# Awakenings - by Artisanal (~BBW, ~BHM, eating, romance, mutual weight gain)



## artisanal (Jul 1, 2007)

_~BBW, ~BHM, eating, romance, mutual weight gain _- A married couple share a love of food.

*Awakenings*

* By Artisanal*

​ 
 As daylight filtered into the bedroom through the shutters, Dave stirred from sleep, rolled onto his side and found himself curled against his wifes warm backside. Drowsily he threw an arm over her, burrowing his hand into a soft roll of flab below her breast. He felt the tug of arousal pulling him out of sleep and briefly considered waking Denise, then snuggled back down into his dreams.

Sex used to come so easily to them; they did it at the drop of a handkerchief. A glance, a smile and they were at it, whether in bed at night or on the floor of the garage in the middle of the afternoon, but that was going back 15 years at least. Now the 500 or so pounds they had gained between them were, well. between them.

His had gone mostly to his middle, a round, smooth beachball of a belly spreading over the sheets when he slept, filling his lap when he sat, a belly that looked good, Denise thought, with his broad linemans shoulders and thick legs.

She, on the other hand, had begun developing folds almost with the first pound shed gained, and her fat had spread out under her skin in rippling waves. She was fat down to her toes, Dave once told her tenderly, although most of it had actually settled on her rump, a wide and enticingly thick blanket-roll of fat, delicately cleaved into two ponderous buttocks, deliciously saggy and wobbly. She was of two minds about it; she wanted it to be smooth instead of puckered, but she admired how her dresses clung to it and the way it wobbled and rolled when she walked; Dave, for his part, could barely keep his hands off it even in public.

Still, there was no hope of a quick, half-asleep romp under the sheets; sex took more and more preparation and effort the fatter they both got. So they did it less often, but in compensation it was also incomparably better. Later, Dave thought, as he drifted back to sleep. After breakfast. And again after lunch 

***

In the half-light of a winter morning, Denise stirred and opened one eye to see her husband bustling around the bedroom, pulling on a sweatshirt. She shivered, pulled the comforter tighter around her shoulders, and groaned.

Youre up! Dave called cheerfully. 

If you call this up, she croaked. Where are you off to?

The gym, lazybones. Get your sweats on! You havent been all week.

That was a lie, Denise thought resentfully; this was Saturday and shed been there Sunday afternoon, so technically she HAD been there this week, but she didnt see any point in pursuing the argument.

She pried both eyes open and looked over at Dave, his handsome, serious head atop his thickly muscled torso, the powerful legs that, if hed only been a few inches taller, might have propelled him onto an all-American team and maybe even a pro contract  but still more of a man than any three of her girlfriends could muster among them. She let her eye stray down to the bulge in his jockey shorts, which she suspected was also equal to that of any three of her friends boyfriends, although shed never taken advantage of what she believed had been several opportunities to find out.

I like it better in bed.

He looked at her curiously.

You could join me, you know. The gym can wait.

He stopped lacing up his sneakers and gave her an appraising look.

Besides, you promised we would go to brunch at the Trolley Stop.

We can do that after, he said, hands on hips. But she could sense he was wavering.

By the time we get there they might be out of chocolate-chip pancakes. Remember how mad you were the last time?

Well, he said slowly. I guess we can do the gym in the afternoon.

Whatever you say, lover, she said with a wink, rolling onto her back and throwing back the comforter. 

Saturday brunch together was their oldest tradition, going back to almost their first date, and to Denise it was the finest part of the week. Not just the food, although she loved brunch and would eat it, she thought, every day of the week if she could: the thick, sizzling rashers of bacon, the warm sage-scented fat of the sausages, the waffles slathered with strawberry jam and piled high with whipped cream. It was her special time with Dave, a few sacred hours set aside just for their pleasure, a bit of decadent sensuality bracketed, before and after, by an hour of royal screwing under the sheets.

She loved watching Dave eat, too, his big strong teeth tearing off half a croissant in one bite, the pancakes and potatoes and gravy-soaked grits disappearing into his wide-open mouth. His strength drew her, comforted her, aroused her, and his appetite was part of his strength; she was also aware, on some level, that the appetite he was displaying at the table was not entirely unconnected to the appetite she had enjoyed in bed just before, and that she looked forward to afterwards. That food was a turn-on to men, and in particular to him, she had known for a long time, but she was also starting to realize that it might be true for her too. Thinking about this in the car on the way home she was suddenly shocked by the realization that she had eaten almost exactly as much as he had. 

***

The phone jangled, startling her awake, and she reached across to his side of the bed, where it sat on the night table.

Dave? she murmured. What time is it?

Eight, sweetie, he said. I hope I didnt wake you.

Wait. Its eight oclock here, so there its

Eight oclock at night. Ive got another damn banquet to go to and if I waited until it was over Id be too drunk to dial. I love you, darling.

I miss you, Dave.

I miss you too, sweetie.

Then come home, she said petulantly.

I cant leave now, babe. Four more days, okay? Four days and were done, one last banquet and Im on my way. Brad said I could take the rest of the month off. How about we drive up the coast and look for a little B&B where no one can find us and eat and drink and make love like theres no tomorrow? 

Youve got a deal, lover. Get your credit card out.

Now fully awake, Denise shuffled off to the bathroom in the makeshift nightshirt shed taken to wearing, one of Daves tattered old team jerseys. She splashed some water on her face, started to run the shower and then decided shed like a bath, pulled the jersey over her head and tossed it toward the hamper. It missed and landed on the floor, and as she bent over to pick it up she caught sight of herself from the side in the full-length mirror.

Her eyes widened at the sight of her tummy, crossed by parallel creases just above the pelvis, and again below the ribs, separated by a distinct roll of hanging flab. She stood up quickly, and the roll flattened. But not entirely, she saw, and when she turned to face the mirror it seemed to rearrange itself into a bulge that spread out into a pair of mushy love handles.

She turned halfway again to examine the curve of her belly, turned again and looked over her shoulder at her unmistakably spreading ass.

Oh, man, she muttered.

Well, she thought, as she walked back toward bed, it shouldnt have come as a surprise. In the three weeks since Dave had left for China shed been eating, it seemed, almost constantly. She ate out of boredom, out of loneliness, and for comfort. Going to their favorite restaurants reminded her of Dave. Late-night cookie binges made her think of her childhood, and of visits to Aunt Sally, the spoiled baby of her mothers family who grew up fat and heaped cookies on every child who crossed her threshold, which kept them from bothering her, a bargain Denise was happy to make. Ordering a pizza at 11 at night and washing it down with beer brought back memories of college.

And, really, she had hardly ever lived alone, without parents or sorority sisters or Dave around. She was exploring a new kind of freedom, to eat what she wanted without worrying that someone would notice that after finishing one container of cookie-dough ice cream she went straight on to a second. So this was really just a phase. She would laugh about it with Dave when he got back, and a few weekends at the gym would take care of matters.

Besides, who was he to complain? She was seized with a sudden, irrational irritation with Dave, off enjoying his expense-account trip to Beijing, where, it seemed, his clients did nothing but throw banquets for each other. She knew very little about Chinese food and wasnt sure shed like it. Still, the menu of just one of those meals, which hed sent her in an email as a joke, propelled her out at 11:30 in the morning to the local Thai buffet, which of course wasnt even open for lunch yet. She was the first one through the door when they opened at 12 and was still eating when they began taking the trays away at 2:30. It was good, but nothing like the meal he described, at a restaurant that claimed to have 213 different ways of preparing pork, including roast suckling pig, barbecued ribs, 46 kinds of dumplings and stewed pigs ears.

Of course it wasnt his fault, she thought. The China trip was a great coup for him, and important for his career, and his career, she knew, was going to bring her luxuries she would never otherwise experience. Already in the past year theyd been to practically every hot new restaurant in the city. 

The next overseas trip, hed hinted, would be to Brazil, and it might be possible to bring Denise. Not for the whole time, of course. But maybe just long enough to make it worth going down, and adding on a long weekend in Rio

Rio made her think of beaches and bathing suits, and suddenly she was angry again, but with herself. Angry, but resolute. She could do something about this. The first thing was find out just what the damage was. She walked to the closet and pulled out the bathroom scale that she had hidden away six months earlier when it seemed to go on the fritz, giving an obviously false reading of 146. Even if it couldnt be entirely trusted, she reasoned, she could at least see if and how much shed gained since then. Gingerly she stepped on it and peered down at the glowing red numerals. 170. And a half.

Denise gasped. Did she put on 24-1/2 pounds in just the 17 days since Dave had left? Or, in fact, had she been slowly gaining all that time, in which case  well, what did it matter, anyway? The important thing was to get a handle on this, right now, today. In the four days until Dave came home, she was sure, she could work herself back into some kind of reasonable shape, so he wouldnt have to come home to this, this.she grabbed a handful of flesh under her breasts and squeezed it savagely, screwing up her face into a look of disgust. This porker! She spat into the sink to dramatize her feelings.

The only thing was, she didnt actually feel disgusted. Was she really that different from how she was at 146, or for that matter 126? She looked at herself appraisingly. Her breasts were certainly bigger, but nothing wrong with that, was there? Dave never breathed a word of criticism of her body, but she couldnt help noticing how his eyes tracked Francesco, that cow, the time they all went to Tahoe for the weekend.

She cupped her belly in her hands and hefted it slightly, feeling its voluptuous weight, the soft flesh oozing slightly between her fingers. Disgusting, she tried to tell herself, but without much conviction. In fact, she didnt feel disgusted at all. She felt something else, something she couldnt quite figure out.

She dropped her hands. As if they had a mind of their own, they crept toward the soft patch of flesh on the inside of her thighs. And then  and then, before she knew it, she was on her bed fingering herself, running her hands over her belly and hips, luxuriating in the soft sweetness of her own body. She came in a gush, with a full-throated moan of ecstasy, and still dripping, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and drove off to buy some donuts, which she finished in the garage, cramming them eagerly into her mouth, washing them down with a vanilla shake, rubbing and fondling her bulging belly with sugar-sticky palms. Dave, Dave, Dave, she murmured over and over. 

***

The stewardess, gliding down the aisle, whispered a question to Dave and his eyes shot open. She was holding out a tray of little sandwiches and petit-fours and a glass of champagne, and Dave, yawning and stretching, helped himself generously. He had worried that after the last, interminable meal at the restaurant where, he was told, Peking duck had been invented, he might never be hungry again, but that didnt seem to be a problem. 

Thank God and Brad, his boss, for first classhe could stretch out his legs, there was no problem of shoulder room, and the food was actually worth waking up for. Sitting up to eat, he felt his belt dig a little into the roll of flesh above it, and he fumbled with the buckle to loosen it a notch, but it was already at the last hole. He undid it, and surreptitiously unbuttoned his suit pants as well. 

That felt better. He had definitely put on some weight during the trip, but he was oddly untroubled by it: the whole thing had been a huge success, he was almost certain to come back to a substantial bonus and maybe a promotion, Working this hard, he deserved his little pleasures. That there were other kinds of pleasure available to prosperous American businessmen in China besides food, he was well aware; Brad, sitting across the aisle, had availed himself of those, but after all, Brad was divorced in all but the technical, legal, sense.

As for himself, it had been years since Dave had really wanted any woman other than Deniseand, in any case, the ones in China, small-breasted, flat-bellied, narrow-hipped, did not especially appeal to him. He liked women with some meat on them, and Denise, hed come to appreciate recently, was certainly turning into one.

His anticipation of her was sharpened by a curious email he had received just three days before, in which she said he should be prepared for the fact that he was coming home to more of a wife than he had left. He had an idea of what that might mean, but he simply replied that it didnt matter, as long as he was coming home to her. He asked if she would mind making some of her chocolate-chunk cookies for his return.

To get off the plane, he had to do his pants and belt back up, painfully; theyd been plying him with food, almost hourly it seemed, across the Pacific. But it didnt matter, because they came off again the instant he was through the door to his house, Denise leaping at him, staggering him, to be carried like a bride to the bedroom and then taken, three times, once savagely, once tenderly, once obsessively, wringing every last drop of pleasure from the familiar contours of her body. Then they lay together on the bed, skin against skin, until she rolled on her side and he spooned up against her, breathing in the smell of her hair.

Hey, she said sleepily. You keep feeling my belly.

Do I? he murmured.

Youre doing it right now.

Do you like it?

Do you?

If you do.

Actually, it felt wonderful. But Denise wasnt sure if she should say that, so she just gave a contented sigh and wiggled her butt up against him.
He closed his eyes to sleep, but sleep wouldnt come.

How about those cookies? he murmured. 

What if I told you I ate them all waiting for you to get home?

Id tell you to get up and make some more.

Thats why I made a double batch, she giggled. She pulled on a robe and padded out to the kitchen. She filled a platter with cookies, then added some of her brownies and filled a large bowl with vanilla ice cream. By the time she got back to the bedroom, Dave was sitting up at his desk, but his eyes were closed and he seemed to be dozing. Getting her first good look at him, she saw he was getting a definite belly. His face seemed older, heavier, more mature, too, in a way that she found extremely handsome. There was a new hint of flab in the way his bottom spread out on the expensive leather of the swivel chair.

She liked it, she decided. On the other hand, there was something slightly disconcerting about the idea that he had gotten fat without her. On the other side of the world, in fact. It seemed somehow  she groped around for the right word  disloyal. Hadnt they always done everything important together? Feeding your lover was the most intimate thing you could do, apart from sex itself. Maybe even including sex, if you thought about it, because the food you put in his mouth would turn into his very flesh. Sex was over when it was over, but fat was still there the next morning, or forever. If Dave was going to get fat, it should be at Denises hands.

She put the platter down on the desk, picked up a cookie and held it up to his mouth. Her cookies were thick, moist, chewy and shot through with chocolate chunks as big as dimes. 

Here you go, lover boy, she whispered.

Dave opened his mouth and she shoved in a cookie. He smiled as he chewed, swallowed, and readied himself for another bite. Three large cookies went that way, then a brownie, and she started on the ice cream.

Mmmm, he said, as the first spoonful went into his mouth. 

More room there than I realized, Denise said, patting his belly.

Thats wonderful, he breathed.

Have some more. She pressed another spoonful of ice cream on him, and he swallowed, licked his lips.

Im stuffed, darling.

Ill bet you can have one more cookie, she said, teasingly.

No, really  well  a bite.

She broke off half a cookie and before he could protest, shoved it in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed.

Thats so good. But, no more.

Wait, she said, and ran off to the kitchen. Rummaging in the fridge, she found a large square of blueberry cobbler in a pie pan, slid it onto a plate, and came back to the bedroom.

You love my cobbler.

Sweetie, I couldnt eat another bite.

She pouted.

Suddenly she brightened. Then feed it to me.

Dave sat up straight, grabbed the spoon and covered the cobbler with ice cream, then began spooning it into her mouth. She slurped it down greedily.

Mmmm. See what youre missing?

He paused the spoon halfway to her mouth, then stuck it in his own, and slowly swallowed it down. The rest of the cobbler went in alternate mouthfuls to both of them. 

There was a large puddle of melted ice cream in the bottom of the bowl, and Dave tipped it into his mouth, took a big swallow, then passed it to Denise. She downed the last of it, took a cookie, broke it in half, and fed half to Dave, half to herself, then fell back onto the bed. Her tummy stuck out like a melon.

How do you feel? he said. The words came out as a gasp.

She moaned. Incredible.

He moved to the bed, put his big warm hand on her belly, and rubbed it gently.

Mmmmm.

He kissed her, and then both of them tumbled back on the bed and made love, one more time, passionately, in a rush of sugar-fueled desire that left them breathless, exhausted, and astonished at what they had discovered about themselves.

It was Denise who saw through to the core of it, the communion of decadence they had shared, the delight in giving each other pleasure almost to the point of pain. There would be many more meals together: small, exquisite ones in elegant restaurants, rowdy, exuberant ones at barbecue joints, voluptuously gluttonous ones shared at home, followed by ecstatic lovemaking for hours, and a final late-night ceremonial ice-cream binge. How sweet life could be she had only an inkling. But it was enough.

***

Still half asleep, she rolled over onto her other side, reached out for Dave under the covers and began stroking the smooth curve of his belly. Dave," she whispered. "I'm soooo hungry."


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