Brownie Points - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, Romance)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BHM, Romance - School science teacher gains more than a bit of a belly.

Brownie Points
by Big Beautiful Dreamer​

I arched my back, groaning at the satisfying pull and stretch, as I rinsed the shampoo from my hair. Eyes closed, I pressed my fists into my back, then, still arched, slid a hand up and down my belly.

Whoa.

I blinked shampoo from my eyes and looked down. I was getting a definite pot there. It wasn’t all that hard to figure out why, unfortunately.

In college, I’d downed my share of pizza and beer, but also done my share of jogging and intramural football. It had been the latter that had wrecked my knee in my senior year, putting an end to jogging.

I’d taught for a couple of years, then jumped ship for a much better paying job in curriculum development, saving up for graduate school, five more years of canned tuna and ramen noodles before I finally had enough to live on. Then two grueling years for the master’s degree. Back on a campus, I’d returned to the beer and the pizza, only without the jogging or football, and I wasn’t nineteen anymore. The carbs and fat had started to catch up with me, so that by the time I graduated I had gotten used to seeing my stomach rolling over my jeans a little. Of course, I’d also eaten a lot of fast food – I wasn’t much of a cook.

I’d gotten the job I’d wanted, teaching high school chemistry and physics, a little over a year ago. At once I’d rediscovered a perk I’d forgotten about teaching: almost every day there was a foil-wrapped paper plate in the teacher’s lounge, covering some chocolate chip cookies or bundt cake or oatmeal-raisin bars. There were sixty teachers on the staff of this large consolidated school, and seemingly at least half of them saw baking as a serious avocation.

Fine by me.

Of course, that also meant that the little roll over my jeans – now traded in for khakis – was noticeably ballooning. I was developing an undeniable spare tire, my midriff a downslope from my pecs – which were beginning to soften – down to my belt, which was getting almost too small.

I blinked. The water was turning cool. I shook my head briskly and finished showering as quickly as I could, watched the news while gulping down coffee and a couple of microwaved Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits, then trotted to the Metro.

At my free period, third, I sauntered down toward the lounge, intending to grab a cup of coffee and a goody and head back. I tried to be in my classroom for students who might have questions or problems.

The foil had already been peeled back, revealing some absolutely huge and delicious-looking brownies. Mmmmm. I picked one up and took a big bite, unthinkingly moaning in pleasure.

“Thank you,” a voice said in my ear.

The speaker was someone I hadn’t seen before, a woman in her mid-twenties, five five or five six with a shoulder-length chestnut pageboy. She had a rosy, heart-shaped face and was wearing a dark blue dress that appealingly showcased a lovely set of curves.

“I’m Catherine Erickson,” she said, extending a hand.

“Mmf.” I swallowed. “Ethan Boyd.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, a smile dimpling her face. “I’m filling in for Mrs. Bates on maternity leave.”

“She’s out on that leave already?” I asked, surprised.

“She’s having complications,” Martin Borwick put in. He taught modern history. “They say it’s definitely twins, maybe even triplets.”

“Wow.” I swallowed another large bite of brownie. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Miss Erickson.”

“You too. Would you like another brownie?”

How had my hand become empty? I grabbed two more, then excused myself. As I had expected, Josh Klingman was waiting for me. Josh tried, he really did, but chemistry was eluding him, and his grade was skating along a low C minus. He often came in for tutoring.

I gave him the remaining forty minutes, but abstractedly, my stomach warmly full of coffee and three monster brownies and my brain full of Catherine Erickson. I uncharitably hoped for Mrs. Bates’ pregnancy to be followed by a decision to stay at home for a year or two. The bell rang, and I headed back to the teachers’ lounge for lunch.

As I walked in, I was surprised and pleased to see Catherine Erickson taking a seat. That’s right, she’d have the same free and lunch periods as the teacher she was replacing. Hooray. Without even meaning to, I sucked in my gut, hoping not to look so averagely pudgy, as I fished out my brown paper bag.

Bologna and cheese, corn chips, and a Coke. Whee. Then a hand set a large brownie on my flattened bag.

“I saved you one,” the owner of the hand said. “And please, call me Cathy.”

Lunch suddenly got a lot better.

After school, I headed toward the auditorium, where I volunteered my services as rehearsal pianist. The fall play was “Carousel,” and it was to the point that there were few stops and starts. I played through “When I Marry Mr. Snow” and “If I loved Him,” my mind on Cathy.

Damn. If I was going to hold her interest – which I desperately wanted to do – I’d better peel off the developing paunch. I resolved to keep away from the foil-covered plates in future.

Easier said. As I’d noted, Cathy was far from the only baker in the school, and the closer we got to Christmas, the more frequent the plates’ appearance became. Plus there was the post-dress-rehearsal party, the faculty party, the post-performance parties, the cast party, and by the time it was finally the last day of the semester, all I could do was be relieved that I would have two weeks away from the faculty lounge. Slowly but steadily, from Thanksgiving break till semester's end, my waistline had thickened, my pot visibly swelling. I was half afraid I’d split my khakis any day now just by sitting down.

I had no problem with my resolution until I drove home to my folks’ on the 23rd. As always, the house was overflowing with Christmas goodies, all the stuff I’d grown up with and was now nostalgic for. And after five days of being very stringent, I was starving. My stomach growled the minute I got in the house.

And Christmas dinner? Well. Mom, Dad, my sister and brother-in-law, my brother, just six of us, but Mom made enough for fifteen or twenty people, and we all did our fair share of damage. I’d eaten more than enough and was starting to feel full, but I still wanted just another little helping of everything. I pressed a hand to my swelling stomach and suppressed a belch. What the heck. It was Christmas. My belly was beyond full, stretched and aching, my shirt tugging snugly across my bloated abdomen and my sides pulling heavily, and I wasn’t sure I could swallow another bite, but I wanted those tastes in my mouth just one more time... and one more ... and one more ...

I stared dazedly at the traces on my plate. I was about to pop. How had I eaten so much? My distended belly, heavily aching, protruded tautly, well proud of the waistband of my jeans, which pressed far too tightly against my stuffed and gurgling stomach. I hiccupped sharply as I hauled myself to my feet and fumbled my jeans open. Undoing the button didn’t make as much difference as I’d hoped, and I let out a groan as I tried to stretch. My stomach was so hugely full it hurt to move. Gingerly I rubbed it. It felt firm and warm, and my hand slid futilely across my shirt.

“Uff–hic–ohhh,” I grunted. “Stuffed.”

“Whew, me too–urp... urp... ah, scuse me,” my brother, Derek, contributed. We waddled dopily toward the living room behind Pop, sinking with caution onto the bagged-out sofa. I was afraid I’d rupture something if I made any sudden moves. I reclined, stretching my sock feet out, and rested a hand on my roundly protruding belly, taut and tender.

“Ohhh–urrrrp. Scuse me.” That was my brother-in-law, David, who’d claimed one of the easy chairs. He had slid a hand down the front of his khakis, and his normally modest belly was also visibly rounded and firm. My sister, Vicki, who perched on the arm of the chair, took a mild swipe at him.

“You pig,” she scolded good-naturedly.

“Should’t–mrp–have brought your corn casserole,” he said, yawning hugely.

“Or your po–hic–potatoes–hic-ow!” I grimaced and rubbed my diaphragm. “Oough.”

Vicki laughed. “You’re all pigs.”

Derek made oinking noises, superseded by a large belch.

“Whoo.” Vicki fanned her hand in front of her face. “I’m outta here.” She paused to drape a blanket over Pop, who was already dozing.

Later, as we started to recover, I confided in Derek. “I swore I’d try to lose a little weight over break.” I rubbed my aching belly. “There’s this new teacher at school.”

“Oh, new girl, huh?” Derek winked. “Yeah, you’re really taking off the pounds there, bro.”

“Oh–hic–shut up.” I made a face.

Needless to say, I did not return to school with a newly trim waist, as I’d hoped. Instead, I returned hoping that my new khakis – with a waist size of 36 (36!) – would flatter my steadily thickening waist and ballooning paunch.

My classroom door, as they all did, had a drop box fastened to it for papers and memos. As I fished out the new semester’s haul, I first had to take out a foil-wrapped package.

I opened it. Those brownies. Oho.

I ate one before first period, one after first period, and one more after second period before heading to the lounge. To my surprise, Cathy gave me no more than the briefest of greetings and devoted most of the time I was there to looking at the drama teacher’s holiday snapshots. It was with hesitation that I dropped a note of thanks in her drop box for the brownies.

After that, there was a package in my drop box a couple of times a week, and I always wrote her a note of thanks, but otherwise, we barely exchanged more than hellos.

I was big-time confused. If my shlumpy profile didn’t turn her off, why wouldn’t she talk to me? And if it did, did she think brownies would help matters? They weren’t. In fact, within a month the new khakis were infuriatingly snug. I was eating my weight in brownies each week, and I watched, seemingly helplessly, as my waistline inched broader, the love handles grew plumper, my chest flabbed, my spare tire became a double stack.

Just before spring break, I oh so casually asked Cathy for her plans.

“Oh – nothing much,” she said idly. I lowered my voice.

“Could I ... call you? Maybe ... we could have ... dinner.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Call me.”

Duh! I finally got it. High schools are hotbeds of gossip, retailed by teachers as much as by students. I still remembered my own eighth grade year, when the ninth-grade history teacher had had an affair with the newly married eighth-grade English teacher. She’d later left her husband for him. Hot stuff.

I did call her, and she agreed to a date at a popular restaurant outside of town. The awkwardness I’d been sensing was gone. She was wearing a clinging blue dress that, well, clung, and when she hugged me, her hands lingered on the love handles that squashed over my khakis. Clearly, it was just that she didn’t want to be grist for the gossip mill.

Still, I felt unsure of myself, and downed a couple of glasses of wine too quickly, which loosened my inhibitions and my tongue.

“I like you a lot,” I confessed, breaking apart another roll and watching the steam rise. “But I got to say, I’m a little confused.”

There went those dimples again. “I like you too.” She took a large mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Mmmmm. Now, what are you confused about, Mr. Science Guy?”

I blinked. “Well ... when you first came, I ... well ... I kind of had a little, y’know, pot belly. I tried to lose it, but someone keeps feeding me brownies, and ... well ... Cathy, I’m getting fat.” To my horror I felt a catch in my throat and hastily gulped some more wine.

Cathy impulsively reached across and put her hand on mine. “Ethan. Ethan. You grow more attractive to me every day. I’ve always liked big guys.”

The bell in my head went off. “You’re fattening me up on purpose.”

“The better to ... eat you, my dear,” Cathy said, mischievously. She picked up her fork. “Now clean your plate so we can have some dessert.”

Unthinkingly I groaned. I’d eaten and drunk far too much already, and my stomach was achingly stuffed, the buttons of my shirt straining and my khakis threatening to burst. My head was fuzzy and swimming, but in my distended and half-sloshed condition I still heard the unmistakable invitation she’d issued.

I let Cathy order us desserts, and watched with interest as a large slab of cake disappeared from my plate and a large dish of ice cream disappeared from the bowl in front of Cathy. She was looking flushed and contented, and when she stood I saw that the dress was now positively tight against her full and bloated midsection. Her chest rose provocatively, pulling the drape of that dress snug, and the fabric hugged her backside, caressing her curves.

It looked good on her.

I was meanwhile embarrassed. The buttons of my shirt were visibly pulled tight, gaps appearing between each little sentinel, and the waistband of my khakis was strained almost to bursting across a swollen and engorged gut. Cathy saw me standing, post-meal, and her eyes grew starry. She leaned against me and rested a hand on my aching and protruding belly as if it were a pillow.

“Take me home,” she murmured.

In my bedroom, she was revealed in the lamplight as a goddess, her breasts full and round, her tummy rosy and damp, full and gravid, tautly pear-like. She looked like harvest, fertility, plenitude, and I longed to hold her in my arms.

Slowly, languidly, she wrestled open each of my shirt buttons. She tugged the khakis undone with an effort and slid a hand down my boxers. Ohhhhh. I fell back onto the bed, then groaned at the heavy slosh and churn of my overloaded stomach. In an instant, Cathy was beside me. She gently massaged my tautly bloated belly. I felt myself drifting, felt Cathy’s full and distended tummy pressed to mine and it felt wonderful. We became intimate slowly, deeply, and afterward slept damply entwined in each other’s arms.

In the morning, in each other’s arms, we talked.

“I love your big warm belly, your strong protecting arms, the embrace of your middle, the way I feel swallowed up in you,” she said. “I love that you love my curves. I’d ... um ... I’d love to see you get even bigger,” she murmured.

“It’s going to take a lot more brownies,” I murmured back. If Cathy loved my ballooning figure, the rest of the world mattered not at all. She was my world.

By next year's spring break, it was time for Cathy to take her own maternity leave. I had reveled in my lovely wife's blossoming, in cradling and embracing her steadily enlarging tummy and breasts. She claimed to revel in the way I managed to keep my waistline as large as hers. And if it ever threatened to shrink, all she had to do was make a few more batches of brownies.

 

[fat hiker]

 

[berlin-girl]

 

[maxoutfa]

 

[fatmac]