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Old 09-17-2009, 06:46 AM   #1
Big Beautiful Dreamer
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Default Admissions - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM (Multiple), Gay, Romance)

~BHM (Multiple), Gay, Romance


Admissions

by Big Beautiful Dreamer

An unfortunate glance startled me into wakefulness. Since losing my job in the latest round of layoffs at Corning, I had admittedly gone downhill.

For several months I had diligently made job-hunting my full-time employment. I had scoured Web sites, networked, talked to people who knew people who might know something, had my resume professionally overhauled, the works.

As summer waned, and the weather turned cooler and the days grew perceptibly shorter, I grew increasingly discouraged. I had retreated into my cave and now spent most of my days in undershirt and boxers, sitting at the computer, not job hunting but playing stupid games. I bathed and shaved a few times a week when I became too gross for even my own company.

Once upon a time, I had had normal eating habits — breakfast, lunch, dinner, an occasional dessert or midmorning pastry. Now, since I was home all the time, I tended toward grazing. My pantry held a constant supply of foods that had to be unwrapped. And most of my time on the computer was spent with food in my hand (if some of that stuff could be called food).

Something or other had caused me to glance downward that morning. Where I was accustomed to the view being that of my lap, I now noticed a small but unmistakable spare tyre pooching into view.

Momentarily distracted, I rolled the chair back and stood up. I looked down. Normal. I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my midsection. A bit soft. Cautiously I felt for my side. Was that ... could that be classified ... a love handle? My gaze lit on the open foil-lined bag into which I’d been steadily dipping. Maybe I should ease up on the snacks. Maybe I’d have a salad for lunch.

Of course, there was nothing remotely salad-like in the fridge – the only green in sight was on the edge of a wedge of cheese. Not attractive.

My bank account was, miraculously, reasonably healthy. I was single and had been well paid and habitually skimmed a fifth of my take off the top and socked it away, on advice from my late parent upon my college graduation. Therefore, I had a tidy, interest-fattened sum on which I’d been thriftily drawing along with my severance. I could shop.

I closed my eyes again and sighed. Wasn’t it bad advice to shop while hungry? Time for a shower anyway, it was Wednesday. I showered and shaved. Fortunately the mirror was steamed over enough to stop me having a good look at my belly. Then I pulled on a pair of khakis for the first time in more than a month and noticed the tug and pinch round the waist. I left the polo shirt untucked and added a sport coat for camouflage.

The restaurant was crowded and I stood, salad in hand, and scanned the place for an untenanted table. A brunet gave me a flick of a glance, moved on, then caught my gaze again.

“Simon Gentry! Isn’t it.” He stood up. “Benjamin Martin, remember? We met at Nick and Treva’s party last Christmas.”

“You must have been more sober than I,” I said with a wink. “I’m sure I’d remember meeting such a ... memorable fellow.”

He blushed. “Are you meeting someone?”

“No.”

“I hope you’ll share my table. Lunch is more fun with company.”

I sat. Initial awkwardness dissipated. Ben sympathised with me about job loss. “It’s bad everywhere,” he said soberly. His own job as a college admissions director was safe. He promised to network among people he knew to see if he could sniff out an opening.

At length I finished my salad and idly fiddled with the plastic knife and fork.

“Hasn’t your sandwich come yet?” Ben said in some surprise.

“Sandwich,” I echoed. “Oh. Oh, no, I just had the salad.”

“Why ever?” His green eyes widened. “That’s hardly a proper lunch.”

I pulled a face. “Too much idle snacking lately,” I admitted. “Getting a bit of a spare tyre.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Oh, puh-lease,” he groaned. “Go on – look,” he urged. “I can’t be bothered with taking this back to the office and then carting it home.” He slid his takeaway foam carton toward me. “Finish it off, be a love.”

Obediently I popped the lid, beholding the half a large sandwich and pile of leftover chips I’d seen him scoop in there a few minutes ago. My stomach traitorously grumbled and Ben smirked a little.

My mouth watered. I took up the sandwich and took a large bite. Oh, was that good. I almost moaned out loud. Chicken with a creamy pesto mayonnaise, cucumber, sprouts, crisp bacon, all on fresh toasted sourdough. Mmmmm. Without even a second thought I popped the chips into my mouth as I went. The carton was emptied all too soon and I finished up by draining my plastic tumbler of diet drink.

“Uh, thank you,” I mumbled. Ben patted my hand.

“Salad. Tch. Honestly,” he chided. Then, “Look – as it happens I’ve a boring cocktail do to attend tonight. Come with, and we’ll both put your name about as the going chap for the job.”

“What job?”

“Any job.” He winked. I felt my breath hitch and my heartbeat speed up. I swallowed. He handed me a business card. “Come by here at seven and we’ll stroll over together. It’s a necktie sort of thing, I’m afraid.” Unconsciously he patted his own rep tie.

I did what any sane, sensible job hunter would do. I beat a path for home and immediately dived into my closet.

I will not repeat the words with which I filled the bedroom. Every pair of trousers that was remotely acceptable was snug, some would not even do up. I sighed, put the khakis and polo of lunchtime back on, and trudged out to do some shopping.

Of course the 32's wouldn’t fit. The 34's fit, but there wasn’t nearly as much of a gap as I’d been expecting. I bought a new shirt for good measure.

At 7:04, which I had deliberately and carefully timed, I knocked on the jamb of Ben’s office door.

“Simon! Well done.” He switched off his computer, stood up and put on his blazer. He looked me up and down. “You do clean up well. Here, come along and we’ll see if we can’t find you some honest work for a change.” He sounded supremely confident.

The cocktail party was even duller than usual as I conscientiously stuck to soda water, not wanting to possibly meet a job lead while half in the bag. About the time I was wondering if I could decently leave without ticking off Ben, he pulled up with a friendly-looking bearded redhead in tow.

“Simon, I’d like you to meet Tim Garza,” he said. “Tim is our financial aid director for the graduate programmes, and actually his good right hand has just done a bunk to be a stay-at-home papa. Tim,” he continued cheerily, “meet my friend Simon Gentry, who was up the ladder in accounting at Corning until they foolishly eliminated his position.”

We shook hands. “Simon, tell me a little about yourself,” Tim said. I was being spot interviewed, I was. I was heartily glad for my sobriety. Ben, blast him, had melted away.

After about ten minutes, Tim glanced at his watch, said, “Oh!,” and fished out a card.

“Come round in the morning and bring your resume if that’s convenient for you,” he said. “I think it’ll do us both some good.”

By the time Ben came back round, I had downed two whiskies in quick succession – both in celebration and to calm my suddenly jumpy nerves – and was feeling high as a kite.

“I don’t have to ask if you hit it off with Tim,” Ben said, grinning. “It’s written all over that non-poker face of yours. Come on,” he threw his arm round my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here and find some real food and celebrate.”

Ben led me to a nearby diner and we sat down to huge portions of spaghetti and salad and red wine. Ben overrode my halfhearted objections and ordered up sinfully rich pudding – chocolate cake for me and a huge wedge of cheesecake for him – and we swapped tastes.

Our plates were quickly emptied and I realised that I was suddenly, achingly full. It had been some time since I had eaten that much all in one go, and I admit I had been enjoying the hors d’oeuvres at the party a good bit. I leaned back in the booth, stifling a belch and acutely aware of the pull and tenderness of my belly, which was straining the buttons of my new shirt.

Ben opened his mouth, started to say something, and belched instead. “Whoops.” Blushing faintly, he stood, and I followed him. Over my feeble protests, he paid and led the way outside.

He clearly had the metabolism of a hummingbird, because we’d both eaten hugely, but while my belly was aching and swollen, his showed no evidence of his ever having eaten; his waistband showed no strain round his flat stomach.

His eyes were bright and he glanced quickly this way and that, then leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek.


“After you see him, hunt me up and we’ll celebrate,” he assured me.

Then he was gone, striding down the pavement like a conqueror.

In a daze I made for the bus stop.

I slept soundly, to my mild surprise, then rose, made myself presentable, and went to a coffee shop for a hearty breakfast. I didn’t want my stomach making any funny noises later.

I dawdled, reading every scrap of the newspaper and doing the crossword until it was finally half past ten. Then I caught a bus for the campus and found my way to Tim Garza’s office.

He seemed glad to see me and we had a proper interview. At the end of it, I heard myself as from a distance accepting his salary offer and making myself say that I could start Monday week, about ten days hence, so as not to seem moronically eager.

Then, my heart thudding, I found my way to Ben’s office. Instead of leaning in and knocking on the door jamb, I strolled in and dropped into a wing chair. Ben glanced up. He is a quick study.

“Hey! Major congratulations! It is celebration time.” He pulled me into a hug. It felt wonderful.

We went to a Chinese buffet. Ben, it seemed was an avocational Orientalist, and kept insisting that I try this or that. “You don’t have to play the starving fellow on the dole any more,” he chided. “Eat, celebrate, c’mon.”

By the time we finally waddled out of there I was ready to burst. My good new trousers – the size 34's – were straining at the seams and I was dying to undo them. Ben, dammit, was as slender as ever, with no hint that he had put away half a dozen heaping platefuls.

He didn’t even bother to look round before he kissed me. On the mouth. Fireworks went off in my head.

He pulled out a business card and scribbled an address on the back.

“Be there at seven,” he murmured. “It’s your turn to make dinner.”

Last edited by Big Beautiful Dreamer; 02-19-2011 at 05:51 AM.
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Old 09-17-2009, 12:43 PM   #2
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Well. I was there at seven sharp with two bags full of groceries. Ben opened the door wearing nothing but a pair of charcoal gabardine trousers and I almost dropped the groceries. He rescued them, stashed them in the kitchen and came back to where I was still frozen as a mullet in the entrance hall. Laughing with his eyes, he pulled me into an embrace and kissed me softly on the mouth.

Eventually we came up for air, and he led me into the kitchen, where a plate of antipasti awaited.

“I don’t know about you,” he announced, “but I’m starving.”

He opened a bottle of wine and darted round playing sous-chef, washing pots, fetching herbs, helping me as I assembled a big salad, prepared steaks, scrubbed potatoes, sliced squash and brushed the slices with olive oil.

We sat down to a beautifully laid table with tapers flickering and a fresh bottle of wine to hand. Ben took one bite and, with his mouth full, mumbled, “Oh my God, you’re hired.”

I laughed, almost choking on a bite of potato. “So I am. I’d almost forgotten.”

Ben came round, napkin in hand, and patted me on the back. The patting turned to stroking and I nearly forgot about dinner.

Nearly.

In spite of an indecent amount of antipasti, I was still hungry and so was Ben. We resumed savouring our dinner, our wine, each other’s company.

“Pudding later,” Ben promised, getting up and clearing away our plates. “Come on.”

Pudding later! I almost groaned aloud. I was stuffed, my belly tender and sore and warm, and all I wanted was a good recline.

I got it.

In the bedroom, where Ben led me, and in sight of a king-size bed with mounds of pillows, and with candles flickering on table and bookcase, he slowly and silently unbuttoned my shirt, tugged off my tie, and unhooked my trousers.

I was utterly aroused and enthralled by this point, but not so absorbed as to fail to notice the relief to my poor bloated waist when those trousers got out of the way.

I undid Ben in turn, and we hoisted ourselves onto the bed, luxuriating in the sensation of bare skin on silk sheets and the cool breeze on full bellies. We were both a little tight and both stupid with food and beside ourselves with desire, yet we instinctively went at it slowly and languidly, cradling each other, nuzzling, stroking, exploring, and while I would normally not have pegged myself as a first-date kind of person, this wasn’t really a first date, was it?

Finally, sated but not exhausted, we peeled ourselves off the sheets and I followed Ben to a large marble shower stall, of the sort of design that calls only for an open doorway, no door or curtain required. It was big enough for two and I found new delight in bathing my lover’s body and being bathed in turn.

Even after the exercise, my stomach was still visibly distended and Ben laughed softly as he tended assiduously to my belly button.

“Somebody’s a full boy,” he crooned.

I quirked an eyebrow and laid a hand against his own infuriatingly flat belly. “Where do you put it all?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Wacked-out metabolism,” he said. “Hollow leg, you know.”

“Well that isn’t hollow.” And I tended to another body part.

Later, Ben padded out to the kitchen and returned with a cheesecake and a carafe of coffee. He’d laced the coffee with brandy.

“I’m going to be had up for being drunk in charge of a vehicle,” I said thickly, through a mouthful of divinely good cheesecake.

“You’ll have to stay the night,” he said. “And the next night, and the next...”

I must admit with embarrassment that even though I had gorged myself earlier, I helped dispose of the pudding and Ben did his share and by the time the coffeepot was empty so was the cheesecake pan. I lay back among the pillows and this time I did groan. My belly, bloated and swollen, protruded tautly above the rest of my naked self, and it was tight as a drum. I thought I might burst.

To my astonishment, I noticed that Ben, laying back next to me, actually showed signs of being full. His stomach was gently rounded and, when I laid a hand on it, firm and warm, clearly stuffed with cheesecake.

“There, you see? (Hic!) Not quite (hic!) impervious,” Ben said. “Close your eyes.”

I did and then gasped as I felt a cold puddle of lotion being squirted onto my engorged midsection. Ben slowly and sensuously massaged it in, taking his own sweet time.

“Now me,” he said, and I lotioned his belly in turn, surprised at the surge of arousal that came just from feeling his tight tummy.

We fell asleep twined round each other, limbs and hair and breathing so entangled that it was hard to tell us apart.

I did stay the weekend, scooting round to my own flat and tending to whatever needed tending, and we spent part of the weekend there. I was a little hesitant to just move in with Ben, though I’d seldom ever been so certain about anyone.

I pleaded off for the next week with the true excuse that I needed to make myself ready to start working for Tim Garza. I did enough clothes shopping to last me a while, I hoped, and did a thorough clean-and-toss of my flat, the sort of cleaning I might do preparatory to ... well, moving.

Ben and I seldom lunched together, to keep gossip down, but every weekend was entirely ours. We both loved to cook, and eat, and Ben drew heavily on his interest in the East to introduce me to new cuisines.

The development that had started in glum unemployment continued apace in utter contentment and the mirror unkindly chronicled a steadily thickening waist, inflation of the love handles, softening of the pecs. My chin started to double when I glanced down and my face was perceptibly fuller. My arms and legs swelled and my bottom ... well, whenever Ben grabbed it I could tell there was a lot more to grab.

The 34's I’d worn to the job interview were growing snugger by the day and I was letting my belt out notch by notch before I gave in and invested in larger clothing.

Ben stayed slender as ever, but I found myself longing to see what an actual belly, squashy grabbable backside and podgy face would look like on him. In November, one Friday night when we had finished off the best part of two bottles of wine, and he was leaning his head drowsily against my padded shoulder, I asked him.

Last edited by Risible; 10-02-2009 at 03:34 PM.
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Old 09-18-2009, 04:07 PM   #3
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more? moremoremoremoremore, pleeeeeeeazzzze!
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some person once said "less is more". this sounds quite nice, but is rather rubbish, because MORE is MORE. :blush:
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Old 09-19-2009, 02:55 PM   #4
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“Ben.”

“Mmm.”

“You might have noticed. I’m ... getting ... mmm ... a bit, erm,” I took a deep breath, “a pit podgy round the middle.”

Ben’s laugh vibrated through my chest. His whole body shook. “Tells me you’re contented, love.”

“Are you ... discontented?”

“With what?” Ben pulled himself back into a sitting position and turned to look at me. Absently he stroked a hand through my thick dark hair, along my round cheek, down my double chin. He spread his long fingers like a limpet onto my shirt and blinked at me, that slow lazy blink that always made my heart miss a beat.

“With us.” He was making me do all the work.

Ben snorted. “Do I look discontented?” His eyes were at half staff and the fire flickered golden light and dull shadow across his face.

Without really knowing I was doing it I slid a plump finger across his slender waist from side to side, which took only a half-second.

“Ohhhh.” Understanding dawned. Ben, relaxing again, resumed his snuggle against my chest.

“You know I’ve got a wacked-out metabolism. Can’t help it. I assure you I am supremely contented.”

“But ... but ... I’m getting fat, and you eat as much as I do and it’s not fair.” To my disgust and horror, I heard a childish whine in my voice and I realised that I was in danger of actual tears.

Ben sat up again and traced a finger across my waist as I had done to him a moment ago, but it took longer. He dallied at my navel, rocked the ribbons of fat back and forth, pinched my near-side love handle, and ended by sliding a hand up my shirt. He tripped his fingers up my stack of spare tyres and ended up gently, ever so gently, rubbing a nipple back and forth.

“Come on.”

I didn’t want to, but, pouting, I followed him into the bedroom. I stood silent as he slowly undressed me, and turned my back when he waited to be undressed. He stripped off his own clothes then and we got into bed. I was still sulking, although I couldn’t have said why.

Silently Ben fished out the bottle of fragrant oil he kept in his bedside table and began rubbing it into my solid, increasingly fleshy thighs. He began tending to my stomach. Since I was reclining, the spare tyres deflated and spread sidewise, and he slowly, silently, tenderly massaged and cradled every increasing inch of my gut, dug out my navel, and grabbed, held, fondled, and rubbed my flab. He stroked round my nipples in decreasing circles, squeezed the biceps still firm below the increasing floppiness of my arms. He set the oil aside and nuzzled into my chins, nibbling at my round full cheeks, even kissing the pads of flesh below my eyes.

Then and only then did his fingers slide back down my chest and rounded piles of belly.

Much much later, when it was all over, shower and all – Ben had not said a word, and I found myself utterly mute; I couldn’t have told you whether I was still in a filthy mood – then Ben fetched us glasses of wine and slices of cheese and brought the tray back to bed. He turned and sat Indian-style facing me.

“If you haven’t guessed by now then you are a bit thick,” he said, after a swallow of wine. “I happen to find your growing estate tremendously appealing.”

“But ... but ...” the whine was back in my voice. “Nobody knows that. They look at me and see a big sloppy fat bloke, and they look at you and you look like David Beckham.”

Ben started laughing so hard he had to put his wineglass on the table. When he finally regained his breath, he said at last, “Does it really bother you so much?” Tenderness crept into his voice despite the high good humour I had just provided.

I was afraid of the tears that still threatened. I nodded, not looking at him.

He cupped my chins and lifted my face so that I had to meet his gaze.

“Any metabolism can be fiddled with,” he said. “Do you really want me to put on weight?”

I nodded.

“Okay,” he said. He put his hand over his heart and lifted his wineglass. “I’ll eat my way through the holidays. And I won’t stop at New Year’s.”

Last edited by Risible; 10-02-2009 at 03:31 PM.
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Old 09-30-2009, 06:57 AM   #5
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If I were ever to become gay, it would be because BBD makes it look just so much fun and enticing...

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Old 10-01-2009, 12:06 PM   #6
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Ben was to prove as good as his word. I, meanwhile, had my own demons to deal with. Society touted, even idolised, the slim figure, and unsubtly sent the message that anyone who didn’t meet models’ and celebrities’ impossible standards were themselves substandard individuals. No one at work gave me any grief about my steadily increasing tubbiness, but now occasionally I thought I caught a sidelong sneer in public.

I understood the sneers. I was hard pressed not to sneer at myself. I’d always been reasonably slim without ever having to work too hard at it. It wasn’t until unemployment had hit, with the accompanying side order of what I now recognised as mild depression, that I had begun to develop that spare tyre. Since then – since the day I’d met Ben – I hadn’t stepped on a scale but idly guessed that I had put on a couple of stone. Somewhere in the vicinity of 25 to 30 pounds.

Ben and his wacked-out metabolism, on the other hand ... though we both enjoyed good cooking and good eating, Ben so far as I could tell was as slim as he had been since that day at the restaurant where we’d encountered each other. Occasionally after a really huge meal his otherwise flat stomach would bulge cutely outward, firm and warm to my touch. But his waist remained slender, devoid of love handles; his torso lacked even one spare tyre; his bottom was flat and his thighs and biceps trimly cut; his face still highlighted breathtaking cheekbones and a firm chin. Singular.

I was torn in several directions: society’s message, a slow overcoming of my unconscious acceptance and even approval of that message, and Ben’s frank admission with the half-hidden pun: “If you haven’t guessed by now you are a bit thick ... I happen to find your growing estate tremendously appealing.” I’d fallen asleep that night, finally, on my back, with Ben on his side, an arm and a leg protectively draped over my “growing estate.”

The next day, Saturday, Ben had “errands” to run. He came back from the library with several cookbooks and a sheaf of computer printout.

“We’re going to have a Thanksgiving dinner,” he announced happily.

“A ... what?”

“Thanksgiving,” he repeated. “That American thingummy where the whole point is to eat yourself under the table.” He dragged me to the kitchen table and sat me down.

“Look. Roast turkey ... well, we can roast a goose ... and they make this bread stuffing ... and look ... sauced berries, roast potatoes, vegetables, gravy, pie ... we can do all that.”

I looked dubiously at the glossy two-page display in one of the cookbooks. “That’s enough food for twelve people,” I pointed out.

“Or one wacked-out metabolism,” he said, smirking. “Enough to wack it back in.” He was talking nonsense the way he tended to, the way that always made me smile.

Ben spent the next ten days poring over cookbooks and looking up recipes online. On a Saturday late in the month he brought me breakfast in bed, then locked me in.

“You can’t come out till I say,” he said through the door. “Just sit tight.”

I did. It was one of those grey sleety days that lends itself to burrowing. I napped, read, and watched television. Afternoon came and the big breakfast I’d enjoyed was a distant memory when Ben finally let me out.

He opened the door and the heavenly scents that had been wafting in all day hit me full in the face.

My eyes stretched wide when I looked on the kitchen table. A plate piled high with juicy, golden-crisp slices of roast goose. A huge bowl of the bread stuffing. Bowls of roast potatoes, sauced berries, steaming turnips, rolls, squash, everything. And on the counter two large pies: mince and something else, apple maybe. Ben jerked his head toward the polished dining table where we ate only occasionally. It was laid, two places, with the good china and silver, three wineglasses, and my plate was piled high with dinner. His was piled higher.

Well.

An hour or two later, we were both idly sliding our forks back and forth across little slag heaps of the traces, both fairly tight from the wine, both smelling the pies he had put in the oven to warm. There wasn’t nearly as much left over in the kitchen as I had expected.

I was stupid with food, my head nodding, eyelids heavy. Ben’s face was flushed and he was resting his head on his other hand.

He hiccupped. With a grunt of effort, he pushed back his chair and took up our plates. His polo shirt was stretched taut against his belly, which for once was visibly protruding, distended and round, straining against his belt, which I could see had been let out a notch or two.

I seldom wore belts anymore. My own jeans had been undone ages ago and there was a cool breeze against the strip of belly, swollen and tender, that pouched out below the hem of my T shirt. My stomach was full to bursting, heavy and warm, and with every cautious, shallow breath I thought I would pop. I must have drifted into a food-dazed semiconsciousness because I started with the clink that came with Ben setting a plate and cup in front of me.

Two large wedges of pie, one of each kind, and a large mug of tea laced with milk. The pie was topped with cold whipped cream. Full as I was, I longed for the contrast of warm and cool, silky and tangy, in my mouth. I carefully sliced, one fork slice collecting the tip of each kind and with a dollop of cream to boot, and moaned aloud as it slid down my throat and trickled round the edges of my packed belly. I was full, I was stuffed, I was fit to burst, and I wanted that inimitable taste in my mouth once more ... and once more again ...

My fork clattered. The plate was empty. The mug was empty. With an effort, I focussed a bleared gaze at Ben’s plate. Empty. I opened my mouth to speak and belched, round and crisp, nearly shaking the chandelier.

Ben smiled, drowsily, his face rosier than ever. Moving slow as hibernating bears, we waddled away from the table. I dimly noticed that someone, sometime, had cleared the leftovers. Had I nodded off at table? What day was it?

Then we were naked in bed and Ben was sliding lotion across the acreage of my engorged gut, which was tight as a drum. The lightest touch would burst it like a balloon. I felt the bottle pressed into my hand. Without sitting up, which I was incapable of doing, I lazily and hypnotically massaged his belly. It felt easily as swollen and distended as mine and some dim part of my consciousness was amazed and pleased. Childishly happy, I patted it with the flat of my hand and felt its taut tension.

Later, we slept.

The holidays had begun.

November sleeted its way into December. Ben bought a holiday-treats cookbook and threatened to cook his way through it by Christmas Day. My eyes danced as I promised to assist.

Each weekend, we’d try out new recipes. Some we brought in to work; the rest we, well ... ate. Chocolate pinwheels, Canterbury jumbles, sticky toffee pudding, plum cake, brownies, mint dark chocolate fudge, shortbread, fruitcake plumply studded with currants.

My new trousers grew snug, then uncomfortable, then impossible.

We shopped.

My love handles inflated on either side of my steadily thickening waist; the stack of spare tyres inflated. My backside grew positively squashy and my chin was now two chins even when I looked straight ahead, straining my neck muscles into imagined lean tautness. The face I now shaved each morning bloomed with plump apple cheeks and little pads round the eyes.

As for Ben ... and his wacked-out metabolism.

Something about the daft imitation of that American holiday must have snapped off the switch and reset that metabolism into a much lower gear.

After that enormous feast that began with roast goose and ended with two kinds of pie, his modest little pooch actually stayed put. Slowly, steadily, visibly, my slim lover added a pot that rested below his still-firm pecs.

Tins filled with homemade Christmas treats emptied out quickly – I wasn’t the only one dipping into them. Ben’s developing paunch matured, stretched, gravid and podgy, finally poking out into love handles, if modest ones at first. I began to notice, when grabbing his backside, that it was becoming rather more grabbable.

Ben’s trousers and belts slowly grew snug, then uncomfortable, then impossible.

We shopped.

I had a couple of stone head start, and I strongly suspected that a month of steady Christmas treat snacking had added to that poundage, but by Christmas Ben was undeniably plump, with a general allover padding. You could still see glimpses of the slim man he’d once been – as in a family resemblance – but he’d finally succeeded in overcoming his hyped metabolism.

“Guess what I got you for Christmas,” he said Christmas Eve. He was resting his head on my undeniably flabby chest, and I was rubbing his plumpening upper arm.

“Mmm,” I said drowsily. We were a good three hours past Christmas dinner, but I still felt as stuffed as the goose had once been. My belly’s glorious ache was only just subsiding.

“Two stone,” he murmured. “I’ve put on two stone.”

I blinked. “That’s like a pound a day. Is that even possible?”

“Believe it,” he said, his voice a little slurred. That hard sauce had had a kick to it.

“And guess what else.”

“What,” I said. I yawned hugely.

“A cruise. I sneaked round behind your back and got you a week’s holiday. The last week in January, you and I are going to spend five days in the Virgin Islands.”

“The –hic–three of us,” I corrected.

I felt his face scrunch in puzzlement. “Three?”

“You ... me ... and our bellies,” I said, pretending to count on my fingers.

He shook with laughter and in the half-light of the dying fire I slid my hand down his side so I could feel the vibration of his growing midriff.

I found his love handle.

Gave it a pinch.

Last edited by Risible; 10-02-2009 at 03:36 PM.
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Old 10-02-2009, 10:59 AM   #7
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