# Jean Therapy - by Maverick (~BBW(Multiple), Eating, Intrigue, ~SWG)



## Observer (Jun 14, 2007)

_~BBW (Multiple), Eating, Intrigue, ~SWG_ - teenage impudence leads to big things for everyone involved

*(Author’s Note:* This story was inspired by a popular diet cereal commercial from last year. In it, a teenaged daughter shimmies into her forty-something mother’s old pants which no longer fit. The rest of the commercial centers around the mother eating the advertised cereal in an effort to get her jeans back, while her pert daughter continually parades past in her old jeans looking sexy... 

Of course, by the end of the commercial, the mother has lost weight and gets her jeans back, but it's all very expected and anticlimactic. Still, the premise intrigued me enough to put my own spin on it. See if you'll agree that my version would have been the better version.)

*Jean Therapy
by Maverick
(alternate ending by a reader)​*
*(Editor’s Note:* This story has two endings. This occurred as the result of comments and suggestions by readers in other forums where it was first posted. The first ending was the work of the original writer; the second, written by a different author, goes in a different direction. Fans can decide which they prefer.) 

*I &#8211; Early Expansion*

“Mom! You used to wear these?”

Julie was holding up my favorite hip-hugger jeans, the epitome of trendiness thirty years and thirty pounds ago.

“Yes,” I said with a sigh. “That was a long time ago.”

“No way!” my older daughter, twenty year ld Julie said, eyeing my ample, three-kids-by-thirty figure. “It must have been a real long time ago.”

_
'Bitch!"_I hated that I thought that, but her remark hit below the belt--and the belly that billowed over it. 

“Actually, I was just about your age Miss Sassy,” I sucked-in my stomach and puffed-out my chest. “And I’ll have you know I was quite the dish.”

“Hmph!” Julie exclaimed, examining the pant’s sixties-styled stitching and design without noticing my attempts to erase the effects of gravity. “They are kinda cool though…I’m gonna try them on!”

Before I could protest, Julie bounded up the stairs with a spring and bounce found only in younger girls like herself. I exhaled, letting my paunch roll back over my waistband and allowing by breasts to resume their normal position atop it, before returning my attention to the French Toast burning on the skillet.

***

“Well, whadya think?”

I had just finished salvaging what I could of breakfast when Julie sashayed back into the kitchen. I know it goes against conventional motherly thinking, but I was secretly hoping that they wouldn’t fit, or that she’d look like a little girl playing dress-up, or that at the very least I’d remember looking better in them. 

I was in for a rude awakening. 

The hip-huggers aptly caressed my Daughter’s curves--curves I heretofore hadn’t remembered (or was in denial of) her having--in a gentle embrace; not the vice-like bear hug I had remembered. They smoothly followed the flair of Julie’s slightly-rounded hips and tapered delicately down the contour of her shapely thighs into a Peter Max-ish swirl of sewn-on beads and sequence, perfectly matching the multicolored anklet she wore. 

Up above, her tank-topped torso funneled into the narrow waistband, without the least bit of spillage, forming a perfect hourglass. As she twirled around, I noticed how the pants fit her rear. A problem area when I wore the pants, pinching and bunching all my excess jiggles (despite my stringent yoga regime at the time), the fabric smoothly followed Julie’s toned backside as it sloped-out from the ivory valley between Julie’s ample (and still growing) chest and post-pubescent hips before gently tucking underneath the soft crease of each cheek. 

Not only did my pants fit her, she looked far better in them than I ever did. How could my favorite jeans betray me like this? The flared cuffs seemed to wave at me as she moved, as if saying goodbye to an unworthy owner. 

My daughter was a fox. I couldn’t deny it. My mind was a jumble of pride, fear and, I hesitate to mention it, a touch of loathing. 

“They look really good on you,” I choked. Fortunately, my maternal instincts seized control of my mouth before my baser emotions could intervene. 

“They look cool.” Even my eighteen year-old daughter Sara, who normally wouldn’t be caught dead complimenting her older sister, had to acknowledge the truth.

Julie beamed, did a final pirouette, then sat down at the table across from her younger sibling. I watched, hoping her teenaged belly would bubble-up over the waistband. It didn’t. 

“Mom! You burned the French Toast!” Julie poked at it with her fork like she was examining toxic waste. 

“Just smother it with syrup. It will be fine.” 

Julie sighed a sigh any parent of a teenager is intimate with. Still, she followed my advice and proceeded to dump hundreds of calories worth of syrup over the darkened bread. 

_Blasted youthful metabolism,_ I thought, sipping my coffee and watching my daughters eat.

“I can’t wait until Hunter Tyler sees me in fourth period,” Julie said, a dab of syrup dribbling onto her alabaster cheek. “He likes all things retro.”

What? Did I hear correctly? Was my daughter actually planning on wearing my jeans to her junior college class? I wasn’t even thinking of the provocative nature of the outfit. Those jeans were mine. Mine damn it! The more I thought about her wiggling, jiggling and giggling in front of some boy with two first names wearing MY jeans, the angrier I got. 

“Can I have my lunch?” My nightmare was interrupted by Julie, tapping her foot beside me. She sighed her familiar sigh as she realized I had failed to make it.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I said, retrieving my purse. I pulled-out a five-dollar bill. “Here, grab yourself something to eat off-campus.”

Julie hesitated before taking it. “You’re going to let me eat off-campus?”

I had completely forgotten that, two-months prior, I had banned her from eating off-campus. (All too often, her lunch breaks extended well into her afternoon classes.) I was pleased at her honesty. Sara, who smacked her hand to her forehead, was amazed at her stupidity.

“Yes,” I said smiling. “This is your lucky day.”

“Cool!” Julie snatched the bill from my hand. “I can finally go to McDonalds with the girls. Eating tuna sandwiches in the cafeteria was ruining my social life.”

Did she say McDonalds? 

“Here,” I said, fishing another five-dollar bill from my purse. “Have a good lunch.”

Julie took the money with a smile and, after pausing to stick her tongue out at her sister, raced out the front door. Sara rolled her eyes, grabbed her books, and followed her out on the way to the bus stop.

Alone at last, I poured myself another cup of coffee, sat down at the table, and prepared to eat the last of my over-cooked creation. After poking the bread for a minute, Julie-like, I rose from the table and dumped the remainder down the disposal. I then retrieved a dusty cereal box from the pantry. 

As I forced down the stale and tasteless diet cereal, my mind worked overtime.

Those pants will be mine again. 

***

“Would you like the last donut, dear?”

It had been three-weeks since Julie first donned “the pants” as they had come to be known. They had quickly become her favorite jeans and she was wearing them several times a week. Did you wash “the pants,” Mom? I need “the pants” for my date with Hunter, Mom. Are “the pants” starting to look a little snug, Mom?

Actually, I just made that last one up. Call it wishful thinking. Although I contemplated shrinking the jeans in the wash, that would have shattered my dream of ever fitting into them again. As a result, I formulated an alternative plan.

“I’ll take it!” Sara exclaimed, grabbing for the box.

“Finish your fruit,” I said, yanking it away. 

I took the donut and handed it to Julie. “Here you go, sweetie.”

Julie grabbed it greedily, made a face at her sister, then shoved it into her mouth with an exaggerated “Mmmmm.”

I glanced under the table at Julie’s bare belly to see if there was any evidence as to where this, her third glazed donut, was setting up residence. There was none.

Julie puffed her cheeks at Sara as she chewed; an obvious display of gluttonous triumph at getting the last one. 

“The bulge of your cheeks goes with that bulge on your nose,” Sara said, referring to a bright-red pimple that was just beginning to break the surface of Julie’s button-nose. So far, it was the only visible evidence of Julie’s all-you-can-eat breakfasts, decadent dinners and ten-dollar-a-day McDonald’s lunches.

“Mom!” Julie exclaimed, rubbing the spot with a finger greasy from eating sausage links with her hands. “It isn’t that bad, is it?”

“It’s hardly noticeable.” 

I lied. The rosy blemish stood-out like the North Star on a moonless night against her otherwise flawless, milky-white skin. Though I was certain most mothers would have offered-up the same supportive, yet not altogether truthful answer, I couldn’t help but feel a little devious.

Still, it seemed to placate Julie who, after an obligatory wrinkle of her Rudolf-like nose at Sara, rose and prepared to leave for school. I watched intently as she headed for the door for signs--new bulges, creases, broken stitches, etc.--that would indicate “the pants” were fitting her like anything other than a custom-made glove. Not today. Between my daily cardboard-flake meals and Julie’s hummingbird-like metabolism, I was prepared to abandon my plan altogether…

“Y’know,” Sara said, as she watched her pretty older sister strut out the front door. “If Julie keeps eating like that, she’s going to turn into a real heifer.”

Coffee sprayed from my pursed lips. “Sara! That isn’t very nice!” 

I feigned indignance, but I could feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I quickly covered it with my napkin.

Sara shrugged and got up from the table. “Just stating a fact.” 

As she headed for the front door, she turned back to me. “That reminds me--Mom, have you lost weight?”

“Actually, I have,” I beamed. “About ten pounds so far. Thanks for noticing.”

“You look good.” Sara smiled and closed the door behind her.

That kid knew the right things to say. Suddenly, my efforts, which included a planned grapefruit lunch for myself and a chicken fried steak dinner for Julie, didn’t seem quite so futile. 

***

“Julie, there’s one more cinnamon roll. Don’t let it go to waste.”

“Believe me, that isn’t the only roll at this table,” Sara said, eying the fresh fold of fat that spilled-over her older sister’s pants. 

I shot her an evil look, but Sara just raised her eyebrows. “Of course, that one’s already gone to waist.” 

I couldn’t help but smile. That small roll of belly fat was the first sign my efforts weren’t as fruitless as one of Julie’s junk food-filled meals. Fortunately, Julie was too involved with finishing the last of her pancakes to process her sister’s gibes. 

“I can’t mom,” Julie said, her mouth still full. She leaned back in her chair and placed an open palm over her spongy belly as she chewed. 

I half-expected to see the indentation of her hand when she moved it away. “I need to save some room for my date with Hunter. He’s taking me to a fancy Italian place tonight.”

“That’s not until tonight,” I said, dangling the basket under her nose.

“Yeah,” Sara chimed-in. “Besides, you know Mom is on a diet. The least you could do is help her avoid temptation.”

“Then why don’t you eat it?” Julie shot back…along with a few crumbs that were still in her mouth.

“Tell you what, I’ll split it with you.” 

“Fine,” Julie said with smug satisfaction, before breaking the roll in half.

As Julie handed the smaller half to her sister, Sara flashed me a knowing smile, as if she realized she was about to take a fat-laden bullet for the team. I smiled back at my partner in crime. 

It was now two-months into “Operation: Retrieve my Jeans” and it seemed like everybody was an unwitting accomplice to my scheme: Julie’s girlfriends continued to influence her daily McDonalds binges; Hunter, her now-steady boyfriend, a football stud who burned a thousand calories a day at practice, often refilled his caloric well with rich meals shared with his not-nearly-as-active girlfriend; and Sara, who used to fight Julie tooth-and-nail for the last piece of pie, cake and candy, now gladly yielded to her big (and getting bigger) sister.

“Ugh, I can hardly move.” Julie rose from the table with a sluggishness that belied her youth. 

“I’ll just skip lunch today,” she said, adjusting her pants in a fit-like series yanks, tugs and gyrations. 

“Sure you will,” Sara said, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t do that, honey. That isn’t healthy.” 

I raced to my purse, rummaged past a ten and grabbed a twenty. “This is all I’ve got. Whatever you don’t spend on lunch, please bring me back.”

Julie’s eyes widened and she grabbed the bill. She must have expected me to change my mind, because she raced out the door as quickly as her jeans would allow. The pants still looked reasonably good when she stood (the roll around her waist disappeared…probably due to Julie sucking-in her stomach), but I could tell by the deliberateness of her gait that there was some serious pinching and poking going on underneath (feelings I was all to familiar with from my days with the pants). 

“You’ll never see your money again,” Sara said, shaking her head at my foolishness. “She’ll buy nineteen-dollars and ninety-nine cents-worth of food just to spite you.”

“That’s fine, honey.” I sipped my coffee and pleasantly pondered the possibility. 

Suddenly, Sara’s brow furrowed. “Mom, what’s going on?”

My heart raced. She was on to me. What should I say? I knew she delighted in the prospect of her older sister gaining-weight, but how would she react to knowing about her own mother’s hand in it? 

“You’re positively wasting away!” Sara said, eying my shrinking figure. “How much have you lost now?

“Close to twenty pounds,” I said, leaning against the counter to steady my nerves. “Does it show?”

“Absolutely.”

“I was a little worried. Julie hasn’t said anything.” 

“She’s got her own weight issues to worry about. I’ll bet she’s gained a pound for every one you’ve lost.”

“You think so?” Hearing someone else acknowledge my handiwork, both good and evil, made it all worthwhile. “Well, she’s still a growing girl.”

“I’ll say. She’s growing into a real blubber-butt.”

“Sara! Don’t talk about your sister like that.” I tried to sound mad, but failed miserably. I decided to push the envelope. “Do you think I should say something?”

“Why? She hasn’t said anything about your weight, why should you say anything about hers?” 

I nodded in agreement.

“At least wait a few weeks. I want to see her split the seams of your pants.”

So did I…So did I.


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## Observer (Jun 14, 2007)

*II &#8211; Results*

The next few weeks passed in a flurry. Every morning, I was up at the crack of dawn exploring the darkest recesses of my recipe collection for new creations for my growing girl. Crepes Suzette, eggs benedict, Western omelets--all found there way from skillet to gullet in record time. 

It was the happiest I’d been in years. 

In the past, I’d have been discouraged by the lack of vocal approval for my culinary efforts (my restaurant-worthy spreads garnered only the occasional grunt of satisfaction), but now simply watching Julie nosh multiple platefuls, as she slowly transitioned from ravenous to satiated to uncomfortably stuffed, was reward enough. More importantly, after two-months of frustration the fruits of my labor were really starting to show. 

She was great for my diet. Julie allowed me to indulge my passion for cooking rich roods…and eat them vicariously. If Weight Watchers had provided me a surrogate eater twenty-years ago, I never would have gotten so fat. Seeing firsthand the damage non-stop junk food was doing to Julie’s perfect figure was FAR better than any inspirational message or unflattering personal photo attached to the fridge. 

Her gain still wasn’t that noticeable in normal clothes (except in her boobs, which were expanding into D-cups even before she began her excessive gormandizing), but whenever she squeezed into my oh-so-fickle jeans, fifteen pounds might as well have been fifty. 

Yet, she kept wearing them. 

The unforgiving nature of the pants forced the extra sand in Julie’s hourglass to settle around her middle. Over time, the sensuous concave slopes that bridged the gap between Julie’s robust chest and shapely hips began to fill. It was subtle at first. Her curves didn’t seem quite as pronounced. Her tapered waist was no longer quite so tapered. 

Yet, she kept wearing them.

Then, as she shoveled in more and more “sand” (in the form of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hamburgers, French fries, milkshakes and other sundry snacks) the narrow artery of her waistband began to clog, turning her curves outward and spilling them over her belt like an overflowing dam. 

Yet, she kept wearing them!

By the end of the third month, frustration again began to set in. I never thought it would get to that point. For weeks, I had expected Julie to give up the ghost and either return the jeans to me, or relegate them to the bottom of her dresser drawer. What was wrong with her? Couldn’t she tell that “the pants”, which had begun revolting on her several weeks ago, were now simply, well…revolting? 

She was as stubborn as her Mother.

It had become a test of wills and, despite the supreme effort, I had no intention of admitting defeat. It wasn’t about just the pants anymore. To quit now would be to bow to Julie’s youth and beauty--something I had no intention of doing (especially after losing twenty-five pounds).

I just had to take it one donut at a time.


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## Observer (Jun 14, 2007)

*III - Victory*

“Where’s Julie?” Sara said, sipping her orange juice. “It’s not like her to miss a meal.”

It was 8:30, about the time Julie was usually heading to school, but she had still not come down for breakfast. 

“She was out late with Hunter,” Julie said, innocently twirling her long, blonde hair. 

“Maybe she’s still out with Hunter.” Eighteeen years old and my younger daughter was already a demagogue. 

Still, my motherly instincts forced me to investigate. As I tip-toed upstairs, I could hear grunts and groans emanating from Julie’s bedroom. By the time I had reached her door, they were of orgasmic proportions. I knew that Hunter Tyler was bad news!

I opened the door and peered in... 

As expected, Julie was undressed, lying flat on her back with her legs in the air--only Tyler wasn’t there. Rather than writhing around in bed with some teenage trouble-maker, she was writhing around with “the pants”…which were currently frozen halfway up her thighs. Time and again, she pulled and tugged the waistband, causing her belly fat to scrunch up against her bare and bulbous breasts which, flopped lazily across her torso, wiggled and jiggled with every moan-punctuated thrust. 

“MOM!” Julie screamed, spotting me over the crest of her belly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I stammered as I quickly shut the door. Embarrassed, I hastily retreated to the kitchen. 

Nevertheless, a twinge of excitement surged through me. I couldn’t stop thinking about how dramatically my daughter’s body had changed since the voluptuous vixen first donned my pants sixteen weeks ago. Her toned upper-arms had become meaty. Her sleek thighs, freed from the confines of “the pants”, shook flabbily. Her face, which had been losing its baby fat as she transitioned from cherubic girl to sharp-featured young woman, had softened again as if regressing back into puberty. I’d been hit with the naked truth: Julie was getting fat! 

As I ran my hand over my newly-taut stomach, I realized my struggle had finally reached its end. There was no way, after being embarrassed by her mother, Julie would come downstairs wearing those jeans ever again. Was there?

Thunk! Thunk! The rattling of the banister and the heavy thud of footsteps gave me my answer. 

Julie looked like the Bride of Frankenstein. The rigid construction of “the pants” caused her to sway left and right, legs-locked, as she slowly descended the stairs. If not for her jiggling belly and swaying breasts, she would have looked completely wooden. 

As she successfully reached the kitchen, Julie shot me a look that was equal parts smug satisfaction and “go to hell”. 

I couldn’t believe it. What a defiant little wench! If she wanted to do things the hard way, we’d do things the hard way. I held up the tin I had just pulled from the oven--

“Fresh muffin?” 

Sara, who had stopped eating to watch her big sister come down the stairs, immediately erupted in laughter.

“What’s so funny, fart-face?” Julie said, directing her evil eye to Sara.

“Nothing zit-face. I just appreciate irony.”

Even though my eighteen year-old didn’t yet have a complete grasp on the concept or definition of irony, it was clear my older daughter didn’t either, or else she might have realized her sister was referencing the dough-like flesh that spilled several inches over her waistband. 

“I do not have a zit face!” 

“I’m sorry; you’re right. That orange goop you put all over your face is the latest fashion trend.”

“Mom!” Julie immediately put her hands to her face, smearing the cream she had hastily applied to the pimples which had erupted across her forehead and chin, and which were threatening to invade her cheeks. 

“That’s enough you two. Sara, apologize to your sister.” Secretly, I was proud of my youngest daughter. Though she had no qualms insulting her sister’s newly-greasy complexion right to her blemished face, she was surprisingly discreet regarding her expanding waistline. 

“Soorrry,” Sara said in a sing-song tone, before whispering a chorus of “Do you know the Muffin (Wo)man?” 

As Sara softly serenaded her sister, I sipped my coffee and watched as my oldest daughter waddled through the kitchen. My embarrassment returned…only this time it was for her. 

Like a muffin from Sara’s song, Julie’s pasty flesh oozed up and over her waistband several inches, forming an umbrella of fat that circled her waist nearly 360 degrees. The only part of her belt to see sunlight was a small section along her back; however, this was due more to the dramatic swelling of her once-perky posterior than a lack of back fat. While her ample ass pulled her belt deep into her spongy stomach, it also tugged on the back of her waistband, causing it to pucker along her backside and afford a clear view of Julie’s over-taxed bikini briefs and growing butt crack (which, over the last few weeks, had risen faster than Mercury in a desert thermometer). Further down her legs, the increased girth of her thighs and calves stretched the indigo-colored fabric to a pale blue. 

She reminded me of a kielbasa on an open spit--I knew the casing was going to split, it was just a question of where and when. The way the button of her pants quivered delicately beneath her bulbous belly, I figured a single muffin might do the trick. 

“Honey, sit down. Enjoy your breakfast.” I waved the tin of muffins hypnotically in front of her.

“I can’t.” 

“What do you mean you can’t?” As I said it, it occurred to me that maybe Julie really couldn’t sit down.

“I’m late. Besides…” Julie started a deep breath, but thought better of it. “I’m on a diet!” 

My heart leapt to my throat. I was so close to my goal and yet it suddenly seemed further away than ever. Horrible images of Julie eating garden salads and shrinking back to perfection flashed in my mind. 

“A diet! You don’t need to diet.” I didn’t sound convincing.

“Thanks Mom, but I do.” Julie headed for the door.

“OK fine, but who starts a diet on Thursday? Sit down. We’ll start fresh Monday. Besides, I made your favorite--cinnamon rolls!” It was cruel, but I was desperate. 

Julie paused. Suddenly, a loud gurgle resonated through the kitchen. She placed a hand over her belly as if to mask the sound, then continued towards the door. “No, thank you. See you later!” 

Any chance of my plan succeeding was going out the door with her. I had to end things here and now. Her resolve seemed to great to risk letting her leave--

“JULIE!” 

I screamed far louder than I intended, but Julie stopped in her tracks. She turned and faced me with a hand on her hip. 

“Julie,” I said sweetly. “Before you leave, would you run upstairs and fetch my purse?”

“Mom!” Julie protested. “I’m already late!”

“Fine, I guess you don’t need lunch money. Y’know, salads are the most expensive things on the menu at McDonalds”

Julie rolled her eyes, then huffed to the stairs. She looked as if she wanted to run up them, but instead delicately lifted each leg to the side before slowly raising it to the next step. Sara and I watched expectantly as she waddled up the stairs like some zaftig Charlie Chaplin. 

To our amazement, she made it. Her return trip was equally painful to watch, but no more fruitful. What were those pants made from? Titanium?

“Here,” Julie said, handing me my purse with a huff (and an out-of-breath puff).

“Thank you, dear.” I rummaged through my purse, eventually finding the $100 bill that I’d hidden for a special day like today. “This is all I have.”

Julie’s eyes widened and she grabbed for the money with a speed I’d not seen in months. The bill slipped from my hand fell to the floor with Julie in hot pursuit.

Pop! Snap! Rrrrriiiiiiip! 

Julie jolted upright, leaving the bill on the floor. Her belly, no longer constrained, spilled-out between the zippered flaps of her jeans. She immediately grabbed the flaps and tried to close them, but the button was gone. Tears welling, Julie raced up the stairs--revealing a giant tear in the seam along her backside. As she trudged, the rip ran (much faster than she did, incidentally), eventually reaching as high as her back pockets. The last thing I saw, as Julie slammed the door to her room, was the pale moon of her backside poking through the gaping hole.

I retrieved the button that had ricocheted across the kitchen floor and gave it a gentle kiss…

The pants again were mine.


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## Observer (Jun 14, 2007)

*IV &#8211; Aftermath *

“Let me refresh that plate for you, dear.”

Julie handed me the crumb-filled plate that had been teetering on the crest of her bloated belly as she lay on the couch. “Thanks, Mom.” 

She flicked a few rogue crumbs from her stomach, sending them rolling down the significant slope. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

I smiled, patted her on the head, and went to retrieve more cookies. This was the first Saturday night Julie had spent at home since she was fifteen. Hunter had broken up with her a few days ago and, though she sat by the phone, none of her girlfriends had called to ask her out or offer condolences. As a result, she was spending the night on the sofa drowning her sorrows in Snickerdoodles and Julia Robert’s movies. It felt nice having my daughter home with me. 

“Wow! That’s too many,” Julie said, delicately balancing the heaping plate atop her stomach upon my return. After careful consideration, she removed one from the stack like she was playing a game of junk food Jenga.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back to eat a few myself.” That’s what I had said before the last plateful and had yet to have one. I started to return to the kitchen, but Julie stopped me-- 

“Mom?” 

“Yes, dear?”

Julie hesitated, then swallowed hard. “Those pants really look good on you.” 

“Why thank you sweetie.” I did a little pirouette. “They’re actually a little loose on me now. I had no idea I’d lost so much. Or maybe you just stretched them out a bit? Either way, they stitched-up nicely, didn’t they?”

“Mmmm, hmmm.” Julie quickly grabbed two more cookies and shoved them in her mouth as fresh tears began to well. 

“Aw Honey, don’t cry.” Suddenly, the doorbell rang. “Why, I’ll bet that’s one of your friends right now. Eat your cookies and I’ll go let them in.” 

Only it wasn’t a friend--

It was Hunter Tyler.

“Hi Mrs. B, I just wanted to return this to Julie.” 

He handed me her favorite white Cardigan. “She threw this at me a couple nights ago.”

“You want me to get her?”

“No,” Hunter said, looking over his shoulder. “I need to get going.” 

Behind him, his 1973 Chevy convertible sat idly…as did a nubile-looking blonde in the passenger’s seat. 

“Well, she’ll be happy to have this back. It’s her favorite.” I examined the sweater, then slowly began to put it on. “I’m actually a little surprised she can still wear it. She’s put on a little &#8216;Winter weight.’” 

“I noticed. Are those her pants?”

“Why, yes. Actually, they’re MY pants. I just let her borrow them for a bit.” 

I ran my thumbs along the inside of the waistband, pushing them a little lower across my hips. “What do you think?” 

“You…look good,” Hunter stammered. “REALLY good!” I was making Hunter uncomfortable. I liked it.

“You really think so?” I decided to push the envelope. “You don’t think I’m a little too old for these?”

“No way! They actually look better on you.”

“You’re so sweet.” I gave him a wink. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Julie you said that.”

Hunter coyly looked away before shooting me an “aw, shucks” grin. He was too cute.

HONK! A goose-like blare shot from Hunter’s car. 

“Hunter!” his date shouted. “We have to go!” She sounded as shrill as the horn.

“I have to, um, go.” Hunter slowly backed his way down the driveway. “I’ll check and see if I have any more of Julie’s stuff.”

“Goodnight.” I leaned against the doorframe and watched Hunter get in the car. After getting an earful from his date, he revved the engine and peeled-off in an overt display of machismo. 

As I shut the door, I realized Julie was right--

Hunter Tyler did like all things retro. 

“Where’d you get that?” Julie mumbled upon my return. She had already eaten most of the cookies.

“Hunter brought this back to you.” I pulled the sweater’s tapered waist down over my hips. “Doesn’t it flatter my figure?”

“Did he…” Julie’s blue eyes again welled with tears. “…ask for me?” 

"No Hon, he wasn’t alone.”

Julie lifted her head from the sofa pillow, causing a double-chin to halo her cherubic face. “Was she pretty?”

I decided to throw a lifeline to my blubbering lump of a daughter. “Not nearly as pretty as you, sweetie.” 

I played with her hair; it was as greasy as her complexion. “It’s Hunter’s own fault if he can’t appreciate a girl of your…substance.”

“Thanks, mom,” Julie sniffled. “Can I have my sweater?”

“I thought I might borrow it for awhile,” I said, straightening the collar. “It’s perfect with these jeans. Besides, do you really want to wear something that reminds you of Hunter?”

“I guess not,” Julie sniffled. 

“I have a few sweaters upstairs you can borrow.” I scoured her figure. “They’re stretchy.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Julie said, as yet another cookie passed her lips. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, honey.” She hadn’t told me that in years. 

I should have been on cloud nine, but as I returned to the kitchen, I suddenly felt hollow. I wasn’t sure why. Sure, my daughter was still getting fat, but why should I feel guilty for that? Maybe I wasn’t the best influence with my steak and egg breakfasts; twenty-dollar McDonald’s lunches, or fried chicken and mashed potatoes dinners, but it wasn’t like I was forcing food down her throat. Is it wrong for a Mother to want to make sure her children are well-fed? She’s a growing girl and needs her food. 

Besides, I still have a pound or two to lose--who else will eat all the pie, cake and ice cream we have left in the house? Better it stick to her hips than mine. She has that youthful metabolism on her side. Why, I’ll bet the thirty-plus pounds she’s gained will melt right off her in a few days. In fact, I bet she’d be able to lose fifty pounds in no time. Even seventy-five, or one-hundred! 

Hmm, one-hundred pounds… 

“Ready for more cookies, Julie?” I offered


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## Observer (Jun 14, 2007)

*V Aftermath &#8211; the alternate ending*

“Let me refresh that plate for you, dear.”

Julie handed me the crumb-filled plate that had been teetering on the crest of her bloated belly as she lay on the couch. “Thanks, Mom.” 

She flicked a few rogue crumbs from her stomach, sending them rolling down the significant slope. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

I smiled, patted her on the head, and went to retrieve more cookies. This was the first Saturday night Julie had spent at home since she was fifteen. She was spending the night on the sofa enjoying Snickerdoodles and Julia Robert’s movies. It felt nice having my daughter home with me. 

“Wow! That’s too many,” Julie said, delicately balancing the heaping plate atop her stomach upon my return. After careful consideration, she removed one from the stack like she was playing a game of junk food Jenga.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back to eat a few myself.” That’s what I had said before the last plateful and had yet to have one. I started to return to the kitchen, but Julie stopped me-- 

“Mom?” 

“Yes, dear?”

Julie hesitated, then swallowed hard. “Those pants really look good on you.” 

“Why thank you sweetie.” I did a little pirouette. “They’re actually a little loose on me now. I had no idea I’d lost so much. Or maybe you just stretched them out a bit? Either way, they stitched-up nicely, didn’t they?”

“Mmmm, hmmm.” Julie quickly grabbed two more cookies and shoved them in her mouth. ” 

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. 

Only it wasn’t a friend--

It was Hunter Tyler, returning a sweater. He had a skinny minx waiting in his car. I knew what had happened between him and Julie and thought he had a lot of nerve showing up.
He’d been happy enough encouraging Julie’s appetite and she’d thought he approved of her bulging waistline. But when I’d given her the hundred dollars she told him what had happened with the jeans and, laughing it off, tried to treat him to a dinner. His reaction was the opposite of what she had expected. 

Instead of accepting her invitation he got flustered and suggested that instead of food maybe she needed to cut back a bit &#8211; even lose weight. He thought her dieting was a great idea. Seems he’d been taking some flack from his teammates and was feeling embarrassed.

Julie had gotten angry. Her only reason for dieting was to fit into the jeans, not because she minded being bigger.

“You sure weren’t embarrassed plying me with pizza and triple scoop sundaes &#8211; I thought you were a cool guy who liked a few curves on a woman, not one concerned about the opinions of your buddies! Thanks for showing your true colors!"

With that she’d given him the boot &#8211; grinding it in by immediately taking Jeremy Swanson, a nice boy and known chubby chaser out instead. He'd been pestering her for a date and appreciated her new lifestyle. She later confessed to me what she’d done that night and I told her I was proud of her taking such a stand. They’d been an item for two weeks now. 

Now Tyler stood in the doorway. 

“Hi Mrs. B, I just wanted to return this to Julie.” 

He handed me Julie’s favorite white Cardigan. “She threw this at me a couple weeks ago.”

“You want me to get her?”

“No,” Hunter said, looking over his shoulder. “I need to get going.” 

Behind him, his 1973 Chevy convertible sat idly…as did a nubile-looking blonde in the passenger’s seat. 

“Where’d you get that?” Julie mumbled upon my return. She had already eaten most of the cookies. She’d been eating steadily for two weeks.

“Hunter brought it back to you.” I pulled the sweater’s tapered waist down over my hips I played with her hair and threw her a compliment. “It’s too bad he couldn’t appreciate a girl of your…substance.”

“Thanks, mom, but Jeremy’s cool. I know that I’m happier this way.” Julie replied, “and you can borrow the sweater if you want.”

I knew she was telling me she knew it wouldn’t fit any more. 

“I have a few sweaters upstairs you can borrow.” I scoured her figure. “They’re stretchy.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Julie said, as yet another cookie passed her lips. “I love you.” 

She hadn’t told me that in years.

“I love you too, honey.” 

I realized that my daughter felt closer to me now that she was fat. I wondered if I should feel guilty for my role in encourafing her size. Maybe I wasn’t the best influence with my steak and egg breakfasts; enabling super-sized McDonald’s lunches, or serving luscious fried chicken and mashed potatoes dinners, but it wasn’t like I was forcing food down her throat. Is it wrong for a Mother to want to make sure her children are well-fed and happy? Both she and her sister were growing girls and needed their food, I rationalized. 

It of course wasn't just me. Sara had certainly been doing her part. If I’d been making big meals it was Sara’s enjoyment of making after school goodies that she could share with her big sister in the evening that had also stretched Julie’s belly. And her new beau was making her happy as well &#8211; he even came to the house and cooked bar-b-que chicken for the family. The only negative was my husband. He never said a word about Julie or Sara, but didn’t seem happy with my loss.

I began to examine my own motives. Bob had always said my weight never bothered him. I was the one always trying to diet and declining his offers to go out to dinner. He’d buy fattening things if I let him do any shopping &#8211;which is why over the years I'd usually insisted on doing that task. 

The next week I made a point of getting up at 5:00 and making good breakfasts for him and me to test his reaction. At first he was puzzled, even asked if something was wrong.

“Yes,” I said, ”a mother shouldn’t cook better for her kids than she does for her husband and herself. I realize I may have been slighting you.”

He was non-plussed, at a loss for words. 

Finally he stammered out, “Its taken a lot of years for you to say that &#8211; but I hope that opinion stays. Does that mean you’re canceling your diet?”

“It hasn’t made you any happier &#8211; and it didn’t bring all that I had expected either. I see how happy Julie and Sara are being heavier and its been getting me thinking.”

“Does that mean I can finally take this family to restaurants without you just eating a salad?”

“If there’s room you can even get me to share dessert,” I grinned.

With this policy in place you know what happened. Within a year I’d regained the lost pounds and six months later was even with Julie. We went to a large size shop and bought matching mother/daughter outfits in size 20. My husband has let Jeremy know he appreciates his treating Julie so grandly. As for the jeans, they’re again retired from service - they don't fit either Julie or I and Sara’s too big for them as well.


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## StrugglingWriter (Jun 15, 2007)

Excellent writing.

I much prefer the first version. The narrator is not a good person, and that ending is more consistent with her personality. There's nothing in the story that would suggest she would suddenly have an interest in how others want her to be or that she would suddenly stop being enamored with her own thinness. The other ending is too, er, correctly politically incorrect.


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## Observer (Jun 15, 2007)

I'm not sure its fair to call the mom "not a good person;" after all, she wasn't forcing food on snyone, just teaching a needed lesson that also addressed her own pique. But you have a valid point - the alternate ending would work better if parts of the earlier sections were modified so that there were actually two versions of the entire story. 

This story is presently on three otherr sites that I know of - in all of them the desire for an ending or sequel that would address certain unresolved issues in the original was expressed. The alternate ending used here was a composite of suggestions from those sources


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## BellySpongelover (Jun 15, 2007)

I myself much prefered the first more open ended ending, but I give you props for appeasing others with a second.

Still a great work.


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## hydraman18 (Jun 15, 2007)

I like the second ending, personally. The first one seemed a bit too mean-spirited for me, but I guess it comes down to a matter of taste; some people prefer revenge-style stories, some don't. Neither ending is right or wrong; people will prefer one or the other based upon their personal preferences, and now they can choose between them. Everybody wins!!! 

One thing though - the second ending has a few typos in it; I noticed one at the end of the paragraph where the daughter starts dating her new boyfriend. I think it should be 'an' item for two weeks instead of 'at'.

*Thank you and corrected; I caught two others as well - if you see any more please send me a PM - Observer*


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## Tornald (Jun 15, 2007)

Great story! 

I prefer the first ending. I like revenge-style stories, so the whole story I like very much.


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## BTB (Jun 16, 2007)

Enjoyable story, I reather do enjoy the first ending, also I see potential for sequel with the second daughter.


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## The Id (Jun 20, 2007)

As I said to you elsewhere, ending one is much more in keeping with the spirit of the peace. Not as involved as some of your other works, but still a notch above the majority of the work I see. My hat's off to you once more.


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## Britt Reid (May 25, 2011)

Another age-updated classic newly restored to the archive with a "bump".


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## jenemc (Mar 31, 2015)

I think it would have been interesting if the mom revenge-fattened Hunter


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