Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, Stuffing, ~Sex - The best thing about a pleasure cruise is the eating!
I was bored. My girlfriend was babbling on about something, but I wasnt listening, because either she had become shallow or I had become unbearably cynical, or a little of both. Mechanically I scraped my plate. It was lifted away from me and another huge square of lasagna put down. Carly might be shallow, but she was an almighty good cook, which made sense, since she made her living as a personal chef.
Are you listening? Oops. I looked up with my mouth full and sauce rimming my lips. The deer in the headlights look gave me away.
I said, Carly repeated, are we going on a cruise or not? I had a feeling I had missed something important. When in doubt, play along. I swallowed the mouthful.
Mmf. Okay, I mumbled. Carlys face lit up. She poured me more wine and placed another couple of slices of garlic bread on my plate. She started talking about departure and booking rooms and on and on. I waved my fork dismissively. Whatever. I wanted to concentrate on the lasagna.
After dinner, which had finished up with apple cobbler, Carly snuggled next to me on the leather sofa. I lay back, my sock feet on the coffee table. The lasagna was so good that I had overeaten and my stomach ached. My eyes closed, I lazily massaged my bulging belly, jeans unbuttoned, feeling it grumble and groan as I digested. Carly, as usual, had maintained a ratio of about 90 percent talking to about 10 percent eating and had had a cup of coffee while I savored dessert.
Then Carly was resting a cool hand on my warm, engorged tummy, tickling my belly button, gently pressing my bloated midriff.
Oof, dont, I groaned. I stifled a belch.
Come on, Carly said insistently, evidently having been urging whatever-it-was for some time. Reluctantly, I let her tug me to my feet, lurching and almost falling into the coffee table. Id been nearly asleep. My overloaded belly sloshed heavily and audibly, making Carly giggle. I let her lead me to the bedroom and undress me. She knelt on the bed and slowly, teasingly, stripped for me the way we both enjoyed, though I was too full to feel much of anything else; still, other parts of me obediently responded. Carly gently lowered herself onto me, and I inadvertently let out a grunt at the feel of her slight weight on my swollen and aching stomach. After a minute, though, it actually felt good. I stifled several belches and began to respond to Carlys activities. My belly smooshed below her, I began to enjoy the rhythmic massage of her body, the rise and fall of my flesh, the steady movement of her hips on me, the growing pressure that burst into release. I kept going, though, until I heard her groans and saw Carlys face grow flushed, her eyes bleary, her smile goofy.
Afterward, we lay damply in the sheets, her head on my chest, her hand absently resting on my full belly.
A cruise, eh?
Yup.
Why?
Well, why not? Carly replied. I couldnt think of an answer.
Eight weeks later, sunscreen thick on my pale face, I was on the deck of a cruise ship, leaning on the rail and gazing into the ocean. The engines were thrumming and the cruise was about to get underway. Carly leaned next to me, wearing a French-cut turquoise maillot and a turquoise and white sarong. I swept her into an embrace. This could be fun, I mumbled. Just then my stomach growled, making us both laugh.
Carly was a little standoffish about food, sometimes claiming that cooking all the time made eating less interesting, but also, I thought, vain about her
figure.
Must be the sea air.
My eyes widened as Carly sat down next to me that first breakfast with her plate heaped with a mountain of fruits and breads. It was piled almost as high as mine. Ah well . . . bet she wouldnt get as many refills.
She matched me plate for plate. After a while, it became clear that it was some sort of game for Carly, and I silently took up the challenge. She talked as much as ever, but mostly with her mouth full, which was somehow cute on her. I was growing stuffed, but I wanted now to make Carly give in. I shifted in my seat and coaxed up a small belch, then gulped some water.
Slowly, steadily, I emptied the latest plateful of eggs, sausage, waffles, and syrup. Oof. Carly met my gaze and forked the last strawberry off my plate. I estimated that I had eaten close to a dozen eggs, four waffles (five?), countless links of sausage, all atop a mountain of fruit and pastry. Thank goodness for coffee. I swallowed the last of my cup and thought about getting more, but it was too much trouble.
I suppressed a belch and slowly rose, leaning on the table. Ow, my stomach ached! I rested a hand on my swollen midsection, groaning aloud at the tug and warm heaviness of it. The weight of all I had eaten was dragging me down and it hurt to straighten up. At the same time, the warm, sleepy, sated feeling was cozy and frankly enjoyable. I looked at Carly. She was in similar straits, her cotton sundress pulled snug across a visibly bulging belly, her face flushed and the blond hair around her brow damp with perspiration. Wordlessly she took my offered arm and we staggered back to our stateroom, where we huffed and puffed our way out of our clothes and sank naked onto the cool, crisp white sheets.
I closed my eyes and this time did not suppress the belch. What was that? I mumbled.
Breakfast (hic!), Carly mumbled, her voice thickly drowsy.
No, I said. You ... ate ... I was dopey with satiation, too stoned on food to form a coherent thought.
Carly hiccupped again. Oh. (Hic!) That.
I rested my hand on her tautly distended tummy, warm and firm, gently rising and falling with her breathing. Through my blurred vision, I was enjoying the view of her peachy skin, the unexpected round tightness of her belly, the soft warmth of her hips.
That, I repeated.
Well. . . Carly drawled. Cruise ships are all about the food ... right? How often do I get to have all my meals cooked by someone else? I figured that for once in my professional life ... Im going to enjoy it! My love had eaten so much that this surprising statement came out in short scraps, interrupted by pauses for breath and the occasional hiccup, which made her diaphragm flutter enticingly beneath my hand.
She poked at my belly button. Whats your excuse?
Caught off guard, I intelligently replied, Huh?
Owen? Did you, or did you not, clear that place out of eggs and waffles?
Guilty, I mumbled, punctuating my plea with a belch. Not as good as yours ... must be ... the sea air. Yeah, thats the ticket.
She snorted and poked my belly button again. Lets just see who needs a new swimsuit first, Shamu. This was said so good humoredly, and followed up with such a warm soft kiss, that I almost didnt mind.
We drifted off to sleep, awakened some time later that something or other was being served in the second dining hall on the B deck.
Wuzzat? s lunch already? Carly woke reluctantly.
Didnt catch all of it, I admitted sleepily. Lunch, or something, on the B
deck.
Carly sat up with renewed energy. Well, lets go! She slid her sundress back on and paced as I dressed.
The something was neither breakfast nor lunch but intended as a tiding-over sort of affair. We both did some damage, although I at least was still stuffed from breakfast, and afterward changed into our swimsuits, sunscreened up, and grabbed a couple of deck chairs. Every once in a while a waiter came by and brought us drinks. Between the sun and the alcohol, by the time it was actually lunchtime I thought it might be a good idea to get some food into my tummy. You know, just to soak up all that rum.
I wont bore you with endless descriptions of the days that followed, which were blessedly free of actual activities and marked by so many mealtimes I lost count. I ate and drank enough for several lifetimes. Carly didnt try to match me plate for plate anymore, but she ate like a hollow-legged teenage boy rather than a slender 25-year-old professional. Of course, neither of us could be described as hollow after two weeks of imitating Garfield (eat ... sleep ... eat ... sleep ... with, of course, some exercise in the bed).
I had given in after the first week and bought a bathing suit with a more forgiving waistband, as my own waistline was beginning to resemble the Equator. Carly lasted only two more days, but one afternoon after several rum punches she sort of lurched out of her deck chair and blew our the hind seam of her bathing suit. Her sarong more or less covered the damage, but she had to shell out for a larger suit, this one slimming black.
We spent most of the time in our stateroom sans clothes, allowing me to appreciate the changing topography of my sweetheart. Her visible rib cage had vanished beneath a thin, golden layer of torso; her concave belly now curved into a gorgeous little roundness that was irresistible for squeezing, cuddling, kissing, and burying my face in. The back realm had softened and broadened ever so slightly and her legs were no longer bony but softly curvaceous. Her breasts had ripened like soft glowing peaches, and Id swear that her face was a little softer too; her cheekbones now played hide and seek, which I found endlessly enticing.
I dont know, frankly, what changes the cruise meals had wrought in me, other than a steadily thickening waistline and distressingly visible belly, but
something about the cruise, or the food, or something had turned Carly into a flat-out fiend. I was being jumped from behind a couple of times a day and could not fall into bed without being teased, enchanted, and begged into intimacy (as if I minded!). As much as I enjoyed playing with her new tummy, Carly enjoyed playing with mine, and she massaged, poked, squeezed, grabbed, rubbed, cuddled and kissed my newly acquired pot belly and love handles so much that there were times when I would swear she all but forgot about points south.
She always remembered, though.
On the last night, the cruise ship outdid itself with the departure buffet. Carly and I agreed that everything looked outstanding, and we ate as though we would never see food again. I scarfed down three platefuls of different entrees and vegetables and breads before beginning to feel full, but there was so much more to taste. I started to serve myself smaller portions, but there was so much variety my plate was still piled high. I leaned back in my seat and coaxed up a small belch. I glanced at Carly. Her face was getting flushed, but ...
Beef Wellington, she groaned, and they have tilapia with saffron rice.
Together we hauled ourselves up and waddled back for more.
Cruising into Pleasure
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
I was bored. My girlfriend was babbling on about something, but I wasnt listening, because either she had become shallow or I had become unbearably cynical, or a little of both. Mechanically I scraped my plate. It was lifted away from me and another huge square of lasagna put down. Carly might be shallow, but she was an almighty good cook, which made sense, since she made her living as a personal chef.
Are you listening? Oops. I looked up with my mouth full and sauce rimming my lips. The deer in the headlights look gave me away.
I said, Carly repeated, are we going on a cruise or not? I had a feeling I had missed something important. When in doubt, play along. I swallowed the mouthful.
Mmf. Okay, I mumbled. Carlys face lit up. She poured me more wine and placed another couple of slices of garlic bread on my plate. She started talking about departure and booking rooms and on and on. I waved my fork dismissively. Whatever. I wanted to concentrate on the lasagna.
After dinner, which had finished up with apple cobbler, Carly snuggled next to me on the leather sofa. I lay back, my sock feet on the coffee table. The lasagna was so good that I had overeaten and my stomach ached. My eyes closed, I lazily massaged my bulging belly, jeans unbuttoned, feeling it grumble and groan as I digested. Carly, as usual, had maintained a ratio of about 90 percent talking to about 10 percent eating and had had a cup of coffee while I savored dessert.
Then Carly was resting a cool hand on my warm, engorged tummy, tickling my belly button, gently pressing my bloated midriff.
Oof, dont, I groaned. I stifled a belch.
Come on, Carly said insistently, evidently having been urging whatever-it-was for some time. Reluctantly, I let her tug me to my feet, lurching and almost falling into the coffee table. Id been nearly asleep. My overloaded belly sloshed heavily and audibly, making Carly giggle. I let her lead me to the bedroom and undress me. She knelt on the bed and slowly, teasingly, stripped for me the way we both enjoyed, though I was too full to feel much of anything else; still, other parts of me obediently responded. Carly gently lowered herself onto me, and I inadvertently let out a grunt at the feel of her slight weight on my swollen and aching stomach. After a minute, though, it actually felt good. I stifled several belches and began to respond to Carlys activities. My belly smooshed below her, I began to enjoy the rhythmic massage of her body, the rise and fall of my flesh, the steady movement of her hips on me, the growing pressure that burst into release. I kept going, though, until I heard her groans and saw Carlys face grow flushed, her eyes bleary, her smile goofy.
Afterward, we lay damply in the sheets, her head on my chest, her hand absently resting on my full belly.
A cruise, eh?
Yup.
Why?
Well, why not? Carly replied. I couldnt think of an answer.
Eight weeks later, sunscreen thick on my pale face, I was on the deck of a cruise ship, leaning on the rail and gazing into the ocean. The engines were thrumming and the cruise was about to get underway. Carly leaned next to me, wearing a French-cut turquoise maillot and a turquoise and white sarong. I swept her into an embrace. This could be fun, I mumbled. Just then my stomach growled, making us both laugh.
Carly was a little standoffish about food, sometimes claiming that cooking all the time made eating less interesting, but also, I thought, vain about her
figure.
Must be the sea air.
My eyes widened as Carly sat down next to me that first breakfast with her plate heaped with a mountain of fruits and breads. It was piled almost as high as mine. Ah well . . . bet she wouldnt get as many refills.
She matched me plate for plate. After a while, it became clear that it was some sort of game for Carly, and I silently took up the challenge. She talked as much as ever, but mostly with her mouth full, which was somehow cute on her. I was growing stuffed, but I wanted now to make Carly give in. I shifted in my seat and coaxed up a small belch, then gulped some water.
Slowly, steadily, I emptied the latest plateful of eggs, sausage, waffles, and syrup. Oof. Carly met my gaze and forked the last strawberry off my plate. I estimated that I had eaten close to a dozen eggs, four waffles (five?), countless links of sausage, all atop a mountain of fruit and pastry. Thank goodness for coffee. I swallowed the last of my cup and thought about getting more, but it was too much trouble.
I suppressed a belch and slowly rose, leaning on the table. Ow, my stomach ached! I rested a hand on my swollen midsection, groaning aloud at the tug and warm heaviness of it. The weight of all I had eaten was dragging me down and it hurt to straighten up. At the same time, the warm, sleepy, sated feeling was cozy and frankly enjoyable. I looked at Carly. She was in similar straits, her cotton sundress pulled snug across a visibly bulging belly, her face flushed and the blond hair around her brow damp with perspiration. Wordlessly she took my offered arm and we staggered back to our stateroom, where we huffed and puffed our way out of our clothes and sank naked onto the cool, crisp white sheets.
I closed my eyes and this time did not suppress the belch. What was that? I mumbled.
Breakfast (hic!), Carly mumbled, her voice thickly drowsy.
No, I said. You ... ate ... I was dopey with satiation, too stoned on food to form a coherent thought.
Carly hiccupped again. Oh. (Hic!) That.
I rested my hand on her tautly distended tummy, warm and firm, gently rising and falling with her breathing. Through my blurred vision, I was enjoying the view of her peachy skin, the unexpected round tightness of her belly, the soft warmth of her hips.
That, I repeated.
Well. . . Carly drawled. Cruise ships are all about the food ... right? How often do I get to have all my meals cooked by someone else? I figured that for once in my professional life ... Im going to enjoy it! My love had eaten so much that this surprising statement came out in short scraps, interrupted by pauses for breath and the occasional hiccup, which made her diaphragm flutter enticingly beneath my hand.
She poked at my belly button. Whats your excuse?
Caught off guard, I intelligently replied, Huh?
Owen? Did you, or did you not, clear that place out of eggs and waffles?
Guilty, I mumbled, punctuating my plea with a belch. Not as good as yours ... must be ... the sea air. Yeah, thats the ticket.
She snorted and poked my belly button again. Lets just see who needs a new swimsuit first, Shamu. This was said so good humoredly, and followed up with such a warm soft kiss, that I almost didnt mind.
We drifted off to sleep, awakened some time later that something or other was being served in the second dining hall on the B deck.
Wuzzat? s lunch already? Carly woke reluctantly.
Didnt catch all of it, I admitted sleepily. Lunch, or something, on the B
deck.
Carly sat up with renewed energy. Well, lets go! She slid her sundress back on and paced as I dressed.
The something was neither breakfast nor lunch but intended as a tiding-over sort of affair. We both did some damage, although I at least was still stuffed from breakfast, and afterward changed into our swimsuits, sunscreened up, and grabbed a couple of deck chairs. Every once in a while a waiter came by and brought us drinks. Between the sun and the alcohol, by the time it was actually lunchtime I thought it might be a good idea to get some food into my tummy. You know, just to soak up all that rum.
I wont bore you with endless descriptions of the days that followed, which were blessedly free of actual activities and marked by so many mealtimes I lost count. I ate and drank enough for several lifetimes. Carly didnt try to match me plate for plate anymore, but she ate like a hollow-legged teenage boy rather than a slender 25-year-old professional. Of course, neither of us could be described as hollow after two weeks of imitating Garfield (eat ... sleep ... eat ... sleep ... with, of course, some exercise in the bed).
I had given in after the first week and bought a bathing suit with a more forgiving waistband, as my own waistline was beginning to resemble the Equator. Carly lasted only two more days, but one afternoon after several rum punches she sort of lurched out of her deck chair and blew our the hind seam of her bathing suit. Her sarong more or less covered the damage, but she had to shell out for a larger suit, this one slimming black.
We spent most of the time in our stateroom sans clothes, allowing me to appreciate the changing topography of my sweetheart. Her visible rib cage had vanished beneath a thin, golden layer of torso; her concave belly now curved into a gorgeous little roundness that was irresistible for squeezing, cuddling, kissing, and burying my face in. The back realm had softened and broadened ever so slightly and her legs were no longer bony but softly curvaceous. Her breasts had ripened like soft glowing peaches, and Id swear that her face was a little softer too; her cheekbones now played hide and seek, which I found endlessly enticing.
I dont know, frankly, what changes the cruise meals had wrought in me, other than a steadily thickening waistline and distressingly visible belly, but
something about the cruise, or the food, or something had turned Carly into a flat-out fiend. I was being jumped from behind a couple of times a day and could not fall into bed without being teased, enchanted, and begged into intimacy (as if I minded!). As much as I enjoyed playing with her new tummy, Carly enjoyed playing with mine, and she massaged, poked, squeezed, grabbed, rubbed, cuddled and kissed my newly acquired pot belly and love handles so much that there were times when I would swear she all but forgot about points south.
She always remembered, though.
On the last night, the cruise ship outdid itself with the departure buffet. Carly and I agreed that everything looked outstanding, and we ate as though we would never see food again. I scarfed down three platefuls of different entrees and vegetables and breads before beginning to feel full, but there was so much more to taste. I started to serve myself smaller portions, but there was so much variety my plate was still piled high. I leaned back in my seat and coaxed up a small belch. I glanced at Carly. Her face was getting flushed, but ...
Beef Wellington, she groaned, and they have tilapia with saffron rice.
Together we hauled ourselves up and waddled back for more.
