The Old Ball Game -by BBD (~BBW, Eating, Romance, ~SWG)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BBW, Eating, Romance, ~SWG - Lonely girl goes to a ball game and finds a bigger score than she expected

The Old Ball Game
by Big Beautiful Dreamer​

Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I was not, absolutely not, looking for a relationship when I went to the baseball game. Nick had dumped me in a particularly callous fashion three weeks ago and I was still stewing about it. Friends kept telling me to forget it and move on, but his words had stung so deeply that they were kind of hard to forget.

“Stephanie … we’ve both changed,” he’d said. Uh-oh, that wasn’t good. It wasn’t callous, either. Yet.

“The truth is, I’m climbing up the corporate ladder.” Yes, dear readers, he actually said that. “I really need someone who is more of an … asset to me. Someone who’s, well, really attractive, someone eye-catching, someone thin.”

Stunned, I blurted out, “I’m thin.” I was in shock and couldn’t even respond to his clear implication that I wasn’t attractive.

Nick made a face. “Let’s face it,” he said. “Not quite what you used to be.”

He sighed, clearly ticked that I had the gall to be making this hard. “Like I said, I need someone who will be an asset to my career.”

Stung, I rose and collected my purse. “Good luck finding your trophy wife.”

I flounced out, relieved that I’d followed my mother’s dictum of always having a little money in my purse on dates. Unable to face the rapid transit, I hailed a cab. Back home, I peeled off my clothes – was my dress a little snug? – and cried myself to sleep. The next morning I’d examined myself critically in the mirror. OK, so I wasn’t Jessica Simpson, but who was? I thought I had an average figure. At five foot four and 135 pounds, I might have been a little soft around the middle, that’s all. I certainly wasn’t fat.

For the first week or so, I sulked. I went to a couple of movies the second week, but when you’ve been part of a couple for a while, it’s lame going alone. It’s somehow condescending when you have to tell the teen-ager in the booth, “One, please.” Deciding to go to the ball game was an impulse move. I’d always liked baseball, it was a beautiful night, why not?

It wasn’t until the bottom of the first inning that someone took the seat to my right. He was holding a cup of pop and a bag of popcorn, and he smiled sheepishly as he maneuvered himself and his snacks into his seat. We began making idle chatter about the game, as people will, and he offered me some popcorn. I took a handful here and there, but he kept urging more on me. He was politely insistent, and before I knew it, I’d eaten the whole dang bag.

Whoops. Ted, for such was his name, seemed delighted. By now it was the bottom of the third inning, and he said, “Be right back.” He came back midway through the top of the fourth juggling two hot dogs all the way and two soft pretzels. Yipes! As soon as he got seated, he called the vendor over for two frozen lemonades.

I laughed nervously. “You sure have a big appetite.”

He smiled, a quirky half-smile that slid endearingly along one side of his face, and winked. “Some of it’s for you.”

“Oh no – I couldn’t,” I said automatically. “I’m stuffed.” I was, too. That was a big bag of popcorn.

Ted leaned in and kissed my nose. Um, wow. “You’re too thin,” he said matter-of-factly. “Girls need curves.”

“If I eat like this, things will be curving,” I replied.

Ted laughed delightedly. “Cheers!” he proclaimed, toasting the hot dogs together and handing me one.

Well, the hot dog was tasty. And salty, tempting me toward the frozen lemonade. And by then I’d been smelling the pretzel for a good several minutes and couldn’t resist anymore. The salt tingled, the mustard bit, and by the time that big pretzel was gone, so was the lemonade.

Leaning back, I patted my tummy and belched. Whoops. Ted evidently thought it was cute, though, because he mugged a grin and patted my belly himself. “Good girl.”

There was more to pat, too, after eating all that, plus a big frozen lemonade, plus half of Ted’s pop, plus all that popcorn. My stomach felt tight and hard, like a drum, and the fabric of my floaty top wasn’t floaty anymore but stretched across my bulging midriff. The waistband of my shorts was slicing into the area south of my belly button, which was now an outie.

I thought I was done eating, but incredibly, Ted bought a big bag of peanuts for me in the top of the sixth, and another pop to wash them down.

He had to help me up for the seventh-inning stretch – no lie. I started to get up, but the weight of my aching stomach pulled me back down and I listed to port.

Grinning, Ted helped me wobble to my feet, resting his hand on my bloated belly as we sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Well, he sang. I burped every time I opened my mouth, so I stopped opening my mouth.

The home team won, which meant the game ended after the first half of the ninth, and Ted escorted me into the aisle and up the stairs. A few yards along the concourse, and I was out of breath. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was really puffing. Ted slowed his pace and helped me along, his arm around my shoulders. Outside, having hailed a cab for me, he said, “I had a fabulous time tonight. Could I call you? I’d love to see you again.”

No, no, no, my head was saying. Yes, yes, yes, my heart was saying. Oh, ow, ooh, my tummy was saying. I opened my mouth, belched, and, blushing, said, “Sure.”

I gave him my card and galumphed my way into the cab, feeling like a beached whale.

Back home, I dragged myself up the stairs and slowly and with effort peeled off my clothes. On my way to the toilet, I stopped to look in the bathroom. My face had a faint blush of sun on it, but that wasn’t where I was looking. My belly! I looked six months pregnant. Carefully I massaged it. My discomfort had subsided a little, but I still felt bloated and sore, I had a classic stomach ache, and my midriff was taut and distended. I poked it tentatively. Hard as a drum.

“Oooohhh,” I groaned. I belched again. I could hear my grandmother saying, “Serves you right, missy.” Shut up, Gran.

I lowered myself into bed and slowly turned onto my side, moaning aloud as my overloaded tummy sloshed painfully. Drawing my knees up, I cradled my aching stomach and slowly drifted into a fitful sleep.

The next day, I skipped breakfast and, at lunch, had only a Caesar salad.

“I thought you liked the burgers here,” Alanna said.

“I do,” I mumbled, looking at the placemat. “I went to a ballgame last night. Kind of OD’d on the food.”

Gina made a face. “Ballpark food, yuck. Who knows what’s in it.”

“Thanks a lot, Gina.” I refrained from mentioning Ted. Women can be vultures, plucking shreds mercilessly from the bones of a relationship until there’s nothing less. No, the name “Ted” would not be crossing my lips for a while.

Then, around two o’clock, just as I was feeling starved, Ted called. “Hey beautiful.”

I crossed my eyes, trying to keep from blushing. He invited me out to dinner and said he’d pick me up at six. My heart felt absurdly fluttery. Was Ted another Nick? Nick wouldn’t have been caught dead at a ballgame unless it was good for his career. Besides, Nick had never offered me food in the entire time we were dating.

That thought leapt unbidden into my mind. Wait a minute. No, that’s right. Not once. And he’d always had kind of a pinched frown on his face when I was eating. Well, forget Nick. I was lucky to be rid of him. Imagine if we’d still been dating when Nick decided it was good for his career to get married. I’d be stuck with someone for whom nothing about me was quite good enough. Ted was different.

Ted was different, all right. For one thing, he was on time. He was dressed in a blue blazer and gray flannels, looking yummy. About six feet tall, maybe 220 pounds, he had a friendly face, a decent figure, a little pot pooching over the belt. I was wearing a red wrap dress with a gold necklace and earrings. He swept me off the stoop and into an embrace. “Mmm, hey beautiful.”

“You said that already,” I teased, feeling more at home with him than I ever had with Nick.

“I’ll say it again. Hey, beautiful.” Then he smooched me. My scalp tingled.
He took me to an Italian restaurant.

“I know this place,” he said. “Would it be all right if I ordered?”

“Sure.” Whoops, maybe not, I thought, remembering all that food the night before. Too late.

I was determined to take just the merest nibble of the appetizer, but when I stopped after that first one, Ted picked up another.

“Eat, eat,” he urged. “You’re too thin anyway.”

I looked him right in the eyes. “Ted, I’m not. If anything, I’m a little plump. I’m not thin.”

Ted glanced down, then back up. “Stephanie, do you know what a feeder is?”

“Like a feedlot? For cattle?”

Ted laughed. “Well … not exactly.” He told me what a feeder was. “I’d like to be your feeder.”

I sat back, unsure of what to say. A million questions popped into my head. What about health? What about appearance? Oh, what would the other women at work say?

Ted seemed to understand. “Let’s not talk about it any more right now. Let’s just eat.” He picked up a shrimp and coaxed it into my mouth. Mmmmm. I had to admit the food he’d ordered was delicious, and the martinis (yes, martinis with an s) that I was drinking didn’t hurt.

Over dinner, Ted casually introduced my fears into the conversation. He could tell that I worked out. If I kept mobile and active, health wouldn’t be as much of a concern as I thought. He would be honored to update my wardrobe as needed.

“Women …” he said. “I have three sisters. I love them, but they can be hard on each other. Harder still on themselves. If you feel good about yourself, you do not need to worry about what others say. Just radiate that self-confidence I know you have.”

It was still a weird proposition. Ted dropped the subject by the time dessert came. Yes, dessert. Helped along by the martinis, I’d had all of that appetizer, all of the embarrassingly huge entrée, several pieces of bread, with butter, and was now gazing at a wedge of pumpkin cheesecake. Oh my.

Of course I ate it all. Of course I was stuffed to bursting. Of course Ted had to help me waddle to the curb and let me lean against him while the valet got the car. On the way home, he massaged my belly, which was again swollen and distended.

“I have a tummy ache,” I pouted. He kissed it, then resumed his massage, which felt so, so good. I was achingly full, but loved the feel of his hands on my bloated midriff.

He took me to his apartment, gently undressed me, and draped one of his T-shirts over me. It made my sticking-out tummy look pregnant again.

We cuddled on the sofa, listening to a CD, saying little. From the look of the place, Ted was clearly not hurting for money. Finally, half-asleep, sodden with food and drink, I mumbled, “Ted, what do you do?”

I could feel Ted’s grin in the dim light. “I’ve always been a little quirky about investments,” he said. “I was in the right place at the right time with Amazon, Google, and Cingular, plus a few others. My income from investments is about two, two and a half a year.”

I sat up straight, suddenly awake. “Million? (Urp.)”

“Yes, million,” he said, then faked a belch.

“I write poetry,” he said, more seriously. “I get published here and there.”

“Oh (hic!),” I said weakly. “Read (hic!) me some?”

He massaged my belly a few seconds more, then stood up and recited, without looking at any papers or books, two of his poems. They were enchanting. I was headlong in love in spite of myself.

Still, I had my doubts. I gave the whole feeder thing a lot of thought over the next several months. I have to say Ted was very gracious about the whole thing. At my request he never sent me flowers to the office – only to the apartment – and seldom called me at work, mostly at home. We took to spending weekends together and went out one or two other evenings a week, or sometimes a whole week went by with just talk and no dates. That was good too.

My weight crept up. I worked out, of course, but I was eating out more, and Ted fed me hugely on weekends. I think it pleased him to see me stuffed to the brim. His breakfasts were unforgettable.

I got up to 145 and my clothes were getting awfully snug. It seemed to give Ted a kick to see me have to unbutton my pants after – or during! – a meal. One mortifying evening, when I went to stand up after another big dinner out, the zipper burst on my skirt. Ted, suppressing a grin, somehow got us out of there. The next day, after another huge breakfast, he took us shopping and bought me a dozen pretty separates. He took us back to my apartment and … helped me clean out my closet. He tossed all the stuff that was now to small and make room for the new clothes.

Of course, Gina was the first to be catty. We went out to lunch, and I ordered a salmon Caesar salad. I always had a salad when lunching with Gina and Alanna. Always.

“Nice skirt,” Gina said to me.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Course, I guess you’ve been needing to get some larger clothes.”

Alanna sucked in her breath, waiting for the fight.

“Yes,” I said calmly, “I have.”

That took the wind out of Gina’s sails. That afternoon, in the women’s room, Alanna said tentatively, “Steph, have you … you know …”

“Yes, I’ve put on a little weight,” I said. My heart was pounding, but this was the pivotal moment, and I remembered what Ted had said about self-confidence. I had a lot more of it since we’d been dating. He loved me for myself, and that made me feel good about who I was.

I started to say more, but realized there was nothing more to say. nAlanna’s eyes widened, but what was there to do when Gina’s taunt and her well-meant question had both died in the road?

Nothing, as it turned out.

There were, of course, whispers and murmurs, and I occasionally overheard conversations. Everyone could see I was packing it on. And it was also common coin that I didn’t seem to mind.

I was up to 150. And I’d made a decision.

That Friday, I declined to go out, so Ted ordered in Chinese and we ate while watching “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”

At the end, during the double wedding, I turned to Ted. “I would like you to be my feeder.”

Ted kissed me. “We’ll start tomorrow!”

He had told me that he was both a “feeder” and a “stuffer.” The times that we’d done a “stuffing,” it had felt wonderful, the simultaneous explosion of discomfort and arousal, all that food pressing down, stimulating me, until I couldn’t stand it anymore, then both of us retiring to the bedroom.

We agreed that we wouldn’t have stuffing episodes every day, but it certainly seemed appropriate to start this new phase of our relationship off with one. And have I mentioned how good Ted is with breakfasts?

He really outdid himself.

We began with a ceremonial weigh-in. I was at 153. My breasts had puffed out like popovers being baked and were now a big handful that spilled out of the bikini Ted gave me, which I was wearing for this occasion.

Below the top, my belly flowed downward, sloping into a shelf above a semi-inflated spare tire. My face was fuller and a hint of a second chin had been born. My thighs were fuller, with no daylight now between them, and my bottom was noticeably rounder, my waistline steadily thickening and the bikini bottom already hiding below my belly button. Coward.

At the last second, Ted, inspired, had me tug on a pair of jeans that were already snug. He loves seeing my muffin top. My stomach, pre-breakfast, flopped out all the way around, and he gave it an affectionate squeeze.

I sat down and cracked my knuckles. Bring it on. Ted laid a plate before me, a mountain of scrambled eggs with cheese, another mountain of hash browns, sausage links, and a smaller plate with two huge cinnamon rolls aboard. A flagon of orange juice and a big mug of coffee with lots of sugar and cream. A distant relative of coffee.

While I ate what I knew would only be round one, Ted ate his usual rations.

He’d told me several months ago that he was a feeder, not a gainer, and was happiest in the neighborhood of 220-230. I loved his sexy gut and the softness of his pecs and adored cuddling against his cushy chest.

Well.

After that pile of food I was pleasantly stuffed, my stomach full. I was already starting to squirm in my seat at the arousal I was feeling, enhanced by the tightness of the jeans. The button was pressed hard into my gently bulging tummy and with every breath I felt the waistband press down on my midriff. I hiccupped.

“More,” I said, and chugged the rest of the OJ. Ted refilled the OJ. The plate came back with three enormous waffles topped with strawberries and strawberry syrup, a bowl of peaches on the side, and a stack of lavishly buttered sourdough toast.

I munched along, Ted having pulled his chair alongside for encouragement. Halfway through the waffles, I felt it coming. I belched. The button of the jeans quietly undid itself.

“Here, let me help that poor old tummy,” Ted crooned, and worked the zipper down. “Can you stand up?”

I could … with help. With Ted’s hand, I wobbled to my feet, cradling my full tummy. I was pretty stuffed now. My stomach felt packed to capacity already and I could see it had gotten bigger. Instead of being folded into two little rolls, it was inflating, becoming taut. Ted tugged off the jeans and took a minute to massage my tummy while I was still standing. A couple of big belches helped.

I sat back down, groaning aloud as my full belly sloshed and sagged onto my thighs. Slowly, with big swallows of juice helping, I made my way through the waffles, peaches, and toast. By now I was stuffed to bursting, full up to my eyebrows. My belly was distended and firm, the skin stretched tautly in a thin layer over a visibly bulging midriff. My love handles had gotten thicker and I could feel the ties of the bikini bottom straining. My abdomen was pushing the bikini top up and my breasts were starting to sag to the sides. I could feel the last swallows of juice trickling into every crevice of my warm, sweaty tummy.

Ted laid a plate in front of me. Four doughnuts surrounding a mountain of cantaloupe chunks. He refilled the juice glass.

“Ohh … (urrrrp) I can’t,” I moaned. I belched again and cradled my midsection. “My stomach hurrrrrts,” I groaned.

“You can, you can,” Ted crooned. Gently, oh so gently, he massaged my swollen and aching belly. I could hear it growl and groan like a caged animal.

A big caged animal. Massaging with his right hand, he picked up a doughnut with his left. He fed me bite after sugary bite, and I kept eating. Canteloupe … doughnuts … cantaloupe … juice …

Incredibly, all the food was gone. Into my stomach. Into my – ohhh – aching – urrrp – stomach. To say I had a stomach ache would not begin to describe my wonderful torment. My belly felt hugely full, and looking down, I could not see my feet. Could I see my knees? Debatable. My sides were hugely stretched, my bottom was numb despite the cushioning, my tummy throbbed and groaned.

Carefully, cautiously, Ted helped me to my feet. I wobbled dangerously. I was so full it hurt to straighten up. I cradled my sagging, ballooned belly and waddled precariously toward the recliner end of the sofa. Ted solicitously helped me into it and raised the footstool part. He untied my bikini strings and let the pieces sit where they were. Then, picking up a bottle of lotion, he continued to gently massage my aching tummy. Sated, dopey, in a food-induced haze, I could think only of how very, very happy I was.

After a while, when I could stand again, Ted helped me to the bathroom and I stepped onto the scale. Remember, before breakfast I had clocked in at 153. The scale now stopped at 160. Wowee! I would have jumped for joy but I could barely move. I belched and Ted beamed at me, then helped me to the bed, where we made love as never before. He was gentle and tender as he rode my mountainous tummy.

Later, we sat out on the balcony, sipping wine and people watching.

Suddenly Ted scraped his chair back and stood, then went down on one knee. I could feel my eyes brim with tears.

“Stephanie, you make me happier than anyone I’ve ever known. I can’t live without you. Will you marry me?”

I couldn’t speak. I nodded.

I won’t bore you with the details, but we did get married, quietly, at the courthouse. I’d given my notice at work and we’d moved to a larger apartment, selling both of ours.

My dad had made a few cracks over the last months about the size of my bottom, but I think my mom put a death stare on him, because he’d stopped talking about it. His mother, who was widowed, was a dear, as thoughtful and sweet as Ted was. The ceremony, such as it was, over, we flew to Italy – Italy! – for a four-week honeymoon.

Oh, boy.

I should tell you that by the time we boarded that plane I was up to 160. I had the female equivalent of a beer belly, and impressive breasts, now, supported by a solid backside. Ted loved every inch of me. He also confided, on the plane, that he hoped to see me get up to 200 by our first anniversary. “Italy should make a difference,” he said, winking.

Reader, it did. Italian meals all seemed to have four or five courses, starting with a huge platter of antipasti. I would scarf down half to two-thirds of the platter-full all by my own self, then lean back and coax up a belch.
“Filled the tank?” Ted would tease me, then order a huge bowl of pasta. Ziti, manicotti, angel hair, fettucini, radiatore, conchili … if it was made out of noodles, I ate it.

When we first arrived in Italy, the antipasti and pasta would have filled me up. I would lean back in my seat, stifling belches and moaning with discomfort, all the while wriggling with pleasure. It didn’t take long before I could hold more.

A lot more.

After the antipasti and the pasta would come a meat course – chicken, lasagna, sausage, lamb, you name it. All delicious and all tempting. I would take my time, nursing a glass of red wine, dawdling to give my full tummy time to digest a little. Then would come a salad, then often a cheese and fruit course, then dessert. Always dessert.

By then, of course, I was too full to move, almost too full to breathe. Ted would have to help me to my feet – an increasingly difficult battle. Sometimes, of course, okay, most of the time, after a meal like that I was too stuffed to straighten up and I would sort of waddle out of the restaurant. Sometimes we had to sit on a bench outside until I could recover. He would massage my swollen and aching belly, which would be distended from the huge meal, ballooning out below my blouse, obscuring my feet and maybe overshadowing the pigeons pecking around.

Fortunately, we did a ton of walking – seems as though all we did in Italy was walk and eat – okay, maybe not all…. There were times, of course, when the walking was harder, and made me short of breath, but Ted was solicitous and helpful, we would take breaks, and we both knew that exercise and mobility were important.

Of course, there weren’t any scales in the hotel, so we couldn’t know how much I was gaining, but we did have to buy me some new clothes. Italian clothes! Zowee! Of course, I loved it.

The not knowing, however, made us both hot to find out, but when we got home we were zonked from jet lag. We never even made it to the bedroom, just fell asleep on the sofa, him lying down, me in the recliner part.

The next morning, Ted slowly and lovingly undressed me and followed me to the scale like a kid at Christmas. Teasingly, I stepped on very slowly, one foot at a time. The scale showed 180.

Ted would have picked me up and spun me around if he could have. Of course, fair is fair, so he stripped down to his undies and stepped up. He was up to 235, the high side of his normal weight. I liked the new cushion, though, and, leading him to the bedroom, showed him my appreciation.

Of course, with the Italian head start, it didn’t take me anywhere near to our first anniversary to get to 200. I was there within six months.

To celebrate, we went to a baseball game.

For Christmas, I’m going to give Ted another 25 pounds. On me. Topped with a Santa bikini I found online.

I can’t wait for him to unwrap it.