The next morning, she woke up long after the sun rose, and for a few moments couldn't remember why her pussy was so incredibly sore; when she pulled back the blankets and discovered the wine bottle stuck to the sheets, it all came back to her. Before even showering, she snuck out onto the deck and peered between the railing slats to see whether the beach was populated with a wonderful vision, but she was disappointed to discover that Elinor wasn't basking in the sun. It's just as well, Lisha rationalized. That was getting really weird.

She showered quickly, unable to pleasure herself in the soap and suds as she usually did because of her soreness, then inspected her chubby body extensively in the mirrors, wondering if it was just her imagination or could she really detect a little extra thickness around her waist and thighs? She ate a hearty breakfast, including a couple of slices of cheesecake, which gave her a big exciting, shivering memory. She puttered around the house for a while, lying on the deck, stopping in the kitchen for a snack, trying to read a book.

It was the early afternoon when she made her way into the computer room, fired up the state-of-the-art PC, then poked around a little until she found the Internet dialer. She plugged in her name and password and made the connection. E-mail from fans, a note from her agent about an upcoming funding call for the film she was investing in. She booted up the browser and went to the Yippee! search engine, popping in her name as she usually did -- maybe it IS vain, she thought, but I bet there are tons of non-celebrities who go searching for their names on the net. She found the usual web-pages along with two new sites, the first of which was just another list of Lisha-links and the same old nude photos which were purported to be of her. She'd laughed the first time she downloaded one of them, and saw that the body looked NOTHING like hers.

The second site was for a place called Measurements Magazine. When she got to the home page, she saw that it was subtitled, "Fashion, fiction and facts for large women and the men who admire them." What the heck is this place? she thought. And what am I doing here? She scrolled down the page a bit, finally coming to a section entitled "Future Fatsos: Celebrities we think are going to get FAT!" Then, just below a "NEW!" burst was, "Hollywood Babe Lisha Goldrock -- Bustin' Out All Over!" She clicked on the link and was taken to a page which collected all the past few weeks worth of tabloid photos in one place.

And the text: "Going from bit parts in videos, to two DavidO-nominated starring roles in major motion pictures this year, and a non-stop buzz about her performances in two upcoming releases, making her one of the highest-paid and sought-after actresses ever -- beautiful Lisha Goldrock has had more than her share of success in the past couple of years. But it looks like she's had more than her share of dessert, as well! As these pictures demonstrate, those jeans which hugged her tiny little butt and bared her sunken midriff just twenty-four months ago probably wouldn't make it around one of her chunky thighs today! Too bad for all those horny post-adolescent legions of Lisha-lovers -- but absolutely GREAT for all of us folks who lust after meatier women. Keep going Lisha -- we're looking forward to the day when you're no longer a 'Future' fatso!"

She was amazed -- totally blown away -- not just by the inclusion of her name and photos in this site, but also by the huge amounts of material about other sites and other women and other men who loved fat women. She clicked and read and followed links for so long that when she finally tore herself away from the monitor, she saw that it was nearly six o'clock and her stomach was rumbling violently. She left the machine and headed towards the kitchen, but stopped as she passed one of the east windows and saw that Elinor was out on the beach, soaking up what was left of the late-afternoon sun. She was sitting on her blanket, sideways to Lisha, her great belly rolled out over her thighs, which themselves bulged so that the calves folded under them were nearly hidden. The binoculars were close at hand and Lisha drank in the scene with her eyes, the hunger in her stomach quickly replaced by a hunger between her thighs.

Imagine, she thought, that there was a photographer standing where I'm standing, and that was me out on the beach. How fat would I have to get to look like that? How much would I have to eat to get as fat as her? Imagine that I got that fat and that I was sitting there un-self-conscious as anything, un-knowingly displaying my multitude of bulges for photo after photo. And imagine the reaction when the proof of my obesity burst onto the front cover of the lucky rag that snared the photos...

Suddenly, Lisha saw Elinor look at her watch and then stir from her position on her blanket, slowly starting to gather up her belongings. Lisha was hit with a sudden panic -- she wanted to do something, talk to her, meet her, but -- she had no clothes on, and she didn't want to take the chance of scaring her away with naked directness. She bolted up the stairs, this time barely noticing the jiggling of her new blubber, grabbed a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from her unused-to-now valise, then popped onto the deck just in time for Elinor to notice her. Lisha smiled down and waved, saying, "Hi, neighbor!" She could tell that Elinor couldn't really see her because of the sun in her eyes, so she said, "I'm Lisha. We met at one of Stephen's parties. I'm staying here for a couple of days." Unhurriedly, Elinor smiled, said, "Hi, back!" and put on a robe that had been draped over her arm. "Let me come downstairs so I'm not making you blind," Lisha said, and practically skipped down the wooden stairs to the beach.

"Oh, you're THE Lisha," Elinor said, smiling slyly. "So, I wasn't blinded by the sun but by a star..." "But, I've been told that in Southampton everyone's a star, so no one's a star. At least... that's why I came here..." "Well, everyone WILL be a star in a month or two, but -- before Independence Day, it's really kind of sparse around here." "I know," Lisha said, "and that's good in a way, but it's also kinda lonely. So... I was thinking: if you're not doing anything... since we're neighbors and all -- and the only living people it seems -- maybe you'd like to come over and share some dinner with me. Stephen's left lots of stuff, and I'm sure I can whip something up..."

"That's sweet!" Elinor said. "Unusual for Hollywood. But -- I was going to make a nice dinner for myself and a friend anyway, so why don't you join us?" "No, that's okay -- I don't want to intrude or anything..." "You're not intruding if you've been invited," Elinor said. "And I'd love to have you over. It'll be just you and me and my... my friend... And when you've been together as long as he and I have been, some new company is always welcome. So, come over at around 7:30 -- and bring a good appetite!" She gave a little wave, then headed inside with Lisha's gaze following her rolling gait.

Lisha's first mission was to find something to wear. She started ripping through her suitcases, looking for the pair of jeans that had fit somewhat comfortably last week, only to discover, after trying them on, that her perception of a slight increase in the thickness of her waistline was not just an optical illusion or wishful thinking. It was only with a great feat of sucking-in and yanking on the zipper that she could even get them closed, and it quickly became obvious that the pain this involved would certainly prevent her from breathing, let alone eating. After more desperate searching, accompanied by amazement at how much and how poorly she'd packed, she finally found a long, loose, wraparound polynesian print skirt that, coupled with an oversized blue t-shirt and a gauzy white overshirt, made a presentable outfit.

Unfortunately, that had only used up less than a half-hour, leaving nearly a full hour of hunger to kill. She thought of turning on the computer and losing herself there, but it seemed like too much of a bother for a relatively short time. TV? Nothing on. A magazine? The New Yorker wasn't going to do it. A book? Sure, if she felt like reading from Stephen's obsessive collection of Holocaust books. She found herself in the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator, as if she were looking for some inspiration. Elinor's voice kept echoing in her head, though, saying, "bring a good appetite," so she refrained from eating anything. She sat at the table and put her head in her hands, waiting in that state of total boredom and restless anticipation she used to feel when she was a child, all packed and ready for a trip, but forced into idleness while her parents finished up all the last-minute details.

She glanced out the window into Elinor's kitchen, then picked up the binoculars for a closer look. She smiled, wondering what Elinor would think if she realized the true meaning of her statement, "You're not intruding if you've been invited..." The six-burner stove was covered with pots and pans of gigantic dimensions, each capped with clouds of steam. Not an square inch of space was visible beneath the clutter of ingredients on the counters, but the dining table on the far reaches of her view was set with three places, candles and a floral-patterned cloth. After a moment or two, Elinor came into the room, wearing just a black bra and black capri pants and bulging over and around every edge of fabric. She threw a blue button-down blouse across the back of one of the chairs, then went over to the stove and began stirring the pots; she started slicing and chopping ingredients next, opening and closing the refrigerator, arranging items on platters, tasting everything from a long wooden spoon. After about ten minutes or so, not a motion of which escaped Lisha's eye, Elinor suddenly put the spoon down on the counter, then walked quickly to the chair, put on the shirt and hurriedly buttoned it up before disappearing from view.

A moment later, she returned into the kitchen, trailed by a man whose front was pressed against her back and whose arms wrapped around her waist, hands clasped on the fullest part of her stomach. She arched her head backwards and they kissed lovingly for a moment before she disengaged herself and went back over to the stove. He was tall and very large, too, well-tanned -- but not in that show-offy, shirt unbuttoned, gold chains kind of way -- and dressed in a pair of jeans and a long reptile-appliqued golf shirt, which stretched tight over his proud gut and then dangled loosely, encircling the air around his relatively narrow hips. He had a hugely bushy salt-and-sand mustache, thick eyebrows and round gold wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was long and thick behind a receding hairline, swept back into a ponytail, and he reminded Lisha of one of her favorite literature professors during her first semester at college. He turned a chair around, and straddled it backwards, his big stomach bulging through the spindle-back of the chair like a prisoner straining against the bars of his cell.

Lisha watched Elinor silently cook and talk and laugh, freezing for an instant as Elinor gestured and glanced over at Stephen's house, obviously indicating who their dinner company would be. The man said something with a great big smile that caused Elinor to turn full toward him, one hand on hip, the spoon in a mock-threatening position in the other hand; when she turned back to the cooking, Lisha could see that Elinor was smiling. She watched them talk and fuss around in the kitchen -- he grabbed things for her from the cabinets and carried a couple of the platters out onto the deck -- and when she next glanced at her watch, it was 7:30. She had to restrain herself from running over there, opting instead for a forcedly slow and ambling pace.

If you've got any comments or criticisms, you can post them on the WeightBoard or e-mail me at: melaniebel@aol.com.

And don't forget to visit my website at http://members.aol.com/melaniebel