BBW (Multiple)
Chapter 1
(Lacey's Point of View)
We all go overboard every now and again. Well, in my case it is more like everytime. You know how it is, right? Someone says we should go out to eat some burritos. You act all obstinate like ‘you know that is going to go straight to my waist. I’m dieting’.
It is a lie. A fugazi, subterfuge and misdirection.
Because you know how friends are. They say ‘You’re not fat, you’re curvy...real women have curves. It is healthy’ when they mean, ‘You’re right you shouldn’t eat some burritos, but I’m hungry and I don’t want to be that person eating alone at a Chipotle’.
They never really have to twist my arm, but they always sweeten the pot when you add, ‘You think so?’.
It is putting their backs against the wall. That moment when they put their money where their mouth is...that always leads me to putting an obscene amount of burritos into my mouth. It works out. They don’t get to eat alone and I get a free meal. Sure, I put a hurt to that wallet, but hey, a girl’s gotta eat.
What I am saying is that I go HAM sammich when it comes to life. Generally it is food, but booze, horse fighting, comic books, movies, video games, competitive cooking shows, night clubs where people dress up like Cake Boss, a society of rough trade sailors worshiping Paul Giamatti, men and women are all game. Whatever it be, I go overboard. Dive deep into it. Feet first. Realistically I just want to spring off that high dive straight into an Olympic size pool full of slow churned ice cream. We all need something to aspire to though.
“You’re getting fat,” I declared. Sure it was blunt, but I had an idea.
See Sara and I had been friends since we played with Polly Pockets. Through thick and thin, we’d been inseparable. Even when Evan broke up with me freshman year and I fell deeply into a depressed stupor. Or when Sara though bangs were a good idea. There was a year when I wore shoulder pads like Patti Lupone. What I am saying is we done been through a lot.
The only thing we never did together was get fat. I mean, I got fat. Fog horn fat. The kind of fat that my ass needs two chairs to sit down and makes booths impossible to maneuver in and out of. I am a woman of taste and a propensity to double fist twinkies. Yet Sara always stayed trim even among my legendary appetite.
“Rude. What’re you talking about? I am still wearing the same clothes from freshman year.” Shge retorted. That was true. Sara sat in a recliner wearing a teal blouse and some skinny jeans. One she had for years.
Except now, instead of the blouse flowing from her, it hugged a thick roll of fat that used to be her tapered waist and the top of her breasts spilled out the neckline like bread dough. Those skinny jeans used to fit like a dream making everyone envious of her thigh gap and butt. Now though, they were packed tight like sausages casings about to burst open from sitting in a pan.
“Of course you are! How many times do I have to hear you tell people, ‘Can you believe they still fit?’ until you realize the irony?”
“What do you mean?” She said this as she was in the middle of plowing through a row of double stuffed oreos that I may have happened to have had some part in them being in the living room. She was either in denial or oblivious.
Probably denial though since she had a good head on her shoulders. Top honors in school and landed a sweet gig doing 3D modeling for one of Sony’s first-party developers. That’s where the issue started. Girl used to work retail for a few years after college. It was a job where she was on her feet and moving all the time. When she started the job, the stress and the sedentary nature had predictable results. She was playing a Sim with her waistline.
“Girl, you are seriously going to act like there is nothing suspect with them jeans?” I replied.
“This is my favorite outfit. These jeans and my heart shaped ass get compliments on the reg thank you very much!” she shot back.
Her science was too tight. Or her denial was impenetrable. She knew very well it took her nearly an hour to squeeze them chubby flanks into those jeans. I knew they were unbuttoned. It was just no one noticed thanks to a clever belt cinched below her potbelly.
“Whatevs,” I aswered.
My eyes rolled so far into the back of my skull I fear the retinas would disconnect. I had a plan though. The important part was to play it cool. Let her shove more oreos into her fattening face and continue watching Chopped. Lull her into a sense of complacency and wait until her belly was full.
“Okay, Miss skinny jeans. How about a bet?” I challenged.
She perked up at this polishing off the oreos and throwing the container out of the way. If there was one thing you could count on with Sara it was a competitive streak and a fondness for games of chance. For a city girl, she did have the mindset of a rube sometimes.
“Not only do you have my interest, but you have my interest,” she declared nonsensically, speaking so quickly that she didn't catch her gaffe.
“That is not how it goes,” I noted.
“Shut up. What’s the bet?” she sputtered with irritation.
“It is simple, really. We go into your closet and find your favorite pair of skinny jeans. The red, extra tight ones that show off your butt so well. You try them on,” I started.
Her eyebrow cocked at the terms. Like I had told her all you have to do is breathe and manage not to die for thirty seconds.
“That’s all? What’re the stakes?” she inquired.
“Well...if you get them on and buttoned then I pay the cable bill for the next the months. If you can’t get them on then you go on a diet with me,” I said.
Now I had no intention of dieting. I am already in perfect shape, contoured to my own prference, fully formed though that may be. That wasn’t changing... However if I revealed my cards then Sara would never go along with the bet. Saying we both go on a diet when she inevitably didn’t get those pants up and buttoned would seem like support. No, I had much grander intentions with this diet. It is what you could call an anti-diet.
“Deal!” she said. She was always short on money and her share of thecable bill was wrth over a hundred dollars.
That girl’s bedroom was a nightmare. It was like a garbage barge near her bed with fast food wrappers and pizza boxes piled up. I didn’t know her work habits translated to home this intensely. It is a start. Her computer had panties and bras slung over it haphazardly and a pile of clothes bunched up near the desk. Subconsciously she must be realizing the jig is up. The girl was a rube sometimes.
Watching her belly bunch up in that recliner made it seem smaller than it was. Standing near her closet digging through her hangers showed the true damage. As she reached up to grab them the blouse rode up revealing a sweet, jiggly piece of belly flab pushed up by a belt on its last legs.
If her belly revealed all its pudgy glory standing then her butt reveled in being horizontal. Shorty, Sara is a 5’1” so it is both colloquially and true, had a donk. How she squeezed them two blubbery cheeks into those jeans is a mystery. But it meant ya girl ain’t paying the entire cable bill.
Like a pig hunting for truffles, Sara found those red skinny jeans. They looked even smaller as she held them out in front of her now much chunkier body. Pushing a boulder up a hill is an apt analogy for what happened. The first issue was undressing. Sara was poured into those clothes. The blouse wasn’t too bad. Some struggle with getting it off her much larger boobs, but nothing strenuous. Those jeans though. It took some doing to roll them off her pudgy hips and down her jiggly thighs. The newly minted chub quaked and shook as she finally peeled them off.
The bet hadn’t even begun and it was already in the bag. Seeing Sara stripped down to an ill fitting bra and panties the extent of her new job became evident. Her potbelly was deliciously round pushed out into a nice little dome. There was some foreshadowing of it drooping down and hanging over her waistband with another few pounds.
Her thighs were showing signs of dimpling and cellulite and clearly the thigh gap was a thing of the past. Them hips and that butt were basically a Louisiana purchase of junk food. Their real estate on her body now resembled something like a McMansion. Two big blubbery orbs suspended over those juicy thighs. She was totally in need of a diet, winky face emoji.
Sara always played things aloof and cool as can be, but seeing them jeans in her slowly sausaging fingers caused a bead of sweat to trickle down her forehead. Never one to betray her word or quit, she held them tiny leg holes out in front of her and slid her feet into them. Bunched around her ankles, things didn’t seem so dire if not for the flab quaking solemnly above them. The real problem quickly emerged as she pulled them up to her thickened thighs. They stopped dead at the fattest part of them. This is where she showed her new adeptness at the fat girl two-step.
With the waist band firmly clutches between her hands, she spread her legs out and shimmied her hips and wiggled to force those thighs down into those legs. To my disbelief she managed to pull the jeans over the thighs. Those thighs were packed in there though. Like overripe fruit. Now they rest rolled up under her hips. The true test between the trunk and all that junk was about to begin. She inhaled deeply and prepared herself for the battle of the bulge.
Rolling out the denim wasn’t much of an issue and her hands had a firm grip on the waistband. The issue became that the amount of denim is mathematically not enough to cover all that ass. Yet Sara wasn’t discouraged. She tugged, jerked, jumped and yanked to get them over that rump.
Watching her dance getting those jeans over her butt was mesmerizing as that booty flab flowed like fields of grain in a stiff breeze. Again defying reality she got them over her hips and her butt. If I hadn’t done this myself time and time again then I wouldn’t have believe it. But fat girls squeezing into jeans is the closest our world will get to having the power of the Infinity Gauntlet.
Those jeans were up and Sara smirked smugly at me. As if she proved her point and won the bet. What a tragic fool she was at times.
“You haven’t won anything yet. That is only have the bet. Now you have to button them.”
Now she may have defied logic with getting the jeans over her thighs and big butt, but the denim was stretched so tightly that there wasn’t anything left to contend with her tubby tummy. Futilely she tried to pull the flaps together, but to no avail. She shot me a pleading look.
“Can I lay down on my bed please?” she asked.
“Having some trouble? Sure.” I repied charitably.
Pathetic.
Leaning back on her queen mattress her gut seemed to be less of an issue. It was still an issue, but it allowed Sara to pull the flaps together with such force her face turned beet red. My eyebrows shot up when she got the button in the hole. Could she really win? No, no she couldn’t. She still had the zipper and there is no way that was happening. Yet Sara’s smugness returned as she rocked forward to stand up and claim victory. Rookie mistake.
Her rump should have been plastered with a contents under pressure warning because as she shot up the jeans gave up. The button flew across the room hitting me right in the gut. Now an immovable object is rarely affected, but I ain’t going to lie, the force that metal button hit my gut with left a bruise. Who cares about a tiny quarter size bruise though? I had won.
Sara, defeated, fell back onto her bed. You can guess what happened next. It is physics really. With the intensity of lightning Sara’s bubble butt broke three slats in her bed frame.
“Okay, I may need to go on a diet,” shr conceded.
We are going on a diet that is for sure. Except we’re going to the opposite of what you’d traditionally do to diet. Sara, we are going to be the fattest besties.
(Continued in post four of this thread)
The Sting
by None
by None
Chapter 1
(Lacey's Point of View)
We all go overboard every now and again. Well, in my case it is more like everytime. You know how it is, right? Someone says we should go out to eat some burritos. You act all obstinate like ‘you know that is going to go straight to my waist. I’m dieting’.
It is a lie. A fugazi, subterfuge and misdirection.
Because you know how friends are. They say ‘You’re not fat, you’re curvy...real women have curves. It is healthy’ when they mean, ‘You’re right you shouldn’t eat some burritos, but I’m hungry and I don’t want to be that person eating alone at a Chipotle’.
They never really have to twist my arm, but they always sweeten the pot when you add, ‘You think so?’.
It is putting their backs against the wall. That moment when they put their money where their mouth is...that always leads me to putting an obscene amount of burritos into my mouth. It works out. They don’t get to eat alone and I get a free meal. Sure, I put a hurt to that wallet, but hey, a girl’s gotta eat.
What I am saying is that I go HAM sammich when it comes to life. Generally it is food, but booze, horse fighting, comic books, movies, video games, competitive cooking shows, night clubs where people dress up like Cake Boss, a society of rough trade sailors worshiping Paul Giamatti, men and women are all game. Whatever it be, I go overboard. Dive deep into it. Feet first. Realistically I just want to spring off that high dive straight into an Olympic size pool full of slow churned ice cream. We all need something to aspire to though.
“You’re getting fat,” I declared. Sure it was blunt, but I had an idea.
See Sara and I had been friends since we played with Polly Pockets. Through thick and thin, we’d been inseparable. Even when Evan broke up with me freshman year and I fell deeply into a depressed stupor. Or when Sara though bangs were a good idea. There was a year when I wore shoulder pads like Patti Lupone. What I am saying is we done been through a lot.
The only thing we never did together was get fat. I mean, I got fat. Fog horn fat. The kind of fat that my ass needs two chairs to sit down and makes booths impossible to maneuver in and out of. I am a woman of taste and a propensity to double fist twinkies. Yet Sara always stayed trim even among my legendary appetite.
“Rude. What’re you talking about? I am still wearing the same clothes from freshman year.” Shge retorted. That was true. Sara sat in a recliner wearing a teal blouse and some skinny jeans. One she had for years.
Except now, instead of the blouse flowing from her, it hugged a thick roll of fat that used to be her tapered waist and the top of her breasts spilled out the neckline like bread dough. Those skinny jeans used to fit like a dream making everyone envious of her thigh gap and butt. Now though, they were packed tight like sausages casings about to burst open from sitting in a pan.
“Of course you are! How many times do I have to hear you tell people, ‘Can you believe they still fit?’ until you realize the irony?”
“What do you mean?” She said this as she was in the middle of plowing through a row of double stuffed oreos that I may have happened to have had some part in them being in the living room. She was either in denial or oblivious.
Probably denial though since she had a good head on her shoulders. Top honors in school and landed a sweet gig doing 3D modeling for one of Sony’s first-party developers. That’s where the issue started. Girl used to work retail for a few years after college. It was a job where she was on her feet and moving all the time. When she started the job, the stress and the sedentary nature had predictable results. She was playing a Sim with her waistline.
“Girl, you are seriously going to act like there is nothing suspect with them jeans?” I replied.
“This is my favorite outfit. These jeans and my heart shaped ass get compliments on the reg thank you very much!” she shot back.
Her science was too tight. Or her denial was impenetrable. She knew very well it took her nearly an hour to squeeze them chubby flanks into those jeans. I knew they were unbuttoned. It was just no one noticed thanks to a clever belt cinched below her potbelly.
“Whatevs,” I aswered.
My eyes rolled so far into the back of my skull I fear the retinas would disconnect. I had a plan though. The important part was to play it cool. Let her shove more oreos into her fattening face and continue watching Chopped. Lull her into a sense of complacency and wait until her belly was full.
“Okay, Miss skinny jeans. How about a bet?” I challenged.
She perked up at this polishing off the oreos and throwing the container out of the way. If there was one thing you could count on with Sara it was a competitive streak and a fondness for games of chance. For a city girl, she did have the mindset of a rube sometimes.
“Not only do you have my interest, but you have my interest,” she declared nonsensically, speaking so quickly that she didn't catch her gaffe.
“That is not how it goes,” I noted.
“Shut up. What’s the bet?” she sputtered with irritation.
“It is simple, really. We go into your closet and find your favorite pair of skinny jeans. The red, extra tight ones that show off your butt so well. You try them on,” I started.
Her eyebrow cocked at the terms. Like I had told her all you have to do is breathe and manage not to die for thirty seconds.
“That’s all? What’re the stakes?” she inquired.
“Well...if you get them on and buttoned then I pay the cable bill for the next the months. If you can’t get them on then you go on a diet with me,” I said.
Now I had no intention of dieting. I am already in perfect shape, contoured to my own prference, fully formed though that may be. That wasn’t changing... However if I revealed my cards then Sara would never go along with the bet. Saying we both go on a diet when she inevitably didn’t get those pants up and buttoned would seem like support. No, I had much grander intentions with this diet. It is what you could call an anti-diet.
“Deal!” she said. She was always short on money and her share of thecable bill was wrth over a hundred dollars.
That girl’s bedroom was a nightmare. It was like a garbage barge near her bed with fast food wrappers and pizza boxes piled up. I didn’t know her work habits translated to home this intensely. It is a start. Her computer had panties and bras slung over it haphazardly and a pile of clothes bunched up near the desk. Subconsciously she must be realizing the jig is up. The girl was a rube sometimes.
Watching her belly bunch up in that recliner made it seem smaller than it was. Standing near her closet digging through her hangers showed the true damage. As she reached up to grab them the blouse rode up revealing a sweet, jiggly piece of belly flab pushed up by a belt on its last legs.
If her belly revealed all its pudgy glory standing then her butt reveled in being horizontal. Shorty, Sara is a 5’1” so it is both colloquially and true, had a donk. How she squeezed them two blubbery cheeks into those jeans is a mystery. But it meant ya girl ain’t paying the entire cable bill.
Like a pig hunting for truffles, Sara found those red skinny jeans. They looked even smaller as she held them out in front of her now much chunkier body. Pushing a boulder up a hill is an apt analogy for what happened. The first issue was undressing. Sara was poured into those clothes. The blouse wasn’t too bad. Some struggle with getting it off her much larger boobs, but nothing strenuous. Those jeans though. It took some doing to roll them off her pudgy hips and down her jiggly thighs. The newly minted chub quaked and shook as she finally peeled them off.
The bet hadn’t even begun and it was already in the bag. Seeing Sara stripped down to an ill fitting bra and panties the extent of her new job became evident. Her potbelly was deliciously round pushed out into a nice little dome. There was some foreshadowing of it drooping down and hanging over her waistband with another few pounds.
Her thighs were showing signs of dimpling and cellulite and clearly the thigh gap was a thing of the past. Them hips and that butt were basically a Louisiana purchase of junk food. Their real estate on her body now resembled something like a McMansion. Two big blubbery orbs suspended over those juicy thighs. She was totally in need of a diet, winky face emoji.
Sara always played things aloof and cool as can be, but seeing them jeans in her slowly sausaging fingers caused a bead of sweat to trickle down her forehead. Never one to betray her word or quit, she held them tiny leg holes out in front of her and slid her feet into them. Bunched around her ankles, things didn’t seem so dire if not for the flab quaking solemnly above them. The real problem quickly emerged as she pulled them up to her thickened thighs. They stopped dead at the fattest part of them. This is where she showed her new adeptness at the fat girl two-step.
With the waist band firmly clutches between her hands, she spread her legs out and shimmied her hips and wiggled to force those thighs down into those legs. To my disbelief she managed to pull the jeans over the thighs. Those thighs were packed in there though. Like overripe fruit. Now they rest rolled up under her hips. The true test between the trunk and all that junk was about to begin. She inhaled deeply and prepared herself for the battle of the bulge.
Rolling out the denim wasn’t much of an issue and her hands had a firm grip on the waistband. The issue became that the amount of denim is mathematically not enough to cover all that ass. Yet Sara wasn’t discouraged. She tugged, jerked, jumped and yanked to get them over that rump.
Watching her dance getting those jeans over her butt was mesmerizing as that booty flab flowed like fields of grain in a stiff breeze. Again defying reality she got them over her hips and her butt. If I hadn’t done this myself time and time again then I wouldn’t have believe it. But fat girls squeezing into jeans is the closest our world will get to having the power of the Infinity Gauntlet.
Those jeans were up and Sara smirked smugly at me. As if she proved her point and won the bet. What a tragic fool she was at times.
“You haven’t won anything yet. That is only have the bet. Now you have to button them.”
Now she may have defied logic with getting the jeans over her thighs and big butt, but the denim was stretched so tightly that there wasn’t anything left to contend with her tubby tummy. Futilely she tried to pull the flaps together, but to no avail. She shot me a pleading look.
“Can I lay down on my bed please?” she asked.
“Having some trouble? Sure.” I repied charitably.
Pathetic.
Leaning back on her queen mattress her gut seemed to be less of an issue. It was still an issue, but it allowed Sara to pull the flaps together with such force her face turned beet red. My eyebrows shot up when she got the button in the hole. Could she really win? No, no she couldn’t. She still had the zipper and there is no way that was happening. Yet Sara’s smugness returned as she rocked forward to stand up and claim victory. Rookie mistake.
Her rump should have been plastered with a contents under pressure warning because as she shot up the jeans gave up. The button flew across the room hitting me right in the gut. Now an immovable object is rarely affected, but I ain’t going to lie, the force that metal button hit my gut with left a bruise. Who cares about a tiny quarter size bruise though? I had won.
Sara, defeated, fell back onto her bed. You can guess what happened next. It is physics really. With the intensity of lightning Sara’s bubble butt broke three slats in her bed frame.
“Okay, I may need to go on a diet,” shr conceded.
We are going on a diet that is for sure. Except we’re going to the opposite of what you’d traditionally do to diet. Sara, we are going to be the fattest besties.
(Continued in post four of this thread)
