# George Ahoy (Parts 1-4)- by Gus7021 (Both, Eating, Realistic, Romance, ~SWG)



## Gus7021 (Jul 27, 2007)

_Both, Eating, Realistic, Romance, ~SWG - A jilted lover finds solace in food - and massage - and more -aboard a cruise ship
_
[*Author’s note:* First of several parts about the effects of cruise-ship living on one jilted lover &#8211; among others... Comments welcome &#8211; email me: gus7021 AT gmail dot com]

*George Ahoy 
(Vol. 1 of the "Cruise Ship Chronicles")
by Gus7021​*
*PART ONE*

Click.

Thump.

Thump.

Sigh.

George stood between the two heavy suitcases he’d let drop to the floor, and surveyed their suite. His suite. Whatever.

_"Well, here I am - for whatever good its means" _he thought disconsolately. 

He’d sprung for a rather nicely appointed Junior Suite near the front of the ship &#8211; separate lounge area, huge king-sized bed, windows with a view &#8211; currently of a rather grimy port building, but that he knew would change as the ship put to sea..

He puttered around the room, going through the standard hotel procedure &#8211; opening every door, examining the fixtures and fittings &#8211; all the while nodding his head slightly, as if in agreeable approval.

George went back into the living area, stood square in the centre of the room, put his hands on his hips.

He sighed deeply. It wasn't supposed to be this way.

This time last week he and Marie, his girlfriend of six years, had been doing shopping runs for their two-month luxury cruise, the highlight of their year. Four days ago he’d been double-confirming the bookings at several of the stops along the trip with his long-suffering &#8211; but well-compensated &#8211; travel agent.

Two days ago he had walked in on Marie and her fitness instructor locked in an amorous position George hadn’t even known was physically possible. Yesterday they had split up in an utterly irrevocable manner.

And now, since he'd invested his meager savings and a healthy chunk of his credit limit in a non-refundable ticket she was supposed to have shared in the cost of, he was here.

Frankly he, George, would sooner switch places with Marie in the instructor’s muscle-bound embrace than waste the holiday of a lifetime just because of that two-timing bitch slut floozy...

He realised he was digging his nails into the palms of his hands. He forced himself to relax.

The problem was, now that he had actually arrived on the ship, he rather dreaded the thought of what was effectively two months’ solitary confinement. George was not the most social of people, preferring the company of his own close circle of friends than that of strangers &#8211; and strangers on a cruise ship, no less; pretty much the very sort of people George normally went out of his way to avoid. 

The cruise had all been his girlfriend’s idea, and the only thing that had made the thought of two months at sea bearable, and even enjoyable, was his girlfriend. Marie.

George sat down on the bed, and sniffed back an unmasculine sob. Then he unpacked.

***​
He should have spotted something was wrong, just by the fact that she had started going to a fitness instructor. One of Marie’s best features was her relaxed attitude towards her figure &#8211; an attitude that had allowed her to go from a svelte 120 pounds at the start of their relationship to a relatively curvy 145 four years in.

Over the last couple of years, Marie’s gain had accelerated &#8211; she filled out to the tune of another 20 pounds, almost twice the rate of her previous gain. It hadn’t seemed to bother her, though &#8211; much of the weight had settled on her breasts and hips, and she apparently enjoyed making the most of her hourglass figure in well-cut clothing.

At 28, her youth meant she suffered no sagging or wrinkles &#8211; her new flesh was smooth and taut &#8211; or as taut as soft flab could be. Her exercise levels never dropped, and the muscles underneath her podge were firm, helping to maintain her knockout figure.

As for George, he had no particular feelings about his girlfriend’s expanding waistline. From her most slender days, he had had a particular fondness for Marie’s bellybutton &#8211; always on the deep side, in any case. 

The site of her navel peeking ever more frequently from beneath tight blouses was enough to drive him wild on occasion &#8211; especially as she had long ago figured out this was an excellent way to tease her boyfriend. The rest of her flesh George didn’t mind either way &#8211; it was his girlfriend he loved, any and all of her.

But in the last few months, something had changed. Marie had started becoming more self-conscious about her body. Whereas before she would play up to her friends’ good-natured teasing of her unrestrained appetite &#8211; and growing tum &#8211; now Marie would go silent and bite her lip.

She avoided some of her more form-fitting outfits, preferring looser tops that failed to give a hint of the curves beneath. She always wore her hair down, as if to hide the roundness in her face.

She’d been gotten to.

George had noticed the change, but couldn’t figure out the cause. No parental comments, no old friends blurting some tactless statement &#8211; nothing.

He still hadn’t got a complete picture, but after the fallout following the discovery of Marie _in flagrante_ with Mr Muscle, he had pieced together the following:

1)	He was a fitness instructor at an expensive gym near to Marie’s work
2)	They had met by chance through one of Marie’s colleagues, at a post-work visit to a bar
3)	They had met several times after this, without the colleague
4)	On one of these subsequent occasions he had persuaded her to come to his gym
5)	He was a grade-A jerk - and she'd gone for his line

George, in hindsight, thought that the cuckoo had somehow wormed his way into Marie’s brain, possibly with some well-timed snide comment, which George knew from experience could sometimes send Marie into a spiral of paranoia &#8211; he remembered one unfortunate incident involving a perm and a spatula from some years previously.

And that, it seemed, had been that. Muscles had continued his wormy path from Marie’s brain to her knickers, and then into George and Marie’s bed.

George had suggested a holiday to try to take Marie out of herself just after her self-consciousness had set in. She had come up with the idea of a cruise, they had booked it (from George’s credit card &#8211; unlikely to see her half, then), then imploded two months later. And here he was, sitting in a cabin, just to spite her. 

***​
Unsuited though he might be to cruise ship living, George had not come unprepared for the ordeal. His pair of suitcases contained the half of his bookshelf he had read least recently, as well as a selection of paperback thrillers scooped up from the bookshop’s &#8216;3 for 2’ section.

His plan, such as it was, involved a minimum of interaction with the other passengers combined with extracting the maximum value from the ship’s all-inclusive facilities. He had vowed not to be self-conscious about his singleton status on board, and just do as much as he could, however stupid he might appear.

The books were to be his escape &#8211; keep reading, keep forgetting. 

The first act of forgetting, he decided, would take place in one of the ship’s restaurants &#8211; a number of them boasted all-day buffets, and he was intending to hit these on a regular basis.

Notwithstanding his current nihilistic mindset, George was not the most self-conscious of people about his own figure either. While his girlfriend had added 45 pounds to her frame, he had managed 30 &#8211; but at an even pace throughout their relationship. From a buff-ish 160 he had softened to 190 pounds &#8211; still pretty average, but with a definite belly, and the start of flabby man-breasts (George’s only act of vanity was to engage in regular pectoral exercises, to try and prevent boobage &#8211; with some success, in fact).

To look at him no one would have called him fat, and he never saw himself as anything but normal &#8211; neither did Marie, or at least she had never said anything. George had never dieted &#8211; being blessed with a reasonable appetite and a sense of restraint, he had never had to.

Self-restraint was not the first thing on George’s mind as he headed to the upper deck, though. Accompanied by an unlikely thriller involving Picts with automatic weapons, he surveyed the restaurant with a slightly disturbing glint in his eye &#8211; and greed on his lips.

On the first round, he picked up a dozen pieces of sushi, a pile of smoked salmon and blinis, a prawn cocktail, and a tricolore salad.

On his second round, he helped himself to a creamy penne carbonara, garlic bread, salad with a copious amount of dressing, and three slices of pizza.

On his third round, moving more slowly round the counters now, he decided to tackle the roast lamb with dauphin potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and vegetables drenched in butter.

He made it half way through this third plate, before admitting to himself that this might have been a mistake. He had begun to sweat copiously, his distended stomach felt like someone had injected several cubic metres of cement into its depths, and something deeply unpleasant was happening within his bowels.

After signing for his meal and leaving a reasonable tip &#8211; he’s be coming back, after all &#8211; George got unsteadily to his feet, swaying slightly has he steadied himself against his chair. He made his way slowly out of the restaurant, and weaved his way towards his suite &#8211; picking up speed as his guts indicated their extreme dissatisfaction at his overindulgence.

Later, lying on his bed recovering, George realised he needed to rein himself in &#8211; he was in this for the long haul, two months &#8211; there was no need to try and eat his fare all in one day. As he slipped into unconsciousness, though, he could still taste those dauphin potatoes on his lips...

***​
He awoke early the next day &#8211; he had slept for almost 14 hours, the first real rest he had had since the breakup. Now it was 6am, and the ship was sailing down the Eastern seaboard, visible off the port bow. Or was it starboard? Who, in fact, cared? He didn't!

Having performed his ablutions, George decided to head up and take a swim on one of the ship’s outdoor pools &#8211; although still cool, the air was just picking up a hint of the heat to come.

He headed up with a beachtowel and his thriller, and swam a dozen lengths, first crawl, then breast stroke. Figuring this was more than enough for now, and having worked up an appetite besides, George headed to the shower to rinse off the chlorine water.

Standing under the tepid jet, trying to get the generic shampoo/bodywash in the dispenser to foam, George felt his swim shorts tug a little more than he remembered &#8211; he had failed to register any difference in the muzziness of waking.

But the swim had sharpened his senses &#8211; there was a definite pinch there. His lightly-haired stomach protruded just a little bit over the waistband, and his hips were pulled in by the fabric. George registered all this neutrally &#8211; it wasn’t bad or good, it just was.

Finishing his shower, George headed over to one of the sun loungers &#8211; the day was now warm enough to lie outside comfortably. Within 30 seconds of lying down, a waitress from the pool bar had come to offer him breakfast &#8211; George opted for sausage and pancakes, with a fruit platter on the side.

After finishing his breakfast, he lay in the rising sun and polished off almost half his book, turning onto his front at around 11am to have a doze. He came to around 45 minutes later, the heat of the sun making itself felt &#8211; luckily George was fairly impervious to sunburn. 

He had another swim, then headed via his cabin and a change of clothes to lunch at yet another of the large ship’s eateries. This was a much more subdued affair than his gluttony 24 hours earlier, but George still managed to polish off two moderately full plates.

Feeling happily full from his meal, George now found himself at a loose end. He’d had his fill of sunbathing and swimming, and he had promised to ration the ship’s onboard cinema to one visit a fortnight &#8211; this was only his second day.

He strolled to a map on the sun deck, and mentally flicked through his options. Casino &#8211; no. Gym &#8211; no. Nail bar &#8211; oh no. Spa &#8211; no. 

Wait. Why not the spa? 

The only reason he had never gone to one before was his view that the things were a waste of money &#8211; but this one was included in his package, up to three sessions of his choice a week.

George headed down into the depths of the ship &#8211; the spa’s enclosed nature meant it could be located far from any natural light. As he made his way into the lavishly tiled entrance, he could smell a dozen different aromas &#8211; herbal, floral, mineral &#8211; all on a slight cloud of steam.

“Can I help you?” asked the cute receptionist behind the counter.

“Uh, well, I was just coming in for... I dunno. What’ve you got?”

“You haven’t made an appointment?”

“No &#8211; was I supposed to?” George hadn’t considered the spa might actually be in use &#8211; in his head, they always sat empty all day, a bunch of undereducated women filing their nails. He appreciated that he hadn’t given this an enormous amount of critical thought.

“Well, normally, yes,” said the receptionist, not without sympathy. “Hang on, let me see if we can squeeze you in for something now... Hm, how about a &#8216;Deep Relaxation’ session?”

“What does that involve?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy it. Well, probably,” said the girl as she guided him towards a changing room. “Just leave your clothes in the locker here, and put on the robe. What size are you? I’ll give you some jogging bottoms as well, for the massage.”

George changed into the provided clothes, and headed out into... something so relaxing he’d thought he had never known what true calm was.

From the herbal steam session, to the hot stones, to the whirlpool, George felt the tension ebbing out of his body, leaving him floppily relaxed, and yet alert and energised.

The final session was a full-body massage, and the whirlpool attendant directed him towards one of the massage rooms and asked him to wait for the masseuse. George sat on the edge of the massage table &#8211; as he looked around, his masseuse came in.

About 5’6”, slim and toned, with shoulder-length darkish-blonde hair, the woman certainly made an impression. A lean face with grey-blue eyes held an expression that was prepared to laugh at any moment &#8211; the twinkling eyes and upturned lips seemed to see good-natured humour in everything.

“Helloo, my name’s Amy, and I will be your masseuse for this session,” she said in a mock-tour guide voice. Her accent was English &#8211; somewhere from the north of the country, from George’s limited experience. 

“First time for a massage? Don’t worry &#8211; I’ll be gentle. Just let me know if it hurts, and I’ll go easy on you. Any preference for the oils?”

“Uh...”

“I’ll just give you the lavender, shall I?”

“Uh, yeah, that’d be fine.”

As she bustled around at the side of the room, George got a better look at her. She was slim, but not as slim as he had first thought &#8211; she had a curvy figure, all of which looked pretty tight. Her arms were bigger than her size might suggest &#8211; he assumed from massages.

George lay face down on the table, his head resting comfortably in a padded hole at one end. Amy began her magic, working the oil into his skin.

“So you’re on your own?” she asked, kneading his shoulders.

“What? Yes, uh... how-“

“How did I know? You get to tell with people after a while. Girlfriend dump you?”

“The other way around. She... she was cheating on me.”

“Bugger. I know it doesn’t help, but you really are better off. My last fella, he was running around with all sorts behind my back. He probably didn’t do too much for a few weeks, after he told me though, if you get what I mean. Stupid git still didn’t learn &#8211; last I heard he was doing the same to his latest. Who was she cheating with?”

“What?”

“Your girlfriend &#8211; who was she doing the dirty with? Unless you’d rather talk about something else...”

“No, it’s ok &#8211; it’s good, I- I need to talk about it. It was a fitness instructor. He... I dunno, he turned her somehow. Yikes, I haven’t even mentioned this to anyone else, you know? It only happened a couple of days ago...” George trailed off, lost in thought.

“Well, at least you get to have the cruise &#8211; a chance to get away from it all, it’ll do you good. First time on a liner?” Amy pounded away at George’s shoulders.

“Yeah &#8211; it was more my girlfriend’s sort of thing, to be honest.”

“Well, it’s my first time as well &#8211; I only took it because the money was better than working in the Trafford Centre. My boyfriend wasn’t best pleased &#8211; until I told him I’d get an employee discount after a year, anyway.”

“Aren’t.. aren’t you worried he’s going to be off with someone else while you’re away? I’m sorry, that’s none of my business &#8211; I guess it’s just on my mind at the moment.”

“Nah, don’t worry &#8211; your turn to play nosey parker. No, he’ll behave himself &#8211; he knows when he’s onto a good thing. Also his mother would give him hell.” 

Despite the last comment, George thought Amy sounded quietly confident about her boyfriend’s faithfulness &#8211; he pictured them as one of those nauseating couples that have got over all the difficult bits, and will go on for years and years with nothing more serious than an argument over the washing up.

Like he and Marie had been. Or he thought they had been. George sighed deeply.

Amy tutted. “Don’t stress &#8211; it’s not worth it. Now, this is billed as the Deep Relaxation package, so that’s what I’m gonna give you. You might feel a little drowsy...”

***​
After walking out of the spa like he was stoned, George headed to the deck to watch the sun going down. Too blissed out to read, he sat on a chair and watched the sky slowly darken, as the sun moved towards the water, gradually growing redder, older, dying. 

He watched as the final red rim disappeared beneath the horizon, watched as the clouds painted one of those acid-inspired sunsets that only come with global warming. He watched and watched, and felt more relaxed than he had in a long time.

Over the next week, George developed a pattern &#8211; to the pool in the morning, with swimming and breakfast taking him to noon. Then a quick stroll around the deck before hitting one of the restaurants for a large-ish &#8211; and growing &#8211; lunch. 

In the afternoon he would read a little, wander through the on-board shops doing some people-watching. This was turning into his favourite pastime on board &#8211; he loved listening to snatches of people’s lives, conspiring with them for a few seconds, intruding on their petty personal squabbles.

He saw the middle-aged woman and her hen-pecked husband with violence in his eyes; the young couple with fresh wedding bands and hands constantly intertwined; the overbearing father telling his college-age daughter to lay off the candies from the shop, the daughter brimming with resentment as her belly pudge strained against her slacks..

Despite his reservations, George also hit the casino &#8211; another perfect spot for people-watching. To his surprise, among the yahoos and the creeps were some men &#8211; and they were always men &#8211; much like himself, but for the fact that they were here with their partners. While their significant others were off getting their fill of the sun deck, or hitting the spa, or shoe-shopping yet again, the menfolk sought the solace of a room laced with smoke and a dash of testosterone.

They didn’t come to gamble, they came to get away &#8211; and tended to congregate around the low-stakes card tables. George fell in with them pretty easily &#8211; they asked no questions, offered no opinions on their fellows. Sinking a few beers with them before dinner became a natural part of George’s day.

Dinner, like lunch, grew a little every day. Tucked away in the corner of a restaurant, he would read his book and periodically refresh his plate at the buffet &#8211; or order course by course, if it was table service. He preferred the buffets, though, and by the end of the first week had worked his way through the ship’s eateries.

And throughout the week, with every breakfast, lunch and dinner, with every beer at the casino and snack from the shops, George filled out. His belly loomed further over his shorts during his morning swim, bunched up more when he sat for breakfast. His ass expanded, bringing with it plumper love handles over his hips and a fullness to his thighs.

If George noticed any of this, he remained outwardly oblivious. He certainly didn’t feel self-conscious at the pool, or any of the restaurants. And he didn’t make any effort to moderate his eating. As his body grew softer, George sailed on regardless.

_(Continued in post 4 of this thread...)_


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## Lardibutts (Jul 31, 2007)

Gus7021 said:


> "George sailed on regardless."


A beautifully written piece! 
I admired the way the author explored the mental processes in Georges mind, and enjoyed the detailed observation of shipboard life. 
The latent potential of the plot leaves me impatient for more. I do hope the big bed in George's suite gets some use  maybe by the sassy Lassy from Lancashire.


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## Gus7021 (Aug 4, 2007)

Now don't go ruining the plot... ;-)

Thanks for the feedback - it's all welcome.

The next part will follow... immediately.


Gus


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## Gus7021 (Aug 4, 2007)

*GEORGE AHOY - CHAPTER TWO*

At the end of the week, George went back to the spa. He’d been again a few days ago, this time for some aromatherapy treatment and sensory deprivation. He had come out of that session thinking that he actually rather liked his senses, and right now his thoughts weren’t the best things to be left alone with.

For his third complimentary visit of the week, he’d decided to go for a more traditional combo, involving water, massage, and whatever else was going. Also he liked the idea of seeing Amy again &#8211; her cheerful confidence created the impression that the world was really a straight-forward place, not the confusing maze of emotions and second-guessing it had turned into for George.

“Back again for more punishment, are we?” said Amy as she came into the room. “Let’s try something different for this one, if that’s ok? How about something to get you energised?”

“Fine, go for it &#8211; I’m in your hands!”

“Yes. you are...” said the masseuse as she got to work. “How’s your week been &#8211; hmmm, it looks like you’ve been enjoying your food, anyway.” 

Amy had reached George’s hips, and gave his soft love handles a friendly squeeze.

“Yeah, the restaurants are pretty good &#8211; I guess there’s not a lot else to do on these ships.”

“What. you mean like go to the gym? Nah, I shouldn’t be talking &#8211; I’ve had a couple of buffets already, and I haven’t seen me hitting the weights yet.”

“I do swim, every day. Never really got into the gym thing, though &#8211; seemed like too much hard work, and boring. Anyway, you don’t need to worry &#8211; you’re not the one with someone kneading your flab.”

“Well, a girl’s got to watch her figure, you know. And who said anything about worrying &#8211; it’s not the end of the world to gain a few pounds, especially if... well, you know. I’d just enjoy it while you can, if I were in your shoes.”

“Fair enough. Worrying wasn’t too high on my agenda, as it happens,” said George, before adding, sarcastically “but thanks for pointing it out...”

“Hey, I just say what I see &#8211; that’s my philosophy. Makes it all easier in my experience. Now then, you’re probably going to feel this a little bit...”

*​
When he got back to his cabin, George stripped off his shirt and stood in front of the full-length mirror. He surveyed his body critically, but with no apparent emotion visible on his face.

His stomach now clearly stuck out over his khaki shorts, the waistband of which was starting to crease under the increased strain. The love handles Amy had so delicately pointed out were rolling over his shorts as well &#8211; if he were a woman, it could only be described as a muffin top.

George turned a few times in front of the mirror, craning his neck to see behind him. Standing back square in front of the glass, he flexed his gut, sucking it in, throwing it out. He bent forward, causing the flab around his waist to bunch into rolls.

He wasn’t fat &#8211; not yet. But he was definitely starting to fill out, and his hips and gut could now probably described as chubby &#8211; before the cruise, the worst that could be said was they were &#8216;soft’. Now his already sunken navel had retreated even further into his abdomen, which was itself in danger of rolling over his waistband.

Patting his growing belly with both hands, George headed to the cabin’s wardrobe, where he pulled out a fresh shirt and slipped it on &#8211; the shirt almost completely hid the flab underneath.

Then he went out for a snack.

***​
“Back again, are you? Must be a glutton for punishment....”

“It’s the magic of your hands, Amy &#8211; I can’t stay away.”

“Heh, that’s what you must say to all the masseuses.” Amy fussed around at the side of the room while George hung his recently-vacated towelling robe on a hook and perched on the side of the massage table. 

“Wow, and that’s not all you’re a glutton for!” exclaimed Amy, giving George a sharp poke in his gut. In the seven days since his last visit to the masseuse George had not curbed his appetite in the slightest, and the results of his two weeks of continuous eating were clear in the swell of his stomach, which now extended a good inch over his waistband. His navel had grown deeper, with the dozen or so lines surrounding it in a star shape &#8211; someone had once told him this was a sign of intelligence &#8211; elongated in the dark hole. 

The loose slacks George had donned for the spa visit didn’t pinch too much, thus hiding the worst of his love handles &#8211; had he been wearing his jeans, the rolls of fat would have oozed substantially over the material, even more so than the first time Amy had noticed his swelling figure. 

The rest of George’s body had not escaped the creeping fat. His arms, while still reasonably muscular, were now soft and rounded; his thighs had started to resemble sausages, and his ass had developed what could only be described as a wobble.

“Uh, yeah, I guess I’ve put on a bit of weight,” said George, surprised not to feel more embarrassed at the attention his flab was attracting.

“Still comfort eating, are ya?” said Amy, patting the bed for George to lie down.

“Well...”

*​
Just yesterday George had set a new personal record at the Italian restaurant’s all-you-can-eat spread; after starting with a relatively modest salad, complete with croutons and dressing, he had proceeded to consume three plates of pasta in a variety of meat, cheese and oily sauces, a chicken breast stuffed with ricotta and wrapped in Parma ham with buttered vegetables and sautéed potatoes, a cumulative three-quarters of a 12-inch pizza, with a variety of laden slices, and a large slice of tiramisu.

His buffet technique had improved &#8211; he was now often one of the first to arrive for the setting, and usually the last to leave. George had, by trial and error, worked out how best to pace himself, and could now eat more or less continuously for hours.

*​
“... maybe a little.”

“Well, they must be something good on those buffets.” Amy turned back towards the table, and for the first time George noticed the slight indentation of her navel through the fitted spa uniform. “I bet you’re hitting the bar a bit as well, right?” 

*​
George’s casino visits were now pretty much daily &#8211; he and his new-found buddies would find a table near the bar, and rotate around the card game and the beverage service. On arrival, the first of the group would order a plate of bar snacks, and the gang would work its way through the chicken wings, loaded potato skins, mozzarella sticks and jalapeno poppers &#8211; the bar staff now knew to keep the plates coming along with the beers. 

*​
“A couple of beers, yeah.” 

His head turned to its side, George watched as Amy turned back to the counter, her slim and supple form outlined in the pressed white cotton of her uniform. The uniform seemed a tad snug.
 
The masseuse turned back and started her work in earnest. “So then, Mr Mange Tout as you seem to have eaten everything on board, what would you recommend? I’ve tried the Italian and Chinese buffets so far...”

“Have you had the Szechuan beef? That’s fantastic. And... let’s see...the Kung Pao chicken is good, and the sweet and sour pork. For the Italian, you’ve got to try the carbonara sauce, and the alfredo’s just awesome &#8211; oh, and they do this great thing with tomato sauce and fresh mozzarella&#8211;”

“You’re getting into this food thing, eh? I’ll have to pay more attention next time I go. I might steer clear of the pasta, though &#8211; too many carbs...” Amy kneaded George’s soft hips. “Come on then, greedy, what else do you recommend?”

“You’ve got to try the Thai place &#8211; they do this thing with battered chicken...” 

***​
But George’s enthusiastic account of his overindulgence was not the whole story. For him, now, food was displacement activity.

When Marie’s name threatened to cross his thoughts, some part of George’s consciousness sublimated the pain into appetite. When her face shimmered in his mind’s eye, George had a pang of hunger. And when his stomach was full to bursting, his eyes glazed from excess consumption, all thoughts of his adulterous ex-girlfriend were erased by a mixture of endorphins, tiredness, and some urgent signals from overstretched bodily systems.

But still there were treacherous moments, early in the morning, as George went through his ablutions; late at night, after the worst of the fullness had subsided and before George drifted into sleep. At these times, the pang was not of hunger &#8211; and was not so easily sated.

Even during the day, while George attempted to occupy his mind with food or undemanding company, there would still be a moment. He might be sitting at the blackjack table, lounging by the pool, about to enter the steam room &#8211; when his eyes would defocus to some non-existent middle distance, his shoulders would slump, and a deep and sorrowful sigh would issue from his lungs.

George’s casino buddies were understanding &#8211; after all, didn’t most of them have their own troubles, buried and not spoken of? As for the rest of the ship’s occupants, what did they care? To almost everyone, George was just some guy, on his own &#8211; unusual, but not to the point of interest.

So George continued to lose himself in vicarious activities; the movies, the casino, his books and food &#8211; and the massage table. From having never experienced a professional massage in his life, George had become slightly addicted to the experience of having a stranger pummel his body. Except, it wasn’t a stranger &#8211; it was Amy, and this made a difference. He couldn’t define his feelings exactly, but &#8211; she made things seem better. Her attitude, her personality, her no-nonsense conversation &#8211; they all helped his mind fool itself that everything was ok.

It was not, in any way, a sexual thing, though &#8211; George’s libido was still crushed under the weight of Marie’s betrayal. If anything, he saw the masseuse as the closest thing he had to a friend &#8211; a real friend, not a sharer of experiences like the guys at the casino &#8211; he had on board the ship. George had an elder sister, and it was perhaps some idealised version of her he saw in Amy &#8211; albeit one who was actually younger than him, and had not, as yet, tried to flush his head down a toilet.

As to George’s new body &#8211; his attitude could best be described as ambivalent. On a surface level, he was not particularly happy with the new rolls and bulges which covered him &#8211; not starting with a particularly toned physique, the new fat had had an almost immediate impact on George’s figure. With no hidden cavity to occupy, each pound had settled where it would be noticed most.

But the surface level never seemed to make itself felt against the stronger undercurrents of George’s messed-up mind. His angry, guilt-ridden and sorrowful unconscious flitted between seeing the new pounds as revenge, punishment and release. The consensus between George’s mental processes seemed to be that they didn’t mind too much &#8211; and he certainly wasn’t about to stop eating. 

***​
After his spa session, George went for stroll around the liner, enjoying the warm air of the southern waters. He stopped on the upper deck and leaned out against the rail, feeling the fresh breeze against his face, watching the sun amble towards the horizon.

Further along towards the prow was a young couple &#8211; probably on their honeymoon, by the looks of it. The man had his arm wrapped around his partner’s waist, their heads touched together as both of them looked out to sea. Occasionally one of them would turn in and whisper something in the other’s ear &#8211; on the last of these, the woman pulled the man in tighter.

George felt nothing, oddly &#8211; he was happy for them. No bitterness, no resentment &#8211; maybe he was getting over her, he thought in his conscious mind. After a while, though, the couple’s nauseating behaviour got the best of him &#8211; even Barbara Cartland would probably have been sickened by this point. He moved on.

As he walked back into the ship’s interior and turned a corner, a girl ran straight into him, knocking the wind out of him for a second.

“Oh, CRAP! I’m really sorry &#8211; I’m just in a real hurry &#8211; I’m trying to get away&#8211;” George thought it was the girl he had seen with her father on his first day, a thought she confirmed. 

“My dad’s gonna kill me if he sees me like this&#8211;” she indicated her body.

She looked a state &#8211; especially to a man who had made so much fuss of a candy bar that first day. Her face had smears of chocolate around it, matched by a prominent brown stain on her white top. The top itself did not seem calculated to please &#8211; too small, its arms cut into the girl’s chubby limbs, and it rode up to reveal her plump belly, which was itself emphasised by the unbuttoned jeans beneath.

“Uh, I guess,” said George. “Don’t sweat it, it’s&#8211;”

The girl interrupted: “Hey look, could you do me like a HUMONGOUS favour? He’s gonna be here in like thirty seconds, so can you &#8211; cover for me?” 

She looked up at him with large blue eyes, and bit her lip.

How could he refuse. “Yeah, ok &#8211; look, just, go into that stairwell &#8211; I’ll do the rest.”

With a look of total gratitude, mingled with triumph, the girl raced into the stairwell and shut the door behind her. George stood in front of it, pulled out his cellphone and started sending an imaginary message.

Just as he did so, a red-faced man stomped around the corner, a slightly wild look in his eyes. He looked around him in that exaggerated way people do when searching for someone, then focused on George.

“Hey you!” 

George liked him already (not really). 

“Have you seen my daughter come through here? Fat girl, blonde hair?”

“Uh, could be &#8211; some girl raced past me just a minute ago &#8211; almost knocked me over.”

“Yeah, great &#8211; where’d she go?”

“Round the corner, onto the deck. I think she was heading towards the stern. Hey &#8211; you should tell your daughter to be more careful, look where she’s going, you know?”

“Yeah, right.” The man stomped off to the deck.

George counted to fifteen in his head, then opened the stairwell door. “I think you’re clear.”

“Man, you are a lifesaver! I owe you one...” The girl grinned up at him.

“No worries &#8211; I think you’d better take the stairs, though &#8211; he thinks you’re on this deck.”

“Don’t worry, eighteen years and he’s never caught me yet. See ya...!” The girl gave George one more electric smile, then headed down the stairs. 

***​
The weeks passed, the weather continued to get warmer, and George’s weight continued to climb. His massage sessions with Amy had developed a permanent culinary theme &#8211; George would run through his gormandising since the last session, and Amy would chime in with her own, rather less extensive, food-related discoveries. She carried on teasing him good-naturedly about his growing belly &#8211; and growing everything else &#8211; and he carried on not really minding.

But it seemed George was not the only one becoming preoccupied with food, nor the only one to show its effects. Everywhere he looked, the ship’s guests were filling their faces with fine cuisine &#8211; and filling out their clothes at the same time. The nauseating couple he had seen on deck now sported matching starter bellies &#8211; and George had even caught them prodding each other’s paunches and giggling to themselves.

George guessed that, like him, most of the guests were out to have as good a time as possible &#8211; and weren’t going to let little things like diets or exercise regimes get in the way of it. Unlike him, of course, most of the rest of the ship’s complement hadn’t embarked on a semi-self-destructive pattern of consumption, thus making their gains less dramatic. On the other hand, he did go swimming every day, so it swung both ways in George’s opinion.

Even the casino gang was feeling the weight of the ship’s many dining options. Lance, who was something in finance from Texas, opined one evening that his wife Charlotte’s butt “is starting to look like one of those Goodyear blimps, with all them fried stakes she’s been eating”. 

Sadly Lance, not being the most self-aware man on the planet, had apparently failed to notice his own expanding beer belly &#8211; a feature which had not escaped the attention of some of the other members of the group, and one which they were not slow in pointing out in loud, clear voices.

As Lance went red, harrumphed, and made a valiant effort to suck his gut in, George &#8211; who was not joining in the taunting, being all too aware of his own glass house &#8211; considered for perhaps the first time quite how divisive weight could be. He had honestly never cared about his own figure (save the man boobs), or anyone else’s &#8211; and had never been forced to think about the issue beyond a fleeting thought around the latest &#8216;fat’ celebrity.

George decided that he didn’t care before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

*​
He said as much to Amy, during his next spa session. But instead of the robust agreement he had expected (“Yeah, who cares anyway?”) Amy made some half-hearted comment about “everybody having their own little hang-ups”. 

George countered: “But surely it’s all just someone else’s idea of an &#8216;ideal’ figure, isn’t it? It shouldn’t matter if you’re fat, or thin, or whatever &#8211; as long as you’re happy.”

“Well, perhaps some people just need to be thin to be happy, alright?” Amy almost snapped. 

This was as near to angry or upset as George had ever seen her &#8211; the first time her professional cheeriness had slipped. He dropped the subject.

One reason behind Amy’s out-of-character behaviour became clear at his next massage, a few days later. As George lay on the table and Amy prepared something on the counter, he noticed her uniform was appreciably tighter than before. As she turned and George saw her in profile, he saw a new belly bulging through the cotton top.

It was not large by any means, and on anyone else George would not have given it a second glance &#8211; indeed, the old George probably wouldn’t even have noticed it. But in Amy’s mind, he guessed, the significance of the new weight was many times the physical number of her gain.

On the plus side, Amy had regained her usual cheerful persona &#8211; although she was not quite as ready to tease George about his expanding figure, or to recount her own dining adventures. He didn’t push it, and instead they got talking about other interests: books, films, music &#8211; and dancing.

“Nooo, really? You &#8211; doing the tango or the foxtrot or whatever?”

“Why are you so surprised?” George asked, a smile in his voice. “What did you see me doing &#8211; bowling? Taxidermy? Alligator wrestling?”

“Shut up &#8211; now you’re just being stupid. I dunno &#8211; just didn’t have you down as the type. Not that there’s anything wrong with it &#8211; I like a man who can cut a rug. I can’t talk &#8211; I’ve been doing the old ballroom dancing lessons for two years now.”

“Well, then. There’s a dance on next week, in one of the ballrooms &#8211; how about it?” 

“What &#8211; you and me?” Amy sounded dubious. “You mean like a date...”

“Yeah &#8211; a red-hot date. I’ll turn up with a red rose in my mouth, you can wear something unsuitable, and we can scandalise the other dancers with our chemistry.”

“Hmmmm....”

“Or I can just meet you there and we can have fun. Not as a date, just as a laugh.”

“I like plan B better. Sold &#8211; I’ll see you there at &#8211; eight?”

“Eight is good.” 

***​
The evening of the dance saw George in his suite, getting dressed, and trying out his steps while humming dancehall classics to himself. He felt a buzz of excitement, but no nerves &#8211; he was looking forward to a pleasant evening with Amy, as friends.

The only snag had come when he had tried on his smarter pants &#8211; something he’d packed out of habit, and hadn’t thought about wearing until this evening. 

As he pulled them up, he realised he was about to have a problem. The formerly loose legs were now pulling slightly at his thighs &#8211; and getting the pants over his ass was a little hard, in contrast to his ass. He finally pulled the flaps together around his waist &#8211; and saw they now had a sizable gap between them.

George cursed under his breath, sucked in his gut, and tried again &#8211; still no good. The soft flesh of his stomach wobbled accusingly at him, taunting him for thinking these pants were ever going to fit around his now-tubby middle.

After some comedy jumping, sucking, lying on the bed, and grunting, George admitted defeat, and took the easy way out &#8211; a visit to the onboard men’s outfitters. After returning with his purchases &#8211; including a new shirt which didn’t cling quite so much to his belly &#8211; he finished his preparations.

With a final discreet squirt of cologne, George headed to the dance.

“There may be trouble ahead, but while there’s moonlight, and music...”

_(Continued in post six of this thread)_


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## curvefanatic (Aug 4, 2007)

Glad to hear there will be more of this! I'm enjoying George's PoV.


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## Gus7021 (Aug 14, 2007)

*GEORGE AHOY - CHAPTER THREE*

A swirl of dancers swung past the bar where George and Amy were taking a break. Both were sweating slightly, having just finished an intense session wheeling and twirling around the ship’s ballroom. The tight and more than competent band was well into its second set, and enjoying every minute of it.

The atmosphere was &#8211; not electric, but buzzing with good nature and humour. Everyone was out for a good time, including the band, and the energy around the room was almost palpable. Now at six weeks into the cruise, many of the passengers had become quite friendly, and with a bit of alcohol flowing, partners were more than forthcoming as dancers that evening.

George had arrived just before eight o’clock, not long after the evening’s dance had started &#8211; a few slightly shy couples were just making their way onto the almost-empty dancefloor, and the band was going through a straight-forward midtempo number. 

He only waited a couple of minutes before Amy appeared, looking &#8211; George had to admit &#8211; terrific in a tight maroon dress in some stretchy, satin-like material, cut to mid-ankle. Simple, elegant but not showy &#8211; along with her well-executed but straight forward hair and makeup, Amy had managed to appear like a million dollars, without looking like she was trying out for the Oscars red carpet.

“Wow, you look...” George spread his hands in lieu of any words.

“Well, thank you, sir!” Amy beamed, and executed a quick twirl. “I always like to make an impression &#8211; although I had to pour myself into the dress...” George noticed that her outfit did indeed look a little _too_ tight in places, with the material creasing around Amy’s midriff. “You scrub up well, too &#8211; new outfit, is it?” Amy fingered the fresh-from-the-store creases in George’s shirt.

“Yeah, I just bought it. The old one was a little... snug.”

Amy gave a knowing smirk and patted George on the belly. “Thought that might be the case. Come on then &#8211; let’s see if you can work off a few pounds tonight...” 

A little nervously at first, but with increasing confidence, George and Amy wheeled their way across the dancefloor. Both were competent dancers, and were well suited &#8211; each was able to execute a good few moves, and anticipate the other’s in return.

As they moved across the room to a fast waltz, George took stock. Here he was, whirling around a room with an attractive woman, his hand on her waist, on a luxury cruise ship somewhere over the deep blue sea.

He contrasted this to his state of mind five weeks ago when he boarded &#8211; a point at which it would be safe to say was George’s lowest ebb in his life thus far. He felt &#8211; justifiably &#8211; happy about his improved situation. He had friends, his days were reasonably full &#8211; as was his stomach. He still felt a deep pang of sadness, but for the first time, he felt that there was a way forward.

George had touched bottom &#8211; and was now on his way back up. 

*​
As the pair paused for breath, and much-needed sustenance, George looked out over the sizable crowd on the dancefloor.

“Good turnout &#8211; I wouldn’t have thought that many people knew how to dance.”

“Yeah, well &#8211; most of them don’t, by the looks of it,” commented Amy.

“Aren’t you just Miss Charitable?” George retorted.

“Hey &#8211; say what I see, remember? Anyway, I didn’t say they weren’t having fun. And I always think you can’t beat bad dancers for a bit of quality entertainment...”

George had to admit, there was a comedy element to some of the attempts at the medium of dance currently being executed &#8211; especially by those passengers who had relied on Dutch courage to get them on the dance floor in the first place.

He and Amy leaned back against the bar, watching the dancers, and wincing with a mixture of sympathy and Schadenfreude &#8211; not necessarily in that order &#8211; at some of the more disastrous turns, twirls, slips and trips.

“Oh, she’s not &#8211; ooh, she is...” 

“Ow &#8211; he’s gone right into her!” 

“And- oops, oh dear &#8211; that’s gotta hurt...” 

“I didn’t know legs can bend like &#8211; oh, they can’t...”

While the two of them sniggered to themselves, they took it in turns to help themselves from the buffet table. In deference to the evening’s main activity, the fare was light &#8211; but to George this just meant he could get through more of it.

Sandwiches, vol-au-vents, gourmet sausage rolls, pastries, blinis, smoked salmon &#8211; all went on the plates, and into George’s stomach. With his new pants not even tightening around his waist, George managed to demolish around half a dozen &#8211; admittedly small &#8211; plates.

“So this is George’s famous appetite in action, is it? I can see where you get your physique from now...”

George discreetly stifled a belch. “Yup &#8211; it’s all going to a good cause.” He rubbed his belly for emphasis.

But while his appetite was on par, George was surprised to see Amy almost matching him for consumption. Watching her eat, she seemed distracted &#8211; almost unconscious of the amount of food passing between her lips. She would eat mechanically, continually reaching for another morsel of food, her hand going blindly to the plate behind her on the bar, groping in vain when the plate was empty &#8211; did she not remember taking the last piece?

Remembering Amy’s reaction just days before on the weight issue, George decided to leave well alone. But he couldn’t help noticing that her dress was now struggling more than ever before &#8211; the shape of her tummy was clear, her navel now clearly indented.

George was momentarily distracted by this sight &#8211; for a fleeting moment, new thoughts around Amy flashed through his head, but before he could even grasp the shape of them, they were gone.

He shook his head, and pulled himself straight. “Right, enough food &#8211; let’s have another dance.” 

He prodded Amy’s stomach with his knuckle &#8211; even as he did so, George regretted the move.

Instantly she moved an arm protectively across her midriff and for a second her eyes blazed with defensiveness and anger. Drawing her breath, Amy seemed to catch herself &#8211; almost visibly pulling back the anger, she gave George a tight smile.

“Careful &#8211; don’t want to hurt the food baby,” she said with a forced attempt at lightness.

As Amy led the way back onto the dancefloor, George cringed inwardly. The knuckle-poke was something he’d always done, to men and women alike &#8211; but if ever there was a moment not to, that had been it. He thanked his stars Amy seemed to have decided not to take offence, and guessed she would put it behind her pretty quickly.

She did &#8211; as they took up their places for the next dance, Amy winked up at George, and said: “Ok, partner &#8211; let’s show them how it’s done...” 

*​
After an intense final set, the band was winding down, playing a last slow number which saw the room sway gently with the now rather tired dancers. George and Amy were no exception &#8211; both had lost themselves somewhat in the music and motion, but now their legs ached pleasantly with the exercise, and their backs were starting to complain.

As the band wound up, everyone turned and applauded, then started the drift from the room.

Amy turned to George. “Guess that’s it for this evening, then, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess.” 

In the silence that followed they looked into each other’s eyes, on the verge of a moment. It passed without materialising.

“Well, got to get back to my cabin &#8211; the spa’s a-calling first thing tomorrow.” Amy smiled up at George. “See you soon?”

“You bet.” George smiled back.

“Well, g’night. And, thanks for a great evening.” She gave him a lingering pat on his belly and a final smile, before turning and heading down the corridor.

George headed to his own quarters, by way of the top deck. He enjoyed the play of the cool night breeze on his face, and the faint glimmer of the stars through the hazy sky.

He held on to the feeling of redemption he had experienced earlier in the evening &#8211; for the first time since he slammed the door on his girlfriend, he felt like he could have a future.

Of Amy, he felt a swell of fondness, of friendship &#8211; and nothing else. 

***​
On his next visit to the spa, George and Amy fixed up another activity &#8211; this time a film in the ship’s cinema. This set the pattern for the next couple of weeks, as the two of them explored the onboard facilities.

Neither of them had made any close friends onboard &#8211; George because he had deliberately shunned any company but the superficial, up until Amy anyway, and Amy because her wit and intelligence marked her apart from the rest of the spa girls who, as she put it “rate a broken nail as a bigger crisis than the national debt”.

Both of them welcomed the company, therefore, and discovered a shared outlook on much of life that gave them more than enough to talk about as they passed around the ship.

Cinema, another dance, quoits, bowling &#8211; the pair worked their way through the available diversions. As they did so, it was increasingly clear to George that Amy was working her way through something else &#8211; increasing quantities of food.

Even if he hadn’t been spending social time with her, it would have been obvious to his now fat-attuned mind. Her figure continued to swell, building on the modest development of her soft stomach, and spreading to her hips, breasts and backside. Her spa uniform was now showing signs of strain, and no amount of adjusting could make it sit right on her expanding body.

Her formerly thin face was now softening, with chubby cheeks and the barest hint of a double chin appearing. Her toned arms also changed, the muscles and tendons disappearing under a layer of fat which filled out the short sleeves of her white cotton top to the limits of the material.

But it was during their shipboard outings that the extent of Amy’s consumption became clear. At the cinema, she would goad George into getting a large set of refreshments for himself &#8211; popcorn, chocolate, nachos &#8211; and would purchase something more modest for herself. Once in the film, though, she would make free with George’s purchases, which would sit in the seat between them &#8211; the cinema never being more than half full by this point in the cruise.

George would look across during the film to see Amy’s eyes glued to the screen, her hand moving in that mechanical way he had seen at the dance, but now between the nachos, the popcorn, the M&Ms and Malteasers and chocolate raisins &#8211; even the hot dog that was supposed to be just for him.

The bowling alley gave George the best idea of Amy’s new figure. They booked a lane for an hour, and as he keyed in their information on the computer she ordered them some beers &#8211; and a platter of appetisers. The large platter of fried goodies was familiar to George from the casino, and was designed to feed around four people.

“Can’t have you wasting away,” said Amy with a smirk.

As they bowled the first game, George noticed just how plump Amy had grown. During the run up to her first ball, he saw that the knee-length khaki shorts she had worn straining around her hips and thighs. The top she wore was a little too short now, being pulled up by her breasts and swelling tummy.

When he turned around from his first turn, he saw the platter had arrived &#8211; and Amy had started to tuck in. As he approached she was absorbed in the food, looking up with some surprise at his return, her mouth still filled with a loaded potato skin.

“Mm gm?” she asked, then swallowed. “My go?”

“Yup &#8211; all yours.”

She headed up to the lane, picking up a lightweight ball. George noticed her ass had developed a wobble as she walked.

Taking a short run up, Amy swung the ball towards the skittles, only to have it fly from her hands way too early. The ball bounced on the separating barrier and into a neighbouring lane &#8211; luckily empty. George guessed her still-greasy hands had slipped on the ball.

She turned back and giggled sheepishly. “Ooops &#8211; butterfingers!”

George kept quiet.

On her next go, George toyed with the last remaining mozzarella stick &#8211; his first from the platter. Ironically, while Amy’s appetite &#8211; and gain &#8211; had accelerated, his had slowed. He put this down to a growing distaste for yet more fried food &#8211; but unconsciously his improved outlook had also curbed his enthusiasm for food. Having stretched his stomach good and proper, however, George still had what anyone else would call a very healthy appetite.

During the hour, Amy’s game improved as she got back into the swing of bowling. By the third game, she was drawing level with George on each throw &#8211; not the finest bowler in the world in any case. By the fourth game she was pulling ahead, and halfway through scored her first strike.

“Oh, yessss! Eat that, sucker!” she shouted triumphantly, punching the air above her with both fists. As she did so, her too-small top rose up completely, exposing her belly to the world. Even when flattened by her raised arms it stuck out over her shorts, no doubt swelled by the platter of food she had just consumed. As she continued to beat the air and exclaim, the soft flesh jiggled. George also noticed a small, sparkly piercing nestling in her navel.

As she walked back to the seats, tossing her hair and grinning, George said, “Hey, I didn’t know you had a belly piercing...”

“There’s lots you don’t know about me, my man...” said Amy with a flirt in her voice. She lifted up her top again, and fingered the jewel now resting in the centre of her chubby belly. 

“I had it done a couple of years ago &#8211; just on a whim really. Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Without a doubt.”

She put her hands on either side of her belly, pushing the fat between them together slightly. “Hasn’t seen much of the sun, though, recently...”

Amy looked down at her gut a moment longer &#8211; George wondered if she was about to say something else.

Instead she let her top fall, and lightly slapped her belly with both hands. As she did so, she looked up at George and gave him a meaningful smile.

“Anyway, it’s your turn &#8211; hurry up so I can carry on thrashing you.” 

***​
With two weeks to go before the cruise was due to finish, the ship put in at an upmarket tropical island, complete with jungle, resort and genuine authentic town, kindly cleansed of all undesirable elements by the authorities, who were well rewarded by the various cruise companies for the service.

Amy suggested using her day off to take one of the jungle tours on offer &#8211; she wanted to get off the ship, and complained that she “looked like Gollum” having been out of the sun for so long.

George had originally signed himself and Marie up for half a dozen excursions over the course of the cruise &#8211; as these were the only elements he could get a refund on, though, he had promptly cancelled all of them shortly before boarding the ship.

Since then he had barely noticed the various stops the cruise had made &#8211; he had stuck to his onboard routine, and had felt no need to complicate his life with visits to tat-laden villages and resorts offering exactly the same services as the ship.

Now equipped with a marginally sunnier outlook &#8211; as well as Amy’s companionship &#8211; he decided it would be good to get off the ship at least once on the voyage.

They disembarked early in the morning, with the sun not long over the horizon. George had splashed out on some khaki jungle-wear, and Amy had commented that all he needed was the pith helmet and he’d look like a genuine explorer.

She had opted for long chino pants, and a buttoned cotton shirt that hung loosely over her figure &#8211; George guessed this may well have been a recent purchase as well. With her curves and bulges covered, in contrast to her normal tight clothing, Amy looked relatively slim &#8211; only her softened face gave away her recent gain.

They trailed along at the back of a group of six, led by a local guide doing a very hammy impression of a local guide. George and Amy both had to repress sniggers every time the man rolled a “de” in his mouth &#8211; when Amy suggested he was only one step away from talking about “de ole masser on de plan-ta-t-ion” both of them dissolved into helpless giggles. After this they moved further away from the main group, to prevent any embarrassment to the guide &#8211; and themselves.

As they went through the “jungle” it became clear that this, like everything else on the island, had been carefully neutered for their comfort and convenience. The path was wide, clear and even, covered in wood chippings. There were no hanging creepers, no trailing branches, no snakes.

As it grew hotter, they both started to feel the sweat forming on their bodies. After a while, Amy stopped, and unbuttoned her shirt and knotted it under her breasts, exposing her soft belly.

Moving along the path, George felt himself drawn to the sight of her chubby middle. Every time she stopped to take a picture, he caught himself staring at the plump flesh around her midriff. Once when he stopped to retie his laces, he looked up to see Amy had moved ahead &#8211; from behind, her soft bottom was topped by love handles poking over the band of her pants. Above this the flesh flowed inwards to her waist, then out to her chest, emphasising her hourglass figure.

Kneeling on the ground, he stared open-mouthed at the sight for a full ten seconds. He came to, and shook his head as he stood up. What the hell was wrong with him? 

*​
After they finished the tour &#8211; judged interesting but unexciting by both of them &#8211; they went for lunch in the island’s town. Amy did justice to all three courses &#8211; “lots of good exercise today” &#8211; while a distracted George failed to finish any of his dishes, although Amy didn’t seem to notice, even as she cleared the plates on his behalf.

As they left the restaurant, George saw Amy’s still-exposed stomach sitting a clear inch proud of her pants, distended by the large meal.

Amy turned to him. “Hey, I have some things to do here &#8211; I need to call home and stuff. See you back on board?”

“Sure &#8211; see you in a bit.”

“Byeee...” She sauntered off, and George was once more temporarily transfixed by her retreating form. 

***​
Back on board, George spent a pleasant evening alone with a book, in his cabin for a change. He hadn’t really expected a call from Amy, but he decided a night in would be good, and would let him catch her if she did come round &#8211; she didn’t in the end.

The next day, he headed over to the spa in the afternoon, for an appointment he’d made a few days ago &#8211; he tended to make all his bookings at the start of the week now, having learned from his first faux pas.

Waiting in the massage room, he looked up as the door opened &#8211; but instead of Amy, there was another girl, a plain, rather bony Russian girl named Svetlana, he discovered.

“Uh, do you know where Amy is?” he asked.

The girl grunted. “Amy &#8211; she didn’t come in today, called in sick. You want hard or soft massage?”

Slightly concerned, George visited the spa the following day, but the receptionist told him Amy still hadn’t come in. The pattern repeated itself the day after, too.

Now worried Amy might be really ill &#8211; but unable to get any more details from the staff at the spa &#8211; George arrived at his next appointment, three days after his encounter with the Russian masseuse. He felt guilty, for no particularly good reason &#8211; although he had discovered he didn’t know where Amy’s cabin was, and the staff couldn’t tell him, a policy to prevent stalkers, probably.

He leaned against the massage table, his head bowed in thought. He heard the door open, and looked up &#8211; this time it was Amy, but she didn’t look herself.

Her hair looked greasy and unwashed, her eyes were rimmed with red, and her face looked puffy, from tears, thought George &#8211; but also, he saw, from food.

In the few days since he’d seen her, Amy appeared to have appreciably filled out &#8211; her uniform strained more than ever, with gaps appearing between the buttons. Her whole body had grown chubbier, from her face and arms, to her hips, ass and legs. Her belly bulged out more than ever.

“Hey, hi...” said George softly.

Amy looked up. “Oh. Hi. It’s you.” 

She spoke in a monotone as she moved around the room. “Lie down, let’s get started.”

“Yeah, sure &#8211; listen, is everything ok? You look&#8211;”

“I’m fine. Just tired.” She moved to his back, slapped down some oil, and started kneading his flesh. George flinched &#8211; she was going at him like a butcher tenderising meat.

“Uh, Amy, could you &#8211; you know &#8211; go a little easy there?” 

She made no response, but the intensity increased. “Amy?” Nothing. “Amy?”

She carried on pounding his back. George decided this was enough &#8211; he forced himself up, and sat on the bed. Looking at her downcast eyes, he saw she was on the verge of tears.

“Amy &#8211; what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

She sniffed back a huge tear and looked straight at him.

“Ok, fine. You want to know? My boyfriend dumped me.”

She burst into tears.

_(Continued in post 13 of this thread)_


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## Daknee (Aug 16, 2007)

Great story you have going here! I love the character development as well as the physical development of the main characters. I think I know where it's heading and thats OK. I cant wait to read the rest.


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## Lardibutts (Aug 16, 2007)

So, less than two weeks to go now, _merde _ ! I just want this voyage to go on and on - such wonderful writing.


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## Gus7021 (Aug 16, 2007)

Thanks for the kind comments...!

Daknee - the end may be well signposted, but the path of true love never did run smooth. The path of a cruise ship fling is pretty rocky too.

Lardibutts - stay tuned after George 4...


Gus


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## Daknee (Aug 16, 2007)

Gus7021 said:


> Thanks for the kind comments...!
> 
> Daknee - the end may be well signposted, but the path of true love never did run smooth. The path of a cruise ship fling is pretty rocky too.
> 
> ...



You're right. Life never turns out like one thinks it's goint to. :doh: 

Your perception has enlighted me to a new anticipation to the next chapter of this story.


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## zonker (Aug 20, 2007)

Wow, this is one of the best stories to come along for quite some time. I really like it. The characterizations make me care about these people, and the plot, the story, the descriptions, mmmm, all scrumptuos.

You know, when Charles Dickens wrote his novels, they appeared as serial stories in New York publications, and Americans were so eager to see what would happen next that crowds would gather on the New York docks awaiting the ship bringing in the next chapter of his newest story.

I feel like I'm sitting on the dock waiting to see what else you have cooked up for this delightful couple.


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## Gus7021 (Aug 20, 2007)

Wow - thanks Zonker! That really means a lot...!

I'm not sure if I can live up to Charles Dickens, though - maybe Dahl's Chickens instead... ;-)

Part 4 well under way - should be up by the weekend...


Gus


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## Gus7021 (Aug 25, 2007)

[*Author's note* - bit of a bumper conclusion, I'm afraid - this one wasn't quite ready to end...]

*GEORGE AHOY - CHAPTER FOUR*

“And then &#8211; and then &#8211; and then he&#8211;” Amy broke down into breathy sobbing again. George sat next to her on the small bed in her cabin, gingerly rubbing her back.

He had led her out of the spa &#8211; with Amy still bawling her heart out, he didn’t need to explain anything to the receptionist &#8211; and coaxed her to head back to her cabin. This was on a lower deck deep inside the ship &#8211; no natural light, bare white walls, and bunk beds.

From the looks of it, although the room was designed for two, Amy was the only occupant right now &#8211; the top bunk was devoid of bedding, and the room’s meagre contents looked like the possessions of one person. 

Strewn around the floor were plastic wrappers and empty cans of soft drink &#8211; evidence of Amy’s latest binge. The air was stale &#8211; the smell of one person not leaving the room for some time.

“Look, don’t worry &#8211; just tell me what happened...”

*​
Gradually, between the sobs, George built up a picture of the events after he had seen Amy head off into the town.

She had gone to a supermarket to pick up a few things, then had a wander round the town centre. She’d bought a few cheap souvenirs for her friends, and stopped off to get an ice cream &#8211; apparently forgetting the large lunch she’d just consumed.

Next, Amy had gone to the town’s internet cafe, to catch up on her emails, and call her family using an instant messaging program. Her parents weren’t online, so she just sent them an email saying she was ok &#8211; then tried her boyfriend.

The cafe’s computers were equipped with fairly decent webcams &#8211; as befitted an upmarket resort &#8211; so she and her boyfriend set up a video call.

“He seemed a bit &#8211; a bit shifty from the start, but I thought it was just the delay on the line,” Amy had explained to George.

After Amy’s boyfriend &#8211; Max, George learned &#8211; had given her his news, she had started running through her recent events &#8211; all the while eating her strawberry ice cream. She had got as far as the dance, before Max had interrupted.

“Well, looks like you’re eating well out there. Your face looks fat &#8211; have you put on weight?”

Amy had grown flustered by this, and had started to stammer out a reply when Max broke in again.

“You’ve got fat, haven’t you? Stand up, let me look at you.”

Amy had done so, only realising as she got up from her chair that she still had her belly bare to the world, bloated with food. She stood with her stomach facing the camera, not thinking until it was too late to suck in her flab.

“Oh my word &#8211; that’s disgusting. I can’t believe you’ve let yourself go so badly. What have you done to yourself?”

She had muttered something about it only being a few pounds, and that she would lose it when she got back to the UK.

“Yeah, right,” Max had apparently sneered, then dropped the bombshell. “Well, this is probably a good time to tell you, then &#8211; I’ve been seeing Stacey Custerson. I was going to wait until you got back, see how it was going, but seeing you like this &#8211; npw I know it’s just not going to work.”

Amy had sat open-mouthed at this &#8211; Max had finished off the conversation with something about “still being friends”, and a recommendation that she “hit the gym”.

Still in shock, Amy had walked out of the internet cafe, and headed on autopilot to the supermarket. Here she had filled a basket with the fattening goodies which &#8211; now desiccated &#8211; littered the floor of her cabin.

She had made it back to the ship, back to her cabin, before the emotions hit. 

*​
“He’s always been really down on the whole &#8216;fat’ thing, you see,” said Amy, still sobbing, although only gently. “He’d always notice if I put on just a pound or two &#8211; he thought I wasn’t thin enough as it was, so he was always needling me to lose the weight.

“When I signed on for this cruise, I didn’t think it would be a problem &#8211; they told me there were loads of fitness facilities on board that the staff could use, and I thought the meals would be pretty basic too. But staff can only use the gyms at certain times &#8211; like, off-peak &#8211; I went a few times, but it was really awkward, so I just stopped going.

“Then it turned out that the staff catering was more or less the same as the passengers &#8211; we were given vouchers for the buffets, but limited to two plates. Well, I thought this would be ok &#8211; but they never enforced it, especially as we would generally get the leftovers anyway &#8211; if we didn’t eat it, it would just get thrown away.

“After I started talking to you about the food, I started to be a bit more adventurous and take a bit more. My metabolism is usually pretty fast, but, with all this food...”

She stopped and had a big sniff.

“Anyway, I realised I was putting on weight &#8211; and I just panicked. I knew Max would hate it, but I didn’t see any way to stop. So I just tried to shove it to the back of my mind. But I started eating more and more &#8211; I couldn’t stop myself. It was like, the more worried I was, the more I ate.

“And it really didn’t help doing things with you &#8211; I knew you liked to eat a lot, and I knew you didn’t care, so... I just ate. I didn’t realise how much I was eating, not consciously. Like when we were in the cinema &#8211; I’d be sitting there, and halfway through the film I’d realise I’d have eaten your hotdog, and the popcorn would be sat in my lap, empty, and...”

She trailed off, looking down at the floor between her knees.

“And when we went to the island, I dunno, it didn’t seem to matter any more, even though I had this huge fat gut and everything. When I saw you staring at my belly the whole time&#8211;” George went bright red at this “&#8211;I thought &#8216;maybe I don’t look too bad after all’. And then it all came crashing down &#8211; and I’ve just spent the past three days stuffing my fat face...!”

She broke down again, and buried her head in her hands. 

George put his arms round her shoulders and gave her a hug, muttering quiet platitudes. He’d never been great at this sort of stuff, and with someone he barely knew in reality he really didn’t have a handle on the situation.

Amy seemed to respond to the contact, though, and pulled into the hug, putting her arms round George &#8211; gradually her sobbing subsided and she settled down. After a few minutes she gave another almighty sniff and broke away, giving him a wan smile.

“Thank you for this &#8211; I know it’s above and beyond. I.. I know I’m not making much sense &#8211; it’s all so confused in my mind.” 

She looked back up at George, and grinned with some of her previous wry irony. “I guess we’re both a couple of losers now, eh?”

George gave a similarly ironic, humourless laugh. “Yeah, I guess. And I’ll tell you now &#8211; it’s not worth the stress.” 

He looked round the mess of the room. “Right &#8211; I’ll make you a deal: you go and have a hot shower, and I’ll do my best with this lot. Then we can go and get a drink. Plan?”

“Plan.” She sniffed again, and gave a grateful smile. “I really do appreciate this, you know &#8211; I...”

“Yeah, yeah &#8211; just go and get in the shower. I’ll meet you in the Sundowner bar in 45 minutes, and we can put the world to rights there...” 

***​
The ship’s Sundowner bar sat on an upper deck at the stern, looking back at the liner’s wake. A few sea birds wheeled in the sky, making the most of the late afternoon sunlight to catch their fill.

George sat and watched them dive into the water just behind the ship &#8211; no doubt encouraged by kids dropping food from the lowest deck, whatever it was called. He nursed a beer, waiting for Amy to arrive &#8211; he’d finished cleaning up her cabin before she finished in the shower, and had headed straight to the bar. 

He thought about this latest development, especially in light of his feelings on the jungle tour. After giving the situation, due consideration he had come to one conclusion: he was very, very confused.

After the island, he’d been desperately trying not to think about his feelings towards Amy &#8211; and had succeeded in burying any analysis of his mental state. As the pair of them had walked out of the spa back to Amy’s cabin, though, George had been forced to go through a very rapid evaluation of what was going on in his mind.

He had realised, quite quickly after Amy’s announcement, that what he _had_ been feeling was more akin to the desires of a bed-ridden hospital patient for his ministering nurses &#8211; deep, serious, but above all platonic desire.

Amy had been playing the part of nurse, figurative, not literal in this case &#8211; she had listened to his ramblings, laughed at his jokes, made the stress go away. The white uniform probably helped as well.

And, she was a beautiful woman &#8211; what normal man wouldn’t feel at least a little bit attracted to someone like her? Combined with the weight gain, which had made George feel like there was even more of a connection, this was all perfectly rational.

But underpinning it all was one main factor &#8211; Amy was safe. She was in a relationship, which she was happy in &#8211; there was no risk of rejection, because there was not even a theoretical possibility of any sexual relationship. George could have happily fantasized about her until the end of the cruise, and come away with some pleasantly wistful memories.

Now, no. As soon as Amy had revealed her singleton status, George’s libido had gone into overdrive &#8211; instead of sublimating his desires, they were now being fuelled by his hormones and channelled back into his mind, where they met a cold, hard truth.

He wasn’t ready. Not even slightly. Marie had hurt him &#8211; they had been together for six years, and apart for less than two months, and that hurt wasn’t about to heal anytime soon. 

So as the raging storms of desire met the icy pools of pain inside George’s mind, he sat and tried to figure out what to do. Suddenly the meaning of the word &#8216;rebound’ had become a lot clearer.

He mentally shook himself &#8211; a lot of this was fairy-land thinking. Amy wasn’t about to throw herself at him &#8211; she had just gone through the same experience he had, so the last thing she would want right now is another man. All she needs right now is a shoulder to cry on &#8211; someone to have a drink with while she badmouths her ex-boyfriend.

Definitely.

Yeah.

Without a doubt.

George nodded to himself. It would all be fine. 

*​
“No offence Amy, but your boyfriend sounds like a real scumbag with all this weight crap.”

“Well, it’s just his thing &#8211; i’ss the same with me and smoking. When we got together I made him quit, and whenever he has one now, I go ballistic. Heh, that’s one more thing I don’t have to worry about. No, it’s Stacey frigging Custerson’s problem now, the little bitch.” 

Amy downed the rest of her drink &#8211; double vodka and lemonade, her fifth &#8211; and looked back at George, slightly unsteadily.

“You know, George, you’re a real pal &#8211; you barely know me, and you’re sitting here listening to me talk about my weasel ex-boyfriend. You’re nice.” 

She carried on staring at George, in the same intense, intoxicated way. “An’ you don’t care if I’m FAT, an’ you don’ care if &#8216;m GREEDY, an’ you don’ care&#8211;” 

She hiccupped. “Mm, think I need another drink.”

She stood up, and made her way over to the bar &#8211; far more steadily than George would have imagined possible. Perhaps it was true, what they said about girls from the North in England.

“Ok, &#8216;m back now &#8211; where was I?” Amy sat back in her chair, rather heavily. She was still fresh from the shower an hour earlier &#8211; damp hair tied back in a ponytail, no makeup &#8211; which just served to illustrate her natural beauty &#8211; and a plain white top above jeans. 

The top seemed to be from her reserve collection &#8211; it was obviously designed to be form-fitting for a slimmer Amy. On the expanded edition it was skin-tight &#8211; breasts, belly and navel were all clearly defined under the fabric. At the bottom it didn’t quite cover the expanse of Amy’s soft tummy, and a strip of plump flesh poked out between the top and the jeans.

Despite his earlier line of thought, George was finding himself increasingly distracted by the sight of Amy’s chubby body. In truth, empty of food, she wasn’t that big &#8211; George guessed she had put on about 15 pounds, 20 at the most in his very inexpert view. She was far smaller than Marie, but forced into too-tight clothes, Amy’s body looked somehow fatter than his ex-girlfriend’s.

“Uh... Oh YEAH. See, Georgie, it’s men like you, that should be gettin’ the girls &#8211; men like YOU, who aren’t arseholes, who can treat a woman nice. I mean, I’ve got this BELLY&#8211;” she lifted her top to indicate the same, her navel stud glinting in the light “&#8211;and you think it’s cute, right? Even though it’s all fat, and soft, and huge...” 

She broke off to grab her belly, pulling a roll of flab forward, and shaking it slowly. 

George, at first slightly transfixed by this sight, realised other drinkers were starting to stare. He decided to humour her: “Yes, Amy, it’s a beautiful belly&#8211;”

“THANK you!” Amy spread her hands in the air, letting her top fall back &#8211; but only to just above her navel, leaving a sizable portion of stomach on view. “A’ least someone understands it. Not like Max &#8211; he’d never get it. He’d just say it’s gross. Well, you know what &#8211; SCREW him...”

George managed to turn the conversation to marginally less emotive topics &#8211; for him and Amy &#8211; and over another half hour she finished her remaining two drinks from her last trip to the bar.

After this, it was clear even to Amy that it was time for her to go. She and George stood up &#8211; one rather more unsteadily than the other. As they made their way out into the corridor, Amy almost stumbled, and George moved to support her.

He ended up with his arm around her soft hips, while she draped her chubby limb round his neck.

“Oooh, I need to use the loo &#8211; George, can we go to your cabin? It’s closer.” 

“Sure.” Even as George said it, he doubted this to be true &#8211; although his cabin was only one deck down, it was at the other end of the ship. Amy’s cabin was further down, but nearer the back of the liner. For that matter, what was wrong with public toilets?

George shook his head, and put it down to drunk logic. Anyway, he reasoned, it would probably do Amy good to see somewhere other than her own depressing quarters &#8211; he could take her back later, after he’d sobered her up a bit. 

*​
As the pair stepped out of the lift onto George’s deck, Amy pulled herself closer in to his body. “You know, what I said about you being a friend &#8211; I really meant it. You’ve been really nice to me.”

“Hey, don’t mention it &#8211; it’s the least I can do.”

“No, but you have &#8211; really, really nice. An’ I wanna thank you.” Amy started nuzzling George’s ear, drunkenly.

“Uh...”

“I REALLY wanna thank you...” Amy murmured into his ear. Her hair now loose and flowing over George’s shoulder, she carried on rubbing her head against the side of his face, even as he picked up the pace &#8211; his cabin door was in sight.

“Amy, I don’t think this is a good...”

“Shhhh &#8211; lemme thank you.” They had reached George’s suite, and as he opened the door Amy half-pushed, half-fell past him into the room. She headed to the bed, and sat on the side looking back at her host.

She managed to stand up on the second attempt, and unbuttoned her jeans. The sexy undressing motion she had obviously been going for was hampered slightly by her drunken state, but mostly by her difficulty in pulling the very tight jeans down over her rounded ass and plump thighs. 

Eventually they fell to her ankles &#8211; Amy plopped back down on the bed and kicked the jeans off her feet. As she did so, she started to take off her top, rolling it slowly over her body with both hands &#8211; after another twenty seconds, it joined the jeans on the floor.

All the while George stood just inside the doorway, caught like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

Before him, Amy sat on his bed in all her semi-naked glory. As she smiled drunkenly at him, she swayed slightly from side to side, causing bulges to form and dissolve across her soft body. As she leaned forward slightly, her stomach formed into gentle rolls, obscuring the piercing nestled in her deep belly-button.

Her bra and panties were both too tight &#8211; they cut into her flesh, causing more round bulges, and &#8211; in the case of her panties &#8211; emphasising her plump hips.

“Come on, then &#8211; you can help me with the rest. Come and help me, George...”Amy lowered herself onto the bed &#8211; she was now prone on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling. Even lying flat, her belly still bulged out a little, George noticed.

Shaken from his reverie, George started to walk slowly forwards, towards the bed. “Uh, Amy... listen. I’m really flattered &#8211; _really_ flattered. But this is wrong. I mean, it’s not wrong, but &#8211; it’s just too soon. For both of us.

“I’m still getting over Marie, and you’ve only just broken up with Max &#8211; we’re both still vulnerable. And it’s not that I don’t like you &#8211; I think you’re funny, and clever, and, just, great. And, and I think you’re attractive &#8211; I think, I think you’re beautiful.

“You’re, you’re&#8211;” George sounded almost surprised as he said it “&#8211;you’re probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” 

His resolve returned. “But it’s too soon now &#8211; we can’t. So, I think the best thing would be for you to get dressed, and I’ll take you back to your cabin. Amy?”

George had reached the bed, and looked over Amy’s body.

“Amy?”

As he peered towards her, she emitted a light snore, then another. Amy had passed out. 

George looked at the beautiful, curvaceous woman lying on his bed. For a full minute he stared at her plump, semi-naked form &#8211; noted the way her rounded stomach rose and fell with her breathing, the spread of her thighs as they lay on the cover, the roundness of her arms, the fullness of her breasts.

Then, sighing deeply, he lifted her legs up onto the bed, then moved round behind her and pulled her by her shoulders to the head of the bed. He worked to pull the top cover from underneath her sleeping body &#8211; he tried not to think about the fact that every time he moved her one way or another, his hands would sink slightly into soft, warm, yielding flesh.

Eventually Amy was under the covers, her head on the pillow &#8211; George had rolled her onto her side, with a waste-bin on the floor under her head, just in case.

Then he headed to the closet, pulled out the spare blankets and pillows, and made up the sofa for himself. 

***​


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## Gus7021 (Aug 25, 2007)

The next morning, George awoke to the sound of running water. He opened his eyes, and turned his head towards the sound, feeling a sharp twinge of pain as he did so  his head was angled against the arm of the sofa where he had slept, and was stiff and rather painful.

After he had made up his bed on the sofa the night before, George had passed the time watching the ships movie channel  by the time Amy had passed out, it was still only 9pm, and George hadnt felt sleepy.

Instead he had killed a few hours watching old action movies on the wall-mounted plasma screen  he had turned the sound down for Amys benefit, but doubted anything short of a nearby atom bomb would wake her at that point.

By midnight, he had watched his fill of movies  and eaten his fill of salty snacks and candy from the well-stocked minibar. George had turned down the lights and crawled into his makeshift bed  lulled to sleep by Amys light but melodious snoring.

Sitting up on the sofa the next morning, Georges eyes confirmed what he had heard  the bed was empty, Amy was up, and in the shower. He groped on the floor for his watch, and saw it was just past 7am  early for George, having got into the routine of sleeping until after 9am every day.

He rubbed his eyes, then stood up and pottered around the suite, pulling on a pair of jeans, and pouring himself an orange juice over ice from the minibar fridge. As he stared at his face in the mirror over the dressing table, he wondered how to play things with Amy  should he go for smooth? Honest? Supportive?

In the end the choice was taken out of his hands, and events played out as they inevitably would  awkwardly.

The shower had stopped running a few minutes earlier, and George heard the vague sounds of toilette from his bathroom. As the door opened, he turned to face it, and saw Amy standing in the doorway, looking startled.

Hi.

Hi.

She was wearing one of the towelling robes the cruise company had provided, and hoped you wouldnt steal. She had it clutched tight across her body  apparently Amy was feeling slightly more self-conscious than she had last night.

She recovered somewhat from her apparent surprise, and pointed back towards the bathroom. I was just  you know  taking a...

Thats fine  no problem.

Great. She moved back towards the bed, picking up her clothes where she had discarded them the night before. Im just going to... She waved her hand again in the general direction of the bathroom.

Uh, yeah  go for it.

Great. Thanks.

As she retreated back inside the en suite, George turned and bashed the heel of his palm against his forehead several times. Such sparkling conversation ! Such witty repartee! George thought that if he did a worse job of putting Amy at her ease he might make her spontaneously combust with shame.

When she came out again, fully dressed, she seemed to have recovered some of her normal sangfroid, and had obviously prepared a speech.

Listen, thanks for last night  Im really sorry I made a fool of myself like that, and made you take me back here. Its all a bit of a blur, actually, from after we left the bar  but thank you for looking after me, and letting me use your bed, and stuff. Um...

She looked a bit abashed.

Um, listen, we  we didnt  you know  we didnt do anything last night, did we...?

George looked slightly startled himself. What? Uh  no, no  nothing like that, of course not. No.

Amy gave a high-pitched laugh. Oh thank goodness for that! Ah  well, you know, not, you know, well, but

I know what you mean.

Oh, great. I dont want, you know, you to get, like, the wrong idea, I mean... Oh god, Im babbling. 

She looked up at George and gave him a tight smile and moved towards the cabin door. Well, Id better be going  cant keep all those clients waiting, haha.

Haha, George added dutifully.

So  I guess Ill see you around?

Yeah  Ill see you around. Have a good day...

You too. Amy opened the door and headed into the corridor. George watched her as she went, hoping that she would turn round, say something else.

But she didnt.

Back inside the cabin, George gently closed the door and leant on it. He let out a long breath, as if he had been holding it for hours.

Amys coping strategy was obviously to take the attitude that last nights little display had never happened  whether she genuinely couldnt remember, or was in denial, the effect was the same. This at least made it easier for George in one respect  he didnt have to have that particular conversation with her.

But  what she had said when he told her nothing had happened. She sounded so relieved  was he really that unappealing a prospect? Her drunken proposition obviously meant absolutely nothing  just the alcohol-fuelled desperation of a jilted lover.

George sighed again, this time more wistfully. As he headed to the shower, he sensed the passing of a phase of his relationship with Amy  what came next, he didnt know. 

***

The short answer, it turned out, was not much. George and Amy didnt see each other for the rest of the penultimate week  George didnt head to the spa, and Amy didnt call him or seek out his company.

Instead George went back to his casino buddies, who welcomed him back with as much enthusiasm as they could ever muster for anything  not much  and queries as to where he had been for the past few weeks. 

He had indeed been neglecting them, in favour of spending quality time with Amy  for the past two weeks he hadnt been into the casino at all, in fact. Nevertheless, his buddies seemed to be more or less the same  somewhat poorer, perhaps, and somewhat fatter, but otherwise unchanged.

George guessed theyd coped without him.

He also took to walking the ships decks more, making several complete circuits in one session. Georges pace varied according to his state of mind  a slow stroll when contemplative, enjoying the balmy tropical weather and light sea breeze  faster, hunched, staring at the deck passing beneath his feet showed George in a pensive mood, absorbed in his own thoughts.

Quite what occupied his mind during his walking sessions was a mystery, not least to George. Confused fragments of alternate scenarios covering the recent past flitted through his brain, as if it were trying to find a more optimal outcome. If it succeeded, it didnt tell George.

Also came fragments of speech  thoughts unvoiced, comments unheard  fiction, reality, and things in between. There was no sense to any of this  just an impression of guilt, frustration... and other, more treacherous emotions, never fully articulated.

After two or three of Georges intense circuits, he would often flop down on one of the seats or benches located at strategic positions around the decks and stare blankly out to sea, ignoring the other passengers that transited across his field of view.

One late afternoon, as he sat on a bench near the prow staring sightlessly as ever, another passenger perched the other end of the bench. George didnt register the presence at first, but after a minute or so he turned to look at his new companion.

It was the girl from the stairwell  the one being chased by her father. She looked more presentable than before, but also substantially fatter. Her face was chubbier, with the start of a permanent double chin; her breasts bulged out of a slightly low-cut top.

Her stomach was the highlight of the show, though  the top had clearly given up its attempt to cover the girls tummy, which rolled over the waistband of her shorts. A deep belly button sat proudly in the middle of the soft fat, with a few light stretch-marks highlighting the apparent speed of the girls gain.

To complete the picture, the shorts themselves were clearly way too small  the legs cut into soft, round thighs, causing them to bulge out in a sausage-like fashion. The seams around the back of the shorts also looked like they were coming under serious pressure  and now George noticed the flap of the shorts peeking out from under the girls belly  she obviously couldnt even button them.

As George gawped, the girl turned her head to look at him, and flashed one of her electric smiles. Hey! Howre you?

Hi  Im fine. How about you  you look, uh, very well... George couldnt help but stare at her belly as he said this.

The girl followed his gaze, and put her hands on her round gut. Yeah, guess Ive gotten fat, huh? Thats what non-stop snackingll do, I spose... 

She patted her belly, then looked back up at George. What do you reckon  pretty impressive, yeah?

George cleared his throat. Uh, yeah, I guess  you look, uh, it looks... good on you. 

Jeez, nice one, George, he thought to himself. He hadnt quite appreciated how big a turn-on this fat thing had become for him.

The girl just laughed, and smiled again. Thanks! It took a lot of work to get this baby... 

The belly was treated to another loving caress from the girls hands. Im not normally this exposed, though  Im just wearing this to get my dad pissed.

Good a reason as any, I guess...

Hey, a girls gotta have a hobby! Oh, by the way, Im Sophie. Dont think we, like, did the introductions thing last time...

Dont worry about it. George, said George, sticking out his hand. They shook, and leaned back on the bench.

So... whats up with you?

How do you mean? George folded his arms across his chest.

Like, youre sat here, staring out to sea, like, I dunno  a gargoyle or something. And Ive seen you before  doing the speed-walking thing on the deck? Happy people dont do that stuff. You got things on your mind, man...

Well, yeah, theres some stuff... but its not important. Anyway, I guess its my stuff  I dont think anyone else can do much, really. I cant do anything, so...

Well, try me. You look like you need to get it off your chest  who else you gonna tell? Anyway, Im good at problems.

George sighed. She was right  he did need to talk about it. Ok. So, my girlfriend dumped me... 

After George had gone through the whole sorry tale, Sophie leaned back and let out a breath.

Wow, guess youve had, like, a pretty intense cruise, huh?

Yeah...

Ok. So, let me get this straight. You like this new girl?

Uh, well, no  its too soon, and I guess I dont know her that well, and...

Oh, crap  you like her. Come on, just admit it  itll be easier.

He stopped and thought. Was she right? Was it that simple, that he actually did want Amy? Now that he said it to himself, the answer was so obviously yes. He liked Amy. He liked her a lot  and suddenly all the other stuff, the stuff with Marie, didnt matter so much.

Uh, well, yes, then...

Ok, so thats step one. Now, why do you feel guilty?

Well, that whole thing in my room...

Wait, you mean that bit where she took off her clothes, and she came on to you? Yeah, lots for you to feel guilty for there. Sophie gave George a withering look, to match her sarcastic tone.

Uh...

Look, its really simple. Ok, well, no it isnt, but part of it is. She feels really crappy about what she did that night  not only does she think shes fat and ugly, but she also thinks she acted like a slut, and that you think shes nothing but a fat ugly slut-whore. Thats why she ran off in the morning  and dont even think she doesnt remember what went on, otherwise youd have had lots more questions when she woke up.

Uh... ok. George moved his gaze up from the deck between his feet to Sophies face. 

Ok  so what do I do now?

Sophie slumped a little, and looked down. Thats the not-simple bit. If we were on land, Id say give her time, keep talking to her... but here? In a week? I guess... youve got to tell her. 

She gave George a slightly sorrowful look, as if acknowledging the scale of the problem.

George knew Sophie was right. He had to tell Amy. 

***

This was easier said than done. 

Immediately after his heart-to-heart with Sophie, George had made the decision to stop avoiding Amy, at least. He went to the spa, and made an appointment for the next day, making sure to request Amy as his masseuse.

The session the following morning did not go as well as he had planned. Amy was... fine with him. Quiet, more subdued than before, but friendly. Nothing George could do, though, would swing the conversation round to what had happened  Amy appeared to have edited it entirely out of her consciousness.

Rather than risk more awkward sessions, George resolved to make a clean breast of his feelings. He made another appointment, for two days time  he felt like he had spent too long dithering, he needed to do this now.

But he gave himself a day, to try and think of what to say. George openly acknowledged he was dreadful at romantic speeches  but he had to try.

He resumed his pacing around the ship, but this time it was accompanied by mutterings under his breath  something which earned him a few odd looks from his fellow passengers. Eventually, tiring of the stares, he found a rarely-used point at the back of the ship, where the noise of the engines served to drive most people away.

Amy

Amy

Amy, I

Amy, listen, you

Look, Amy, I love you, and

Amy, darling

Hey, Amy

Amy...

Amy, listen. Theres something I need to say, and... I dont know what youll think, but

***********​
No, George  stop. Please  I, I dont need to hear it, ok? I know this hasnt been easy, and youve been really sweet about it, but... its over. I know I acted like an idiot, ok, so you dont need to rub it in. You dont need to pretend any more, ok? Look, I think... youd better just go. Please?

Amy looked at him from behind the massage table. George stood in front of the closed door, staring in slight shock, mouth agape. He remained like that for a few seconds, with Amys hurt, pleading gaze boring into him.

Then he shut his mouth, and nodded his head slightly.

Ok.

George turned on his heel and left the massage room. He jerked into the changing room, putting on his pants and shirt, then jerked out, past the reception and into the corridor. 

He found his feet taking him back out to the decks, towards his secret place near the engines. He was moving fast now, almost shoving through passengers in his way.

He finally reached the railings on the quiet stretch of deck, leaned out towards the sea, and let loose a juddering sob.

How could he be so stupid? How could he think Amy would like him? How could he think he would win her over with a stupid speech?

He hadnt thought hed find anyone after Marie for a long time, but... Amy. She was, just so perfect. The more he thought about her, the more he felt he needed to be with her  and the worse he felt now that he wasnt, and wouldnt be.

Her hair, her face, her eyes. And her body  so soft and round and feminine, and... beautiful. And her wit, and style, and charm and, her everything. 

George hadnt realised how bad it was, until now  until he realised he couldnt be with her. Oh, man...

He realised hed been speaking out loud, at the birds and the sea. What a fool he was. He looked down over the railings, and gave a big sniff. After another couple of deep breaths, he prepared to rejoin civilised society, and shipboard life.

As he turned around, he saw Amy standing by the door into the ship. She was looking straight at him, an unreadable expression on her face.

Amy...

I followed you. I wanted to say sorry. Her tone was as blank as her face.

Listen, about... about what I was saying

Yes, what you were saying. Still in the same wooden tone. All that stuff. Did you mean it?

Uh, well, uh, I.. Yes, I did. I do.George looked straight back at Amy, something like defiance on his face.

Amy gave a strange little laugh and looked out to sea. You know, I always have a rule when I do massages. I dont fall for the customer, and the customers dont fall for me. Ever. 

She looked straight back at him, a serious expression on her face. I dont think its worked out too well this time, has it?

I guess not.

She took a step towards him, then another. She was no more than two feet away. George tried to brace himself for the slap he felt in his gut must be coming.

No, I guess not, too. It had to happen sooner or later, I guess  I always knew it would. 

She stepped closer again, and looked directly into his eyes. I guess... I never expected it to happen from both sides at once.

She took a final step forward, and kissed him, hard. 

***

Mmmm, I guess you have put on a lot of weight this voyage. That belly of yours is getting big...

At least my bellys got someone elses to keep it company...

Hey, stop that! It tickles! Gerroff...

Ow.

Heh, sorry. You know I dont mean it. Right?

Yeah. Mmmmm. And, you know I really do like your belly, right?

Well, I think you proved it earlier, big boy. Although you could always prove it again if you wanted... 

Arent you supposed to have a rule about not seducing clients?

Hmmm, yeah, youre right. Looks like weve got a problem.

What are we going to do?

I think theres only one solution  youll have to stop going to the spa. Youll have to find someone else to give you massages if you want them  do you think youll cope?

George propped himself up on an elbow, and looked into Amys eyes. His gaze roved down over her full breasts, down over her soft, round stomach, forming into rolls at the side, past her curvaceous hips, over her plump thighs. He snapped his vision back to her slightly chubby face, currently wearing a mischievous grin  the same one he was fighting to keep off his own features.

Im sure Ill find a way to manage.

THE END


*(But the Cruise Ship Chronicles will return with Vol II: Sophie Ships Out...)*


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## Lardibutts (Aug 25, 2007)

Whe Hey! I enjoyed that - what a roller coaster of an end: yes no yes no YES ! 
And now we've Sophie to look forward to.


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## fat hiker (Sep 28, 2009)

This is such a great story - now have to go find "Sophie ships out"....


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## otherland78 (Dec 4, 2014)

oh thanks for this great sweet but complicated story ;-) 

hehe i found that passage in the massageroom very enticing when she pked and grabbed at his groing pudge and told him he enjoys his ship cruise ^^


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## otherland78 (Dec 4, 2014)

oh thanks for this great sweet but complicated story ;-) 

hehe i found that passage in the massageroom very enticing when she pked and grabbed at his groing pudge and told him he enjoys his ship cruise ^^


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