From the Heart (land) - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~~WG, ~BBW, ~BHM )

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~~WG, ~BBW, ~BHM - A young couple's love grows as do their waistlines during the holiday season.

From the Heart(land)
By: Big Beautiful Dreamer​

It was a modest belch that broke my concentration. I looked down at my plate and noticed with surprise that there was nothing on it. Well, except for traces of gravy, cranberry sauce, a skid of marshmallow and sweet potato, a few crumbs.

A second belch called my attention to my stomach. My aching stomach. I was stuffed; why hadn’t I noticed how full my belly was getting? Another bite of anything and I would pop. Maybe lying down would be a little more comfortable. Yeah, that suddenly sounded really good, except that it involved moving, and I was absolutely too full to move. Cautiously I leaned back in my chair and glanced down. My belly wasn’t usually quite that visible. Just at the moment it was protruding well into my field of vision, the ribbing of my sweater pulled tight across the post-dinner bloat.

Surreptitiously I glanced around. Everyone else seemed to be wearing that glazed, stupefied look I was sure my own face bore. Someone was shaking my shoulder. That had to stop. I jerked awake.

“Huh!”

“Josh, wake up.” Sophie was leaning over me. “You’ll feel better if you go grab a recliner in the den.”

Yeah – but that meant standing up. I could feel Sophie hovering. I braced my hands on the table and put my biceps to work. Oof. There. I was vertical, sort of. I started to straighten up. Bad idea. My stomach was so gorged and tender that it felt a little better slouched over. I felt Sophie take my arm the way I’d seen her take her grandfather’s and shuffled down the hallway at about Grandpop’s rate of locomotion until I reached the den.

Her dad’s den, an addition to the house a few years ago, was his residential triumph. It was a large, surprisingly airy, comfortable room with large comfortable seating. Her dad, brothers, uncle, and grandpop were all arrayed in chairs and on sofas, all slumped back and looking drowsily replete.

I braced my hands on the arms of an ancient club chair recovered in striped ticking and slowly lowered myself into it. I slid down, maneuvered my feet onto the stool, and rested my hands on my protruding and distended midsection.

I let my belt out a notch ... then another notch ... then let it all the way open. It eased some of the immediate pressure but I was still uncomfortably squished. I struggled the hook of my khakis open and slid the zipper down.

Ahhh. That was the ticket. My gorged and bloated stomach rose and fell beneath my now-snug sweater as I breathed comfortably for the first time in an hour. I lightly rested a hand on it, surprised by how warm and taut it felt. Tight as a drum, no give at all. I could feel my head nodding.

As if from another room, I heard Sophie’s dad speaking.

“Hey, Josh. Good dinner there, then?”

“Yep – hic – stuffed,” I grunted. I patted my swollen belly for emphasis. “Up to there.”

Mr. Reilly snorted. “Join the club.” He stifled a belch. “I think Pop is asleep.”

John opened his mouth to say something. He belched. “Scuse me. Brrp. Ate like a pig.”

Patrick elbowed him. “Ate more.”

“Did not.” Sophie’s 17-year-old twin brothers were adolescent enough to tease each other on principle, but both of them were dopey with gorging and there was no heart in it.

“Didja try any of that squash, then?”

“Not much,” I admitted jokingly. “Two or three – hic – helpings.” I hiccupped again and patted my stomach. Oof. Even light contact hurt; my whole midsection felt tender and sore.

“Turkey was good, there. Not too dry.”

“Josh wouldn’t know. Brrp. He used up all the gravy,” Patrick put in.

“Did not.” Josh closed his eyes and settled his hands on his stomach. He was tall and gangly and his belly was visibly bloated, his T shirt stretched tight. I half waited for Patrick’s retort, but Patrick was succumbing to the stupor that was coming over all of us, his eyelids fluttering, his head beginning to droop.

With the football game a muted counterpoint, we dozed.

Later, when Sophie came to collect me, I was still feeling stuffed and drowsy and easily persuaded her to drive. She negotiated the spitting snow and the traffic and we made it home in one piece. She started to giggle, though, when I got out of the car and she saw that my pants were still undone.

I harrumphed and tugged my sweater down over the gap. I wasn’t quite as achingly full, but it would be a while before I wanted to eat again.

“A while” turned out to be midnight or so. I woke up to answer the call of nature and found my stomach growling. I found leftover lasagna in the fridge and cut off a hunk, eating it cold.

We both had the next day off, so we slept in and, when we finally, reluctantly, crawled out of bed, Sophie made pancakes and bacon. I’d never before appreciated the meritorious addition of syrup to bacon.

Around about the time Sophie slid thirds onto my plate, I paused, fork in midair.

“Sophie.”

“Mm?”

“Gonna get fat here.”

“Didja eat too much yesterday then?” Sophie set down the pancake turner and came to stand behind the chrome dinette chair, sliding her arms around my chest.

“Ate too much,” I concurred. “Had a stomach ache all evening.”

“Well, but you finished up that lasagna last night.”

Crap. I’d forgotten about the lasagna.

“And here I am eating enough pancakes for an IHOP,” I pointed out. My argument was considerably weakened by being made through a full mouth. I swallowed and stifled a belch, tasting syrupy bacon. Standing, I patted my stomach, now warmly rounded with breakfast. The ratty Red Sox T shirt I routinely wore to bed fit a little more snugly than it had earlier in the week. I was surprised at how good it felt to be stuffed full. I had overdone it the day before – my stomach had really ached for a while – but now I felt warm and heavy, satisfied, replete.

“Come on, a few more now,” Sophie chided. “That batter doesn’t really keep, there.”

I nobly sacrificed to keep Sophie from having to send her batter down the sink disposal.

Afterward, the day being cold and sleety, we snuggled side by side under the sofa blanket, watching television. Occasionally Sophie would hop up and bring back popcorn, a plate of bars, hot chocolate, leftover mincemeat pie.

It wasn’t until a week or two later that I noticed my darling getting a little broad in the beam her own self. I’d been only mildly preoccupied with the fit of my trousers, reasoning that I would cut back after New Year’s.

But the first weekend in December, I sat at the kitchen table nursing my second cup of coffee and watching Sophie do the dishes. Her ancient dressing gown, a knee-length nylon thing, seemed to be stretched a little tightly over her bottom.

I considered the view. Sophie had always had a high round bottom, and those lovely cheeks appeared to be noticeably riper. I slid back my chair and stepped up behind her and goosed her but good.

Sophie squealed and the sponge flew into the air.

“Josh!”

I squeezed again for good ... ahem ... measure. Yup. Definitely more tush. I slid my arms around her from behind. Her tummy felt softer, the area around her belly button squashier.

I scooped her up and carried her off to bed.

I hadn’t been imagining the soft spread of Sophie’s tummy, the slight but perceptible broadening of her hips, the added fullness to her breasts – any more than I was imagining the implacable spread of my own waistline. I headed to the local Goodwill and found some trousers with a more relaxed fit that didn’t break the bank, and didn’t think much more about it.

Sophie clearly had, and December looked to be making her a little confused. She loved to cook and bake and typically hit her zenith in December. She eagerly plowed through women’s magazines and tried out their recipes. We would both devour the results. I once again hit up the local Goodwill for pants and didn’t think much about my steadily ballooning waistline. Sophie would carry on about the softening of her tummy, get herself worked up to near tears, and then pull herself out of her funk by ... baking something else. It was almost as if she was meeting some societal obligation to complain about gaining weight.

I certainly didn’t mind the constantly updating scenery. It had become a lot more enchanting to watch her from behind as she walked, a new curve to her hips undulating with each step. The hips curved to a waistline that was a good bit softer, so that when I came up from behind I could get hold of a decent set of love handles. And up top...oh my. Sophie liked to wear sweaters in winter, and I liked her to wear sweaters in winter. Those knits clung softly to ever-fuller breasts, and once in a while, like to a party, she’d wear a cashmere V-neck that gave me a cardio workout right there.

Did Sophie mind that the closer we got to Christmas the more I resembled Santa Claus? I couldn’t tell. I was still getting used to her family’s kindly straightforwardness, that Midwestern trait for taking everything in stride. If her grandpop had gotten entangled with the hay bailer, he’d likely stroll into the house, find Sophie’s mom, pick up a dishcloth to wrap around the wound, and say something like, “Well, I guess I cut my hand off now ... do ya think we oughta see the doctor then?”

Okay, I’m exaggerating. A little. Sophie was unflappably cheerful and except for the occasional outburst about her figure, which seemed more formulaic than heartfelt, she never got upset.

We’d told her folks we wouldn’t be arriving until a couple of days after Christmas, but I hadn’t told Sophie why. “I can’t work it with my schedule,” was all I’d said, and she hadn’t pushed the issue.

Which is how we found ourselves on a flight on December 23. Typically, all Sophie had said was, “Ooh, are we going to Las Vegas for Christmas? That’ll be pretty.”

Pretty was sitting in the seat next to mine, and when had airplane seats gotten so small? I felt the arms digging into my thighs, and the seat belt just barely fit. Once Sophie had hers buckled, I was treated to the unexpectedly enticing view of her soft, rosy tummy divided in two, with a plump cushion above and below the strap.

I waited until we were actually in Las Vegas to pop the question. We’d gotten to our hotel room, and I went ahead down on one knee, hoping my pants wouldn’t split. Sophie was pretty simple, so I kept it pretty simple.

“Will you marry me?”

Sophie beamed. “Course I will. Get up, now, before you get hurt.” She helped me up and dragged me into a hug. Her arms didn’t quite reach around me, which I’d expected, but then my arms didn’t reach around her, either. I stepped back and looked her up and down. She was looking pretty corn-fed. I had a sudden vision of her poured into a wedding dress, and I swallowed hard.

No joke, you really can get married fast in Las Vegas. Four hours after that hug – and that vision – we’d had all our paperwork in order and could have done the deed that day, only we hung on till the next day, Christmas Eve, to make it more romantic. Now I was waiting for Sophie to finish browsing through the rack of dresses available at the particular chapel we had chosen. The Clark County clerk who’d issued the license had looked us up and down and then recommended it.

I had been surprised that I’d found a tux with no trouble at all. December had really done a number on my gut, and my five-eleven frame now carried close to two hundred and fifty pounds, most of it right out in front. My face was fuller, I looked more like the class fat kid when I smiled, but a lot of the new tubbiness bulged out below softening pecs, folding into a double stack of spare tire and love handle stuff. My backside was definitely meatier, and so were my thighs.

The tuxedos on the rack at the chapel were hung according to size, and the ones on the far end of the rack were huge. Fitted in mine, I ambled across the hall and knocked on the door labeled “Bride Boutique.”

“I’m having a hard time deciding,” Sophie called.

“Pick one with a really deep neckline,” I called back, my face warming as I remembered that hug, my whole front filled with the rosy, bounteous softness her body had become. Luscious – ripe – utterly womanly. I wanted that feeling every minute for the rest of my life.

“I’m ready, Josh,” Sophie called, minutes or possibly days later. I was leaning against the door frame with my hands in my pockets.

“Go stand up at the front there with the guy, okay now?” she ordered sweetly. I complied.

At a nod from the guy – I had no idea if he was a minister, justice of the peace, or what; he was the guy – an ancient woman in a silky-looking dress struck up “Here Comes the Bride” on a cheesy electric organ. The rent-an-usher escorted Sophie down the aisle.

I forgot to breathe.

Sophie was flush-cheeked and bright-eyed. She was – yes – poured into a cream satin dress with a breathtakingly deep neckline, a V with squared sides, whatever you call that. The bodice hugged her broadening waist, girdling those love handles in swaddles of fabric, and the skirt flowed and clung softly as she walked, outlining curve of hip, round stroke of thigh, now curve of hip again, and I could just imagine her luscious bottom.

Now she was next to me and inserting her soft hand in mine. Like an automaton, I repeated-after-me. Vows. Rings. You-may-kiss-the-bride and so I did, impulsively bracing her back and lowering her into a Forties-style dip, so that she came up laughing and our lips met. I got another one of those hugs then, her satin-clad bounty pressed against my tux, our arms not meeting around each other and I thought that was all right, then.

Next Christmas​

I hauled myself with some difficulty out of the Jeep and came around to help Sophie down. Last Christmas Eve, dressed in satin and wool-blend, we had exchanged vows in Las Vegas. Her cheerfully straightforward Midwestern clan had paused, digested the news, and inquired if we’d stayed there for a nice honeymoon, then, which we had, making the most of the free buffets that Vegas has in abundance, and her family taking the whole deal in stride the way they did.

Sophie was as good a cook as her mother. She loved to cook for me and I loved to eat her cooking. She loved to eat her own cooking, and I kept finding myself deeply appreciative of how she seemed blessedly free of the neurotic, impossible images of beauty that society shoves on us. Not once did I hear her gripe about how she wouldn’t have any apple pie, it was bad for her figure. Even the formulaic complaints of last December were history. So that as we strolled up the drive at her parents’ house, hand in hand, I was pushing three hundred and Sophie clocked in around two. I thought privately it might be closer to two-twenty-five, but whatever. I still got that surge of bliss when we hugged, which was as often as I could manage.

Sophie managed to wait all of about six minutes to break the news.

I saw a smile spread across her mom’s face.

“Oh, you’ll be eating for two then,” she said comfortably. “Glad I made an extra pie.”

Well, now.

 

[BriarChubNJ]

 

[Durin]