by Wilson Barbers
"'Shock Jock Faces Gypsy Curse!'" Don read. "'The Awful Facts Even He Won't Tell His Loyal Listeners!'" He sat back on his swivel chair, took a sip of Diet Coke. "Sounds juicy," he thought out loud. "What's the skinny? Ol' Howard's dick shrink every time he sees a 44DD?"
"Nuthin' so poetic," Belle told him. "Turns out he's got a form of supernatural Tourette's Syndrome whenever the full moon rises."
"Tourette's," Don considered, running a hand through his thinning long hair. "With that guy, how can anybody tell the difference?" He went back to his monitor, pulled up a suitably grotesque photo of the celebrity in question, and proceeded to make it look just a little more demonic by brightening the eyes and fiddling with the eyebrows. "Not a front page story, but a good solid back piece," he decided.
Belle Hansom stood behind the photo editor as he continued to make the image more tabloid worthy. She loved to watch him work at morphing people's pics. Don was a master at this form of computer art, capable of both subtle effects (he was particularly adept at making any celebrity look like they were nursing a virulent hangover) and outlandish exaggeration. He'd once turned a staffer's newborn into a totally convincing alien.
"What you workin' on next?" he asked without removing his eyes from the screen.
"You'll like it," she told him. "It's a fat lady story." Don's love for larger-than-average women was a standing joke between them. Before she'd known about it, Belle had even made a play for him, but it hadn't gone anywhere - she was just too slender to hold Don's interest. Now they were "good friends and colleagues." Unfortunate, she often thought, since he had the unshaven artist looks she typically loved.
Petite, with short blond hair and a heavily caffeinated manner, Belle still hadn't lost the fresh-out-of-college looks that she'd brought to the National Exposure eight years earlier. These were an invaluable aid in those rare legit interviews that she did for the paper: few could believe that she was actually capable of writing the stories that she produced.
"Really?" Don said, noticeably perking up. "How fat we talkin' here?"
"This is the National Exposure," she replied. "Let the other papers have their Rock Shots models; we're talkin' about sizes never seen before in a national publication! Mega Size! You game?"
"You kiddin'?" the photo man said. "Got a new program I've been dyin' to use! Sounds like just the place for it. Gimme yer story soon as you've drafted it."
"Will do," Belle assured him, and she headed home to work on it.
Once she placed herself in front of the keyboard, the story flowed smoothly. Every time she paused, she just asked herself what kind of detail would be most titillating for a guy like Don. She finished her piece within the hour:
"FAT LOVE: World's Fattest Woman Finds Love With A Chef Husband!
"NORMAL, Illinois - Flabulous authoress Billie Swallow, long considered the fattest woman on record, recently tied the knot with the man of her dreams - a chef!
"Billie, who crushes the scales at a whopping 2,014 pounds, married the chubby chasing cook in a private ceremony held at the couple's isolated country house.
"'We had to have the wedding at home,' the chow-hungry Billie says. 'I haven't been able to fit through the doorway in years!'
"The ultra-corpulent 29-year-old and her extra-busy hubby have been living together for the past five years. But they only recently decided to make things legal after the blimpette writer sold her first novel to the movies.
"'It's written under a pseudonym, of course,' she said, between sips of her breakfast milk shake. 'I can't tell you the name, but believe me, it's going to be huge - maybe as huge as me! I've already been offered an advance on the sequel.'
"Billie's take from her movie is enough to keep her in steaks and bonbons for years to come.
"'And we're talking some good-sized servings here,' husband Donald Swallow notes, as he lists a typical day's fare - four pounds of bacon, a carton of scrambled eggs, dozens of sandwiches, eight steaks, five pounds of potatoes, an equal amount of broccoli in a creamy cheese sauce, and an assortment of cakes, pies and cookies dipped in ice cream.
"'I love to fix it all for her,' the fat admiring cuisinier states. 'My Billie loves to eat more than anything, and I love to be the one feeding her. I wouldn't mind if she got even fatter!'
"'I've gotten pretty good at typing one-handed,' the voluminous authoress explains. 'So my writing time doesn't interfere with my dining time.'
"Though most doctors would shake their heads at the sight of the barely mobile Illinoisan, both Billie and Don insist that her health has never been better.
"'We take care of ourselves homeopathically,' Billie notes, tapping her prominent jelly belly with her fingers, 'and outside of an occasional head cold, we've both been fine.'
"The globular free-lancer refuses to apologize for her weight, which has been substantial all her life. The daughter of a circus fat lady, the ton-plus bride tipped the scales at 250 when she was nine years old.
"'Mom weighed close to 880 at her peak, traveling for Ringling,' Billie says. 'She could've probably been more, but she messed it up by dieting when she was young. I've never dieted and never will.'
"Not that carrying the weight of a good-sized dinosaur doesn't have its own disadvantages, no matter how healthy you are.
"'I'm constantly splitting the seams of my dresses,' Billie says. 'Even if it's loose when I first put it on, it doesn't stay that way. The fabric tends to bunch up in the most awkward places, and it rips if I move too suddenly.' Billie's solution for those days when it's just her and her hubby - to sit in front of her specially mounted word processor naked!
"'I may look like a great pink whale,' the blubbery bride says, as she lifts a slab of brownie from a newly cooled pan, 'but at least I'm comfortable - and happy.'
"'Me, too,' Don shouts from the kitchen nearby.
"'All those women who are dieting themselves miserable,' the bulging newlywed says, 'they don't know what they're missing!' She smiles at her husband as he enters the room with a three-pound pot roast. Lunch is served - for the third time in one day."
Not bad, Belle thought as she reviewed her hard copy. Not too insulting, but with a good amount of tantalizing "detail." A front pager for sure, particularly with one of Don's transmogrified photos. She switched on her modem, sent the piece to the Exposure's editorial address, then c.c.-ed a copy to Don.
Time to call it quits. Hitting the kitchenette, Belle pulled out a package of Stouffer's French bread pizza (Wouldn't it be great to really have her own private chef? she thought) and started heating the toaster oven. She'd just put both slices in to cook when Don phoned.
"Got yer story," he said without preamble.
"Inspirational! I'm workin' on the front page photo now. Quite a woman you got there!"
"Knew you'd like her," Belle said.
"Also liked that you put me in the story," Don added. "'Don Swallow,' indeed. I am a pretty good cook, you know."
"Figured you had to be, what with all the fat women you've dated."
"Don't start believin' yer own stories," Don cautioned. "None of the fat girls I've known had anything near the kind of gargantuan appetite you describe. They eat the same basic servings as you or me. Only more of it sticks with 'em."
"Tabloid stories aren't about the truth," Belle said. "They're about what the audience wants to read. All of the Exposure's readers are desperately countin' calories. So, of course, they want to read about someone who doesn't give a damn about 'em. Besides," she added mischievously, "how do you know what yer girlfriends are eatin' when yer not around?"
"Good question," Don said with a chuckle. "So what're you eating?"
"Jeez, Don, you make the question sound like yer askin' if I've got on any underwear," Belle said. "Why the question?"
"Well, since you put me in yer story, I thought I'd return the favor," Don answered. "Got this great photo of you from the company picnic."
"In that halter top and cut-offs? That's obscene!"
"With any luck, it will be," Don laughed. Then he rung off, leaving Belle to contemplate her future as a National Exposure cover girl.
Examining herself in the mirror before she went to bed, Belle did an inventory of her oh-so-thin self. Flat stomach and slightly swelling hips. Curvy legs that looked great in those cut-offs. Okay breasts. A girlish face with high cheekbones and a wide, full mouth. It was a womanly body but not an overpowering one.
Be interesting to see what Don made of her, she thought, as she settled under the covers. Her sleep was deep and dreamless.
She woke with a start and an unexplained feeling of panic, of facing the world from an unfamiliar angle. The sun was shining in her eyes, though she could have sworn that she'd closed the bedroom curtains all the way. Focusing her eyes, Belle realized that she wasn't in her apartment. Where the hell was she?
She lifted a hand to her eyes - and found the act more difficult than she expected. It was like she was wearing a bulky gore-tex coat and a heavy sweater underneath, the padding resisting her efforts to bring her hand to her face. One look, and she saw her arm was uncovered, though. The bulky padding was all on her flesh!
Her palm was swollen, her fingers sausagey and barely able to make a fist. Her lower arm bulged over her wrists, dangling insouciantly before her. Raising her fingertips to her face, she bumped against her upraised cheeks. They bulged at least an inch ahead of where she'd expected to find them, cresting on the lower edge of both her eyes.
Her body was lying on some sort of adjustable bed, resting at about a forty-five angle. That explained the sense of looking at the world from an unfamiliar perspective. But, still, where the hell was she?
Belle moved as if to sit up, but was unable to raise her back from the bed. It was like a giant hand was holding her down. Her elbows were similarly unable to prop against the mattress, and as she struggled to do so, a great wave of pink jounced ahead of her. What was this? As it slowly settled down ahead of her, she realized: this wave was her!
Peering straight ahead, she saw a deep, long cleavage that opened to an expanse of swelling flesh. Her legs and feet were nowhere to be seen, though when she concentrated, she could feel them beneath her mass of forefront. Across the room was a dressing table with a trio of mirrors. It was there that she got her first look at herself.
She saw: a gigantic female form reclining on what had to be a custom-made reclinable bed. Breasts grown so large that their tips would have been out of reach if she still could have stretched her arms that far. A belly that surged all the way to the end of the mattress, deep folds radiating from her cavernous navel. Legs and hips squeezing out to both sides in a series of ringing bulges. Upper arms encompassed with so much fat that it was no wonder she found it easier to keep her arms outstretched.
Her face still had its wide, full lips, but they were almost cupid's bows surrounded by her fleshy cheeks and jowls. Her neck had totally disappeared, and when she turned her head, she felt her lower chins rub against her upper breast flesh. One familiar note remained: her hair was still in the short, girlish style that she'd always favored.
She felt her body all around her, its strange and overwhelming mass, the warm air waving over so much square feet of flesh.
"My God," she said, and the words trembled throughout her gargantuan form. "This can't be!"
As if in answer, a silhouette appeared in the doorway by the dressing table. "Mornin', sweetie," the figure said, and she immediately recognized his voice. "You sleep well?" Stepping out of the morning light, he pulled a wheeled cart into the room and rolled it to the side of her bed.
It was Don, dressed in white clothes and a chef's apron, long hair held back with a bandana. His cart was laden with breakfast items, and as it came closer, the scent wafted over her mountainous body.
"Hope yer hungry," he said, "because I may've gone a bit overboard on the servings today. Not that I've ever heard you complain before," he added with a chuckle.
"Don," she panted, but before she could say anything further, he handed her a bagel loaded with cream cheese and raspberry jelly. It looked delicious, so she bit into it. Soon as she did, she felt her appetite well through her. The bagel was quickly devoured, then another took its place. Each time she finished one, Don placed a freshly slathered roll in her hand. Before she could stop to consider what she was doing, she'd eaten a full baker's dozen.
Astonishingly, this only piqued her hunger. She worked her way through three full plates of bacon and sausage, stopping only to take long draughts on a sports bottle filled with chocolate milk. It was only when they got to the scrambled eggs that the familiarity of her situation struck her.
Don had pulled out a large pan of scrambled eggs and was scooping several cups of them into what looked like a large plastic sack with a cake decorating tube on the end. This is Billie Swallow's breakfast, she thought, as he held the tube to her lips. The thought was not enough to keep her from gulping down the eggs once he started squeezing them into her mouth. The way her stomach felt, she couldn't refuse any food that was offered to her.
"This is impossible," she tried to say, but she was on her second helping of eggs and her mouth was full. Two servings later, she swallowed and tried to repeat her statement. But when she spoke, the words that came out were, "More chocolate milk."
She drank at least another gallon, and by then Don was ready with a tray of Danishes. He switched off on her hands, to keep each fat swaddled arm from getting too tried, and they didn't quit until she'd gorged herself on enough pastries to feed the entire staff of a good-sized metropolitan newspaper.
Her arms felt exhausted, her fingers sticky. Somewhere within her mounding forefront, her stomach was saying, "Good start, girl. You've broken yer night's fast - but what's for lunch?"
"Maybe I should make this much for breakfast all the time, Billie," Don said, as he rolled the tray away. "But then, you'd probably never get any writing done!"
Billie? Billie Swallow was just a woman she'd created - a tabloid fiction. It wasn't her, was it?
The bed started to lift her into sitting position; as it did, the front of her belly flowed off the edge and down to the floor. When it touched the cold tile, the weight of her forefront pulled her into an upright seating posture. She tried to lift herself with both arms at the side of her paunch but was unsuccessful. She was going to need help just to lie back down, Billie thought.
Off to her right was a mounted laptop, just within reach of her pursy right hand. ("Got a new program that I'm dyin' to use," a voice in the back of her head repeated nonsensically.) Don switched it on and then moved over to her left. There, he emptied two bags of barbecue potato chips into a bowl and angled the shelf within reach of her left hand. But before she could grab any chips, a tube was placed in her hand. "One of yer favorites, Billie," he said, as he left for the kitchen. "Root beer float."
She took a sip. The ice cream had already been melted and blended into the soda, she discovered, and it was so luscious that she didn't stop sipping until she'd finished it all. Then she polished off her potato chips. It was like she was eating everything for the first time: she'd never gotten so much pleasure from eating simple potato chips before.
When she finished, Billie just sat there and waited for lunch, so hungry that she was unable to concentrate on anything else. As Don came into sight with two overburdened trays full of sandwiches, she actually started salivating.
The sun had sunk out of window sight when she finished off her second meal. Billie had spent the entire day doing nothing but stuffing her face, but she still didn't feel anything close to full.
What she felt was a growing excitement. The longer Don stood by her - refilling her plate, handing her something new to drink, leaning into her to whisper some endearment as she continued gormandizing - the more aroused she became. Her upper torso flushed; her face began to sweat; her breasts grew tender. Her belly apron was like a naked lover pressing insistently against her womanhood. Somewhere deep inside her, a voice was protesting, struggling to assert her old identity. But that voice grew fainter with every helping.
When she actually started to get full at dinner - somewhere between her third or fourth plate of diced prime rib - Billie was too caught up in her sexual excitement to even consider stopping. By the time they got to dessert, her stomach was steadily aching. Each twinge was like a love bite, tough, so she didn't protest when her husband started slicing up her first helping of pecan pie. As she shifted, she spread her legs and felt her underbelly press into her vaginal opening.
She came midway into her second slice of pie, and each succeeding bite was like another wave through her. When she finished the whole pie, Don moved once more to the side of the bed. As he shucked his apron and the rest of his clothes, the back of the bed began to rise.
Billie slid off it, forefront flowing against the floor, until she was lying face down. Her legs unencumbered by her apron, they struggled to reach the floor, to relieve her sense of fullness just a little. She was able to touch it with the balls of her feet, but just barely. Though she'd tried in the past, she knew the floor was out of reach of her hands.
Unable to go anywhere, she waited once more for Don. Standing behind her, he mashed his body against hers, rammed through walls of thigh flesh to her sexual center. As he thrust inside her, she wobbled back and forth on the bed of her belly. When he reached his climax, she hit her peak for the second time that night.
Hard to tell which was better: the orgasm from nonstop eating or the one from her husband's coupling. Either way, she was indebted to Don.
When they finished, she slowly rolled over to her side. Even this was a laborious process: Billie moved with glacier speed, pushing herself, then letting her body fat pull her in the direction she wanted. As she did, Don lovingly cooled her down with a fresh face cloth. Eventually, she returned to her back, and Don started prying her into sitting position with the edge of her motorized bed.
Once the weight-stranded writer was back where she'd started, she was hungry for some ice cream. Don obliged with a five gallon drum of French vanilla milk shake and another one of those very convenient tubes. As she swallowed happily, he brought a newspaper over to her.
"Got an advance copy of the Exposure," he said. "Yer story looks pretty good." He held up the front page. There, Billie saw a picture of herself in halter top and cut-offs, a ton-plus beauty who nearly overwhelmed the camera eye. She examined the photo critically and decided that she looked pretty damn good in it.
"Wanted to do a story that showed that love was possible at any size," Billie said around sips. "Something real and not exploitable."
"Ain't many tabloid writers that get to do stories about themselves," Don said.
"Ain't many tabloid stories that are this real," she answered. "After all, there's reality, and there's tabloid reality. And every once in a while, you have a woman like me who embodies both."
She tapped her sides demonstratively, echoing the gesture from her Exposure story. With that, she laid back and drank her shake, thoughts of her latest novel drifting through her head. She really had to get cracking on her manuscript, she thought.
Don pulled up a chair and watched his bloated bride as she finished his last offering of the day. She was impossibly gorgeous, every gluttonous inch of her. Part of him had loved her for years, but now that she was the woman of his dreams, he was wholeheartedly hers.
Their life was unlike any other couple's, but Don wouldn't have it any other way. Living the tabloid life, he thought, as he leaned over and kissed his bride. He watched her drop off into sleep, then he stood and turned to go straighten up the kitchen.
Revised version copyright (c) 1998 - Oakhaus Designs