# Hand Made - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BBW, ~BHM, ~SWG)



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Mar 25, 2010)

_~BBW, ~BHM, ~SWG_ A woodcarver and a barista slowly discover each other's true feelings.

*Hand Made
By Big Beautiful Dreamer​*

I rang up one of my regulars regular drinks: medium nonfat white chocolate mocha. He made small talk as I made change.

Pretty weather, he said.

Yeah, finally, I agreed. Its been such a cold, wet winter. I handed back the bills and coins.

Oh, youve lost weight, I blurted, then felt my cheeks redden. What a thing to say to someone whose name I didnt even know.

He smiled sheepishly and ducked his head. I needed to, he mumbled. He looked up. I caught that stomach flu and was in bed for a week. Couldnt keep anything down. Lost eight pounds. He patted his belly, moderately rounded below a faded T shirt. But like I said, I needed to ... I could stand to lose more.

I gave a half shrug. Ah, who couldnt? I smiled and winked. Have a lovely day. He lifted his cup in a salute as he headed out.

The next day, when he came in for hot caramel apple cider, I felt myself blushing as I prepared it.

Sorry for what I said, I finally said, ringing him up. 

Whatd you say? He was giving me an impish half-grin.

About losing weight.

Now it was his turn to shrug. Hey, s okay. I have lost weight. And like I said, I could stand to take off some more. He tapped his cup. Im sure this will help.

Never fails, I said. I was a flop at witty banter. I needed a better screenwriter, someone with a deft touch at the romantic comedies I liked.

Hey ... I know your name but you dont know mine, he said, sounding aggrieved. I looked up. He was grinning full on now.

Youre Natalie, he said, nodding at my name tag. And I ... ta da ... am Montague Simmons.

Monatgue, wow.

I know, right? He rolled his eyes. My moms maiden name.

Do you go by Montague?

When I was growing up, they called me Monty. But there are only so many Monty Python jokes you can hear, right? And then that movie came out, _The Full Monty_.

Ooh, I said. I didnt even think about that.

Yeah, I know, he said ruefully. No, I go by Tag, actually.

Oh, neat, I said, then felt like kicking myself. What was next, peachy keen?

So, Natalie, Tag said, Now that we know each others names ... could we have lunch sometime? Or dinner?

I laughed, catching my bottom lip with my teeth. Dinner would be better, I said. Im here until 4:00.

Um. How about tonight at 6:00?

Tonight?

Sure, why postpone the excitement? There was that grin again, captivating and sexy. A full mouth, decided chin, large straight nose, large soft dark brown eyes. _Mmmmm_.

Um, okay. I took one of the shops frequent-buyer cards, flipped it over, and printed my address. I added my phone number.

Ill come round tonight, he said. See you. Then he was gone.

I had all day to think about it. Which I did. At 23, proud possessor of a bachelors degree in English, I was saving up to go for a masters degree, hoping to teach. In addition to working as a barista, I made a little money with the editing business I advertised with a flyer on the coffee shops bulletin board. So I was about as skint as most 23-year-olds: that is, mostly. I was also no more than pleasant-looking. Id always been on the plump side; not fat, but not nubile either. My face and hair were average at best, as were my clothes. There was nothing traffic-stopping about me at all. But Tag Simmons seemed to want to spend time with me.

He thinks youre an easy lay, my inner voice mocked. In college, Id had a few boyfriends who had correctly guessed that someone as unexciting-looking as me would be glad for any guys attention. The relationship usually lasted until they bedded me, then it was over. I finally learned. Or had I?

Tag Simmons was exactly on time, a point in his favor. He brought flowers, but not roses  a dozen tulips of varying colors, fresh and lovely. And in a delicately beautiful carved wooden vase. He wore a sport coat, polo, and khakis. I wore a plain dark-blue dress and was tottering a little in heels.

He diffidently suggested a restaurant; I agreed. He flagged a taxi down expertly.

In the cab, and then over spinach dip, pecan-crusted chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, broccoli, fresh hot bread, and apple tart a la mode, we talked, small talk occasional plunging into a little more depth. 

Tag Simmons was a woodcarver. (The vase was one hed made.) Hed waited tables, carving items during the day and on his days off until hed built up enough inventory and found enough shops willing to carry his goods. At 28, hed only been able to quit his day job a year ago. His hands were blunt-fingered and expressive, nails clipped short, fingers and backs showing the odd scar and rough patch from his labors.

Hed not gone to college, he admitted, but had taken a few business and accountancy courses to be able to keep his own books. His eyes widened with respect on learning of my education and my plans, but our talking revealed that he read well and widely and was very informed and curious about the world (curiosity is my favorite attribute).

We lingered over dessert, and then coffee, not wanting the conversation to end.

He gave me a chaste peck on the cheek at my door.

I undressed languidly, peeling off my stockings with relief: Id eaten too much and my tummy was tender and sore. What an idiot! In _Gone With the Wind_, Mammy had nagged Scarlett not to eat lak a field han an gobble lak a hog. All the womens magazines and dating books pointed out that guys secretly disapproved of girls who made pigs of themselves on dates. He would probably switch java joints to avoid ever seeing me again. I resolved to put him out of my mind.

Once in my soft, baggy jammies, I lay back on the bed and snuggled in, massaging my full stomach and thinking  of course  about Tag.

* * *​
Why in the world didnt Natalie Allesbrecht have guys falling all over her? So she didnt look like Brooklyn Decker  who did? She was friendly, funny, and bright. It took me six months to work up the nerve to ask her out. She agreed  I was over the moon. I piddled around in my workshop all day, achieving nothing. I was ready two hours too early, and restlessly paced and channel surfed.

She seemed to like the tulips Id brought, and the vase (my own carving), and I was entranced by the swirl and bounce of the blue dress she wore. I thoroughly enjoyed our first date. Shed seemed to. Would she say yes to another?

Id eaten lemon-roasted pork with garlic mashed potatoes and homemade applesauce  yum  along with way too many rolls and strawberry cheesecake. I was already too full for dessert, but I hadnt wanted the evening to end. After cheesecake, very rich, I felt stuffed, positively bloated, and longed to let my belt out a notch or three. Coffee. We dawdled as long as I dared, but I knew that the waiter wanted to turn the table and finally we left. I over-tipped, as usual. It hadnt been that long since Id been on the other side of the apron. 

It was still early when I got back to my apartment. Finally alone, I undid my belt and changed into the loose T shirt and boxers that were my pajamas and flopped with a groan into my favorite chair. I let loose a couple of belches Id been suppressing and yawned hugely. 

Ate too much, I announced to my dog, Spot, who blinked at me. I called Spot a semi-beagle: he was half beagle and the rest, who knew? 

I channel surfed idly until I felt myself falling asleep in the chair and dragged off to bed.

The next morning brought a dilemma. If I went to the coffee shop and acted like just another customer, shed think I didnt want a second date. If I mentioned the night before, shed think I was a stalker. Finally, in need of caffeine, I went in, the jingling bell causing a knot to form in my stomach.

* * *​
Oh. My. Oh my. Ohmy. _Ohmyohmy_. There he was. _Stay cool, Natalie!_

Good morning, he said pleasantly.

Morning. I was blushing, I could tell.

He gave his order. I rang it up.

Enjoyed it, he said, lightly, casually, catching my eye. He gave me a nod and a wink. See ya.

Then he was gone.

Whew!

Somehow, that had been just right. Hed acknowledged the fact that wed had a date, without announcing it to the whole shop, and hed done so subtly, skillfully, and ... wow. Just ... wow.

My stomach growled. I glared down at it. Every couple of hours, pastries were rotated to the back room so that no one would ever get a treat that was even a little old. They were free to staff. Id put on fifteen pounds worth of scones, crullers, and bear claws, and that dress Id worn last night had been snug even before the huge dinner I had gobbled down. 

I successfully ignored my stomach until 11:00, when growling was replaced with cramping. I gave in and ate a blueberry muffin. Then a cinnamon scone. Then a slice of lemon pound cake  it was small. 

By the time I took my weary feet out of there at 4:12, I was feeling a little nauseated from over-snacking and a complete lack of remotely healthy food. Since Id snacked so close to lunch, I had virtuously skipped a proper lunch. Which meant, of course, that from around 1:30 onward Id returned to large-scale grazing. Large would apply to the numbers I saw on the scale, too. Dammit! A cute guy was interested in me and I was turning him off as fast as I could manage to move fork to mouth. Next time, I vowed  if there was a next time  I would go the salad route and keep my hands in my lap.

I showered away the coffee smells, glaring at my traitorous belly the whole time. It seemed to sag visibly, pink and flabby, a squashy tummy, mocking me. 

* * *​
I tried hard to lose myself in work. I took one of my sketches and began the preliminary cutting on what would become a set of Communion ware ordered by an Episcopal church in lower Manhattan. I glanced over my notes and drawings. A _chalice_ was the goblet that would hold the wine. They wanted two of those. A _paten_ was the plate that would hold the bread. Two of those, too. Theyd also asked for a _cruet_, like a carafe with a stopper, and a small tray and a dozen tiny Communion cups. Most take the common cup, the priest had explained, but a few prefer individual cups. The tray and small cups would be the hardest. The whole order would run the church $1,400, of which the priest had paid 50% down. A bequest, hed said. A memorial. All in polished tulip wood, a pretty wood, light brown with paler streaks twining naturally through it. The whole thing would look awfully good when I finished. It would also cover a third of my months rent in one swoop.

As I began on the first chalice, I felt my hands and tools working, but my mind was entirely on Natalie. Good gosh, what a girl! She was witty, shed dressed prettily, and shed enjoyed her dinner  Id about had it with watching elbow-and-ribcage girls pick at salads, making me feel like a hog for enjoying a nice meal out. That she was not skeletal was a point in her favor. 

New York was full of would-be models and actresses who made the rest of us look bad. Sometimes Id see a magazine cover of a celebrity who I thought looked shockingly thin  but the cover would read not Celeb near death but Celebs beach getaway! Whoo. Natalie had seemed diffident about her looks, but I certainly thought her pretty. As I carved, I wondered how long good manners would compel me to wait before taking her out again.

After a while, when I stood to stretch, my T-shirt rode up, making me uncomfortably aware of my gut. Damn. I finished stretching and poked at my belly, displeased with its softness. I worked out with my upper body and my legs, but shirked sit-ups and the like, and it showed. Plus I was sure my daily sweet coffee-ish drinks didnt help. I was a lousy cook and depended on grocery stores pre-packed foods and occasional takeout. And I was closing in on 30. But now that Natalie seemed interested, maybe I should take off a few. Maybe for a second date I would invite her somewhere non-food-related.

I made myself wait three full days before leaning in and murmuring, May I call on you again? We settled on Saturday at the Hayden Planetarium. 

* * *​
He asked me out again! After the elation subsided, panic set in. I had to lose a ton of weight in no time at all. My complaining stomach did not let me get away with eating nothing between Thursday and Saturday, but I tried to keep my intake as low as I could manage.

I dont know whether I actually succeeded in losing any weight. The skirt I put on was snugger than I would have liked.

Tag picked me up and we walked, enjoying the weather. A couple of blocks away, I heard a stomach growl. He grinned sheepishly and poked at his belly, a little round teddy bear pot.

Shut up, you, he growled affectionately at it. He darted a glance at the hot dog stand on the corner. The smell was wonderful. He made a face.

Ah, I shouldnt, he murmured. He glanced at me. Took a deep breath.

Um. Would you like a dog? he asked me. 

As if on cue, my stomach growled too, and too audibly. Tag grinned.

Three dogs all the way, he told the vendor. We repaired to a nearby bench, where, light-headed after three days of near-starvation, I gobbled mine with indecent haste and chugged down the pop so fast I had to stifle a most unladylike belch. 

Then Tag did it for me. He had inhaled two dogs and a can of pop as quickly as I had downed my lunch, and the belch that erupted was impressive. I waited for the temblor to stop before grinning at him.

He blushed and hung his head. Scuse me, he mumbled.

I laughed at him. I think its cute. I bounced up, tugged on my top to try to conceal my tubby tummy, and threaded my arm through his, pretending not to notice the pleasant chill that ran through me as my hand accidentally brushed the side of his belly, which had a taut little pooch to it from the dogs.


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## 2ful2mi (Mar 26, 2010)

Oooh, I hope you're going to keep going. This is going to be good! 

I usually don't like he said/she saids, because they're hard to do well, but you're so good at it! I can hear the characters' two different voices, and I love the way they each describe each other and describe their food. It's amazing how well you portray the way they're both struggling with loving food and at the same time trying to avoid appearing gluttonous in front of the other. It's so true!


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 5, 2010)

*Part 2​*

* * *​
My seemingly insatiably greedy belly being momentarily satisfied, I took Natalies arm and we proceeded to the planetarium. Side by side, we viewed the exhibits and finished up with the show. Since childhood, Id been entranced into drowsiness by the darkness, the reclined seats, and the seeming whirl of the room, and right on cue, I felt myself drifting off. It didnt help that I had a full stomach and that the reclining seats eased the mild pressure I was feeling around my waistband.

Afterward, as we retraced our steps, the hot dog vendor was gone, and a hot-pretzel vendor was in his place. The enticing aromas made my mouth water  but (a) my gut was already too big and I wanted it to get smaller; and (b) Natalie was _right there_. As usual, my willpower was about as sturdy as a paper towel. Within a minute, I was trying not to moan aloud at the warm soft salty mustardy first bite exploded into my mouth. 

I doubt that Natalie would have noticed  since she was taking her first bite of a cinnamon-sugar pretzel thick with frosting. Still, with every bite I swallowed, I swear I could feel my belt tighten and my stomach press against the snap of my jeans. 

I wanted to give Natalie my full attention, once wed finished the pretzels, and licked our fingers, but then without warning I kissed her, and the contrasting flavors on a shared base of pretzel overwhelmed me. I was kissing Natalie, and all I could think about was the way my growing gut was smushing against her tummy. She must have felt it.

We sat and people-watched. We strolled. We lazed in the park. It got to be dinner time. We wound up at a diner in Chelsea. I vowed to eat lightly. 

I got an enormously tall pastrami on rye and ate every bite, plus the homemade chips, plus the pickle, plus two glasses of microbrew. By now, my belt was causing me actual pain, or was that from the waistband of my jeans feeling the pressure of my swollen belly? What a pig! And, like a pig, I inadvertently grunted as I slid out of the booth. I did, only just, manage to suppress the belch that threatened.

I walked her home  by way of a soft-serve vendor  and we parted company. Then I plodded back to the shop, let myself in, brushed through the curtain concealing my bed, hot plate, and wardrobe, and at last undid my belt. The thing flew open as if in relief. Then the jeans. Then the underwear. _Ahhhh._ Oh, that was better. In shirt and socks, I yawned hugely and massaged my bloated belly. I could still taste the salt, rye, and beer of dinner, overlaid with the cool sweetness of the soft serve. So much for my thoughts of losing weight.

Monday, after my workout and shower at the gym, I stepped gingerly onto the scale. I ran the weights over to their usual position of 190. The needle floated up. What the hell. 191, 2, 3, 195, 6, 7 ... Finally the needle hovered in the middle around 199. I must have been putting on a little weight even before my food-punctuated outing with Natalie. Not to mention, 190 was already a little much on a guy 5'7".

I thought about not going for coffee. Those things must be caloric bombs. But I needed caffeine; I didnt have a coffee maker; and I wanted to see Natalie again. 

Mocking me, my underwear and jeans were snug. I left off the belt.

* * *​
Oddly, Sunday had seemed long and lonely, even though Id lived through several thousand similar Sundays. I read every section of the _Times_. Watched bad TV. Lazed around in the cropped T and cotton shorts that served as sleepwear. 

An unfortunate decision  since my tummy was on constant display, whether I wanted to see it or not. I lay slumped watching TV, and my belly rode soft and pink over my waistband, actually giving me a muffin top. Do you know how depressing it is to get a muffin top while wearing _elastic-waist _shorts? Hello. 

Id made such a pig of myself Saturday? Masochistically I totted up the damage. One vendor dog and pop: approximately 800 calories. One giant cinnamon-sugar pretzel: say, another 800 calories. One chicken salad on wheat toast, a sandwich half a foot high, every single delicious bite, say another 800, since that seemed to be the default number. One pickle, zero, hallelujah, a freebie. One pile of homemade chips, 400 calories. One tall soft-serve cone, 200. Total for the day, 3,000, not counting the two beers. Id virtuously eaten nothing at all Friday, but had made up for it by eating two days worth in one afternoon. Ugh!

I poked at my traitorous tummy. Flabby. Soft, squashy, raw dough. _Ohgod._ I remembered the kiss. All I could remember was the way he must have felt my enormously fat belly squashing against his middle. He must have been so grossed out, only staying with the kiss out of politeness. Women are supposed to be indented between the chest and hips. Here I was with stomach that was actually wider around than my ... no, surely not. I would have noticed.

Reluctantly I peeled myself up and shuffled into the bedroom. Turned sideways.

Okay, so my tummy wasnt _that_ big. But it was convex. Flaccid, soft, flabby. I made a face as I smooshed it back and forth under my palm. And there was a little roll around my hips, resting on top of the pelvis like a traitorous inner tube. I had to lose weight. Had to! I swore to stay away from the freebies, including the one free coffee drink per shift to which I was entitled.

Then, on Monday morning, Tag walked in. Ordered the nonfat white chocolate thing. Gave me the same wink, the same casual, quiet, Enjoyed it. Walked out. My heart was fluttering. I was distracted the whole rest of the day.

He could see perfectly well what I looked like, and this tummy flab hadnt appeared overnight. He must be selective in what he noticed.

Now what?

* * *​
The last thing I would have expected when the bell jingled right at closing time on Monday was the thing I saw.

Natalie was standing just inside the door with a big brown bag of Chinese takeout, smiling hesitantly. She wore a loose peasant top and a short denim skirt that hugged her hips. Instinctively I sucked in my gut, hoping that something moved.

My favorite customer, we both said at the same time. Then she blushed, her apple-sweet cheeks turning pink. I moved toward her, took the bag and set it on the counter, and took her into my arms, still trying to hold my belly in. It was no use.

The minute she was in my arms, I exhaled, and I knew she had to feel my middle squash against hers. Damn! This time, I could enjoy the kiss.

And I did.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 9, 2010)

* *​
When we finally came up for air, I looked down into her eyes. She looked up into mine.

One of the things I love about carving wood is that there is no pretension. There is nothing that can be well hidden and no way to hide. If your knife makes a slip, the cut is there for all to see. There are no games and no bull with wood. Unsurprisingly, Im a fan of straightforwardness in relationships, too. The tension of fretting about my weight and fretting about what Natalie thought about my seemingly unstoppable waistline was getting to me.

I backed up a step.

Natalie, I said. Luckily, her name came warm and affectionate on my tongue.

She smiled.

Tag.

We both smiled then. My shop was called Tag Youre It. The name usually got people to slow down long enough to look in the window.

Um, um  I have a confession to make.

She looked as though Id socked her.

Wow, um, Im not married, or gay, or anything, I stuttered. This is going to sound stupidly anticlimactic now.

She was still looking at me.

You know when you mentioned Id lost weight?

She blushed. Yeah  sorry.

No, no, I said hastily. I was being honest when I said I needed to. Look. I gestured. Truth is, I do need to. Ive got kind of a pot here, and Im trying to lose it  but I cant seem to keep my hands off the food. And  this was so hard  The reason now that Im trying to lose it is because I think Im in love with a beautiful young woman, and I want to look good for my woman.

Tears started sliding from her eyes. Oh, crud.

Me too, she sniffled.

Huh? You too, what? I asked.

Me too, she sniffled again. She pressed a hand to her tummy, a delightful little cushion attractively showcased in a light green top. Ive gained fifteen pounds since I started working as a barista  and along comes this gorgeous, sweet guy, and he takes me out, and it seems like he likes me, but eventually hes going to realize that Im a _whale_ and hes going to get disgusted and dump me.

Oh-kay! Wow. Women really are from Venus. Guys just do _not_ think like that.

Her gaze met mine. Our lips twitched, I started to snicker, and she started to giggle. Soon we were helpless with laughter, leaning against each other, embracing each other, and she was both laughing and crying and drying her tears on my chest  which feels fabulous, by the way.

So now what? she asked finally.

First, I said, we eat before this nice dinner gets cold. And, I said in a moment of inspiration, We eat as much as we want. I think every inch of you is drop dead gorgeous and I love your tummy.

She pressed her hands on my belly like a kid putting handprints in damp plaster for Mothers Day. 

I think youre pretty well carved too, Tag Simmons, she said, a trifle thickly. This part included.

So we ate.

I fetched a couple of beers from my small fridge, then a couple more, and we did more than enough damage to those huge portions that Chinese takeouts give you.

Eventually the containers were all but licked clean, egg rolls devoured, even the fortune cookies, and Natalie and I were sprawled in the two aging wing chairs in my little domestic corner.

Natalie hiccupped.

Ooh-_hic_-oohhh, she groaned. Shed tugged up the green top. Her jeans were undone, and in between, her tummy rested, roundly rosy, visibly distended. I was fascinated by its appearance. Im a visual thinker anyway. Her belly was gravid, pearlike, and I could see exactly where it had been filled to the brim: a gorgeous swollen teardrop, the navel punctuating it tightly.

Ohh, Tag, I really ate too much, she groaned. Tentatively she massaged her tautly bloated middle. She tapped it, tried to poke it. It was as firm as a drum. Nothing gave.

Go lie down, I urged solicitously. Grunting with effort, she hoisted herself to her feet, first one side, then the other, got her balance, and plodded the few feet to the cot. She sank onto it, then slowly maneuvered onto her side. Cradling her full tummy, she groaned again, this time in a kind of relief.

_Hic!_ What about-_hic_-you? Ohhh-_hic!_

With an effort, I got my feet up onto the just-vacated chair. And it was an effort. I was so gorged, so unbelievably stuffed, that any movement was an effort. And lifting my legs high enough to get them into the other chair was putting unwelcome pressure on my belly, which was achingly swollen to the point that it made an otherwise routine move uncomfortable.

I had undone my jeans too, before sitting down  I could tell that otherwise they would burst  and now I tugged up my shirt, which hadnt been snug half an hour ago. My bloated and tender belly, like Natalies, was hugely distended. Now, Chinese takeout tends to have a lot of sodium, and some of it was the couple of beers, but I was taken aback at what I saw. My abdomen was swollen like a basketball, and when I gave it a cautious poke, I found that it was as firm as one. I tapped and patted a little. No give, tautly distended. 

The jeans I had undone now framed what seemed like a huge expanse of gorged and bloated gut, and cautiously I took hold of each side and made a stab at pulling them together. Not even close. At least an inch of protruding belly was in the way.

I sank back and let out a grunt.

I hiccupped. Ate too much-_hic_-ohgod. _Hic._ Look. I demonstrated with the jeans. Natalie smiled.

You too_hic_!-ohh.

With infinite caution I rested a hand on my visibly swollen stomach. Yup. _Urp_. Oof. Scuse me. I cradled my creation. My stretched sides ached and pulled, and the skin across my belly was spread so tightly that it itched a little.

A giggle bubbled out of Natalie.

Ha-_hic_!-oh. _Hic_. We sure, ohhh, solved-_hic_-our problem. _Hic!_

It took me a minute.

Oh. That problem. _Hic_.

Silence for a minute. I communed with my gut. I was stupefyingly full, stomach aching, gut churning, that I almost transcended the discomfort. I was in a haze of satiety, floating above my swollen belly, and it was very peaceful.

I blinked. Mmf, I grunted. How bout this. _Hic_! Ow.

How bout what?

How bout  ohh-_urrrp_-we promise not to let it matter.

Let what matter? _Hic_!

Our figure. Size. Tummy. Whatever. I hoisted myself up a little from the recumbency Id slid into. Oof.

I love you. Yes?

Mmm.

You love me back, right?

Mmmhmm.

Lets stop putting so much energy into the fat thing and just enjoy the moment.

Mmmhmm. Natalie was almost asleep.

We were both far too full, and the cot wouldnt have taken it. I dozed off in the wing chair.

* *​
I had no idea what was coming. The Chinese food was utterly spontaneous. I found myself walking toward Tags store  Tag Youre It, very cute  and popped in the Chinese takeout. There. Now I had a reason to be there. Did I need a reason? No, but it made me feel better.

We hugged. I winced, feeling my flabby tummy squishing into him.

Then he said he had a confession. _Married. Gay. Oh, no_, I thought.

He thought he was fat! Oh my word. He was so handsome, and so well built, and I would never think of him as fat. And he was saying that he was trying to lose weight for me  for me!  and failing.

Then I was crying. Damn it! I was crying. And confessing my own pudginess, and the fifteen pounds that flopped around my waist, and suddenly we were laughing and embracing and something lifted. Some fear flew out of my mind, maybe forever, and I could enjoy the embrace completely.

Well. Then we sucked down the Chinese food, everything but the containers, and a couple of beers each too boot. And oops, I did it again.

I was splayed out in one of his chairs in his little home nest, and I was so full to bursting that I had to undo my jeans. My tummy was achingly swollen, and I thought I was going to pop right there. 

Tag urged me to lie down. I had to brace myself and haul slowly to my feet. My painfully full stomach, bulging out over my clothes, gurgled and sloshed and churned. Carefully, I made it to my feet, shuffled to the cot, and slowly docked, coming to rest on my side, where I could still see Tag.

It made me grin a little when I saw that hed had to undo his jeans too. It was actually really cute. His belly was round and swollen, like a full moon, and I could tell his jeans wouldnt button if he tried.

I was so stuffed I was falling asleep, dopey with food and sodden with beer. 

He said maybe we could just love each other and not worry about the tummies.

Earlier, when wed embraced, Id felt something lift and fly away, like a worry bird leaving my shoulder.

Now the other worry bird took off. As I drifted into slumber, I held the thought of that liberation, cradling it to me like a teddy bear, achingly full and achingly satisfied at the same time.

**​
Something magical happened that night. Something we carved out of our words and actions as much as our touch. 

The next morning, after my workout, I took stock in the shower. I was an otherwise well-built guy with a pot belly. At this hour, it was soft, but there, a visible cushion finished with a pair of modest love handles. 

I tried to view it objectively. It was easier after last nights conversation. I still wasnt entirely sure what Natalie thought, but to my mild surprise, I found that I could think about my belly somewhat objectively, and not with overtones of disgust and a sense of failure or falling short.

There I was. There was my belly. The end.

Smiling, I finished up my shower.

At the coffee place, I smiled broadly at Natalie, eyes crinkling, and asked for a _regular_ white chocolate mocha.

That stopped her for just a second, then she put it together. In as uninflected a voice as she could manage, she said, White chocolate mocha, extra whip.

I paid and winked. Pizza tonight.

My place, she murmured, and I was out of there.

I couldnt keep the stupid grin off my face all day. I phoned and ordered the pizzas delivered to her address, then got myself over there.

She was there, looking gorgeous, wearing  _hello_  a crop top and hip-hugging jeans.

I kissed her, then in a bit of play, leaned down and kissed her tummy. Then I stood back to examine her with an artists eye.

She had a lovely hourglass figure. Her tummy was a little cushioned, a little soft. She wasnt fat.

We kissed again. We were both grinning like kids out of school.

The order arrived. Two large pizzas, two two-liter bottles of Sprite, and a cinnamon pie. Natalies eyes got huge.

Tag  oh  are we going to just not worry or are we going to try ? Words failed her. It was a weird concept.

Not worrying just means not worrying, I said. It was a Zen sounding sort of thing. She started giggling.

Take off your shirt, she said suddenly. Now I was grinning.

We sat down on her sofa, each armed with a pizza and a two-liter Sprite. 
Natalie had put some music on.

We ate and talked and talked and ate and ate and ate.

**​
Wow.

If I thought I was full the night before with Chinese food, holy crap!

Before I knew it, I had gobbled down five huge slices of takeout pizza. My own personal two-liter Sprite was three-quarters empty. And my half of the cinnamon pie was crumbs.

Slowly, I nibbled my way through a sixth slice of pizza. I was leaning back. I was so stuffed to bursting that if I sat up straight I would die.

This is why I wore a crop top.

The jeans were already just fitting before the marathon. By now, they were so completely undone. I might never be able to wear them again.

I shifted a little, hoping to ease my discomfort. My tummy was swollen and heavy, my sides ached, my belly stretched so taut I really thought it would pop. The cropped top and undone jeans put it in full view. Ohh full view
To my horror, a huge burp rolled up and out before I could stop it.

Ohhooooh. _Urp_. Ohh. I feel like a trucker or something, I groaned.

Tag smiled, catlike.

But wasnt it-_hic_-fun to eat pizza without having to worry? _Hic_.

Ahhoohowooh. Gah. Food baby. I pressed gently on my amazingly distended tummy. Then I cradled it, which actually felt good. Through my stupefied haze, I considered the question.

Yeah. Yeah, it was. _Hic_. Ohh-_hic_.

Tag, grunting, managed to lean forward far enough to grab the seventh slice of mine.

You gonna-_oof_-eat that?

I had to laugh.

Ow. No. Dont make me laugh. _Hic_.

I glanced over. Tags box was empty. The cinnamon pie was gone. And his Sprite bottle was empty.

Holy moley. Tag had already eaten an entire large takeout pizza, half a pizza-size cinnamon pie, and washed it down with two liters of Sprite, which is pretty filling by itself. Now he was eating a ninth piece of pizza.

Make that tenth. He had finished the previous slice and, grunting again, retrieved the very last piece.

He licked his fingers, then leaned back, eyelids fluttering.

Wow. Okay. _Urp_. Wow. He belched again. He groaned and rubbed his hand across his belly. That was something else.

We looked at each other. Slowly we shuffled ourselves closer. Then he laid his hand on my protruding tummy. I laid my hand on his, equally taut, amazingly swollen, tight as a drum and very warm.

**​
Natalie settled in on the sofa and took a slice. I did the same.

As I said, we talked and ate and talked and ate. And ate and ate and ate.

I chowed my way through all of my pizza, half the cinnamon thing, and my Sprite was suddenly gone. I reached over for a remaining piece of Natalies, grunting as I did.

You gonna-_oof_-eat that?

She laughed and hiccupped and said no, she wasnt.

So I did. And the next one.

We both lay sprawled on the sofa and surveyed the damage. Three empty boxes, one empty bottle, one nearly empty, and two very, very full bellies.

My stomach was swollen and tender, vividly aching, taut to the point of bursting. Below its stretched and bloated surface, my overloaded belly sloshed and churned, working at digestion. As before, I was sort of transcendently stuffed, hazily enjoying the myriad sensations.

I heard and felt Natalie scooching over.

I made an attempt to move.

Then her soft little hand was resting on my hot and bloated gut, protruding hugely above unbuttoned jeans, and my large, calloused hand, was resting on her warmly firm tummy, on lovely display between a crop top in retreat and her undone jeans.

Eventually, we made it to bed.


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## Raider X (Apr 25, 2010)

When you can listen to the voices of the characters you're reading about, it is very good writing!


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## Lurvely (Apr 26, 2010)

Soo good there is more right??


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## Tad (Apr 26, 2010)

Up to your usual levels of craftsmanship  (i.e. having read it, I'm sitting here and grinning like a fool)


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 27, 2010)

yes, there will be more for the barista and the woodman. But just now, I've posted another installment in the "Jamie's Tummy" free-standing series.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 27, 2010)

Just lying down was work. We both sort of slowly lowered ourselves onto the bed, groaning at the effect that moving had on our outrageously full bellies. I had eaten an entire pizza and then some, half of a pizza-size dessert pie, and two liters of Sprite. My jeans were splayed hopelessly open, my gorged and distended belly swelling button and buttonhole several inches apart. Once horizontal I gave my navel &#8211; not usually quite so visible &#8211; a tentative prod.

Ouch. I pressed both hands onto the taut flesh of my aching and bloated abdomen, wincing as I did. My stomach was stuffed to bursting and my waist was stretched beyond belief. What had I done?

At the same time, I was hazily enjoying the feeling of satiety, of engorged richness, of utterly sensual repletion. My middle was a living thing, quivering and gleaming in the lamplight. With an effort, I scrooched my jeans and underwear down, kicked them off, which hard work brought up a belch or two.

Beside me, Natalie giggled, then groaned and clutched at her own rounded tummy. She’d eaten seven slices, which was a lot, plus half the dessert pie and most of her own two liters of Sprite. Her crop top ended well above her belly button, which was stretched into a slit by the pull and distention of her full, balloon-like belly. She’d undone her own jeans, and like mine, they looked as though she couldn’t fasten them on a bet. 

“Ohh…oooohhh…oww…_hic_!” Natalie was cradling her midriff, which looked swollen and tender. I gave it a gentle little push with my hand.

“Ow! _Hic_! Oh—_hic_!—don’t,” Natalie groaned. “Ow. Don’t-_hic_-make me barf.”

“How about a little easy tummy rub,” I suggested. Slowly, ever so lightly, I laid the flat of my palm on her wondrous, warm, tight belly and gently began to move it in little circles.

She moaned &#8211; with pleasure, I think.

“_MMMMMmmmm_.”

She let me do that for a bit, then slowly, slowly, her hand tiptoed over and laid itself on my own so very swollen and aching gut. She began to rub my sore belly.

***​
I don’t really remember going from the couch into the living room. We were on the bed and somehow Tag had gotten his jeans and underwear off. He gave my full tummy a push and I groaned in protest.

Then he rested his hand, his warm, large hand, rough from woodworking, on the distended expanse of my middle. He slowly began to massage my aching tummy. Oh, that felt fabulous. I almost purred.

“_MMMMMMmmmmm_.”

I was semiconscious with repletion and pleasure, but my hand found its way to his gorgeously bloated belly, naked and vulnerable, a taut mountain of fullness, and I began to rub.

Eventually, several thousand lifetimes later, we turned to each other and made love. It was slow and dreamy. I was a little afraid the pressure would hurt, or make me sick. In fact, it felt good. Really good. It was like the pressure from within was being met by the pressure from without, and together we were transcending the idea of any discomfort and surrendering ourselves to warmth and mind-bending pleasure.

Afterward, I managed to get up long enough to get a couple of ice-cold beers, and we propped up and talked, lazily, in half-completed thoughts.

“You swear you won’t mess with me,” I said, a bit muzzily.

“Mess with you?”

“Lull me into getting really flat &#8211; _fat_.” What a Freudian slip! “Then get disgusted and dump me.”

“Um, _no_.” Tag’s voice was firm. “Honest? I think you look really really lovely. The thing your chin does.”

“What thing?” I tried not to sound panicked.

“When you look down. It sort of … you know … nuzzles.”

_Nuzzles._ What a lovely word. I felt myself drifting into sleep.

“If we keep pigging out, we’ll both get fat.”

“Mmmyep,” Tag said. Then he was asleep.

***​
Women, I decided, were a foreign entity altogether. We’d just stuffed ourselves stupid on pizza, then massaged each other’s full and bulging tummies, then made love for the first time, languid and lovely, and then Natalie asked if I was winding her up, if I was just acting like she could eat anything, and then planned to dump her.

I thought she was getting lovelier by the day.

Truth be told, though I’d been frequenting her coffee shop for a while, it wasn’t until recently that I’d even noticed Natalie … that I’d been able to distinguish her among the baristas.

It was only lately that I noticed, when she turned to make the drink I’d ordered, that her jeans were beginning to snug up, a little muffin top was beginning to peep seductively around the waistband, and sometimes when she looked down into the cash drawer a hint of a second chin made a momentary appearance. The added fullness in her face changed her from pretty to gorgeous, and her figure filling out sent her from unremarkable to traffic-stopping, in my humble.

I wasn’t at all sure how we had gotten to where we had gotten. There had been Natalie bringing the Chinese takeout. We’d had a little &#8211; a very little &#8211; conversation about getting fat, or rather, not worrying about what we ate. Then the pizza tonight.

I thought she looked lovelier by the minute, and would be even prettier as her hips became more bodacious and her tummy developed little cushions.

She mentioned her chin. I said that it sort of nuzzled. That must have been the right thing to say. At least I hope it was, because after that I fell sound asleep.

I woke to Natalie shaking me into consciousness. She balanced a plateful of cinnamon rolls in one hand and a huge bowl containing what looked like a whole cantaloupe, cut into chunks, in the other.

“My day off, ’member?” She was grinning.

I dived in. So did she. We ate, aided by the coffee &#8211; she knew just how I liked it! In no time at all, the bowl and plate were empty. I had just gorged on six large cinnamon rolls, two tall mugs of cream and coffee, and half a cantaloupe.

I hiccupped. Grunting, I slid out of bed. Retrieved my clothes. Discovered that I could only just zip up my jeans.

“If I get fat, will you dump me?” I teased Natalie.

Natalie paused to hook up her bra. Then she tugged on a pair of bikini panties, and I reveled in the pendulous swell of her tummy, gravidly rounded with breakfast. We’d broken a fast, all right. Then she tugged on her jeans, and I stifled my smile as I watched her battle the zip and button closed. I drew her in, and ran my hand gently along the resulting muffin top.

“You can be as big as you want,” Natalie murmured, her words almost lost in her kiss.


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## Perry White (Apr 30, 2010)

Awesome! Hope we see this two grow a lot! I'm digging this story!


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