# It's Personal - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, ~~WG, ~BBW)



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Aug 2, 2010)

_~~WG, ~BHM, ~BBW_ - What happens when a nice guy who's been looking for love in all the wrong places meets a nice girl whose hobbies seldom take her far from the kitchen?

*It's Personal​**By Big Beautiful Dreamer​*
Id always thought of myself as old-fashioned in some ways. Maybe thats why I preferred the personal ads in the weekly entertainment tabloid to online dating sites. 

For all the women out there wailing about where were all the decent men, there are any number of decent men unable to find relationships. I considered myself one.

I was 27, 510 and 175 pounds. Standard hairline and dark brown hair worn a little full. Standard features, standard body, standard job, standard wardrobe, car, and apartment. My last girlfriend had dumped me for an investment banker a year ago. I regularly passed evenings in bookstores, at free talks and readings, attending movies and performances. Why the hell couldnt I find a girlfriend?

Hence the personals, which I once read strictly for entertainment. Slowly, I crossed over into perusing them and actually considering the notion. 

And hers caught my eye.

*SWF, 25, 56 130, brown/green. Into cooking and baking, int. desgn., movies, concerts, reading, domesticity. Fin. stbl. Looking for frndshp/reltnshp, honest, serious, no head games.*

Shed given a voice-mail code. Id called and left a message. I was intrigued. Unless there was something shed left out, it begged the same old question. Why couldnt she find a guy? What was she not saying? I was actually curious. Okay, nosy.

She called back.

Usually, the prudent protocol when meeting someone introduced via personal ads is to meet them for the first time in a public place, for ones own safety. She invited me to dinner at her apartment. Either she should have been more on her guard, or I would have to be on mine.

Im Susan Harrison, said the woman at the door. She was as advertised, average height and build, with a chestnut pageboy and large green eyes. Not pretty exactly, but pleasant-enough looking. 

Dominic Hayworth, I said, and, stepping in, looked around. Miss Harrison was indeed into int. desgn. Her living room was simply and tastefully furnished and laid out, and made me feel very much at home. She led me into the tiny dining-room nook and asked me if I wanted wine.

What can I say? We hit it off at once. Discovered wed been in the same audience for any number of local concerts and readings and talks, shared a taste for romantic comedies and foreign films, the same quirky sense of humor. She had a quick wit and a quick tongue, and I found myself helpless with laughter several times.

And the food? Oh. _Oh_. The salad was a work of art and delicious to boot. The soup was a Vidalia Onion soup that Susan said took three days to make, but each spoonful sat on the tongue and unloaded about eight flavors at once. Filet mignon, no less, with béarnaise sauce. Asparagus tips, cloverleaf rolls, honey butter.

Susan urged seconds on the soup and more on everything else. I was loving the food and the company, but I was also getting pretty stuffed. My stomach was beginning to ache and pressed heavily against my belt. I excused myself to the bathroom, and after tending to business let the belt out a notch. Mm, no help. Let the belt out a second notch, and undid the hook of my khakis to boot. Hiccupped. Took a moment to assess. No doubt about it, I was full. My belly felt heavy and warm, reminiscent of Thanksgiving dinner, and I thought I could actually see it bulging with the rich meal. 

I came back out. Susan had cleared away and given me coffee (Its decaf) and a generous slice of what turned out to be chocolate chess pie.

Stuffed as I was, I didnt want to insult my hostess. I took a bite. Through a disgracefully full mouth, I uttered a mild blasphemy. Susan chuckled. 

I couldnt help it. I plowed through the pie, helped along by the coffee. Afterward, I stumbled to my feet and Susan and I had more coffee out on her little balcony.

Susan was a full-time employee of a local nonprofit, which paid a pittance, but she also had a healthy trust from her parents. She was wise enough not to blow through each quarters payout. Hence her apartment was nice but not opulent, ditto her car, her vacations, her furnishings.

It was close to 11 at night before I left. Still full but not stupefied and uncomfortable, as Id been at first. In the most unlikely of places, Id found a very good friend. My last conscious thought, as I lay naked in bed, my hands resting on my gently distended belly, was to wonder what would happen next.


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## BriarChubNJ (Aug 2, 2010)

And he's not the only one wondering what will happen next...


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Aug 3, 2010)

What happened next was  nothing. That is, nothing that made the sky fall in. Just as well  I tend to be suspicious of falling skies. Instead, we discovered a real pleasure in each others company. Soon we fell into a pattern of having Saturday afternoon through Sunday evening together. Then it was Saturday mornings, too. Then Friday evenings. And neither one of us felt that we were moving too quickly. Though we each slept in the others bed, thats all we were doing for the time being, was sleeping. It was so G-rated! And we kept our weeknights to ourselves, creating a healthy pace and a healthy amount of breathing room.

Speaking of breathing room, though, I seemed to be putting on weight. It wasnt exactly a shocker: I now took almost half my meals either at Susans table or in my own apartment, but always, enjoying her cooking. She hadnt been kidding when shed said she was into cooking and baking. My palate was becoming spoiled. And my waistline was becoming a little thick.

My trousers began to grow snug, pushing a modest development of pot belly over the margin, to the point that when I sat down the zipper slid down. I went up a size as insurance against actually splitting the seam. My once entirely unremarkable midsection was now visibly pooching out, becoming squashy and soft. My cheeks looked a little fuller to my own critical eye, my chin a little softer. A thin layer of suet over muscle covered my arms and legs, which I routinely exercised three times a week out of long habit. My backside seemed a little cushier. My spoiled palate was starting to make for a softer body.

Susans, too, although she never indulged herself at the table to quite the extent I did. Of course, she was a little smaller person anyway. But I thought I saw a similar fullness around her chin and a little pouchiness in her dimpled cheeks. When we held each other, I was sure her bottom felt a little more bountiful and her waist a little more cushiony. 

It wasnt anything nearly so sophisticated as that first meal that did me  well, us  in, in the end. It was comfort food. Aptly named, that was. Meatloaf made with three kinds of ground meat, a complex blend of herbs, her own homemade sauce ladled over and cooked till just beginning to caramelize. Garlic-dill mashed potatoes, red-skin on, creamed peas, three-cheese macaroni, cornbread, German-chocolate cake with coconut icing.

Everything tasted so fantastically divine I kept coming back for more even as my growing belly grumbled at becoming achingly stretched. I had to unbutton and then unzip my new jeans, I was stuffed to bursting but I kept wanting another taste. The food was vanishing and something in me was desperate to make sure I got that next taste, regardless of how much Id already enjoyed. And yes, the food was vanishing in some measure because Susan was enjoying herself at a similar pace.

Finally we stopped. Wed run out of food.

I grunted and hiccupped as I hauled myself up. In a stupor, I waddled over to her couch and sank down onto it. Closed my eyes in replete, if uncomfortable, ecstasy. Beside me Susan had done the same, her jeans also undone, her hand like mine resting gently atop a distended and visibly bloated tum.

For a time we just sprawled there, digesting. Groaning a little at the stuffed-to-the-eyebrows feeling. Allowing the occasional hiccup or belch free rein. Savoring the dopey feeling of repletion, of being too full to move for a spell.

After a while, Susan reached her hand over and began gently massaging my stretched and swollen belly in a cautious circular motion. I reciprocated. Slowly, of its own accord, my hand moved up and squirmed up under the modest defense of her bra. Her hand moved down and easily penetrated my boxer shorts.

Then we were in the bed. God, I was full; and given the little grunts and huffing noises from my gal, Susan was too. We groaned aloud in ragged unison as our warmly bulging middles met, pressed cautiously to each others, and I was bracing myself for discomfort. It didnt come. Hey  that felt good. 

Mmmm, from Susan.

Mmmm, I echoed. I tenderly cradled her backside; she pressed a hand to my chest. I nibbled her ear; she ran a hand through my hair. Slowly, languidly, groaning now with pure pleasure, we became intimate, coupling in dreamlike fashion, the pressure of our overloaded bellies producing surges of arousal and pleasure. I was having sex and a massage at the same time, something it hadnt occurred to me was possible; and given the inarticulate sounds essaying from Susan, she was in a similar state of epiphany.

Afterward, we offered prayers of thanksgiving  after a fashion.

God, Susan sighed.

Jesus _Christ_, I offered; and then we both got the giggles.


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## xxeell (Aug 4, 2010)

I'm lovin this!!


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Aug 7, 2010)

I’m not a contemplative man by nature. I’m also not stupid. We’d just had mind-bendingly good sex. I was not inclined to ponder the whys and wherefores of it. “When the gods send you a blessing, you don’t ask why it was sent.”* 

On a vague, subcellular level, I was aware that I’d put on a few pounds of late. My squash buddy mentioned it once, idly. Before I trounced his ass in that week’s game. Afterward, in the showers, I’d casually said that yeah, I suppose I had, approaching 30, yada yada.

I learned only afterward and indirectly that Susan was having a harder time of it. Not with her co-workers, who were doubtless too polite to point out to Susan what she already knew, but from her parents. She’d been to spend a Saturday with them, her mother’s birthday, and come back subdued.

I had tried my hand at making dinner, which was a joke and a half, but it was a gesture, since she’d be returning in the late afternoon. I’d marinated chicken thighs in a bottled sauce and added some herbs, and made stovetop rice pilaf from a box and frozen mixed vegetables in the microwave.

She was appreciative of the gesture but picked at her food and hardly touched her wine.

It took me close to three hours, if you factor in the rom-com DVD I’d put in and dutifully watched with her, to finally get something out of her.

Her mother had pointed out her weight gain and asked her if she’d thought of Jenny Craig.

Her father, separately, and possibly not knowing of the point-out, had murmured to her that she looked like she’d put on a few pounds.

That explained the pale, puffy face she’d sported upon arriving home &#8211; she’d been crying while driving.

I was at a complete loss as to what to say. _You’re beautiful_, I tried. _I think you’ve got a luscious figure_. Oops, strike one. _Women ought to have curves._ Strike two. _Join the club, I’m getting fat_. Oh! Strike three, yer out, hit the showers. Was that last one ever the wrong thing to say! Crap, how stupid was I, after all?

I coaxed her into going out to dinner and succeeded in persuading her to have a drink, which unknotted a little of the tension.

She ate sparingly at first, but the food was insanely good, so very good that each bite prompted a longing for twenty more just like it. I ordered dessert; she passed. But the ganache looked very tempting, and after a few minutes a spoon sneaked in from her side of the table.

She moaned. Her eyes closed, quite involuntarily.

“Susan, last I looked you were an adult, right?”

“Mmf. Mm-hm. Mmmm.”

“It’s kind of your decision to love your body, right?”

“Yeah.” Warily.

“I think you get more beautiful every day. I love you, and I want you to love you too, because this woman I love, she’s really aces. She’s kind, and smart, and funny, and gorgeous, and I think you’d like her a lot if you gave her a chance.”

We finished the ganache awfully quickly. There was something she had to do.

She drove home. I’d consumed far too much of both food and drink, and reclined in a half stupor in the passenger seat.

Pity about the shirt. It had been quite a nice shirt. I’d always thought it was a cliché that one could rip one’s buttons off by taking the shirt off a little too quickly. Apparently not. Who knew?

Her tummy wasn’t nearly as full as mine was, but the experience was memorable all the same. Afterward, when I jokingly suggested calling out for pizza, she agreed enthusiastically. And placed the order herself.

I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. There would be more bumps. With luck, and time, though, there would be not only more great sex (hey, I wasn’t complaining) but also, I hoped, Susan would learn to love, not just put up with, her body. Did I love mine? Hey, that’s a personal question, buddy.

I silently vowed that the next time I got a glance, or a comment from my squash buddy, or a half-joking comment, I would respond without a trace of self-deprecation in my voice. I would! Really. _Really._

I would fake it till I could make it.

That noble vow got put to the test the next week at work. I helped myself to a doughnut from a box in the break room, and a co-worker flicked a glance at the vicinity of my belt. Or what would have been a glance at my belt but actually took in my developing pot belly, which pooched out over my too-snug waistband of the one-size-larger trousers.

“Yeah,” I said, casually, feeling my heart thud. “I’ve put on a few pounds.” I patted my belly, feeling stupider by the minute. I capped the statement with a large mouthful of doughnut, then turned and walked out.

I had no idea what office gossip would do with that. 

I found out that day at lunch. The usual clutch of us had gone to the Italian restaurant on the corner, the one where the portions were always too big, and I’d actually cleaned my plate.

“Are you _trying _to gain weight?” Jeff Zabloski asked, dubiously.

I shrugged. “Not trying. Not-_urp_-*not* trying. It is what it is.”

We’re guys. None of us was inclined to spend an entire lunch hour dissecting the motivations and meanings of what someone said. Jeff shrugged in his turn, and that was the end of that.

I was unproductive that afternoon, though. Partly because I really had eaten too much, and spent the next hour or so in a drowsy, half-conked-out state, shuffling papers and wishing I could take an unobtrusive nap. 

Partly, though, it was because I was thinking about the whole morning. It was strange and not a little countercultural to simply own the weight gain and move on. Society surely pushed in the opposite direction, with messages everywhere that even if you were thin, you could be thinner, and even if you were pretty, you could be prettier. When celebrities got plastic surgery, liposuction, and “before” and “after” shots of their astonishing 15-pound weight loss (moving them from a size 4 to a size 2), there was something subversive about saying, “Yup, I have gained weight. Thanks for noticing.”

I knew that it would be a different situation altogether for Susan.

I didn’t expect what I saw that evening &#8211; not after that lovely Saturday with her parents. 

I came home to find Susan cheerful, humming, wearing an apron, preparing herbed chicken in a parsley cream sauce, honey-glazed carrots, potatoes au gratin. I kissed her and set the table, and as we were eating, casually told her about my day.

Susan giggled. “Me too.”

“You too what?”

“Me too,” she repeated. She took a swallow of lemonade. “Kristin and Kelli and I went shopping on our lunch break. So Kristin holds up a skirt she thinks I’d like and I look at it and say, &#8216;Yeah, that’s cute,’ and I put it back and get one the next size up. So Kristin goes, &#8216;I thought you were a size eight,’ and I go, &#8216;I’m wearing a ten now,’ and Kelli goes, &#8216;Whoops, sorry girlfriend,’ and I go, &#8216;I’m not,’ and Kristin and Kelli give each other this look, and I go in and try on the skirt, and it’s a little tight, so I wound up buying the twelve instead.”

She paused for breath. “So on the way back, I told them that I was putting on weight since I started seeing my boyfriend, and he liked it, and it was again with _the look_, and they didn’t say anything else.” She finished her potatoes and scooped out seconds. “I’m sure I’ll be the total subject of office gossip for forever now.” She shrugged. “You do like it, don’t you?”

I’m occasionally clueless, but not completely without brain cells. “I love it,” I said truthfully. “I think your body is bodacious.” I grabbed her hand.

She grinned, then took the spoon back up and spooned more potatoes onto my plate.

“Yours too, buddy,” she said. “Yours too.”

* “All I Ever Wanted.” _Prince of Egypt_. Music ©1998 by Stephen Schwartz. Lyrics ©1998 by Amick Byram and Linda Dee Shayne.


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## otherland78 (Aug 8, 2010)

that was wonderful my Dear!

hmmm...i´m thrilled to read the next chapters about his weight gain hehe
would be nice seeing him struggling more and more with his suash-buddy ;-) while trying to make his gf confdent and eating more and more ;-)

but your story and you allways write so lovely ..and i would love to read a little about naughty, seducive and nice feeding encounters ....


love your stories BBD !!!:bow:


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## Fat Molly (Aug 9, 2010)

BBD, I do think you practically define the genre. Eager to see more!


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Aug 9, 2010)

It wasnt over, not as over as Id hoped. And why was I so determined to shove it deep into the dusty files of my brain? Determination was not carrying the day, anyway. At random moments, my mind would bring it up and I found myself pondering the truth that I was, unquestionably, gaining weight. Or that I _had gained _weight. Or, well, both.

We didnt own a scale. I didnt particularly want to own one. But Id gone from a loose 32-waist to an increasingly snug 34 and was contemplating a foray into 36s. My pecs shifted under the washcloth when I showered, but I was sort of getting used to it. As I was getting used to the sensation of a modest spare tire rimming over my belt all the way around. Physically, I was accustoming myself to the feel of added poundage. And sexually, not to put too fine a point on it, I was enjoying the hell out of the sensation of lovemaking on a full stomach. The warmth, the exquisite discomfort, the whole new aspect of intimacy. 

And yet.

Emotionally, I kept having a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea of being okay with gaining weight. Just as society now dictates that for anyone who smokes, it is _de rigeur _to mutter, Tryin to quit, when caught with a cigarette, it is similarly required that anyone who acknowledges that he or she has put on a few pounds must similarly add, Tryin to lose weight. And some part of me actively disliked this societal requirement. Whose business was it if I clocked in at a higher weight? Who cared if I had a 36-inch waist  or a 46-inch one, for that matter? 

I was getting tired of the debate and sincerely wished that my brain would just lie down and give up the topic. But it seemed that gaining weight and not minding freaked _other people _out too.

My squash buddy, Zane Cooper, for example. Hed let it rest for a little while, but one afternoon after hed whipped me, he stood there, toweling off the sweat, and took notice of my shortness of breath.

Dom.

Mmyeah.

I worry about you, buddy.

No worries. Ill beat you next time. Admittedly, I was puffing.

You  youre really  God, Dom, youve picked up some weight, pal.

Yeah, I know. Told you. Approaching 30, metabolism, you know.

No. I mean I know  but  he broke off in mid-mumble.

I sighed. But what, Zane? Spit it out.

Youre getting fat, Dominic.

I let the silence stretch out, prolonging it to underline Zanes discomfort.

Yes. I am.

You  I dunno  thought about doing something about it?

Like what? I knew I was making this hard on Zane, and a part of me regretted it, because our friendship was so longstanding and easy.

God. I dunno. Losing a few?

I drew in a breath, blew it out slowly. You know? Actually  no. It doesnt really bother me. And like I said, trying now to dispel the discomfort Id helped create, I will beat your ass next week.

Zane, relieved, laughed too hard and slapped me on the back. Not if I beat you first, and the encounter was over for now.

For the most part, the guys at work were disinclined to mention it after that earlier, awkward encounter at lunch. Jeff did open his mouth as if to speak one Friday when, well and truly full, Id given up on my lunch with a little still left on the plate, but then clammed up again without speaking. Id had a few too many break room doughnuts that morning and they, combined with the fact that I was still dragging my feet on going up a pants size, had made me too stuffed to quite clean my plate.

Afterward, though, Jeff fell back long enough to give him and me a few seconds privacy.

You okay, there, Dominic?

Yeah. Fine.

You  well, truthfully, Dom, you really kind of look like youve, um, gained a few.

Yeah, I have. I was careful to keep any hint of shame or regret out of my voice.

Um

Um? I countered.

Um. Well. Um. Youre okay with that.

Yeah, Jeff. Im okay with that.

Jeff lengthened his stride and caught up with the others just as we reached the main entrance.

I stopped on the way home from work and picked up several pairs of khakis and two pairs of jeans, all with a 36-inch waist. Changed into a pair as soon as I got to my weekend home, Susans apartment. Embraced Susan from behind in the kitchen. 

New pants, I said, standing back to show them off.

Ooh, they look terrific. Susan laid a hand on my belly. Empty for the moment, it was soft. Dinner would change that.

Dinner did change that.

Afterward, we sprawled on her comfortable leather sofa, side by side, recovering, as had become our custom. My soft belly was now swollen and firm, and I was pleasantly, dopily stuffed, the new khakis undone, a hand resting on my bloated and tender gut.

Beside me, Susan had undone her jeans and was resting a hand on her own rosily taut tummy, her shirt pushed up and her breathing a little shallow. 

You know-_hic_, I said slowly, Oh. Thanksgiving soon. _Hic_.

Oh, Susan said, smothering a yawn, Ive invited you  _hic_!  Oh  Mom and Dad said okay. With another hiccup, she leaned in, resting her head on my shoulder. I stroked her hair.

But I want  to make us  a Thanksgiving-_hic_-day before, she added, nuzzling sleepily. Before long I would propel her to bed, we both would doze, then, later, revived, would make love, reveling in the additional, delicious pressure points.

Only much later did it sink in that that meant that we would be having two Thanksgiving dinners. Three, for me. I wasnt quite ready to invite Susan to my own family gathering, traditionally held on the day after Thanksgiving. In our family the threshold for family Thanksgiving invitation was tacit affianced status, and I wasnt quite there yet. I would be soon, I thought, but not yet.

Meanwhile, Susan reported, her work friends had left the subject of her weight gain entirely alone since the shopping trip in which Susan had substituted a size 12 for the size 8 that one of the Ks  Kelli or Kristen  had proffered. Doubtless both of them, and whoever else was in the gossip loop, thought all sorts of criticism, but they werent voicing it to Susans face.

Suse.

Mm.

Your parents  theyre going to tell you that Im the one making you fat.

In the dark, I felt Susan smile. Something like that, yeah.

And

Im going to tell them in the politest possible terms not to mention it again.

Would she really? Thats my girl, I said sleepily, and she nuzzled against my chest.

Our own private Thanksgiving, the day before, was indescribably memorable. Suffice to say that by the time we finally waddled away from the table, it was quite a while after wed finished enjoying the feast, because for a space we had both been simply too full to move. The discomfort was luxuriously pleasant, and it felt heavenly to recline in bed, propped up on pillows, and massage our own and each others bellies, swollen and aching, distended and firm, both of us groaning and carrying on at the decadence of it all. And then groaning and carrying on for other reasons.

Sure enough, it wasnt fifteen minutes into our arrival at Susans parents house that her mom managed a word alone with her, and then it was her dads turn. I passed the time chatting with Susans brother and sister and brother-in-law. Then Susan dragged me upstairs to see my old bedroom and closed the door behind us.

Hole in one, she said, giggling. Mom goes, Are you gaining weight because your young man is a big guy? And Dad goes, Hes a big fella, this Dominic. Youre not trying to keep up with him, are you?

What did you say? I was dying to know. 

To Mom, I said, I have no problem with my weight. Its fine if you do, but Id rather not discuss it. And I told Dad, Im not trying to keep up with anyone, Dad. Im happy with my size and so is Dominic. And I could tell from the look he gave me that he wasnt going to talk about it anymore, so case closed.

It was a pity I couldnt laud her achievements the way Id wanted to, but we would have been missed, and dinner would be ready soon.

Whatever Susans family thought about her size, or mine, the dinner was enjoyed unrestrainedly by all hands. Id like to think that even if it hadnt been, I still would have eaten as much as I wanted to. In truth, I dont know. I just know that everyone was plowing into the good food like there was no tomorrow.

I put away a couple of heaping platefuls and felt myself becoming full. I knew the warm heaviness, the strain of the midsection, the increased awareness of the stretching of my belly with each inhalation of breath  I was filling right up. But the food was very, very good, and no one else was stopping, and I wanted more.

I slowed down on thirds, or maybe it was fourths. Savored each mouthful, letting it slide lazily down my throat into an increasingly stuffed stomach. Oof, was I full. I really should stop. Slowly, dreamily, I cleaned my plate. No more, at least not for the moment. I was achingly full, stuffed to bursting, my khakis long since undone, my swollen and tender belly stretched taut. With care, and an involuntary grunt of effort, I got to my feet. Staggered into the living room. Sank onto the sofa next to Susans brother. Her father was claiming one of the easy chairs, her brother-in-law the other. From the sounds, dimly heard through my haze of repletion, the women were in the kitchen. I would reclaim Susan when I could move.

I rested a hand on my gut, distended and gorged, and hiccupped. Next to me, Charlie fumbled his jeans undone.

Ohhh, he groaned. _Urp_. Oh. Ate too much, he admitted, a trace of surprise in his voice.

Stuffed, Susans father admitted, patting his own, more modestly swollen, belly.

Two to one  Shelley  will tell me tonight-_mrrp_-what a pig I was, Susans brother-in-law, Eric, contributed.

You get enough to eat, Dominic? Charlie elbowed me very gently, for which give thanks.

Oh  maybe not-_hic_-quite, I joked. Laughter, sleepy but genuine, followed. Damned if something, Susans laying down the law or the fact that wed all just stuffed ourselves to bursting, wasnt having an effect.

That evening, having recovered enough to drive, I piloted Susan and me back to her apartment, by which time we were very much in the mood to work off a few calories, and the next morning I departed for my parents gathering.

Unlike Susans folks, my own had never, to my knowledge, uttered a word to me, my brother, or my sister about our weight. Dad was 6 feet tall and, I guessed, in the neighborhood of 200, 210, pudgy, you might say. Mom was 5 foot 5 and I would guess that she weighed around 150 or so. A little well padded. My sister, Claire, was 25 and exactly Moms height, a little thinner; Michael was 22 and in his last year of college. Close to Dad in height, he was one of those skinny guys with a hollow leg. My family might be surprised to see me packing an additional 30 pounds or so, but I doubted they would say anything. To me, anyway.

I was right. We exchanged greetings and hugs, my parents asking how yesterday had gone and when would they get to meet Susan? Knowing full well that she wouldnt cross the threshold until I either had proposed to her or was about to. 

Fine, I said, fending off my mothers repeated embraces, laughing. Fine. Ate too much. Maybe Christmas. Well see.

Well, I hope you brought your appetite today, Mom said. Theres more than plenty of dinner.

Take the previous days scene, remove the underlying tensions, lather, rinse, repeat. I felt myself becoming full  stuffed  ready to burst, enjoying the tug and warmth of an increasingly full belly, the stretch and ache of satiation, the drowsiness that followed, sprawling in the den, jeans undone, my gut tautly distended and firm and warm to the touch, missing Susan and the promise of what would follow.

Michael was squirming, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Finally he produced an impressive belch. Oh. _Urrp_. Oh. Thats better. I glanced over at him.

Ate too much, he admitted sheepishly. That was rare for him. He pressed a hand to his stomach, which was visibly bulging, and, wincing, belched again.

You gotta  pace yourself  pal, I contributed. I was puffing. _Hic_.

Take some Alka-Selzer, Dad suggested. Michael hauled himself up and thudded down the hall toward the bathroom. I assume he returned, because he was there when I woke up later that evening. Stuffed, warm, replete, Id corked off, snoring, Dad cheerfully told me later. 

Better not let that gal of yours find out how you snore, he said genially.

She already knew.


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## xxeell (Aug 10, 2010)

That last part, "She already knew." was my fav part of this addition =]


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Aug 12, 2010)

Thanksgiving, of course, precedes December. Just as Memorial Day marks the start of grilling season and Labor Day its end, Thanksgiving marks a kickoff not just of shopping season but unofficially &#8211; and far more entertainingly &#8211; goodies season, a season that begins with turkey and traditionally ends with New Year’s Resolutions.

That meant that Susan and I could expect a cease-fire of gossip, well-meaning and awkward conversations, and parental hints for at least the next month. As cease-fires will, the realization prompted relief. The nagging voice in my head would shut the hell up for the next few weeks, and maybe in the interval, I would come more to terms with the subversive behavior I found myself embracing. And I hoped that Susan would too. Her own struggle, while similar to mine, had gender-specific overtones that I knew I didn’t fully understand. All I could do was to listen, sympathize, and be non-clueless enough to compliment her body. 

It had taken a day or two for us to recover from Thanksgiving &#8211; three feasts for me, two for her &#8211; and discover the fraction more pudge around the waist that resulted. I didn’t know the calculations in poundage &#8211; thus far it hadn’t occurred to Susan to suggest adding a scale to the household, and I wasn’t fool enough to bring it up &#8211; but as I’d said, I had probably added some 30 pounds since first meeting Susan in late August, and to my untrained eye Susan appeared to have added maybe 15 or 20. 

Before Thanksgiving.

Afterward, well, all bets were off as the goodies season got under way. Not only Susan but her gossiping co-workers all happily dipped into plates and tins that appeared in her office break room, making brownies, cinnamon crunch cake, snicker doodles, cupcakes, and fudge vanish in the twinkling of an eye. I noticed that my concerned colleague Jeff helped himself to the stuff that showed up in our break room, and even Zane appeared to be sporting a little decorative belly flab around his gym shorts, in festive keeping with the season.

And there were parties. Work parties, friends’ parties, church parties, seemingly random eruptions of Swedish meatballs and dark-chocolate-mint fudge and eggnog everywhere we turned. Work demands eased &#8211; no one expected nearly as much &#8211; and we staggered toward Christmas, our own waistlines inching rounder by the day, buoyed primarily by our increasing passion in the bedroom. 

I couldn’t have put into words what it was, but Susan and I unmistakably found our ardor aroused and we were either cuddling or coupling most nights. I had slowly and almost accidentally moved in and now stopped by my apartment a couple of times a week only to dust, keep the place from getting too stuffy, and pick up my mail. 

Just having her bared flesh in my hands was enough to arouse me beyond belief. Her bottom, now gently cushioned, felt like warm silk spilling through my fingers. Her softening hips drove me wild, and the susurration of her belly, golden and luxurious, rounded at the edges and beginning to fold at the navel, was a luscious stop en route to her breasts, once pretty enough and now tantalizingly ripe and heavy in my helpless hands.

When we coupled, Susan’s hands often found their home on my own belly, thickened into convexity and usually flabby and pliable, but after a big dinner warm and tautly firm. She shivered at touching it and moaned as she traced teasing patterns on it while I ran my fingers up and down her soft back, the knobbiness of her spine now overlaid with a welcoming cushion of skin. How could anyone decry this inviting lushness? What brainless oaf decided that velvet folds of tummy and curves of thigh were to be deplored? The unhealthy boniness now shoved in our faces with pictures and clips of celebri-skeletons seemed not just undesirable but obscene. Warm, supple body, pliant in my grateful embrace &#8211; this was paradise.

One evening about a week before Christmas, as we lay in each other’s arms, I tentatively raised the subject.

“Every time I think you can’t get any more beautiful you do, you know,” I said.

“Mmm.” A pause. “I’ve put on weight, I know I have &#8211; you know I have too.”

Dangerous territory, here. “That’s what’s making you so beautiful. You look like a woman ought to look.”

“So how come,” she said slowly, “all the women who are famous and stuff don’t?”

“Because,” I said, equally slowly, thinking my way through it, “society’s got it wrong. Those skinny women aren’t pretty. They all look really unhealthy. Your skin glows, you melt into me when we hug, when I have you in my arms I have warm soft gorgeous you, and it feels wonderful, and you look wonderful too … naked or dressed.”

A giggle.

“I’m serious.” I propped myself up, warming to my theme. “The way skirts and slacks drape your backside and hips, the way sweaters hug your chest and tummy &#8211; traffic stopping. And naked, well…” I growled playfully and scooped her back into my arms.


The next evening, over dinner out, she toyed with her wine and kept shooting me glances, but she ate a goodly amount of the appetizer, cleaned her plate of its entrée, and helped me make our dessert vanish. 

“You know,” she said drowsily as I piloted us home, “maybe you’re right. It’s subversive … but I like feeling like a woman. And I really like not having to feel like I’m on a diet all the time.”

“New Year’s resolution,” I said. “Let’s both resolve to not diet. Not try to gain … not try not to gain. Just live, and enjoy.”

It would probably never be easy, but we knew now that we both had each other’s backs.

Christmas Eve, dinner with her family. Rack of lamb, a dozen sides, good red wine. Her parents might be sniffy about Susan’s “weight problem,” as I was sure they called it behind her back, but they weren’t snarky about meals. Thanksgiving had suggested as much and Christmas dinner was cementing it.

We dined, leisurely, all of us around the table lazily eating and drinking ourselves into a pleasant stupor. Conversation became desultory as we all felt ourselves filling up, I noticed. Once we’d all gotten to where we couldn’t manage another mouthful, at least not for the moment, we waddled heavily into the living room and sank into the slow, pleasantly hazy process of digestion, feeling appropriately primal: warm, heavy, topped up for the next mammoth hunt.

Eyes half-closed, I was resting my hands on my marvelously aching belly, gorged and tender, my jeans undone, my brain sodden with the effort to digest. Eric next to me had the button of his khakis unbuttoned and a hand thrust down the waistband to ease the pressure of his own full stomach, which bulged noticeably beneath his sweater. Susan’s dad anchored his recliner, his breathing already a half-snore, and Charlie was in the other recliner, sock feet stretched out in front of him and a grimace on his face as he tried and failed to suppress the occasional eructation.

“Ate too much,” he grunted. It was only that we were all too sated that none of us bothered to reply: Duh. “Oof,” he added, gently rubbing his distended abdomen.

“Shelley’s on my-_urrp_-case anyway,” Eric said. He belched again. “I told her: It’s Christmas. _Urp_. Everyone gains weight.”

I hiccupped. “December. Everyone gets a pass.”

“Yup,” Eric agreed drowsily. “_Urp_.”

Later, by proxy, I got a summary of the kitchen conversation.

“We bitched and moaned about eating too much,” Susan said, lazily stroking my still-bloated belly as we lay, contented, in the lee of our lovemaking. “And that’s all. Shelley didn’t say anything, Mom didn’t say anything.”

“Because they can see how gorgeous you are,” I murmured, squeezing her bottom.

Tonight there was us: her and me and the Us we became. The next day there would be her family gift exchange. Then I would head to my family gathering. With Susan.


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## otherland78 (Aug 24, 2010)

wow that was again very brilliant :_)
thanks for this masterpiece of cute weight gain and sexy story :_)

haha i even found myself in many parts ;-):blush:


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