Just for Once (Dining, WG, BHM)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

BHM, WG

JUST FOR ONCE
By Big Beautiful Dreamer​

Rob turned his head and stared at his wife occupying the first-class seat next to him. “You want what?”

Melissa’s eyebrows scaled upward. She sighed. Her husband was almost too intelligent. It was going to be hard to explain this to him. “Look,” she said, her fingernail idly tracing a pattern on the leather armrest. “We’ve been married five years, and you never let up on the self-discipline.”

Rob frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Melissa began to tick off points on her fingers. “You exercise. Every day. You eat salad for lunch. Every day. You get up at six. Every day. You skip dessert. Every day. Just for one small interval, this two weeks, I would like to see you turn off your self-discipline switch. Just for once, live like you have permission to do something. I bet we’d have a lot more fun.”

“I exercise and I watch what I eat because I don’t want to get fat.” Rob’s voice dripped with condescension on the last word, and he glared at Melissa’s waistline. At 5 feet tall and 150, she wasn’t fat, not really, but she was on the round side.

“Look, when we come back, you can eat leaves for six months straight if you want. Just at least let loose on this one vacation. Please?”

Rob bit his lip. He loved Melissa, and the last year they’d been drifting apart. Two weeks on an island was his idea, an attempt to fix things. “Okay,” Rob said finally.

“Great!” Melissa beamed. “From the minute we land, you eat what I tell you.”

“Okay,” Rob said again, after hesitating.

The plane landed. Rob took without thinking the lei and frosty alcoholic drink pushed on him by the welcoming young women. Hot and tired after the plane ride, he gulped the sweet drink down. At the cottage-style hotel suite, before they’d even unpacked, Melissa was dragging him along the beach to a patio restaurant. She spoke flawless French, and he did not. She rattled off something to the waiter, who beamed and nodded as he bowed away from the table.

“What’d you order?”

“It’s a surprise, sweetie,” she said, grinning. “Just remember the rules.”

Rob took a gulp of the frosty beer on the table in front of him. That drink at the airport was pretty strong. Maybe a beer would clear his head.

Several beers later, he was surprised to find that his plate, which had been piled with a week’s worth of food, was now empty. He discovered this fact when he jabbed for another potato slice and hit porcelain not potato. Blinking, he discovered also that he was full. Beyond full, in fact. Stuffed. His stomach hurt something awful and he rubbed it. Bloated and sore, his distended belly bulged over his waistband, which sliced into his stretched abdomen. Wriggling uncomfortably in his seat, he produced a large belch, at which Melissa beamed like a proud mother.

“Ready for dessert?”

“You’re (urp!) kidding. (Urp!) Right?” Rob succeeded in stifling the third belch in a row, or was it the fourth?

There was a steely gleam in Melissa’s eye as she said something in French. Before long, a large crème caramel was placed in front of Rob.

What had he agreed to? Holy cow. Still, Melissa was the dream of his life, and he did not want to lose her. A little grimly, he massaged his aching stomach and picked up his fork.

That night, he slept like the dead. On his back, of course. He groaned in his sleep and occasionally rubbed his bloated belly. In the morning, wearing only boxer shorts, he stretched in front of the mirror.

“Crap!” He patted his belly, which was still visibly distended. “How much did I eat?” Automatically he looked around for his running shoes, which Melissa had carefully not packed.

“Remember, love,” Melissa cooed. “We have a bargain.” She snuggled up against him from behind and wrapped her arms around his chest, lovingly sliding her hands down to his navel. Playfully she drummed her fingers on his swollen stomach. Suddenly Rob had a lot more interesting activities than running to engage in. With one hand he dropped the boxer shorts to the floor and stepped out of them. He wouldn’t need them where he was going.

Later that morning, hungrier than ever (that’s what “exercise” will do for you), he held Melissa’s hand for the first time in a while. Dressed in bathing trunks and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, feet thrust into flip-flops, he let Melissa lead him to a restaurant on the beach. Another volley of French and Rob was gazing at a stack of pancakes, sausages that proved very spicy indeed, a carafe of mango juice, stacks of avocado and mango and some sort of berries and pineapple rings, a pitcher of cream, another of syrup, and a mound of bacon that must have represented half the pig.

Melissa piled his plate high. Rob, with a sort of Pavlovian response, dug in.

An hour later, the food was history and Rob was trying unsuccessfully to lean back in the flimsy chair, which had somehow gotten smaller. His bare belly, bloated and swollen, gleamed with grease and fruit drippings and a trickle of syrup. Patting his aching stomach, he belched, then grinned proudly at Melissa.

“You know,” he said dreamily, “it’s kind of fun to let (urp!) the brakes off for once. I might (urp!) learn to enjoy this. Only (urp!) I am so full, my stomach hurts.”

Melissa promptly got up and gave it a quick rub. “Let’s go back to the cottage,” she purred, “and Melissa will make you all better.” Stuffed as he was, Rob could still hardly wait.

Rob slept through lunch, but Melissa made up for it at dinner with a mountain of pork, plantains, beans, rice, and three helpings of flan. Washing everything down with beer, Rob felt his belly grow tight without really registering how full he was. Only when the food was entirely gone did Rob, patting his aching and distended belly, realize that again he was stuffed to bursting. “Oh,” he groaned. “Ate (urp!) too much.” He didn’t feel very good all of a sudden, and closed his eyes. “Stuffed. (Urp!)”

He felt Melissa helping him up. About to pop, he swayed, lost his balance and regained it, and waddled out of the restaurant on his wife’s arm. Melissa was playfully poking his swollen abdomen, which was tight as a drum, then she was rubbing it. Hey, that felt good. “Don’t stop,” he said thickly. She didn’t.

They quickly fell into a routine. Every morning, Rob would inspect himself in front of the mirror. He took in his thickening waistline, his burgeoning pot belly, his new love handles and softening chin. And every morning, he would let his boxer shorts drop to the floor as Melissa would slide up behind him and let her hands explore his growing real estate, his steadily disappearing belly button and points south. Sometimes he napped through lunch and sometimes Melissa would bring him something and feed him in bed. Dinner, like breakfast, was always massive.

Predictably, Rob became a growing boy. Growing outward. His waistline expanded and his waistbands shrank. His belly grew, and his shirts shrank. He had to loosen his belt a notch, then two notches, then discard it altogether. For the first time in his life, Rob was eating without calculating the caloric damage of each bite … and for the first time, their marriage had a spark to it. Rob had no idea that Melissa was a closet FFA, but the more his belly bulged, the more she came on to him.

By the last evening of their vacation, Rob wasn’t sure he could get dressed for dinner. He was hungry – that wasn’t the problem – the waistband was the problem. Huffing, grunting, and working up a sweat, he finally fastened the snap of his khaki shorts. He threw on a Hawaiian shirt and buttoned it up, noticing how much harder it was to button.

Melissa started with a kiss on his cheek that migrated toward his ear.

“Melissa,” Rob finally grunted. “These pants are tight enough.” Melissa thought that was hysterical.

Melissa and Rob had been very, very good tippers, and the wait staff, always attentive, all but threw them a farewell party. A bottle of wine was on the house, appetizers appeared instantly, still sizzling. Rob threw any shreds of caution to the wind and ate as though food was about to be prohibited. Melissa, though she ate, made sure that Rob got the most and best food.

Although refills on food are usually not restaurant policy, the waiter brought Rob a whole second heaping plateful of whatever delicious tropical stew he was gulping down, then thirds, and kept the bread basket refilled. Melissa kept filling his wineglass. This time Rob knew he was getting stuffed but had come to associate fullness with their bedroom workouts, and other parts of his body were responding. His aching belly bulged with each large bite, his bloated stomach seeming to creak and groan with fullness. Rob hiccupped abruptly, and – ping! – there went the snap of those poor shorts. “Ohhh,” Rob groaned, feeling a little relief. “Oh (urp!), oh, that’s better (urp!). I’d better (hic!) slow down.”

Melissa leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose, which had a speck of plantain on it. “Oh, come on, sweetie,” she said temptingly. “I know you have room for dessert.” She got up and stood behind him, oblivious to other diners, who weren’t looking anyway, and massaged his distended midsection. After several minutes,

Rob decided that he did, and an apple tart was brought forth. “Tart” usually applies to an individual-size dessert, but the individual in this case must have been Andre the Giant. A huge scoop of vanilla ice cream was beginning to trickle around the edges and merge with hot apple ooze to form a tempting moat.

Melissa scooted her chair around and began to feed Rob while massaging his aching belly. A third of the tart vanished into Rob’s bulging stomach, and several buttons snapped off. Melissa undid the other buttons. “There, that’s better,” she murmured. Rob belched and Melissa belatedly patted his aching middle. Taut and sore, it was at the bursting point. Slowly, Rob continued to eat. “Stop,” he finally grunted. “Too (urp!) … too full,” he puffed, short of breath.

“Just a tiny but more,” Melissa coaxed.

Rob belched, and Melissa popped a huge spoonful in. At last, the tart was gone. Melissa dug into her purse and left a tip equivalent to about 50% on the table. The waiter appeared to assist Melissa in getting Rob to his feet. Bloated and gorged, his hugely distended abdomen rearranging his center of gravity, he swayed drunkenly. He had consumed not just massive amounts of food but also two full bottles of wine.

“Don’t (hic!) … don’ feelshogood,” he slurred. He began to tilt and Melissa shoved him back up. “You’ll be fine, tiger,” she purred. “We’ll take a long walk on the beach.”

Walking was the last thing of which Rob was capable, but the cool night air hit his sweating face like a damp cloth, and he gulped the air in, producing an impressive string of belches. Melissa massaged his aching belly, and as they walked, Rob began to recover from both the food and the wine. By the time they returned to their bed, Rob was ready for a special workout.

On the flight home, the first-class seat seemed a little snug. Rob’s once-flat stomach bulged outward, straining his shirt and sagging over his waistband. Melissa patted it playfully.

“Honey? Thank you for the best two weeks of my life.”

Sheepishly, Rob admitted, “I’ve never been happier.”

Melissa let her fingers walk up the curve of his midsection. “So … um … when we get back?”

Rob turned and looked at her with love shining in his eyes. “Melissa, do you like me bigger?” There was a little incredulity in his voice, but not much. He was not entirely stupid.

Melissa took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, Rob, I do. I’ve always wished you would become a big man. Nothing makes me happier.” She paused. “I hope you can think about staying bigger. For me?”

A slow smile illuminated Rob’s face. He took the hand that was tiptoeing up his chest and kissed each fingertip. “For you … for me … and for us.”(end)

 

[zonker]

 

[lizzy]