# I.q. - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~~WG, Both)



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Feb 3, 2010)

_~~WG, Both_ - Watching an old rerun brings about an intriguing idea with interesting results

*I.q.
by Big Beautiful Dreamer​*


Something was wrong. Jake had merely picked at his dinner and, with a small sigh, folded his napkin and given his plate a little push away.

Babes? I said.

He looked up and made a face.

I thought he would say, Im not hungry, or I had a late lunch or that something was bothering him at work. Instead, he said:

I need to cut back. Im putting on weight. He patted his middle.

You are not, I said automatically. Id always fought my pudge, but Jake was well built, with a trim waist which a morning workout kept that way.

He stood up. I am. Look. If I looked, I could see that his pants pockets gapped just a tiny bit. Maybe his waistband hugged that flat waist a teeny bit more closely, but honestly, I couldnt tell. I could tell, though, that this would be a waste of words.

Whatever. I held my tongue and cleared the table. Jake made good money as a biomedical researcher; I worked part-time in an elementary school as a reading resource provider, which meant I was at work only from 9 to 2, four days a week. That suited me fine, because I had a big streak of home ec in my makeup, and it was important to me that I make a nice dinner for my sweetie every night. Tonight it had been pork chops, garlic-dill mashed potatoes, and grilled zucchini with bell peppers. Id also made brownies, but it looked as though Jake wouldnt want any.

I made a mental note to go up a size when I went shopping. Jake was ridiculously intelligent  a B.S. from Brandeis, an M.D./Ph.D. from Princeton, and an I.Q. somewhere in the neighborhood of 175  but a complete doofus when it came to how to dress himself. Hed wear ancient T shirts, textile mill-outlet store sweatshirts, heavy and stiff, and blue jeans if left to his own devices. His job had enough of a dress code that he had to wear khakis or better and polo shirts  so he wore 12-year-old khakis with thin spots in the knees and polo shirts that he might have bought sometime in the Reagan administration. Bush I, on a good day.

When wed started sharing an apartment  it had started as an ad for a roommate  Id eventually wound up buying his clothes, so now he wore slightly nicer polos and khakis, and they at least dated from the Bush II administration.

Later that night, Jake asleep beside me, I channel-surfed. I couldnt sleep, but the next day was a Saturday, so I didnt worry. I happened on a rerun of _M*A*S*H_. Hawkeye and B.J. were pranking Major Winchester: first they swapped his uniform for one far too loose, so that he was convinced that hed dropped a ton of weight. They watched as he stuffed himself in the mess tent, then substituted a uniform far too tight. It was a moronic premise, but as always, the dialogue and delivery kept me watching.

It was the germ of an idea. A brilliant idea. Satisfied at last, my brain switched off and I drifted into slumber.

The next day, running errands, I popped into a good secondhand store and bought several polos and several pairs of khakis  not a size larger, as Jake had claimed to need, but several sizes larger. _Hee!_ It was awfully hard to keep from grinning my face off as I weeded out the oldest of his khakis and polos and put the new purchases in his closet. 

Bingo. Monday morning, Jake bellowed from the closet. Rachel!

Mf? I padded out, toothbrush in my mouth.

What the heck! He was standing there, displaying his gorgeous chest, and tugging at the waistband of 36-waist khakis, which swam on his 31-inch waist. Ive been putting on weight, I know I have. Those pants I wore Friday were pinching me all day. He raised an eyebrow. What size are these?

Mfwrtgsz, I replied around the toothbrush, and padded back into the bathroom. If I was lucky, Jake wouldnt pursue it.

I was lucky. He was running late. He threaded in a belt hed bought once by mistake that was too long, and threw on one of the new polos, which was also too roomy.

I was impatient all day long. I made sausage with peppers and onions over rice, with sides of pinto beans and cornbread.

Jake came to the table shaking his head. I dont know whats going on, he muttered. Scale says Im at 190, thats up six pounds since Thanksgiving, but these pants are falling off me.

Duh. Id forgotten the scale. Oh, well. That was an easy enough fix.

Now he eyed his plate. I dont know how hungry I am. Some of us went to City Deli and I had a big sandwich and those homemade chips. Then he dug in.

I kept my conversation noncommittal and my eyes mostly on my plate. Jake had two big platefuls, loosening that belt afterward, by the way, and after Id done the dishes, when I offered him a couple of fresh blondies, he took them.

The next morning, Jake again stepped on the scale. 179, it read.

What the heck! Jake picked it up, made sure it hadnt gotten wet, whacked it on the side, and set it back down. He stepped on again. 178.8.

This is nuts, he muttered. I could swear Ive been gaining weight, but now the scale says Ive lost more than ten pounds. He dropped his towel and frowned at his reflection. Do I look fat to you?

Nope. I hugged him from behind. 

Jake glared some more, then, shaking his head, moved to the closet.

It couldnt be that easy. Major Winchester on _M*A*S*H_ was a doctor, and no dummy, but hed been fooled. And Jake was absolutely anything but a dummy. Was I fooling him? Really?


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Feb 3, 2010)

Jake responded to the Mystery of the Khaki Pants in typically Jakean fashion: about once a week hed bring it up at random, wait for my input, mull the thing over for a while, then let it drop. He was a great believer in putting things on the back burner of his fantastic brain to let them simmer. Was I using cooking metaphors here? Oops.

For as much as I enjoyed cooking, I was having more fun than I had expected coming up with meals that teased and tempted his appetite so that he had a nice big dinner, followed by an evening of minimal activity and punctuated with a rich dessert.

Serves two, as it turns out.

Through that long winter, I surreptitiously enjoyed the sight of Jakes trim waist slowly but steadily thickening, his belly beginning to pooch, a thin layer of flesh padding his rib cage and beginning to soften his pecs. I looked for the first signs of a double chin when he bent his head over something, and bit back a smile when he would emerge from the bathroom in the mornings, the first suggestions of a little spare tire pushing gently over his boxers.

At the same time  since no one was secretly buying larger clothes for _me_  I was noticing some unmistakable signs that I, too, was beginning to thicken up. My blouses began to tug at that annoyingly accurate little barometer of the second button, the one that buttons over the bosom. My trousers and skirts were getting rather hard to zip  I was resorting to lying down and sucking in. I had to consign a few outfits to the giveaway pile. And as for my always-incipient double chin, it was quite out of the closet. Every look in the mirror showed me unmistakably that the pudgy self that Id been keeping just barely at bay had come out and wanted to show itself to the world.

What was good for the goose was turning out to be inevitable for the gander, who was being fattened up quite nicely.

Come Valentines Day, instead of flowers, Jake sprang for an enormous box of chocolates from an upscale, artisan chocolatier on the Upper East Side. I was afraid to ask the cost, certain that it ran into three figures. And I wasnt sure that the first number was a 1. I silently vowed to take a handful to school each day and put them out in the teachers lounge.

Well, I took a handful to school each day. As for the rest of that vow, well ...

But the chocolates were vanishing faster than I would have given myself credit for. Since it was just the two of us, Someone Else must have been helping himself pretty liberally.

Jake still brought up the weight thing every couple of weeks. Hed thrown the scale out in perplexed disgust and bought a new one. Which, oddly enough, showed that by the end of February he was clocking in at 175. Hed _lost _weight, according to the scale. And, sure enough, his khakis continued to be loose on him, requiring a belt. (Yes, the secondhand store fortunately has a supply of belts too.) But whenever he looked at himself in the mirror  front view, side view  the mirror told him unmistakably that he was gaining weight. He was, as noted, anything but dumb. He could see, just as well as I could, the developing paunch that should have made his trousers pinch, the softening pecs and layer of padding over the ribcage that should have tugged at his polos. He could feel the warmth and heaviness of his ballooning belly after the big suppers I routinely fed us.

The logical thing would have been for him to see his doctor, a med school classmate, Steve Clarke, who had a general practice around the corner from the hospital where he worked. 

So why didnt he?

Easter came along. We had a party and I outdid myself. Ham, creamed chicken croquettes, potato salad, asparagus Hollandaise, rolls, hot cross buns, mini corn muffins, mini burgers on little toasted rolls, thin-crust spinach-tomato pizza, sausage balls, homemade baked beans thick with pieces of bacon, ham biscuits, a huge tossed salad, three different congealed salads, brownies, blondies, strawberry pie, pecan tartlets, coconut cream pie.

And I kept Jakes glass filled with Kir Royale, light but addictive. 

It was twilight by the time the last guest tottered home. I sank onto the sofa and put my feet up. Jake joined me, munching on one lone stray pecan tartlet.

He leaned back into the well-worn leather and groaned.

Ohh. _Hic-hicohhhh_. He closed his eyes and patted his swollen and visibly bloated belly, which was so engorged it was actually tugging at the fabric of his yellow and blue polo shirt. Gingerly he massaged his hugely protruding stomach, which looked distended and sore, if mine was anything to go by. 

Id taken the time to change into a T shirt and sweats, since even the loosely draped dress Id been wearing was pulled taut against my aching and painfully stuffed tummy. Wishing I didnt have to move, I grunted and puffed my way into reclining against the arm of the sofa with my feet in Jakes lap.

What lap? His bloated abdomen protruded roundly and firmly outward, taking up more space than usual. I could see that hed let his belt out several notches and those khakis werent anywhere near so loose as they had been. I was dying to know how much hed actually put on, but I wasnt about to readjust the scale. Besides, once fiddled with, it showed me a number I actually liked for a change. Even if I knew it to be a fantasy.

But I had only so much attention to devote to the fascinating geography of Jakes full belly, because mine was clamoring for attention. 

_Hic!_ Ow, I groaned, poking with caution at my navel, which was currently a visible outie. It perched impudently atop a round and rosy dome of achingly full belly, swollen and taut. I was stuffed to bursting, and I wasnt sure I wouldnt, if I moved any more. My abdomen was stretched and tender, as if any sudden moves would make the overworked flesh pop. I prodded a little more  very gently. It was tight as a drum. I could feel little baby puddles of perspiration where my recently released breasts lay, heavy and warm, on my thickening torso. My bras had become uncomfortably snug lately, the breastage starting to leak out on the sides. I might have to go up a size.

I hiccupped again. Ooh_hicowoo_, I moaned. My tummy was really uncomfortably stuffed. Id eaten _wayyy_ too much.

Jake erupted in a belch he couldnt stifle, and I watched, fascinated, at the topographical shifts beneath the polo. 

_Urrrupp_. Whoo. Scuse me, he mumbled, pressing a hand to his chest. Gosh. _Hic_. Ohh. He grimaced, suppressing a follow-up belch. Whoa, how much did I eat.

I dunno, I said through a huge yawn. Oh  oh  oh  _hic!_ How much.

Jake suppressed another belch and shook his head slowly, as though hed just had his bell rung. Beats me all to heck how the scale says I can be losing weight. I just ate enough to hold a hibernating bear. _Hic._ Remind me to weigh myself in the morning. _Mrrrp_. He yawned. His eyelids fluttered, and his head drooped onto his chest, affording me a lovely view of that cushiony double chin he was developing. 

In the morning, the (ahem) scale showed that Jake was up to 177  up from 175, but still a good 15 pounds below his usual weight: in spite of Valentines chocolates, in spite of an Easter party at which hed eaten his weight in pecan tartlets, in spite of having generous platefuls, often second helpings, of my dinners, and usually a couple of brownies or cookies or a fat slice of pie to finish up. 

But the khakis and polos werent quite as oversized on him as they once had been. The 36-waist trousers, though still loose enough to require a belt, were a lot closer to encircling his waist, which I guesstimated to be up to at least 33 or so. Maybe more like 34. As for his weight, without the help of accurate measurements on the scale, I was reduced to guessing that, too. I gauged it to be pushing 225, a nice addition of 35 pounds if I was correct.

Of course, I had no illusions about my own increasingly generously apportioned figure. Piece by piece, Id replaced a good two-thirds of my wardrobe, relying on the secondhand stores racks to provide me with blouses that flowed forgivingly over my thickening tummy, which now unmistakably folded into two rolls, giving me love handles when I wore certain pairs of slacks. Id gone up a bra size (okay, two), and my backside was visibly wider. I could feel the additional cushioning when I sat. Just how much was this experiment going to cost me?

Jake still didnt go to his doctor buddy. And though he still brought it up occasionally, he never forced me to connect the dots by looking with him in the mirror as it displayed his now-unmistakable double chin and full cheeks, his flaccid pecs, his plump spare tire, his increasingly grabbable love handles.

One otherwise ordinary Friday morning in June, as he left for work, he told me not to make supper, that he would bring home Chinese takeout. He kissed me and I watched his deliciously broadening rear view, those hard-to-resist love handles resting on the khakis, which were now awfully close to fitting.

He brought home Chinese. As I laid stuff out on our plates, he fiddled with the fortune cookies and a pair of tweezers on a scrap of counter with his back to where I stood at the kitchen island.

We used chopsticks, we drank beer, we fed each other, we giggled, dropped rice everywhere, and eventually stuffed ourselves stupid. Finally we dragged ourselves upright and waddled, in an overstuffed coma, to the sofa. Jake sank into his accustomed corner, but not before undoing his belt and  ! ! !  undoing the famous khakis. His belly swelled, tautly engorged, into the available opening, pulling the fabric of his polo shirt so tight that I could see his belly button, which was (at least at the moment) an outie. Hed eaten so much that his navel looked like the air valve on a beach ball. He had to be about to pop.

I certainly was. Id undone my own trousers in self-defense, and now lay on the other arm of the sofa, with my feet up on Jake, my hand under my loose cotton blouse, resting on my swollen and tender tummy. It felt warm and heavily distended, bulging with disgraceful amounts of pork, chicken, noodles, rice, and sauce. I could feel and hear it gurgling and groaning with preliminary digestive efforts.

Jake raised one eyebrow and tossed me a fortune cookie, already unwrapped.

Oh no_hic_! I protested. _Hic_. Ooh. About to pop. I poked with an index finger, showing how firmly bloated my poor tummy was. A belch gurgled up which I just barely stifled.

You dont have to eat it. _Hic._ Just_hic_read it, he said, and laid a hand on his own swollen stomach where it bulged out between the button and buttonhole of the khakis.

I cracked it open, smoothed out the little strip of paper.

_Rachel: I know._ The handwriting was Jake's.

My eyes widened. I looked over at Jake. Silently, he tossed me another cookie.

_Ive been to Steve._ His doctor buddy.

A third cookie.

_His scale and ours dont match._

Number four. 

_Its okay. I don't mind. :kiss2: Now please buy me some larger pants!_

I was caught. I was stunned. I was speechless. I looked over at Jake, a deer in the headlights. A considerably plumper deer.

Jakes lips twitched. Ive seen that episode of _M*A*S*H_ before, you know ... Hawkeye.

Butbutbut, I spluttered. Hic!

Jake swung my feet off his lap. He stood, grunting, his polo not quite covering his gorged and bloated belly, since hed had to undo his khakis.

He tugged me to my feet. He tugged my blouse over my head and tossed it to the floor. Undid the (new, larger) bra. He tugged his own polo off. He drew me into an embrace.

Wordlessly, shirtlessly, we hugged, reveling in the sensation of warm and warmly stuffed bellies pressed together, the distended tension of our aching and overloaded tummies somehow relieving the pressure of fullness. Our hands cradled new hillocks of ourselves, love handles, his softening chest, warm and welcoming, my developing breasts full and ripe. He bent toward a kiss and I felt his fuller chin press to mine, felt the warm succulence of his mouth, his cheeks nestling my own, ripe and ruddy.

A small explosive hiccup broke the silence. Mine or his? Who knew. Who cared.

I think, he murmured in my ear, I think youd better get yourself some larger khakis too.

I opened my mouth to murmur agreement into his own ear, warm and soft against my lips.

_Hic_.


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## BriarChubNJ (Feb 4, 2010)

Hee! Very sweet and fun--thanks BBD!


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## fatmac (Feb 4, 2010)

Another fun story. You have a real gift for this. Thanks.


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## otherland78 (Feb 9, 2010)

Such a great story again 

so romantic, a little naughty fattening what i like and so well written characters and sweet behavior of them ...

you are the best BBD thanks...g*


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## billedmeup (Feb 16, 2010)

Excellent as usual. I have seen that episode of MASHits a good one and a great inspiration for this story.


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