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It was an early summer day, a bit warmer than normal. I had arrived for the day tour in the Criminal Investigations office. Being the junior investigator, most of the mundane daily tasks fell to me. It was about 10:30 in the morning, while I was organizing the reports from the previous shift, when the telephone rang.

A small County Sheriff's office was requesting assistance with a death investigation. It seemed that a body had been found on a walking trail, near a small lake, in a remote part of the county. The trails were part of a park that included the lake and a pavilion with a basketball court and a well appointed weight room. There were picnic tables and small bar-b-que pits scattered around the lake and into the surrounding wooded area. With the view of the lake and mountains, it was really quite picturesque. The park was very popular on most summer weekends, calling the scantilly clad sun worshipers in large numbers. However, at mid-morning on a weekday, it was as quiet as a gost town, which seemed appropriate given the object of our visit.

He was on his back, spread eagle on the trail. I don't want to sound too technical here, but he looked...flat. Not flat like a sheet of paper, or a cartoon drawing, but he was definately lacking the normal thickness you commonly see in most live people. The guy was surrounded by a strange, oval shaped imprint in the packed dirt of the trail. Only his legs, below the shins and his hands were outside the sunken area. It looked like when we lifted him up, he would leave a deeper outline in the dirt, kind of like a snow angel. I'd never seen that before and, from the look on the face of the Senior Investigator, Bob Simmons, neither had he. The mechinism of injury was not in evidence. That means the piano, boulder or whatever flatened the guy and made that imprint, was not still in the immediate area. It could've been a rougue comet for all we knew. The third member of our team, Jim Carter, thought a meteor was more likely than a comet, but, this early into the investigation, I really couldn't say. Outside the sunken area, a few feet east of the body, was a shattered baseball bat. The bat looked like it had taken a Freddy Garcia fastball in on the hands. Curiouser and curiouser, to coin a phrase.

Jim and I widened our search of the area. About 10 yards north, and just off the trail, we located where the attacker had been waiting. He had been there for some time, judging by the candy wrappers and cigarette butts laying around. His hide had been in a long curve where the brush had grown up around the trail. Due to the curve and the brush, the visibility of this part of the trail from the rest of the park was limited. It had a lot of potential for an ambush, or a robbery.

While Jim and I had been checking out the area, Bob had been checking out the dead guy. Bob would stare at the guy for a while, squat down and stare at him, then get up and repeat the process from a different spot. He did this several times. I asked what he was doing. Bob said "That's Roger Johnson." Johnson was a local bad guy. Big time, for the area. He was currently wanted in connection with seveal robberies and assaults against women. The word was he had recently graduated to raping his victims. Hair color was right, he was about the right size, near as I could tell. Johnson wasn't a big guy to start with, about 5 foot 5 inches and 135 pounds, if I remembered his last booking sheet. Given his size and his chosen profession, carrying a Louisville Slugger to work may have seemed like a good idea. It could have been Johnson, the height was close, but as I mentioned before, he looked thiner, now.

Jim asked, "Are you sure?" Bob gave him his sly look, he was good at that, and replied "Could be, seemed thicker in his picture." Jim pointed out that a picture could add 10 pounds to one's appearence. In my relatively short time in the unit I have learned that sometimes it's best to just say nothing.

Being the junior investigator on the team, the odds were good that I would be given something to do, shortly. It didn't take long for that pearl of investigations to come true. While Bob and Jim practiced their witty comebacks and watched the techies process the crime scene, I was sent to get a statement from the Reporting Party, one Ms. Bridgett Moore. According to communications, Ms. Moore lived at 14857 Grand Fir Road. I was told she was expecting me. I checked my map and found that Grand Fir was only a few minutes drive from the park.

I arrived at Ms. Moore's home at 1:15 p.m. As I parked I was thinking that the way the temprature was going up, I probably had a better deal than the guys at the crime scene. They had to wait for a lot of detail work to be done, before the body could be moved. A red Ford full size, extended cab pickup was in the driveway. As I walked to the front door, I could see a patio on the side of the house. A single chair was at one of those round tables with the big sun umbrellas mounted in the middle. The chair looked larger than usual, wider, I think. The chair looked to be of very sturdy construction, welded steel tubing and such. A 21-speed mountain bike leaned against the house, along with some standard sized folding chairs.

The screen door was closed, but the front door was open. Because of the bright sun outside, I couldn't see inside very well. I knocked on the screen door, identified myself and called inside, asking if Ms. Moore lived here. A low, but melodic, feminine voice answered from someplace inside. She said her name was Bridgett, and invited me inside, saying she would be right there. I entered and stopped a few steps inside, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. It was pleasently cool, inside. I noticed small tremors and wondered briefly, where the low grade earthquake was centered. Ms. Moore, who was apparently in the kitchen, asked if I wanted something cool to drink. I tried to set the tone, answering in my best Sergeant Joe Friday, "No thank you, Ms. Moore." She replied, "Call me Bridgett, please". The tremors, which had stopped, had started again. Oddly, they seemed to be getting closer.

I turned and saw Bridgett, approaching from the doorway at the far end of the living room. That explained the tremors. Bridgett was a very big girl. She was wearing sandals with about 2 inch heels. Bridgett would be 5 foot 11, maybe 6 foot, in her bare feet. Bridgett was wearing a bright colored, sleevless summer dress, that came down to mid-thigh. Bridgett wasn't just tall, she was big, too. Did I mention she was a VERY BIG girl? My goodness, each of her thighs were at least as big around as my 46 inch chest. Her calves, flexing with each step closer to me she took, looked as big as my own 26 inch thighs. Her huge belly swayed, side to side, with each step. Her breasts were like two soccer balls, moving independently, atop her awesome belly. Bridgett had a beautiful, oval shaped face, blue eyes and full lips. All this was framed with thick dark hair that fell around and over her broad shoulders.

Bridgett reached out to shake hands as she got closer. I couldn't remember why I was there and I wasn't even sure about my own name, at that moment. I felt a sudden kinship with the deer in the headlights. I had liked larger, full figured women for as long as I could remember and Bridgett had all of that, in spades. She had to weigh over 400 pounds! I had dated women that weighed 250-300 pounds before and reveled in the feeling of heavy softness, when we were together. A quick picture of Bridgett, on top of me in the women superior position came to mind. I have always enjoyed that particlar way of making love. The feeling, I think is greatly enhanced by a larger, heavier female, that can exert some serious pressure on the down stroke. I had always been able to get out from under when I wanted to, without too much trouble. I had wondered from time to time what it would be like to be truly trapped under a lover. I found the thought exciting and frightening at the same time. I wondered if she had been in that position, and if the lucky guy had survived. I noticed that my underwear seemed to be spontaniously shrinking.

That picture was still in my head as I took her hand for the ritual handshake and introduction. I looked past her big right hand and saw a large forearm that reminded me of something that I couldn't quite place. Bridgett's upper arm flexed along with her hand and forearm. As the pressure on my right hand increased dramatically, that elusive thought popped sharply into focus. I had seen the inside of enough weight rooms in my time, this very large women moved some very large weights. Well now, all that time I spent in weight rooms wasn't just spent watching. I was only 5 foot 8, but I carried 200 pounds that was still mostly muscle. I could bench press 270 pounds for sets, curl 140 pounds with a straight back and grip with 120 pounds of pressure from either side.

As I looked up into a dazzaling smile and sparkling blue eyes, I increased the pressure in my grip. Bridgett's smile got even bigger as she squeezed harder, too. We soon found the unspoken contest a draw and released. I was far closer to maxed out on that grip than I thought was reasonable, given that the other person was a sweetly smiling, tanned, 28 year old female.

While causing me to feel a bit more wimpy than when I had walked through the door, the handshake allowed me to refocus my thoughts. More importantly, I had remembered my name and the reason I was there. I'll let you in on an Official Police Secret, here, it's normally preferred that you know the reason for a interview while conducting one. In that light, I thought my returning memory was a good sign for the upcoming interview.

Bridgett offered me a seat, while we took care of her statement. There was only one couch and a matching loveseat to sit on in the living room. Having been tested once already, I chose to remain standing while taking the statement. I was also concerned that if I sat down, an unprofessional, although completly involuntary swelling could become more noticable that it needed to be. I had to back up to allow her to pass. Most of the people I work with are taller than I am. I got used to that a long time ago. As Bridgett moved majestically past me, I felt very small in comparison. I thought she was going to sit down on the loveseat. She started to go around it, then stopped and sat on the arm of the loveseat. She didn't seem to notice the popping noises.

As Bridgett recounted her morning adventure, she crossed her right leg over her left knee and began bouncing her right foot. It may have been a nervous gesture. The motion caused her dress to ride higher, unintentionally exposing more of her huge thigh and giving a clear view of her flexing quads. She obviously wasn't "cut" like a competative body builder you would see, but her toned muscles were clearly visible as she moved her leg. Bridgett was "talking with her hands" while she related the events leading up to finding Johnson on the path. I realized again just how big her forearms were. Her upper arms had more jiggle to them than her legs, but her biceps must have been 22 inches around. I had already felt a portion of the strength she had in those arms.

The feeling that the rate of shrink in my briefs was increasing, along with the fact that I couldn't remember Bridgett's last 3 sentances, led me to believe that I was loosing focus, again. Man, I had never had this much trouble talking with a witness before. I was really getting angry with myself. Okay, don't look into her eyes. Yeah, that's the ticket! It's good to have a plan.

Bridgett said she had finished her strength training in the weight room and was going for her usual walk around the lake when she came upon Johnson, on the trail. She knelt down, to check for a pulse but couldn't find one, then went and called for help. She gave her information to the 911 dipatcher and waited for somebody to show up. After the Fire Department arrived, she rode her bike home and cleaned up.

In my mind, I could picture Bridgett kneeling over Johnson. As she knelt, her belly must have nearly brushed the dirt of the trail. The idea of her, towering over his small body caused me to stop taking notes and look over at her. I realized that while she sat in the arm of the love seat and I was standing, we were looking straight across, into each others eyes.

My focus fled. It was gone, history. I couldn't think of the next logical question to ask. As I paused, Bridgett looked me up and down, and said "You look hot. Are you sure you don't want something cold to drink?" This time I agreed without hesitation. I was still trying to think of my next question when Bridgett rose and pivoted toward the kitchen. I started to step back to give her room to get by, but I was too slow this time. As she turned, her huge stomach swung and brushed against me. I barely had time to register warm softness, followed by a small portion of her awesome mass. I was already going backwards and the impact took me off my feet. I landed on my backside, in a totally unprofessional manor. Now, just for the record, I have played sports since I was a sprout and have taken and taught defensive tactics classes for 15 years. I'm normally quite coordinated.

I quickly began to get to my feet, but Bridgett was quicker. She bent over and gripped me solidly by the upper arms, giving me an up close view of the biggest breasts I had ever seen. Each one was easily bigger than my head. Her nipples were big, like the rest of her, and were putting up a valiant battle against the thin material of that overburdoned sundress. Then Bridgett lifted me right back to my feet, in the process dragging me across her enormous belly. As she pressed me against the amazing expanse of that belly, I recognized the odor of gardinias.

Bridgett was apologizing like crazy while she brushed off my clothes. When she brushed down the front of my slacks, she couldn't help noticing my obvious reaction to her massive presence. She brushed down my legs, briefly, then brushed against my erection again. She stood up, looked down at me and smiled as she apologized once more and said she'd be getting that cold drink, now. She looked flushed and I could certainly feel the heat on my face and neck.

When she turned, she bumped me with her hip, nearly knocking me over again. I just gawked after her as she walked away, toward the kitchen, giving me my first look at her from behind. Her hair came down to her shoulder blades, swaying lightly as she gracefully walked away. Her back and shoulders were broad and clearly powerful. I hadn't been moved with as little effort as Bridgett had expended lifting me up, since I was 8 years old. Her hips flaired wide, tightly stretching the already thin material of that great looking dress. I wondered if her hips would brush when she passed through the doorway she was approaching. Her backside was as impressive as the front. Each step caused a beachball sized cheek to flex and rise into a powerful rounded dome. Her calves were defined, under that extra flesh, hinting that she rode that bicycle a lot. She glanced back at me and smiled just before she went through the door way. Bridgett didn't brush the door jam as she passed through to the kitchen. For some reason, that disappointed me, until I looked closer. The doorway was 5 feet wide. It had to have been custom built.

Bridgett returned with the rasberry iced tea and I managed to complete the interview without choking or causing additional embarrassement to myself, or my department. As we finished the Q & A, Bridgett maintained eye contact with me. She had a slight smile on her moist, full lips. I noticed that Bridgett had to occasionally move her tounge over her lips, to keep them moist. It must have been the heat today. It seemed like it was 150 degrees in that house.

When we finally finished, Bridgett walked me to the door. We exchanged the usual goodbys. As she looked down at me, that dazzaling smile on her angelic face, I gave her my business card, with the case number written on it, and asked that she call if she thought of anything else. She said "You can count on it, Detective."

While I walked back to my car, Bridgett was standing in the doorway watching. When I got to the car she waved and thanked me for coming. I drove away thinking I'd had a good career. I'd helped some people along the way and made a positive differance in my community. Not everybody could say that. I figured that when Internal Affairs finished with the complaint about my conduct during the interview with Ms. Moore, I'd be lucky to get a long haul trucking job. Three states over. Under an assumed name. It was all done but the waiting. I wondered how long it would take before Bridgett would get outraged about the horny little pervert clutz that had come to her home after she had gone through the truma of finding some dead guy on her relaxing walking trail. It shouldn't take long after that to make the call. Then its Truck Masters Driver's Training Institute, here I come.