LADY BOUNTIFUL
It started with the table. Large enough to seat eight, two rows of empty chairs on either side, it stood in the middle of an opulent dining room. Soon as she registered the table's presence, she started cataloging its bounty: a full relish tray, two bowls of mashed potatoes made extra tasty with sour cream, a casserole filled with green beans and onion rings, a dish of sweet potato with melted marshmallows, oyster stuffing and a twenty pound turkey, crisp and glazed. Your prototypical holiday meal.
Except . . . all of the chairs were empty. Plenty of food, all of it smelling irresistible, yet where were the guests? Flash to the far end of the table, and there was the answer, seated on a reinforced bench, fork in her fat right hand.
She was huge, fatter than the largest tabloid television fat, an impossibly massive mound of womanhood. Dressed in a sheer and sleeveless dress that hugged every bulge of her incredible body, she looked too big to have even walked by herself to the bench. Her surging front kept her arms out of straight reach of the table: her paunch swelled past her knees, pressing into the table's rim. Radiating from her navel were two deep bisecting folds that turned her belly into a quartet of bulges. Neath that incredible tummy, the lower halves of her calves were visible, spread wide to make way for her abdomen, covering the ankles of her bare fat feet.
It was difficult to gauge the age of this giantess. Her face seemed primarily made up of cheeks and jowls: her red round cheeks pushed her eyes into dark mysterious slices; her lower chins teemed ahead of her lightly made-up lips and what had once been a single dimpled chin. Look closely at her eyes, unlined and relaxed, and it became apparent that she was relatively young. How'd she get so big?
At this point, the focus of the dream would shift. First she was looking into the fat woman's shiny eyes, then she was looking out of them, breasts and belly looming before her, quivering with anticipation, that wonderfully sumptuous table of food with its mouth watering scents just out of reach. Within that overwhelming cushion of obesity, she felt overpowering and immovable, simultaneously fulfilled and famished.
Then, the relish tray was pressed into her free hand. She polished off the platter, then a plate full of turkey, oyster stuffing and potatoes quickly took its place. Next came a second helping of turkey, along with green beans and sweet potato.
It all tasted wonderful. Plate followed plate. Each bite would make her want to take two more; the sight of each fresh platter got her feeling like she'd just sat down to eat. This whole feast was just for her, so she stuffed herself with greater and greater abandon. Soon she was shoveling the food off her plate into her mouth, arms swaying vigorously, stomach demanding more, and it was like she was in the frantic finale of a sexual coupling.
With that thought, the dream typically ended.
And Cathryn would wake.
She'd grown to dread the food dream. It always ended with her feeling aroused - aroused and more than a little bit hungry. The first sensation was easily resolved with some under-the-sheets manipulation; the second she had to work to ignore.
At twenty-five, five-foot-six and two-hundred-ten pounds, Cathryn Gaynolle spent a great deal of her time shutting out her appetite. Full bodied with a shapely pair of legs, curly long dark hair and a pendulous set of breasts, she constantly struggled to keep her weight from climbing. It wasn't easy. Women did not come small in her family, and though she'd spent the last four years of her life on a low calorie diet, Cathryn was unable to budge below her current weight. Maybe it was all that time dieting, but lately it seemed like food and eating was seldom very far from her mind. Give in to those thoughts, and she'd soon be looking like one of her older sisters, who both topped the scales at 350.
They could afford to be the size they were. Both of them were married to husbands who managed to look beyond their fat to the women beneath. When she thought of her sisters, Cathryn couldn't help remembering an old cartoon from the Sunday papers: a picture of newlyweds driving away from the ceremony, the groom tossing away a little black book, the bride a calorie counter. The joke was a stereotype, but in her family, it was also truth.
Maybe she'd do the same thing when she got hitched, Cathryn thought. There were times when that seemed like the best of all possible futures - kissing her life as a single career woman goodbye. Cathryn worked for the city, trying to sell visitors on the commercial advantages of her fair burg, and some days it seemed like her job could be summed in just one phrase: flirt with middle-aged, married businessmen. She was good at Harmlessly Provocative; her Rubenesque form matched the part.
The morning she met Max Hotspice, though, she was feeling anything but fresh and flirty. The dream had hit her stronger than ever that night, waking her at 3:00 a.m., with a hunger strong enough to feed both her sisters for a week. Cathryn had tossed the rest of the night away, tired and agitated, while visions of holiday feasts reran through her mind. She had not come to work in a positive mood. Even her morning yoga hadn't helped her attitude.
The moment she saw Max, she felt even yuckier. First good-looking man to come into her office in weeks, and she looked and felt like hell.
The guy was just plain gorgeous. Medium build in a suburban coat and tie, with wavy dark hair and a relaxed manner, he ambled into her small one-woman office unannounced. He had the casual style of the comfortably wealthy and a killer smile to match. Shit, she thought. Why today of all days?
"Miz Gaynolle?" he opened, extending his hand across her desk. "I'm Max Hotspice. Hospice Lodges."
Of course. Hospice Lodges was a chain of upscale hotels that had just built its newest addition on the east side. She'd met with several of the company's reps when they were scouting lots, but she'd never expected to see the headman in her office.
Straightening her blazer and skirt, Cathryn rose to shake his hand. She was too distracted to note the appreciative look he gave her zaftig form. "This is a surprise," she said. "What can I do you for?"
"My people told me all about you," Hotspice said, settling on the edge of her desk. "How helpful you were. Wanted to meet you, show off the castle now that it's finished. If you're not too busy, that is."
She wasn't, though she probably would've have gone with him even if her calendar was packed with appointments. Something in his voice put her instantly at ease, wiped away her self-consciousness. Locking up her office, she followed Max Hotspice to a van with the Hospice Lodges logo emblazoned on the sides. "S'no limo," he said. "But it's built for comfort." He led her to passenger door and showed her inside. He wasn't kidding when he said "built for comfort."
The back was roomy, with a wide seat and extras: a small dorm-sized fridge, a rack with glasses and an adjustable lazy susan, plus a small teevee. Hotspice sat beside her, gestured to the van's driver and opened the refrigerator. Inside was a selection of drinks and wrapped sandwiches, plus a variety of large-sized candy bars. Max took a Ghirardelli's from the door, unwrapped an edge and snapped off a bite. He offered the bar to Cathryn.
"Some folks don't like candy so early in the morning," he said. "Don't feel like you have to take any."
"You kidding?" she answered, snapping off a piece. "If I listened to my appetite, I'd be eating chocolate any time of the day."
"Don't tell me," he teased. "You're one of those women who's spent a lifetime on a diet."
"'If you don't watch your figure, no one else will,'" Cathryn quoted.
"That may be," Hotspice answered. "But there's more than one kind of figure."
"Not when you're single," she said.
"Depends on who you ask," Max said, holding out the bar again.
"You know some eligible guy who's attracted to full-figured girls, I wish you'd introduce me to 'em."
"Easily done," he answered, pressing the bar into her hand. "When you work in the hotel and restaurant biz, you meet a lot of folks who think diet and denial are dirty words."
"How about you?" she asked, in full flirt mode.
"Don't have much truck with 'denial,'" he told her, "but 'diet' is a word that's been perverted. Its primary meaning, after all, is what you eat on a daily basis. No limits, no calorie counting. We all have a diet. Far as I'm concerned, folks would all be a lot happier if they dropped the restrictions."
"Back to denial, again."
"Hostelry is a hedonist's profession," Hotspice told her, nodding approvingly as she took a large bite out of her chocolate bar. "To me, there's nothing sexier than the sight of a woman enjoying the food and comfort I've laid out for her."
Whoa, she thought, nibbling on her candy bar nervously. What had she gotten herself into here? Suddenly, the van seemed a whole lot warmer. "Can I have something to drink?" she asked.
"It's a pleasure," he replied. Cathryn grabbed a bottle of sweetened mineral water and took a healthy slug.
By the time she got to Hospice Castle Lodge, she'd finished off both her drink and her candy bar. Max Hotspice proved to be a charming host, full of fascinating stories and the occasional deftly inserted compliment.
The hotel itself was a mock German castle, festooned with plenty of sturdy fake antique furniture and dark woods. All the Hospice Lodges were known for their European motifs; their restaurants, in particular, had built their reps by holding to these themes. Cathryn got the full-blown tour, and by the time they'd walked through the restaurant, she was famished. Too bad the place wasn't up and running, she thought; she could do with a plate of bratwurst.
"Want some lunch?" her host then asked, almost as if he were reading her mind.
"Kitchen's not open is it?"
"It is for special guests," he said. "Let me show you something."
He took her out of the restaurant and led her to the elevators. Once they got inside, he took out a key and opened the button panel, pressing the button that had been kept from public sight.
"Every one of my lodges has a private floor," he told her. "We can lunch undisturbed up there."
With any other man, this would've set off alarm bells. But Max was so matter-of-fact about his offering that she found herself nodding in agreement. She looked into his clear, gray eyes and smiled, and with that smile the course of her life shifted.
"The place isn't fully furnished," Max explained, once they left the elevator. As they passed through the foyer, she could see what he meant. Each room - living room, study, bedroom, bath, kitchen with dumb waiter - was furnished at the most basic, utilitarian level. The dining room was larger than her apartment, with a large table, two wide chairs and a trio of wheeled carts, but that was it. All the decorative energy had been spent on the public furnishings downstairs. "Lacks a woman's touch, I'm afraid."
She took one of the chairs, noticed that it doubled as a recliner, and gave the room the twice over. "There's a lot you could do with this space," she said, after a moment.
"I'd appreciate any suggestions you might make," Max said. "I want this place to be one that a woman like you would feel comfortable in." Before she could ask him to elaborate, a tall figure suddenly appeared between them.
"Would you like your first course?" he asked. Cathryn agreed, and the waiter wheeled in a tray with two baskets full of homemade bread and a tureen of lentil soup. As he served their soup, she explored her breadbasket and found a selection of mouth-sized cinnamon rolls. They were deliciously addictive, she discovered. Through the course of their meal she had that basket refilled more than once.
"This is much richer than my usual lunch," she said, sipping at her soup, which tasted fuller than she expected. "I usually stick to salads."
"Waste of a good meal," Hotspice answered. "Salad is fine as a course but not as an entire dinner."
"No argument there," Cathryn said, "but I've learned to make due."
"A woman like you should never have to 'make due,'" Hotspice said, and with that, she felt herself flushing. As she struggled to come up with a good reply, a huge plate of brats and twice baked potatoes appeared before her.
"This is way too much," she said, as the scent simultaneously got a voice in the back of her head shouting, no, it isn't!
"Eat what you can. As little or as much as you want," Max told her softly. For some reason, his permission piqued her appetite. She cut into her first bratwurst, took a bite and found it to be even better than it smelled; she quickly cut a second piece. "I wasn't kidding when I said that I found the sight of a woman eating sexy," he said, but only part of her heard him. The rest of her was concentrating on the first full meal she'd had in ages. It was heavenly.
When she wiped the plate clean with a slice of pumpernickel and butter, the waiter reappeared with a second full platter. Without a second thought, she dug into another brat, but as she swallowed, she suddenly wondered what she was doing. Looking up at Max, she watched him rise and move to the side of her chair. "Let me try something," he said, adjusting her chair so it lifted her curvy legs off the floor. "Don't worry. The waiter's gone downstairs." He kneeled on the floor before her, raised her skirt and started massaging her inner thighs.
"If you're still hungry, carry on," he added, and Cathryn felt her appetite revive then spread to her lower regions. She reached for her plate as he felt along her legs and the lower bulge of her belly. By the time she finished, he was fingering beneath the bands of her Just My Size briefs. The act was liberating; her taut belly jiggled with relief.
"Just a minute," she said, standing slowly then easing her panties down to the floor. She sat and lay back. Max took advantage of the invitation but not before leaving and returning with a full pastry cart. As she felt him starting to kiss and lick around her pubic thatch, she reached for a plate of dark chocolate cake. Licking the thick frosting from the rim, she felt Max penetrate her labial lips. Cathryn shivered, took a large bite of cake and then another. His tongue prodding her into deeper levels of arousal, she happily stuffed her face.
She was fuller than she'd ever been before, but she continued to eat and feed her arousal. Just as she bit into a cream horn, she came. When the sweetness hit her taste buds, it was magnified by the strength of her orgasm.
Once she started to ease back down, Cathryn looked over at the remains of her dessert tray. Had she really eaten all that? One look at her swollen belly confirmed that indeed she had. She looked six months pregnant.
Max's head suddenly poked up from beneath her extended paunch. One look at the tray and he began to kiss her belly. "You did better than I expected," he said. "You have quite an appetite when you let it loose."
The statement should have offended her, but it didn't. Hotspice wasn't lying when he talked about the kick he got from feeding women. And from the way her crotch still shivered, it was an even greater kick being fed.
"Come here," she said, gesturing him over. She felt too stuffed to even sit up, but once he got within range, Cathryn rolled on her side, reached for his trouser zipper and let his member loose. It was long and erect, and she took it in her mouth eagerly. As he shot into her, she swallowed and flashed on her Thanksgiving dream.
She described it to him over cappuccino and whipped cream. It obviously intrigued him. "Sounds like your body was trying to tell you something," he said, spooning a dollop of whipped cream from his cup and offering it to her.
"Maybe it's a premonition," she said. "Could you be the one I never was able to see in my dream?"
"I'd like to be," he said earnestly. "I've been looking for a woman like you for years!"
Cathryn didn't return to work that day, though it was several months before she quit her job entirely. She saw Max Hotspice daily for lunch and dinner, and as these two meals grew larger and longer, her workday grew shorter. By the time her resignation was tendered, she was down to only morning hours. She moved into the lodge's private suite that day and proceeded to make it more hospitable.
She was sixty pounds heavier than when she'd first met Max: a size twenty-six on the upper range of many plus-size shops. This was small compared to her sisters but bigger than she ever imagined herself getting. Whenever she started to feel too fat, though, Max would talk her out of it. "Nonsense," he'd say, holding out another slice of German chocolate cake. "You're beautiful. And tiny. You wouldn't be too big if you were twice your size!" With that, he'd start to kiss her breasts, and she would take another bite of cake.
Cathryn grew to cherish those moments when he fed her or watched her eat, but she also loved those moments by herself when she just sat back and noshed. An inveterate reader and a movie fan, she enjoyed sitting in the living room with a. wide selection of cinnamon rolls and junk food. When Max had to travel to one of his other lodges, she also made her way downstairs to the restaurant with a thick historical novel, where she ordered to her heart's content. She'd eat until she finished her book and was barely able to move, itemizing each helping so she could reconstruct it for Max. That night they'd lie in bed, and she'd describe her gustatory efforts. Whenever she surpassed herself, he'd smile and start to sensuously massage her bloated torso. It usually was enough to get him stiffening for the second time that night.
She continued her yoga to strengthen her spine and legs, help her handle her size better, though there were some basic activities that soon grew out of reach. Thanks to Max's ongoing encouragement, her enlarging body became a source of pride to her. Cathryn was determined to become as fat and as fit as she could. As she increased in girth, sex between them became more explosive and prolonged.
They married on Thanksgiving, a year and a half from the day they met. It was the first time she had seen her sisters in years, and she was bigger than either one. Teetering on four hundred pounds, she showed no sign of slowing down her prodigious growth. At the wedding reception she ate enough to strain the seams of her custom made gown. Her once Rubenesque body was globular, as her belly started accumulating most of her additional weight. It hung ahead of her proudly, jouncing as she waddled down the aisle.
During the reception she noticed something that she never would have caught before. Both of her brothers-in-law ogled her appreciatively, pissing off her sisters in the process. The moment made her realize how lucky she'd been to meet Max, and with that thought her appetite for him rekindled. As did her other hungers.
They left for their honeymoon, an ocean cruise where Cathryn took full advantage of the all-day food offerings, then returned to a different Hospice Lodge, a chateau with French fare. Over the next five years, the couple moved from lodge to lodge, living in each for six to nine months. Cathryn critiqued the food and service in each, redesigning their private suites to made them commodious. As she grew larger, they had to refit each living space to suit her.
By the time they got back to the lodge where they'd taken their first meal together, Cathryn had reworked eight other suites. At 750 pounds, she didn't go downstairs as often; though her yoga kept her limber and comfortable in her huge size, she'd outgrown the lodge's public furnishings. Where once this might have depressed her, now she saw it as a badge of her uniqueness, a manifestation of the immeasurable love she felt for Max. Max, the man who'd fed her to circus fat lady dimensions.
"Had the place prepared ahead of time," he said as he led her down the foyer of their premiere private suite. "It's our fifth anniversary, and I thought of the perfect way to celebrate it."
If she hadn't been panting already from the exertion of walking from van to lodge, the sight would have taken her breath away. She saw the dining room table first: long, capable of seating eight to ten, groaning under the weight of a traditional American Thanksgiving feast. Then the scent of it all hit, and she could barely contain herself.
"My dream!" she gasped, and Max nodded.
"Thought we could make it a tradition," he said, and he sat her down on her bench. "No waiter, just you, me, and this feast for eight. How should we start?"
Cathryn settled onto her seat, loosening her dress to keep it from restricting her paunch. "With the relish tray, of course," she ordered.
Seated, her belly expanded to eight-five inches, while her hips spread even wider. Her 72 EE breasts hung atop her midsection with cleavage deep enough to hide Max's head. Down below, her visible calves had swollen into three bulges, as had her upper arms, which drooped two inches below her elbow. Though she was nowhere near as vast as her dream woman, she had a sexual grandeur that was only matched by the largest of the large.
Thanks to those months of practiced gluttony, she made her way through the first part of Max's feast easily. As she licked each plate clean, he'd hand her another. She ate too quickly for him to have time to do anything but prepare her next plate, but even without the physical attention she felt as if he were touching her. Her yards of flesh grew moist with perspiration; her face and cleavage reddened. Hidden beneath her belly apron, her pelvis started to enflame.
This was the point in her dream where she usually woke up, but instead she continued to gorge herself on turkey and stuffing and more creamy mashed potatoes than the entire Plymouth colony could have eaten. Her stomach started to ache, but it was like a love bite to her. She grabbed each plate hungrily, tilting it into her ravenous maw, pushing it in with her fork. Cathryn's body trembled all around her; finally, her lightweight dress split along her torso. She lost all sense of place or time. All she knew was her need to devour everything placed before her.
When the food stopped coming, her first response was a mew of disappointment. Then she noticed her husband standing in front of her, beaming as he gestured towards the depleted dining room table. In that moment, the sheer magnitude of her gluttony hit her.
"Wow," she gasped, tentatively patting her taut protruding belly. "That was some meal." Lie down, her body was telling her, you're too overstuffed to remain seated. It sounded like a good idea.
"Can't forget dessert," Max said, a provocative smile on his face.
"What? No, I couldn't! I'm stuffed!"
Ignoring her protestations, Max told her to rise and follow him. It was difficult, but she stood with aid from her husband then slowly waddled into the bedroom behind him, casting off the sweat-dampened remains of her dress as she did.
"Lie down and relax," he told her. "I'll be back in a minute." Stripping out of her too-confining undergarments, she slowly eased back onto their king-sized four-poster. Her bloated belly shouted its relief. Because she was too stuffed to comfortably move the rest of the way onto their bed, Cathryn kept her feet on the floor. Her belly apron sagged into the space between her fully spread thighs.
"Ready?" Max asked, appearing in the doorway with a pie plate and a large wooden spoon. Advancing towards the bed, he dug into the pie and spooned a good sized mouthful of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.
"I don't think - " Cathryn began, but Max told her to close her eyes and open her mouth.
"Eat what you can. As little or as much as you want," he coaxed. "Just take a taste."
The pie was smooth and creamy, easy to swallow. Eyes shut, she continued to accept each mouthful, ignoring her stomach and reveling in the taste and oral sensation. Her arousal, which had abated once she'd finished her main course, re-ignited and grew even hotter. When the offerings ceased, she opened her eyes to see both an empty pie plate and her husband's erection.
"Come here," she panted, eager to taste her husband once more. Max obliged by straddling her head, bending over her mountainous belly and aiming his dick between her two fat lips. He gently massaged her sensitive paunch, relaxing the muscles underneath her layers of avoirdupois, as she began to lick and suckle on his engorged member. She felt her tender stomach ease and assimilate all that she'd eaten.
"I love your body," he said. "The way you continue to grow so much bigger everyday. The way it moves all around you. I love the way you eat. Unrestrained and with total appreciation. You're the sexiest woman I've ever known!"
You ain't seen nothing yet, Cathryn thought, as he quickly came in her mouth. She saw herself several years down the road, the woman of both their dreams, and she swallowed happily. When Max rose and moved himself further up her body, his still stiff member resting in the canyon of her breasts, she grew even warmer. Burying his face in the cleavage of her lower belly, he felt for her twat.
His body was light on her tremendous torso, only a fraction of her womanly weight. As he hit her clit, she cried out loud, and her mouth started to water. If only Max had some more dessert, she thought, and the depths of her seemingly insatiable appetite both excited and frightened her. As visions of even more food started flooding through her mind, she shuddered into orgasm.
"That was wonderful," she said when they'd both calmed down. She'd edged herself all the way onto the bed and didn't think she'd be moving off the rest of the night.
"You like our little holiday celebration then," Max said happily, lovingly stroking her belly and mams. He'd brought a basket of cinnamon rolls into the bedroom and placed it on a table by the bed.
"Only one thing wrong with holidays like Thanksgiving," Cathryn said, thoughtfully as she fingered a cinnamon roll then flirtatiously held it to her mouth. Over the years, she'd gotten quite adept at flirting with food. "They only come once a year."
"Depends on whose calendar you use," her husband replied, and so they proceeded to plan their own extra nights of Thanksgiving.
With that decision, Cathryn's dream quit visiting her. She saw this as her subconscious' recognition that she no longer needed its prodding to become that lady bountiful. It wasn't, after all, too long before she exceeded both the size and capacity of her wondrous vision.
There were days when she fondly remembered it, though. Sitting in one of their private, opulently furnished suites, meditating on the path her life had taken, she'd remember her earlier fears, and she'd grab a pastry and smile. With Max's encouragement, she'd become a different woman. Thanks to this sensuous, nurturing man, she'd learned to appreciate the bounty around her and outgrown her fear of fat.
Cathryn grew to nearly double the weight of their first Thanksgiving feast. Though her yoga kept her strong enough to slowly move around their living quarters, she often downplayed her mobility with Max. It was a game, one they both got off on. Perhaps, she thought, she'd eat herself to a size where even her limited mobility was impossible, but she didn't see that happening for many pounds yet. And if it did, so what?
She and Max had plenty of celebrations ahead of them.
Corrected Version Copyright 2000 " - Oakhaus Designs