Full Figured 17

by Brandie Davis, Niko Michelle

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Big girls deserve love too, and Brandie Davis and Niko Michelle introduce readers to two women who are determined to get it.
Cam Girl by Brandie Davis: Lots of women weighing 300 pounds would have a problem with their size and wish for a smaller frame, but not Draya Phillips. She’s content with her weight and has no issues with her outside appearance. It’s the inside she’s at war with. Her
mind is her biggest enemy and emotions her personal bully. Draya’s only place of refuge, where her depression is silenced, lies in the world of camming, where virtual viewers cheer on and instruct her sexual activities.
This is her life: artist by day and cam girl by night, until her heart betrays her and seeks interest in a man it won’t let go of. Draya’s inner self is finally evolving and learning life is not all black shadows. Now that she’s learned this lesson, can her new lover accept
everything she comes with, camming and all?
Red Flags by Niko Michelle: We all have a little love-induced crazy in us. So, it’s no surprise Redarra Michaels’ crazy is exposed when she catches the love of her life, popular college football standout Taylor Lawrence, in a prone position off the field. Redarra was warned—
fluffy girls like her could never get and keep a guy like Taylor. All the flags were there, but big girls deserve love too, so she thought those flags couldn’t have been waving at her.
Well, they were, which causes Redarra to lose touch with reality temporarily. Now free, Redarra has dropped a few pounds and a few letters in her name. Red is curvy, dangerous, and on a mission for revenge. It’s not her fault everyone overlooked her red flags.

Release date: September 27, 2022

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Wintertime in the city was when Draya’s loft looked most beautiful, especially after sunset when a blanket of white covered New York. Light fixtures dangling from the ceiling throughout her home emulated countless fireflies dancing in the dark. She felt like a fairy walking beneath the man-made stars sprinkling their peace upon her and enhancing the beauty of the flowers that sat on her end tables. Her home was her sanctuary, where she only turned on her main source of electricity while cooking or showering. She was in search of peace, and the idiot box along with social media were distractions she was sure would ultimately lead to a reoccurring downfall.

Draya’s favorite part of winter was when it snowed . . . No flurries that would be erased the next day, but full-fledged snow determined to make its mark. She adored the snowflakes that piled themselves on the base of her ceiling-to-floor windows. Draya felt shut in, locked away, and segregated from the world. She felt pushed into a corner of her own and loved it. Draya sat in front of her easel sketching away in the dark while Mother Nature covered Brooklyn in a flurry of snow that fed her soul. She never thought out what she’d draw; instead, she’d allow the voice from within to take charge and cry itself out on paper. Sometimes, the paper would tear, bringing to life a hint of pain, while most of the time, it would spew a violent act of rage submerged in a rainstorm of tears.

Draya liked the latter moments. She liked when the emotions she shoved down into the pit of her belly came gushing out, surprising her like vomit staining a new toilet. For the time, she felt free and empty of the disguise she tried to hide. She felt human. Forgetting she was home and protected from men and women who mistook her for being pregnant and stared at her face’s slight disfigurement, Draya tried pulling down her crop top as far as possible. The stretchy material bounced back, returning to its true form, allowing her heavy, round stretch-marked stomach to breathe. She pushed herself back on the chipped, scratched stool she feared one day would collapse beneath her 300-pound frame and took a broader look at the nightmare she brought to life.

In the middle of everyday people walking through the streets of the Big Apple, absorbed inside their own worlds, laid a plump, umber-colored woman whose nakedness was covered by her floor-length dreads. She was curled within herself. Her face was hidden, and her hair was reminiscent of an African rock python wrapping itself around her. Snatching her 4H pencil from her pencil container, she darkened the places she hurt the most, which were everywhere.

Her cell phone vibrated against her meaty thigh inside of the pocket of her stretchy pants. “Shit,” she spat. Her lips curled into a snarl fitting for spit to accompany. “I forgot to turn this shit off. This is my time,” she barked. Her voice was picked up and carried around the loft, the echo screaming back at her.

Draya caught sight of the snow’s downfall increasing before turning to her phone. The flakes she remembered seeing the last time she looked out into the winter wonderland had disappeared and been replaced by boulder-size snow working vigorously at painting New York white.

She stood and walked to the window greeting her with winter’s beauty. She forced herself to pick up her feet a little higher, and each time she did, she hoped her massive feet would feel less heavy and more like air. Wished upon a star that the feet mistaken as swollen while wearing flip-flops would be sleek, slim, worthy of being licked without a second thought. But sadly, there was no change in mass, only the overly familiar feeling of girth weighing her down. Draya crossed her arms, conscious to avoid touching the fat swinging freely.

“Gorgeous, just gorgeous,” her lips moved, striving to catch the correct wording. “What I wouldn’t do to be able to melt away.”

From a distance, a figure bundled in a waist-length coat, clad with a hood, took giant steps inside the snow. He moved slow and precise, heading in the direction where parked cars were almost unrecognizable. Then he took another step and collapsed inside a snowbank. Draya snickered, the first smile hitting her face in nearly a week. She watched the stranger for a few more minutes as he pulled himself out of the pit and stumbled to his car.

Draya sat on her stool and looked over the flaws invading the drawing. What was seen surpassed crooked lines and uneven shading. Faults lay beneath the paper, inside the pencil strokes, and within the scenery.

The phone she failed to acknowledge vibrated again. Draya sucked her teeth, gave her illustration one last look over, and removed the phone from her stretch pants, her one of two connections to the outside world. On the screen, before she even opened the message, it read:

Open the

Her eyes scanned the sender’s name. “Willard,” she mumbled. She closed her eyes, running fingers through her dreads but was stopped right above her forehead by her yellow and blue head wrap. Eyes still closed and hand still on her head, slowly, she walked to the front door and opened it.

“What do you want?” Her eyes opened to a five-foot-four old bald man with a unibrow covered in snow. You have got to be kidding me. So this is the fool I was watching from the window?

“I’ve come with treats.” Willard held a black plastic bag out to Draya, who didn’t take it. Then quickly, he ripped open the bag and exposed a liquor bottle. With his free hand, he held up a bottle of vodka, smiling as flurries collected on his shoulders in the doorway.

Cold but refusing to display it, Draya repeatedly tapped her foot on the floor. “I said, what do you want?”

Shivering, Willard tried easing his way past Draya and into the loft; however, her wide hips acted as a roadblock and pushed him backward. “Can I come in? I’m freezing. Fell into the snow back there.” Willard’s arm flung behind him as he gave a yellow-toothed smile.

No longer willing to ignore the weather nipping at her skin, Draya backed away from the door and allowed her most faithful customer inside.

“You’ve forgotten. I knew you would. I knew I should have sent you a reminder,” he chuckled, followed by a snort. He looked around and took in his surroundings. . . the wooden bookshelves against the brick walls, the marble coffee and end tables on top of the fur rug, and high-tech touch screen kitchen appliances. “Wow, this place is nice.” He slowly removed his jacket and hung it on the coatrack. Before his feet stepped on another panel, Draya pointed down at his boots, and instantly, Willard got out of them.

Sockless, he headed for the kitchen and placed the liquor on the island. He pulled on the cabinet handle, and when it opened on its own, he backed up and blew out globs of air. Then catching his breath, he finally answered Draya’s question. “Tonight is the night you fulfill your first old man fetish. I’ve been talking to a few friends who are fans of yours, and they’re excited about tonight’s episode.”

“Dammit,” escaped from Draya’s mouth without her meaning it. “Tonight, I have an episode, and you’ve told people the theme? I told you, keep it quiet. I don’t need word getting out about the upcoming episodes. I work off of shock value.”

Willard pulled two short, wide glasses from the cabinet and poured some vodka. “I’m sorry.” His shoulders shrugged. “I had to speak with someone about it. Plus, I wanted to ensure we get viewers. This is my first time camming.” He laughed again, and Draya noticed another missing tooth on the side of his mouth.

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself. Remember, you’re just a prop.”

“And that’s all I need to be.” He handed Draya her glass and sipped from his. “It’s so dimly lit in here. There’s a bunch of these small lights hanging around, but they give off hardly anything. Why don’t you turn on the main lights?”

“Because I don’t want to. I like it like this.”

Draya kicked back the liquor, her mind circling and trying to grasp the fact that she had a show that night that she wasn’t in the mood to film.

Willard went into the living room, his feet walking on the bottom of his pants. “Wow, now look at this. You draw?”

Draya flew over to the easel and turned her nightmare around. “What I do outside of camming is none of your business. Now, go upstairs. The second room to the right is where you can set up.”

Willard nodded his head, snatched the bottle of whiskey, and headed for the winding staircase. Five steps up, his hand grazed the railing’s peeling paint.

“Draya, you should really repaint this railing. I know of someone who can do this for dirt cheap. I think about . . .”

The farther Willard walked, the more he spoke, and his voice diminished. Draya listened to his small feet slap against the stairs and pushed his underdeveloped voice from her ears. Then rushing inside the kitchen, she opened the tequila. This was a liquor-mixing moment, a time to speed up the process of intoxication. She held it up to her lips and took in such an amount she scared herself. It dulled her senses, shut off her brain, and commanded her body to comply and take in the pain-numbing poison.

My main john is now my closest friend, and I’m in the camming business. My main john is now my closest friend, and I’m in the camming business. She repeated this sentence in her head while drinking. Her body began to rattle, and her eyes moistened with tears. My main john is now my closest friend, and I’m in the camming business. Finally, she pulled the bottle away and slammed it on the island. Coughing, Draya fought to catch her breath. She rested her palms flat on the granite countertop and told herself, “You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

Draya read the liquor bottle’s label, its ingredients, and its brand. She scooped it up again, took two more gulps, and with closed eyes, set it down. Her lips curled immediately, tears dropped, and her soul ached. Wide-eyed, Draya snatched the bottle by its neck and hurled it into the brick wall decorated with hanging potted plants. She crouched down, her heavy arms wrapped around her big legs. She rocked back and forth, the rapid beating of her heart pounding inside her ears.

“Breathe, Draya, breathe,” she instructed herself. “Breathe.” Her fist on her chest helped her inhale and exhale. Minutes of breathing as if in a Lamaze class led her entire being to stabilize. She pushed out one final surge of air and stood up.

“Draya, I was thinking, how about I wear a thong tonight? You know, gain some views from the gays and bisexuals.”

The door to the video room was wide open. It had professional ceiling lights, video equipment, fans, and a king-sized bed with red silk sheets. A sixty-inch smart television connected to a laptop welcomed Draya like it was the first time she stepped into that space. Equipment and stagewise, Draya wasn’t where she wanted to be when it came to holding a steady ranking and making the big bucks in the camming world. However, her viewers appeared pleased and made it their business to comment on her interior decorating during every show.

Booner: Damn, your bed is huge. Can I join you?

Onenightman: I can fuck you on that fluffy-looking carpet of yours.

Don’taskmyname: I can’t stop looking at that drawing above the bed. I’m staring at that more than you. Where did you get it, Casey?

From the doorway, Draya watched as Willard bounced up and down on the bed, testing its durability and strength.

“When did you get a waterbed?”

“Last week.”

He nodded. “Great addition. I haven’t seen anyone incorporate a waterbed in their videos yet.”

Draya came farther inside and closed the door behind her. “I know.”

She sat beside him, the bed’s movement taking her up and down while she fell back into when she was first introduced to water beds, the sheets gathering around her, covering her face.

“You thinking about Steward?”

Draya sucked in air and held her breath. The silk sheets surrounding her nose blocked off the air and slowly suffocated her. She wanted to drown within the sheets inside the bed and wake up somewhere far, far away in another universe. Instead, Willard ripped the silk off her. A rush of air touched her skin, rushing inside her nostrils.

“Huh?” Willard looked down at her. He gave her a clear view of his white, overly grown nose hairs.

Draya rolled her eyes and looked away. “How can I forget him?”

Willard lay beside her, his eyes stuck on the ceiling. The ceiling he once hoped he’d see in person one day after the first night he signed into Draya’s channel. “I’ve known him for years and never seen him like that.” He scratched at his newly grown gray beard.

“How did he treat the other prostitutes you two picked up together?”

“Regular. Based on what we paid them for is how he treated them. If we paid them to dominate us, he became submissive. If we paid them to screw, he screwed. He did nothing out of the norm.” Willard frowned, the extra skin under his neck swaying back and forth.

“Until he met you.”

Willard stopped speaking. He treated that night as a forbidden topic. They never talked about it, treating it like a bad dream they forced to the back of their minds and locked away in a vault. Finally, he sat up. “Let’s get started. We’re ten minutes behind showtime, and we’re not even dressed.”

“Then why did he do it?”

Willard took off his shirt and unbuckled his trousers. Gray back hair escaped from out of the corners of his dingy wife beater.

“Willard, if how he acted was out of character, then why did he do it?”

“We have a show to do, Draya. Ratings are calling.”

Draya shot up. The waterbed swayed and pulled her back down on her back. Her short, chunky legs flapped in the air moments before hitting the floor. She grabbed Willard by the shoulder and forced him to look at her. Her plump fingers sank into his skeletal frame.

Willard sat back down. “We’re not gonna shoot on time, are we?”

“Why did he do it?”

Willard wiped at his beady eyes. He gave extra attention to his left eye, a nervous habit formed during tense situations. Liquid seeped out of the corners of his eyes, and he grabbed the bottom of his undershirt and dried off his face. His fingers walked up his right arm in search of the scab in the center of his shoulder.

“You were a release.”

Draya watched tiny pieces of crust descend from Willard’s skin and plummet to their demise.

“What do you mean ‘release’? He didn’t fuck me. Not from what I remember.” Draya leaned over and rested her elbows on her knees. She dug her elbows deeper and deeper into her flesh.

“Not that kind of release.” Willard stopped tampering with his scab and pulled at his neck’s stretchy skin. “Steward’s wife took him to the cleaners so bad she might as well made him get on his knees and fucked him in the ass with a strap on herself. He was pissed the hell off.” Willard’s voice raised. His volume caused Draya to jump, her elbows sliding off her hefty legs. “She took it all. The house, the cars. And the damn dog. Boy, did he love that dog. He spent a lot having that dog trained and every week got it groomed. Could have been one of them dogs competing in shows. You know, the ones where—”

“Get back to the fuckin’ point.”

Willard’s fingers retreated to the wound he partially reopened and ripped off. He laid the dry patch on his tongue and swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

Draya spat out air and lay her head on Willard’s shoulder. She planted her palm on the small of his back and rubbed in small, circular motions. “I’m sorry, just please tell me,” she said softly.

All of Willard relaxed except for his toes that wiggled out of control, pushing his pinky toe out of the hole in his sock. “That feels good.”

“I know. Draya knows.” Her hand slithered past his neck to the back of his small head. Her neglected nails scratched the back of his head, causing him to close his eyes and thank her.

Willard took her free hand into his. He gently rubbed the top of her hand, the action reminiscent of a man petting his cat. “Back to the divorce, once it was settled—”

“No, just tell me what I need to know. No backstory.”

“I have to. You can’t ask someone to jump out of a plane without first taking a breath.”

Draya sucked her teeth.

“Once the divorce was settled, and Steward was left with nothing except his name and two-day-old drawers he’d worn back to back, he wanted to take his anger out on someone, a woman. Said he wanted to fuck her like he’d just been fucked. Restore the balance of power is what he called it. She’d cheated, yet she got everything.”

Willard cleared his throat. “I thought what you thought that he wanted to blow off some steam in a sexual manner, wanted to dominate a woman the best way he knew how. Feel like a man again, ya know? I’ve had plenty of days where I felt like a bottom bitch taking a dildo in the ass, lubricant-free, and needed to regain my pride someway.” He swallowed hard, recalling the countless, overly thought of memories from the past.

Draya squeezed his hand. “Come back to me, Willard. Keep talking.”

“Yes, yes, oh yes, I apologize.” He straightened his posture. “Steward asked if I knew of any Black prostitutes. Said he had never had a Black one before. Said it would be the perfect touch. So, I thought of you.” The only clear, blemish-free part of Willard without fault welled with tears. “I recommended you, knew he’d have a good time with you. Knew you could take anything he’d throw at you.”

“She’s carefree, that one. No uptight prude like that ex-wife of yours. Casey likes to have fun and venture out, grab life by the balls, if you know what I mean.”

“I told him all of that, and to seal the deal, even told him, ‘She’ll do anything. No questions asked as long as the green’s right. Then everything’s all right.’”

Draya wondered when the tears would fall, wondered how it was humanly possible to contain such emotion and liquid without the plummeting bursting.

“Showed him your picture, and he was all for it. Said you were perfect, his little Black girl. I didn’t know his plans for you. You gotta believe me.” Willard pulled his bottom lip into his mouth before continuing to speak. “When he first started smacking you, calling you names, and violently twisting your nipples, my dumbass thought he was into that whole role-playing scene. Thought it was foreplay. Thought your screaming was just good acting skills.”

“How could you have thought my screaming, ‘Stop—what are you doing?’ and ‘Please, no,’ could have been acting?” Draya questioned, surprisingly without a dash of anger in her tone.

“I’ve dealt with plenty of prostitutes who agreed to rough sex and faked resistance. Plus, I gave him your contact information and thought you guys worked it out beforehand. So I asked no questions, especially when it’s on another man’s dime that I’m getting a fuck on.”

“When did you notice something was off then?”

“When he started calling you by his ex-wife’s name. Now, that, that’s just not normal, and the look on his face when he said it was everything evil. Then before I could say a word, he had dug his brass knuckles out of his pocket and put them on. I can still hear the sound, its impact when he punched you in the mouth.”

Willard snatched away from Draya and slapped both palms on his head. “I knew I heard something crack. I just knew it.” The floodgates opened. “He kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting you, and by the time I got him off you, he tore himself out of my hold and threw you to the floor, where he started kicking and stomping on you.”

“I don’t remember that,” Draya admitted, her eyes now foggy.

“That’s because you had already gone unconscious. I grabbed him again, but my strength was like a bunny rabbit compared to a bull. He shook me right off. I knew then there was nothing I could do. Cancer had stolen that part of my manhood long ago. That’s when he started dragging you by a fistful of your dreads around the hotel room, and I knew things had gone too far.”

Blood sank unevenly into the cream carpet. It trailed down one direction, only to shift and go the opposite way. Its flow should have been slow and steady, a snail’s movement. Instead, the pool of blood gushing out of Draya’s lips, inner cheek, missing teeth, and cheekbones initiated vital fluid to leak fiercely and unapologetically.

Rage and a lack of energy pulsating through Steward’s body pushed his 250-pound frame slightly backward. Barely on her feet, he used a wobbly and weak Draya to remain balanced. Sweat trickled down the bald spot in the center of his head. The hand that held Draya tightly by the collar of her shirt wore bronze knuckles saturated with blood.

Steward swallowed his saliva with as much aggression placed into the vigorous and hateful punches he used to violate Draya’s face. Then slightly reenergized, he continued with his violation. His brass knuckle-decorated fist cocked back and swiftly rammed into Draya’s mouth. The loud, cracking sound released by her broken teeth hit each corner of the room.

He smiled. The corners of his mouth twitched. “I did it. I broke her jaw.” Then using the motivation he obtained from physically breaking her, he continued to pummel her makeup-worn face. “Bitch! Whore! Slut! Cunt! I gave you everything, yet you took it all!”

Almost halfway through his purging, Steward felt pressure wrapped around his triceps and his body separating from Draya’s.

“Stew! What are you doing? Stop, man!” Willard strengthened his grip, only for Steward to pull himself from his hold with a hissing, low growl.

Determined more than before and now seeing his ex-wife’s face on Draya’s, he squeezed both her shoulders, straightened her so that her unconscious face faced him, and tossed her to the floor.

Mounted over her, he placed his pointer finger in the air, where he wiggled it from left to right. “You’ve been a bad girl. I’ll show you what bad girls deserve.” The bottom of the construction boots repeatedly stomped and jammed inside Draya’s hip, stomach, and occasionally her legs. “There’s no coming back. You’ve done it now!” Globs of spit and bile flew from Steward’s mouth between each word, landing on Draya.

“Fuckin’ bitch.”

Kick after kick, stomp after stomp, Steward’s aggression worsened as every pain-stricken hit perfectly aligned with Draya’s head. Steward dropped his foot. His body turned right and quickly collapsed beside Draya.

Hollering, he rolled off the arm his body fell onto and grabbed at it with his good hand. His eyes shut, and when they opened, he stared into Willard’s.

“You fucking faggot!” Steward pushed himself up, ignoring the pain pulsating through him.

Willard’s lips trembled, and his fingers twitched. . .