening the door and getting his opinion, but I knew what his reaction would be, and I wasn’t sure I was secure enough for him to do me in the dressing room of a crowded mall, so I took my hand from the doorknob and picked up the bikini I knew he would really want me to wear.  Of course, after he saw me in this thing, he would probably still do me in the dressing room of a crowded mall.

It was a bikini in the truest sense, like a barely there, almost naked bikini.  My mother definitely would not approve.  The cups, if you could call them that, barely covered my nipples and my boobs hung out on all sides.  Needing to know, I bounced on my toes to test the security of my modesty.  Wow.  I tucked my boobs back in and decided I would have to be careful with the jiggle.

The bottoms were three strings and another triangle, scandalous for a Sunday School teacher by anyone’s standard.  My husband would be thrilled.  So far, only he and my doctor had seen this much of me.

I took a deep breath, then pulled an alcohol wipe from my purse and quickly sanitized what I was sure was about to be the next place of my marital defilement.  Then taking a deep breath, I opened the door, even uncharacteristically striking a brazen pose.  My husband immediately got that look.

The tent in his pants led the way, and I was soon in his arms and melting into his kiss.  “You are the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen,” he said.

Still feeling brazen I said, “Prove it.”  That was either a mistake or a stroke of genius.  I didn’t have time to think about it.  He spun me around and guided me to my hands and knees, dropped his pants, then plunged inside me beside the tiny string.

The poor top didn’t stand a chance and my boobs were soon swinging free.  I loved this part.  Him taking me in pure lust made me feel like a woman desired.  I pushed back into his thrusts, but then I thought about the bikini.  From this angle, all that was visible were the tiny strings on my shoulders, and my mother’s words came flooding back.

My husband sensed the change in me, but before I could burst into tears, he pulled out of me.  Then hooking one of his arms around my shoulder and the other under my knee, he flipped me onto my back.  Then he stood between my open legs and stole my breath with those piercing eyes.

“How many times do I have to tell you how beautiful you are? How many times do you have to see how hard you make me, and how many times do I have to fuck you silly before you realize how desirable I find you?”

His words stung, not because they were harsh, but because I knew they were true.  Then I did burst into tears.  His gaze softened and he knelt beside me.  “I love you,” he said.  “Please see what I see.  Be a woman, be my wife, and stop being that hurt little girl.”

Then the tears really came.  He laid beside me and held me through it.  I wanted to be what he saw and think of myself as he did.  He had given me so much evidence to prove his words, to prove what he felt.

Emotions and thoughts tangled in my mind.  Why not believe him? Why not take his word? He loved me.  He married me.  He had never once called me anything but beautiful and sexy.  He had never once done anything but try to bolster my self-confidence.  And he was always fucking me.

Memories passed through my mind, my heart swelled, and I smiled at him, then kissed him.  Feeling playful I said, “Maybe if you would fuck me just one more time.”  He did.  That was definitely a stroke of genius.

The beach was hot for the end of May, and maybe a little crowded.  The sand crunched lightly under my feet, and the blue water of the ocean beautifully reflected the sun.  Walking to the water’s edge, I let the waves lap at my feet.

Feeling the heat on my skin, I lifted my arms, twirled, then turned to face my husband.  He was tall, well-built, and had the most piercing eyes I had ever seen.  They scanned every inch of me as I strode toward him.  A few feet away, I raised my sunglasses and winked, then I peeled the coverup from my shoulders and let it fall.

Then I bounced on my toes and ran to my husband.  Feeling his embrace and approval, I finally knew that my mother was wrong.