Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, Dining, ~~WG - the grand restaurant tour continues
Here goes nothing, he thought as he plodded down the stairs at 11:15. One foot on the ground, one on the last step, he froze. The cruddy little hatchback was gone. In its place was a sleek new car with much more room up front.
Was this the car the letter mentioned? It must be. But he didn’t have any keys. In a daze, he walked over and experimentally tugged on the door. It opened. The keys were on the seat. Yet no one had stolen the car. Had it just that second been delivered? He looked around. Other apartment-dwellers were going about their business, and he didn’t see anyone he didn’t recognize.
I could get to like this, he thought, whistling as he drove to another restaurant on the list.
As before, the manager intervened with the waiter, and as before, a mountain of food was placed on the table. John was starving by this time, and began enthusiastically. His waistband soon sliced into his bulging belly. He undid the snap, enjoying the feeling of his abdomen distending tightly against the zipper, forcing it downward. His overloaded stomach soon sagged onto his lap.
Dreamily he ate on as course after course was laid at his place. He knew he was getting full, but the food was good, and he was surprised at how much he was enjoying the feeling of being utterly stuffed. Stretched and sore, his midsection was taut, unyielding when he patted it, producing a belch. He ate the massive serving of dessert slowly, savoring, digesting, until at last he was finished.
Slowly, ponderously, he rose and gained his balance. His pants undone, his shirt straining in vain to cover all of his roundly bloated belly, he staggered out of the restaurant, drunk with gluttony, stupefied by food.
Each day was more of the same. Most days, one restaurant, periodically two. On one memorable occasion, the manager informed him that his dinner would be half a dozen deep-dish pizzas. He remembered that day, all right. Becoming more and more stuffed with each pie, the tomato sauce stinging his lips, which he didn’t have the energy to wipe, his belly distending before his eyes until, hugely bloated, it actually pushed the table forward several inches. Having to be helped to the car, pouring with sweat as he dragged up the stairs, his achingly sore and swollen stomach seemed to scrape the steps.
The next day was a seafood restaurant. A deep bowl of golden batter-dipped shrimp, two slabs of deep-fried, crispy fish, a tall pyramid of hush puppies, a lake of coleslaw, huge crab cakes, seemingly gallons of iced tea. Seafood was John’s favorite, and he’d plowed right in. As he plugged along, he reveled in the sensation of his aching belly growing tight, pressing hard against his waistband. The massive feast finally reduced to crumbs, he sat for a while, sipping coffee, aroused by the pain in his distended abdomen, the vast, hard expanse of midriff hard as a drum under his shirt. Bloated and swollen, his stomach sagged heavily onto his lap, creating the now-familiar stirring below.
Each evening, he would plod home and fall asleep almost at once. The futon was long gone; he’d come home one day to find a letter on the kitchen counter informing him of the new king-size reinforced bed in his bedroom, which he’d never used before. A new dresser filled with new, larger clothing appeared, night tables, a new, large-screen television. The list of restaurants was getting tattered as John steadily checked off each one in order.
He had already discovered a side benefit he had not expected. Eating past the point of simple fullness, having his belly distend with food, turned him on. He found real enjoyment in the physical sensation of being stuffed. This very pleasurable plus was now a daily satisfaction, since the amount of food he was served every day was always enough to bring on the sensation.
He also found pleasure in looking at himself in the mirror, examining the changes his new eating program brought. Each day after the meal or meals, he would come home, strip, and leisurely look his growing body over. What had been at first a modest pot belly was growing. It was now a bona fide gut, deep and wide, bulging outward like a boulder rooted in the forest. The forest in his case consisted of his tree-trunk legs, growing impressively massive, rippling with each heavy step. His bottom had spread until, round and soft, it juddered against the backs of his thighs when he walked. His unimpressive arms were filling out, and his thin, unmemorable face was now much more substantial, heavy cheeks flowing into a thickened neck. He was even growing fat around his eyes.
Pride of place, however, went to John Smythe’s midsection. It swelled out proudly in front of him like a sail belled by the wind. Far more solid, however, it spread from his chest to his steadily thickening waistline, a flabby spare tire hanging down over his manhood and sagging into sizeable love handles. He commanded attention, turned heads, with his new body anchored by his protruding belly. He took up space, no longer a zero, a little unemployed cipher. His size, which he stoked by the day, became the foundation of a new identity. No longer johnsmythe, he was JOHN SMYTHE.
By now he was three-quarters of the way through the list, only a hundred restaurants left. Only a hundred! He was surprised at the pang of disappointment this discovery occasioned. Three months and a bit left. Luckily – he glanced at the list, now soft with handing – today was another pizzeria. What would be in store?
“Mr. Smythe!” The portly manager beamed at him from behind the counter, wiping hands on a floury apron stretched over a solid midsection. “Sit. Sit. Today …” he paused for effect. “Today you will eat one dozen pizzas.” John’s stomach clutched. His capacity had expanded along with his waistline – but a dozen huge pizzeria pizzas? Whew. Well. Here goes nothing, he thought. Only he wasn’t “nothing” anymore. He straightened up in his chair. “Bring ’em on,” he said confidently.
Three pizzas later, he wasn’t quite so confident. The pizzas were enormous, much bigger than frozen ones from the store. One slice would normally satisfy two people. Pepperoni, sausage, mushroom had all vanished down his throat and now his stomach was familiarly tight. His bottom already sagged over the chair, and love handles flopped over the sides of his much-larger jeans. The T-shirt that had been a trifle loose that morning was now snug, and his bulging belly swelled out above his stretched waistband. He took a long swallow of pop; patting his chest, he produced a huge belch.
Though his pace slowed, he ate steadily on. Four. Five. His distended belly was stretched painfully tight, his stomach aching with fullness. He tried to unbutton his jeans but couldn’t get enough room in the tight waistband. Six. The button on his jeans popped off, ricocheting against the base of the table. That was one problem solved. He drew a breath, and as his bloated stomach swelled, the zipper slid down.
The failure of his jeans produced only slight relief. The waistband had been digging painfully into his bulging gut, but his belly was now so full that it was putting pressure on himself with no help from his clothes. Stretched beyond even his increased capacity, bulging outward like the prow of a massive ship, his stomach pushed the table back several inches.
Seven.
He was now puffing, so stuffed that his lungs were compressed by the steady expansion of his stomach. Damp with sweat, he ate without tasting, sensing the first failure of the experiment. What would happen now? Then he felt the first rumblings of a massive belch. Starting at the base camp of his mountainous gut, it rolled through his insides, exploding out of his lips. Ahhhhh. Oh, that felt so much better. Another, smaller, aftershock belch followed, and his swollen belly shifted and resettled on his lap. He took a swallow of pop, renewed.
Eight. Nine. Half of ten. The belches earlier had made a lot more room, but this was a lot of pizza. He took a large gulp of pop, hoping to force a belch but failing. Breathing shallowly, he slowed down, taking time to taste each bite, chew it well, and manage to swallow. He wondered if a person had ever before had his belly actually explode like a burst balloon, the skin stretched so tight that it finally popped. He was about to make history, in a gross but interesting kind of way.
He felt his stomach expand with each slice, pushing outward, expanding steadily. His shirt seams, strained to bursting, began to rip thread by thread from the bottom up. He felt some relief as the sides opened, allowing his thickening waistline to flow out in a new direction, easing some of the pressure on his bloated abdomen.
The rest of the tenth pizza went down more easily, and this time chugging some pop produced a decent-sized belch. Amazingly, after that his packed stomach found some more room as the load of partially digested pizza, sloshing and shifting, opened some space.
Eleven. He was eating more and more slowly, hoping that as he stalled he would digest a little, maybe even making some more room. His aching stomach was now so distended that his abdomen, stretched to new limits, was hard as a rock. He swallowed more pop. Gently and carefully patting his swollen belly, he managed a small belch, then a larger one. The last pizza loomed. He couldn’t fail now. His face slick with sweat and grease, sauce stinging his mouth, he couldn’t make himself reach for another slice. He remembered last week’s letter. You have done so well, we trust you will complete our experiment. Leaning back, he slowly picked up the slice.
Chewing steadily, swallowing mechanically, he got it down. He was so full! Another slice. Another. The sight of the diminishing pizza cheered him. God, he was stuffed. He had eaten so much he could scarcely breathe. The last slice seemed huge. He reached for it. Bite. Bite. Bite. Gone! Wowee. He felt like a victory dance, but of course he was so full he couldn’t move. It was at least half an hour before he lumbered to his feet and pounded out to the car.
His head swam; his grossly distended belly throbbed in rhythm with his head. His face hurt from the effort of chewing. He didn’t feel so good. Little wonder. He had consumed about a week’s worth of food in one sitting. Somehow, he made it home. Still queasy, he headed for the bathroom. With a great deal of effort, he managed to get his jeans and underwear off. Instead of raising the remains of his shirt over his head, he simply made the few small seam rips necessary, and the tatters fell to the floor.
All right! he thought, amazed and pleased with what he saw. His belly was huge; it was massive; it was inhuman. Starting at what used to be collarbones, his flesh fell into a shelf of male breasts, folded under, and unfurled in a smooth taut curve downward and outward toward his belly button. His thickening waistline, freed from the constraints of clothing and stretched with food, bulged toward the front and sides. His normally flabby spare tire, plumped with pizza, curved like a huge track circling his ever-widening midriff. His gut didn’t stop but sagged out and down far past his manhood. Even when he was standing, like now, slabs of abdominal underside pressed against his thighs. He couldn’t actually see where his bloated stomach ended, but it appeared to be somewhere close to his knees.
A massive belch rattled his frame. When at last everything stopped moving, he waddled heavily toward the bed, slowly massaging his rock-hard gut as he did. He sat and then lay down slowly and carefully, and then clumsily maneuvered onto his side. Cradling his sagging belly, rubbing it to ease the ache, he drifted off to sleep.
Time passed and the waistline continued to expand. The number of restaurants remaining shrank as John’s belly grew. Fifty … thirty … ten …
[Click here for the final installment]
Here goes nothing, he thought as he plodded down the stairs at 11:15. One foot on the ground, one on the last step, he froze. The cruddy little hatchback was gone. In its place was a sleek new car with much more room up front.
Was this the car the letter mentioned? It must be. But he didn’t have any keys. In a daze, he walked over and experimentally tugged on the door. It opened. The keys were on the seat. Yet no one had stolen the car. Had it just that second been delivered? He looked around. Other apartment-dwellers were going about their business, and he didn’t see anyone he didn’t recognize.
I could get to like this, he thought, whistling as he drove to another restaurant on the list.
As before, the manager intervened with the waiter, and as before, a mountain of food was placed on the table. John was starving by this time, and began enthusiastically. His waistband soon sliced into his bulging belly. He undid the snap, enjoying the feeling of his abdomen distending tightly against the zipper, forcing it downward. His overloaded stomach soon sagged onto his lap.
Dreamily he ate on as course after course was laid at his place. He knew he was getting full, but the food was good, and he was surprised at how much he was enjoying the feeling of being utterly stuffed. Stretched and sore, his midsection was taut, unyielding when he patted it, producing a belch. He ate the massive serving of dessert slowly, savoring, digesting, until at last he was finished.
Slowly, ponderously, he rose and gained his balance. His pants undone, his shirt straining in vain to cover all of his roundly bloated belly, he staggered out of the restaurant, drunk with gluttony, stupefied by food.
Each day was more of the same. Most days, one restaurant, periodically two. On one memorable occasion, the manager informed him that his dinner would be half a dozen deep-dish pizzas. He remembered that day, all right. Becoming more and more stuffed with each pie, the tomato sauce stinging his lips, which he didn’t have the energy to wipe, his belly distending before his eyes until, hugely bloated, it actually pushed the table forward several inches. Having to be helped to the car, pouring with sweat as he dragged up the stairs, his achingly sore and swollen stomach seemed to scrape the steps.
The next day was a seafood restaurant. A deep bowl of golden batter-dipped shrimp, two slabs of deep-fried, crispy fish, a tall pyramid of hush puppies, a lake of coleslaw, huge crab cakes, seemingly gallons of iced tea. Seafood was John’s favorite, and he’d plowed right in. As he plugged along, he reveled in the sensation of his aching belly growing tight, pressing hard against his waistband. The massive feast finally reduced to crumbs, he sat for a while, sipping coffee, aroused by the pain in his distended abdomen, the vast, hard expanse of midriff hard as a drum under his shirt. Bloated and swollen, his stomach sagged heavily onto his lap, creating the now-familiar stirring below.
Each evening, he would plod home and fall asleep almost at once. The futon was long gone; he’d come home one day to find a letter on the kitchen counter informing him of the new king-size reinforced bed in his bedroom, which he’d never used before. A new dresser filled with new, larger clothing appeared, night tables, a new, large-screen television. The list of restaurants was getting tattered as John steadily checked off each one in order.
He had already discovered a side benefit he had not expected. Eating past the point of simple fullness, having his belly distend with food, turned him on. He found real enjoyment in the physical sensation of being stuffed. This very pleasurable plus was now a daily satisfaction, since the amount of food he was served every day was always enough to bring on the sensation.
He also found pleasure in looking at himself in the mirror, examining the changes his new eating program brought. Each day after the meal or meals, he would come home, strip, and leisurely look his growing body over. What had been at first a modest pot belly was growing. It was now a bona fide gut, deep and wide, bulging outward like a boulder rooted in the forest. The forest in his case consisted of his tree-trunk legs, growing impressively massive, rippling with each heavy step. His bottom had spread until, round and soft, it juddered against the backs of his thighs when he walked. His unimpressive arms were filling out, and his thin, unmemorable face was now much more substantial, heavy cheeks flowing into a thickened neck. He was even growing fat around his eyes.
Pride of place, however, went to John Smythe’s midsection. It swelled out proudly in front of him like a sail belled by the wind. Far more solid, however, it spread from his chest to his steadily thickening waistline, a flabby spare tire hanging down over his manhood and sagging into sizeable love handles. He commanded attention, turned heads, with his new body anchored by his protruding belly. He took up space, no longer a zero, a little unemployed cipher. His size, which he stoked by the day, became the foundation of a new identity. No longer johnsmythe, he was JOHN SMYTHE.
By now he was three-quarters of the way through the list, only a hundred restaurants left. Only a hundred! He was surprised at the pang of disappointment this discovery occasioned. Three months and a bit left. Luckily – he glanced at the list, now soft with handing – today was another pizzeria. What would be in store?
“Mr. Smythe!” The portly manager beamed at him from behind the counter, wiping hands on a floury apron stretched over a solid midsection. “Sit. Sit. Today …” he paused for effect. “Today you will eat one dozen pizzas.” John’s stomach clutched. His capacity had expanded along with his waistline – but a dozen huge pizzeria pizzas? Whew. Well. Here goes nothing, he thought. Only he wasn’t “nothing” anymore. He straightened up in his chair. “Bring ’em on,” he said confidently.
Three pizzas later, he wasn’t quite so confident. The pizzas were enormous, much bigger than frozen ones from the store. One slice would normally satisfy two people. Pepperoni, sausage, mushroom had all vanished down his throat and now his stomach was familiarly tight. His bottom already sagged over the chair, and love handles flopped over the sides of his much-larger jeans. The T-shirt that had been a trifle loose that morning was now snug, and his bulging belly swelled out above his stretched waistband. He took a long swallow of pop; patting his chest, he produced a huge belch.
Though his pace slowed, he ate steadily on. Four. Five. His distended belly was stretched painfully tight, his stomach aching with fullness. He tried to unbutton his jeans but couldn’t get enough room in the tight waistband. Six. The button on his jeans popped off, ricocheting against the base of the table. That was one problem solved. He drew a breath, and as his bloated stomach swelled, the zipper slid down.
The failure of his jeans produced only slight relief. The waistband had been digging painfully into his bulging gut, but his belly was now so full that it was putting pressure on himself with no help from his clothes. Stretched beyond even his increased capacity, bulging outward like the prow of a massive ship, his stomach pushed the table back several inches.
Seven.
He was now puffing, so stuffed that his lungs were compressed by the steady expansion of his stomach. Damp with sweat, he ate without tasting, sensing the first failure of the experiment. What would happen now? Then he felt the first rumblings of a massive belch. Starting at the base camp of his mountainous gut, it rolled through his insides, exploding out of his lips. Ahhhhh. Oh, that felt so much better. Another, smaller, aftershock belch followed, and his swollen belly shifted and resettled on his lap. He took a swallow of pop, renewed.
Eight. Nine. Half of ten. The belches earlier had made a lot more room, but this was a lot of pizza. He took a large gulp of pop, hoping to force a belch but failing. Breathing shallowly, he slowed down, taking time to taste each bite, chew it well, and manage to swallow. He wondered if a person had ever before had his belly actually explode like a burst balloon, the skin stretched so tight that it finally popped. He was about to make history, in a gross but interesting kind of way.
He felt his stomach expand with each slice, pushing outward, expanding steadily. His shirt seams, strained to bursting, began to rip thread by thread from the bottom up. He felt some relief as the sides opened, allowing his thickening waistline to flow out in a new direction, easing some of the pressure on his bloated abdomen.
The rest of the tenth pizza went down more easily, and this time chugging some pop produced a decent-sized belch. Amazingly, after that his packed stomach found some more room as the load of partially digested pizza, sloshing and shifting, opened some space.
Eleven. He was eating more and more slowly, hoping that as he stalled he would digest a little, maybe even making some more room. His aching stomach was now so distended that his abdomen, stretched to new limits, was hard as a rock. He swallowed more pop. Gently and carefully patting his swollen belly, he managed a small belch, then a larger one. The last pizza loomed. He couldn’t fail now. His face slick with sweat and grease, sauce stinging his mouth, he couldn’t make himself reach for another slice. He remembered last week’s letter. You have done so well, we trust you will complete our experiment. Leaning back, he slowly picked up the slice.
Chewing steadily, swallowing mechanically, he got it down. He was so full! Another slice. Another. The sight of the diminishing pizza cheered him. God, he was stuffed. He had eaten so much he could scarcely breathe. The last slice seemed huge. He reached for it. Bite. Bite. Bite. Gone! Wowee. He felt like a victory dance, but of course he was so full he couldn’t move. It was at least half an hour before he lumbered to his feet and pounded out to the car.
His head swam; his grossly distended belly throbbed in rhythm with his head. His face hurt from the effort of chewing. He didn’t feel so good. Little wonder. He had consumed about a week’s worth of food in one sitting. Somehow, he made it home. Still queasy, he headed for the bathroom. With a great deal of effort, he managed to get his jeans and underwear off. Instead of raising the remains of his shirt over his head, he simply made the few small seam rips necessary, and the tatters fell to the floor.
All right! he thought, amazed and pleased with what he saw. His belly was huge; it was massive; it was inhuman. Starting at what used to be collarbones, his flesh fell into a shelf of male breasts, folded under, and unfurled in a smooth taut curve downward and outward toward his belly button. His thickening waistline, freed from the constraints of clothing and stretched with food, bulged toward the front and sides. His normally flabby spare tire, plumped with pizza, curved like a huge track circling his ever-widening midriff. His gut didn’t stop but sagged out and down far past his manhood. Even when he was standing, like now, slabs of abdominal underside pressed against his thighs. He couldn’t actually see where his bloated stomach ended, but it appeared to be somewhere close to his knees.
A massive belch rattled his frame. When at last everything stopped moving, he waddled heavily toward the bed, slowly massaging his rock-hard gut as he did. He sat and then lay down slowly and carefully, and then clumsily maneuvered onto his side. Cradling his sagging belly, rubbing it to ease the ache, he drifted off to sleep.
Time passed and the waistline continued to expand. The number of restaurants remaining shrank as John’s belly grew. Fifty … thirty … ten …
[Click here for the final installment]
