The Surprising Tummy

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

The celebrity mags, it seemed, were happy for them. Rosellen Flowers-Martin was preggers! Rosellen and her husband, Evan Martin, had been public about having difficulty conceiving since their wedding at a Thai resort two years ago, and now People, Us, InTouch, and the tabloids all breathlessly confirmed their gleeful announcement.

Rosellen announced that she was taking a break from movies. In ten years she’d had four good-sized hits and enough indies to give her cred; Evan rocked it out on a popular cable-channel drama. He was tall with ruggedly off-beat good looks: not a conventional pretty boy, but plenty found him hot. Rosellen was several inches shorter, slender and toned, with just enough curve to look appealing on the red carpet. Her chestnut hair brushed her shoulders, setting off her sparkling green eyes, tip-tilted nose, and full lips in a heart-shaped face.

In the bedroom of their bungalow, which cost more than a sprawling five-bedroom house would have been in, say, Des Moines, Rosellen and Evan sat curled up in bed, dreamily musing.

“I’m going to get awfully big,” she said with a pout.

“More of you to love,” Evan said, and laid a hand on her tummy. There was already a slight pooch there, surprisingly firm. “Don’t worry about it,” he continued. “You just eat whatever you’re craving.”

“Right now,” she said slowly, “I’m craving a big tall sandwich and a pile of Sun Chips and a tall frosty root beer. Even though I just ate, like, a pound of pasta salad!”

Evan bounded up immediately. “Don’t move,” he said. “Sit back. I’ll get it.”

Rosellen sat back. She could get to like this.

When Evan returned, Rosellen started off inhaling the food. Half the huge sandwich and half the quart mug of root beer vanished in a breath. She started on the chips.

“Ooh,” she mumbled. “Hic! I’m getting full.”

“You need to keep your strength up, sweetie,” Evan counseled. “Come on … one more bite for Daddy.” He patted the bump, now visibly bulging and rock hard.

Obediently, Rosellen plugged along, having slowed considerably. She finally finished off the last crumb, sucked down the last of the root beer, and licked her fingers, leaning back with a belch.

“Ooh. (Urrp.) I am stuffed,” she proclaimed, gently patting her aching and distended tummy. As fit as she was, her bloated belly, now stretched and tender, protruded noticeably, her eminently photographable belly button pulled taut. She belched again. “Ooh. Root beer.”

Evan silenced her with a long kiss. “This is what we want, right babes?”

“Right. Hic!”

After a while, Evan went off to the study to look at a script, and Rosellen, drowsy, laid back among the pillows. She drummed her fingers on her full belly, reveling in the sensation of being stuffed and even a little bloated, then cradled the hand-sized swell. She let her mind drift until she dozed off. She slept for two hours.

At dusk, Evan woke her with a kiss, then set a tray on the bed. Fully half a rotisserie chicken, corn bread, green beans, macaroni, and a huge glass of lemonade.

“Boston Market,” he said proudly. “I can’t cook much, but you’re off kitchen duty, babes.”

Rosellen looked up at him sleepily. “You’re so good to me.” Then she raised her eyebrows. “Should I eat all this?”

“It’s good for you,” Evan said firmly. “I told you. You need to look after yourself.”

Obediently, Rosellen tucked in. Oh, that was good! She hadn’t tasted anything as rich and creamy as the macaroni in ages and ages. It reminded her of her mother’s Sunday dinners.

“Wow, someone was hungry,” Evan said, eyeing the tray. Rosellen blinked.

“You stole my food,” she accused. Evan laughed out loud.

“Had my own, babes,” he said, showing a plate with traces of dinner. “All of yours went right … in … here.” He pulled the tray away and poked. She was naked and her full, lightly tanned tummy was even more rounded and swollen. She squirmed, trying to ease the discomfort of an overloaded and aching stomach. It stuck out, where she was used to it curving nicely in. Her waistline was still there, but there was a definite speed bump in the middle of it, firm and warm.

She hiccupped. “Ooh! Hic. Ooh.” Gently she laid her hand on her stretched waistline. “Oh. I’m ti—i—i—ired.” She punctuated her announcement with a yawn.

“Get some sleep.” Evan fluffed her pillows and made a show of tucking her in.

After he left, Rosellen rearranged the pillows so that she was a little propped up. She lay in bed, drowsily stroking her bloated belly and thinking about the months ahead. Oh, she was full. Everything felt squashed and compressed by the weight of her stomach. She knew she would feel like that, but would it be all the time? And how huge would she get, anyway? She’d seen pictures of other celebs looking as though their babies were stretched out in front, so enormous were their bellies. Of course, they always looked fabulous just weeks later.

Time for their first public appearance since the announcement of Rosellen’s pregnancy. Rosellen squeezed into a skirt, opted for no hose, and added a top that had once been hugely billowy and worn only around the house. Now it clung to breast and belly, showing a definite bulge. In profile, she had an unmistakably round tummy. The press would go nuts.

Sure enough, the pictures were largely of Rosellen turned sideways, beaming and posing. Evan was in only a couple and clearly not the focus.

He brought the paper in with breakfast. Breakfast?

“Evan,” Rosellen said sleepily, “that’s a whole pie.”

“Chocolate peanut butter,” he said, beaming, “and here’s your coffee.”

The scent of the pie tickled Rosellen’s nostrils and she was suddenly starving.

She scarfed down a large slice and wanted another. And another and another and another. Eventually she had disposed of two-thirds of the large, rich pie and two huge cups of coffee-cream. A hiccup alerted her to the painful fullness of her tummy. She rested a protective hand atop its swell.

“Ooh,” she said, licking her lips. “That was … hic!... delicious … but … hic! … I’m stuffed.” Her stomach was warmly heavy and stretched with fullness, her skin stretched taut and her belly button perched above the now soccer ball-sized bloat.

“Baby baby,” Evan sang, “can’t you feel my heart beat?”

Rosellen started to laugh, then clutched her stomach. “Ooh. Hic! Ow. Don’t … hic! … don’t make me laugh.” She lay back, replete. She was stuffed to bursting and very drowsy. A breeze ruffled the curtains and it felt better to close her eyes. She cradled the swell of aching belly, rubbing it back and forth and feeling its distention. Ooh, she was so packed, to the brim. It felt amazingly satisfying. She never wanted the feeling to end. She dozed off.

Magazines were starting to clamor for a due date, and most weeks featured a snap of Rosellen somewhere doing something. All the captions were framed in terms of the baby:

“Mom-to-be Rosellen Flowers-Martin takes a rest in Covinas Park."
“Rosellen Flowers-Martin and her growing preggo bulge come out of Zip Disks with a bagful of tunes for baby."
“Evan Martin of ‘Family Time’ and wife Rosellen Flowers-Martin, now eating for two, linger over pastries at Bistro 421.”

There was speculation, mostly from the tabs, that she was toting twins. Much was made of Rosellen’s softening features, the hint of a second chin on that heart-shaped face, how her backside and thighs were becoming broader and sturdier to accommodate the fast-growing swell of her belly. Even her drapiest outfits now showed strain through the breasts and tummy and rode up in front. In some photos she seemed to be carrying high and firm; in others, low and a little saggy. This was cited as proof that there was more than one bun in that steadily burgeoning oven.

“Evan,” Rosellen puffed. She was short of breath and half a mountain of breakfast still sat on the tray.

“I don’t … mrrrp … know … oh … how long I can keep this up.” She pointed with a loaded fork. “I’m so fuuulllll.” The last word came out on a groaning whine and with her free hand she prodded at her now hugely distended abdomen concealed beneath an enormous sheer nightie. Her stomach was aching and sore virtually all the time, and when she wasn’t eating she was laying back drowsily massaging away her discomfort. Once the acuteness of having just stuffed herself eased, however, the sensation of having so much inside her became hugely gratifying, and she spent hours in a half-doze, massaging her bloated belly and steadily softening breasts. Evan was a willing and eager helper.

It was true that Rosellen seemed to be eating every moment that she was awake. Evan was forever bringing her huge bowls of cut-up fruit, piles of whole-grain pita triangles and dishes of hummus, serving bowls full of rich chicken stew with dumplings, mountains of food, and somehow she always ate it all up. And afterward she didn’t have the energy to do anything. Too stuffed to move, she would sink into the pillows and lie there, her hand stroking her burgeoning belly, massaging its swell, her mind working. She really enjoyed the feeling of being stuffed to bursting, enjoyed the tightness of her bloated midriff and the thickening of her waistline, the development of flesh around her once-bony hips, the feel of a good handful of breast or buttocks. Everything was rosy, softening, blurring the hard lines, and she was loving it.

Magazines seemed to be counting on their fingers. The couple had been coy all along about the due date, but People reported that it had been seven months since the announcement and speculated on how long, mathematically, someone could stay pregnant.

“Soon,” Evan chortled. He popped a strawberry into her mouth and laid a protective hand onto a tummy that was already distended with fruit and cheese.

Rosellen hiccupped. “Soon,” she said thickly through a mouthful. She swallowed. “Oof. No more. Hic.” She was asleep in an instant.

The press went berserk. Rosellen thought that they might have used up a year’s supply of exclamation points.

“PREGNANCY HOAX,” screamed the National Enquirer.
“Rosellen Flowers-Martin living a lie,” announced People.
“ ‘Family Time’ star: In on fake preggo or stunned at news?” challenged Us.

Evan returned grinning from his run to the shops, disguised with cap, shades, baggy jacket, and two days’ growth of beard. He carried a bag stacked with checkout-counter magazines and tabloids in one hand and in the other juggled a big bag of McDonald’s and a cardboard drink tray.

Rosellen helped him set everything out on the simple pine dining table of their rented house in Vancouver. She grinned. All of the articles were accompanied by photos with accusatory captions. Photos she would once have thought unflattering.

Now she was free of $200 haircuts and $50 weekly mani-pedis. Free of two hours with a trainer every day. Free of steamed chicken and picking at salads. Free of the year-round tan. Free of fretting if the scale went a fraction over 110. Free of everything!

She let her robe drop to the floor and stood, rosy and beaming, in front of her husband. Her hair had been cropped into a comfortable, easy-care style and it framed a round, double-chinned face that shone with goodwill and ease. Her breasts, once pert handfuls, now sat heavily on her broad chest, the nipples alert, areolae large and pink.

Below her belly swelled like a sail in the breeze, sagging down and spreading out into two spare tires, her belly button hidden in the pile of soft creamy flesh. Love handles flowed out around her sturdy hips and into her bounteous backside, then down into ripely curvaceous thighs, stout dimpled knees, calves to die for. Every inch of her was radiant.

Rosellen took Evan’s hand and he thought she was going to tug her toward the bedroom. Instead she tugged him to the table.

“Come on, sweetie,” she urged. “I’m starving.”

 

[Bluestreak]