# How Samira Got Fat -by Swordfish - (~BBW, Romance, Eating, ~SWG)



## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

_BBW, Romance, Eating WG_

_NOTE: This story was originally furnished in 5 .pdf format attachment and is now reposted in our preferred manner for easier reference._

*HOW SAMIRA GOT FAT
by Swordfish​*​
*CHAPTER ONE*

So many of the words people say you quickly forget. But others you remember. It was like that when we came to get our official blessing from my Aunt Jessie, before our wedding. 

It wasn’t as though Samira was someone new in my life: we’d met five years before as university students here in England in Manchester. She’d been talked about and seen for some time; she’d come to those dreadful Christmas family gatherings with my parents. We’d even been living together in London for almost two years, since we graduated. But now that we were going to tie the knot, my lordly aunt, my father’s sister, a queen bee with a job in the Government’s Foreign Office, insisted we take tea with her so she could pat our heads and give us some advice. Samira joked beforehand that she was probably going to tell us about condoms, and we’d have to pretend she was telling us something new.

But it was nothing about birth control. Once we’d been through the cucumber sandwiches and the topics both of us expected &#8211; the kind of wedding ceremony, the religious and ethnic things (Samira is Anglo-Indian) - she suddenly leaned forward like the Tower of Pisa. Then she announced very grandly, “This is the advice of someone who knows.”

She paused. We paused. 

“Everything will be fine in your marriage as long as you’re flexible. People change. Things come up. You just can’t predict. People change.” That’s the second time she’d said that. “But be flexible and go with the flow, and you’ll probably have a good marriage. Kiss me,” she said, finishing off her sermon by standing up, holding herself like a statue, waiting for lips on each cheek. 

Frankly, we found this unsettling. Not because of Aunt Jessie’s grand manner: I was used to that. It was the implication that we were going to change. Here we were, in love with each other just as we were, and now we were being told that we were going to become different people. It was as though she was telling us that in a few years Samira would start growing another head. Or I’d become an axe-murderer. In such circumstances would we still love each other? Well, we’d try to, but there’s no use denying there’d be difficulties. 

“How could Samira change?” I thought to myself then. It wasn’t possible. She hadn’t at all in the five years we’d known each other. Each bewitching thing about her that had bowled me over when she walked into that first history class was still intact. Her lovely dark skin, with bright brown eyes to match, and black hair cascading down. The trim, compact physique, five foot three at the outside, every inch lean and graceful as a gazelle’s. The cheekbones, and little apple breasts. The voice: oh yes, the voice, with its liveliness and quick tempo &#8211; something I’d noticed with other people of Indian extraction, though no other voice beguiled me like Sam’s. The warmth of her hands when you touched them: small hands, cosy hands, warmed even on the coldest days by her body’s central heating. The way she raised an eyebrow whenever she looked quizzical. Her curiosity. Her intelligence. Her slimness: did I mention that? Her sense of humour. So many different things about her. I didn’t want to lose any of them.

Quite what she’d list as my own desirable qualities &#8211; well, modesty forbids. My blond hair? Yes, I remember her mentioning that in the early days. I also recall her laughing at my large feet; but those wouldn’t make the list, except as a quirk. And I know the list wouldn’t include my parents. Even I found them difficult: not my mother so much, but definitely my father, a real dictator who viewed everything in the world around him as an opportunity for a moan and a scowl. 

I can still see the wince on his face when he realised that his precious son had fallen for someone whose colour was other than white. I tried to make allowances: he was a child of his time I told myself, born to a colonial officer who’d seen out the last days of the Raj in India in the 1940s and hadn’t come back with the warmest feelings about the continent that was kicking the British out. Bad feelings had obviously trickled down from father to son. Of course he voted Conservative; read the right-wing papers. I tried to see him as a human being, not a type, but it was a struggle.

“We notice she’s coloured,” he said, insufferably, very early on, when Samira had her first “getting to know you” visit at the farm he managed down in Devon. 

“She’s also British. Born in Northampton.”

“Ah, Northampton,” he said with a kind of sneer. “Famous for manufacturing boots.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I countered. He was definitely a hurdle to jump over. 

For myself I loved the fact that Samira’s colour and ethnic origin were different than mine. Who’d want to go through life coloured a pasty white? Samira, now, she was honey brown: the kind of colour that made you want to scoop her up in a spoon and start licking. But it wasn’t just the shade of her skin. I loved the differences in her background. She may have been brought up and shaped in England, but she’d been well trained by her delightful parents and her relatives, some still in Calcutta; and she told me plenty about a culture and a country I’d never known before. The intricacies of the caste system. The crazy Bollywood films. The different kinds of curry. The fact that traffic in India drives on the left: a hang-over from the Raj. Big things and small things: I loved hearing about them all, and Samira liked talking about them. 

By the time marriage was decided upon, my father had grudgingly come to accept the inevitable and tried to be what the old brigade would have called a “good sport”. He knew Samira made me happy, and he tried to cling to that. I assured him that marriage wouldn’t involve the slaughter of a sacred bull, or my conversion to the Hindu faith. And so it didn’t. The Chowdhoury-Hartfield nuptials in Northampton took place in a civil ceremony, simple, quite dignified, with Samira looking incredibly beautiful in a clinging dress, black and silver, decorated with the most gorgeous brocade designs, with a mellow orange sash draped around one shoulder. After the ceremony, we all piled into a modestly up-market Indian restaurant, for a leisurely and vast meal, though I was too nervous I remember to eat much myself. Samira was the same, though she made up for it on our honeymoon.

We went to Barbados for ten days. Ten days of sun, sitting on beaches, lingering over meals, and lingering even longer in bed. By this time in our relationship there wasn’t a part of our bodies each of us didn’t know intimately &#8211; sex with Samira, I’ll tell you right out, was terrific. But somehow the fact that we’d made this legal pact, signed and sealed, and were now man and wife, made a bed even more memorable a place than usual. 

I loved to stroke her, and work myself down to her fringed, golden gateway by sweeping over her little breasts and her taut flat stomach, rubbing each of her hips before starting to “circle the roundabout” &#8211; that’s what we called it &#8211; with the tip of my forefinger. Hard to say which of us became the more aroused. I’d gaze into her face, flat on the pillow, and see her eyes start to moisten. She’d groan lightly; I’d withdraw my hands &#8211; just a tactical retreat &#8211; and then bring on the big gun. No need to give further details. After that, we’d lie still, exhausted, entwined. And after that, another bout, perhaps, or the shower. She’d rise up from the bed, not a stitch on, and wend her way to the bathroom; I’d look at her neat little bottom, her athletic physique, and think myself the luckiest person in the world.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

After Barbados reality called. Back to work. Samira at that point was nearing the end of her current public relations job. At university she’d done geography and economics and became convinced that her life goal was to save the planet. But a university friend, Sally, had pulled her into the media and Big Snout PR, where planet-saving wasn’t a priority at all. Saving paper certainly wasn’t, despite electronic mail-outs. “It’s all experience,” Sam used to say. True enough, and I know if I heard Samira down the phone, with that silver, rapid voice, I’d buy anything she was selling. Me, I was due back at a desk and computer at TFL - Transport for London. I dealt with finances, budgets, strategic economic planning. Pretty boring, really; it’s even boring just writing it down.

Outside office hours, none of us had time for boredom. Big Snout was publicising London’s first Pan-Continental Film Festival: a small event, but exotic and time-consuming. Then on nights when Samira wasn’t at some reception or screening, there were assorted friends to see, sharing wedding snaps, showing off the honeymoon ones: Sam looking lissom in a bikini on the beach; me silly in a tropical shirt, all turquoise and flying fish. Meals were mostly hurried, snatched at the end of the day, though occasionally we splurged on something lavish. 

After a few weeks of this, things quietened down, and we had more time to ourselves. Time to visit Sam’s parents in Northampton, who kept on saying how well she looked. Over another weekend, I remember, Samira said she wanted to see a Vietnamese film that had washed up in town, “The Story of Three Oxen”. It had had great reviews. I told you her voice could sell me anything, so I went fairly happily. One ox looked much like another to me, and the experience didn’t enlarge my interest in Vietnamese agricultural policy. 

“I liked the earth colours. Brilliant!” Samira said afterwards. “And great camerawork, don’t you think?” We were in a restaurant: not Vietnamese, which would really have put the lid on the night, but French. Samira had gone for chicken. I was eating a lamb. 

“Static. I thought it was static.”

“You’ve got to remember, Tom, that time moves slowly in Vietnam.” 

I replied that it didn’t move slowly during the Vietnam war, and she gave a sad little laugh there. By this point I was spooning out the vegetables.

“Oh no potatoes for me,” she said. “Do you know I’ve put on four pounds since we got married?”

I didn’t, I said, though I suppose her question was rhetorical. “I haven’t noticed anything,” I added. Which was true.

“That’s a relief,” she said, spearing her first piece of broccoli.

I was bemused, curious, and slightly worried. “Where do you think the pounds have gone?” 

Samira glanced down, a wince in her cheeks. “Onto my tummy. Some of my slacks have got a little tight.” She sounded embarrassed. I found her vulnerability touching.

“Oh it’s just a blip, I’m sure.”

“I hope so. I’ve never been 108 pounds before.” She gave a little grimace. “You haven’t been gaining weight, have you?”

“Don’t think so. I suppose the gym helps.” I went at least three times a week; a free membership came with the job, and I liked being trim, just like Sam. Then I told her she looked absolutely fine, which she did, and we moved on to the big thing on our horizon: the new job she was going to get in the PR department at Shell. It was a controversial move: here was Samira, green as the grass, proposing to work for one of the world’s biggest multi-national oil companies. What about ethical employment? We rehearsed the arguments once again. It was experience. It was good money. It would look great on her CV. It would give her an insight into how big business works, which she could later use somehow as ammunition. Plenty to talk over. Even so, I had time to notice how she licked her lips eating dessert. “She didn’t have potatoes,” I thought to myself, “but she still wants dessert!” Samira’s concern about a few extra pounds was contagious

In bed that night there was no time to circle the roundabout, or even crash straight into it. But we fondled a bit, enough for me to realise what I must have been blind to before: there was indeed some extra flesh on her stomach now, just a little more for the fingers to press into. Odd that I hadn’t noticed it before. Well, I thought, it would soon go. No point making a fuss. 

I tried to push the matter towards the back of my mind, and was mostly successful. But those four extra pounds kept creeping back from time to time. Sometimes with her slacks and jeans I could tell the waistband had obviously become a bit tight, or perhaps I spotted a front zip that didn’t quite travel all the way to the top. Once, as she sat opposite me on a Tube train, I caught a surprise flash of her belly-button, surrounded by flesh, poking through a gap in her blouse. The small signs of a softer tummy. None of these were things I really wanted to see &#8211; I liked my Sam slim &#8211; so I told myself that what I saw wasn’t important, or even that I was not seeing them at all. I expect Sam played exactly the same mental tricks. Always used to being slim, it couldn’t have been easy for her to find that married bliss was ever so slightly softening her up. 

Our life continued. Busily, too, though Samira’s PR job had now come to an end with what seemed like a week of farewell parties, with a short break before the Shell job started. Much of her time was spent doing leg work for our hunt for somewhere else to live, some place to buy rather than rent, though with London’s high prices that was not easy. There was one flat in Richmond that she pressed upon me because she’d found it was opposite a very good Greek restaurant. I told her that wasn’t enough reason. “But they have great paklava!” she said. “I don’t like paklava,” I said. “Too sweet.” I saw the flat. It was awful. 

We also looked at the furniture we’d buy when we’d finally found our dream place. All in all it was a great time. “It’s like nest building, isn’t it?” Samira chirruped with her lovely smile. She was right, too. Everything we did felt different, better, warmer, more loving, now that we were actually married. Samira looked very happy. I guess I did as well. 

One night we had Sally, Sam’s PR friend, to dinner. I nearly typed “for dinner” there, but I wouldn’t want to have eaten Sally. Though fairly good-hearted deep down, she was a bit tart with her tongue, and too fond of a tease for me. She asked me why I wasn’t wearing the hilarious tropical shirt she’d seen me wearing in the honeymoon pictures. I told her we weren’t in the tropics. It was a good dinner, though. Sam cooked; she was doing more of that now, exploring recipes, making sure her husband was fed, trying to be wifely. She often talked about food now, in a way she hadn’t before.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

When Sally had me alone for a moment &#8211; Sam had gone to get some more wine &#8211; she leaned over toward me with a wicked grin. “I see Samira is putting on weight!”

I could feel myself blushing. I didn’t want this brought up. “Oh, she has done, a bit,” I said, in an off-hand way, placing it all in the past. “Just a few pounds.” 

“I wouldn’t call eight pounds a few.” 

“No, it’s four,” I insisted, “only four.” Then she revealed that Samira had told her in the kitchen that she’d put on eight, or just a little under. “I think you’re behind the times. Be careful, Tom Hartfield, she’s starting to run to seed!” 

That remark kind of annoyed me, and I must have shown it, because then she quickly added with a conciliatory grin, “No, joking aside, she looks very well. Obviously happy.”

I said she was, but quickly changed the subject when Samira returned. I looked at her closely; I couldn’t help myself. So it was eight pounds now, was it? From 104 to 112? Both of us, I guess, had been keeping secrets from each other. On my part, all those tricks and evasions of the last month or so, those half-denials and dismissals, now abruptly stopped. I had to admit it openly: Samira did indeed look a little rounder. 

I saw it in her face. It had definitely filled out; not by very much, but the cheeks were fuller, especially when she smiled, as she was doing now. And her breasts: those were a shade bigger, too. But the most obvious evidence which I’d been trying to ignore was down by her waist: the little fat layer on her midriff, that had once poked out on the Tube train, was growing into a visible curve. I saw it now, pressing against her blouse. 

“Hello?” Samira said. She wasn’t a fool. “What’s been going on?” I must have looked guilty, and Sally was grinning like a fish. 

“Just girl talk,” Sally breezed. “You know, about marriage and the bathroom scales?”

“Oh, that.” Her voice dipped, the spark suddenly gone.

I started up. “You didn’t tell me you’d gained nearly eight pounds. I thought it was four!”

“I hoped you wouldn’t notice.” She looked pleadingly straight into my eyes. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

Sally bounced in. “Oh, four, eight, it doesn’t matter. It’s a sign of a happy marriage, isn’t it?” She was trying to raise Sam’s spirits, though she spoiled her attempt by then asking what was for dessert.

“Paklava,” said Samira. She sounded almost gloomy.

I didn’t know quite what to feel about all this. As the chatter moved on to less personal topics, part of my brain was stuck with the eight pounds and the plain fact, the official fact, that after three months of marriage my gazelle Samira was not quite a gazelle anymore. That soft tummy she was starting to show: lots of women had one, I knew, but both Sam and I had always taken pride in keeping ourselves slim. Even at university &#8211; a fattening ground for so many students &#8211; Sam had never gained a pound. It felt very odd to realise that Sam’s physique, some years further on, was now visibly changing. 

And yet, despite my concern, some other part of me was beginning to find the prospect of a softening Samira interesting, if not actually vaguely pleasurable. I was struck by what Sally had said: gaining weight was a sign of a happy marriage. If Samira was now looking slightly filled out, didn’t that advertise her happiness? Wasn’t that nice? A boost to my male ego? 

The bigger question on my mind concerned Sam. How did she feel about eight extra pounds, and why was this steady gain happening? There was only one way to find out: ask. Not in front of the acid queen, Sally, but behind closed doors, in the bedroom. 

I didn’t have long to wait. When I’d finished teeth-brushing I came back to find her in her panties, standing by the full-length mirror, prodding the area below her belly button, where there was a small but definite swell in her figure and a row of abrasions on her skin, obviously caused by a tight waistband. 

She was moving the tummy flesh back and forth, as though smearing her finger in butter. “I’ve put on too much, haven’t I? Be honest with me.” Her eyes hadn’t their usual gleam; her voice, too, was duller and slower. 

I leaped into the breach immediately. “You look fine, Sam, don’t worry.” I wanted to sound wholehearted and look on the bright side. “I think it’s actually a bit sexy &#8211; you carrying a bit of extra weight.” I thought that was the right thing to say; and I was beginning to think it might be true. “But how do you feel about it?” 

The gloom in her voice was not lifting. “How do I feel? Fatter, that’s how I feel. I don’t know about sexy at all. The thing is I’m only five foot two, Tom, and there’s not many places the weight can hide. Sally noticed it right away. And it’s making my clothes tight. I’m getting these marks on my waist. My boobs are getting bigger, too.” She was looking at herself in profile now, passing a hand over her chest, pressing into the enlarged contours. 

“Really,” I said, “it’s fine. Believe me!” And I took her in my arms and kissed her.

“You’ll tell me, won’t you, if I don’t look good? I don’t ever want to be fat.”

I stroked her cheek. “That’s never going to happen, and you know it.” 

She kissed me gratefully and sat down on the edge of the bed, getting ready to comb her hair. Immediately the flesh round her middle creased up into two little rolls, the lower one hanging over her panties. Could this be the start of a proper spare tyre?

“I just hope this isn’t in my genes,” she said, sounding quite worried. “Some of my aunts in Calcutta are awfully big. Auntie Lalita is like a balloon.”

Enough talk, I said. She smiled and slipped off her panties, her new midriff, soft but compact, bulging out slightly as she bent down. Twisting her torso as she reached for her night gown, a crease appeared in the flesh at her side. She was obviously a little fatter all over. And then into bed. I looked at her tenderly and began stroking her body in a way I’d actually not done for some time: maybe, unconsciously, I’d been avoiding close encounters, fearing what I might find. We listened to the silence for a minute, gazing into each others’ eyes. Then very gently I started moving each breast, each bigger breast, before giving the lightest kiss to each nipple, and moving down over her tummy towards the roundabout. Of course it was softer &#8211; there was no point not admitting it. My fingers had more to press into; her belly-button was set deeper into the flesh, sinking like the setting sun into a beautiful landscape. But suddenly I had no time for pretty pictures. I was hot. She was hot. And once I got into gear and entered she was more on fire than ever. No, I decided a few minutes later, I didn’t mind her putting on weight at all.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

*CHAPTER TWO*

That dinner with Sally night was a watershed. Something shifted in our attitudes towards this unexpected by-product of our marriage. In the weeks that followed Samira still moaned that her softer tummy was restricting what she could wear, stopping her zipping up and clasping some jeans  she d put on just over an inch round her waist, she revealed, from 28 to 29. And I knew she was beginning to feel pinched in her bras; I could tell by her pained expressions as she fixed the back clasp, and the way some flesh leaked out around the edges. Definitely time to give in to a B cup. 

But it was striking how she never once mentioned dieting. I was struck too by how matter-of-fact her tone was becoming if she mentioned her eating or putting or weight. Shed jumped the first hurdle, I guess. Shed accepted these new pounds into her life, into her body, as a sign of our happy marriage. 

That was beginning to be my feeling. Id become used to the tummy pooch she carried about with her, curving out of her tighter blouses. I loved the new give in her body. Sometimes in hugging her I deliberately gave a playful tweak to the love handles that had begun at her sides. She didnt object. 

She was between jobs longer than planned. The Health and Safety Inspectorate had been in, Shell told her, and had kicked up a fuss about ventilation; and they were having to rejig the area where she worked. Could she delay coming for three weeks? Theyd pay her, of course. Thats one benefit of high oil prices, Sam said. 

Being paid for doing nothing seemed a good deal to us. Not that Sam totally did nothing. She continued flat hunting. She went swimming; but there was still plenty of time to lounge in front of the television, read a book, and see what was in the cookie jar. The weekend just before the Shell job finally started her younger sister Ayesha, a trainee nurse in Manchester, came down to London for a visit. We hadnt seen her since the wedding.

It had always struck me before how similar Ayesha was in looks to Sam: plainer maybe, but with the same physique, same height and slim build, the same gorgeous brown colouring, the same cheekbones. They were very obviously sisters. But when you saw them together now, you really saw differences. Samira was chubbier in the face, rounder in the breasts, and definitely softer in the waist. It really put her gain in perspective.

The topic came up fairly quickly. Oh my God, Ayesha cried, poking her waist, youre really putting on some pounds! Youre getting a quite cushion down there! We were sitting down, and Sams belly overhang was obvious.

Ah well, she said with a shoulder shrug, I guess thats married life! I really liked that reply. 

Mum said youd put on weight, but I found that hard to believe.

Sam wrinkled her brow very slightly, remembering her parents recent flying visit. She didnt say anything to me about it. Though she did say I looked blooming.

Well, thats kind of a code, isnt it? Do you know what the damage is? Have you stood on the scales?

She turned a bit coy, and made a mouth like a naughty child expecting the teachers reprimand. 116 pounds. Ive put on twelve pounds.

Twelve? I cried. Last I knew it was eight. 

I guess Ive indulged a bit the last few weeks. As she twisted her head to tell me this, two crease lines appeared in the flesh round her neck. I didnt recall seeing those before. I would see a lot more of them in the future. 

In fact I wasnt that surprised. Id already suspected that Sam had gained a few extra pounds. She was certainly settling into her new appetite: over dinner on Saturday night, Ayesha said shed never seen her tuck in with so much relish. Sam just smiled. But most of the talk was about the new job. The old arguments came round again. Oil companies, Ayesha said, were just bad bad people, and he who sups with the devil needs a long spoon. She liked these old English proverbs. Another hangover from English rule in India.

Samira, ravishing in one of her green brocaded shirts, gave her usual defence. And dont worry about supping, she said. I have a very long spoon. I bought one purposely at Harrods. She was joking, of course.

When she left us on the Sunday night, Ayesha warned her, teasingly, not to enjoy her food too much. Sam told her not to be silly; this, she said, was probably as round as she was going to get, and it was just a bit of happy fat. And then with a kiss and a lingering hug Ayesha was gone, leaving us to go to bed and face Monday morning. 

She wanted to look smart, of course, and in the morning bustle I found her rifling through her wardrobe, eventually picking out a black two-piece number, business-like yet not too formal; worn with a white blouse or shirt it always worked its magic. I asked her if it still fitted. 

She puckered her mouth, and lifted up the bottom of the jacket with a sigh: In a fashion, she said. Her little belly was stopping her zipping up her slacks all the way; the top clasp was open and dangling. Im OK so long as I dont take off the jacket. I need to get some new clothes. Again, no word of dieting.

I reassured her she looked fine, but started thinking what it must actually feel like to carry twelve extra pounds around and have to squeeze into clothes bought when she was slimmer. I also thought about her new job situation. Shed be working with people whod never seen her before, never seen her lighter and more chiselled, and whod take her just as they found her: as an attractive, smallish Indian girl with a bit of a soft tummy. This I found oddly arousing.

So, I said when she came back that night, marble floors everywhere? Fountains playing? A zoo in the atrium? I dont know quite why I asked: shed already been there for the interview. 

I told you before. A bit pompous, but nothing spectacular. But get this, she said, pushing her chair a little nearer the kitchen table. Theyre actually paying me to eat.

Theyre what?

They give every worker food expenses for the staff canteen. And Tom, the food is so cheap. Its like - nothing, really. The benefit of high oil prices!

Shed tried the canteen out, of course. Had more or less a threecourse meal. Sam could never resist a bargain. That was something ingrained in her, in the genes almost, after decades, centuries perhaps, of her family in India having to make do with not very much. 

So you wouldnt want any dinner now?

Sam looked surprised. Of course I want dinner! I want to eat with you. I want to share our evening. We had spaghetti, I remember, with ratatouille out of a can, and garlic bread on the side. Fairly quick to make, but filling. Watching her talking merrily inbetween bites, I wondered how she had the appetite for another meal. Shed taken her jacket off, of course, and had loosened the zip to give her happy fat more room to breathe. This Shell job, I decided, was going to be very interesting.

But within a few weeks, the novelty of Sams new job was swept away by developments on the flat front. An ideal place had suddenly shown up in Shepherds Bush, bustling, cosmopolitan, good transport links. The only things it lacked, we realised, was a shepherd and a bush. We quickly signed on the dotted line, with the moving date a month away. Suddenly it was time to go see the bank manager, sort through stuff, pack things in boxes: all the usual pressures and headaches. Are you going to keep those sports trophies for the rest of your life? Yes, I told her, certainly. But my clutter was nothing compared to Samiras. She was a hoarder, plain and simple: her childrens books, empty boxes, lots of trinkets, and clothes, clothes, and clothes. 

You never know when something might come in useful: that was her philosophy. This? I said one hectic night, holding up a dog-eared childrens book called My Bunny, My Honey. This is going to come in useful? 

Oh, you have no nostalgia, Tom, my bunny, my honey. And with sparkling eyes she lifted the book out of my fingers and transported it into the to go pile. 

Moments later she was sorting through her closet. Ah, my famous skirt! she cried, with the emotion of someone greeting a long-lost friend. I remembered this skirt, the most colourful in her wardrobe, covered in swirls of orange and purple, with bright yellow splashes. She hadnt worn it in at least six months. This wont fit me, I know. She sounded sad. Lets face it, Tom, Im starting to get fat.

She was exaggerating. But the Shell job and the free lunches were definitely making a difference. Within the first week shed put on three extra pounds, and though she kept quiet about later visits to the bathroom scales I could tell she was not getting any thinner. Her belly was beginning to stick out of more and more clothes, and her hips were on the move too. Feeling around in bed, I could tell the fat was starting to live a separate life away from the framework of bones and muscle underneath; I could move it more freely, gather it more easily between my fingers and give it a squeeze. Watching her sometimes as she crossed the bedroom, naked after her morning shower, I saw how her tummy flesh jiggled with each movement of her body. She wasnt fat, nowhere near, but I could tell that this Shell job was starting to bring her close to the point when someone might call her chubby.

But it wasnt simply that the volume of Samiras body had increased. When I performed my pre-roundabout circuit, I kept noticing how extra silky and warm her body felt. Samira had always been warm-blooded; perhaps the layers of fat she was acquiring was giving her more insulation, like a bear tucked in for hibernation. Or was it simply a sign of the body rejoicing, happy to be healthy, young, in love, and enjoying food, especially at Shells free canteen?

.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

Early in December we moved into our new flat and sat there very pleased with ourselves for getting onto the property ladder, though we now had a hefty mortgage, and not much left in the bank. Not much furniture either, though that didnt stop us throwing a little flat-warming pre-Christmas party. 

Sally came, of course, and liked the flat, but then said since this was Shepherds Bush where were the shepherds? I said, in a mild bit of seasonal inspiration, that they were all in Bethlehem watching their flocks by night. Not bad, I thought, for someone who works for a glorified bus company. Then she suddenly leaned over to press a finger into Samiras midriff, which was looming out of her black blouse, with bare flesh hanging over the belt of her tight white slacks. Sam, she cried, you get rounder each time I see you!

I know, she said, in a defenceless kind of way, as though there was nothing she could do about it. 

But, damn it, you still look pretty! If I put on twenty pounds Id look like the back of a bus. Is it twenty pounds now? I was all ears.

Thereabouts, Sam confided. Probably more. Someone at work the other day said she noticed I was putting on weight, and I thought, Youve only known me a few weeks, and you can already tell? Tom teases me that its because of the canteen  its very good food.

She eats two dinners, I said helpfully. Samira gave me a playful swipe on the arm. 

I dont. Not full ones. She swiftly got her delivery up to the hot pace she used when excited. But do you know that all restaurants throw away one third of their food? I hate that waste. And theres something about eating up oil company profits that appeals to me. Hence this, she added, giving her belly overhang a quick pat. 

Well you carry it very well, Sally said. You might have been born to be fatter. 

An interesting idea, I thought, but Samira just moaned a bland Oh I dont no, and steered the talk to other channels. I moved on, filled a few glasses, and found myself on the opposite side of the room enjoying Samiras profile as she stood chatting with Sally. I soon had company. 

It was my workmate and health club chum Jason. I say, he said, Samiras put on some weight! I mean, I dont mean to be rude, but -  

Its alright. I guess its an obvious thing to say.

Its just that she used to be like a pencil. Now shes ready to burst out of her clothes! She must be one happily married lady.

Right on all counts, I said. Glancing across the room I noticed that Sam and Sally seemed to be having some discussion about her waist; at least heads were looking in that direction. I started to frame a question for Jason that I really wanted to ask, though I doubted that Id get an honest answer. Do you - do you think shes still attractive?

He looked as embarrassed as I thought he would. Well, yes, of course - the kind of of course people say when its not of course at all. Shes still Samira, isnt she? Shes rounder, obviously, but shes still Samira. I was just surprised to see the change. Chubbier in the face, and the breasts, and that soft midriff

That clinched it. He didnt find her as attractive at all. As a chivalrous husband should I have been hurt by his bluntness? If had been someone else talking, maybe; but Jason and I had had many locker room conversations. In fact I felt almost turned on by what he said, and it was only afterwards that I think I worked out why. The fact that Samira was obviously gaining weight somehow stamped her as mine, as my wife, and off-limits for roving eyes. She wasnt one to go playing the field, never was; but others had made flirty passes in their time, including Jason, and the suspicion that her softer look would now make them not quite so keen  well, it was reassuring. That was my theory, anyway.

I told Jason I wasnt bothered by her extra pounds. Well yes, of course, he said, sounding hollow; youre a lucky man. 

And then onto work gossip, and Christmas plans  my parents in Devon, I said, then Samiras for New Year  and eventual boredom. I changed the CD, went back to circulating, and began to wonder where Samira was; Helen, another Big Snout friend, had been asking for her. Expecting to find her in the kitchen, I only found two smokers, Archie and Fran, from university days, looking guilty, alone with their fumes by an open window. 

The bedroom door, I noticed, was shut. In I went, to be met by Samira shrieking. Tom, you should have knocked! Thank God it was you. It was quite a sight. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, with her blouse hanging open, her tummy fat spilling onto her lap, and was half-way through putting on an a old pair of sequined blue jeans. Sally stood alongside, peering with interest.

It was my turn to shriek now. What are you doing?

Were having a girl talk and Im giving Sally some of the clothes I cant fit into. Im just checking these jeans. A small pile, I noticed, was alongside on the bed, including the swirly orange and purple skirt. 

She can have them back any time, said Sally, her eyes searching for my approval. I guess the two were approximately the same size, or had been, but Sam had obviously become wider round the middle. 

Ill be out in a minute, Tom.

Helen was asking for her, I said, as she stood up for the final haul, wriggling and pulling the jeans over her hips with difficulty, and zipping up as much as she could. It wasnt very far: the depth of fat sitting round her waist saw to that. You see? she said, fingering the swathe of honey brown flesh, its my tummy again. I really liked the sequins on these jeans. Oh well

Your gain is my gain! said Sally. There was a definite wink in her voice.

Go on, Tom, leave! Sam cried.

Reluctantly I backed out of the room, shut the door, and went back to the party. I was getting tired. Fortunately, so were some of the guests, and the slow drift of leavers started. Samira soon emerged, in clothes that fitted; Sally bid her farewell; and before too long we were alone with each other and the apartment. 

Well, I said, looking at the empty bottles, the paper plates, the wine stain on the carpet (Jasons, I believe), the flats been warmed.

It certainly has. Im pooped. Lets clear up tomorrow. 

And we were soon in bed.

Sorry about interrupting the girl talk, I mumbled, my arm round her shoulder.

Thats alright. At least it was you interrupting. I thought since Sally was here I might as well give her some things. She was sounding sleepy already. 

What was the girl talk about? 

She was mildly irritated, I could tell. If I told you, Tom, it wont be girl talk any more.

Oh give me a hint. Itll send me off to sleep feeling happy. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, hoping that might help.

She caved in briefly. Body image stuff, you know. Where I was gaining most. Waist measurements.

I couldnt resist. And what are they?

Oh give it a rest, Tom, please! Im almost asleep.

Please? I kissed her again, and then rubbed my nose against hers.

Her voice was even drowsier now. But she managed to talk: 32. Im now 32. Gone up four inches. You see why I cant fit into my clothes?

I was right. It sent me off to sleep feeling happy. I love you, I whispered in her ear. But there was no reply


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

*CHAPTER THREE*

The train had just reached what air crews would call cruising altitude through the flat suburbs of outer London. We were on our way west and south, down into the dangling leg of England, into Devon, to visit my parents. The Christmas visit. December 24th and 25th. And, since there were no trains running the next day, also December 26th. I was not looking forward to any of them. But family duty had to be done. We hadnt gone down to see them since the wedding; they hadnt come up. It was a long haul by train or road, and my fathers farm kept him very busy. Not with the livestock: he had other people for that. But desk work. Barking orders. Being the boss. As his son, I knew all about that at first hand.

Wed taken some pictures of the flat to show them, and were now rather idly flipping through them to pass away a little of the hours ahead. Look, she said, handing me one across the table, theres the wine stain.

I peered into the carpet. I thought you got all of that out.

Obviously not! I dont quite know why she was grinning, but it was good to see her in high spirits, considering what was ahead. She was propping up her head in her left hand, elbow resting on the table, next to her water bottle, the Greenpeace magazine, a block of peppermint-flavoured chocolate, and a pinched stranger reading the Daily Telegraph sitting next to her. Looked like a vicar to me. I began to notice the way Sams hand, pressed into her cheek, pushed the cheeks flesh out further, prompting a ripple effect higher up her face. She was looking a trifle jowly now  not all the time, but I could tell her jawline was softening, and her cheekbones had certainly become harder to find. 

The photos didnt take up very much time. Sam started reading her Greenpeace magazine, but after a page or two closed her eyes, put her head back and drifted off to sleep. I had a thriller that wasnt too thrilling, and that didnt occupy me long either. So I started thinking, looking at Sam as she slept. Suddenly Aunt Jessies words before the wedding came jumping back. People change. You cant predict. Just go with the flow.

You certainly couldnt have predicted what was happening with Sam. Id spent the years at university and beyond with someone chiselled, with an athletes body. Now, after six months of marriage, she had gained at least 20 pounds. There she lay, sleeping, head against the headrest, chin doubling slightly, her cardigan buttons under stress around her breasts, the tummy oozing out across her waist, quivering slightly as the train rocked or went over points. 

A woman of her modest height at 124 pounds, if thats what Sam was, couldnt be called overweight, but with her new appetite I began to wonder how long it would take my beautiful, softer, riper darling before shed break that barrier. And how long would it be before I felt like Jason and find her not quite so beautiful? When would she put on too much? 130 pounds? 135? 267? 

Was she gaining now? Right that minute, as she slept? Did the fat depositing process take place gradually throughout the day, or did it save itself for the sleeping hours, when the body was in suspended animation? I didnt know, but it gave me a weird kind of erotic thrill to believe that even as she slept a fraction of an ounce was finding its place somewhere, and when she stirred and woke Samira would be just that little bit fatter.

Waking up half an hour later she yawned a bit, showing off her jowl, then glanced up and down the carriage. The refreshment trolley hasnt come by, has it? I could kill for a chocolate muffin. The vicar alongside smiled.

As Devon approached I could feel my stomach muscles tightening. Nerves. Stress. It had always been this way, though since Id taken Samira into my heart the strains had increased. I had never got over the resentment I felt at my dads early sneers  We notice shes coloured  and his own resentment that Id failed to find anyone among Englands home-grown beauties. Each time we were with my dad, I felt I had to protect Samira from his bias. Oh, lets not mince words. Deep down he was a racist: he saw cruel stereotypes, surface appearances, never the real person. 

What kept my fears on edge was the knowledge that in the heart of rural Devon, Samira was indeed exotic and foreign. In England, certainly in the major cities, public services and public life would grind to a halt without people of colour. The transport system, the corner shops, the post offices, the supermarkets: almost all the frontline people slogging it out were Pakistani, Indian, Caribbean or African. In our part of Devon, if you ever found a corner shop, youd always find someone white and middle-aged. Coloured people were only on television.

Probably I felt excessively protective: Sam was spunky enough to take care of herself. Even so, when she packed a richly embroidered Indian jacket in her suitcase  shed begun to wear more ethnic clothes recently  I did wonder if this was wise. At least she didnt bring her sari: shed bought one of those recently too.

We were met at the station by my father, brusque as usual. In the hallway stood my mother and a Christmas tree. Of the two, the Christmas tree looked cheerier: living with my father had worn her down. We took off our coats and came into the living room for what I hoped was a warming drink. I needed some fuel inside me. 

Lets look at you both. My mother gave us same look she did when she judged the biggest pumpkins at the local harvest fair. Marriage obviously agrees with you. 

Ive put on some weight, Samira said, with a reproachful tone. Im not sure Id ever heard her say that straight out, in public as it were. I found it quite erotic.

Oh well, said my mother kindly. This isnt the time of year to go dieting. Biscuits, anyone?

Thanks, said Sam. You could, just for once, have said no, I thought. I could see my father looking displeased. 

Flat move went OK, did it?, he said. Movers no problem? They can break things so easily.

And on we went into the visit, with the flat photos shown, the wine stain noted, the talk about Sam changing jobs, the exciting world of Transport for London, my fathers livestock problems, new doings at the Womens Institute, and on eventually into Christmas Day, with the awkward exchange of presents. Then came the big meal, roast turkey and all the trimmings, with two second helpings for Sam and a heap of Christmas pudding, and then, on cue, the ritual session in front of the television watching the Queens Christmas message. 

We bore it all I think in remarkably good spirits. But it only took my father to take me aside in his office afterwards for things to cloud over. 

He gave me that man-to-man talk look, which I so dreaded. Samiras fattening up, isnt she? I have to say Im disappointed. You must be too. She really polished off that meal.

The cheek of him, saying he was disappointed. Even so, I only managed a meek response. Its Christmas, dad, everyone eats well at Christmas.

Youre keeping an eye on it, I hope. I noticed shes getting a belly. Indian women do that. Its in the genes. They gain weight very easily. Thats why the Indians invented belly dancing.

I was getting seriously irritated now. Egypt invented belly dancing. This has got nothing to do with being Indian. I know shes rounded out a bit, but thats to do with being happily married. Not being Indian. You always bring that up, dont you?

He looked at me hard. How can I avoid it? Look. Samira is a lovely girl. Ive always told you that. Grudgingly, I thought, always grudgingly. All Im doing is giving you a fatherly warning. You dont want a plump wife, do you? You didnt marry one. On the wall behind his desk, I suddenly noticed a picture of an enormous round pig, obviously one of his farm stock. I found the conjunction alarming.

People change, I countered, remembering Aunt Jessie. And frankly, dad, I like her belly. But can we change the subject? This is private business. You shouldnt be talking about it. Shes my wife, not yours.

OK, OK. Its just a word of warning. Subject closed. Here, he said, getting up, do you see this pig? Thats Blandings Major. First prize at the autumn fair. And then, just as he was half-way through the door, Were eating some of him tomorrow.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

The more the evening went on, the more this exchange rattled me. The disrespect! The racism! I felt like taking Samira away there and then, but without trains until December 27th we were stuck. As we sat around the fire, I kept looking at her, watching her tummy roll deepen whenever she leaned forward to pick up another walnut, and wishing just then that she wouldnt lean forward quite so often.

I was relieved to get back to privacy in my old bedroom, our billet for the visit. Sam wanted a shower to remove the lingering smell of my fathers cigar; I spent the time brooding and leafing through old TV annuals and adventure books  gifts no doubt from Christmases past, probably no happier than this one. 

And you accuse me of hoarding! Sam said, coming back into the room dressed only in a voluminous towel, her long wet hair glistening. Youve got more childrens books than I have. She sat on the bed to comb her hair, with her tummy fat settled into its usual bulge. The flesh quivered slightly as she moved her arms; she was getting some meat on the arms, too.

One more day here, she said in between comb strokes. I guess well get through it. Difficult with your father, though. Have you noticed he keeps looking at me? Snatching little glances.

She was standing up at this point, looking for the hair drier. An unusually deep flesh crease appeared across her back as she leaned to pick it up from the bed.

I decided there was no point being coy about things. I had a terrible conversation with him. He thinks youre putting on too much weight.

Oh is that it? Weighing me up with his eyes? She concentrated her energies on her hair; I could see her face muscles tightening, more in anger I felt than embarrassment. But then she put down the drier again, and the muscles eased. Well, he may be right. 

And she began rubbing her curving tummy, the flesh following her fingers, back and forth. And you know that Indian jacket I came with? I cant really button it up any more. I think, she said, maybe this experiment has gone too far. 

Immediately she switched the drier on again, but I leaned over quickly and switched it off. What do you mean, experiment? What experiment?

Letting myself gain weight.

This took a second or two to sink in. Youve been putting on weight on purpose?

Abandoning the drier for the moment, she picked up one end of her towel and started fiddling with it. She was obviously nervous. Not at all. Well, not at first. The honeymoon. Being married. It was all accidental. But then maybe other things came into it.

My mouth was hanging open. Things? What things?

She stopped her fiddling. She looked vulnerable, more vulnerable than Id seen her for a long time, and seemed avoiding my eyes. Well I had mixed feelings. You know how women worry about their bodies. I didnt like my clothes getting tighter, and people noticing I looked fatter, but at the same time I felt more feminine. You know, boobs, curves. Maybe more Indian too.

More Indian? I was like a parrot, repeating everything. For some reason I thought of Gandhi, then I realised that probably wasnt the kind of Indian she had in mind. 

Not such a Western stick. A bit of upholstery. And you didnt complain. You certainly liked it in bed. I had to agree with her there. 

She began to pick out hairs from her comb  anything to keep herself occupied. Then the free Shell lunches came along, and I knew I would put on more weight. And a part of me wanted it to happen. Finally she looked at me directly: If you eat two dinners a day, she said, youre going to get fatter. 

I love you fatter, I said, imploring, stroking her upper left arm, rounded out with its new flesh. I knew what was coming. She was going to diet.

I know you do, pet, but enough is enough. Its beginning to make me feel sluggish and lazy. Sometimes I see my face in the mirror and I look so chubby I dont know its me. And you dont know what its like, carrying a wobbly tummy around all the time. I dont want to give everything I own to Sally. So, Tom, she said, standing with hands pressing into her fattened hips, after Christmas I diet.

You want to lose all of it? I said. I probably sounded like a little boy facing the confiscation of his catapult. 

If I get down to 110 pounds that would probably be OK. Thats still a big jump from 127. What I cant do is hit 130. My body just couldnt take it. Id look   . She paused a second, searching for the right word. Id look dumpy.

You might look more Indian too, I tried, not wanting to let go.

She sighed, gave me a wry smile, and picked up the hair drier again. Women are complex creatures, Tom. Can I finish drying now? Im really ready for bed.

Bed. We were tucked in before too long, lying together, sheltered from the cold of the room and the parental chill by the blankets, the duvet, and our body heat. I thought sadly how Samiras heat might diminish if she lost her insulating fat. And how strange it would feel to proceed towards the roundabout only find a tight abdomen, not the flesh cushion both of us had grown used to, and that Sam it seemed had actually wanted. 

I still couldnt quite get my head around that. But there were so many other things to think about. Did she really have to diet? Would she look dumpy if she got any bigger? Of that I wasnt entirely sure; each new pound was unknown territory. What I did know, as we circled our arms around each other, was that I wished we hadnt come for Christmas.

We wont do this again, I whispered. Coming down here like this. Its not working.

Theres just one more day. Her jowl suddenly appeared as she shifted her head on the pillow. 

Ah yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow were going to eat Blandings Major. 

Oh that sounds good. Then after a few seconds: What is Blandings Major? Some Devonshire dessert?

Not a what. Its a who. A pig.

She pulled a face. Perhaps Ill start my diet tomorrow.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

*CHAPTER FOUR*

After all that, the New Years visit to the Northampton Chowdhourys was a distinct anti-climax. But far pleasanter. No cold politeness here; no fear of a racist implication rising up to bite everyone round the ankles. 

Sam endured a fair bit of family teasing. Fingers explored the extra tummy flab. Her mother said theyd all presumed she would have slimmed back by now, not actually gained more weight. But it was all conducted with a smile, with love and acceptance. And when she announced that on January 2nd the diet was going to start, no-one said About time too. 

Instead it was me, surprisingly, who found himself, somewhere inside, toying with that black thought. I remember a moment when Sam stood up after a long sit, shook her raven hair and pulled her shoulders back as she stretched. In the process the breasts were thrust out, plus the midriff flab, and the extra weight around her face briefly doubled into a second chin. At that point she looked so unlike the gazelle Id married that I was taken aback. If she didnt diet, that would be her future look all the time. I thought of Jason and the question Id asked him at the party. Was she still attractive? I have to admit it, I was wavering.

Much of the New Year chatter was about our planned visit to India. We were due to go in the early spring, partly for a holiday, partly for a family round-up and a belated celebration of our marriage. Id never been there before; and the prospect of seeing Samiras ancestral home was exciting. Daunting too; there were so many aunts and uncles, many with names I couldnt quite handle. If only they were all like Auntie Biswas: just two syllables, or even Auntie Lalita; those names rolled off the tongue. Not like Auntie Numiswammi. 

Before all that, we had the British winter to get through. Starting a diet in the New Year must be the dumbest thing to do. The days are grey, the temperature cold, and just when youd appreciate some extra calories you starve yourself. Samira stuck to her word, and for the first time since wed tied the knot reined in her new appetite. I didnt have lunch! she told me triumphantly after her first day back at work. She kept a strict watch on her dessert intake, upped the vegetables and salad things, joined the local gym, and was able to announce at the end of the first week that shed already lost two pounds. 125, 120, 118: the numbers she told me kept sinking.

Since she seemed pleased about it all, I was pleased for her, though my deeper feelings about it all remained confused. I didnt want her thinner. But at the same time I did. When that chubby look started to retreat from her face  a quick development, that  I didnt burst into tears. Id never quite got used to her filled-out cheeks, and it was good to see some definition returning. I was less happy as her tummy, week by week, shrunk and tightened. Id grown to find her softness there very alluring; and after months of a steady build-up of lovely brown fat, my fingers didnt appreciate finding less to fondle as we hugged or prepared for sex.

And the sex. It wasnt so good any more. Not just because of Sams changing body. Her temper was changing too. She became irritable. Always seemed tired. She began to stir up arguments over the slightest things: the shirt I was wearing, mobile ring tones. At times we sounded like an old married couple, bickering away. I put this all down to the calorie loss, and the gym exertions. She was running on empty, and I told her so.

How long is this going to go on for? I said, peering down one day at a plate containing a cracker, a thin slice of chicken meat, three salad objects, and a twig of grapes. We only live once, Sam. You should be enjoying yourself. 

She looked at me grimly. I need to lose more weight before we go to India. They havent seen me in five years.

Come on, youre trim enough. Youve already got some clothes back from Sally. Youre killing yourself with this regime. Always short-tempered. Always tired.

Im not short-tempered, she snapped, and then caught herself out. Oh. I guess I am. Im certainly tired. Im sorry, Tom.

It wont kill you to have one small dessert. Ive got tiramisu in the fridge.

No, she said, and then looked out the window. It was January. It was raining hard, with some sleet in it. She ran a hand over her waistline. Oh alright, she said. I am hungry. 

I didnt say anything more on the subject. But after that day the gym clothes stayed in the wardrobe. She said hello to potatoes again. Probably she regained a pound or two, but no more. And then her weight, for the first time in months, seemed to stay on an even keel. Maybe the adventure was over. After a while wed see friends or family, like Sally and Ayesha, and the topic wouldnt even come up. We had to find other things to talk about: global warming, the mess in Iraq, the Shell situation, how tiresome Spielbergs War of the Worlds was. Kind of boring, really. 

Then it was time for India. I can see her now, sitting in the plane taking us to Calcutta, buckling the seat belt across her tummy and giving the remains of her midriff roll - oh yes, she still had one  a brief pat in the process. I wish Id stuck to my diet longer, she sighed.

Dont worry about it. You look great.

At least Im a little thinner. And therell be nothing on the plane worth eating.

She was right there. So we slept and talked away the time before we finally touched down. Sam, with the window seat, peered out from time to time to see if she could see any of the planes carbon emissions. All I saw was darkness or the rocky bulk of some country I wouldnt want the plane to crash into: Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan. There were a lot of them around.

I wondered what Id find in India. I wasnt expecting the cold embrace my father had always given Samira, but you never knew. Youll feel right at home, Sam reassured me. They play cricket a lot, and theres red double-decker buses. Just your thing! 

But the basic culture, the religion, the food, the clothing, the weather, I told her: all different. And wed be there for three weeks, staying with Sams relatives: easily time enough for them to get bored with us, and vice versa.

Sam shook her head. In India, she said, putting her hand on mine and squeezing it, you can never be bored.

She was right. The moment we got into the arrivals hall, I was overwhelmed. The volume of people! The noise! Everyone arriving seemed to have ten others waiting to meet them, jabbering away in that excited way that was so characteristic of Sam. Most young women looked faintly like Sam as well: the same pocket size, the same raven hair, though many were quite a bit chubbier. 

And among them, holding a placard that said SAMIRA AND TOM WELCOME TO INDIA, were Auntie Biswas and Uncle Dilip, our hosts, two of Sams multiple aunts and uncles. They smiled, we hugged, then they shook my hand sombrely and even accompanied it with a little bow. This is your first time in India, yes? said Dilip. I admitted it was. Good, he said. You will not be bored.

And Samira, cried her auntie, youre looking so well! I didnt recognise you for a moment. You must love marriage.

Oh yes, said Sam with her biggest grin, very much. Weve been really looking forward to this trip.

Luggage on a wobbly cart, we were guided through the throngs towards the car park. Then the drive through the outskirts  driving on the left, as Sam had said  to a leafy suburb. Once inside their apartment, wed been hoping to be able to go to our room and collapse. But it wasnt possible. Uncle Raj and Auntie Numiswammi, Numi for short, were waiting inside; the welcomes had to be done all over again, this time with drinks.

Sit down by me, Samira, and let me see you. Auntie Numiswammi, round and smiling, beckoned her to share her sofa. I was marooned in a chair opposite. Samira smiled back, warily. Family togetherness, thats what she came to India for: but now was not the best time.

Aaah! Auntie Numi trumpeted in exultant tones, after looking her up and down. At last youre starting to get a bit chubby! You were far too thin before.

I could see Samira blushing; probably she was thinking about her abandoned diet. Its true, I have gained a bit, she said. She sounded very awkward. 

Dont be ashamed! Auntie Biswas, fixing drinks, called from across the room. Its good! Its healthy! Samira glanced in my direction, seeking my support. But before I could say anything Numi cut in.

Very good. A married woman should get plump. Its a sign of happiness! Then she leaned over and pinched Sams cheeks. Poor Sam blushed even more and said, nervously, I dont think Im plump. Am I? 

Alright, my dear, not plump, not yet! Auntie Numi cried with a high-speed laugh, almost a cackle. But I can see padding, and its beautiful. Its your destiny. Accept it! Let the pounds come! And she laughed again.

We both felt awkward now; no-one would talk like this in England. Lets change the subject, Uncle Dilip said suddenly, taking command. Youre embarrassing Samira, you know? And theyre both very tired. Plenty of time to talk later. And theres the banquet tomorrow.

Ah, the banquet. Samira had warned me. We were going to be royally wined and dined. All the relatives wanted to celebrate our marriage. More reason for getting beauty sleep. And before long, we were in our room, luggage unpacked, lying on the bed, numb with tiredness.

Families! Sam said, exasperated. I told you I should have stuck to my diet. Next time, you sit to Auntie Numi. Im not having my cheeks pinched again.

I kissed her smack on the lips. I think youre perfect, in every way. Just enjoy being here.

Families, she said again, nestling her head deeper into the pillow. Welcome to India, Tom. 

***

The next day was spent acclimatising ourselves, and getting a sense of the street life. Teeming markets; people with bulls and goats on ropes; and so much noise. So much contrast, too. On your right a luxury hotel. On your left, a shanty town, with the poorest of the poor living under cardboard. Im exaggerating just a bit, but then India was a country of exaggerations. Everything was bigger, and more abundant, than anything in cramped old England.

That certainly included the meals. My eyes dropped at the food they expected us to consume at this family banquet. One plate after another: chicken this, lamb that, fish and prawn, spinach, fried rice, and enough pappadams to build a house. 

You must have some of my onion bhaji, my own special recipe! said Auntie Lalita, the mountainous Lalita, very fat and friendly. Sam declined; she has a thing about onions. But that was the only item she passed on. I have to try this, shed say, or That looks so good, and shed eat her way round the table in between the excited chatter about our marriage, our jobs, our apartment, and my impressions of India.

Well, its not boring! I said, as a kind of joke. I especially like the double decker buses. I could see brows wrinkling at this. 

Tom, Sam explained, works for Transport for London.

That brought in Uncle Shammi, another of the Chowdhoury clan, who seemed to be a train-spotting type, and wanted to know the engine types used on the Underground, the dimensions of the tunnels, and so many technical details that my ears began to glaze over. I looked with longing over at Sam who was having a far livelier time with a cousin, Maneera. I remembered Maneera from three years before when shed been a student in London, and wed hung out at Indian restaurants, gone to the odd film, that kind of thing. At first I didnt recognise her; in London she had been almost as lithe as Sam, the same height, similar dusky beauty, perhaps just a little bustier. Now she was overcome with fat. Press her, and youd expect her to burst. 

Shammi was yackering about braking systems or something, but my eyes kept turning to Maneera and Sam. How have you kept so slim? Maneera was saying, looking her up and down.

Oh, Im not so slim these days. Sam paused with a spoonful of egg fried rice as she said it. 

Just then Shammi clutched my arm to yank me back to his boring monologue. Really, Uncle Shammi, I said, I know nothing about the technicalities. I deal with accounts, money managing. Im a figures man. Yes, I thought, female figures. Under the drone of this annoying man I caught stray words from wife and cousin, including, Im afraid, diet  but the noise level around us suddenly increased, and I had to give up the struggle.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

What a meal! Sam said afterwards as we sat in our bedroom, digesting the food and the experience. I hope every day is not going to be like this. Id end up as plump as Maneera. Now she has become plump.

Still pretty, though, I chipped in, hoping to banish the diet word. 

Yes. Pretty plump.

Once more I began to imagine what Sam might look like if she not only took the brake off her appetite, but actually threw the brake away. Before, in the nightmare of Christmas, Id had mixed feelings. But now, maybe because so many of the women in India seemed comfortable with their size, I didnt have so much fear. And I could see what Sam had meant when she said that gaining weight made her feel more Indian. She certainly looked more Indian here than she ever looked in London.

What was it with Indian families? Wed seen most of the immediate family in this opening splash, at least those that lived to hand. But now were trotted out, day after day, to lunch or dinner with each of them individually. These werent quite banquets, but the food and drink still flowed. I told Sam we were going to so many meals that the only Indian sights we were really seeing were knives and forks. And plates of food, said Sam ruefully. 

Its very nice of my aunts to give us these dinners, she eventually said to Auntie Biswas, but its really not necessary.

Oh theyd be so hurt, Samira, if they didnt entertain you and Tom. They want to invite you into their homes, and shower you with rose petals. Its traditional. We had indeed been showered with rose petals. It was rather sweet.

So we had to persevere. Though as I watched Sam at these dinners it didnt seem like hard work for her. Sag. Korma. Chicken Tikka. Roughan Josh. Even Auntie Geetas notorious curry. She partook of them all, probably without thinking, as she talked with her relatives about the iniquities of Shell, or Indian politics, or the latest Bollywood gossip.

Of course she was putting on weight. Across one of these family tables I caught her loosening the clasp on her pants to give her full stomach more room; our eyes met, and she gave me a look that said, I know, I know. It was hard to be sure without any scales, but I got the impression that even by the end of the first week shed regained all the remaining pounds shed lost. There was extra roundness in the cheeks; that meat again on her upper arms; and above all there was the tummy, now re-upholstered. 

Oh God, Sam said, as our third week started, catching her figure in the bedroom mirror, If my aunts have been trying to fatten me up, theyve certainly succeeded! She was looking, as usual, at her tummy, seemingly spreading wider with every day, and now permanently carrying the ribbed mark of the waistbands from clothes almost too tight to wear. 

But what struck me most of all was how these Indian pounds had the effect of rounding her out all over  filling out any remaining corners, making her look chubby from top to toe. Sometimes, as we shared the bathroom or she puttered about getting dressed, I would find myself transfixed by the way her deepening flesh created new landscapes and beauties quite impossible with someone thinner. 

Shed be standing there, maybe putting on her bra, with the tummy fat quivering slightly. Then shed lean forward and her midriff crease would form immediately, rapidly deepening and pushing out more and more flesh into two big bulges as she stooped to pick up something from a chair, the floor, or the bed. It was a spectacle as powerful and hypnotic as the movement of the oceans waves swelling and breaking on the shore. 

I was even finding Samiras back hypnotic. Raising her fleshier upper arms for her regular combing sessions, a flesh crease would appear across the shoulder blade area: not an area Id previously thought remotely sexy. Now it was. Once her bare back had been littered with signs of the bones lying close under the flesh: the little knobs along the spine, the shoulder blades themselves, all visible like debris on a beach. Now the waves of soft flesh were coming in, concealing, smoothing and softening. And when she twisted and leaned over to one side, the flesh round her hips buckled into not one, not two, but three creases before the waves subsided and Samiras back came momentarily to rest. So many creases, so much padding. And all of it honey brown.

But back to Sam at the bedroom mirror. Im going to have to diet when we get back, she was saying, though with not much conviction, trying to hoist her pants over her hips. What about you?

Me? I felt a stab close to my heart. 

And with her biggest grin, she pressed a finger into my own stomach. She was right, of course. Even before this Indian trip Id lost some tautness there; Id stopped going to the gym, drunk a bit more, and I guess some of Sams expanded appetite had rubbed off on me. It wasnt much; seven pounds or so, but enough to give me the hint of a belly. A bit more of a hint now, after India. Feeling the fat on my own stomach gave me at least some idea of what Sam must have experienced in the early stages. It felt strange, and pleasant, and embarrassing all at once. Quite a potent cocktail.

Ill think about it, I said, trying to be nonchalant. But you, darling  you should get some new pants now.

No, she said, that would be too embarrassing. But she would take off her bra. She probably needed that in a bigger size, too, but that wasnt her only reason. It was also the weather. Hot and sweaty. I need to be loose, she said. So she was. Without a bra, her breasts hung on her body like ripe tropical fruit, about to drop from the tree. 

During the farewell dinner  yet another one  everyone said in a friendly way that they could tell she had put on weight during our visit, even Uncle Shammi, who I thought only noticed trains. Numi was ecstatic about it. Look at you! she screamed, running her hands down Sams chubby arms. Getting plump! I know, Sam said, in a resigned way. My gain they didnt seem to notice at all.

The next day we were on the plane back, buckled up, waiting for the plane to take off, sizing up the visit. Coming from a small British family, Id found the sprawling Indian carnival fascinating, strange, and endearing, though, I had to say it, also claustrophobic. 

But they mean well, Sam said. We were kept pretty busy!

I looked at her seat belt, dug deep into a tummy roll that seemed twice its previous size. Yes, I said, eating.

She puckered her cheeks. Do you think theres a part of me that hasnt gained weight? It doesnt feel like it.

I cast a quick eye over what I could see. The prominent tummy. The thighs packed tightly into unclasped slacks. The constricted look of the blouse around her breasts. The full cheeks. The flesh widening her neck, gathering under her chin. I thought for a few seconds. Your ears, I said. Sam laughed like a peal of bells.

I had been thinking of mentioning her hands as well. But as she sat with them on her lap, fingers raised as if in prayer, I noticed slenderness had gone from them too. The area between each knuckle had filled up. And no sign now of the bones reaching out from the wrist: just a sweet little carpet of flesh, crossed around the wrist by two indented lines. So it was the ears. Only the ears.

Oh well, she sighed, at least Im fatter evenly, all over.

Pity I couldnt make love to her there in the plane; that sort of remark, which Id once have found disturbing, now hit just the right erotic spot. But instead of sex we whiled away the hours behaving: reading, sleeping, watching some Bollywood nonsense on the little screens on the back of the seats. As we eventually neared London, Samira re-clasped her waistband, made off for the toilet, and promptly stumbled over a passengers feet. As she bent down in the aisle to retrieve her toilet bag I heard a nasty rip. Shed split the back seams in her pants. 

Oh God, she cried, with an embarrassed laugh. It was the perfect grand finale.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

*CHAPTER FIVE*

Something Sam said during the flight had lodged into my brain, and I kept thinking about it long after the plane touched down. Shed said she now felt truly married, and hadnt felt our nuptials had been complete without the Indian family overkill, the rose petals, the meals, and all the rest. Now wed had that; Id been welcomed into her Indian family, her truly Indian family in Calcutta. The marriage was complete. She felt complete. Thats what she said. But would her sense of satisfaction survive the moment when she stood on the bathroom scales?

I was in the living room at the time, fiddling around, maybe checking the wine stain hadnt come back. Suddenly, from the bathroom, I heard this yell. I rushed in find her on the scales, naked, brown and luscious, a little double chin showing as she peered over her tropical breasts and sagging tummy towards her feet and the tell-tale dial. 

137 lbs! Ive put on 14 pounds in three weeks. Thats a whole stone. I didnt think that was possible. You know what this means, dont you?

I could think of numerous things, but I didnt want to tempt fate. So I simply said What?

Im now officially overweight. I used to be so slim, Tom! Like a gazelle, you always said. Look at this! She grabbed a handful of tummy fat between her fingers and started moving it up and down  I thought of a jelly wobbling on a plate  and then ran her hands down each of her thighs. They had thickened before, but in India theyd suddenly become seriously chunkier: I guess they had to be to support the rest of her weight.

I told her I wasnt as streamlined myself, and that she always looked great, always would. Then I bit the bullet and asked what she was going to do. 

Theres only one thing to do. Dont say diet, I said to myself; just dont say diet. Im just going to have to buy new clothes.

And so she did. We both did. I had to accept the fact that my 31 inch waist was now 32 inches or over, and needed trousers to match. But that was nothing compared to Sam. Like the digital scales, the tape measure couldnt lie: the waist that before marriage had been 28 inches now measured 34 and a half. Over six extra inches of nothing but fat, circling her in its loving embrace, transforming her from a slender beauty to a beauty opulent, rounded, and overweight  at least according to doctors charts and the normal ratio between bones and flesh. I knew shed crossed some frontier in India, without knowing quite what the frontier was. Now I knew the clinical reason. 

She also needed new bras. I hadnt known the exact details of these before  even in marriage some things are private  but I received my education as she rifled through the lingerie departments. I used to fit into these, she said nostalgically, holding up a 32A, more like an exercise bra really. Now Im even too busty for B cups. The bra that fitted, she found, was a 36C. Theyre as big as a parachute, she moaned, faintly. No wonder your Aunt Jessie talked about people changing.

I sat outside the fitting rooms, enjoying the parade. New slacks. A new skirt. And new denim jeans and a matching jacket. Just as well her Shell job paid good money. What do you think? she said, coming out with embroidered purple slacks with a 34 waist  each manufacturers size varied. She showed me the waistline, with the slacks still hugging her belly curve closely but at least clasped without difficulty. Up above it, the remains of her tummy still hung over the top in a tempting bulge. 

How are they sitting down, or touching your toes? She looked around to see if anyone was watching, whisked me into the fitting room, and sat down on a stool. Her top immediately rode up at the back, giving me a good view of the ample love handles rounding out each hip. When she bent down to the floor, the fat bulges increased in synch, the flesh pouring out over each side of the jeans. I thought of flood water breaking through a dam.

Theyre fine, she said. Fine for me, too.

Try the hip pockets. She squeezed her fingers into the slits, the pressure forming multiple ripples on the flesh of her palms above. A bit tight, she said. But arent they always? Youre not meant to put your hands in all the way. What do you think?

Looks good. A great colour. Makes you look really sexy.

Yeah, sexy and fat. On hearing that, I was ready to make love there and then. But even behind the cubicle door, we were still in Harrods. It just wasnt done.

So there she was, my gazelle Samira - though the gazelle was now nowhere to be found, and didnt seem likely to be returning. She had her new clothes; there was no proclamation about a diet. True, I sensed she was having smaller portions, and she probably cut back on the Shell canteens largesse, but that was just minor tinkering. On the face of things she was still contented, wobbly tummy, bigger breasts, and all. I was doing nothing to work off my own little paunch, either. 

What probably helped Sams adjustment was the reaction of friends. Coming back from India significantly heavier, shed expected to get lots of bruising remarks. They hadnt materialised. Ayesha teased her about gaining more weight, but told her the family had expected it: You were on holiday, Sam. And you were in India. Even viper-tongued Sally couldnt summon up that much shock. So much for your diet! she said, as she gave her old friend a kiss and a barrel hug. Does this mean I get more of your clothes?

With her friends accepting that Samira was fatter, permanently fatter, it must have been easier for Sam to do the same. But the main reason, Im sure, was the Indian ancestry thing. Gaining weight had helped to make her, in her own word, complete; she now looked more Indian, and felt more Indian herself. We watched more Indian films on DVD; we ate at more Indian restaurants. Even her intonation now had more of an Indian lilt. It made her more bewitching than ever.

Then there were the saris. Earlier, saris had looked odd on her: there hadnt been much of a body to cover. But now that shed really filled out the swathes of colourful material wrapped around her looked perfect. She bought several new ones, turquoise and orange; sometimes she wore them even at work. I loved the way you could always see some part of her midriff flesh in the gaps between the material. As she sat in her sari, with jewelled earrings swaying and the rolls of honey-brown fat peeping out, she looked the perfect Indian princess. 

Our life continued unchanged throughout the summer; nothing to report there. Then Sams conscience finally struck. She liked the work; she liked the free lunches; but she didnt like Shell. Thered been demonstrations outside against Third World exploitation. Sams instincts were for standing with the demonstrators, waving placards. What was she doing walking past them, into the lobby? She couldnt take it. Shed seen enough of a multi-national giant and its rapacious workings, she told me; now she wanted the small things in life. 

Like Snickers? I said; I noticed shed started buying lots of chocolate bars.

No, you dope. Like Big Snout PR, if theyd have me. 

They couldnt, full-time., though there were special PR jobs she could do freelance for them. She found other outlets too. Her income dropped considerably, but she was relieved of the moral quandaries shed had to fight through. For one day a week she worked at Big Snout, where she was embarrassed to find her leaving party photos still pinned on Sallys bulletin board. Ah, the good old days, she told everyone; thats when I was still thin!

Based at home again, in the company of Snickers, her weight slowly began to edge up again. I soon spotted the tell-tale signs: the new creases across the front of her slacks where her tummy was filling out a bit more; the gap above the slacks zips, where fat blocked further progress; the extra roundness in her face; the fleshier arms; a new bit of swagger to the bottom. When she told me in early December with a touch of shame that the scales now read 142 pounds  quite an amount for someone only five foot two  I wasnt a bit surprised. 

It was in this fairly voluptuous condition that she faced the ultimate test: another visit to my parents. Not at Christmas: Id sworn never to do that again, although this was only two weeks before. The occasion was my parents 30th wedding anniversary. Thered be others there, like the fabled Aunt Jessie  people I hadnt seen for a long while. And by now that included my parents: wed had dutiful phone calls, and sent a postcard from India, but thered been no physical contact. It was only for a day and a night, I thought; we wouldnt be locked in; it seemed manageable.

On the journey down, watching Samira wriggle with difficulty through the small gap between our train seats and its table, I had to wonder what my father would say when he saw her. Of course Id gained a little too; but Sam had really blossomed. Reaching up to put her shoulder bag on the rack above, she pressed her waist hard against the tables edge, forcing her ample belly to bulge out even more than usual. She was wearing the embroidered purple pants shed bought after India; not such a good fit now. 

I noticed the exertions were making her pant. Sam, I said, once shed settled back into her seat, her little double chin cradling her face, do you mind not being slim any more? I wanted to make sure of our ground before entering the battlefield. 

Well, I -. But just then, with rotten timing, a clergyman of some kind, with a dog-collar, loomed above us and asked if the seat next to Sam was free. It was a crowded train. It didnt seem the place to talk intimate matters after that. Id have to wait until later to get my answer. 

Sam soon drifted off to sleep. The vicar took out a Bible; and I just gazed around. Six months before I might have spent my time wondering in my obsessive way what this vicar, a total stranger, would think of Samiras appearance. The round face. The very obvious breasts. The belly flopped onto her lap. Would he think her attractive? Would he think to himself, Oh, if only she were thinner  without knowing that a year before thats just what she was? Or would he mumble Oh, the sins of the flesh and return to the Good Book? 

But none of that came to mind as I gazed across the table at the two of them, side by side  Samira the luscious brown plum, and this vicar, grey and thin. I simply thought my wife, every ounce of her, was the most beautiful person on the train, indeed on the entire planet.


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## Observer (Apr 19, 2006)

Youre well bundled up! my mother said, as we entered the parental prison and took off our coats. It was mid-December, and winter was biting. Stripped of her coat, Samira still looked like a bundle, and I watched her kissing her in-laws waiting for the firestorm to hit.

Youre looking so - well! my mother continued, taking in the plumpness. Politeness, with her, was always the best policy.

Samira decided to be honest. Im looking fat, too. Ive been enjoying my food too much, Im afraid. My father gave me a fearful look, but stayed silent, with his mouth formed either a distasteful grimace or an artificial smile - hard to say which. Probably honing some stiletto remark for delivery later.

As long as youre happy, said my mother, though not with huge conviction, and then steered us toward the living room. I could hear the babble of voices, the chink of glasses, and recognised Aunt Jessie from across the room, holding forth as usual, delivering some commandment or other while waving a sausage on a stick. Shed been often in our thoughts, mine certainly, with the changes in our lives, but we hadnt actually seen her since that tea and advice in the weeks before the wedding.

She stopped in mid sentence and looked at us with questioning eyes. A hole seemed to open up in the middle of the room. Tom? Samira? Well, look at you! Im not sure I would have recognised Samira. Was it my imagination, or was the speech of my lordly aunt just a slight bit slurred?

Sam began making her conventional apologies. I know Ive been gaining - 

But Jessie swept on, and put a hand on her shoulder. No need to say it. People change. Its part of life. And youre obviously happy. Change is natural. Change is good. Isnt it, John?

Pardon? Unwillingly dragged into the conversation, my father looked distinctly uneasy. Change wasnt his territory. 

Doesnt Samira look happy? A lot heavier, but happy?

A lot heavier, yes, he said, with gimlet eyes trained on his sister. 

What was going on here? It wasnt immediately apparent. But then it filtered through to me that some sibling battle was taking place, and Jessie was using Samira to get at her own brother, my father. I remember when you used to change, she said, facing him squarely, her loosened tongue more apparent now, but that was long ago. Now youre a stick in the mud. You used to be fun. Now youre not.

Jessie, my father growled, this is an anniversary celebration. Its not the time for this.

I could feel the atmosphere souring by the second. Tempers were rising, and so were voices. My aunt had obviously been at the drinks too much, and seemed to have old scores to settle. Normally I would have enjoyed seeing my father get some of his own medicine, but I wanted no part of it  certainly not if Samira was going to be the punch bag. I just wanted out. Once again a trip to my parents was turning nasty, though not in the way Id anticipated. 

Lets get out of here, I whispered to Samira, leading her by the hand.

Where are we going?

Upstairs, I said, were going upstairs. And I took her up to my old room, our berth again. I could hear the battle hotting up downstairs. There was shouting now. And was that the smashing of a glass? Thirty years, I heard Jessie screech. Thirty years of hell, I bet. How many whiskies had she had? 

After closing the bedroom door, the sound of the ruckus subsided. Samira looked bemused. What the hell was all that about?

World War Three. But forget that, I said, and began slipping her jacket off her shoulders. Then I moved in on the buttons of her blouse.

What are you doing? she said, with her gentlest laugh. 

I was on fire for her, and I stopped her mouth with my hand. No more questions. Lets blow the family away. Lets make love. And we moved in silence towards the edge of the bed. She started to undo the blouse buttons herself, but I whispered No, let me, and her smile opened up like the rising sun. With the tight fit, the buttons werent easy to undo, and a button by her breasts actually popped off on its own accord. Samira gave a little groan of relief. Finally I slipped the blouse off, over her rounded arms, glistening naked in the rooms dim light. I stroked her arms gently; she was breathing louder now. 

Onto her bra. It would have been easier to have undone its clasps from around the back. But I wanted the full-frontal view. Pressing against her quivering breasts, I passed my arms under her armpits and began fiddling, blindly, with the clasps. Her breathing became noisier, almost a pant, as I wrestled. Finally, success: the clasps came undone, the bra fell away, and her breasts leaped out, looking bigger than ever, hanging over onto her round, beautiful, pendulous tummy. 

With a hand on her shoulder I guided her down onto the bed. Reaching the horizontal, her tummy settled down into its swelling curve, shimmering with fat. With the palm of a hand, I circled around it, pressing in, watching the flesh give way; watching, too, the pleasure lighting up her dark brown eyes. Ohh, Sam said; it was getting to her. Then it was time for her slacks, the purple slacks, hugging her hips. She raised herself slightly and breathed in to let me undo the waistbands clasp and the zip beneath. I moved cautiously, pulling the pants down a fraction at a time, watching the tummy fat ease itself outwards, relieved of all pressure. 

Onto the panties, guardians of the sacred spot, the roundabout. I saw the marks left by its elastic waistband in the flesh, and stroked them with my fingers. Her panting became louder, and found a regular rhythm. Stockings next, then shoes, and then she was naked. She looked up at me, tremulous, expectant. Then I tore my own clothes off in what felt like two seconds. 

I mounted her, and rocked gently across her breasts, her fattened body spread out under me like the worlds deepest, softest mattress. Samiras panting turned into groans, and then into speech. 

Say the words, she said, in a helpless whisper. 

What words?

Tell me Ive put on weight.

Without losing the rocking rhythm I raised myself up slightly and pressed a hand into the peak of her belly fat, pushing the flesh to the right and left. Samira, I said, youve put on weight. No criticism in my voice; just awe and love. 

Aha, she said in between groans. Say it again, and keep saying my name. Admonish me. 

More pressing, more pushing. I hardened my tone: Samira Chowdhoury, youre putting on weight! 

I know, she said, with mock remorse, now fingering the side of her lower tummy herself. Her panting grew louder. 

Rising up a little more, I gazed into her round face and ran a hand down her left side, so soft, so warm, from her plump upper arm to her bulging waist. Samira, I said, youre piling on the pounds! 

I know, she said again, quieter now. Her eyes were glistening, pleading for more. Can you use the F word?

I knew what she meant. My rocking intensified. Her belly heaved. I felt her breasts moving under me, large and perilous, like balloons ready to burst. Samira, I said, youre getting so fat! and I sunk into the word as I sunk into her flesh  sounding displeased, but feeling nothing but joy. Youve really changed. Do you know what you are now? She widened her eyes in reply, too busy panting to speak. I dragged out each word: Youre a  fat  Indian  girl.

Maybe the Indian did it. Anyway, the dam broke. Ohhhh, she cried, consumed with ecstasy. My gun was firing, and I was inside the roundabout, temperature roaring, with both of us convulsing, groaning and thrusting in rhythm, her hot silken flesh, inches deep, rubbing against mine. Ecstasy. Delight. Total love. The infinite pleasures of food, sex, and fat. Come what may in this crazy world, these things at least were never going to change.

*THE END*


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