# One for the Books - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG)



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 8, 2010)

_~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG _- A bookstore owner finds herself falling for a guy who helps her write a new description of beauty.

*One for the Books*​*By Big Beautiful Dreamer​*
Okay, so maybe it’s a stereotype. Hell &#8211; it’s definitely a stereotype &#8211; but my gay friend James is the best cook I’ve ever known. Every year he throws a ginormous Thanksgiving dinner party. My only job is to bring the wine. Which I do. We make up a loose confederation of a dozen or so strays. From year to year the cast changes a little, but there’s always enough overlap for familiarity.

As always, the dinner was laid out along James and Nick’s pride and joy, an antique dining table that seated eighteen. They’d moved away the extra chairs to give us all a little elbow room, but as for space on the table itself, forget it. James got everyone’s attention, decreed that the dishes should be passed counterclockwise, and we dove in.

I ate happily, slowly, savoring food and conversation. Dipped into a debate about Congress, took some more stuffing, listened happily to a conversation about rugby, my knowledge of which was zero, grabbed some more cranberry relish as it went by, argued amiably with my right-hand neighbor, an estate jeweler, about the estate tax, and subconsciously felt myself becoming full. 

My jeans began to pinch, which they hadn’t that morning. I shifted in my chair, conscious that my stomach was already pretty full, but everything was so good I wanted the tastes in my mouth. My belly was saying, “No, stop, ow” and my mouth was saying, “Stuffing, yams, gravy.”

My mouth won. 

I ate my way through several platefuls of mind-bendingly yummy stuff while finding myself deep in conversation with a newbie, a bookstore owner named Margo. We agreed that yes, James Frey was a sham, but David Sedaris’ pitiless honesty was poignant, funny and sad at the same time, _mmmmm stuffing accidentally mixing with cranberry relish_. I confessed that I was a sucker for memoirs, whether they were by someone famous for other things or just someone with an interesting life story _ohgod gravy swirling into the yams and a few shreds of dark meat clinging to the fork_.

By the time everyone slowed down and began to drift into the living room, I was past full, past stuffed, lightheaded with the swollen ache of my gorged belly. Having gotten, with a grunt of effort, to my feet, I couldn’t face the idea of sitting down again and having that suddenly tight waistband slicing into my bloated and tender gut. I undid the button and tugged the zipper down, conscious of a sweet moment of relief even as it registered that the liberation didn’t make my aching stomach any less distended or any less stuffed. 

I sank into a large easy chair and unthinkingly rested a hand on my belly. Bulging, firm, warm, it felt like a lead weight, but in a good way, too heavy but also satisfyingly replete. 

Margo, of course, had noticed that I had to undo my jeans.

“You’re not the only one,” she said, her full mouth quirking into a grin. She glanced around. “We’re all stuffed.” She was wearing a mulberry cotton dress, and though it was loosely cut, I could see a taut mound of tummy below the fabric. I had followed her glance and seen that several others had indeed undone their trousers or at least their belts.

My overloaded stomach gurgled audibly and without thinking I pressed down, as if that would stifle the noise. 

“Oof. _Hic_. Ohhh.” Now that I had stopped actually eating, my aching stomach was sending up distress signals. My whole belly was stretched and sore, and I could feel all that turkey and stuffing jostling for space like the dishes on the table. Margo stood up and tugged me too my feet, and obediently I followed her out to James and Nick’s balcony, where the cool evening air was crisp enough to ensure us a little privacy. 

“Here. _Hic. Ooh_. Here. Lie back,” she urged.

I sank onto a lounge chair and Margo sat on a footstool she’d pulled up next to it. Suddenly her soft, capable fingers were gently massaging my gorged and swollen belly, prompting a symphony of embarrassing noises she didn’t seem to hear, or if she did hear, didn’t mind.

Tacitly given permission to feel sorry for myself, I carried on groaning.

“_Ohh_ … I’ve really got-_hic_-a stomach ache … oh, oh, right there … _ow_, not so hard … _hic_ … mmm … oh, yeah, right there, that helps … _urrp … urp _… _ohhh_ …”

I dozed off, a little ten-minute hibernation, and when I blinked into consciousness, I saw Margo leaning with her back to the balcony and one hand lazily massaging her own tummy bulge, the fabric sliding around and highlighting and hiding the evidence of her gluttony all at once. A surge of arousal coursed through me. I slammed my eyes shut and waited for it to ebb and then hauled myself upright, suddenly shivering in the cold.

“I smell coffee,” Margo said. I didn’t even bother to try to do up my jeans &#8211; I was still way too stuffed &#8211; but we went back in and opted for Russian tea instead, and, after a while, dreamily swallowed large heavenly slices of chocolate cream pie.

On Tuesday, after work, I hunted up Margo’s bookstore. The neat sign in the window proclaimed it to be open from noon to 9 p.m. Tuesdays through Saturdays.

“Hi! Um, um, Cameron, right?” Margo was beaming at me from behind the counter. She was perched on a stool, doing something, accounts probably, on a laptop. 

“Right. And you’re Margo. No, no,” I said hastily, “I want to browse.” She went back to her accounts. 

Bookstore patrons have their own unspoken courtesy. You don’t disrupt other patrons’ browsing, reading, or drifting. Celtic music played in the background. Patrons managed to avoid bumping into each other. From time to time I heard the beeps and chunks of a sale being rung up.

By 8:15 I was deep in an easy chair and deep into a memoir by a pimp’s daughter. Margo suddenly appeared by the arm of the chair. One look and, quite by accident, I was incapable of standing up.

True, Margo hadn’t just gorged on Thanksgiving dinner. But her pink top clung in all the right places, and her jeans were just a smidgen too snug, and I would have to call that a muffin top pooching at her waist.

She noticed my glance. “Yeah … these jeans will have to go, soon,” she said, a trace of regret in her voice. 

Impulsively, I stood up, embraced her from behind, and slid a finger along the modest fold of tummy as I growled in her ear, “I’d love to see you without those jeans.”

She caught my unsubtle double meaning and giggled, laying a hand atop of mine and arresting the movement.

“Can I buy a starving bookseller some takeout after you close?” Oh, graceful, Cameron, graceful.

“Yes, please,” and then a customer came in, dammit.


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## Ssaylleb (Sep 8, 2010)

Oooh I like this one... chubby protagonists, a bookstore and a Thanksgiving gorging. Pretty much as close to heaven as any of us can expect to reach 

Eagerly awaiitng the next episode


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Sep 10, 2010)

After she locked up, we went back to my apartment via the Chinese takeout. Margo’s eyes widened when she saw all the food out of the bags and laid out on the table.

“Wow, they always give you so much food.”

“We’ll manage,” I said casually, my heart pounding. 

“Well, you can stash the leftovers,” Margo suggested. I didn’t point out the little knee-high dorm fridge in the corner of the kitchen, microwave on top. The fridge held pop, beer, and creamer and not much else. There certainly wouldn’t be room for leftover takeout. It would have to go into my belly.

I fetched us a couple of beers and we dived in. Talking about books, genres, authors. Giggling at our clumsy attempts with chopsticks. We both effortlessly polished off two containers of fried rice and a quart serving of lo mein before we started to slow down.

Margo stood up. She hiccupped. “_Hic_! Ooh. Scuse me. Could I use-_hic_-your bathroom?”

She disappeared into the bathroom and I tidied away the empty containers. When she came out, I was treated to the sight of her waistband and shirt stretched snugly over a full little muffin top.

“I’d better go. _Hic_.” There was regret in her voice. “It’s a-_hic_-quarter to ten. _Hic_. Oh! Thank you for dinner.” She leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheek.

And suddenly I was alone in the apartment with a pint of egg drop soup, two egg rolls, and the TV remote. Sighing, I opened a can of pop and addressed myself to the leftovers as I channel surfed, settling on a half-over _Raising Arizona_. Slapping mustard mechanically on slice after slice of bread, Nic Cage’s buddy’s wife was chatting mindlessly with Holly Hunter about vaccinations for babies.

By the time Cage and Hunter had returned the stolen Arizona quintuplet, I’d finished the pop, the egg rolls, and the soup. Without even being aware of it, I’d undone my jeans at some point. Sated, sleepy, my swollen belly throbbing steadily and my lips stinging with flavors, I staggered off to bed and a restless and dreamless sleep.

On Thursday, I dropped by the bookstore with a takeout pizza. We devoured it while she dealt with the last few customers and closed up, but then she went home and so did I. Not, however, without having procured a date for Sunday afternoon. The zoo, then dinner. Maybe a movie.

So. Sunday. The zoo. A shared bag of popcorn, a couple of frozen lemonades, chili dogs, peanuts, Cokes. Even with all that sustenance, by the time we had done the zoo thoroughly, the hiking had given us an appetite. We went to a Japanese place and ate sushi and drank Sapporo beer, then found an art house showing _The Remains of the Day _digitally remastered or something. As Emma Thompson broke Anthony Hopkins’ cloistered heart, we munched through a tub of popcorn and sucked down a couple of large pops.

And I went to bed alone again … which was just as well. I’d eaten and drunk so much that evening that my bloated belly, aching and gorged, was gurgling, sloshing, churning and making the occasional ominous rumble. I’d feel that chili in the morning, I knew it.

Six dates and three weeks later, I took her out for a nice dinner, a sort of Christmas present, and gave her a pretty vintage wristwatch. She gave me a David Sedaris book in hardcover. We let a taxi take us back to my apartment and there … on a quilt under the Christmas tree … we undressed each other.

I unzipped her dress and helped her tug it off. Loosed her bra, slid her panties down. She undid my tie, peeled off my shirt and undershirt. She unfastened my belt (thank you) and trousers (ditto). Tugged down my boxers. We lowered ourselves awkwardly onto the quilt and she relieved me of my socks. Then we lay side by side in the flickering holiday lights drinking in the sight of each other’s bodies.

“You’re beautiful,” I said slowly, cupping her round handfuls of breasts and sliding my fingers along her sides. I rested a hand on her pale tummy, which showed a bulge from our dinner and hints of creamy flesh above her hips.

“Fat,” she said.

“Shhh. Gorgeous. Women have curves, women have fabulous hips and breasts and tummies and bottoms that are soft and creamy and welcoming.” I was frankly fondling each part as I named it off and stopping her protests with kisses. We drew together, slowly and gently entering each other as if in a dream. We both inadvertently _mmmf_’ed as our full bellies pressed against each other. The pressure was like a massage &#8211; exquisite discomfort that I hoped would never stop.

Our intimacy went on for what seemed a heavenly long time. Afterward we peeled ourselves up and made it as far as the bed, with champagne.

“Truth?” I asked hesitantly, idly cupping the nearest breast.

“Truth,” Margo said promptly.

“I think women are prettier when they look like a woman and not a matchstick, anorexia, stick figure. I see these celebrities and they always look like they’re on the point of death.” I was treading on thin ice.

“I need to lose weight,” Margo said flatly.

“No, you really don’t.”

“I should …”

“Says who?”

That stopped her.

“Oh … um … I dunno,” she admitted, yawning hugely.

“Let’s make a New Year’s resolution not to worry about our waistlines,” I said tentatively.

“Mmkay.” And then she was asleep.

We had to go our separate ways to be with our families for Christmas, but we were both expected at Nick and James’s Twelfth Night dinner in early January. By then, I had prudently added some trousers with a 32” waist to my wardrobe, as the 30’s were getting rather snug, and that had been before Christmas. I did a fair amount of damage to my mom’s stuffed turkey and pumpkin pie as well as to the tins of cookies, popcorn, and fudge scattered around their suburban split-level.

When we reunited over coffee and pastries, Margo was wearing a new sweater (Christmas present) and it was gorgeously snug. I thought it highlighted every luscious curve and that there were some to highlight. Margo occasionally tugged at the hem as if trying to conceal the new swell of tummy and pooch of waist, but I drank it in, startled by how much I had missed her.

We didn’t need any extraneous gossip (yet), so we arrived for the party separately. Margo looked stunning in a midnight blue dress that hugged her breasts and floated away into layers of sheer stuff below. I was feeling invincible in charcoal gabardine trousers with a waist that was actually a little loose, a gray shirt with crisp white collar and cuffs, and a charcoal silk tie.

James and Nick had, as usual, put on a memorable holiday feast. Beef Wellington, turducken (don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it), all the trimmings and then some. After more than an hour at the table, we staggered into the living room, stuffed and groaning. Conversation was desultory at best &#8211; we were all sated, all weighted down with the enormous dinner, all drowsily replete and achingly full. I sank into the worn soft leather of an easy chair, my new trousers undone, and rhythmically massaged my gorged and bloated belly, not caring about trying to be discreet. For starters, I wasn’t the only one in the room with a stomach so swollen that my trousers no longer quite fit. Packed to the brim, my middle was tautly distended and seemed to my hazily blurred vision to protrude several inches beyond the edges of my trousers. Eventually I would have to try to do them back up, but that would require sucking in my gut, and at the moment the mere thought was enough to make me a little queasy. 

I was aware of Margo, tucked into the corner of a sofa, resting her hands on her tummy and talking with Richard, an intellectual property attorney, about e-books. The dress concealed her figure, but I was willing to bet that her own delectable belly was stretched beyond full as well.

After an age, Nick and James urged us back to the table for plum pudding, apple pie a la mode, and a genuine English trifle, helped along with strong coffee. The last thing I needed was more food in my achingly stretched belly, but damn those desserts looked good and I had to have some of each. It took some effort not to moan out loud at the rich density of the pudding, the thick, spicy flaky flavor of the pie, the cold creaminess of the ice cream, the sweet fruit and smooth cream of the trifle. With every bite I could feel my bursting stomach protest, but my mouth kept demanding another taste. Down the table I surreptitiously watched Margo slowly, oh, so slowly, swallow mouthfuls of pudding, trifle, ice cream, pie, occasionally closing her eyes. I knew her tummy had to be stretched and aching, like mine, and it was all I could do to keep from grinning in recognition when she rested her free hand on her swollen midriff.

I don’t really remember leaving the party, but I do remember the relief of peeling off my clothes and the sheer instinctive pleasure of finding that my bed contained a very naked and very roundly rosy Margo.

“Ooofff,” I grunted as I sank onto the pillows. “_Hic_. Ohhf. I don’t think I can move.” I wasn’t exaggerating much. The skin of my swollen and aching belly was stretched so tight I knew that even turning onto my side would hurt … and I didn’t want anything to hurt. I wanted to float, gorged and dopey, in an eternity of time and space.

I was blurrily aware of Margo lowering herself onto me.

I groaned. 

Then her tautly rounded tummy was pressed against my distended and tender belly and once again I felt the exquisite discomfort of our mutual pressure. I don’t think I moved much … I don’t think I could … but I sank blissfully into sensations that were both very very physical and at the same time incredibly mystical. _Ohhhh ahhhh mmmmm_ and then we were side by side, aching tummy to aching tummy, and then we were nuzzled together and gently caressing each other’s stretched and swollen bellies, listening to the gurgles and rumbles, drowsily pleased with the occasional belch or hiccup, not saying a word.

After a while, after our initial physical discomfort of being so incredibly stuffed had begun to ebb, I cupped my hand to her thickening waist and cradled the softening rosy flesh.

“Beautiful,” I murmured.

“You’re just saying that. _Mmmmmm_ … right _there_….”

“This,” I said firmly, “this is gorgeous.” I smooshed my hands around her tummy, reveling in the sensation of creamy belly, handfuls of tummy, tantalizing curves of hip and thigh, back always to the belly _ohmygod _that rosily full belly.

“You’re weird,” Margo observed mildly.

“Yup. _Urrp_.” I paused and pressed a hand to my own belly, still achingly stuffed but not quite as uncomfortable.

“You really like my big old muffin top?”

“I love the muffin thing. And I love you.”


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## ChocolateBear (Sep 30, 2010)

Reading this is making me REALLY serious about stuffing myself this holiday season. *grin*


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