The Weight Loss Camp
A Serialized Novel by Wilson Barbers

Chapter Eight

He didn't expect to see Max Venn again that day, but the camp owner surprised him. He ambushed Bob that afternoon, just as the rec counselor was coming out of the gym.

"Oh, there you are," Venn said, sliding up alongside Bob, clapping a clammy hand on his shoulder. "Got a minute? I've got something that might interest you." Leading Bob across the lot to his office, he took a quick peak around the reception area (Tina appeared to be on break) and shut the door with melodramatic secretiveness. "Sit down," he invited, so Bob obliged.

"You know," Max Venn began, "that Camp Venn has made a name for itself in the weight loss community. We've had favorable press in the past year and a good boost recently on a nationwide talk show. It's taken time, but we're finally becoming known as an institution that achieves real results."

"That's good to hear," Bob said.

"Sometimes I think that all you have to do in this business is stick around long enough for people to discover you. Stamina equals survival. Both of us know that diets don't work for most of our potential clients. When enough of the other programs fail, they come to us." He paused, lifted a plastic covered folder off his desk and flipped it to Bob. "The long and short of it, Bob, is this: I'm on the verge of franchising Camp Venn. I've been talking to some big-time moneymen, and I've even commissioned an ad company to develop a campaign. That's it in front of you. Let me know what you honestly think." He gestured to Bob to open the book and sat back while the rec counselor perused its contents.

It turned out to be an outline for a proposed series of radio and TV slots, featuring a cartoon character named Rena Porsene espousing the wondrous effectiveness of Camp Venn. Rena's voice was calculated to sound like a popular sitcom actress who'd been publicly undergoing the battle of the bulge; she started each ad segment comically describing her early portly misery, then moved into detailing the ways that her successful weight loss had improved her life. The advantage of a cartoon was that the artist could draw a pre-Venn Rena as large as he wanted, without having to worry about the usual blurriness of "before" pics or any accusations of fraudulent claim making. ("Hey, she's a cartoon! Who takes cartoons as the literal truth?") The animated spokesgal was rendered with enough similarity to the zaftig actress to hint without actually stating, "This is meant to be her."

Bob had to admire the campaign's canny crassness. As written, the character was allowed to get away with the basest of fat jokes because they were all aimed at her old self.

"Looks like you've got an effective campaign," Bob finally said, tossing the notebook back. "Where's the next Camp Venna gonna be?"

"I've been scouting locales on the East Coast," Venn said. "But before anything can happen, I need to convince one more person about my proposal's feasibility. She can be pretty tough, though." He paused, as if realizing that he'd said too much, and returned to the matter at hand. "Right now, all I wanted to do was show you the ad. You think this could fly, don't you, Bob?"


"Good, good." Venn smiled. He stood and moved around Bob, opening the door as a cue to leave. "There may be a place for you in the organization once we start expanding. You seem to have a rapport with the ladies: we could even use you as a spokesman," Venn said in parting. "But until then - not a word of this to anyone!"

So that was it: Venn was trying to guarantee his silence by promising Bob a piece of the upcoming franchise. But he was trying to buy off the wrong whistle blower.

Not that Bob had any intention of letting ol' Max know where the real danger was.

"Fine by me," he said, eager to get out of the office. He never saw Max Venn again.

The rest of the workweek passed so pleasantly that Bob forgot his Monday morning depression. The weather turned summer cool, full of hope and bracing breezes, which made it easier for him to motivate the aerobicizers. They did their low-impact routines with more enthusiasm than ever before, bouncing happily on the outside lawn - and among them was Shelley. She'd stand in the front of the group bedecked in tee shirt and cut-offs, bobbling freely as she followed his lead.

The sight was so inspiring that the rec counselor found it difficult to concentrate on any of the other exercisers. Each routine had its own small visual pleasures: the flattening of her inner hips as she scissored her legs together, the rise of her belly as she bridged her body. Some day, he thought, he'd have to ask her try these exercises nude.

Venn was true to his promise to Shelley. Her caloric regimen soon became the envy of the rest of the camp - Dale Harvey, included - and when another camper would ask her about the uncharacteristic bounty, she'd smile knowingly and say, gaily chomping into a second chicken breast or a forkful of scalloped potatoes, "I'm here to get into shape, not lose any weight. You can be fit and fat at the same time!" These pronouncements were invariably met with skepticism, but that didn't stop Shelley from preaching this doctrine to anyone who sat at her table. As long as it kept her and the others coming to his exercise programs, Bob didn't contradict her.

That Tuesday, he got to hear from Tina about her dates with Harvey. They were at their usual a.m. coffee klatch for two; Tina had changed her hair color once more and brought in a bag of pastry. Bob was biting into a jelly donut, trying to keep it from oozing onto his shirt, as the receptionist told him about their first date in the woods.

"He had a small television brought in with a videotape camera. We watched a tape of a movie I thought was still in the theaters - or, at least, we started to watch it. 'We've got our private drive-in,' he told me. Then he pulled out this cooler full of beer and wine fizz drinks. 'Let's take advantage of it.' So we lay out on a blanket and made out like teenagers through the second half of the movie. It was great! He turned the camera on me, and we got to watch each other fuck on television!"

"Sounds like an okay way to spend an evening," Bob said, licking powdered sugar off his fingers.

"It definitely was," Tina agreed. "I have to admit I was wrong about Dale," she continued. "I had him pegged as one more fat man with a single-minded focus on food. You see so many of 'em like that, men and women, at Camp Venn, and you can't really blame 'em considering how restricted their diets are. But it's clear that Dale Harvey has at least one other interest . . ."


"No," she sighed, "though after the last few days I'm beginning to wish it was." She tore her donut into tiny pieces then flung it into the wastebasket. "Dale's looking for a more substantial woman than me," she continued. "I don't see him changing his mind about that; it's too much a part of him. We can keep things going for a while, but I know at some point my size will become a turn-off to him."

That sounded awfully familiar: it brought back the image of himself fantasizing in order to keep it up with Ann, in fact. He wondered how many other men had to dream of weight gain to maintain interest in their partners, perhaps as many as the number of men fantasizing thinner bodies on their broader halves.

"Maybe you could put on a few pounds?" he finally asked, offering Tina an undamaged donut.

"Not with my metabolism," she said. "I burn off food just thinking about exercise! Besides . . ." She paused, looked at the ceiling than back to Bob. ". . . I've got this feeling that Dale already knows who he's looking for. It isn't me, though I'm glad for the time with him."

"Got any ideas who his dream gal might be?" Bob pursued.

"Well, I've seen him looking, more than once, up at the Venn house. Perhaps Dale has a thing for his old business acquaintance?"

The same thought had occurred to Bob. "In that case, breaking the news to Ms. Venn about ol' Max's peccadilloes could be an enjoyable task for him."

"If he plays it right," Tina said, sweeping donut crumbs off her desk with her palm, giving Bob a look that signified the end of the conversation. He left the office pondering the irony of the slim girl's inability to keep Dale interested in the face of some fantasy fat woman.

As for Bob's present real life love: they continued to spend their late mornings in her bedroom, the sound of sixties folk rock emanating from Shelley's blaster, fresh wads of chewing gum sealing the peepholes. The fat woman had a sense of playfulness and self-deprecating humor that made Bob feel closer to her after every session. He couldn't help wondering: how could any man leave this sexy and delightful woman?

Away from camp, Bob was becoming more open and comfortable with his attraction to big women. Nights after work he'd frequent the local fast food restaurants, seating himself at a table near the portliest young woman he could find and surreptitiously watching her dine. As she took each bite, double or triple chin waggling, he'd imagine additional weight being deposited on her expansive body, clothes growing tighter. While he watched and mechanically ate his own dinner, his erection would fatten as if trying to match his fantasies.

Friday night, Bob came home to find a message on his answering machine. He was honestly tired from the week's exercises and exertions, ready to skip his restaurant routine and spend some time with the tube, so his first inclination was to ignore the proffered message. But the damn machine's message light kept blinking at him, so he finally decided to play back the tape - if only so he could get on with the rest of the evening.

It was Maureen Dowl.

"Bob," she began, her tape-recorded voice made tinny by the machine's small speaker, "it's Mo. How'd you like to rescue me from my parents tonight? Be a hero and take me out to dinner. I can make the reservation: if you want, we can go Dutch."

She left her number and address, which was in a town twenty miles distant. He phoned her back and got directions, changed into some suitable date clothes and was there within the hour.

The home was a two-story white brick in a quiet bourgeois neighborhood. In the wide driveway was a black Pontiac Firebird. As Bob parked alongside it, he could feel himself being watched from the windows. Mo's parents answered the door before he could even press the buzzer.

Ma Dowl was dressed in a cocktail outfit that accentuated her bony frame; Dad was still dressed from work, sweat rings on his white shirt, a trail of penmarks over his shirt pocket. They stood in the doorway, as if trying to ward off his entry. "You must be Maureen's new friend," Mom said, suspiciously giving him the once-over, finally extending a bracelet-bedecked arm to lead him into the foyer. She pronounced the title as if it were a condemnation of Bob's masculinity, as if his interest in her zaftig daughter were somehow sexually suspect. "I hear you met at camp."

"Yes," Bob answered. "I work there." Dad Dowl meanwhile had shuffled off to retrieve a half-finished mixed drink.

"Must be so depressing," Mo's mother continued, "to work with so many unhappy people."

"Not all of them are like that," Bob rebutted. "Your daughter, for instance . . ."

Before he could get any further (which was probably for the best, considering the distasteful expression that was spreading across Mom's face), Mo came downstairs. Wearing a form-hugging backless red dress with a slit up the side and extremely low cleavage, the young plumper was a delicious sight. It'd only been a week since he'd last seen her, but it was like he was seeing her for the first time. The way her great globular breasts threatened to spill out of their struggling restraints. The way her left thigh exposed itself in the dress' slit. The way her round tummy swayed as she descended the stairs. All the irritation that had been building in the midst of her parents' judgmentalism vanished.

The look of delight on her round face brought a surge of pleasure to Bob's heart. Under her parents' harsh looks, he led her out into the bright evening, his hands on her soft back. Mo's criss-cross dress straps bit into her flesh tantalizingly. As she settled into the passenger seat of his car, her dress peaked up to show the tops of her nylons and a garter belt. She kicked her feet out of her red high heels, and they drove off to their reservations at a nearby steakhouse.

"You look great," he said as they headed for the highway. On the radio, a college station was playing a tromping homage to "big fat blonds" by a mid-western rock band.

"You, too," she answered. "This is the first time I've seen you dressed up in a suit and tie instead of your usual camp jock outfit."


"It makes you look rather dashing," she said, flicking his silk tie between two plump fingers. He stole a quick look her way. In that moment she looked younger, more imbued with hope and romantic fancy than he'd ever seen her. She shrugged the moment off quickly, however. "So how are you and Shelley getting along?" she candidly asked. "I told her all about you over the weekend. Isn't she great?"

"She's a lovely lady," Bob answered, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," Mo continued, as if he'd said so much more. "Her husband gave her a really raw deal. She's needed someone like you to be nice to her."

They passed the rest of the trip in companionable silence until they arrived at Harold's Steakhouse. "Read a review of this place in the papers months ago," Mo said excitedly. "They're supposed to have the hugest cuts of beef in town." She licked her lightly colored lips in anticipation.

"You heard right," Bob told her. "There's an extra-large sirloin on the menu that they dare diners to finish. They even post photos in the waiting area of the few who've made it through the meal."

He let her out of the car, and the first thing Mo did on entering the restaurant was peruse the glassed-in picture display, a circle of snapshots with beaming sated fat men. "No women," she announced after Bob had given the hostess their name. "This injustice needs to be redressed. Tonight!"


"I'm ordering the super sirloin," she stated, a determined look in her young eyes.

"Think you can do it?" Bob asked, as blond coed waitress led them to their table. The restaurant was dimly lit and packed, with barely enough space between tables for Mo's ample form. Shelley would have a hell of a time here, he thought.

"Are you kidding?" Mo answered. "I've been living with my parents all week. I'm starving!" Without even bothering to peruse the menu card she gave her order to the waitress, who looked at Bob's date with astonishment. The pert blond looked like the kind of girl who agonized about everything that passed her lips.

"Excuse me," the waitress said helpfully, "but that's a mighty big cut o' meat."

"I'm a purty big gal," Mo drawled. "I can handle it." After Bob made his selection (a more traditional porterhouse), the coed took their orders to the kitchen. Word of Mo's intentions quickly got around the steakhouse: as they got up for the salad bar, several folks watched their progress.

"I wouldn't do too much salad," a chubby middle-aged man advised Mo as she reached over for some cherry tomatoes, her full breasts mashing against the glass plate covering, "it fills you up."

"Don't worry about me," she laughingly shot back. "I've got plenty of room." Spooning several dollops of sour cream atop her salad, she scanned the rest of the offerings and finally settled on two slices of Texas Toast. Then she sidled back to their table. Bob followed, enjoying her swaying voluptuousness.

Happily digging into her salad, Mo talked about her week at home, about her parents' criticisms of her weight and about her hopes for the future. She was going to college to get a business degree, so she could start her own small business, a clothing store that catered to women her size and larger.

"The fashion industry has been slowly catching up to the fact that big women want to wear nice clothes, but there aren't enough places to buy them," she said, spearing a marinated mushroom. "If you're super-sized, in most cases, you're still shit out of luck, since the chain stores only go up to about size forty-six. I figure I can't miss, especially if I offer mail order."

For his part, Bob kept silent and enjoyed watching Mo gormandize. To hell with his solitary restaurant fantasies - this was the real thing! She quickly polished off her appetizer and was even considering going back for a second plate's worth when their waitress arrived with that weighty sirloin. It was so thickly huge that it crowded everything else off the platter; the twice-baked potato had to be given its own saucer-sized plate.

Mo examined her beef and side dish and loudly said, "Only one potato?" The slender waitress gawked at her then went to get a second spud. By the time she returned, Mo Dowl was well into her steak.

Every table within viewing distance was entranced by the sight of her. Swiftly cutting her meat into small precise pieces, the fat girl tucked into her meal zealously, pausing only to slather butter and sour cream into her baked potatoes or to soak up blood with her Texas Toast. Considering the speed with which she devoured the meal, it was amazing how neat she was. Only once did a smidgeon of dinner escape: a droplet of beef juice that dangled from her fork and splashed down the yawning cleft of her dress.

When she finished, the entire restaurant burst into applause.

She posed for her photo with Bob by her side ("He's my inspiration," she said to the restaurant manager who had come out to congratulate the victorious trencherwoman) and proudly watched as her picture was placed in the display case, an arrow pointing to her to indicate which half of the posing couple was the actual winner. ("Maybe you could come back someday and get yourself up there for real," she said to Bob, jokingly poking into his belly.) They had a second picture taken of them standing in the waiting room for a personal souvenir, and Harold Himself (a roly-poly Midwesterner whose own photo had pride of place in the picture display) presented Mo with an XXXL Harold's tee shirt. Then she did something that had the whole restaurant audience gasping.

"C'mon," she lustily said to Bob. "Let's go someplace for dessert!"

"Where to?" he asked, as they got into the car.

"How about your place?" she answered. "We can stop and get something sweet along the way."

"Are you really still hungry? I thought you were saying that just for effect."

"Sometimes it amazes me how much I can eat when I really get going," Mo explained, sitting back and rubbing her swollen belly. "And being with you seems to pique my appetite."

They stopped at a convenience store and bought a half-gallon of Breyer's rocky road, plus a selection of candy from the counter. The summer night had gotten dark and chilly, bringing goose bumps to Mo's uncovered broad shoulders. She leaned against him in the car, chewing on peanut M&Ms, and he dropped his hand onto her full left thigh. Squeezing affectionately, he felt along her inner leg the rest of the way home.

As soon as they got to Bob's apartment, she shed her dress, peeling it off her body in the middle of the living room and letting out a sigh of relief. Mo stood before him in her strapless bra, lace panties and gartered stockings. The bands of her garters cut into her smooth and thickset thighs.

"That's better," she said, massaging her jiggling belly. "After that meal, I could barely breathe in my dress."

"I take it that you want to hold on the ice cream, then," Bob guessed, carrying the bag of Breyer's to the freezer.

"I didn't say that," Mo protested, following him into the kitchen. The stove light etched her Rubenesque form, made her rounder and more satisfyingly solid. She smiled and belched prettily, something that Bob wouldn't have thought feasible. "I could be fed," she continued, "if you're up to trying!"

The challenge was clear and inviting.

"If that's the way you want it," Bob said, leading the fat girl into his bedroom. He pulled off his silk tie and held it before her. Maureen looked him in the eyes and nodded, holding her hands before her. Swiftly lassoing her padded wrists with his necktie, he bound her hands together tightly. She sank into the bed on her back, hands held over her head. Looping the tie to a rail on the headboard, he tied her to the bed.

"I told you I liked that tie," she said, grinning up at him.

"Ready for dessert?" he asked.

She shook her head emphatically, plump upper arms shaking with her. "How can your ask that when you saw how much I had for dinner?" she demanded. "Do you want me to get obese?"

"I think you need a little ice cream," Bob persisted, walking back into the kitchen to retrieve the carton of Breyer's. He'd done some small bondage before with Ann, but it had never been quite like this. As he climbed onto bed beside the bound plumper, he flashed on a picture of his ex-lover on a nearby dresser.

Turning back to Mo (who was grimacing dramatically), he tore open the carton, lifted its cellophane protector and dug into the ice cream. As he brought the spoonful to Mo's face, she began to frantically shake and kick her feet. Balancing the container between his knees, Bob held onto her face with his left hand and brought the spoon to her mouth. He expected her to keep her mouth clamped shut, but as soon as the utensil came within reach, she gulped the food down greedily. Bob scraped out a second, larger mouthful of ice cream.

"What are you trying to do?" she protested. "I can't swallow all of that! It's too big!" Yet once he got the spoon within an inch of her lips, she began to avidly nibble at the brimming spoonful, salaciously licking the utensil's underside. As he leaned over to feed her, Mo's supple breasts yielded to the weight of his upper arm. "I know what you want," she charged once she'd finished his second offering. "You want to turn me into some kind of circus fat lady!" Without saying a word, he spooned out another helping. "Don't blame me if I get too fat to move," she said with her mouth full of rocky road, "too big to even get out of bed!"

They kept at it until the whole half-gallon was gone, though she admittedly began to flag halfway in, and Bob wound up helping her with the second half. Mo struggled and kicked through the entire feeding, sending waves through the floatation mattress, but she didn't miss a single spoonful that he aimed her way. Her nylons were scratched and runny by the end, white flesh pushing through each new-made hole.

"Look what you've done!" she accused, as he fingered each perforation appraisingly. "Making me swallow all those extra calories; you've made me fat!" And, indeed, it looked as if she'd grown noticeably from the night's repast: her overfed belly was round and distent; her double chin looked more emphatic.

The act of overfeeding her had aroused Bob substantially. He leaned over Mo and kissed her on the ice-cold lips, working to warm her up. A taste of marshmallow lingered on her upper chin. Bounding off the waterbed, Bob tossed the carton across the kitchen (where it landed in the sink atop some plastic fast food glasses) and quickly stripped to his jockey shorts. As he flipped on the radio, the sound of blues filled the room.

He examined Mo's garters then unsnapped them. Curling her stocking down to her dimpled ankles, he kissed her stout calves and moved up to her chubby thighs. Mo lay quietly, waiting to see what Bob would do next. He felt her lingering garter marks with his fingertips then removed her belt and panties. The only item of clothing still on her (aside from the necktie, of course) was her bra.

"Careful," Mo said as he leaned over to lick her belly. "I'm feeling pretty stuffed."

"I've got the answer to that," Bob answered, pulling off his jockeys and letting loose his tumescent member. He straddled the hand-tied Mo's upper chest, the back of his calves pressed against the hang of her upper arms, and he undid her bra, letting her pendant breasts fall free. As they flowed to her sides, he cupped and lifted them both, enclosing his erection in feminine fat. Massaging her mams, his erection building excitedly, his tip pushed against the soft rise of her swollen belly. "How's this?" he asked, prodding but not weighing down on her paunch.

In response, Mo began to mouth the globular base of his organ, first putting one sac than the other into her wet, warmed mouth. Bob worked his way to her crotch, holding his body off her glutted torso, and as he stretched to reach it, she started whipping him with her tongue. He almost lost it right there. Think of skinny women, he told himself, and the directive was enough to get him once more under control.

On the radio, Memphis Minnie was complaining about a big fat woman with "meat shakin' on her bones," who'd apparently stolen her lover. Keeping his full weight off Mo's shakin' meat, Bob tongued through her pubic hair. She spread her cumbrous thighs as far as she could go, and he pried open her box with his fingers. As soon as he got his tongue inside, she began to buck her belly into him. So much for feeling stuffed . . .

Pumping between her malleable mams, his mouth working on getting to her clitoris, he reveled in her chubby body. The base of her growing belly (with its incipient stretch marks) that pushed into his chin. Her fleshy tanned thighs. The round mound of her crotch. She let loose of his member and cried out when he reached her clit. In response, Bob once more started revving up.

He continued to stimulate her, holding off as long as he could, as his overfed lover grew more frenzied. Suddenly, she stiffened her thighs and let out a second cry. With that signal, he felt himself once more ready to let loose. Lifting himself, returning both hands to her breasts, he began to thrust between Mo's gelatinous mams as she shuddered happily beneath him. He came quickly, shooting across her quivering paunch. His ejaculation was long and full, covering her with the seeds of his passion.

When he untied Maureen, the first thing she was take her fingertips and spread his juices over her fulsome body. "I've never done anything like this before," she confessed, as they rested next to each other, Etta James growling in the background. "I've fantasized about it, but this is the first time I've been able to live the fantasy. Most of your college boys are a bit more limited in scope."

He hugged her slick and buxom body and asked, "Did it live up to your expectations?"

"I feel wonderful," she told him. "This was just what I needed." She leaned over and lightly bussed him. "I hope that Shelley appreciates you as much as I do." Mo kissed him more enthusiastically then rolled over to straddle the waterbed rail. "So what else have you got in the fridge?" she asked.

Fat Magic

Chapter 9