Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, ~~WG. It doesn't do to forget about the pie.
I had never been so full in my life: not even close. I sat on the sofa, trying hard not to move because I was so stuffed that it hurt to move. Hell, it hurt to breathe. My belly felt as though it was swollen from my sternum down to my privates. I had wrestled my jeans undone and unzipped, but that hadn't been enough. I'd had to discreetly slide the waistband of my boxers down, reveling in the cool air on my aching and distended gut.
It was all down to a miscalculation, pure and simple.
I'd forgotten about dessert. Don't ask me how, I don't know. But I had, and so I had cheerfully stuffed myself to bursting with turkey, stuffing (the best part), sweet potato casserole (ditto), creamed shoepeg corn (yum!), corn muffins, green bean casserole, creamy mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, broccoli casserole, and several glassfuls of iced tea.
Just as I was about to push my chair back and haul myself to my feet, Mom got up from the table. She came out of the kitchen with not one but two full-size pies.
"I made two," she said unnecessarily, "because I know how much Gerald loves my German chocolate pie."
I smiled automatically. Inwardly, I was thinking, Oh, crap! I was going to have to accept and dispatch a large serving. I even managed to thank Mom as she handed me a plate bearing what looked like a quarter of a pie.
Which was why I was sprawled, glutted and gorged, on the sofa, half undressed, and with my belly bloated to the size of a soccer ball.
My sister dropped down beside me and I winced. The jolt to the sofa jostled my hugely distended stomach, which responded with a loud swooping gurgle of digestion.
Shelley raised her eyebrows and poked my tummy. Taut as a drumhead.
"Someone's got a full belly," she sang.
I opened my mouth to reply and belched. She smirked. I blushed.
"Stop it," I chided, swatting her hand away.
"How much pie did you eat, anyway?" she challenged. "Did you have two helpings?"
"Two helpings? No. No way," I said convincingly. It was true.
Unfortunately, my blush gave me away. We're of Welsh heritage, and the Welsh complexion comes in two settings: ruddy; or fine-grained, with the ruddiness just below the surface and ready to appear at the drop of a hat. Guess which I had?
"Then how many?"
My blush spread.
"Gerald! You didn't have three helpings, did you?"
I hiccupped.
Shelley smirked again. "I'll take that as an answer. Pig," she said lovingly and poked my swollen midriff.
Alan waddled in and sank into a recliner. His jeans were undone as well.
"Whew," he puffed, running a hand through his hair. "Urp."
"You helped Gerald get rid of that pie, didn't you?" Shelley asked.
Alan smiled sheepishly. "I think between us we killed off one whole pie."
"While the seven of us ate the other pie. You two! Honestly. You're both pigs"
I hiccupped again.
"Serves you right"; Shelley said, giving my belly a final poke before leaving the room.
We half-watched the Lions on television and half-dozed.
The next morning, I had an, ahem, epic session in the bathroom. My jeans were a hair snug, but I was sure I was fine.
Except that all my trousers continued to be a little snug even as Thanksgiving inched toward Christmas. Sometimes more than a little snug.
At Christmas, I was at risk even before sitting down, because my jeans were pinching me at the waist and crotch. Did I take care to eat only in moderation? Did I pass on big helpings of stuffing and sweet potatoes? Did I leave half my (first) slice of pie on my plate?
Is the Pope a Mormon?
Ha.
As before, I thudded onto the sofa. As before, undid my jeans and slid down my underwear. And as before, lay unmoving until the sharp stretched ache of a bloated and distended full belly finally eased enough that I risked going to bed.
With the turn of the calendar, the newspaper, magazines, and television were full of weight-loss ads. I avoided the gym because I knew for six or eight weeks, it would be full of New Year's Resolution types. I bided my time.
Miscalculation
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
I had never been so full in my life: not even close. I sat on the sofa, trying hard not to move because I was so stuffed that it hurt to move. Hell, it hurt to breathe. My belly felt as though it was swollen from my sternum down to my privates. I had wrestled my jeans undone and unzipped, but that hadn't been enough. I'd had to discreetly slide the waistband of my boxers down, reveling in the cool air on my aching and distended gut.
It was all down to a miscalculation, pure and simple.
I'd forgotten about dessert. Don't ask me how, I don't know. But I had, and so I had cheerfully stuffed myself to bursting with turkey, stuffing (the best part), sweet potato casserole (ditto), creamed shoepeg corn (yum!), corn muffins, green bean casserole, creamy mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, broccoli casserole, and several glassfuls of iced tea.
Just as I was about to push my chair back and haul myself to my feet, Mom got up from the table. She came out of the kitchen with not one but two full-size pies.
"I made two," she said unnecessarily, "because I know how much Gerald loves my German chocolate pie."
I smiled automatically. Inwardly, I was thinking, Oh, crap! I was going to have to accept and dispatch a large serving. I even managed to thank Mom as she handed me a plate bearing what looked like a quarter of a pie.
Which was why I was sprawled, glutted and gorged, on the sofa, half undressed, and with my belly bloated to the size of a soccer ball.
My sister dropped down beside me and I winced. The jolt to the sofa jostled my hugely distended stomach, which responded with a loud swooping gurgle of digestion.
Shelley raised her eyebrows and poked my tummy. Taut as a drumhead.
"Someone's got a full belly," she sang.
I opened my mouth to reply and belched. She smirked. I blushed.
"Stop it," I chided, swatting her hand away.
"How much pie did you eat, anyway?" she challenged. "Did you have two helpings?"
"Two helpings? No. No way," I said convincingly. It was true.
Unfortunately, my blush gave me away. We're of Welsh heritage, and the Welsh complexion comes in two settings: ruddy; or fine-grained, with the ruddiness just below the surface and ready to appear at the drop of a hat. Guess which I had?
"Then how many?"
My blush spread.
"Gerald! You didn't have three helpings, did you?"
I hiccupped.
Shelley smirked again. "I'll take that as an answer. Pig," she said lovingly and poked my swollen midriff.
Alan waddled in and sank into a recliner. His jeans were undone as well.
"Whew," he puffed, running a hand through his hair. "Urp."
"You helped Gerald get rid of that pie, didn't you?" Shelley asked.
Alan smiled sheepishly. "I think between us we killed off one whole pie."
"While the seven of us ate the other pie. You two! Honestly. You're both pigs"
I hiccupped again.
"Serves you right"; Shelley said, giving my belly a final poke before leaving the room.
We half-watched the Lions on television and half-dozed.
The next morning, I had an, ahem, epic session in the bathroom. My jeans were a hair snug, but I was sure I was fine.
Except that all my trousers continued to be a little snug even as Thanksgiving inched toward Christmas. Sometimes more than a little snug.
At Christmas, I was at risk even before sitting down, because my jeans were pinching me at the waist and crotch. Did I take care to eat only in moderation? Did I pass on big helpings of stuffing and sweet potatoes? Did I leave half my (first) slice of pie on my plate?
Is the Pope a Mormon?
Ha.
As before, I thudded onto the sofa. As before, undid my jeans and slid down my underwear. And as before, lay unmoving until the sharp stretched ache of a bloated and distended full belly finally eased enough that I risked going to bed.
With the turn of the calendar, the newspaper, magazines, and television were full of weight-loss ads. I avoided the gym because I knew for six or eight weeks, it would be full of New Year's Resolution types. I bided my time.
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