# By the Book - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, Eating, Romance, ~MWG )



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Nov 3, 2006)

_~BHM, Eating, Romance, ~MWG _- A big man on campus gets bigger under the deft influence of a skilled FFA who knew what she wanted

*By the Book
by Big Beautiful Dreamer*​
Brian Lowell paused at the top of the steps to catch his breath. Lately, any ascent of stairs had left him breathless. He supposed it was because he’d had less time to shoot hoops lately. Less exercise, that’s all.

As he looked around, his breathing slowed and he felt better. He continued along the edge of the quad to the bookstore, where he greeted the cashier and moved toward the coffee counter. It felt weird to be on the other side of the balance &#8211; to be a faculty member on a campus instead of a student. He thought it probably helped that he was at a university where he had never been a student, so there wasn’t the awkwardness of faculty and staff adjusting to his different status. 

He also was justifiably pleased with his resume. B.A. Vanderbilt; M.A. Columbia, Ph.D. Columbia, three journal articles already to his credit and a book in progress. No wonder he’d had no trouble securing a job, if only on a low rung of the academic ladder. Assistant Professor. He could practically feel his crisp business cards glowing with the newness of the title.

His hand on the half-and-half pitcher, he hesitated. Exactly how long had going up a flight of stairs made him short of breath? Surreptitiously, he rested a hand on his abdomen. Was it a little soft? Had it changed in relation to his belt? He eyed the pitcher of 2%, then decisively poured in a generous dollop of half-and-half. 

He managed not to have to go up any more flights of stairs that day and got home without incident. In the apartment, he dropped his attaché case with a THUNK and dropped his keys on the small hall table. En route to the sofa, he shed his coat, tie, and shoes, then padded to the kitchen for a Coke. He flopped gratefully into the chair, glad to rest his feet. He decided that for however long it took to drink the Coke, that was how long he could wait to start grading the student compositions weighing down his attaché case.

Toward the end of the Coke, his stomach growled. Hmm, dinnertime. Brian heated up leftover Chinese takeout and ate it while watching television. Eating mindlessly, he didn’t notice how much food there was until the pan was empty. As he stood to throw the pan away, he realized that he was suddenly very full. His stomach ached and his pants were uncomfortably snug. Unthinkingly he stuck a thumb inside the waistband and tried a little informal loosening. He belched and rubbed his swollen belly. Blinking, he threw the pan away and settled back in the chair. It was 5:00. Time enough for a nap before grading those papers.

A little nap made all the difference. Brian awoke at 5:30 feeling refreshed, if still fairly stuffed. Grunting, he stood, retrieved the papers and his lap desk, and set to work. The big meal had mellowed him and he was a little less free with the red pen. 

Still, three hours later, the distribution of grades was about what he thought it would be: Twenty-one A’s, thirty-eight B’s, nineteen C’s, six D’s and four F’s. Grading papers for survey courses took forever because of the sheer number of students. That was why, like a good little worker bee, he tended to prepare his lessons on the weekends whenever possible, so he wouldn’t have to do that late in the evening when he was tired and burned out from grading. 

With a sigh, he stood and stretched, got another Coke, and fetched another batch of papers. This was a much smaller class, yielding only nineteen papers, and he finished by a quarter to 11. As he was packing the papers away, his stomach growled. Again? Cripes, he’d just eaten. Well, actually, he’d eaten a long time ago. He clicked to a sports show and poured some chips into a bowl. The chips disappeared quickly, and, yawning, Brian shuffled off to bed and was soon asleep.

The next morning, he awoke at 6:30. Channel surfing as he drank some reheated coffee, he came across an early morning exercise show, chipper thin people grinning while doing aerobics. Well, why not. Brian obediently joined in. When he stopped, red-faced and breathless, he felt pleased with himself until he looked at the clock on the microwave. It was 6:42. That meant that less than ten minutes of exercise had left him feeling as though he’d run a marathon. Man, he was out of shape. He’d skip breakfast, he decided.

Not the best idea, as it turned out. He was distracted during his 8:00 class, almost as sleepy and disengaged as the students. As soon as it ended, he headed for the bookstore, where he poured half-and-half in his coffee without even thinking about it and grabbed one of those cellophane-wrapped jumbo muffins. Within five minutes, the 700-calorie bomb was reduced to crumbs. Brian licked his fingers and headed back to his office. 

That evening, he ate a deli salad, pleased with his healthy selection, and began making notes on a lesson plan. The salad didn’t last long, of course, and he took a break by making a run to McDonald’s, dropping another 700 calories into his steadily growing belly right before bed. If he had added up the day’s damage, including the hot dog and hot pretzel from the cart a block away from campus … just as well that he didn’t. He slept heavily, although heartburn woke him briefly around midnight. 

As the semester progressed, so did Brian’s waistline. His pants were getting harder and harder to fasten, and it was a little shameful how much of a relief it was to undo them and rub and scratch the deep red mark all around his expanding abdomen. He stopped wearing sneakers and started wearing his loafers more often because bending over to tie shoes meant not actually breathing. Around fall break, he finally gave in and bought some pants in a larger size. He tried on some 36’s. Ha. The gap between button and buttonhole was a good two fingers wide. Thirty-eight, then? No. FORTY? Aw, cripes, surely not. Forty it was … and with not much growing room, either. He had a sinking feeling that he was going to be in the dressing room again by Christmas.

The next morning, he brushed the dust off the bathroom scale and stopped on. The needle whirred past the 180 mark without even slowing down. Up up up … quivering … stopping. Brian had to lean forward a little to read the results, which improbably read 210. Holy Shakespeare! How had he gained thirty pounds since March without knowing about it?

All that day, when not in class, Brian found himself contemplating his weight gain. He slowly, almost absently, moved his hand up and down his convex midsection, ran a thumb around the already snug waistband, once even went to the bathroom and, in a stall, pulled up his shirt and poked and pinched the thing. It quivered like something alive, something pale, soft, and unhealthy looking. 

At home, he took off his clothes and stood in front of the mirror examining his entire body. His pecs were softening noticeably and the line from sternum to navel was a convex one. He had definite love handles and almost what you could call a spare tire. His entire abdominal region had softened and thickened, his behind was getting bigger &#8211; or his desk chair was getting smaller &#8211; and there was a crease around his belly button, even without the constriction of clothing.

The next morning, Brian and Josh Devlin, who taught economics, nursed their coffee outside the bookstore, neither in a hurry to step out of the beautiful fall day and into their offices. Josh nodded in the direction of Brian’s perceptibly thicker waistline, already lapping over the belt loops of his new 40-waist pants. “Freshman fifteen, Brian?” he remarked dryly.

“Um. More like the freshman thirty,” Brian admitted, patting his swelling spare tire. “Not enough hoops and too much takeout, I guess.” Josh, one of the campus’ most efficient retailers of gossip, turned his gaze toward Mitch Reynolds, of the psych department. “Speaking of,” he said, “Reynolds has lost a lot of weight.”

Brian followed his gaze and frowned. “He sick?”

Josh laughed. “Nooo,” he said. “Philippa Perry dumped him a month ago.”

“Heartbroken,” Brian diagnosed. “No appetite.”

“Clearly, unlike you,” Josh started to say, but didn’t. He genuinely liked Brian. 

With a casual wave, they went in opposite directions, Brian to the Jensen Humanities Building, Josh to Keynes Hall.

“Oops!” 

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, let me pick those up!”

“No, no, it’s all right, I got it.” Laughing and breathless, the young woman in a peachskin pantsuit had emptied her hands to scoop up the papers that had burst out of Brian’s attaché case after she crashed into him on the steps of Jensen. Brian tried to bend down to help, but he couldn’t bend too far, and she was quicker than he.

“Thanks,” he said, blushing, as his hand brushed her cool small one. Her hands now empty again, she stuck her left one out. 

“Philippa Perry,” she said. “Admissions.” Her grip was firm and her gaze cool and steady. Hazel eyes, an oval face with alabaster skin, wavy golden-red hair. Smitten, Brian scarcely remembered his own name.

“Oh, ah, Brian. Brian Lowell. English,” he finally managed.

“Hello, Brian Lowell,” Philippa replied. 

Deftly she picked up her own belongings and winked as she trotted up the steps. “Bye, handsome.”

Someone had slid a flier under his door urging Humanities faculty members to attend the admissions reception for prospective students that evening. Brian attended such gatherings selectively &#8211; that is, when he thought it would be politically wise to be seen at them. This would normally have been a borderline event, but then, Philippa Perry worked in admissions, didn’t she? Ah.

The party was crowded, the room stuffy. Brian didn’t dare shed his jacket. A plastic cup filled with ice and punch was pressed into his hand. “You look as though you could use a nice cool drink.”

“Ah, Philippa,” Brian stammered. “H-hello again.”

Philippa beamed. “Hello to you too, Brian Lowell,” Philippa replied, smiling at the way she was making a private joke out of greeting him. She leaned in and he smelled her cologne, powdery and light. 

“These things are horrible,” she murmured. “Give me half an hour more and we can split and get some real food. Don’t bother with the hors d’oeuvres, they’re left over from the Kerouac administration.”

Brian, grinning, nodded his agreement, struck dumb with infatuation.

Later, over dinner, they got to know each other better. Brian avoided waving his credentials in her face and said simply that he truly loved teaching English and liked teaching at a college. Philippa revealed that she was the middle of three children, the only girl, and that she’d started as a guidance counselor but stumbled into admissions after supplementing her income by helping as a volunteer in the admissions department of her own alma mater. “Now I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

The food arrived. Normally Brian, quite hungry by now, would have attacked it, but manners held him back. 

“Ah, Philippa,” he stammered. “Ah, I don’t want to broach anything too painful … you were, uh, keeping company with Mitch Reynolds?”

Philippa looked down. Oh crap, Brian thought. 

After a pause, she looked up, and … of all things … she looked sheepish. “We were seeing each other,” she said. “Then he decided he was too fat and went on a horrible diet. He lost more than forty pounds. It was like hugging a skeleton.” She shivered. “I kept trying to ask him to cool it, but he didn’t listen. We just weren’t a good … fit … for each other … after that.”

“Ohhh,” Brian said. Oh! Brian thought.

Fork in hand, he paused. “I’ve been thinking about taking off a few pounds myself,” he ventured. “I’ve, ah, succumbed to the freshman fifteen … plus …”

Philippa smiled. “Well, you know what?” she said. “Whatever. It’s you I like, not too concerned about the box.” She picked up her own fork. “Eat, before it gets cold.”

He did.

Soon Brian and Philippa were spending most evenings together at his faculty apartment on the fringes of campus, she quietly reading or knitting while he graded papers. Sometimes she cooked, sometimes they went out &#8211; not too often, it cost money &#8211; and slowly, subtly, but steadily, Brian continued expanding. His thickening waistline became an undeniable spare tire, then a pot belly. He finally, sadly, bailed on the 40-inch pants. It was mid-September when he’d been at 210. By Halloween he was up to 228 on his 5’11” frame. 

November would prove to be numerically significant. He and Philippa were for all intents and purposes living together; he was eating more food, better food, and on a more regular schedule; the only exercise he got was in the bedroom. 

And Philippa was in the habit of praising his big body. She’d run her hands down his sloping sides, walk her fingers up the hillock of his belly, make his spare tire into a jogging track for a circle of kisses, squeeze his softening behind, pillow onto his padded pecs after a “workout.” 

“Brian,” Philippa murmured one Saturday. “How much can you hold?”

“What?” 

“How much do you think you could eat, if you ate as much as you could,” Philippa tried to say, but it sounded so much like the woodchuck tongue twister that they both laughed. “Just curious,” she added.

Brian waved a plump hand dismissively, but all day they found themselves thinking about it.

“OK,” Brian said that afternoon. “Let’s go to the Family Bargain Buffet. We’ll see what I can do.”

“Really?”

“Really really,” Brian said in a fake Scottish accent, mimicking Shrek.

“You sit,” Philippa suggested. “I’ll just bring you food until….”

“Until,” Brian agreed.

The eating began. Now at 230-and-change, Brian put away two heaped platefuls easily, cleansing his palate with a big salad of leafy greens and a glass of ice water. Two more platefuls were no problem, although he cleaned his last plate more slowly. He was getting tired from the effort of eating. His jaws ached. More seriously, his stomach ached. Bloated and sore, it swelled out, ballooning over his straining pants button, the waistband folded over and slicing into his soft sides.

Philippa noticed that he was slowing down and raised an eyebrow. Brian nodded. 

Philippa returned with another heaping plateful. “After this, dessert,” she said encouragingly. 

Brian started to groan but belched instead. “Excuse me,” he said. Philippa winked. As Brian waited for her to return he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was feeling a little lightheaded and was really achingly stuffed. The skin of his bulging belly was stretched taut, covering too much real estate. He wanted to undo his pants button but knew he couldn’t find it under all that mound of full tummy.

Philippa returned, patting him on the shoulder. “Come on, champ.”

Brian sighed and picked up a fork.

When he set that fork down with a clink, the plate was empty but his tummy was oh, so full. Tight, aching, stretched far beyond capacity, his poor overloaded belly sloshed and gurgled. Philippa had gone and returned without his even noticing. She set a big bowl of pudding in front of him. “This will go down easily,” she said. She also set down a cup of coffee. Wonderful. Coffee was a digestif and would help. If anything could help.

Slowly, Brian put away the pudding. He let it slide passively down his throat and hoped it would stay down. He thought he might burst, the slightest move and his brim-full tummy would overflow, and heaven only knows what would come out and how. Brian was now so lightheaded that he was only dimly aware of Philippa helping him to his feet and leaving a generous tip. He was too full to straighten up. 

Philippa gently guided him as he staggered heavily out to the sidewalk and pulled the keys out of his hand. “I’ll drive,” she said from what sounded like a mile away. Brian had no awareness of the ride home. Slowly, slowly, he levered himself out of the car and thudded into the apartment, where Philippa helped him into the recliner. He felt her hands gently finding and undoing his pants and sliding down the zipper.

“Ahh (urp),” Brian sighed. “ ’Cuse me.” Philippa smiled like a cat and perched on the footstool. She scooched it back a little and began gently and steadily massaging his overloaded tummy. Gradually, as he slowly began to digest, Brian’s aching stomach began to feel a little better. At the same time, Philippa’s hand drifted south. Oh my. When Philippa tugged him to his feet, stuffed as Brian still was, he was ready for the bedroom.

And it was good.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Nov 3, 2006)

Brian lay on his back while Philippa mounted him. Her fingers gently explored all of his flesh, then she cuddled beside him and lovingly entertained herself on the taut mound of belly, stuffed to bursting with good food, while he stroked her hair and her back. She turned and he visited her breasts, her belly and the velvet of her sex. Then they entered each other. Brian had never imagined anything could feel as good as being ridden on a full tummy. Brim-full, sloshing and gurgling, his stomach became a part of the intimacy.

Finally, sated, exhausted, breathless, they lay entwined, so close that for a moment Brian couldnt tell whether the steady inhaling and exhaling he felt was his or hers.

Good, Philippa murmured.

Good, Brian agreed.

They fell asleep in utter contentment.

Brian awoke to the smell of coffee and the chirping of a bird. Wake up, sleepyhead, Philippa sang. Time to hit the scale!

Ugh, Brian grunted. Ill hit it, all right.

Philippa giggled. Come on, you baby, she scolded teasingly. Dont you want to find out?

Stiffly, Brian got out of bed and padded into the bathroom. The needle finally came to a halt at 234. That was up three pounds from the week before and a total of 54 pounds overall from his starting weight of 180, which now seemed light years removed. 

Brian frowned. Phil, he said, Maybe I really should take off some weight. For one thing, nothing fits.

Philippa twined her arm around his. As I keep saying, she said, Whatever. Its you I love. Really not too concerned about the package. Wasnt last night good? 

It was. Brians argument fell apart before he had even gotten started. He loved her, and she loved him, all of him, as he was. What was he worried about?

It was well that Philippa was there to reassure him, because a 50-pound weight gain does not go unremarked upon, at least among guys. Not only Josh from economics but other colleagues occasionally made an observation, softened with a joke or lighthearted tone, about Brians being a growing boy. The cleverest came from a music professor, who said, If music be the food of love, play on. There are few if any secrets on a college campus, and it was common coin that Brian and Philippa were cohabiting.

At Thanksgiving, Brian and Philippa flew to Denver to spend the holiday with her parents. His own widowed mother was, as always, flexible about the holidays, and was spending it with Brians sister and brother-in-law and their children. There was the added bonus that her parents had never met Brian and so didnt know that he was bigg-er  just big. They were friendly, lighthearted and welcoming, just like Philippa. One of her brothers and his wife and children were also in attendance. The other was doing in-law duty of his own. Brians eyes widened as he saw the feast on the table. He had weighed in that Monday at 235.

After the blessing came the clink and murmur of a big family and a big meal. Brian minded his manners, of course, but didnt demur when offered seconds, then thirds. Three ridiculously heaping platefuls filled his growing belly until it was swollen and aching. Roundly bloated, it perched above and beyond his hapless waistband, which was somewhere back at the first plateful and would never catch up. 

During the pause for desserts and coffee to be brought out, Brian discreetly took stock. Was he ever stuffed. His full tummy was starting to seriously hurt and his midriff was stretched so tight that it was starting to itch. He sipped at the coffee gratefully, needily. The warm liquid did what it could to help begin digestion. 

Almost without conscious thought, Brian demolished a large slice of pumpkin pie, the silky spiciness a nice accompaniment to the warm dark coffee. Dinner over at last, Brian heard Mrs. Perry say, Its early yet. Lets say whoever wants to have a nap before the football game starts. This suggestion brought cheers from Mr. Perry and from Philippa and her brother, Dan.

Brian rose cautiously, not wanting to knock over his chair or, heaven forbid, brush something off the table with the hugely swollen belly now sticking out in front of him like a snowplow attachment. A nap might just save him, he thought. Somehow he made it to the guest room. Grunting with effort, he stretched out on the bed and allowed Philippa to ease off his shoes, socks, pants, and sweater. Down to his shirt and boxers, he moaned quietly with relief, massaging his painfully taut middle and trying to massage away the red mark. I am (hic!) so full, he grunted. 

Here, let me help, Philippa murmured. As she stroked the mound of belly, he fell asleep. 

An hours nap helped immensely, and Brian stayed away from the light snacks put out during the game. He did, however, sip at a glass of good German white wine. And at halftime he did go down on one knee and in front of the assembled witnesses say, Philippa Perry, I cannot live without you. Will you honor me with your hand?

Eyes brimming, Philippa nodded mutely. Cheers. A bottle of Champagne was popped. Hugs, pats on the back, handshakes. When? someone asked.

Ah, Philippa said, raising her voice slightly to be heard. Were in no hurry. Well know when its time, and when it is well tend to it. A most Philippa-ish answer and it made Brian love her all the more. His belly brimmed, his heart brimmed, and he thought he might burst with happiness.

**************

Cripes, Brian grumbled. The scene was the bathroom of his faculty apartment; the time, 6:30 on the Monday morning after Thanksgiving. The scale read 239, up five pounds from the week before. 

Thanksgiving leftovers, Philippa soothed. Remember

Its you I love. Not too concerned about the box, they said together, ending it with a kiss. 

Time unspooled, as it does, and the scale inched upward, as it will in December, when baking elves get busy and seemingly every end table and kitchen counter holds a plate of fudge, cookies, Christmas chocolates, Hickory Farms cheeses, brownies, name it. Brian almost kept his weight stead  at least he thought he was not doing a bad job of it  from 239 to 240, a week at 240, then a jump to 243. 

At Christmas they gathered at Brians mothers, her first chance to meet his fiance Philippa. They got along famously. She helped make a huge Christmas dinner, and Brian did his share of helping demolish it. Afterward, joining in the groaning and complaining about how stuffed they were, how bulging their bellies, Brian stetched out on the sofa in the den for a nap. Brians brother-in-law took the recliner, and they nominally watched the game while the women sat around the dining room table with apple cider, watching the children play and chatting.

Will it be a big wedding? Brians mother asked.

Oh, I doubt it, Philippa replied. Probably just immediate family. Well fly you and Erin and Paul and the children out, of course. And my parents and brothers and so on. If anyone on the faculty feels cheated at not being able to attend, Brians department chairman has already said hell host a nice reception for us.

No date, then?

Oh, not yet, Philippa said. Well know when its time.

Eminently sensible, my dear, Brians mother said.

Two hundred and fifty, Brian bellowed.

Im three feet away, Philippa said patiently. I can hear you.

A year ago I was a hundred eighty. Thats, he paused. seventy pounds over the course of a year. Is that possible?

When you eliminate the impossible, Philippa quoted Sherlock Holmes lightly, that which remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Jeez, Brian groaned. Im FAT. And dont say it, please, he added.

Come here, Phil urged. Sit down on the bed. He did. She perched next to him. For twenty minutes they talked. They talked about societal expectations, the jokes among colleagues on campus, his expanding pants size, cycling back and forth between the societal and specific. 

Somehow, Brian said, society sends the message that anyone whos fat is a loser. Undisciplined, lazy, unable to keep a trim figure, no willpower, somehow less of a person! People think less of you if they see that youre fat instead of thin.

I know, Philippa said sympathetically. And its not fair. You have to decide, though, to like yourself and be happy with who you are.

I must admit, Brian said, relenting, that the love of a good woman goes a long way toward making me like myself as I am.

Do you like yourself?

Im getting there, Brian admitted. Im getting there. Still, Id like to be intentional about losing some weight and see what happens.

He did. Making a New Years resolution, he exercised to a walk-away-the-pounds tape, watched what he ate, and by the end of February was down to 239. He was also crabby, perpetually hungry, and lousy in bed. It takes a lot longer to take weight off than to put it on, he grumbled one night.

Well, yes, Phil agreed. And you know what, I liked you a lot better when you werent dieting.

Brian sighed. Forget it. Ill keep up with the walking, its good for me, but no more D-I-E-T.

Inevitably, of course, the needle marched back up. 245 250 260 By the time the spring semester was winding down in May, Brian was up to 270, ninety pounds above his starting weight. There, however, his weight stabilized. 

Philippa and Brian said their vows in the living room of their new house a block from campus, with Brians mother, sister and brother-in-law and their children, Philippas parents, brothers, sister-in-law and their children the only ones in attendance besides the minister. There was a small reception, the English and admissions departments, with the promise of a larger one in the fall. Then Mr. and Mrs. Brian Lowell took off for a honeymoon in Canada.

Mrs. Lowell, Brian murmured from the comfort of his first-class seat. Hello, Mr. Lowell, Phil replied. Very, very discreetly, her fingertips danced down his cushion of abdomen toward south of the belt.


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## Observer (Dec 2, 2006)

Somehow this little gem got passed over in the recent deluge of new contributions. Its now full font, formatted and ready for marquee display.


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## fat hiker (Sep 16, 2009)

You know, this one is really nice.


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## Durin (Sep 16, 2009)

Very Nice

I liked this one a lot.

:bow:


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