~BHM, ~~WG, Stuffing - On the way to work, a BHM is once again stopping at the bakery shop.
(NOTE: Contains some food and eating and even fat fetish. If you don't enjoy such delicious subjects, please move on to something more to your liking on the internet.)
I shouldn't walk this way to work. I know it's dangerous to my health. But still, I am tempted by my demons to live dangerously.
The scent fills my nostrils, the aroma I suck into my lungs deeply, as I turn the corner and see the bakery sign flashing in the window above a stylized neon coffee cup with blue steam shining above it. And then, my favorite sign above the door.
"Open." My nostrils feel like they flair as I view the donuts and pastries which the baker is putting on display in the window.
"Open." I open my senses to the smells and the sights of such delicious goodies.
"Open." I shouldn't open. Walk on, I tell my legs, but my thick thighs don't obey. Don't stop, please, don't stop, I tell them. Don't slow your pace.
"Open." Oh my, that delicious bakery smell of fresh bread and sweet pastries, donuts, cinnamon, chocolate, fruit fillings and rising, expanding dough. I look down at my midsection to see that I am quite doughy as well, that my belly is expanding, hanging over the top of my newest pair of jeans which have grown so tight on me recently. My belly feels like a huge ball of rising dough, soft, so soft. Like those éclairs, those Boston crèmes, those soft yeasty donuts staring at me from their case in the window.
"Open." No stop it, I tell myself. I mustn't. And yet I can't help myself. I slow my pace, then stop, smile at the baker as she puts another tray in the window. She is nearly as big as me, and she certainly knows the temptations she is placing on me. She's seen me here enough, taken my massive orders and even given me extra day-old donuts for free. "For your friends at work," she always says, helping me preserve the secret notion that all these donuts are not bound for my belly.
"Open." It is more than a word on a sign. "Open." It is a command now. I must. I can't help myself. I push the door open and am engulfed in the even richer aromas, the nice soft lighting, except in the bakery cases where my fattening feasts are on full display. My eyes seem wide open now, taking it all in. The smell overwhelms me with its power, its raw lustful temptations.
Open. I can't stop now. I open my mouth and speak to the baker behind the counter. She smiles, knowing the words which will spill out. Does she steal a little glance at my bulging belly, my luscious love handles, seeing them as her creations, as much part of her art as the tempting éclairs and long johns and donuts laid out before me.
Open. I open my mouth and the words spill out. "Uh, we're having a morning meeting at work, and it's my turn to bring the donuts again." That last word sounds hollow and false, but the baker still smiles at me sweetly, allowing me to tell a little white lie on my way to the pleasures of gluttony, the pains of obesity. I have gained so much weight as a result of these little lies and these big pastries.
"Two of those, three of those, a dozen of those " my mouth opens and closes around each word of my order as the baker skillfully scoops up each delicious pastry and puts it in a box, then starts another box and another and another.
The huge bag opens and she carefully places the boxes inside. Then, she fills another box with cream-filled canolis. "No charge for these. I hope your coworkers enjoy these. I made too many this morning." She can lie as well as I can, encouraging me, tempting me, seducing me into a glutton's paradise which is a dieter's hell. I feel a blush upon my face and thank her.
Outside, around the corner, out of sight of the baker's blue eyes, I sit on a favorite park bench, aware that my widening body is filling more of the bench than ever.
Open. I open the bag. Mmmm, my senses are fully open and on overdrive now. Mmm, this donut smells so good, of chocolate and butter and yeast.
Open. I open my mouth. I eat. More and more. Donut after donut. Éclair after eclair. I feel that I cannot get full enough, that my hunger is greater than four dozen pastries can fill. And yet I try.
I know, I shouldn't have walked this way to work again. I won't do it tomorrow. I promise myself to be good from now on, even as I cram a Boston crème into my open mouth. I feel my pants tightening with every bite.
Open. I reach down and unbutton my jeans, opening them up and my flesh flows into the gap. My zipper is pushed down by the doughtiness of my belly. I feel a little more comfortable now.
Open. I am open for anything now, any sensuous experience, any deliciousness, any taste or sweet smell. Hot sex and warm donuts. That is all I want. Come to me, my little lovelies, I say to the waiting donuts. I open my mouth again, feeling the pleasure on my tongue and the joy in my swelling tummy.
(Author's note: This is more a vignette or meditation than a story, I suppose. Inspired by the suggestion of looking at a photo and imagining all the other sensations which are associated with the subject. The photo I chose: Pastries, of course! And now, dear reader, get yourself something deliciously decadent to enjoy.)
(NOTE: Contains some food and eating and even fat fetish. If you don't enjoy such delicious subjects, please move on to something more to your liking on the internet.)
"Open": A vignette of pastry lust
By Zonker
By Zonker
I shouldn't walk this way to work. I know it's dangerous to my health. But still, I am tempted by my demons to live dangerously.
The scent fills my nostrils, the aroma I suck into my lungs deeply, as I turn the corner and see the bakery sign flashing in the window above a stylized neon coffee cup with blue steam shining above it. And then, my favorite sign above the door.
"Open." My nostrils feel like they flair as I view the donuts and pastries which the baker is putting on display in the window.
"Open." I open my senses to the smells and the sights of such delicious goodies.
"Open." I shouldn't open. Walk on, I tell my legs, but my thick thighs don't obey. Don't stop, please, don't stop, I tell them. Don't slow your pace.
"Open." Oh my, that delicious bakery smell of fresh bread and sweet pastries, donuts, cinnamon, chocolate, fruit fillings and rising, expanding dough. I look down at my midsection to see that I am quite doughy as well, that my belly is expanding, hanging over the top of my newest pair of jeans which have grown so tight on me recently. My belly feels like a huge ball of rising dough, soft, so soft. Like those éclairs, those Boston crèmes, those soft yeasty donuts staring at me from their case in the window.
"Open." No stop it, I tell myself. I mustn't. And yet I can't help myself. I slow my pace, then stop, smile at the baker as she puts another tray in the window. She is nearly as big as me, and she certainly knows the temptations she is placing on me. She's seen me here enough, taken my massive orders and even given me extra day-old donuts for free. "For your friends at work," she always says, helping me preserve the secret notion that all these donuts are not bound for my belly.
"Open." It is more than a word on a sign. "Open." It is a command now. I must. I can't help myself. I push the door open and am engulfed in the even richer aromas, the nice soft lighting, except in the bakery cases where my fattening feasts are on full display. My eyes seem wide open now, taking it all in. The smell overwhelms me with its power, its raw lustful temptations.
Open. I can't stop now. I open my mouth and speak to the baker behind the counter. She smiles, knowing the words which will spill out. Does she steal a little glance at my bulging belly, my luscious love handles, seeing them as her creations, as much part of her art as the tempting éclairs and long johns and donuts laid out before me.
Open. I open my mouth and the words spill out. "Uh, we're having a morning meeting at work, and it's my turn to bring the donuts again." That last word sounds hollow and false, but the baker still smiles at me sweetly, allowing me to tell a little white lie on my way to the pleasures of gluttony, the pains of obesity. I have gained so much weight as a result of these little lies and these big pastries.
"Two of those, three of those, a dozen of those " my mouth opens and closes around each word of my order as the baker skillfully scoops up each delicious pastry and puts it in a box, then starts another box and another and another.
The huge bag opens and she carefully places the boxes inside. Then, she fills another box with cream-filled canolis. "No charge for these. I hope your coworkers enjoy these. I made too many this morning." She can lie as well as I can, encouraging me, tempting me, seducing me into a glutton's paradise which is a dieter's hell. I feel a blush upon my face and thank her.
Outside, around the corner, out of sight of the baker's blue eyes, I sit on a favorite park bench, aware that my widening body is filling more of the bench than ever.
Open. I open the bag. Mmmm, my senses are fully open and on overdrive now. Mmm, this donut smells so good, of chocolate and butter and yeast.
Open. I open my mouth. I eat. More and more. Donut after donut. Éclair after eclair. I feel that I cannot get full enough, that my hunger is greater than four dozen pastries can fill. And yet I try.
I know, I shouldn't have walked this way to work again. I won't do it tomorrow. I promise myself to be good from now on, even as I cram a Boston crème into my open mouth. I feel my pants tightening with every bite.
Open. I reach down and unbutton my jeans, opening them up and my flesh flows into the gap. My zipper is pushed down by the doughtiness of my belly. I feel a little more comfortable now.
Open. I am open for anything now, any sensuous experience, any deliciousness, any taste or sweet smell. Hot sex and warm donuts. That is all I want. Come to me, my little lovelies, I say to the waiting donuts. I open my mouth again, feeling the pleasure on my tongue and the joy in my swelling tummy.
(Author's note: This is more a vignette or meditation than a story, I suppose. Inspired by the suggestion of looking at a photo and imagining all the other sensations which are associated with the subject. The photo I chose: Pastries, of course! And now, dear reader, get yourself something deliciously decadent to enjoy.)
