# Architect of her Dreams



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 14, 2006)

BHM, WG

*ARCHITECT OF HER DREAMS​** By Big Beautiful Dreamer​*
AUTHORS NOTE: I am perfectly aware that dating a client is a bad idea in most professions and illegal in some. I am also aware that Francescas hint that his employment depended on his weight is probably grounds for harassment. This is fiction. Allow me a few liberties, please. &#61514; And ENJOY!! BBD

As Lewis settled into his seat at work, he squirmed uncomfortably. These chairs were evidently built for really skinny butts, he decided, disliking the way his hips were wider than the seat back. And what the heck was wrong with his midsection? He pressed his hand against his waistband, frowning. Instead of descending smoothly past his belt, his stomach now rested on it, forming a modest pot belly. Where had that come from?

No time for reflection, he decided, dismissing the thought. He had a preliminary sketch to finish today before the client came in, which was  he glanced up at the wall clock  an hour and a half from now.

Though he more or less kept his mind on his work, his awareness of his new belly  or was that his new awareness of his belly?  preyed on him all morning. When his partner (Marty Robbins, the second half of Parsons & Robbins, AIA) poked his head in and said, Im going for coffee and a bagel. Want a cinnamon roll this morning? Lewis paused before answering.

Why did Marty ask if he wanted a cinnamon roll? Did he have one that often? Maybe so, he thought, his hand surreptitiously slipping to his overlap. Um, no thanks, he said. Just  um  a cup of tea. And, No sugar, he yelled at Martys back. Marty flapped a hand in acknowledgement.

Just in time, Lewis laid the sketch on the desk. The administrative assistant came in, announcing, Ms. Morgan, then stepped back. Ms. Morgan, to whom Lewis had spoken only on the phone until now, proved to be a pleasant-faced woman of about 30. Her hair was cut in a smooth dark bob, and she was of medium height and just a little soft around the edges, maybe 5 foot 3 and 150 pounds. She was casually but smartly dressed in a V-neck lime-green sweater and unwrinkled khaki pants and carried a lime-green purse that Lewis recognized from a recent ad in the New York Times.

Hi, Im Francesca Morgan, the woman said, extending her hand. Her voice was low and melodious, a burble of repressed laughter running through it.

Lewis Parsons, he said, shaking hands. A smooth, cool hand, firm grip. Before you sit, Ms. Morgan, take a look at this, please, and let me know what you think. Now this is just a preliminary sketch. Within the laws of physics, we can do just about anything with this you want.

The client leaned over the slanted, high architects desk with Lewis, their heads almost touching, both placing their hands around the edges of the desk for balance. Her hands were smooth and a little soft, and there was a white mark where a wedding ring had been until recently.

You know, she confided, as if reading his thoughts, I got divorced a few months ago. He was a jerk  but it still cost him a lot of money, she said cheerfully. Im planning to make this my year-round home, not just a vacation home. So I want a lot of windows to catch the light, but I also want it warm enough. Can we do that?

Sure, Lewis said. He straightened up, took a pencil from a nearby jar, and used it as a pointer. A lot more homes these days are using a floor-based heating system  its very energy-efficient  that goes back to Roman times. Its called a hypocaust, and it warms the floors, with heat rising upward. We can also make it very well insulated and make sure those windows are very tightly fitted while still giving you fabulous views and light. Its not cheap, though, he warned. 

Money is just about no object, she said, eyes twinkling. I write for a daytime drama. If you look fast, youll see my name in the credit scroll at the end of Quiet Little Town. I work from home, and you wouldnt believe how much money it pays. And, she added, wagging a playful finger at him, Lets 
not forget about Scumbags monthly checks.


Okay, then, Lewis said, excited at the ideas racing through his head. Now. About the overall design.

By the time they got to the roof  having started with the floors  Lewis heard his stomach growl. It was so loud that Francesca Morgan heard it too. She smiled and looked at the clock. Oh my gosh, she said, Its almost 1:00! Tell you what, she said, if you have time, lunch is on me.

I have time, he said, more excited than he ought to be at the prospect of lunch with this woman. I have to go out to a site at 2:30, thats my only hitch.

Lets go to the Golden Corral, she suggested. Its such a nice day, we could walk.

By the time they had claimed a table and headed to the buffet, Ms. Morgan was insisting that Lewis call her Francesca. Mindful of the feeling of his belly protruding over his belt this morning when hed sat down, Lewis fixed himself a salad. Francesca said nothing, but when Lewis emptied his plate and made no move to get any more food, she said, I hope thats not all youre planning to eat. Youre a growing boy, you know.

Lewis rolled his eyes. Im growing, all right. Embarrassed, he patted his stomach. Put on a little weight lately.

Francesca looked directly at Lewis waistline. Oh that, she scoffed. Thats nothing. Who wants a guy to be a skinny Minnie anyway? Go on. Get some more. I want us to get our moneys worth.

Your moneys worth, Lewis thought, but he didnt say it. Instead, he went back. Still mindful of his waistline, he chose a grilled chicken breast, green beans, carrot coins and a dab of potatoes.

Francesca tsked. Youll blow away in a good breeze at this rate, she declared, but then let the subject drop. While he ate, however, she made a point of not just eating her modest serving of peach cobbler but making out with it. She moaned (quietly), she mm-mmed, licked the spoon, all but lay down and rolled around in it. Lewis resisted manfully and finally she gave up.

Thanks for lunch, he said, once they were outside. 

My pleasure, she said. When can I come back and see the new drawings?

Um Lewis pulled out his pocket calendar. Two weeks? Ten-thirty?

Perfect, Francesca said. Bye, skinny! She waved as she headed up the sidewalk toward the parking deck.

After his visit to the building site of a new theater he had designed, Lewis went back to the office and worked diligently until 6:00. On his way home, he almost automatically pulled into a McDonalds drive-through, then thought about it. Thats where this thing is coming from, he thought guiltily, putting a hand to his belly. Too much take-out. His stomach, on cue, growled. Tomorrow, he thought. Ill do better tomorrow. And Ill work out tonight.

Later that evening, after the burger, fries and Coke were history, Lewis, by now in shorts and a T shirt, sat down in front of the baseball game on TV and tried a few sit-ups. They were harder than theyd been in high school PE class, and he managed only 10 or 15 before giving up, winded. He chugged a bottle of lemonade and went to bed.

When the alarm went off the next morning, he decided to go for a jog instead of taking his time waking up with the morning news. His pace slowed perceptibly after the first block, and he was puffing after one round trip. He forced himself to go around again; then, sweaty and pleased with himself, he headed inside to shower.

After a few days, Marty stopped asking him if he wanted a cinnamon roll. Lunch and dinner were still usually quickie affairs, although he occasionally remembered to buy frozen meals and even occasionally remembered to bring one in for lunch or have one for dinner. He plodded twice around the block once or twice a week. 

Then Francesca came in to see the latest drawings, and again treated him to lunch. Her manner was slightly cool until Lewis, taking the hint, got a thick slice of pound cake from the dessert bar. She warmed up instantly and all but sat in his lap. She told him more than hed ever wanted to know about her ex. 

He was controlling, but mainly with himself, she said. Worst kind. It was as if he thought his head would fall off if he ever gained a pound. He didnt care that I liked bigger guys, didnt care that I had no fun in bed, only cared about being skinny. She narrowed her eyes. I hope youre not like that. Pouting, she hinted, Id hate to have to find a new architect.

Mindful of Francescas parting words, Lewis stopped his half-hearted joglets and went back to being a fast-food steady customer. He hadnt seen much difference in his waistline anyway. Upon dropping his exercise and healthy eating program, however, he did see a difference.

His pants, which had seemed to be pinching just a little bit less, began to pinch just a little bit more. Simply for the sake of being able to breathe  a favor for his body, really  Lewis began fastening his belt one notch looser. He began toweling off with his back to the mirror. When he noticed that he needed new underwear, he opted for boxer shorts  and a size larger in the waist. 

He began to puff a little taking the stairs to the office and started choosing the elevator. He began treating himself to a morning cinnamon roll  but only on Fridays. And then Francesca came in for her next meeting wearing a sleeveless blouse. The blouse was attractive and flattering, a mock-cowl that lay in subtle folds that hinted at her cleavage, and her bare arms proved to be luscious: lightly tanned, every so slightly rounded, beautifully squeezable. She seemed almost disappointed that it was time to start the actual building.

Does this mean I wont see you anymore? Again the sexy pout, but this time her gaze dropped from his eyes to his thickening waistline. Self-consciously, automatically, he sucked it in, but that made him burp. He stifled the sound, but let his belly back out and it settled, relieved, into its usual flop over his belt.

Uh, just the opposite, he said, hoping he wasnt blushing. Well have regular meetings at the site until its done.

As the work progressed, Lewis found that every time he ate anything, he was thinking about Francesca. Was it his imagination, or did her feelings for him increase with the size of his belly? Was her affection growing along with his waistline?

Finally, work done, Francesca insisted on taking him out to dinner. By now he was easily able to give her her moneys worth. Six months had transformed his average build. His chin and jawline had softened noticeably, as had his chest. His backside was wider, now significantly wider than his chair seat, so that he had to balance on the chair at work. His belly, even when he was standing, even when it was empty, curved outward. When he sat, it sat too, a cushion perched upright, balanced on his now way too tight waistbands. Hed given up on belts. 

I want this to be a real celebration, Francesca announced the minute they sat down. Two orders of crab dip, she told the waiter, and a Yuengling for him and a glass of Perrier for me  Im driving. Appetizers were followed, for Lewis, by a huge bowl of seafood Alfredo. By the time he finally saw the bottom of the bowl, he was uncomfortably stuffed. Leaning back in the chair, he stifled a belch and, with considerable effort, undid the button of his pants. Two chocolate volcanoes, Francesca told the waiter before Lewis could protest. It was over dessert that Francesca said: Lewis, I like you. Youre not a jerk and youre not controlling.

Oh, nice threshold, Lewis said, laughing. After several beers, he was relaxed enough to say that, even though it came out nizzze thesshhhhld.

I mean it, she said, playfully tapping his hand. What would you think about spending weekends at my new house? Im not asking you to live with me, she hastily added, just  kind of test drive it.

Lewis almost said he would live with her any time he wanted, but what came out was a burp he didnt have time to stifle. When it stopped, he realized that he had an awful stomach ache and that he was afraid to move for fear of splitting his pants. 

Please, Francesca said, as if he needed convincing.

Okay (hic!) Lewis managed.

Good, Francesca said briskly. Now, finish your dessert.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 14, 2006)

She was kidding, right. I cant (urp), he puffed. (Urp) too full. He patted his stomach for emphasis. Swollen and taut, it made a hollow thumping sound. His skin was stretched tight and he felt as if his belly might pop. Hed gained weight slowly, insidiously, a burger here and a cinnamon roll there, but seldom had he been so full. He felt a little sick, and his aching belly, grumbling and groaning with the effort of digestion, threatened to spew something right back up.

Lewis, Francesca said softly. Please?

About to say no, Lewis massaged his distended abdomen for emphasis, and found that it felt good. Silently, avoiding her gaze, he rubbed it some more and actually coaxed up a small belch.

Was there actually more room in his stuffed belly? Okay, Lewis said finally. Francesca beamed.

Accordingly, Lewis moved some of his belongings into Francescas new house  Love your architect, hed joked  and theyd celebrated with takeout pizza. When he closed the box lid after only five slices, though, Francesca took a deep breath.

Lewis, she said, hear me out, please. She paused. I really love you. You make me laugh, youre smart, creative, gentle  everything Hal wasnt. I think youre very very handsome  and I think youd be even more handsome with a few more pounds on you. Could you gain some weight for me?

I already have! Lewis protested. Leaning back on the sofa, he patted his bloated belly for emphasis. Swollen with pizza and Coke, it was tight as a drum. He belched. 

Francesca studied her feet for several seconds. Id really like to see how you look at 300, she said. 

Three hundred! Lewis yelped. Id look like an elephant, is how Id look.

No, she insisted. I think youd be a big soft handsome, gorgeous, irresistible guy. As she spoke, shed started gently playing with his belly. She pinched his love handles, massaged his protruding midriff, patted his chest, even pinched his nose and cheeks. 

I dont even know how much I weigh now, Lewis said evasively. I dont own a scale.

I do, Francesca countered. Not tonight, of course, but first thing tomorrow, lets weigh you. Please? When Francesca pouted, Lewis melted, it seemed. She pouted, and suddenly Lewis realized that all that wonderful belly massage had made some more room in his tummy. He reached with a grunt for another slice of pizza. 

The sunrise woke them the next morning in the activity-dampened bed. Up up, my little chickadee, Francesca cooed. Scale time!

Yay, Lewis mumbled, but he dutifully padded to the bathroom. He stepped onto the scale. The needle swung back and forth and settled on 190.

Yow, Lewis said, awake now. Yikes. No wonder my pants are so tight. Last time I weighed myself I was 165.

How long ago was that? Francesca teased. Could you see the number under your bellbottoms?

Very funny, smarty pants, Lewis retorted. Um  um  I dont remember. I think it was in college.

So at least 10 years ago.

More like 15.

Well, for goodness sake, Francesca chided. Now look at yourself in the mirror. He did. Francesca slid her arms around him, playfully patting and pinching his pot belly, squeezing his love handles, squishing his face. Know what I see? she asked rhetorically. I see a big handsome guy who can only get handsomer the bigger he gets.

It wasnt very grammatical, but Lewis brain wasnt what responded to her come-on.

The bedroom calls, he said, grabbing her hand.

The kitchen calls, she corrected. Go watch the news, handsome. Ive got a breakfast to make.

The smells were irresistible, and by the time Francesca called Lewis to the table, his stomach had been growling steadily for 15 minutes. Eggs, bacon, French toast, cantaloupe, coffee, and a stack of English muffins. They dug in, although Francesca paced herself on purpose. Lewis thus ate more than he meant to. Finally running out of food, he pushed his chair back, grunting as he stood. Stuffed, he said succinctly. He patted his swollen belly, packed with food. He belched, then yawned. Need a nap, he said thickly. 

Hammock. Go, Francesca said, propelling him toward the porch.

Weekends quickly became a blur of companionship, food, walks on the beach, food, swims in the ocean, food, sex, food, naps, food, the crossword puzzle, food, and occasional breaks for food.

Lewis partner, who had very briefly been a candidate for the priesthood (For about eight months, in another lifetime), was blessed with unusual tact. Although Lewis weight gain was becoming more visible by the day, he never said a word. Not a joke, not a raised eyebrow, nothing. 

Francesca, meanwhile, said plenty. He began to live for those weekends and started spending Thursday and Monday nights out there too, caring little for the 45-minute drive to work it made. By the time he was living with her full time, he was a lot closer to Francescas goal of 300 pounds. His face, once unmemorable, was now round and full, cheeks chubby, sizable double chin lapping over his collar. His chest was broader and softer, and his arms began to hang slightly away from his sides. His pot belly developed a spare tire, curving from chest to belly button and then thickening some more, a circle of flab like a traffic roundabout. When he sat, it took a minute for everything to settle.

On this particular Friday night, when he sat down at the dinner table and waited for everything to stop moving, he had weighed in that morning at 300 pounds exactly. He had come to love his size, mostly because Francesca was so obviously turned on by it. He felt a more commanding presence. When he strode onto job sites, he no longer had to wait meekly for the construction foreman to notice him. Was he getting more respect? It seemed so. 

Francesca was excited about something. Lewis wasnt sure what, unless it was the milestone on the scale. Dressed in that brown sleeveless blouse he liked, she handed him a plate heaped with a ranch house-size portion of lasagna. Eat, eat, she said in a mock-Italian accent.

Lewis ate. He downed the huge serving and accepted another. His belly pushed hard against his pants. Leaning forward to reach for the bread, he felt rather than heard the button pop off and the zipper slide down. He belched. Midway through his third helping, he felt himself slowing down. Bloated and aching, his belly stretched tight as a drum, protruding forward like the bow of a ship. The edges of his pants were parted by what felt like miles of tummy, rounded and pale, like a heap of sand from the beach out front. He wasnt sure he could finish.

Fran (urp), he said, puffing. Wordlessly, she got up and began massaging his hugely distended tummy. As she rubbed, he carried on. Finally, he emptied his plate. 

Good boy, Francesca said, beaming. She slipped into the kitchen and came out with a triangle of cheesecake so large it needed a change in the zoning laws to be on the plate. 

Resuming the massaging, she put a clean fork in Lewis hand and he soldiered on. He was full, stuffed, ready to burst. His bloated abdomen curved tightly outward, about to split open. He was so full he couldnt sit normally; it hurt too much. Instead, he was leaning back in the chair, the pressure of his overloaded belly pushing him into reclining. Slowly, steadily, he ate, and ate, and ate. Dimly, from a distance, he heard Francesca cheer. He felt her pulling him to his feet, felt his groaning stomach slosh heavily, felt the belch rumble upward and explode. He felt her help him slowly and carefully to the sofa and recline his seat. He started to doze off as she gently and steadily massaged his massive tummy, as round and smooth as a cupola. Lewis, she murmured in his ear.

Lewis, a little louder. With a great deal of effort, he forced his eyes open and glanced her way. Lewis, she said for the third time. I love you.

Love you too, he mumbled thickly. 

Lewis, Francesca said, patting his face. Will you marry me?

His eyes snapped open.

Me? Marry you? You? Marry me? Lewis managed intelligently. He belched, started to draw a deep breath, and instead hiccupped sharply. 

Become the architect of all my dreams, she said.

Wow, that was clever, Lewis thought. He rubbed his swollen stomach. 

Yes, he said. Urp.


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## zonker (Apr 18, 2006)

Your stories, with their attention to food and glorious eating, always seem to increase my appetite. I always want to eat and do the same things as your characters. *checking in yellow pages for a Golden Corral*

If you keep writing stories, I'm gonna be putting on some serious poundage.

Not that that's a bad thing...


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## codyblair08 (Feb 7, 2011)

Big Beautiful Dreamer you have done it again I love this story


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