# The Liberation of Rosemary - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~~WG, ~BHM, ~BBW)



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Jun 20, 2010)

_~WG, ~BHM, ~BBW_ - A psychologist decides to stop playing mind games.

*The Liberation of Rosemary
By: Big Beautiful Dreamer​*
When my girlfriend made an announcement, I had no idea the effect it would have on us both.

I have had it, Rosemary announced. She threw down the psychology journal shed been reading. I wont bore you stupid with the figures  but the bottom line is this: Eating disorders are out of control. Half of all girls ages 11 to 13 think they are overweight. She smacked her forehead. Thats the age at which the female body begins to develop hips and breasts  her body becomes different from what shes used to! But our culture has made it clear that those curves are so shameful that theyll kill themselves trying to stop nature. She paused and bit her lip. She gave me a look from beneath lowered eyelids. 

Rosemary and I had met three years ago. Her friend was in the local symphony chorale, and Rosemary had wanted to ask about violin lessons. The friend had arranged for Rosemary and I to meet after one of the symphonys concerts. Id offered Rosemary four free lessons, something I occasionally did to hesitant adult students who might or might not want to continue. Rosemary chose not to  but by then we were both smitten. That first meeting had made my heartstrings go zing-zing-zing.

I had thought Id looked pretty good, although white tie and tails tends to do that. Rosemary had worn a forest-green T shirt and a khaki wraparound skirt. She was five foot six, I learned later, and in the neighborhood of 150 curvy pounds. She seemed not to even see my peacock attire  instead, in that briefest of encounters, she saw me, the me even I didnt recognize.

What have you had? I obligingly asked.

It. You know what? Im going to turn 30 in a week, and for the last 17 years  since puberty attacked like a stinkin train  I have felt guilty about every single bite Ive put in my mouth. I. Have. _Had It_! She stood up. Lets go out to dinner. Out. Somewhere with a buffet. I am no longer going to let anything artificial govern my eating habits.

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing at Rosemarys display. Shed been on a seemingly eternal diet ever since Id known her; and I didnt know whether to cower or applaud.

So we went out to dinner.

As we ate, Rosemary continued ranting. She got like this periodically. To be fair, I occasionally went off on my own rants. About the cost of violin strings, about students who could not, would not, be bothered to practice, about the _Pastorale_ being on the concert schedule _again_. 

So anyway, Rosemary said, through a mouthful of rotisserie chicken. That was my cue to tune back in. You love me, were living together, and I am going to stop feeling guilty and love myself as I am.

Amen to that, I said. 

It was the first Friday of the off-season, and the going out to dinner was, I think, at least in part a celebration of getting the weekends back. I was a violinist in the local symphony. We put on fifteen concert weekends a season, every other weekend, with extra rehearsals in between, so every weekend in season was spoken for. But most symphony musicians dont make enough for ends to meet, so  like me  they taught lessons. Rosemarys good income helped a lot. But this was the off-season, and my weekends belonged not to Rachmaninoff but to Rosemary.

The clack of a plate hitting the stack made me look up. Rosemary had cleared, apparently, three plates full of food and was now heading for the dessert buffet. Um, wow. I was a slower eater, always, and I had only managed two. (Admittedly, those were two very full plates.) I was debating a third. 

As Rosemary came back to the table, I noticed that the khaki wrap skirt was now under visible strain, her tummy bulging and the ties working overtime.

She plopped down with a plate overflowing with peach cobbler and a little bowl similarly overflowing with soft-serve ice cream. She attacked the cobbler with a vengeance.

The soft serve had begun to melt and looked insanely tempting. Rosemary winked at me and slid the bowl in my direction.

I took a tentative mouthful. Then aimed for another.

Draw back a nub, she teased, but as always I was sensitive about my fingers. I intelligently got my own serving.

When we left, I was feeling pleasantly stuffed, the sensation reminiscent of holidays past, and rather enjoying the feeling. Rosemary unlocked the car and paused to untie and retie her skirt more loosely.

Mm. Stuffed, she said sleepily. You mind driving?

I started the car. Whaddya mean, guilty?

She knew exactly what I was referring to. Ive been on a diet more or less for seventeen years and I am sick and tired of having other people determine my desirable figure! You find me desirable, yes?

I find you desirable, yes, I murmured, sliding my hand along her tummy. It was distended, pleasantly taut and warm to the touch.

Once we got to the bedroom and had begun undressing each other, I found Rosemarys bared and full tummy very appealing. Gravid and glowing in the lamplight. I drew her to me. Then Rosemary was in my arms, and gently but firmly guiding my hands to where she wanted them.

God, that felt good, she murmured afterward.

Why thank you.

That too  but I meant dinner.

Mmm?

Eating what I wanted to. Having seconds. Not guilting out about having rolls. Having dessert.

So what about Thanksgiving  and Christmas? I challenged. 

Bring em on. 

Then I drew her closer again and we kind of forgot everything else.

I had thought that Rosemarys rant would be a one-time thing and that she would return to obsessing about her figure. 

Wrong.

As noted, the off-season was play time for Rosemary and me. As a school psychologist, she had the summers off, so although I still had my violin students, we had a lot more time to be around each other. 

Have you noticed how often dates involve food?

I had honestly not paid much attention to the sea change until my trousers started to become snug. I incautiously bitched to Rosemary that she was drying them on high.

She bit back a laugh and gave me a prod in the belly. I looked down.

Oh.

My thoroughly average shape had somehow grown a convex silhouette. I lifted my shirt. Unmistakable love handles, a modest pot belly. Not bad  I could whip myself back into shape, I told myself. 

The prodding became  fondling. Rosemary was unmistakably, thoroughly aroused. Automatically I began running my hands over her. To my mild shock, I felt softness around her hips, some give to her tummy, a definite uptick in the plumpness of her breasts. We had both been putting on some weight during our summer playtime.

The intercourse that capped off that playful prod was some of the best wed enjoyed.

Now that I was paying attention, it dawned on me that Rosemary was almost always ordering an appetizer when we ate out. And dessert. And when we went on picnics, she made sure the picnic basket was loaded with good stuff. Of course I was pooching up a little. And true to her word, Rosemary was trying to stop feeling guilty over every bite.

I noticed the difference. And not just in the waistline.

Rosemary seemed happier, freer, more herself. As if shed finally gotten out from under a long-term and pesky obligation, like student loans, and was able to enjoy all of life instead of just 60% of it. I was falling in love with her all over again.

The summer went all too quickly. One day in mid-August, I tried on my white tie and tails, something I prudently did before every season. Usually it was a matter of checking for overlooked stains, the odd frayed seam, and so on.

I let loose a four-letter word.

Rosemary padded out from the bathroom.

Ohhh.

I stood in the bedroom. Dress trousers undone, dress shirt fastened only about halfway down. In the way: my newly acquired paunch. 

Time for a new set of tails?

I sighed. That being the case, um, we should probably scrap our getaway. I made a face. A new set of tails isnt cheap. Sorry, love.

Thats okay, Rosemary said, reaching up for a kiss. I can go in and get my files sorted out.

I made sure, once I got a set that pleased me, that the tailor left them a trifle loose. I had a feeling I would be needing the spare room.

The necessity for a new set of tails had also given me the information Id been subconsciously ducking: that I now possessed a 42-inch waist. No wonder last seasons outfit hadnt fit  that had had a 36-inch waist. Which had fit, incidentally. 

I waited until one evening when we were snuggled in bed.

Ah, Miss Rosie?

Sir.

My new tails  got a 42-inch waist.

Mm.

Rosemary.

Mm?

Thats _seven inches_.

Yep.

Duh. You dont mind.

Do I act like I mind?

Duh, again.

Then she demonstrated just how much she did not, in fact, mind my steadily thickening waistline. In the process, I was reminded of just how much I did not, in fact, mind her steadily softening tummy. The pleasantly cushioned midriff felt lovely against mine; her hips and bottom felt womanly and welcoming; her breasts were rounded and lovely. Dressed, she made my heart skip a beat. Naked, she did a lot more.

We were halfway through the new season and the dress trousers were noticeably snug when I spotted an ad in the music journal. The Boston Philarmonic  the _Boston Philharmonic _ was auditioning for a violinist.
I showed the ad to Rosemary. Her response was instantaneous.

Go, she said.

I went.

I auditioned. I came back. The only thing that kept me from biting my nails was my lifelong caution about my fingers and hands. I had to take out my nervousness while waiting somehow. Luckily, it just happened to be approaching Christmas. 

I ate.

It was the most challenging holiday season of my life. We did eight concerts, and in every single one of them I was giving part of my attention to the snug fit of my waistcoat and the steady, unrelenting pinch of my waistband. Part of my attention was giving to wondering when, if ever, I would hear back from Boston. And part of my attention was on how soon the concert would end so that I could be in Rosemarys arms again.

The combination of her liberated pleasure in life and her softening tummy, plump and tempting breasts, and gradually developing love handles was almost unbearable. She seemed similarly aroused by my steadily ballooning belly, my softening pecs, my thickening chin. We couldnt get enough of each other.

Finally, finally, two days after Christmas, the phone rang.

Boston was pleased to offer me the position. The salary meant no more students. It also meant that Rosemary could take a little time hunting for a job. At the audition, no one had said a word about my size. Id surreptitiously noticed that several philharmonic members were also carrying some midsectional padding, so  

But there was at least one thing I wanted done beforehand. Okay, two.

First I got the new set of white tie and tails.

Then Rosemary and I eloped. To Las Vegas. I wore my own formal wear, since I had it on hand. The set with the 44-inch waist, which just fit. 

Rosemary found a dress provided by the chapel. 

And so it was as man and wife that we settled into the Bay City.

Its summer again. The off-season has begun. Ive gotten fitted for another set of tails. As for Rosemary, she has put off the job search for now. Seeing as how theres another reason for her tummy to be getting bigger by the day. 

Shes challenged me to see if I can keep up with her gestational waistline.

Ill see what I can do.


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## BriarChubNJ (Jun 20, 2010)

Lovely, as always! Thanks


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## snr6424 (Jun 29, 2010)

One of the main reasons I finally signed up for an account was so I could tell you how much I've enjoyed your stories. This is another excellent tale added to an already impressive library. Thanks for sharing.


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## ChocolateBear (Sep 4, 2010)

After 2 weeks of moving, it is SO wonderful to see new stories from you. I only wish I were as gifted with the written word when it comes to BHM/BBW gaining fiction.


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