# On Account



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 29, 2013)

*On Account*​
I wrestled the button of my jeans open and watched with a sort of detached, clinical interest as I slid the zipper down and the edges opened. I didnt feel the relief I had quite expected, given how unusually tight they had grown.

The jeans had fit perfectly well this morning, resting on my hips and allowing me to run up the zipper and fasten the button without opposition; in fact, they had sat loosely, reflecting a couple of days of wear.

When at last I had pushed back from my mothers table after a prodigious Easter dinner, however, I became aware that the waistband that had that morning rested so comfortably around my waist was now quite _un_-comfortably snug. Pinching, in fact. The denim pressed firmly against my stomach; the button digging noticeably into my navel; the zipper straining at maximum pressure. How was it possible that the fabric had shrunk so much in the course of a single afternoon? Half an afternoon.

For we had returned home from church  the sanctuary brimming over, mostly with people like us who hit the services on Christmas and Easter and seldom otherwise  about twelve-thirty. My mother and sister had gone to put the finishing touches on dinner, while my brother and I had headed down to the basement where we had stayed since arriving yesterday, to change out of our suits and into T shirts and jeans.

Wed sat down about a quarter to one, and it was now  I looked blearily at the clock on the wall of the den  two-forty-five. Holy cow. Wed been sitting at the table for two hours, and I for one had been eating the whole time. 

I supposed that might have had something to do with the shrinkage of the jeans.

Still, as I said. As tight as my jeans had somehow become, I had assumed that undoing them would make me feel much better.

Didnt happen.

I tentatively pushed the waistband of my boxers slightly south.

Zip. Nada.

I prodded the now-bare surface of my belly. I was becoming acutely aware that said belly was now aching and tender and  I discovered  firm. As taut as a beach ball and bearing a dismaying resemblance to one.

Naturally, that was when my sister sauntered into the room.

Pig, she said affectionately, flopping onto the sofa.

I hiccupped. She smirked and rolled her eyes. I decided  what choice did I have?  to go with it.

Yeah, I know. _Hic_. I cradled my gorged and bloated midsection, surprised that even the lightest movement was causing me distress. I had eaten so much that my skin seemed to be stretched paper-thin. I now understood the expression, Im so full Im about to pop. I was, in fact, that full, and then some. My gut felt like an overfilled water balloon, or maybe a soap bubble  impressively large, precariously fragile. I inhaled  shallowly. Just the thought of a deep breath hurt. With each breath the flap of my jeans edged farther apart, mocking me.

You might want to think about doing those back up. Martie nodded in the direction of my waistband. Fannys coming by any minute for coffee and to catch up.

Fanny Favreau, Marties best friend, still lived in Holyoke. Martie had moved to Chicopee, but the two got together five or six times a year.

At that moment, as if summoned, Fanny strolled into the den. She and Martie exchanged hugs and Fanny flopped casually onto the loveseat as she had a zillion times over the years.

Hiya, Nick, Fanny said, as if shed seen me only yesterday. Hiya, Steve. Then she rolled her eyes. God, what a couple of pigs.

Instantly Steve and I made oinking noises. Fanny and Martie shook their heads.

We chatted, easily and lazily for a while. Fanny looked good. A broomstick in high school, shed filled out and now displayed lovely and graceful curves. Her mock turtleneck clung, and a gentle swell at her navel indicated that shed also enjoyed a hearty holiday dinner. White jeans fit snugly, showcasing a beautifully rounded bottom, and I was willing to bet that the jeans waistband pressed more snugly against that rosily swelling tummy than they had a few hours ago.

After a bit, Steve went off to take a nap, and Martie went back to the kitchen to help finish up before planning to go off somewhere with Fanny.

I opened my mouth to say something to Fanny  I had no idea what  and hiccupped instead. I could feel my face grow red.

_Hic._ Sorry, I mumbled. 

Fanny smiled. Nothing to be sorry about, she said. Good meals are meant to be enjoyed.

Well, I admit_hic!_I enjoyed it, I said. Probably too much. I rubbed my belly as evidence. Gorged and bloated, even after the half hour or so that had passed, my midsection was still visibly swollen. I looked as though Id swallowed a beach ball and felt contentedly logy, sated and stupid. 

Then Fanny was sitting next to me on the sofa where Id flopped down, and she was gently massaging my aching stomach. I repressed a shiver  it felt wonderful. I closed my eyes.

Mmm.

That feel good?

Mmm.

Fanny prudently stood up and went back to the loveseat, then pulled out a card and, flipping it over, wrote a phone number and email address on the back.

Call me, she said. We can go out to dinner.

I had just enough time to raise up slightly and tuck the card into my back pocket before Martie came back in and they went out.

I pulled the card out and looked at it. _Fanny Favreau_, it said, _Certified Public Accountant._ It listed a phone number, an email, a street address. On the back she'd scribbled a different phone number and email.

I was much too stuffed and much too sleepy for thinking, or any higher order activity. I decided I would keep the card and think about it next week, or maybe next month, whenever I had recovered.


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## growinluvhandles (Apr 30, 2013)

As always, you remain the queen of FFA/BHM romances! I have had so many hours of pleasure enjoying your fine tales of male body size enhancement. Thank you.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (May 1, 2013)

*Part 2*​
Of course, the next morning, after a good nights sleep and digestion having its perfect work (I had time on the toilet to read the whole sports section), I was already thinking about Fanny.

So as not to come across like a stalker, I managed to wait until Thursday to call her. I invited her to dinner; she said yes, please. Simple as that.

Of course, wed known each other for years, tangentially. She knew me as Marties brother, and I knew her as Marties BFF. I had thought that the conversation might be awkward, either all-Martie or nothing to say to each other.

Either Fanny had no such hang-ups or she was just really skilled, because with ease and familiarity we talked about music, politics, the evolution of news coverage, movies, houseplants, pets, ourselves.

Finally I brought up the topic that had been niggling the back of my mind since the previous Sunday.

Last Sunday  yknow, when I kind of ate myself into a coma

Fanny giggled.

You said something like, Youre supposed to enjoy it, and  um  you 

Fanny, sensing my discomfort, rescued me. I gave you a belly rub.

A belly rub, I said, in a rush of relief. Yes, exactly.

And

And. Um. Um, what was that about?

Fanny seemed genuinely puzzled for a moment.

Oh! Oh. She shrugged, a lifting of one smoothly rounded shoulder. I happen to think that life is much too valuable to waste any psychic energy fretting over our physical parameters, and that good food is a gift, meant to be savored and enjoyed.

Um. Could I get that in English, please? I took a swallow of wine. A largish swallow.

Fanny smiled and tried again. Life is good. Dont worry about trying to be thin, or buff, or some other shape that artificial constructs tell us to conform to. Food is good. Eat it and enjoy it. And  theres a lot to be said for the physical pleasures of a belly rub after an awesome meal.

I worked it out. Finally, I said:

So  you dont  mind if I happen to  um  put on some weight.

Fanny grinned. No. I like teddy bears.

Subversive? Sure. Appealing? Heck, yeah.

So when the dessert menu was offered, we each made a selection, even though I, at least, was already stuffed to the brim after the endless bread basket, a shared appetizer, a salad, all of a generous entrée, and a couple of glasses of wine. Nevertheless, I ate every scrap of my warm apple tart a la mode, and Fanny scraped the plate clean of her key lime and raspberry tart with Meyer lemon sorbet.

Afterward, Fanny, the evenings designated driver, it seemed, piloted us back to her apartment. Again with her refreshing directness, she said:

I dont sleep with anyone on a first date. But I am full up, and you might be too. When we get to my apartment, lets throw on something comfortable and snuggle on the sofa and give each other belly rubs. How does that sound?

The groan from the passenger seat was not entirely the result of my aching and gorged belly.

Sure enough, before long Fanny, face scrubbed and hair pulled back, was wearing an oversize tee and elastic-waist pajama shorts, and I was kitted out in similar clothing that was kind of, sort of, my size-ish. Fanny explained simply that she kept a pair on hand for when her gay co-worker/friend had had a contretemps with his boyfriend and needed a couch for the night.

I lay back, melting into the couch, while Fanny slowly, gently, massaged my belly. Did it ever need it. I was full, I was bloated and tautly bulging, I was short of breath. My stomach ached, the pull of stretched muscle tissue. I had the hiccups, each eruption feeling like it was bruising my sternum. I was in a glorious haze of satiety, dopily content, semiconscious and with a marvelous girl easing the distention and discomfort of my tummy.

After a while, she stopped and I pulled myself reluctantly toward consciousness. I began massaging Fannys tummy, a rosy little taut mound that felt marvelous to the touch, firm and warm. I was new at this, and clumsy, but Fannys fingers and soft voice instructed me.

After a time, we both sort of dozed, then awoke clearheaded. I changed back into my own clothes, parted from Fanny with a hug and kiss, and headed home, my belt now fastened a couple of notches over and my trousers much more snug than they had been that morning.

Imagine if you will repeating that scenario every Friday and Saturday evening, and it didnt take long for my trousers to grow snug as a matter of course.

Yo, Nick, Tom Andruzzi greeted me in the break room. This was sometime in June, a couple of months out from that Easter dinner.

Tommy.

Tom seemed to be hesitating over something.

So, Nicky, uh 

I made a cranking motion with my hand.*

Puttin on a few pounds there, he finally mumbled.

Oh. That. Yeah, I said, relieved. _Is that all that was?_ Im seein someone. She um, she likes a big guy kind of thing.

Tom snorted. Hah. Whatre the odds, man? I mean, Cathys always after me to lose a few pounds. Like shes any Miss America.

Cmon, Tom, Cathy looks good, I said mildly. 

Well, for a 30-year-old with two kids, I guess. We parted ways, Tom to go back to the clerk of courts office and me to go down the hall to where I was the City of Holyoke Treasurer.

_Whatre the odds? _I supposed they were  ha  slim, but I didnt care. I was happier than Id been in a long time.

_For the perfect, concise description of that hand motion, credit Stephen King, who used it in Carrie. I have yet to find a better and more precise way to say it._


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## Borghen (May 2, 2013)

> For the perfect, concise description of that hand motion, credit Stephen King, who used it in Carrie. I have yet to find a better and more precise way to say it.


Which, exactly?


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (May 3, 2013)

Sorry, which, what? "Cranking motion" meaning "Yeah, go on." A perfect and simple way to describe the common hand gesture. I read "She made a cranking motion with her hand" in the Stephen King novel _Carrie_ and wanted to credit the source.


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## Borghen (May 3, 2013)

Yes, that one!
I think King used a similar expression in the Dark Tower saga, as well.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (May 5, 2013)

Okay, cool. If we're done admiring Mr. King's elegant turn of phrase, would we mind returning to our hero's new dilemma to ponder.


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## JimBob (May 6, 2013)

It is good that you specified, however - in another context, here in the UK the sign of a fist cranking up and down is essentially what you do to indicate that the person who's looking at you/the person you're referring to is a wanker.


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## Borghen (May 6, 2013)

Big Beautiful Dreamer said:


> Okay, cool. If we're doneadmiring Mr. King's elegant turn of phrase, woud we mind returning to our hero's new dilemma to ponder.



Sorry for the OT.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (May 6, 2013)

No no no -- I did not mean the fist cranking that is universally known as the jerking off or wanker sign.

I meant the twist of the whole hand, from the wrist, that signals, "Yeah, go on."


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (May 7, 2013)

It had been easy enough to brush of Toms comment at work, but coming to terms with my steadily thickening waist and visibly swelling gut was proving to be harder.

I thought about it while I showered, sliding the soapy washcloth over pecs that were gradually becoming softer and a little flabby; when reaching around to wash my butt required a little more effort; when bringing the foot up to the washcloth became easier than bending over to bring the washcloth to the foot.

I thought about it as I ate my breakfast, spooning oatmeal and peach slices or munching wheat or rye toast while in front of the newspaper online, and having to brush crumbs from a belly that was now interrupting the previous downward trajectory between mouth and lap.

I thought about it as I puttered with my pots of flowers on the balcony and too much bending, kneeling, and getting back up left me puffing and grunting.

And I thought about it from the minute I sucked in my breath and fastened my increasingly snug trousers to the minute I got home and was able to liberate my compressed love handles. Of course, I gave in after a while and simply got new, larger trousers and underwear  and belts  and shirts  but damn me if I wasnt starting to get fat.

Fanny certainly liked it. It seemed that her new favorite hobby was playing with my increasing real estate, half-dressed or undressed, on the sofa or in the bed, and sometimes she would draw up a chair and feed me while massaging, fondling, cuddling, grabbing, and otherwise manipulating my belly. She would chatter on about how tight my gut was becoming, how firm my gut felt, and would end by groaning, her face flushed and lightly perspiring, her eyes half-closed, until neither of us could stand it any more. 

She would drag me toward the bedroom and I would follow, galumphing and belching, and we would go from fork play straight into foreplay.

Six months of this found us having gone from April into October, and my weight having ticked up from 190 to 220 on a five-six frame. It made for a good little sofa pillow in front.

Fanny had ripened as well, more subtly. She now had a hundred and seventy-eight pounds on her five foot nothing bod, up from 155. Her breasts had become generous indeed, her waist more lushly upholstered. Her bottom was eminently rosy and grabbable, her thighs soft velvet, her calves a siren call. 

Since she worked all but alone, with only a secretary, except for temporary help at tax time, she had no co-workers to be catty, and her fellow members at St. Jean de Lalande were, it seemed, speaking no evil.

Tommy occasionally kidded me about my perpetual food baby, but for the most part I escaped comment. On the whole, we were usually a civilized bunch. I expected that I would get some grief at Thanksgiving from my sister and brother, but that was in the future. I would deal.

But then Fanny started feeling under the weather. It wasnt a cold, exactly; wasnt food poisoning, exactly; just a sort of malaise she couldnt shake that left her vaguely tired and queasy. After about a month, she said she had an idea.

She waited until a Saturday morning when we were both lying in bed before she sat up and drew a box out of the drawer in her bedside table. She showed it to me.

Holy crap, I breathed.

She made a face. I dont know. Well just have to find out.

She stood to go to the bathroom, leaving me sitting up in bed. My head was swimming. 

It takes several minutes for those things to activate. By the time she came out of the bathroom, I knew what my response would be, regardless of what the tests response would be.

She came out of the bathroom and opened her mouth. I shushed her with a kiss.

Marry me, I said.

You dont even know

Dont care. I mean, I do care, but  marry me.

She dropped her head against my chest and let me embrace her. She nodded, her head smunching up and down against my pecs. Then she pulled back.

Now, she said. Now that weve settled that  she waved the stick.

Oh. Yeah. Um

I seem to be pregnant.

Seem to be? I grabbed the stick. The little window says PREGNANT. As in, youre a mama.

Then we were laughing and crying in each others arms all at once.

Luckily, I knew a guy at city hall.

So it came to pass that six days later, on a Friday morning, Fanny Favreau, radiant in a cream-colored wrap dress, married Nicholas Murphy (all two-twenty-nine-and-counting pounds), and departed on a honeymoon trip across town to break the news to Ma.

Not the stick news  the gold ring news. The other news could wait. With luck, the accounting would be on our side, and our little Miss Take would dawdle just enough to fool the folks counting on their fingers.

As for me, I had something else to count on: that mine would not be the only button about to pop.


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## fatmac (May 8, 2013)

Always fun stories. Thank you.
Mac


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