THE LAYERED LOOK
It starts with the fat woman routine.
To understand any of the strange events involving Stella Leyer's (ne: Estella Hernandez) sudden exit from the field of exotic dancing, you first need to know about her fat woman bit, a regular strip club opener that never failed to catch her male audience off guard.
It went like this: the m-c would call out Stella's name and the first thing the audience would see was what looked to be a four-hundred-plus pound brunette dressed like Annie Hall, waddling onto the runway. The uninitiated in the crowd typically started murmuring immediately, but Stella would silence them by lifting a pudgy gloved hand to her lips, unzipping the glove and stripping away over an inch of padding from her lower and upper arm. Even the drunkest patron was able to figure out what was happening once she finished with her gloves and unbuttoned an even more thickly padded vest. In addition to stripping off her clothing, Stella would be stripping off the illusion of fatness. By the time she'd divested herself of all her clothing and moved into a topless dance routine, she had her audience hooked.
When she was finished, she'd stand before the crowd in her g-string, a slender shadow of her fat lady character. What made the whole bit work was this simple anatomical detail: the only part of her body that did not diminish as she worked through layers of convincingly detailed padding were her breasts. Blessed with a pair of mams that measured 92FF, Stella kept their unveiling until the very last part of her routine. Once the audience saw their fleshy reality against the rest of her slender body, they went wild. What they'd once ignored atop the frame of a seeming fat woman now had their undivided attention.
The irony did not escape Stella. At times it even annoyed her, though she knew better than to publicly bite the mams that fed her. While she enjoyed the sense of sexual power and attention she received on the runway, there were days when she felt just plain tired of men constantly focusing on her tits, irritated at eyes that were unable to rise above her boobs and look her in the face. She couldn't carry on a conversation or walk the streets without feeling their piercing stares. The dancer had come by her mammary bounty naturally, and there were times (not often, but enough to make a difference) that she found herself wishing Ma Nature hadn't been so generous.
Which is why she took to occasionally wearing her fat girl suit home from work. Some nights Stella felt so exhausted from all that concentrated male attention that she just wanted to trudge back to her apartment and pass out. The fat padding was her armor those times she didn't have the energy to cope with the power of her magnetizing tits - or much else, for that matter. With it on, she was able to make her way home unhassled. Once she'd even fallen asleep in front of the tube wearing it, a startling experience on waking.
She was even more startled, though, the night a young man came on to her in her fat suit. The dancer had just finished a particularly strenuous night of dancing, filling in for another girl in addition to doing her own show, and she was beat and famished. It was all she could do to put the suit on properly, let alone fend off the advances of someone inexplicably attracted to her as a four-hundred pounder.
The meeting went like this: she'd just hailed a cab and had eased her widely cushioned frame into the back seat. Before Stella could shut the door, a breathless well-fed man in a business suit raced up to the vehicle.
"Which way you going?" he panted, one hand on the car door, the other rapidly combing through his unkempt brownish hair.
"I don't think that's any of your business," Stella said. "I got this cab first." She tapped on the cabbie's window to signal him to take off, but the driver had apparently decided to take a quick cat nap.
"There aren't any other cabs around," the young man said, looking down the largely empty street. "If you're going anywhere near my destination, I'd be glad to pay your fare for a chance to ride along." He looked her in the eyes, and Stella felt her resolve melting. The guy looked harmless enough - kind of cute, in fact.
"I'm indebted to you," the young man said, once she'd gestured him into the cab. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd said no."
"It's nothing," she answered, and she told him where she was headed. The young man nodded agreeably.
"It's close enough," he said, and with that, the cab driver roused himself sufficiently to take off. As they rode across town, her fellow passenger introduced himself. His name was Ozzie Smithe; he was vice president for a publishing company that specialized in what he called "a non-traditional paperback line."
She told him she was a dancer, half expecting him to do a double-take at the thought of someone as seemingly fat as her on the dance floor. Instead, he nodded and gave her the once over. Crammed into the back, her padded paunch pressed against the driver seat, her mams draped towards her sides. "Read about a service that specialized in women your size," he finally said. "They reportedly do a bang-up business." Ozzie paused, momentarily looking unsure of what he'd just said, and continued, "I hope I didn't embarrass you by mentioning your size."
It was all Stella could do to keep from bursting out in giggles. "Think nothing of it," she finally said. "When you're my size, you can hardly expect people not to notice."
"Good," Ozzie continued. "I'd hate to upset a woman as bewitching as you."
Now it was Stella who nearly did the double-take. This guy thought she looked bewitching as a four hundred plus pound lady? It flew in the face of everything she thought she knew about men.
"That's a hell of a line you've got," she said. "You use it on every fat chick you meet?"
"Only ones as lovely as you," he answered. He glanced up and down, once more taking her full body in, and Stella felt herself warming. She'd never had a man really look at all of her before (even if most of it was phony), and she kind of liked the experience.
By the time they got to her neighborhood, she'd shrugged off her exhaustion and agreed to go out with Ozzie. "I know a restaurant nearby that offers the best selection of make-your-own Mexican that you can find," he offered. Stella knew the place and had hit it in her slim guise many times. She wondered if anyone would recognize her in disguise. It was doubtful anyone who hadn't seen her routine would: few men looked at her face long enough to remember it.
Stella was right. She passed into the restaurant without a single male voice calling out her name. "You can assemble your own tacos here," Ozzie told her, "but if you'd let me, I'd love to make them for you."
"Sounds fine to me," Stella said, as he held out a chair; she slowly settled into it, padded hips spilling over both sides. Though she usually didn't eat this late, the restaurant scents had sparked her appetite. When Ozzie returned to their table with a plate piled with tacos packed with every conceivable kind of filling, she felt ready to work her way through the whole thing.
"Like a drink first?" Ozzie asked. "I recommend a kahlua and cream. They have a special kind of cream that does wonders for the appetite."
"I've never had it," Stella said.
"Trust me; it'll make you a new woman," the young man said, snapping his fingers. With that, a waiter appeared, and Ozzie made his drink order in Spanish. Stella was impressed, not by his facility with the language but with the speed with they got their drinks. She took a sip, found it delicious and downed it quickly. Then she dug into her tacos.
Three plates on, and she was barely flagging, in the grips of a hunger unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Ozzie smiled appreciatively as she eagerly devoured his offerings, eating more in a single plate than she typically ate in a day. At one point, he ordered a large bowl of gazpacho, plates of ajiaco, butifarra, sweet potatoes prepared in rum, and fried noodles. They barely dented Stella's ravenousness. It wasn't until she was facing her second bowl of crema espanola that it started to sink in on Stella that she was behaving rather oddly.
"Whew," she said, taking a deep breath. "I've really been making a porker of myself. Your bill's gonna be gigantic!" Stella sat back, feeling flush, and took off her thin gloves. Ozzie snapped his fingers and the waiter reappeared with another kahlua and special cream drink.
"Don't you worry about a thing," Ozzie said, leaning over the table and proffering the drink. "Money's made to be spent; food's made to be eaten. I've loved watching you dine." Stella took the glass between her pudgy fingers and drained the glass. As she felt it warm her insides, her hunger was once more renewed. She tipped the bowl of crema espagnola and let it slide into her mouth, then started picking through a tray of alfajores.
Ozzie casually eyed her ungloved arm and approvingly noted how plump it had gotten. Stella's round face, he saw, was also starting to fill out and look more appropriate to her supposed size. It'd always been the least convincing part of her fat girl disguise, he thought. But with her chin creased and starting to drape, her cheeks puffing out, she was starting to grow into the part she'd played so many times.
First time he'd seen her on the runway, he'd been brought by a writer who knew Ozzie's particular likes and dislikes. It'd been meant as a joke on the part of the writer, a goof on Oz's predilection for super-sized women, but it hadn't worked the way the writer intended. Even after the young publisher realized that the desirably fat woman onstage was a carefully erected fiction, he kept watching in fascination.
In so doing, he saw something that no other man in the audience could: Stella moved more naturally and confidently as a fat woman then she did as a big-busted dancer. Where most women would put a trace of condescension in her portrayal, a subtle hint of satire in her role of massive mama, Stella reserved her unspoken contempt for her slim persona. Once he realized this, he knew what he had to do.
He returned to her show three more times and spent his days searching through his personal library. He found what he wanted in a book entitled Magical Abundance in Primitive and Modern Cultures. It took him several weeks to find all the ingredients for the creamy potion, but the publisher had a few connections in arcane circles. When he had things set up, he spent two nights trying to get up the nerve to introduce himself.
The night Stella came out the stage door wearing her fat girl suit, though, all of Ozzie's reticence had vanished. He'd signaled the cab, and it shot towards Stella. And so they were off to the restaurant.
The same cab was waiting for them when they left the establishment, but Stella was too occupied with her bag of take-out churros to notice. "Still hungry?" Ozzie asked, and she nodded with her mouth full, sugar on the tip of her full lips, double chin darkening. "I know a good German restaurant nearby," he said. "Let's try something different."
Over the next two hours, Stella worked her way through more types of schnitzel than she'd known existed in the world. Her face had become a real fat woman's, triply chinned with jowls that were red from the exertion of eating. Her lower arms had gone beyond plump and were starting to bulge at her wrists; her elbows were disappearing as her upper arms started sagging over them. One hour into the meal, she'd taken off her lightweight vest. Half an hour later, she went into the women's room and slipped out of her tights. The sight of her waddling back to the table, blubbery calves peaking beneath the hem of her dress, was erotic as hell to Ozzie.
"Removed my tights," she told him, showing him the shrunken crumpled garment in her purse. "They were starting to feel a bit confining." She sat back, drummed her sizable paunch and sent ripples through it, then went back to her gormandizing.
They left sometime after the restaurant's usual closing hour, stopped at a pizza pick-up and ordered two of every family sized they could get. While they waited for their order in the cab, Stella scraped two half gallons of Breyer's from a nearby Kroger's clean. They took the pizzas home to Ozzie's apartment, which fortunately for Stella wasn't far - the scent was driving her crazy!
Ozzie's apartment was spare but elegant, filled with large-sized furniture and shelf after shelf of books. But Stella didn't really care about decor: she was too busy tearing open her first box of Hawaiian style pizza. Plopping down onto a couch, her entire body quivering, she piled three pieces on top of each other and took a deep bite. "Hmm," she moaned ecstatically, licking her lips. "This is fabulous!"
Her fat admiring lover pulled out a wooden tray and placed the remaining boxes on it. She was down to a skirt and top, he saw, and they both were showing strain from her palpable fat flesh. The buttons of her top were no longer flush against the fabric but hanging on by strands of thread. She gapped noticeably between each button, pink flesh poking through each opening. Stella's tits even looked like they'd added some inches, pendulously perched atop her burgeoning paunch.
About two-thirds into the pizza delivery, the lower buttons of her top gave way. The upper fold of her belly spilled over her struggling skirt's waist band, pushing it down. The obese dancer paused in her eating long enough to pull the rest of her blouse open, then returned to her second pepperoni and sausage pizza. With her skirt hiked over her dimply knees, Stella's belly hung in line with the bottom of her thighs.
Once her skirt split open, its seam rending first at her hips' widest expanse and quickly slitting all the way to her hems, Stella was down to only her bra. It, too, was having a job keeping up with tits that were over 100 GG, and it wasn't long before the foundation garment - which had held up more than its fair share even when Stella was slender - expired.
The fat woman was unperturbed by any of these developments, as Ozzie expected she'd be once she got into the full swing of things. She cast the bra aside between slices and continued to singlemindedly stuff herself with pizza and beer. When she finished, she was at least seventy-five pounds larger than the four hundred plus pound woman she'd once portrayed.
"That was some meal," Stella said, rubbing her cumbrous paunch. "You sure know how to show a date a good time." She took a large swig from a nearby mug, belched, and settled back into the couch. About now, Ozzie knew, the potion that he'd given her was wearing off, and she'd soon realize what had been done to her. "I don't," she suddenly noticed, "seem to have any intact clothes."
Ozzie rushed over to the couch and squeezed himself in the small space remaining. "You outgrew them," he told her, grabbing a fat palm and affectionately patting it. "After all this time, the rest of your body has caught up with your breasts." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, reveling in the feel of her fulsome flesh.
Stella was still processing the change that had taken place. It wasn't as big a shock as she would have thought: she supposed on some level, her creation of the original fat woman routine reflected an awareness that this was the way she was meant to be. Besides, her night of eating had been an incredible experience! "You knew who I was all along," she finally said.
"Guilty as charged," Ozzie said, and he told her about his first night seeing her, his researches and his plans to meet her. "I'd apologize for the deception, but I don't think there was any other way to get you like this."
He was, she realized, right. Though she never felt better than she did right this instant - stuffed with a variety of wonderful foods that she could still taste, smothered in layers of womanly avoirdupois, her breasts comfortably supported on top of her mountainous belly - she'd never have gone with Ozzie if she'd known what the results would be. Just goes to show how wrong a girl could be, she thought.
"No apology necessary," she said, "provided you weren't just bullshitting me when you talked about finding me bewitching earlier."
"Are you kidding?" the fat admirer said. "Let me show you." He rose from the couch, stood before her and held his hands out. Using him for support, Stella lifted herself from the couch. Standing, her inner thighs flowed against each other; her calves divided into a trio of diminishing bulges as you looked towards her feet. Her ankles were no longer visible. Her walk was slow and laborious, yet if you looked, you could see an echo of her dancer's grace in the way she moved across the room. Head erect, voluminous body moving to its own waddling rhythm, Stella was majestically sexy.
Ozzie lead her into the bedroom. By the time dawn's light started seeping through the bedroom windows, she was more than convinced he was serious.
"I believe you," she said, resting on the mattress of Ozzie's king-side bed, her obese body glistening with sweat. "You do find me attractive this size!" She smiled, settling into her body. Unstimulated by any creamy potion, her appetite was starting to build again.
"Thinking of breakfast?" Ozzie asked, as he rolled out of his side of the bed. He opened a closet and pulled out a vast negligee, which he threw on the bed. On the closet floor, was a pile of crumpled padding.
"Will this fit me?" Stella asked, fingering the silken fabric.
"It should," Ozzie said, "I have a sister who outgrew it. She wore it when she was in the six hundred pound range."
"So big gals run in your family," Stella said, hefting herself off the bed and pulling on the garment. It hung a bit loosely everywhere but her tits.
"Among other things," Ozzie said. "My family has traditionally gone in for some rather outre pursuits, and it's shown in the occupation I've chosen. Our publishing company has put out some interesting texts." He wrapped himself in a smoking jacket and headed for the kitchen. "I'll put on some coffee," he said.
"Make it cream and sugar," she shouted.
"Cream?" Ozzie echoed, turning back to the bedroom.
"You heard me," Stella answered. "I'm obviously not going back to exotic dancing. If you're willing to commit yourself to what you've started, I'd be more than willing to take things even further. I'm not tired. How about you?"
"Nothing that a few pots of java wouldn't cure," Ozzie gasped, obviously excited by her proposal. "Stella, I've dreamed of meeting a woman like you!"
He thought back to his original insight about the dancing Stella and the greater sense of ease she'd reflected as a padded fat woman. Reaching into a pantry, he grabbed a pack of Danishes and unwrapped them for his woman. It was a couple of hours before any decent restaurants opened, but he thought that he could make due until then. Coffee dripping, he smiled and anticipated the day ahead.
Stella Leyer never danced again, though word of her marriage to a wealthy young New Yorker soon reached her peers in the strip club community. The wedding was small, held in the young man's apartment, with only a few of Ozzie's relatives in attendance. Among Ozzie's acquaintances, a few more details of the events before his marriage became common currency: rumors of a four-day binge that built the young man's bride to a size so vast that she covered the king-size bed.
Stella's statement that her dancing days were ended proved prophetic; at the size she'd grown, it was all she could do to roll out of bed for Ozzie to change the sheets. She'd stand by their bed, an inflated ball of female flesh whose belly and hanging butt flattened against the floor, contented in a way that she'd never thought possible. The onetime fake fat girl was over five times her phony weight, and she loved it. She'd also learned to love the man who'd made her the way she was, the man who'd always seen her as more than a pair of huge tits, had seen her in her potential as huge all over.
Not that Stella's mams didn't grow with the rest of her - they did, keeping up with her great draping belly, rising to block her forward vision, pushing out beyond the reach of her barely bendable arms. Standing or sitting, she could only get a clear look skywards, which was why her husband put in a series of hanging mirrors and TV monitors. Her breasts continued reminding her of their presence, but that didn't bother her anymore.
She had too much good eating and loving to do to think about it.
Copyright 1997 - Oakhaus Designs