by Wilson Barbers
The bet began with the following:
“Biology is personality,” Ernest Shaw proclaimed for the umpteenth time. They were hanging out and bullshitting in the DeGarmo Hall student lounge, discussing William Sheldon's constitutional theory, an outdated personality theory that Shaw was perversely defending. “Look at body types and you'll see: a person's form is the key to their personality.”
“Cultural expectations,” his friend Jay Pickering stated. “See some mesomorphic musclehead and you expect 'em to act like Sly Stallone; look at some scrawny ectomorph like you, Ernie, and you expect 'em to be a bookworm, though Lord knows you're far from it.” He paused, tapped the cover of his graduate psych text as he considered his next words, and continued. “What about all the people who don't fit Sheldon's personality/body type equations? You see 'em all the time on campus!”
“Pyknics!” Shaw stated, emptying a bag of Skittles in his mouth. “They haven't grown into their real bodies yet, but their personality tells us how they'll ultimately look.”
“So you can tell an incipient endomorph from their current personality,” Pickering laughed. “Some thin guy who's sure to grow fat because they have - what'd Sheldon call it? - a visceretonic personality! Hogwash!”
“You guys,” their third companion snorted. “Next thing you know, Ernie here'll be betting Jay that he can pick a future endomorph on the basis of some personality inventory!”
“You know,” Ernie thought out loud. “I bet I could find a hidden endovisceretone and get her to reveal her true nature. It'd probably be fun to try.”
“'Her'? You're nuts,” Pickering decided. “Sheldon's Atlas of Body types was built around male physiques. Even if his theory was correct, there's no guarantee it'd transfer to women!”
“Guys wouldn't be as much fun,” Shaw smirked. “I'm willing to risk it.”
“So we're talking a real wager then,” their companion said. “How much?”
Ernie named a sum high enough to make both hesitate, but not for too long. Neither Pickering nor his friend expected him to be able to stick to a project as demanding as this; they knew he'd be calling it off in a week. “I'm grading a batch of personality inventories for two undergrad Appraisal classes,” Pickering offered with a smile. “We can use 'em do pick our pyknic Liza Doolittle.”
They worked up terms for the bet (no letting the subject know what was up, a one-year deadline), headed for the office Pickering shared with two other graduate assistants and proceeded to comb through the tests. By three a.m. they'd come up with three female candidates who'd tested high in the elements that supposedly went with an endomorph body type. Next day they stood outside both classes to select their guinea pig. Two of the undergrad subjects already lived up to their theoretic body types: one was plump, the other out-and-out obese. The third was ideal.
“Her name's Emilia Ellis,” Pickering said, as they followed her down Bernard Hall. “She's a junior in El Ed.” Ernie scoped the girl out: she was tall and slender with straight blond hair that hung down to the small of her well-defined back. Her legs were shapely and her breasts full, though moderate in size. Her face was angelically placid.
“She's perfect,” Ernie said, and both Pickering and his friend shook their heads knowingly.
That night, Ernie phoned Emilia at her dorm room. “You don't know me,” he explained, “but I'm working on a psych project, and Jay Pickering gave me your name.”
It took her several beats to respond (one of the characteristics of the endomorph: slow reaction time), but she did indeed remember Jay Pickering from class. “He's the one who passes out the tests,” she said. Her voice was low and friendly.
“Right,” Ernie answered, “and according to a survey you filled out at the start of the semester, you're interested in helping out with a research project. You still game?”
“Depends on the project,” she answered.
“Maybe I could explain it to you,” he said. “You free for dinner?”
“I just ate,” she said, “but perhaps we could go someplace for dessert.”
They agreed to meet at a Garcia's Pizza near her dorm. Ernie got there fifteen minutes early, ordered a large deep-dish “Gut Buster,” then waited for Emilia. She arrived the same their pizza hit the table.
“Have a slice,” he offered as she took her seat. She was casually dressed in a sloppy sweatshirt that almost hid her enjoyable breasts. “We'll talk while we eat.” Emilia smiled, took a slice without even making the obligatory “But-I-just-ate!” protest, and bit into it. Her lips were full and pouty, red like tomato sauce; her eyes were round and expressive. She smiled appreciatively as she quickly nibbled her way down to the crust; her eyes flashed happily. Looking good, he thought.
“Tell me about yourself,” Ernie said, sliding a second piece her way as he took his first bite. They made quick work of the pizza together then ordered a basket of garlic bread.
Forty minutes later, the duo headed for a Baskin-Robbins. Emilia proved to be an amiable conversationalist, the type of person who saw dining as a social act, and Ernie found himself enjoying his time with her. She came from a rich farm family and had no qualms about either eating heartily or paying for her own dessert. This, he thought, was going to be one enjoyable wager! She ordered three scoops of Kailua and cream ice cream, and Ernie followed suit.
“You don't really have a project for me, do you?” Emilia finally said, as she finished off her bowl. Brushing her straight blond hair out of her face, she looked him straight in the eyes. With her top pulled tight over her forefront by her chair back, Ernie stared thinking for the first time how nice her chest would look with some extra poundage.
“Would it matter what I said?” Ernie asked.
“Not really,” the slender coed told him. “I liked your pick-up line - and, besides, I enjoy eating out.”
“Good,” Ernie replied. They walked back to her dorm, stopping along the way at a convenient mart for some Twix bars. The bet had officially commenced.
And so Ernie began his great project in earnest, confounding his friends with his commitment. His time with Emilia grew longer each day. They met in restaurants. In fast-food drive-thrus. In the kitchenette of Ernie's apartment. He continually pushed food her way, and she never turned it down. Each day they consumed a little more together, and each day he came closer to realizing his bet. Emilia was fun to be with, and Ernie counted himself lucky that his time with her was so easy. As a student, he'd been easily distracted from the conventional coed beauties around him, but his dining time with Emilia grew addictive.
Pickering seldom saw them outside of class. But even those limited sightings were enough to indicate Ernie's progress. Emilia was clearly gaining as the months passed, changing from a slender, almost waif-like girl, to a full-figured woman. Her form grew more pronounced: to Ernie's satisfaction, her breasts added inches, as did her hips and thighs.
Three months into the school year, and Emilia left for Christmas vacation forty pounds heavier, gaining another ten from holiday treats. By Spring break, she'd put on fifty more pounds: no visual evidence of her once slim stature remained. She'd thickened to accommodate her extra poundage; her waist had widened to catch up with her 44DD breasts, and her legs had similarly widened. She was rarely seen without something edible nearby. As she grew larger, she also grew lovelier. They began to spend their feeding time in the bedroom of Ernie's apartment, spreading elaborate meals over the bedspread, going at them and then at each other. Emilia's physical development had acquired an erotic dimension that Ernie found irresistible. By now, the original bet had so receded in importance that he was even willing to call it off - not without making his friends squirm a bit, though.
At the end of the school year, Ernie brought Emilia to the student lounge. They approached Pickering's table and sat down.
“Well,” Ernie opened. “What do you think?”
Emilia Ellis was more than twice the girl she'd been.
With breasts in the 46 DD range, waits and hips past fifty, she'd turned into an endomorphic beauty. Her chins had multiplied, blurring her jaw line; her cheeks had grown plump and flush. She was wearing a sweatsuit that probably should've been discarded two sizes ago; as she sat, you could see the fabric straining at both mams and belly. To sit comfortably, she had to spread her legs to make way for her paunch.
“Looks good,” Pickering's companion said. “But do you mind if I ask Emilia a question or two?”
“You wanna ask if I knew about this little bet of yours?” Emilia asked, pulling a Hershey's Big Block from her purse.
“As a matter of fact we do,” Pickering interjected. “What do you know?”
“Nothing that Ernie's told me,” the fat girl said between bites. “It was simply a matter of putting things together. Ernie's not the neatest person around, and there was no way I could resist reading his notes - not when they're left out in front of me. I've known about his attempts at fattening me up since spring.”
“And you continued going out with him?” Pickering gasped. “Why?”
“He's fun to be with,” she said matter-of-factly. “I've grown to love eating with him around, and it didn't take long to see he'd become as hooked as me.” She pulled out a second Big Block and handed it to her boyfriend. Over the course of two semesters, Ernie had added something like seventy pounds to his own thin frame; he took the candy bar and winked at Emilia. “What's the term Sheldon used?” she said teasingly. “We both appear to be pyknics.”
“She told me she knew on the way over,” Ernie shrugged. “If you wanna say this invalidates the bet, it's alright with me!”
“You sure?” Pickering and his friend asked in unison, both relieved to be let off the hook. “You know, Ernie,” Pickering said. “I didn't think you'd be able to stick to this bet, but looking at you now, I can see you had some additional motivation.” The endomorphic couple nodded then stood to leave. “Where you going?”
“Out to eat, of course,” Ernie said, and they both started laughing. “The bet may be over, but we've just begun!”
Ernie wasn't joking. The fattened couple moved in together that summer and went at dining in earnest. By the end of her senior year, Emilia waddled across the graduation stage at 400 pounds in a specially made 6X gown. When Ernie met her family on graduation weekend, he discovered that every one of them was beyond the capacity of the average bathroom scale: they readily welcomed him into the family. (“Looks like he's got a good appetite,” the Ellis patriarch said, eyeing Ernie's sumo shaped frame.)
His one big theory vindicated, Ernie found he wasn't much interested in psychology. Food preparation, though, was another matter. The act of regularly creating a cornucopia for Emilia and himself quickly supplanted his academic endeavors. He barely finished with his graduate degree; his only contact with the world of academic psychology in the years following was in correspondences with his friend Pickering.
The latter went on for a doctorate but became better known for a popular self-help best seller adapting body type theory to social settings. Said volume (The Inner Physique) contained a dedication to both Ernie and Emilia. Pickering mailed a first draft of the manuscript to them early in his writing; when it was published, he hand-delivered a copy of the book to their home.
They were living in a house bought for them by Emilia's parents, a spreading ranch house in the country. Even though he was prepared for it, the sight of Ernie as he answered the door took Pickering aback. Dressed in jeans and a sleeveless tee shirt, with an apron that had to be ninety inches long to encircle his gut, he'd settled into the endomorphic role to a degree that surprised even Pickering. Five years after their graduation and the only comparable body frames that Pickering could come up with were those circus fat men he'd researched for his book.
“Pickering, you're here!” the fat man puffed. “Care for a sandwich?” Letting his old college chum in, he indicated a wheeled cart that he'd apparently been in the process of moving. It was crammed with submarine sandwiches, both hot and cold. “Just finished making 'em for lunch,” he explained.
“Ate before I left,” Pickering muttered, trying to estimate the caloric value that was in front of him and coming up with a number too astronomical to be real.
“Wouldn't stop me,” Ernie laughed. “Lemme get this in to Emilia,” he continued, “and we can catch up on old times.” He rolled the cart out of view, returned with a single tray of sandwiches, then led his friend to the living room. The furniture, Pickering noted, was made of very sturdy wood and higher than usual: Ernie barely had to bend his legs to sit down on one of the benchlike constructions.
“Well,” he said, around bites on his first sub. “Am I allowed some time to rub it in? Looks like Sheldon's dated old theory had some validity to it, after all!”
“It made for marketable manuscript,” Pickering conceded. “Maybe I should pay you the wager, eh?”
“Not necessary,” Ernie said with a smile. “We're doing alright.” This was true. In addition to her family money, Emilia had discovered a talent for writing successful children's books (another characteristic of the endomorph: an affinity for childhood), which supported them well enough to give Ernie all the chef supplies he wanted.
“How's Emilia?” Pickering asked. “She's not ill, is she?”
“Oh no,” Ernie laughed. “She just doesn't get out of bed much these days.” He reached for a photo on a nearby stand and held it out to Pickering. One quick look at Emilia's picture and his friend nodded. And he thought Ernie had grown huge!
They spend another half hour catching up, the fat man pausing twice in the conversation to get more sustenance, then Pickering had to go. Soon as he hit the door, Ernie headed for the bedroom.
“He's gone,” he told Emilia.
“Good,” she said with her mouth full. “Come join me! I want a pyknic in bed!”
Spread across their kingside bed (with additions), Emilia was polishing off a meatball sandwich. Eyes closed, she shoved the sandwich into her mouth with a voraciousness that he found incredibly sexy. Emilia was dressed in a clinging nightgown that struggled to hold her 900-plus pound figure. Lying on her right side, her belly flattened against the mattress; it spread past her knees, pushing her breasts up into her chins.
Two-thirds of Emilia's weight had gone into her torso, making her paunch the most prominent part of her body. It rose imperially before her, the product of an eating regimen more intense than any exercise routine. Her gain seemed to have no ceiling. As she steadily grew larger, it was like living with a series of different women, each more voluminous and beautiful than the last.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached over then kissed her mouth, tasting sauce. Her bulging cheeks and chins pressed against his: the bigger she got, the more her lips and round eyes - once her most striking features - receded. Her chins and jowls had become her most noticeable facial feature: they took up the lower third of her face, sagging toward the mattress. She kept her blond hair short now to keep it from getting pinned between herself and the bed.
Opening her eyes, Emilia returned his kiss. On the disc player, Howlin' Wolf was bragging about his three hundred pounds of girth. It was an empty boast with Emilia in the room.
“Hello, there, big boy,” she purred. “You here to help me finish lunch?” On the cart was a stack of a half dozen sandwiches. Ernie smiled and grabbed the first, a second meatball sandwich. Holding one end up to his wife's mouth, he bit into the other end, and they both raced to the two-foot sandwich's middle. As usual, Emilia got there way before him and started chewing into his half of the sandwich. They killed the remaining five the same way, Ernie getting about a quarter of each, his wife gobbling through the rest. Her appetite made him simultaneously jealous and horny. Just when he started to flag, she seemed to rev up.
“Didn't bite your lip this time, did I?” Emilia asked, once Ernie backed away from their final bit of lunch. He shook his head and started lovingly wiping her face. She shifted forward to reach a can of pretzels; as she did, her lower arm swayed toward the floor, poking out of an upper arm that was five times its size. His wife was finding it harder to bend her arms, thanks to the swelling ring of fat that flowed over her elbows.
She grinned, and the sight charmed him. From a slender coed, she'd grown into a magnificent woman, laughing in the face of every puffed-up, desperately athletic mesomorph. Lying back, the open can resting between her beachball-sized breasts, she sighed and started shoveling pretzels into her wide-open maw. Her nightgown started separating at her blubbery sides, revealing her bulging thighs and calves. Emilia's legs had retained their womanly shapeliness, growing wider in a series of thickening bulges.
Beneath his belly, Ernie's member was making some pretty insistent demands.
Tilting the can to get the last crumpled pieces, Emilia nodded slightly. She belched, then let out a deep exhale, splitting her nightgown all the way along the sides. Ernie took the can and tossed it aside, pulled a bottle of chocolate iced cappuccino from the dorm fridge by the bed, then placed its open mouth between her waiting lips. As she swallowed, he peeled the nightgown off her quivery flesh.
Emilia tossed the empty bottle aside, wiped her fingers on a towelette, then grabbed her breasts with her hands. Her hands sank into her tit-flesh as she held them in globular display. Her mams had passed the 70 mark months before, were in the double letter range typically reserved for the medically enhanced. (Perhaps, he thought, they needed a new category: masticationally enhanced.) Her aureoles were light and wide, their borders distinguished by the sudden cessation of those blue veins made prominent by her handling. Ernie threw the shreds of her gown toward the empty cart then shucked his own clothing. Her nipples started to stiffen when he lifted his belly apron to show off his standing erection.
“Lemme at that,” Emilia said, licking her lips. She rolled over on her side, and Ernie joined her on the bed. Their massive paunches pressed against each other as they kissed. Ernie moved down to her mams, tasting pretzel salt in the foot deep gap between them, then he went for her magnificent belly. Every part he touched quivered beneath his lips, as if eager for him to go further. He rose and rotated himself so his face was in her belly hang, his erection by her hungry mouth. He felt her lips start to make their way up his shaft, her chins poking into his underbelly. He grew even stiffer, and a tip of glistening liquid formed at the tip of his dick. “I love to get the first drop,” she said, backing away.
Ernie edged to the foot of the bed, mouth licking the front of her legs as he went, until he was properly aligned with her pubic region. He kissed her fat feet then she raised her free leg to allow him access to her. Pushing his shoulders through her legs, he aimed for her moist sexual center. With their bellies out of each other's way, he easily penetrated her walls.
Emilia let out a gasp. Ernie started massaging the rolls of her back, her bulging upper arms, as he wriggled himself deeper into Emilia. Though he couldn't see it, he knew the next thing she'd do was reach for the edge of the bed, grab a handful of chocolates and stuff them into her mouth. Emilia always claimed to reach her strongest orgasms with her mouth full of chocolate, and Ernie had no reason to doubt her.
In fact, the thought of her eating even as he pushed inside her was enough to get him off. On the disc player, Dina Washington was singing the praises of her fat daddy, who was “fat and full of fun.” Emilia let out a loud “Yum!” as he shot into her - then she stiffened her legs. “This is luscious!” she panted, as she felt his jism start to ooze through the folds of her inner thighs.
When they finally separated, Ernie got up for some cartons of Ben and Jerry's. They sat and considered the direction their lives had taken as they filled their mouths with ice cream. In retrospect, the prime reason he'd been interested in the whole body type theory must have been a deep attraction to the endomorphic life. With Emilia, he'd been lucky enough to find a woman capable of living it unapologetically and with an intensity that few could match.
As for Emilia, she couldn't believe her luck: finding a partner who grew more passionate with every pound - it was heavenly. “So what d'ya think about Pickering's book?” she asked, as she angled her carton to retrieve the last of her Cherry Garcia.
“Doesn't mean much to me,” Ernie acknowledged. “Who needs theories when you've got a life like ours?” He leaned over to kiss her voracious lips, patting her mountainous belly as he did, happily watching it undulate. Emilia smiled, settled comfortably in both bed and body. She waited for Ernie to hand her another pint of ice cream.
She knew she didn't have long to wait.
Corrected version copyright © 2000 - Oakhaus Designs
