Big Beautiful Dreamer
10-09-2007, 03:19 PM
~BBW, ~BHM, Romance, Eating, ~~WG - Two people find that weight gain is a big turn on.
Second Glance
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
Douglas Hatcher stifled a yawn. He loved his job as a reference librarian, but he had to admit there were the occasional slow days. This was one of them. Then his computer beeped, signaling an e-mail from the main circulation desk upstairs. He opened the note and read it, “Patron wants general and specific information on Abber Van (sp?) for research purposes.”
Douglas snorted. Requests like this were always a pain to get started. One afternoon, the circ desk had sent down a note, “Young patron wants ‘all there is to know about goldfish.’”
Still, Douglas knew that there was basic information online about the coal tip slide that had killed a hundred-some people in Wales in the 1960s. Douglas, amused by Debbie’s guess as to the spelling of the village of Aberfan, pulled together some information and sent it up, figuring that after that, if the patron wanted to get more specific, he or she would. That was usually how it worked.
Two days later, another note. Patron this time wanted more specific information on the National Coal Board’s official responses to the event. Hmm. Douglas sent a note back. “Deb, pls send patron down, thx.”
The patron was duly sent down and introduced herself as Myra Warren. She taught European economic history at the university and was “just beginning the research” to write a book about Aberfan. She had a contract, she said, for a book that concentrated primarily on official responses to the event.
“There are only a handful of books about Aberfan,” she told him while his computer hummed. “Fewer still in print, and really all concentrating on the village’s community life and communal response to the tragedy.” She told him that she’d written two other books, one about governmental responses to Lockerbie and one about Welsh coal mine strikes.
Douglas looked up. “Do you read Welsh? A couple of these resources seem to be in Welsh. I can order them off interlibrary loan.”
She brightened. “I do. That’d be great.”
By the time the library closed, Myra had spent several hours in Douglas’ domain, brightened his afternoon, and invited him to dinner. “My treat,” she insisted. “Academia doesn’t pay by the carload, but every once in a while on a Friday evening I enjoy a dinner out.” She waved aside his offers to pay. “It’ll be nice to have company.”
Over dinner they talked more. Without realizing it, each was assessing the other’s overall appearance along with the conversation. Myra was on the short side of average, Douglas guessed, maybe 5’4” and 140 pounds. She wore a gray blazer and a darker gray skirt with a red blouse patterned with small white poppies. Her fair hair was cut short and feathered outward.
Across the table, Myra saw a man about 5’10” and 180 pounds. He had a healthy build with broad shoulders and a hint of a belly. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt, paisley tie, and khakis, and he wore his brown hair cut full and almost to his collar. His gray eyes were steady and his smile quick.
The conversation flowed easily, as did the wine and food. Both ate their share of breadsticks along with their heartily portioned meals. Toward the end of the evening the waitress offered dessert.
“Oh, no,” Myra said, her face flushing. She pressed a hand to her waist. “Goodness, I’ve eaten so much already.” She hiccuped delicately.
Douglas was also shaking his head, “Same here.” In pressing a hand to his belly he discovered it to be true. He was uncomfortably stuffed and he wondered if his face was as flushed as Myra’s looked. He reached for the check.
“No,” Myra said firmly, “my treat.”
“I’ll pay next week,” Douglas said without thinking, then felt his face suffuse even more deeply. Did she want a next week? He met her gaze. Her eyes were shining.
“After a week of research, it’ll be nice to have that to look forward to,” she said. She had explained that she had been given a semester of leave to get a running start on the book.
Douglas strolled with Myra down the few blocks to her apartment and chastely bid her good night, then, enjoying the cool of the evening, strolled back past the restaurant to the library. It was a walk of a dozen or so blocks, and by the time he reached his car he was surprised to discover he was out of breath. Frowning, he pressed a hand to his middle. He still felt awfully full. Sitting in the driver’s seat put an uncomfortable pressure on his stuffed belly, and the seat belt seemed to press against his waist more than usual. He wasn’t used to overeating and the sensation of being stuffed to the point of breathlessness was a new one, one he associated with Thanksgiving.
Once home, he stripped to his undershirt and boxers and picked up a good book. Leaning back and putting his feet up eased the pressure on his midsection, which still ached. He hadn’t realized until the meal had ended how much he had overeaten.
Myra, meanwhile, was regretting having overindulged herself. She had taken a couple of antacid tablets and drunk a cup of warm milk, trying to settle her aching stomach. She examined herself critically in the mirror as she began her evening ablutions. Her belly seemed to protrude, swollen and full. In reality, it wasn’t bulging all that much, but it felt so stuffed and heavy that she saw it as having ballooned.
In their respective beds, each tossed and turned before finally settling into sleep.
The next week marched along, Myra buried in her research, Douglas busy with his work, each grateful that the other didn’t feel compelled to chatter. When Friday came, however, Douglas was surprised at how much he was looking forward to the end of the day and dinner with Myra. Myra, though she faithfully worked until 6 on the dot, closed up her work with pleasure and had a bounce in her step as they headed to the restaurant. This time, Myra had suggested a Carl’s Country Buffet. They were both hungry and piled their plates. They talked about his work. They talked about her work. They talked about Wales, the UK, British actors, movies, leaping from topic to topic and enjoying each other’s company. The food was all but secondary, delicious as it was; still, when their heaped plates were empty they both went back for more.
Fueled by the delight in each other’s company, both ate rapidly and cleaned their plates again; Douglas, reluctant to see the meal end, got up and offered to fetch dessert, turning aside Myra’s token protest. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” Myra said, but she did, and so did he, and it was only when they finally stood that both realized how very full they were. Myra’s face was flushed and Douglas could see that the waistband of her skirt was straining visibly. Her stomach had become taut, the fabric of her blouse strained to translucence. For her part, Myra noticed that Douglas’ belly bulged noticeably, swelling outward against his belt and even skewing his necktie. Both were embarrassed by how much they had eaten and didn’t bring it up as Douglas walked Myra back to her apartment.
Myra stepped out of her shoes in her kitchen and, leaning against the counter, tugged off her pantyhose, groaning in relief as her feet were liberated. She wiggled out of the rest of her clothing as she made her way to the bedroom, where she impulsively ran a warm bath with scented oil. She sank into it with a glass of warm milk and a second, smaller glass of water in which two Alka-Seltzer tablets fizzed. This she gulped first, moaning aloud as the antacids prompted several belches.
She reclined her head against the terry bath pillow affixed to the back of the tub, unthinkingly resting her hand on her stomach, the crest of which bobbed above the water like a small pink island. After the huge meal, it was tautly distended and aching, and she gently scooped oil-infused water over it, massaging its unexpected tenderness and allowing her eyelids to droop.
For his part, Douglas, though he had slowed his pace, was still short of breath and damp with perspiration when he reached his car, and inadvertently grunted as he lowered himself into the seat. The compression caused by sitting made him belch loudly, and it felt so good that he pressed his stomach, bloated and sore as it was, to force another. Reluctantly he fastened his seat belt, wincing at the added pressure, and drove home.
Once there, he followed a routine similar to Myra’s, stepping out of his shoes in the hallway and tugging off his clothes as he headed toward the bedroom. He opted for a lukewarm shower, and made it a long one, rubbing his bulging belly as the water ran over it, the lather helping. He had himself a grade A stomachache. His belly hadn’t hurt so badly since he was in high school and had gotten into a pizza-eating contest with a couple of equally bulletproof buddies. He’d been the only one not to throw up afterward, but he had felt mighty green.
He stepped out of the shower and, dripping, poked through the medicine cabinet and found some Pepto-Bismol, which he gulped out of the bottle without bothering to measure. Clad only in a towel, he stretched out on the sofa and channel surfed, gradually drifting into sleep.
Of course, it wasn’t long before Friday evenings out were joined by Saturday afternoon excursions, invariably followed by dinner and often a movie, at which, of course, one had to get popcorn and a drink. Douglas had always assumed that his evening habit of walking a brisk mile kept him fit and had never bothered with exercise otherwise, and Myra figured that always opting for stairs over elevators was enough activity. Between their general indifference to intentional workouts and the uptick in their caloric intake, both were beginning to put on weight. Aside from a passing notice that their waistbands were tugging, neither paid much attention, and since both spent much of their days sitting, it really didn’t register.
Then Indian summer arrived, and Myra, having made good progress with her research, proposed a day trip to the local pool, where she was a member. Douglas countered by offering to provide a picnic in his cooler, and when he picked her up at 9 that morning, they were both grinning like kids let out of school. Myra bounced into his car, wearing an unbuttoned big shirt over what looked like a raspberry-and-black V-neck one-piece. She tossed her bag in the back next to the cooler, and Douglas leaned over for a kiss before pulling away from the curb.
At the pool, Douglas tugged his polo shirt over his head and Myra shrugged out of her big shirt, then frowned, tugging at the bottom of her suit. “I swear, this thing keeps creeping up,” she said. “It’s getting harder to keep it in place.” She turned her attention to the front of the suit. “And,” she laid a hand on her belly with a grimace, “spandex doesn’t hide much, does it? I didn’t used to be fat.”
“Tch,” Douglas scolded her. “Please. ‘Fat’ indeed. I don’t let anyone talk that way about my girl.” He swept her into a one-armed embrace. “Besides,” he made a face himself, “there’s more hanging over the waistband of these trunks than there used to be.” He stepped behind her and gave her bottom a vigorous pat. “Let’s go swimming. That’s exercise … right?”
It is, and they swam laps, treaded water and talked, stood in the shallow end and talked, dunked each other, swam more laps, horsed around, and worked up a massive appetite. Douglas had thought he was bringing too much food, but the sandwiches, pasta salad (from the grocery deli), pickles, lemonade, and brownies (ditto) all disappeared very quickly. Replete, damp, and sun-lazed, they took languid pleasure in reapplying sunscreen to each other and lay back on their lounges for a sort-of nap. An hour or so passed as they let long comfortable silences develop, punctuated by an occasional comment, then an afternoon round in the pool. Finally they packed up and as they headed out, Doug said, through a yawn, “Just come to my place and take a shower and we’ll go grab a burger somewhere.”
“Okay,” Myra said, yawning herself. “Oh, wait. I have no clothes.”
So they detoured to Myra’s and thence to Doug’s, where Myra showered and dressed, reappearing in a short-sleeved mock turtleneck and cotton skirt. She was fiddling with the shirt, undecided whether to leave it tucked in or untucked. Douglas left her to it and took his own shower, dressing in a pair of jeans that he now noticed he had to suck in quite a bit to get buttoned. He added a white button-down shirt, rolling up the sleeves.
“All set,” he announced. Myra had finally left the shirt tucked in but was still fiddling with the elastic waistband. Douglas claimed her hand. “Stop that.”
The weekends strung together into weeks, and their days spent in companionable working silence were joined by Friday-Saturday-Sunday interludes from which they parted with increasing regret. Douglas invited Myra to live with him, and they finally settled on going in on a new, larger apartment, as they both had many, many books. Myra, with much grousing, had started buying larger clothing, a piece here and a piece there, as had Douglas, but minus the grousing. Their weight continued to climb. Myra was up to 160 most days, Douglas at 205-ish. While Myra tended to an overall plumpness, most of Douglas’ settled in his visibly growing belly and broadening backside. Douglas figured his co-workers were probably commenting behind his (wider) back, but no one said anything to his face until his brother e-mailed. He would be in town at a medical meeting in a few weeks and wanted to have lunch. Douglas gave a passing thought to his thickening waistline, but agreed – he hadn’t seen his brother in months.
Douglas spotted Henry approaching and stood up from the outdoor table he’d chosen. They hugged, then Henry stood back and visibly looked him over before they sat down. He said nothing until the waitress had taken their orders for iced tea, then, mildly:
“Put on a few?”
“Um, yeah,” Douglas said ruefully. He scratched his head. “I’ve been, ah, seeing someone … I guess we’ve been eating out more …”
Henry smirked. “A girlfriend, eh? What’s she like?”
Douglas was relieved at having gotten off the hook and, with great enthusiasm, filled Henry in. He scarcely noticed that Henry was quieter than usual, but as they stood to leave, Henry patted Douglas on the shoulder.
“Hey, Dougie. You probably want to watch the weight. Clog up that heart and it’s kind of hard to clean it back out.”
When Douglas returned to work, he gave Myra a pat on the shoulder, but all he got was a distracted nod. She was deep in her work. That evening, driving back to the apartment, she asked about the lunch.
“Henry’s fine. But he brought up my weight. Thought he would,” Douglas admitted.
Myra put her hand on Douglas’ lap, and Douglas took his free hand off the wheel. “He’ll probably bring up my weight too, if and when I meet him,” she murmured.
“Oh no,” Douglas said. “He’d never say something like that to you. I’m his brother, which gives him free rein, but he does have manners, after all.”
Myra laughed, and the worst of Douglas’ mood eased, but Henry’s warning kept running through his mind. He found himself trying to make healthier choices when they ate out and at home. He even took to walking briskly around the block several times during each lunch break and skipping lunch into the bargain. Surely that would pare off the pounds.
After two weeks, he stepped confidently onto the scale, which read 210.
“Crap!” He stomped out of the bathroom. Myra didn’t even ask. She didn’t have to. What’s more, she didn’t want to. Observing Douglas trying to lose weight, she had quietly followed his lead, walking with him and skipping lunch, only to discover earlier that morning that she had also gained, not lost. Her weight was up to 170, the cruel scale informed her. She could hardly believe it – until she went to get dressed. Her newer clothes were all visibly too snug, but she told herself she could look like that because no one besides Douglas really saw her. Restaurants didn’t count; no one paid attention. She tried not to look at herself when she was in just her undergarments. She’d inadvertently done that once recently and saw clearly that there was more of her than there used to be. Where the area between bra and panties once curved obediently inward, now it was a straight line … and sometimes a protruding one, “sometimes” translating as “after almost every meal.”
Still irritated, Douglas was rattling through the closet. “Every single pair of pants I own is too tight in the waist,” he muttered. “What am I supposed to wear?” He turned to her where she sat on the bed putting in earrings, and clearly the question wasn’t rhetorical.
“Leave the button undone,” Myra suggested, “and put your sweater vest over it. The weather’s cool enough today.”
The sensible solution produced a deep sigh from the closet, followed by what sounded like grudging acceptance in the form of hangers being rattled more forcibly than actually necessary.
“This feels really stupid,” he grumbled, when he emerged dressed as suggested.
“Then do them up,” Myra said, her lips twitching.
“I can’t,” he admitted. He took her in his arms. “I need to lose weight, I really do.”
Myra came up for air. “Me too. But with the pressures of writing the book….”
Douglas sighed. “You’ve got enough going on.”
“I guess I do,” Myra replied.
Still, the desire to do something was pressing. Tacitly, they both started cutting portions, skipping desserts; Myra stopped buying cookies and chips when she shopped. They even got into the habit of a brisk walk every morning; both were early risers and came to enjoy being outdoors at that hour. Besides, being wide-awake and damp with sweat afterward led to another sort of exercise more often than not.
To Douglas’ surprise and dismay, he was enjoying their intimacy less. He couldn’t put a finger on why, exactly, but as Myra pared 10 pounds off her frame, then 12, he found himself making fewer advances and enjoying the sex less.
If had been something that one talked about, Douglas might have discovered that Myra was feeling the same. Douglas had pared off a full stone of weight, 14 pounds, and for whatever reason, the sex just wasn’t what it had been. Myra assumed it was her fault – maybe if she lost some more weight, matters would improve – but both hers and Douglas’ weight had stalled, then begun to creep up again, so that by Thanksgiving Myra was back up to 165 and Douglas at 200.
The drive to Douglas’ parents’ house was quiet, Douglas concentrating on the heavy traffic and spitting snow, Myra nervous. Douglas pulled to the curb outside his parents’ split-level house and squeezed Myra’s hand. “They’re on your side, you know,” he said.
His parents were welcoming but not smothering, and Myra began to relax, especially as she sipped at the crisp white wine she was offered. Douglas’ brother Henry was handsome, charming, and witty without being forced. And a doctor! Why in the world wasn’t he married? Their sister, Kathie, a grade-school teacher, was pleasant but quiet, enjoying, as she put it, “listening to adult conversation.”
The enticing smells from the kitchen became too much to bear until, finally, Douglas’ mother called everyone to the table. Both leaves had been put in, but it was still a cozy fit, eight people including Kathie’s boyfriend, an optometrist. As dishes were passed, Douglas winked at Myra.
“Chow down, all,” Douglas’ father pronounced, making everyone laugh.
They did.
His mother was a terrific cook, Douglas thought in relief; no having to politely push the food around here. He piled up some of everything and, hungry as he was, emptied his plate with a speed that surprised himself. Ah, that was good! So good, in fact, he wanted seconds of everything. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that he was hardly the only one pigging out. Amid the odd scattered conversation, the primary activity was eating. Faces grew flushed, token protests were heard.
Douglas felt his waistband tighten as his midsection steadily swelled. His stomach filled to capacity; he could swear he felt it stretching. His breathing grew shallow. His pace was definitely slowing down. Maybe he should stop. He looked over at Myra. Whoa. He’d not seen Myra looking like that since … well … never. His privates responded immediately and unmistakably. Myra’s face was appealingly dusky, her hair dewed with perspiration and her eyelids beginning to droop. Her blouse had become snug, stretched visibly across her chest and distended tummy, which bulged roundly out over her straining waistband … wherever it was.
As fast as the thought of putting down his fork flitted through his brain, he heard his mother urge more stuffing on him. “Finish it up, Dougie,” she said. “Henry, take the last of the cranberry sauce. I hate having to store little bits of leftovers.”
Amid protests they didn’t really mean, various family members helped themselves to more of this or that. By the time the last fork scraped the last empty plate, Douglas could see that his wasn’t the only full stomach by a long shot. With effort, he pushed his chair back and mustered the energy to haul himself up. His stomach clutched. Oof, he was even more stuffed than he’d thought. Wincing, he cradled his swollen and aching belly and thudded ponderously toward the den, feeling his shirt buttons tug ominously over his engorged gut. Prudently, he undid his pants before sinking heavily onto the bagged-out leather sofa next to Henry. He was unable to restrain the groan of relief as at least a little of the pressure on his distended abdomen eased.
Henry thumped his own bulging midriff. He hiccuped. “Overate,” he said unnecessarily. Douglas shot him a glance. Somehow he doubted Henry would bring up Douglas’ thickening waistline today. He was temporarily off the hook.
Douglas’ father exhaled heavily, “Whooo.” He belched, patting his chest with his fist. “Mmm. Stuffed.”
Douglas hiccuped. “'Bout to pop,” he grunted. His breathing was shallow – if he’d admitted it, he was puffing, really – and each breath made him feel as though his tautly stretched belly would burst. He managed to find the energy to turn on the football game. In unspoken gluttonous agreement, the men half-watched, sodden with food, dopey and halfway dozing.
By the time Douglas made it to the basement where he and Myra were sleeping on a foldout sofa, he was less achingly full but still stuffed, even though hours had passed. That had been a huge meal; he’d probably taken in five or six thousand calories. He winced, thinking about it. Myra emerged from the bathroom, which smelled of a lit match.
Douglas frowned. “Taken up smoking?” he teased.
Myra blushed. “Sorry. Little stinky. The matches are on the back of the toilet if you need them.”
He did.
Afterward, seeing Myra lying naked on the edge of the sofa bed, he became suddenly and fully erect. Her belly was still rosily round and he found himself experiencing a surge of desire. Myra, it appeared, was feeling the same way. Douglas thudded onto the bed, groaning as his belly sloshed. Myra immediately rolled onto him, moaning with pleasure at the feel of her Thanksgiving-distended tummy pressed to his. For the longest while they lay like that, cradling and caressing, squeezing, stroking, kissing, and fondling. Finally they entered each other, and it was languid but charged with passion, possibly, Douglas thought later, the best he’d ever had. Afterward they looked at each other, almost afraid to speak.
On the drive home, the next day, they went a long way before Douglas finally brought it up. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“No,” Myra said. “I felt it too.”
“But it is crazy.”
“Maybe it is,” Myra replied. “But what else could it be?”
“If you lose weight, it’s supposed to make you more attractive.”
“I know, I know,” Myra agreed. “But….” She looked at him. “This is daft, you know that.”
“Yeah, really,” Douglas said. “It’s backwards.”
“Well …”
“That was some rockin’ sex,” Douglas said. Myra nodded vigorously. “Best in weeks.” Myra nodded again.
“I keep trying to link it to …” Myra began.
“… pigging out,” Douglas finished. He made oink oink noises and Myra laughed.
“Ah, who knows?” Douglas said finally. “It was great sex.”
Myra snaked a hand into his lap. “We could make it happen again.”
Second Glance
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
Douglas Hatcher stifled a yawn. He loved his job as a reference librarian, but he had to admit there were the occasional slow days. This was one of them. Then his computer beeped, signaling an e-mail from the main circulation desk upstairs. He opened the note and read it, “Patron wants general and specific information on Abber Van (sp?) for research purposes.”
Douglas snorted. Requests like this were always a pain to get started. One afternoon, the circ desk had sent down a note, “Young patron wants ‘all there is to know about goldfish.’”
Still, Douglas knew that there was basic information online about the coal tip slide that had killed a hundred-some people in Wales in the 1960s. Douglas, amused by Debbie’s guess as to the spelling of the village of Aberfan, pulled together some information and sent it up, figuring that after that, if the patron wanted to get more specific, he or she would. That was usually how it worked.
Two days later, another note. Patron this time wanted more specific information on the National Coal Board’s official responses to the event. Hmm. Douglas sent a note back. “Deb, pls send patron down, thx.”
The patron was duly sent down and introduced herself as Myra Warren. She taught European economic history at the university and was “just beginning the research” to write a book about Aberfan. She had a contract, she said, for a book that concentrated primarily on official responses to the event.
“There are only a handful of books about Aberfan,” she told him while his computer hummed. “Fewer still in print, and really all concentrating on the village’s community life and communal response to the tragedy.” She told him that she’d written two other books, one about governmental responses to Lockerbie and one about Welsh coal mine strikes.
Douglas looked up. “Do you read Welsh? A couple of these resources seem to be in Welsh. I can order them off interlibrary loan.”
She brightened. “I do. That’d be great.”
By the time the library closed, Myra had spent several hours in Douglas’ domain, brightened his afternoon, and invited him to dinner. “My treat,” she insisted. “Academia doesn’t pay by the carload, but every once in a while on a Friday evening I enjoy a dinner out.” She waved aside his offers to pay. “It’ll be nice to have company.”
Over dinner they talked more. Without realizing it, each was assessing the other’s overall appearance along with the conversation. Myra was on the short side of average, Douglas guessed, maybe 5’4” and 140 pounds. She wore a gray blazer and a darker gray skirt with a red blouse patterned with small white poppies. Her fair hair was cut short and feathered outward.
Across the table, Myra saw a man about 5’10” and 180 pounds. He had a healthy build with broad shoulders and a hint of a belly. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt, paisley tie, and khakis, and he wore his brown hair cut full and almost to his collar. His gray eyes were steady and his smile quick.
The conversation flowed easily, as did the wine and food. Both ate their share of breadsticks along with their heartily portioned meals. Toward the end of the evening the waitress offered dessert.
“Oh, no,” Myra said, her face flushing. She pressed a hand to her waist. “Goodness, I’ve eaten so much already.” She hiccuped delicately.
Douglas was also shaking his head, “Same here.” In pressing a hand to his belly he discovered it to be true. He was uncomfortably stuffed and he wondered if his face was as flushed as Myra’s looked. He reached for the check.
“No,” Myra said firmly, “my treat.”
“I’ll pay next week,” Douglas said without thinking, then felt his face suffuse even more deeply. Did she want a next week? He met her gaze. Her eyes were shining.
“After a week of research, it’ll be nice to have that to look forward to,” she said. She had explained that she had been given a semester of leave to get a running start on the book.
Douglas strolled with Myra down the few blocks to her apartment and chastely bid her good night, then, enjoying the cool of the evening, strolled back past the restaurant to the library. It was a walk of a dozen or so blocks, and by the time he reached his car he was surprised to discover he was out of breath. Frowning, he pressed a hand to his middle. He still felt awfully full. Sitting in the driver’s seat put an uncomfortable pressure on his stuffed belly, and the seat belt seemed to press against his waist more than usual. He wasn’t used to overeating and the sensation of being stuffed to the point of breathlessness was a new one, one he associated with Thanksgiving.
Once home, he stripped to his undershirt and boxers and picked up a good book. Leaning back and putting his feet up eased the pressure on his midsection, which still ached. He hadn’t realized until the meal had ended how much he had overeaten.
Myra, meanwhile, was regretting having overindulged herself. She had taken a couple of antacid tablets and drunk a cup of warm milk, trying to settle her aching stomach. She examined herself critically in the mirror as she began her evening ablutions. Her belly seemed to protrude, swollen and full. In reality, it wasn’t bulging all that much, but it felt so stuffed and heavy that she saw it as having ballooned.
In their respective beds, each tossed and turned before finally settling into sleep.
The next week marched along, Myra buried in her research, Douglas busy with his work, each grateful that the other didn’t feel compelled to chatter. When Friday came, however, Douglas was surprised at how much he was looking forward to the end of the day and dinner with Myra. Myra, though she faithfully worked until 6 on the dot, closed up her work with pleasure and had a bounce in her step as they headed to the restaurant. This time, Myra had suggested a Carl’s Country Buffet. They were both hungry and piled their plates. They talked about his work. They talked about her work. They talked about Wales, the UK, British actors, movies, leaping from topic to topic and enjoying each other’s company. The food was all but secondary, delicious as it was; still, when their heaped plates were empty they both went back for more.
Fueled by the delight in each other’s company, both ate rapidly and cleaned their plates again; Douglas, reluctant to see the meal end, got up and offered to fetch dessert, turning aside Myra’s token protest. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” Myra said, but she did, and so did he, and it was only when they finally stood that both realized how very full they were. Myra’s face was flushed and Douglas could see that the waistband of her skirt was straining visibly. Her stomach had become taut, the fabric of her blouse strained to translucence. For her part, Myra noticed that Douglas’ belly bulged noticeably, swelling outward against his belt and even skewing his necktie. Both were embarrassed by how much they had eaten and didn’t bring it up as Douglas walked Myra back to her apartment.
Myra stepped out of her shoes in her kitchen and, leaning against the counter, tugged off her pantyhose, groaning in relief as her feet were liberated. She wiggled out of the rest of her clothing as she made her way to the bedroom, where she impulsively ran a warm bath with scented oil. She sank into it with a glass of warm milk and a second, smaller glass of water in which two Alka-Seltzer tablets fizzed. This she gulped first, moaning aloud as the antacids prompted several belches.
She reclined her head against the terry bath pillow affixed to the back of the tub, unthinkingly resting her hand on her stomach, the crest of which bobbed above the water like a small pink island. After the huge meal, it was tautly distended and aching, and she gently scooped oil-infused water over it, massaging its unexpected tenderness and allowing her eyelids to droop.
For his part, Douglas, though he had slowed his pace, was still short of breath and damp with perspiration when he reached his car, and inadvertently grunted as he lowered himself into the seat. The compression caused by sitting made him belch loudly, and it felt so good that he pressed his stomach, bloated and sore as it was, to force another. Reluctantly he fastened his seat belt, wincing at the added pressure, and drove home.
Once there, he followed a routine similar to Myra’s, stepping out of his shoes in the hallway and tugging off his clothes as he headed toward the bedroom. He opted for a lukewarm shower, and made it a long one, rubbing his bulging belly as the water ran over it, the lather helping. He had himself a grade A stomachache. His belly hadn’t hurt so badly since he was in high school and had gotten into a pizza-eating contest with a couple of equally bulletproof buddies. He’d been the only one not to throw up afterward, but he had felt mighty green.
He stepped out of the shower and, dripping, poked through the medicine cabinet and found some Pepto-Bismol, which he gulped out of the bottle without bothering to measure. Clad only in a towel, he stretched out on the sofa and channel surfed, gradually drifting into sleep.
Of course, it wasn’t long before Friday evenings out were joined by Saturday afternoon excursions, invariably followed by dinner and often a movie, at which, of course, one had to get popcorn and a drink. Douglas had always assumed that his evening habit of walking a brisk mile kept him fit and had never bothered with exercise otherwise, and Myra figured that always opting for stairs over elevators was enough activity. Between their general indifference to intentional workouts and the uptick in their caloric intake, both were beginning to put on weight. Aside from a passing notice that their waistbands were tugging, neither paid much attention, and since both spent much of their days sitting, it really didn’t register.
Then Indian summer arrived, and Myra, having made good progress with her research, proposed a day trip to the local pool, where she was a member. Douglas countered by offering to provide a picnic in his cooler, and when he picked her up at 9 that morning, they were both grinning like kids let out of school. Myra bounced into his car, wearing an unbuttoned big shirt over what looked like a raspberry-and-black V-neck one-piece. She tossed her bag in the back next to the cooler, and Douglas leaned over for a kiss before pulling away from the curb.
At the pool, Douglas tugged his polo shirt over his head and Myra shrugged out of her big shirt, then frowned, tugging at the bottom of her suit. “I swear, this thing keeps creeping up,” she said. “It’s getting harder to keep it in place.” She turned her attention to the front of the suit. “And,” she laid a hand on her belly with a grimace, “spandex doesn’t hide much, does it? I didn’t used to be fat.”
“Tch,” Douglas scolded her. “Please. ‘Fat’ indeed. I don’t let anyone talk that way about my girl.” He swept her into a one-armed embrace. “Besides,” he made a face himself, “there’s more hanging over the waistband of these trunks than there used to be.” He stepped behind her and gave her bottom a vigorous pat. “Let’s go swimming. That’s exercise … right?”
It is, and they swam laps, treaded water and talked, stood in the shallow end and talked, dunked each other, swam more laps, horsed around, and worked up a massive appetite. Douglas had thought he was bringing too much food, but the sandwiches, pasta salad (from the grocery deli), pickles, lemonade, and brownies (ditto) all disappeared very quickly. Replete, damp, and sun-lazed, they took languid pleasure in reapplying sunscreen to each other and lay back on their lounges for a sort-of nap. An hour or so passed as they let long comfortable silences develop, punctuated by an occasional comment, then an afternoon round in the pool. Finally they packed up and as they headed out, Doug said, through a yawn, “Just come to my place and take a shower and we’ll go grab a burger somewhere.”
“Okay,” Myra said, yawning herself. “Oh, wait. I have no clothes.”
So they detoured to Myra’s and thence to Doug’s, where Myra showered and dressed, reappearing in a short-sleeved mock turtleneck and cotton skirt. She was fiddling with the shirt, undecided whether to leave it tucked in or untucked. Douglas left her to it and took his own shower, dressing in a pair of jeans that he now noticed he had to suck in quite a bit to get buttoned. He added a white button-down shirt, rolling up the sleeves.
“All set,” he announced. Myra had finally left the shirt tucked in but was still fiddling with the elastic waistband. Douglas claimed her hand. “Stop that.”
The weekends strung together into weeks, and their days spent in companionable working silence were joined by Friday-Saturday-Sunday interludes from which they parted with increasing regret. Douglas invited Myra to live with him, and they finally settled on going in on a new, larger apartment, as they both had many, many books. Myra, with much grousing, had started buying larger clothing, a piece here and a piece there, as had Douglas, but minus the grousing. Their weight continued to climb. Myra was up to 160 most days, Douglas at 205-ish. While Myra tended to an overall plumpness, most of Douglas’ settled in his visibly growing belly and broadening backside. Douglas figured his co-workers were probably commenting behind his (wider) back, but no one said anything to his face until his brother e-mailed. He would be in town at a medical meeting in a few weeks and wanted to have lunch. Douglas gave a passing thought to his thickening waistline, but agreed – he hadn’t seen his brother in months.
Douglas spotted Henry approaching and stood up from the outdoor table he’d chosen. They hugged, then Henry stood back and visibly looked him over before they sat down. He said nothing until the waitress had taken their orders for iced tea, then, mildly:
“Put on a few?”
“Um, yeah,” Douglas said ruefully. He scratched his head. “I’ve been, ah, seeing someone … I guess we’ve been eating out more …”
Henry smirked. “A girlfriend, eh? What’s she like?”
Douglas was relieved at having gotten off the hook and, with great enthusiasm, filled Henry in. He scarcely noticed that Henry was quieter than usual, but as they stood to leave, Henry patted Douglas on the shoulder.
“Hey, Dougie. You probably want to watch the weight. Clog up that heart and it’s kind of hard to clean it back out.”
When Douglas returned to work, he gave Myra a pat on the shoulder, but all he got was a distracted nod. She was deep in her work. That evening, driving back to the apartment, she asked about the lunch.
“Henry’s fine. But he brought up my weight. Thought he would,” Douglas admitted.
Myra put her hand on Douglas’ lap, and Douglas took his free hand off the wheel. “He’ll probably bring up my weight too, if and when I meet him,” she murmured.
“Oh no,” Douglas said. “He’d never say something like that to you. I’m his brother, which gives him free rein, but he does have manners, after all.”
Myra laughed, and the worst of Douglas’ mood eased, but Henry’s warning kept running through his mind. He found himself trying to make healthier choices when they ate out and at home. He even took to walking briskly around the block several times during each lunch break and skipping lunch into the bargain. Surely that would pare off the pounds.
After two weeks, he stepped confidently onto the scale, which read 210.
“Crap!” He stomped out of the bathroom. Myra didn’t even ask. She didn’t have to. What’s more, she didn’t want to. Observing Douglas trying to lose weight, she had quietly followed his lead, walking with him and skipping lunch, only to discover earlier that morning that she had also gained, not lost. Her weight was up to 170, the cruel scale informed her. She could hardly believe it – until she went to get dressed. Her newer clothes were all visibly too snug, but she told herself she could look like that because no one besides Douglas really saw her. Restaurants didn’t count; no one paid attention. She tried not to look at herself when she was in just her undergarments. She’d inadvertently done that once recently and saw clearly that there was more of her than there used to be. Where the area between bra and panties once curved obediently inward, now it was a straight line … and sometimes a protruding one, “sometimes” translating as “after almost every meal.”
Still irritated, Douglas was rattling through the closet. “Every single pair of pants I own is too tight in the waist,” he muttered. “What am I supposed to wear?” He turned to her where she sat on the bed putting in earrings, and clearly the question wasn’t rhetorical.
“Leave the button undone,” Myra suggested, “and put your sweater vest over it. The weather’s cool enough today.”
The sensible solution produced a deep sigh from the closet, followed by what sounded like grudging acceptance in the form of hangers being rattled more forcibly than actually necessary.
“This feels really stupid,” he grumbled, when he emerged dressed as suggested.
“Then do them up,” Myra said, her lips twitching.
“I can’t,” he admitted. He took her in his arms. “I need to lose weight, I really do.”
Myra came up for air. “Me too. But with the pressures of writing the book….”
Douglas sighed. “You’ve got enough going on.”
“I guess I do,” Myra replied.
Still, the desire to do something was pressing. Tacitly, they both started cutting portions, skipping desserts; Myra stopped buying cookies and chips when she shopped. They even got into the habit of a brisk walk every morning; both were early risers and came to enjoy being outdoors at that hour. Besides, being wide-awake and damp with sweat afterward led to another sort of exercise more often than not.
To Douglas’ surprise and dismay, he was enjoying their intimacy less. He couldn’t put a finger on why, exactly, but as Myra pared 10 pounds off her frame, then 12, he found himself making fewer advances and enjoying the sex less.
If had been something that one talked about, Douglas might have discovered that Myra was feeling the same. Douglas had pared off a full stone of weight, 14 pounds, and for whatever reason, the sex just wasn’t what it had been. Myra assumed it was her fault – maybe if she lost some more weight, matters would improve – but both hers and Douglas’ weight had stalled, then begun to creep up again, so that by Thanksgiving Myra was back up to 165 and Douglas at 200.
The drive to Douglas’ parents’ house was quiet, Douglas concentrating on the heavy traffic and spitting snow, Myra nervous. Douglas pulled to the curb outside his parents’ split-level house and squeezed Myra’s hand. “They’re on your side, you know,” he said.
His parents were welcoming but not smothering, and Myra began to relax, especially as she sipped at the crisp white wine she was offered. Douglas’ brother Henry was handsome, charming, and witty without being forced. And a doctor! Why in the world wasn’t he married? Their sister, Kathie, a grade-school teacher, was pleasant but quiet, enjoying, as she put it, “listening to adult conversation.”
The enticing smells from the kitchen became too much to bear until, finally, Douglas’ mother called everyone to the table. Both leaves had been put in, but it was still a cozy fit, eight people including Kathie’s boyfriend, an optometrist. As dishes were passed, Douglas winked at Myra.
“Chow down, all,” Douglas’ father pronounced, making everyone laugh.
They did.
His mother was a terrific cook, Douglas thought in relief; no having to politely push the food around here. He piled up some of everything and, hungry as he was, emptied his plate with a speed that surprised himself. Ah, that was good! So good, in fact, he wanted seconds of everything. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that he was hardly the only one pigging out. Amid the odd scattered conversation, the primary activity was eating. Faces grew flushed, token protests were heard.
Douglas felt his waistband tighten as his midsection steadily swelled. His stomach filled to capacity; he could swear he felt it stretching. His breathing grew shallow. His pace was definitely slowing down. Maybe he should stop. He looked over at Myra. Whoa. He’d not seen Myra looking like that since … well … never. His privates responded immediately and unmistakably. Myra’s face was appealingly dusky, her hair dewed with perspiration and her eyelids beginning to droop. Her blouse had become snug, stretched visibly across her chest and distended tummy, which bulged roundly out over her straining waistband … wherever it was.
As fast as the thought of putting down his fork flitted through his brain, he heard his mother urge more stuffing on him. “Finish it up, Dougie,” she said. “Henry, take the last of the cranberry sauce. I hate having to store little bits of leftovers.”
Amid protests they didn’t really mean, various family members helped themselves to more of this or that. By the time the last fork scraped the last empty plate, Douglas could see that his wasn’t the only full stomach by a long shot. With effort, he pushed his chair back and mustered the energy to haul himself up. His stomach clutched. Oof, he was even more stuffed than he’d thought. Wincing, he cradled his swollen and aching belly and thudded ponderously toward the den, feeling his shirt buttons tug ominously over his engorged gut. Prudently, he undid his pants before sinking heavily onto the bagged-out leather sofa next to Henry. He was unable to restrain the groan of relief as at least a little of the pressure on his distended abdomen eased.
Henry thumped his own bulging midriff. He hiccuped. “Overate,” he said unnecessarily. Douglas shot him a glance. Somehow he doubted Henry would bring up Douglas’ thickening waistline today. He was temporarily off the hook.
Douglas’ father exhaled heavily, “Whooo.” He belched, patting his chest with his fist. “Mmm. Stuffed.”
Douglas hiccuped. “'Bout to pop,” he grunted. His breathing was shallow – if he’d admitted it, he was puffing, really – and each breath made him feel as though his tautly stretched belly would burst. He managed to find the energy to turn on the football game. In unspoken gluttonous agreement, the men half-watched, sodden with food, dopey and halfway dozing.
By the time Douglas made it to the basement where he and Myra were sleeping on a foldout sofa, he was less achingly full but still stuffed, even though hours had passed. That had been a huge meal; he’d probably taken in five or six thousand calories. He winced, thinking about it. Myra emerged from the bathroom, which smelled of a lit match.
Douglas frowned. “Taken up smoking?” he teased.
Myra blushed. “Sorry. Little stinky. The matches are on the back of the toilet if you need them.”
He did.
Afterward, seeing Myra lying naked on the edge of the sofa bed, he became suddenly and fully erect. Her belly was still rosily round and he found himself experiencing a surge of desire. Myra, it appeared, was feeling the same way. Douglas thudded onto the bed, groaning as his belly sloshed. Myra immediately rolled onto him, moaning with pleasure at the feel of her Thanksgiving-distended tummy pressed to his. For the longest while they lay like that, cradling and caressing, squeezing, stroking, kissing, and fondling. Finally they entered each other, and it was languid but charged with passion, possibly, Douglas thought later, the best he’d ever had. Afterward they looked at each other, almost afraid to speak.
On the drive home, the next day, they went a long way before Douglas finally brought it up. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“No,” Myra said. “I felt it too.”
“But it is crazy.”
“Maybe it is,” Myra replied. “But what else could it be?”
“If you lose weight, it’s supposed to make you more attractive.”
“I know, I know,” Myra agreed. “But….” She looked at him. “This is daft, you know that.”
“Yeah, really,” Douglas said. “It’s backwards.”
“Well …”
“That was some rockin’ sex,” Douglas said. Myra nodded vigorously. “Best in weeks.” Myra nodded again.
“I keep trying to link it to …” Myra began.
“… pigging out,” Douglas finished. He made oink oink noises and Myra laughed.
“Ah, who knows?” Douglas said finally. “It was great sex.”
Myra snaked a hand into his lap. “We could make it happen again.”