Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~~WG, Romance. Cultural differences add spice and unexpected discoveries to a romance.
Gee, Rina giggled. I look pregnant.
Having laid waste to a prodigious Thanksgiving dinner, Rina and I had retired to the basement spare bedroom and were changing into more comfortable clothes.
I finished tugging off my tie and turned to look. Sure enough, my bronzed beauty beautifully shaped arms and legs, lush bosom and hips, an hourglass figure topped with thick, shining black hair razor-cut into an artful shoulder-brushing do.
And a belly that instead of nipping in at the waist as usual appeared thrust startlingly outward. Bloated and swollen, Rinas belly was positively round. Curious, I rested my fingertips gently on the suddenly convex, visibly stretched skin of her tummy. It was firm and warm. I spread my fingers, laying my palm flat. There was no give at all to her usually soft and supple belly-button region. Instead, her midsection was tautly distended, ballooning out between her bra and panties, which suddenly appeared much too small.
I raised my eyebrows. How much did you eat?
Rina giggled again and poked at my shirt. Less than you, buddy. Facing me, she planted her bare feet, now free of her high-heeled shoes, and began slowly unbuttoning my shirt.
Rina was half-Iranian, all gorgeous, and my girlfriend of almost a year. We had met at an office Christmas party. Her full name was Sabrina Tahirih Rose McMahon. She was twenty-three, and already associate director of logistics for our international furniture company of which I was one of the associates in the legal department.
Her mother, Firuzeh Rostami, had been a brilliant student of astrophysics who had won a graduate fellowship to Stanford University, where she had met, captivated, and married Jonathan St. John McMahon, then a lecturer in evolution and behavior of natural populations in Stanfords biology department. Can you say IQ?
Firuzeh thoroughly enjoyed blending East and West, in dress, home decorating, habits, and the kitchen, with the result that she had presented a tremendous spread that incorporated all of the American traditional dishes along with half a dozen Iranian ones.
If Rina was stuffed, I was perilously close to bursting, filled to the eyebrows with turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes along with mirza ghasemi, borani esfanaaj, and poore seeb-jamini. Along with a disgracefully large slice of pumpkin pie and an equally disgraceful serving of ghotaab.
Less than you, buddy, she repeated, giving my own swollen and aching belly much too hard a poke with one elegant maroon-nail-tipped finger.
Now she applied herself to unfastening my belt, which I had already let out a couple of notches, and with a good deal more effort my khakis, which had fit that morning. Swear.
I glanced down. Instead of seeing my feet, I now saw my own belly, gorged and taut, a bloated and tender twin to Rinas. I belched, my overloaded stomachs response to having the pressure removed from too-tight belt and trousers.
Am I pregnant? I let my eyes widen and stifled the next belch, which tasted of eggplant. Or are you? I poked hers and felt again, with the same surprise, how firm it was. On an unspoken impulse we both padded over to the mirror and stood side by side.
It was well, impressive. On both of us, I could actually see where our waistlines normally fell and the faintest of indentations that marked the beginning of our feast-filled bellies, as every available inch of flesh had been stretched to capacity. Rinas normally delectable innie was a slit; my otherwise standard-issue navel marginally an outie had popped out like the valve on a beach ball. An apt simile, as my gut now resembled one.
Rina hiccupped, giggling at the visible disruption in her tautly distended tummy. The giggling, her trademark response, made her hiccup again, perpetuating a cycle that left her leaning weakly on my shoulder, knees bent and feet tangled. I turned her around and led us both to the ancient double bed, where we sank with caution onto the sagging mattress.
Ohhhh, Rina groaned. She rested a delicate long-fingered hand on her belly, now compressed by having sat down. She made a face. Ooh, my stomach.
I was lying flat on my back, my bleary gaze barely comprehending my protruding gut that filled my vision, naked and pale. Arms and legs spread out like a starfish, I closed my eyes and grimaced as I felt a long, heavily churning slosh within. My overworked stomach, packed to the brim, was making a heroic effort to move some of the food therein down the pipe. I belched.
We lay there for several uncounted minutes or hours lost in a haze of sated stupefaction. At length I rested my hand on Rinas belly again and let my fingers drift upward. Aha. A breast, round and ripe as a peach, filled my palm softly. MMMmmm.
Rina giggled, then groaned. Mm. Too full to move. Hic.
I was, too, but one specific part of me apparently was not already engorged enough and was rapidly working to rectify that. I slowly turned on my side, stifling the belch that rose up with the inevitable sloshing and churning. Rina, her large dusky eyelids with insanely long lashes fluttering at half staff, turned slowly as if on a spindle, a sunflower moving toward the light.
We moaned in unison as our glutted and distended bellies met, gently compressing each other. Somehow, working blindly, our midsections too swollen for us to see anything, we fitted ourselves together in the age-old pattern. To my surprise, I found my usual pleasure in the act enhanced by our achingly full bellies. I would have, if asked, firmly rejected the thought of any pressure on my tum, but we were both pressed against each other, and the gentle all-over weight felt marvelous. Like a skillful massage, the pressure delivered warmth, light movement, and featherweight touch, prolonging and heightening the lazy glutted satiation the dinner had produced. The aspect of being so stuffed that felt dopily satisfying was being enhanced by the act in which we were engaged.
Evidently Rina felt the same way. When it was over, we lay on our sides, face to face, our ankles loosely tangled.
Gee, Rina said, slowly and throatily. She slid a hand down to her rosily bronzed tummy, now faintly damp with perspiration. That was wonderful.
I didnt hurt you? You know pressing down on you?
Rinas large eyes widened. You know, you didnt. That was almost the best part. Almost, and she giggled again. Her finger poked my belly button.
Yeah, it felt really good, I agreed. I laid my own hand on my stomach, now a little softer but still warmly stuffed and bulging. Reluctantly, we got up, knowing that if we stayed in bed we were likely to fall asleep; instead we dressed and went back upstairs for the hours of socializing still ahead.
I proposed to Rina at Nowruz, the Iranian New Year, which comes in spring. And immediately, even before planning the wedding, her parents started planning a betrothal trip to see the relatives still in Iran. It was September before we could manage to get the same ten days off from work.
As part of the planning, Rina led me to a website post by Hamid Taghavi warning of the Iranian hospitality attack.
He really means it about the food, she said, and giggled. Be prepared to burst at every stop.
My mind flashed back to Thanksgiving, and I blushed hotly. So did she. Then she giggled.
As it turned out, she wasnt kidding. I was not best pleased that, in deference to the custom of the country, she dressed herself in long, covering-up abayas and head scarves, but by the end of our stay I would be envying her the absence of waistbands.
We flew in to Tehran and caught a commuter flight for Shiraz, where most of her relatives still in-country were living.
One of us, Im not sure which one, accidentally made eye contact with a man in the airport, and after a ten-minute greeting, he insisted on taking us to lunch. Two hours later, stuffed to the eyebrows as I was, I nevertheless managed to out-grab him for the check. I only pinched him twice.
Rina was not in the least perturbed at the delay in getting to her aunts house. They know only that we are due today. I knew there would be no point in naming a time as there would almost certainly be some sort of delay. This speech was delivered in short, breathless bursts, her hands cradling her swollen tummy, in the back seat of a taxi.
Although she was cool about the delay, Rina had forgotten that of course of course as soon as we did arrive, we would be treated to a lavish meal. It was inevitable. There was no hope of getting out of the impromptu lunch with the stranger from the airport, and there was no good explaining that wed just eaten. Even I knew that.
Fortunately, the greetings took up at least twenty or thirty minutes there were easily a dozen or more relatives to hand which bought us a little time. Even so, I was already full when we settled onto soft cushions and the meal began.
Forewarned, I took care to eat very very slowly so as to minimize the chance of being caught with an empty plate which of course would have to be refilled.
Remember that I had already consumed an enormous meal as it was, and yet I knew how important it was to do justice to Rinas aunts hospitality.
I was torn between desire and distress. Torn between the Nirvana of each crumbly or creamy or spicy or silky mouthful and the way I could feel my gorged belly, my swollen waist, inch forward with each swallow. I was full, I was stuffed, I was bursting, I was crying out for relief and I wanted another taste and another taste and another taste.
Paused to reconnoiter. And found myself piling up my plate again. I was full and I knew it, God Almighty, did I know it. I savored the taste of a mouthful swallowed let out a little groan at the impact of even one more bite of food on my aching and painfully stuffed belly felt my sides stretch and pull felt the warmth as my overloaded stomach, already full to the very brim, accepted one more morsel closed my eyes as a momentary light-headedness made my head swim I was dizzy with repletion, too stuffed to move, glutted and gorged and sated to my eyebrows
It was midnight, or thereabouts, before the meal finally wound down. My sides pulled heavily, stretched and sore as my midsection swelled outward to accommodate my bellys overtaxed capacity. The delicious food had been crammed into every spare inch of my stomach and was fighting to make its way into the intestines. I was ready to burst, my midsection stretched perilously across the gorged distention of thousands of delectable calories. My ears buzzed, my face flushed, I was stupefied and dopey, all of the blood racing toward the abdominal pile-up.
My belly ached, my gut exquisitely, tenderly sore, so bloated and stuffed it had become a fragile thing, a massive soap bubble at risk of popping at the slightest quiver.
In endless slow motion I hauled myself into an approximation of the vertical. My face was beaded with perspiration, my massively gorged belly so laden and weighed down that it was an effort to stand, especially from a floor cushion. I raised an eyebrow at Rina, who had been enjoying the feast as much as I had, and envied that abaya, the loose flowing drape of fabric with no waistband, no pressure anywhere.
I was in a haze of discomfort and it felt marvelous. Sated and dazed, I was dimly aware of the physical sensations of my stomach stuffed to bursting, my belly threatening to pop, my sides straining, my whole body flushed and heavy and warm. Oh God, it felt amazing! I was stupefied, I was gorged, I couldnt walk if my life depended on it and I didnt care. I just wanted to spend the rest of my days sprawled on a bed or a sofa somewhere, pinned down by the glorious weight of my feast, reveling in the planetary sensation of the globe pinned to me.
Mmmm. Hic. It felt wonderful to slowly and lightly massage the enormously gorged and aching mountain that was my midriff. Tight, stretched, warm and heavy, my gut was gloriously sated, weighing me down and easing me into hibernation. I was stocked up, I was primal, I could sleep the winter through, full to my eyeballs, logy and gurgling and sodden with food, all of it spicy and warm and delicious.
Naturally, when we finally retired to our (separate) bedrooms, it didnt take long for me to find Rina and for us to couple, slowly and silently, mindful of others in the house, longing for the pressing, the gentle all-over weight, the stuffed-belly massage.
The only saving grace in that visit was the light breakfast that was traditional. We would go out to visit this or that relative and be greeted with a midday meal (think 11 oclock to 2 oclock), recover for a few hours, go on to the next relative and be greeted with the evening meal, and finally make our way back to Rinas aunts house in the wee hours, bloated and glutted and happily dizzy with food. And, as silently as we could manage, make love, reveling in the pressure, the warmth, the heightened pleasure of coupling on a full stomach.
Upon our return, we both went clothes shopping.
The wedding itself took place the following April. We held a ceremony at Westwood Hills Christian Church, Rina dressed in an Ann Taylor gown, followed by the Sofreh Aghd, the Iranian ceremony. The marriage contract was read, traditional prayers recited, the pretended absence of the bride and the final, With the permission of my parents, yes.
Then came the Jashn-e-Aroosi, the reception. Guess how long that lasts? Three to seven days. Days. Among other things, it enabled Rina to switch to several beautiful abayas.
I want so lucky I wore a tux. Whats funny? The guy helping me at the tux store was Iranian-American.
These trousers are a little loose, he said doubtfully. We might want to go down a size.
I glanced at him. Were having a Sofreh Aghd, I told him. And a Jashn-e-Aroosi.
He looked me up and down. Checked the waistband. Frowned thoughtfully.
Maybe, he said, Maybe well go up a size.
East Meets West
Gee, Rina giggled. I look pregnant.
Having laid waste to a prodigious Thanksgiving dinner, Rina and I had retired to the basement spare bedroom and were changing into more comfortable clothes.
I finished tugging off my tie and turned to look. Sure enough, my bronzed beauty beautifully shaped arms and legs, lush bosom and hips, an hourglass figure topped with thick, shining black hair razor-cut into an artful shoulder-brushing do.
And a belly that instead of nipping in at the waist as usual appeared thrust startlingly outward. Bloated and swollen, Rinas belly was positively round. Curious, I rested my fingertips gently on the suddenly convex, visibly stretched skin of her tummy. It was firm and warm. I spread my fingers, laying my palm flat. There was no give at all to her usually soft and supple belly-button region. Instead, her midsection was tautly distended, ballooning out between her bra and panties, which suddenly appeared much too small.
I raised my eyebrows. How much did you eat?
Rina giggled again and poked at my shirt. Less than you, buddy. Facing me, she planted her bare feet, now free of her high-heeled shoes, and began slowly unbuttoning my shirt.
Rina was half-Iranian, all gorgeous, and my girlfriend of almost a year. We had met at an office Christmas party. Her full name was Sabrina Tahirih Rose McMahon. She was twenty-three, and already associate director of logistics for our international furniture company of which I was one of the associates in the legal department.
Her mother, Firuzeh Rostami, had been a brilliant student of astrophysics who had won a graduate fellowship to Stanford University, where she had met, captivated, and married Jonathan St. John McMahon, then a lecturer in evolution and behavior of natural populations in Stanfords biology department. Can you say IQ?
Firuzeh thoroughly enjoyed blending East and West, in dress, home decorating, habits, and the kitchen, with the result that she had presented a tremendous spread that incorporated all of the American traditional dishes along with half a dozen Iranian ones.
If Rina was stuffed, I was perilously close to bursting, filled to the eyebrows with turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes along with mirza ghasemi, borani esfanaaj, and poore seeb-jamini. Along with a disgracefully large slice of pumpkin pie and an equally disgraceful serving of ghotaab.
Less than you, buddy, she repeated, giving my own swollen and aching belly much too hard a poke with one elegant maroon-nail-tipped finger.
Now she applied herself to unfastening my belt, which I had already let out a couple of notches, and with a good deal more effort my khakis, which had fit that morning. Swear.
I glanced down. Instead of seeing my feet, I now saw my own belly, gorged and taut, a bloated and tender twin to Rinas. I belched, my overloaded stomachs response to having the pressure removed from too-tight belt and trousers.
Am I pregnant? I let my eyes widen and stifled the next belch, which tasted of eggplant. Or are you? I poked hers and felt again, with the same surprise, how firm it was. On an unspoken impulse we both padded over to the mirror and stood side by side.
It was well, impressive. On both of us, I could actually see where our waistlines normally fell and the faintest of indentations that marked the beginning of our feast-filled bellies, as every available inch of flesh had been stretched to capacity. Rinas normally delectable innie was a slit; my otherwise standard-issue navel marginally an outie had popped out like the valve on a beach ball. An apt simile, as my gut now resembled one.
Rina hiccupped, giggling at the visible disruption in her tautly distended tummy. The giggling, her trademark response, made her hiccup again, perpetuating a cycle that left her leaning weakly on my shoulder, knees bent and feet tangled. I turned her around and led us both to the ancient double bed, where we sank with caution onto the sagging mattress.
Ohhhh, Rina groaned. She rested a delicate long-fingered hand on her belly, now compressed by having sat down. She made a face. Ooh, my stomach.
I was lying flat on my back, my bleary gaze barely comprehending my protruding gut that filled my vision, naked and pale. Arms and legs spread out like a starfish, I closed my eyes and grimaced as I felt a long, heavily churning slosh within. My overworked stomach, packed to the brim, was making a heroic effort to move some of the food therein down the pipe. I belched.
We lay there for several uncounted minutes or hours lost in a haze of sated stupefaction. At length I rested my hand on Rinas belly again and let my fingers drift upward. Aha. A breast, round and ripe as a peach, filled my palm softly. MMMmmm.
Rina giggled, then groaned. Mm. Too full to move. Hic.
I was, too, but one specific part of me apparently was not already engorged enough and was rapidly working to rectify that. I slowly turned on my side, stifling the belch that rose up with the inevitable sloshing and churning. Rina, her large dusky eyelids with insanely long lashes fluttering at half staff, turned slowly as if on a spindle, a sunflower moving toward the light.
We moaned in unison as our glutted and distended bellies met, gently compressing each other. Somehow, working blindly, our midsections too swollen for us to see anything, we fitted ourselves together in the age-old pattern. To my surprise, I found my usual pleasure in the act enhanced by our achingly full bellies. I would have, if asked, firmly rejected the thought of any pressure on my tum, but we were both pressed against each other, and the gentle all-over weight felt marvelous. Like a skillful massage, the pressure delivered warmth, light movement, and featherweight touch, prolonging and heightening the lazy glutted satiation the dinner had produced. The aspect of being so stuffed that felt dopily satisfying was being enhanced by the act in which we were engaged.
Evidently Rina felt the same way. When it was over, we lay on our sides, face to face, our ankles loosely tangled.
Gee, Rina said, slowly and throatily. She slid a hand down to her rosily bronzed tummy, now faintly damp with perspiration. That was wonderful.
I didnt hurt you? You know pressing down on you?
Rinas large eyes widened. You know, you didnt. That was almost the best part. Almost, and she giggled again. Her finger poked my belly button.
Yeah, it felt really good, I agreed. I laid my own hand on my stomach, now a little softer but still warmly stuffed and bulging. Reluctantly, we got up, knowing that if we stayed in bed we were likely to fall asleep; instead we dressed and went back upstairs for the hours of socializing still ahead.
I proposed to Rina at Nowruz, the Iranian New Year, which comes in spring. And immediately, even before planning the wedding, her parents started planning a betrothal trip to see the relatives still in Iran. It was September before we could manage to get the same ten days off from work.
As part of the planning, Rina led me to a website post by Hamid Taghavi warning of the Iranian hospitality attack.
He really means it about the food, she said, and giggled. Be prepared to burst at every stop.
My mind flashed back to Thanksgiving, and I blushed hotly. So did she. Then she giggled.
As it turned out, she wasnt kidding. I was not best pleased that, in deference to the custom of the country, she dressed herself in long, covering-up abayas and head scarves, but by the end of our stay I would be envying her the absence of waistbands.
We flew in to Tehran and caught a commuter flight for Shiraz, where most of her relatives still in-country were living.
One of us, Im not sure which one, accidentally made eye contact with a man in the airport, and after a ten-minute greeting, he insisted on taking us to lunch. Two hours later, stuffed to the eyebrows as I was, I nevertheless managed to out-grab him for the check. I only pinched him twice.
Rina was not in the least perturbed at the delay in getting to her aunts house. They know only that we are due today. I knew there would be no point in naming a time as there would almost certainly be some sort of delay. This speech was delivered in short, breathless bursts, her hands cradling her swollen tummy, in the back seat of a taxi.
Although she was cool about the delay, Rina had forgotten that of course of course as soon as we did arrive, we would be treated to a lavish meal. It was inevitable. There was no hope of getting out of the impromptu lunch with the stranger from the airport, and there was no good explaining that wed just eaten. Even I knew that.
Fortunately, the greetings took up at least twenty or thirty minutes there were easily a dozen or more relatives to hand which bought us a little time. Even so, I was already full when we settled onto soft cushions and the meal began.
Forewarned, I took care to eat very very slowly so as to minimize the chance of being caught with an empty plate which of course would have to be refilled.
Remember that I had already consumed an enormous meal as it was, and yet I knew how important it was to do justice to Rinas aunts hospitality.
I was torn between desire and distress. Torn between the Nirvana of each crumbly or creamy or spicy or silky mouthful and the way I could feel my gorged belly, my swollen waist, inch forward with each swallow. I was full, I was stuffed, I was bursting, I was crying out for relief and I wanted another taste and another taste and another taste.
Paused to reconnoiter. And found myself piling up my plate again. I was full and I knew it, God Almighty, did I know it. I savored the taste of a mouthful swallowed let out a little groan at the impact of even one more bite of food on my aching and painfully stuffed belly felt my sides stretch and pull felt the warmth as my overloaded stomach, already full to the very brim, accepted one more morsel closed my eyes as a momentary light-headedness made my head swim I was dizzy with repletion, too stuffed to move, glutted and gorged and sated to my eyebrows
It was midnight, or thereabouts, before the meal finally wound down. My sides pulled heavily, stretched and sore as my midsection swelled outward to accommodate my bellys overtaxed capacity. The delicious food had been crammed into every spare inch of my stomach and was fighting to make its way into the intestines. I was ready to burst, my midsection stretched perilously across the gorged distention of thousands of delectable calories. My ears buzzed, my face flushed, I was stupefied and dopey, all of the blood racing toward the abdominal pile-up.
My belly ached, my gut exquisitely, tenderly sore, so bloated and stuffed it had become a fragile thing, a massive soap bubble at risk of popping at the slightest quiver.
In endless slow motion I hauled myself into an approximation of the vertical. My face was beaded with perspiration, my massively gorged belly so laden and weighed down that it was an effort to stand, especially from a floor cushion. I raised an eyebrow at Rina, who had been enjoying the feast as much as I had, and envied that abaya, the loose flowing drape of fabric with no waistband, no pressure anywhere.
I was in a haze of discomfort and it felt marvelous. Sated and dazed, I was dimly aware of the physical sensations of my stomach stuffed to bursting, my belly threatening to pop, my sides straining, my whole body flushed and heavy and warm. Oh God, it felt amazing! I was stupefied, I was gorged, I couldnt walk if my life depended on it and I didnt care. I just wanted to spend the rest of my days sprawled on a bed or a sofa somewhere, pinned down by the glorious weight of my feast, reveling in the planetary sensation of the globe pinned to me.
Mmmm. Hic. It felt wonderful to slowly and lightly massage the enormously gorged and aching mountain that was my midriff. Tight, stretched, warm and heavy, my gut was gloriously sated, weighing me down and easing me into hibernation. I was stocked up, I was primal, I could sleep the winter through, full to my eyeballs, logy and gurgling and sodden with food, all of it spicy and warm and delicious.
Naturally, when we finally retired to our (separate) bedrooms, it didnt take long for me to find Rina and for us to couple, slowly and silently, mindful of others in the house, longing for the pressing, the gentle all-over weight, the stuffed-belly massage.
The only saving grace in that visit was the light breakfast that was traditional. We would go out to visit this or that relative and be greeted with a midday meal (think 11 oclock to 2 oclock), recover for a few hours, go on to the next relative and be greeted with the evening meal, and finally make our way back to Rinas aunts house in the wee hours, bloated and glutted and happily dizzy with food. And, as silently as we could manage, make love, reveling in the pressure, the warmth, the heightened pleasure of coupling on a full stomach.
Upon our return, we both went clothes shopping.
The wedding itself took place the following April. We held a ceremony at Westwood Hills Christian Church, Rina dressed in an Ann Taylor gown, followed by the Sofreh Aghd, the Iranian ceremony. The marriage contract was read, traditional prayers recited, the pretended absence of the bride and the final, With the permission of my parents, yes.
Then came the Jashn-e-Aroosi, the reception. Guess how long that lasts? Three to seven days. Days. Among other things, it enabled Rina to switch to several beautiful abayas.
I want so lucky I wore a tux. Whats funny? The guy helping me at the tux store was Iranian-American.
These trousers are a little loose, he said doubtfully. We might want to go down a size.
I glanced at him. Were having a Sofreh Aghd, I told him. And a Jashn-e-Aroosi.
He looked me up and down. Checked the waistband. Frowned thoughtfully.
Maybe, he said, Maybe well go up a size.
