Love in Bloom - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, Romance)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BHM, Romance - A workplace romance blooms along with his waistline.

Love in Bloom

by Big Beautiful Dreamer



Alan Roederer sat at his desk in a daze. Idly he moved the computer mouse back and forth. From time to time he closed his eyes briefly as if to sort out what Jeannine had just said.

It hadn’t been all that earthshaking.

It was the fact that she’d spoken to him at all.

He was an editor. She worked in marketing. There was no reason for her to kiss up to him, and as far as he knew, until this morning, he had had to (discreetly) stare at the backs of her knees and her tanned, curvaceous calves in the elevator each morning and merely fantasize.

Until today.

The beginnings of a headache reminded him of his undrunk coffee. He popped the lid off and glugged it down quickly, hoping to ramp up the effects of the double shot he’d had added to his mochaccino, or whatever the hell it was.

“Hi,” Jeannine had said. Well ... purred. And followed it with slipping a Post-it note into his hand.

I’d like to get to know you better. Coffee after work?

Alan had worked for the publishers for eight months. Never so much as a glance from Jeannine until now.

He decided against e-mail. That left a trail. He picked up the phone and punched in Jeannine’s extension.

“Jeannine Tolley.”

“Hi. Hrm. Um, this is Alan Roederer. You, ah, want to get some coffee after work?”

“That’d be great.” Jeannine sounded perked up all of a sudden.

Hanging up, Alan suppressed a large coffee-inspired belch. That reminded him unpleasantly of something he’d managed to forget for the moment.

One of the side effects of a desk job combined with a Chinese-takeout habit had given Alan a gut he hadn’t used to have. Once decently toned, he still had definition in his arms, legs, and chest, but his midriff had softened and was beginning to roll over his belt. He sucked in. A little better. He’d skip lunch. That would make him look thinner, definitely.

The day dragged. Finally, finally, he was able to phone Jeannine. They met in the lobby and headed for a local java joint. She began plying him with first-date-type questions (did they have an index in those women’s magazines?), but Alan still felt awkward. During a silence, his stomach growled loudly.

He blushed. Jeannine giggled.

“Can’t have that,” she said brightly. “What about Outback? My treat.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t,” he mumbled, flushing. “Gettin’ a little spare tire.”

Jeannine had stood and was tugging him to his feet.

“Needs air,” she said critically, sliding her arm round his waist and giving it a little pinch that was oddly pleasant-feeling.

Of course they ordered a Bloomin’ Onion. Of course Jeannine had to go powder her nose, which gave Alan plenty of time alone with the appetizer. Then there were those delicious loaves of dark bread that got replenished as needed, the coconut shrimp, the loaded baked potato ... by the time they finally declared themselves finished, Alan was disgracefully full. He longed to get back to his apartment and loosen his belt already. His distended belly, aching and tender, strained against the waistband of his khakis and seemed to be begging for air. He struggled out of the booth – had it shrunk? – and there was Jeannine sliding her arm round his waist again, even if the waist had ballooned over the past two hours.

Alan walked – okay, waddled – Jeannine home, then, once he was alone in the elevator, hastily let out his belt a couple of notches and unthinkingly put a hand to his cheek where she’d kissed him.

He floated home.

Reality returned when he thumped onto the bed and kicked off his shoes. He stood again and got rid of the belt, then, with difficulty, unhooked and unzipped his khakis. Tugged them down, underwear at the same time, and was dismayed to find that his bloated gut was not as relieved as he’d expected. The bottom of the shirt was straining at the seams and buttons. He shucked off his shirt and yanked away his tie, and flopped back onto the bed.

Oof. He grimaced as his engorged midsection sloshed heavily, following up with a long groaning gurgle. He got a pillow under his head and lay, naked and faintly sweating, on the bed. Idly he stroked his distended abdomen. He was sated, both with food and with infatuation. Why had Jeannine waited until now to suddenly find him hot?

Damn. He would have to lose weight and fast to keep her interest ... hold the phone ... The little pinch of the love handle. The joke about the spare tire. The way she had outright fondled his flab on the way home.

Alan was stupefied with food and sleep hit him like a brick between the eyes. He dreamed of Bloomin’ Onions.

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

The next morning, still not sure if the evening had been a dream, Alan impulsively ordered two coffee confections. In the elevator, he handed one to Jeannine, who lit up like a kid at Christmas.

“Uh, happy Friday,” he said, then winced. Dumb.

Jeannine, however, beamed on him and smiled.

“Happy Friday,” she said back, tapping her cup to his. That was all – they were not alone – but that was enough for now. Alan padded happily down the hall to his desk and bit with unfettered appetite into the large pastry he'd gotten.

The day crawled by until midafternoon, when Alan absently eased a stack of papers from an interoffice envelope. Together with the marketing materials he’d needed to see was another Post-it, this one lime green.

Dinner tonight? Italian? J.

Suddenly Alan found himself utterly unable to concentrate on Lightning Storm’s chapters 11 through 20. Or anything else for that matter. He was completely taken up with the weird and vexing question of whether Jeannine actually liked his developing paunch.

He’d sent the materials back with a Post-it of his own.

Meet me at Italo’s at 7. My treat this time. A.

He got to Italo’s a good ten minutes early, but Jeannine was already there, looking eager. Her face lit up when she saw Alan, and she jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. She was looking ravishing in a black dress with a plunging vee neckline, ruching about the waist, and a short flouncy skirt. Alan inhaled deeply, then gulped.

“Wow, you look especially beautiful tonight,” he said at last. It was true. The dress made the most of her generous chest, hourglass waist and flaring hips, and before she sat back down Alan got to sneak a peek at his favorite feature, those dynamite legs. They had curve and structure and definition, not like the sticks that most celery-scarfers showcased.

Jeannine blushed. “So do you. Handsome, I mean.”

Alan laughed, and forgot about the whole spare tire question.

They started with huge salads generously topped with large homemade croutons and big glasses of a crisp Pinot Grigio, accompanied by large, warm breadsticks. Jeannine chose penne in vodka sauce and Alan angel hair pomodoro loaded with grilled chicken and asparagus. They lingered over their entrees, swapping bites, mopping their dishes, and both looked a little sad when the plates were unmistakably empty.

“Dessert,” Jeannine said thoughtfully. Alan brightened. He was comfortably replete, with the gratifying sensation of having eaten just too much and having drunk just enough. Dessert and a cup of rich coffee would just about cap it. His belly was bloated and warm, pushing against his belt and nestling under his pecs, making him happily drowsy.

Alan perused the menu and chose Amaretto cheesecake and a cup of espresso; Jeannine voted for the chocolate volcano a la mode and a cup of hazelnut decaf with Bailey’s. As before, they shared back and forth and Alan suspected that if Jeannine weren’t opposite him he would have picked up his plate and licked it. As it was, they were both very thorough at their scraping up of traces.

“Come back to my place and I’ll make some decaf,” Jeannine murmured, leaning toward him.

She hiccupped. “Oh! I don’t want this evening to end just yet.”

Alan managed a dopey smile and an involuntary grunt as he pushed his chair back and hauled himself to his feet. There was no suppressing that belch.

“(Urp.) Sorry. I’d love to see your place.”

Jeannine slipped her arm round him and gently patted the love handle she found. After the huge dinner, Alan’s love handles were well padded and his bloated stomach swelled firmly against his clothing, begging for release. He had a sneaking feeling that release would come very soon.

Jeannine’s apartment wasn’t large but was tidy and cozy. A wing chair in one corner, with a lap robe draped over it and a footstool in front of it, made a lovely reading nook. A flat-screen TV hung unobtrusively against one wall and chairs were grouped around a coffee table. Jeannine fiddled in the kitchen, then excused herself.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom. Her face was freshly scrubbed, her hair pulled into a ponytail, and she wore a snugly fitting V-necked pink tank top edged with ribbon and a matching pair of very short shorts. All her assets were beautifully on display, including those heart-stopping legs. Beginning with bodaciously curved hips, the legs described a heart shape to the knees, then sloped to nicely turned ankles and manicured toes. Alan’s heart skipped several beats. Dimly he noticed the way the tank stretched over a rounded tummy with a faint indentation suggesting the location of the belly button. He tugged his tie off and idly began to unbutton his shirt as his feet carried him over to Jeannine. He pressed a fingertip against the indentation.

“Ding dong,” he said hoarsely. “Anyone home?”

Jeannine’s laughter pealed in his ear.

“Let me open your door,” she whispered, and slowly began undoing the rest of his buttons. She wrestled his belt undone and then his trousers. She tugged them down until gravity took over. Alan kicked off his shoes. In the lamplight his achingly full belly gleamed, round and taut. Jeannine laid a soft hand against his pecs, then slid her fingers down ... down ... down ... lingering to trace the arc of his gut, finally coming to rest below it.

“I’m home,” she whispered, and gently tugged. Alan would have followed her anywhere.

Fortunately, the bedroom was close by.

(continued in post 5 of this thread)

[zonker]

Oh my... it's Friday (which is great in and of itself), and there's a new BBD story (Yay!)

And it is delicious (as usual)....

[Tad]

What Zonker said :)

ETA: and I love the description of her legs.....just lovely!

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

Their lovemaking was languid, both of them sated and drowsy. Each was gentle, even tender, with the other. For Alan it felt like coming into a new place and at once feeling at home. Afterward, they lay with Jeannine’s head on his chest and lazily explored each other: curve and hollow, tension and softness, sweat-dampened nooks and musky niches.

“Mmmmmm,” Jeannine murmured after a while.

“Jeannine,” Alan mumbled thickly; he was half-asleep and her name came out like honey.

“Mm?”

“I’ve been here eight months and you’ve never given me a tumble.”

“Mm.”

“So ...”

“I’m a slow learner,” Jeannine mumbled through a yawn. “It took me a while to realize there was a handsome guy under my nose.”

“Handsome.”

“Yup.”

“Clever.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Fat.”

“Y ... what?” Jeannine pushed herself up off Alan’s chest and stared at him in the lamplight, which shadowed her eyes and made her look somehow closed-off and dangerous.

Alan saw the look on her face and hastily backpedaled.

“Nothin’,” but Jeannine wasn’t ready to let go.

“What?” she repeated.

Alan sighed. “I’ve been ... well ... developing a little paunch here lately. I ought to be working it off, not encouraging it.”

Jeannine lay back down, on her own pillow this time. “Not everyone thinks Ashton Kucher is the living end,” she said with an edge of scorn in her voice. “Some of us might prefer ... say ... the Kevin Federline model.”

“Kevin Federline?” Alan’s surprise was unfeigned.

“Oh ... you know ... not the tattoo-wearing, twit-squiring redneck ... but guys with a little more to ’em. Trust me,” she finished, “no woman wants to date a guy whose butt is smaller than hers ... what now?”

Alan was laughing so hard he couldn’t speak. “Tw ... tw ... tw ...” he gasped, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Twit ...” he managed. Finally, still choking with laughter, he got it out. “Twit-squiring,” he said at last.
“Priceless.”

“Why thank you,” she said. “Entirely spontaneous.”

Spontaneously, Alan turned to her and she to him as if a sunflower on a spindle toward the sun. Their lips met and they kissed. At some point, sleep overtook them both and they drowsed in each other’s arms until the morning sun filtered across their faces.

Alan groaned and turned over, making the move into a deep, top-to-toe stretch. Jeannine slid out of bed, padded into the kitchen, and returned.

“Started coffee,” she said.

“My hero,” Alan mumbled, and drew her to him again.

“Alan, don’t,” she said with no conviction. “Hey ... do that again ...”

So he did.

Coffee was accompanied by the big cinnamon rolls from a tube, the ice-your-own kind. Jeannine supplemented the little tub with an additional bowl of powdered sugar, milk, and vanilla that she whisked up.

“They never give you enough,” she explained apologetically.

"Neither do you," Alan grunted, grabbing her from behind and drawing her to him. His mouth tasted of coffee and cinnamon and frosting.

[zonker]

Another Friday, and more wonderful gut-inspiring prose from BBD!

The gods are smiling on us....

As always, BBD, great job! Will there be more to this story?

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

Impulsively he drew back and pulled off a piece of roll. He popped it into her mouth. She did the same for him. The dozen large rolls vanished in an instant. Alan lazily traced his tongue around her lips, licking off the last traces of frosting; then Jeannine cleaned his lips in a similar fashion. She vanished and a minute later Alan heard the shower running. Without a moment’s hesitation he followed her in.

She made no protest as he once again stood behind her and drew her to him. His hands cupped her breasts, bobbling them gently, ripe fruit in each hand, and she handed him the soap. She shuddered with pleasure as he caressed them, foam trickling through his fingers, and then she turned and he slid soapy hands down her back to her bottom. Laughing, she kissed his chest and tugged him down as she sat on the built-in bench. He squatted down, then took up her foot and kissed each toe in turn before languidly and sensually cleaning her legs. Slowly, teasingly, around each well-turned ankle. Trippingly up the graceful arcs of her calves. She reflexively jerked and giggled as he tended to her knees, then gasped as he cradled and soaped her rosy thighs and rounded hips. Then he turned his attention to adjoining properties.

At long last, dried off, Jeannine drew on a sleeveless turtleneck of silk and a short skirt. Alan made a face as he pulled on last night’s clothes.

“Time to go shopping,” Jeannine announced happily. She eyed his waistband. “You need a little elbow room anyway.”

“Hey ... my elbows are fine.”

Silently Jeannine slid her arm around his waist and gently but firmly took possession of his left love handle. After the half-dozen cinnamon rolls and two large cups of creamy coffee, it was undeniably full. As Jeannine pinched, Alan stifled a sweet-tasting belch and obediently trailed out to the car.

In the mall, Jeannine was unstoppable. She laughingly made Alan try on several different pairs of pants, all with a waistband a size larger. Alan was more than a little embarrassed at how much better it felt with the breathing room. He hadn’t realized just how snugly his pants had been fitting. By lunchtime, he had acquired a dozen pairs of boxer shorts, three pairs of pants, two pairs of jeans and two new belts.

Jeannine led him to the food court.

“Wow – I can’t decide,” Alan admitted.

“Here, sit,” Jeannine said, gently pushing him into a chair. “I’ll get it. You just laid out for all those clothes. Give your debit card a chance to cool off.”

Alan sat back and closed his eyes. He might have dozed a little. He blinked awake when Jeannine tapped his wrist.

“You said you couldn’t decide,” Jeannine said brightly. “So here you go!”

In front of them was Chinese ... also burgers, fries, pizza, two smoothies, and two heavenly-smelling bags from Cinnabon.

“Jeez,” Alan mumbled. After that breakfast, he shouldn’t have been hungry ... but he was. He dived in. He was too busy eating to notice that Jeannine was doing her share as well.

Forty-five minutes later, the sesame chicken, rice, egg rolls, double cheeseburgers, pile of fries, pizza, all were history. Alan was suddenly very full. He leaned back as far as the flimsy food-court chair would let him and gently pressed a hand to his aching and swollen midsection. He belched, trying in vain to stifle it.

“(Urp) ... Sorry,” he mumbled. Jeannine smiled and, taking his hand by the wrist, laid it on her own belly, which was roundly distended beneath her thin shirt.

“I did my share of damage,” she said, and winked at him. She belched, with no more success than he at stifling it, and with a flourish drew the first Cinnabon out of the bag.

Alan groaned. “Ohhh ... (urp) no way.” He pressed a hand to his belly. “My stomach already hurts.”

“Ah, come on.” Jeannine took a big bite and slowly licked her lips. She pushed the bun toward Alan. In a daze he opened his mouth and took a bite. He was wicked full, but that bun reminded him of breakfast, which reminded him of after breakfast.

“Oomph ... ma’oogah,” he mumbled. He swallowed. “Okay, that’s good.” He belched. “Trying to fatten me up for Thanksgiving.”

Jeannine shrugged one lovely shoulder. “I told you. I think men should have substance.”

At length they polished off the last of the Cinnabons and drained the smoothies. Jeannine stood gracefully, giving Alan an eyeful of those astonishing legs, and Alan, rather less gracefully, lumbered to his feet and brushed crumbs from his shirt, which was bunching around his underarms and straining tautly across his bloated belly. He blinked drowsily, a bear ready to hibernate.
~~~~
On Monday, Alan was decidedly grateful for his new clothes. He and Jeannine had spent the balance of the weekend together doing little more physical than bed aerobics. The new boxers slid on with relative ease, though the elastic did fit rather firmly, and the new pants were a little easier to hook.

In the elevator he found his heart beating faster. Jeannine got on and barely caught his eye. By not a flicker of eyebrow did she indicate that she was acquainted with him. Still, Alan was able to enjoy the view. An A-line skirt stopped at her knees, and her beautifully curved calves were well on display. The blouse seemed to cling a little snugly to her hourglass waist, but without a good look, Alan contented himself with points south.

Later, an interoffice enveloped contained a fuchsia Post-it.

Keeping it cool. You know how vicious office gossip is. Ditto for too many dinners in public ... but meet me Wednesday at the B Flat.

The B Flat was a dimly lit restaurant that served astoundingly good New Orleans fare. It was also known only to its neighborhood intimates, and Alan doubted anyone else at the publishing company was aware of its existence.

Jeannine had somehow managed to change clothes and now wore a sleeveless, square-necked dress that had a band around her waist. The drape of the skirt gently clung and outlined her belly, which appeared a little rounded even before the meal, and her legs were again on tantalizing display. Her calves bloomed rosily below the skirt, sloping to those luscious ankles and ending in strappy heels of dull gold that complemented the dress.

They conversed as though they had known each other forever. The stilted acquaintanceship phase of most relationships had simply never existed. Immediately they were at ease. Alan had a screwdriver, Jeannine a vodka tonic, and they happily emptied a dish of spinach dip.

Alan chose a roasted chicken, which came with a cream sauce, thick slices of andouille sauage, garlic mashed potatoes, and broccoli steamed just to crispness. Jeannine had roasted duck with snow peas and a port wine sauce that had a kick to it. Once the plates were definitively empty, Jeannine waved away the dessert menu and instead dragged him to a bakery where she fed him an enormous slice of red velvet cake, and she slowly polished off a large apple tart a la mode. Without spoken consultation, they opted for a taxi back to Jeannine’s. She rested her head on his shoulder.

“Ohhhh,” she sighed. “This dress is about to unzip itself.”

“Do I get to help?”

Jeannine drowsily laid her hand on her belly, which was now straining the fabric of the dress, and rested her other hand on Alan’s swollen stomach, at the point where the shirt button with the most work to do was about to quit in spectacular fashion.

Lightly she pressed. Alan obediently belched, making them both laugh.

It was the next day that one of the other editors, handing Alan the coffee pot, raised an eyebrow.

“You break up with a girl or something?”

“Um, why?”

Eric shrugged. “Getting a little gut there. Drowning your sorrows in Ben & Jerry’s,” he suggested.

Alan shrugged.

“Whatever,” he said, sounding as bored as possible, but he was distracted all afternoon. He virtuously planned to skip dinner, but by six o’clock his developing belly let him know that was a rotten idea. He phoned for Chinese.

(continued in post 10 of this thread)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

ask and receive.

[berlin-girl]

:bow: :bow: :bow:
yummi!!!!

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

It was as simple as that. Jeannine and Alan continued to swap Post-it notes, they continued to appear just polite to each other at work, and they delighted in searching out obscure restaurants in which they could eat their way through the menus without running into anyone from the publishing house.

Then one evening Jeannine appeared gloomy and distracted. She merely picked at their chips and salsa, leaving Alan to empty the basket almost by himself. She only sipped at her frozen margarita. When Alan asked her what she was going to order, she fiddled with her napkin and said, “I don’t care.”

Gently Alan tugged her hand into his. “What’s the matter, dear heart?”

Jeannine turned her head to the side.

“Nothing,” she said in a muffled voice, tears in her eyes. She gulped. Sniffled. Swallowed hard again.

“Carter at work,” she said finally. “We were talking over lunch about the sale at Kohl’s. Carter looked over at me, and she said, ‘Of course, I don’t know if the sale is in the plus sizes.”

Alan pursed his lips, mostly to hide the smile that threatened to break out.

“Women’s sizes are twisted anyway,” he finally said. He squeezed her hand. “I think you have a lovely figure.”

Jeannine sniffled.

“Might have once,” she said grudgingly, “but I’m getting pretty thick in the middle.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word fat.

Alan cleared his throat. “I’m growing a spare tire,” he admitted. “Eric at work was giving me a time about it. But it’s different with women,” he acknowledged. “Women … well …”

“We’re cattier,” Jeannine said. “Um … do you really think I have a lovely figure?”

“Every inch of you,” Alan said firmly. “And I’m ordering your favorite.”

Jeannine started to protest. Alan shushed her.

An hour and a half later, Jeannine, her equanimity restored, had dispatched a plateful of fajitas, a salad heavy with guacamole, all of her fried ice cream, some of Alan’s, and two large margaritas. Alan had more than kept up, and it was very, very slowly that they pushed back their chairs and moved to the door.

Alan hiccupped.

“Oof (hic!) … full,” he grunted. Jeannine slid her arm around Alan’s steadily thickening waistline and rested a hand on his left love handle, which was definitely large enough to grab hold of. Then she turned and faced him. Without saying a word, she undid the top button of his jeans. Alan leaned in with some difficulty and bit her ear. Jeannine returned to his side and anchored her hand on his love handle. In turn, he put his arm around her and lightly patted her tautly distended belly. Slowly, they walked home, letting the enormous meal settle and their aching stomachs begin to recover.

Alan delivered Jeannine to her door, but didn’t come in.

“I’ve got to go home and get some stuff together,” he said. “I’m picking you up at 8 o’clock tomorrow morning, so be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Alan smiled.

“Anything,” he said, and kissed her. While they kissed he allowed his hands to roam down her back, rest briefly on her thickening waist, and then cup her lusciously ripening backside. He imagined the womanly curves of hip and thigh, the dimpling knees, the sweet arc of calves. He could hardly wait for tomorrow.

At 8 o’clock, Jeannine opened her door to behold Alan wearing a guyabara shirt and skintight trunks. He held a large tote bag in his hand, and Jeannine could see a cooler in the back seat.

“We’re going to the beach,” he announced. Jeannine’s face fell.

“I ... um ... I don’t have a bathing suit,” she admitted. “And ...”

“And if you did you would fuss about how you looked in it.” He rooted in the tote bag and hauled out a frighteningly small plastic bag.

“Here, go put this on.” He shushed her with a kiss and a light smack on her delectable bottom to steer her in the right direction.

Jeannine emerged wearing an oversized shirt of yellow gingham. Through it, though, Alan could see the plum-colored bikini hugging her curves. Jeannine was blushing furiously.

“Alan! I’ve never even owned a bikini,” she said.

“Time you did,” Alan replied. “I want to see you in it, woman.”

He tugged her toward the car.

An hour later, Jeannine was still sitting under the beach umbrella, hugging the shirt around her. Alan cleared his throat.

“Jeannine.” He spoke her name tenderly. “Love.”

Very gently he took hold of the edges of the shirt and peeled them apart. Jeannine let him. She looked directly into his eyes.

“I’ve ... uh ... I’ve put on fifteen pounds,” she admitted, poking at her belly button.

“So’ve I,” Alan said. He smiled crookedly.

“Must be in love.” Jeannine blushed. Then Alan, who was stronger than he looked, unexpectedly scooped her up and carried her, shrieking happily, into the water.

Later, they attacked the contents of the cooler. Alan had brought enough for a long weekend and their appetites had been sharpened by the sun and the salt air. Without a word of complaint, Jeannine helped Alan dispose of fried chicken, potato salad, pickles, carrot sticks and dip, lemonade, and huge brownies. Alan had brought a full dozen of the latter and by the time neither could manage another bite the brownies had vanished.

Replete, Jeannine leaned back on the blanket, glad for the shade of the umbrella. She hiccupped.

“Ooh! (Hic!) Ohhh,” she groaned happily.

“I’m about to bust out of this new bikini somebody bought me,” she announced.

Without shifting position, Alan plucked her hand off her delectably swollen tummy and laid it on his own distended and aching belly. The waistband of his swimsuit was stretched tight and the seams were under duress.

“Same here,” he grunted, smothering a yawn. “Nap time.”

He moved Jeannine’s hand back and forth on his midsection until she took the hint and began gently massaging it, tightly full as it was. He performed the same service for her, idly noting how tautly the plastic rings on the bikini were being pulled. Jeannine’s hourglass figure had broadened while retaining its tempting indentation at her growing waist, and her luscious legs still made his heart skip a beat.

Jeannine’s eyelids fluttered closed. She dozed and after a while, when the painful fullness of his own bloated belly began to ease, Alan propped himself up on his elbows and gazed happily at her body. Her breasts rested roundly in the hammock of the bikini top, and below the outline of her rib cage her swollen tummy, gleaming with sunblock, lay roundly domed upward, her navel a sweet tiny indentation in an island of flesh. The bikini was already on the snug side. Below the bottom Jeannine’s thighs, damp with perspiration, were spread slightly apart. The smooth curved lines of flesh indented delicately to her dimpling knees, then drew sweetly out again, describing the hummocks of her calves and her smartly turned ankles.

Ruefully he dropped his gaze to his own stomach, which was full of good food. His spare tire, overinflated with chicken and brownies and awash in lemonade, was distended and taut, no give at all. He poked at it tentatively, mildly surprised at its firmness. He belched, instinctively patted his aching belly, belched again, and drifted off to sleep.

Back at Jeannine’s apartment, they took their time exploring each other’s bodies in a cool shower. Afterward, they headed for the bed with playful intentions, but sun is tiring, and both fell asleep entwined in each other’s arms, plump bellies pressed together.

~~~~

Discretion at work can last only so long, and eventually the penny dropped. The gossip turned from weight gain to wedding bells.

“Yes,” Carter drawled, looking over her diet soda, “you’re lucky Alan likes plump little chickens.”

“Little?” Jade murmured, cutting a glance toward Jeannine’s belly, which pushed roundly out between chest and hips as she sat at the lunch table. The waist of the blue wrap dress was strained tight with the leftover chicken and pasta in cream sauce that Jeannine had eaten.

Jeannine bit her lip and glanced upward, hoping to stop the tears that were threatening to drop.

She swallowed hard, fixed her gaze on Carter, and raised her softening chin.

“Alan loves me the way I am,” she said. “Really, Carter ... if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

She stood, collected her Tupperware, and left. But not quickly enough to hear Carter snip:

“Jealous? Who wants to date a whale like Alan Roederer?”

The plum bikini was trotted out regularly the rest of that summer. Alan refused to let Jeannine switch to another swimsuit even as her belly steadily expanded and her breasts kept pace. By Labor Day Jeannine spilled over anywhere there was to spill over, and her undeniably fleshy thighs flowed from the tight bottom like manna. Her plump knees dimpled gorgeously, and she was ticklish there besides, as Alan had long since discovered.

Once upon a time Jeannine had carried 140 pounds on her five-six frame, but as September began she was pushing 200. Her legs were still Alan’s favorite ... or second favorite ... part: those flowing thighs that swayed when she moved, stately, down a hall or across a room; the dimpling knees; the hummocks of cushioned calves descending to heart-stopping, traffic-stopping ankles, nearly always ending in strappy high-heeed sandals.

Alan, who had been in the vicinity of 190 – a little soft for five foot ten – was now well over 250. He shopped at big-and-tall men’s stores. His firm chin now rested in a double hammock; sharply planed cheekbones were hidden in apple ruddiness. His pecs flabbed and his belly now preceded him into the room. His backside had spread and softened so that he now perched forward in his chair at work, and his thighs were solidly massive, tree trunks that Jeannine rested on when she was busy in bed.

Alan was at his computer on the Friday before Labor Day, but he was not exactly editing anything. He was busy on a travel Web site. Jeannine was similarly distracted because Alan’s hot pink Post-it earlier that day had read:

Pack a bag. It’s a dry heat. Bring your ID. – A.

On Saturday, he solemnly picked her up, made her change into a sundress that hugged her curves, and rooted through her bag.

“Pack the bikini.”

“Alan ... what? It doesn’t even fit,” she wailed.

“Pack it.”

He wouldn’t let her look at the boarding passes or the LED sign at the gate that announced their destination. He had her listening to her iPod with her eyes closed, and when they were on board and she had to shut it off, he playfully put his fingers in her ears so she wouldn’t hear anything. It was only when the plane was beginning his descent that he let her hear the announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our approach to Las Vegas.”

Six hours later, Alan and Jeannine Roederer were lounging by the hotel pool.

Jeannine was gloriously encased in the plum bikini, her ripe breasts overspilling the top and her soft, rosy rolls of belly lapping round the edges of its bottom. Her white dovelike plump hand, wedding ring gleaming, rested on her husband’s impressive belly, rolls of spare tire resting one atop another and all but obscuring the swimsuit.

Alan, with a grunt, reached over and retrieved something from the bag. He playfully stuck it onto Jeannine’s belly button.

It was a bright blue Post-it note.

I love you forever. –A.

~*The End.*~

[fat hiker]

What a great story!