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Old 07-23-2011, 08:00 PM   #1
Join Date: Nov 2005
Posts: 44
Swordfish has said some nice things
Default Old Girlfriend, New Fat - by Swordfish (~BBW,~SWG, Romance)

~BBW,~SWG, Romance. An old relationship is rekindled when Steve finds that Simone has gained weight. But Steve is now married . . .

By Swordfish


Nothing more annoying, I thought, than being disturbed by a caller when you’re cooking. If the caller was on the phone, it would only be the gas or phone company with some promotion. Or maybe one of my wife Karen’s family in America, taking her away from helping in the kitchen – something she had difficulty doing even when the phone didn’t ring. Worse still was a ring at the door: bound to be some religious proselytiser with a creepy smile, or another do-gooder collecting for charity. It would be a nuisance at any rate.

All these thoughts ran through my head when the doorbell rang. It was early evening in north London. I was cooking dinner. Chicken pieces were in the oven, and the vegetables were simmering nicely. Karen was probably upstairs on the internet, mesmerised by her emails or an urge to research some arcane titbit, like Paris Hilton’s IQ.

Anyway, up I went to the front door, surprised that I was making the effort. I knew it was a charity worker the moment I saw her. She had that well-meaning smile, plus clothing that looked ethically impeccable. She also had more fetching qualities: a disarming smile set among nicely rounded cheeks, and dark eyes with a bit of a sparkle. “Hello,” she said.

The voice sounded strangely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “I’m from Helping Hands. I left a note the other week, in case you wanted to – “.

Instead of saying the word “donate”, she dropped her mouth with a gasp, then said “Steve – it is you, isn’t it?”

I admitted it was, and was about to apologise for my mind going blank when the penny dropped. Of course. It was Simone, my former girlfriend. Not seen for, what, six years? Not at all who I expected on the other side of the door. She had changed a bit. No eye make-up, and she was wearing her lightly curly chestnut hair a little longer. But the biggest change was that she’d gained some weight. Before she was taut and trim, with visible cheekbones. Now, dressed in an unbuttoned tan jacket and blue jeans, she looked rounder, softer. I couldn’t see the cheekbones at all.

She sputtered out questions like a motorcycle with a faulty engine. “What are you doing? What’s up? I didn’t know you lived here!”

“And I didn’t know you worked for Helping Hands.” We found ourselves smiling.

“Just something I do after work.” Her day job, she said, was still in local government, and she was still living with Dave, the computer nerd who for some bizarre reason had replaced me in her affections. At least I thought she said she was still with Dave: truth was, I’d become transfixed by the changed contours of her face, the fuller cheeks, the blurred chinline. It was very, very alluring.

Suddenly I heard her saying “And what about you?”

I snapped out of my reverie. I said I was still at Witchett and Phipps (investment brokers), but was married now. Had been for five years.

“Yes, I heard through the grapevine. I’m happy for you. And things are fine?”

“Yes. Of course.” It seemed the easiest answer. We chatted with remarkable ease for a couple who’d split up. All the while I kept feasting on those fuller cheeks and the general silky glow that had come with her added pounds. Eventually she said she’d better get on. I hesitated a second, then went for it. “Maybe we could meet up some time? I mean, just a drink. Old friends . . .”

“Do you think your wife would mind?”

“Why should she? We’re done and dusted with that stuff, aren’t we?”

She scribbled a phone number on a Helping Hands leaflet, an action I noticed that brought out the cutest little pillow of fat from under her chin. “Don’t leave it too long,” she said warmly. “Oh, you don’t I guess have anything to donate?”

Feeling guilty, I said I had nothing. Then with a smile and a slightly tentative hug my former girlfriend was gone.

I closed the door feeling slightly dazed and also, frankly, aroused. Immediately I could smell something burning. I rushed down to find the vegetable saucepan boiled dry. I dashed over to the cold water tap. The saucepan hissed. The vegetables were irretrievably charred.

“It’s Cajun-style vegetables tonight, sorry,” I said as Karen appeared in the kitchen and gave me her best accusing stare. Too fuzzy to think up any other alibi, I told her roughly what had happened: the doorbell, Helping Hands, the unexpected encounter with my old flame, whom she’d often heard about but seen only in photos. I left out that I now had Simone’s phone number.

Karen was bothered more by the saucepan than this blast from my past. She peered into it, her face shrivelling. “You and your former girlfriend have really burned the vegetables.”

If Karen had a choice between saying something soothing and saying something sour, she’d always choose sour. It hadn’t always been like that. But over the five years she’d been in England, homesick for America, where we’d met and had a whirlwind romance, she’d gradually taken undue delight in looking on the bad side. It wasn’t a pretty quality, especially if you were faced with it at 7.30 in the morning.

Looking back it now seems clear that I’d fallen for Karen on the rebound, after the collapse of my relationship with Simone. The collapse hadn’t been acrimonious: just one of those things, caused mostly by me travelling a lot and leaving Simone with enough spare time to be courted by this nerd Dave. Splitting up had left me feeling a hole in my life, and I’d thought Karen would fill it. Getting actually married wasn’t my personal wish, but it made practical sense. I had the well-paid job and clear career path in London. She didn’t: how much money can you make working in a second-hand bookshop? Five years later, we both could see our relationship had rough edges, though doing something about them was another matter.

As we ate the edible portions of the meal, I was struck how angular Karen looked compared to my doorstep visitor. Karen had always been slim, but now she seemed almost gaunt next to the new Simone. Her collarbone stuck out. No padding in her face. Compact breasts. Even with our embarrassed hug on the doorstep I’d felt the upholstery covering Simone’s body; but with Karen, if I gave her a hug I knew there’d be just bones.

Afterwards I went upstairs to my study. I had to work on some figures, I told her. In truth I just wanted to spend time with my memories. From the depths of a drawer in my dresser I retrieved an envelope of photos – the last ones I probably had printed before Karen gave me a digital camera. There was Simone as I’d known her before: a sweet, chiselled face; tight-fitting jeans; a body always “bikini-ready”. They brought to mind the care she’d taken about what she ate, the daily exercises, the weekend jog. The last person you’d think would begin to fill out. Yet the extra flesh had arrived, probably quietly, over time. Maybe it was a metabolism thing; maybe it was Dave. Something had happened to make her put on – what was it, 15, 20 lbs? Hard to tell.

Two weeks went by and I still hadn’t phoned her. I’d wanted to let that doorstep experience bed down, so to speak, to see if my old passion for Simone faded. It didn’t. At the same time I kept remembering the good times we’d had, simply as friends: walking in the parks, chit-chatting, laughing at bad movies on TV. All absent, I ruefully thought, from my current life with Karen.

I kept looking at the number that she’d written down. Was that work or home? Would Dave pick up? Then indecision stopped. I dialled. She answered, and said she’d been hoping I’d call. We fixed a date. 6.30pm. Henry’s, a wine bar, not far from Witchett and Phipps.

I wondered if I should keep this under Karen’s radar. In the end I decided to avoid guilt by telling her, as casually as I could, so it would seem a harmless matter of two old friends catching up. “At least you can’t burn any vegetables,” she said. I laughed, probably a little too merrily.

I got to the place early and secured a corner booth. Simone came late, her face flushed, probably from hurrying. She apologised profusely, removed her handbag, and settled into one of Henry’s luxurious padded chairs. She wore black slacks and a white blouse that didn’t look as if it gave her much room to breathe. I noticed her breasts, bulkier than before. I also noticed a curve of fat on her stomach: common enough with women, I suppose, but never before seen on Simone. Now she had joined the club.

“I can’t believe it!” she said, “You haven’t changed at all! What’s your secret?”

“Oh, probably my hair’s receded a bit. You’re looking much the same too.” I thought I would be polite.

“I don’t think that’s true, but thanks” I could guess what she meant, but decided for her sake to leave the subject alone. We started to fill in our missing years, and estimating our current lives. Both of us looked on the bright side. Dave, she said, was bearable, certainly a great money earner, if a bit boring. He was away in the Philippines at the moment on a short-term contract. She sounded rather relieved.

Me, I admitted Karen could be a bit of a challenge, though there were various plus points. “She’s company. She’s clean and tidy.” It wasn’t a ringing endorsement.

“Do you mean I wasn’t clean and tidy?” Simone squawked. But I knew she was only faking. I looked into her brown eyes and felt maudlin. “Oh why did we ever break up, Simone?”

She stiffened a little, and became serious. “You know the reasons. We were both at fault. But let’s not get into that. Water under the bridge, isn’t it? I certainly don’t have any hard feelings.”

“Me neither. It’s just that – it’s just that it’s so nice to see you.”

She smiled again, shyly. Her voice became tender, confidential. “The feeling’s mutual,” she said, reaching out to touch my hand. “Maybe we could – “. She didn’t finish the sentence.

“Yes. I’d like that too.” Simple enough words, though I knew full well what they meant: we were proposing spending time together, intimate time.

Having crossed that hurdle, I began to feel more relaxed. And as we talked about this and that, memories from our past mostly, the more I became utterly bewitched by her new look, her new weight. The extra pounds, I soon realised, hadn’t just softened her contours; it had also widened her expressive range. Little dimples came and went on the boundaries of her cheeks. Her smile seemed richer, deeper; her looks of surprise or amusement more penetrating. Without angular features her whole personality seemed more open, more giving. With bones and muscles more blanketed, she also looked younger, certainly more relaxed. It was almost as though the old Simone had become replaced by a rounder, sexier sister - someone with the same gene pool, but with the cocktail differently shaken.

Free of nerves now, I knew I had to make some comment about her weight, or at least lever the talk in that direction. I told her again that she was looking good. This time she took the bait.

“You do realise there’s 20 pounds more of me these days?” She sounded wistful, as though she was staring at her thinner self and thinking, “That used to be me!”

I jumped immediately to her defence. “I can tell you’ve filled out a bit, but nothing for you to worry about. Honestly. Simone, it suits you. As if it’s the way you were meant to be.” That last thought took me by surprise, but the moment it came out it struck me as true. She did, somehow, seem more of herself, more the true Simone.

“But I’ve now got a little belly, Steve! So many clothes have got too tight. I’ve already given a lot of them away.”

“When did you do that?”

I think she found the question surprising. But, good sport, she answered it anyway. “Two years ago? A while past, anyway. I started gaining soon after we split up. Dave kept wanting to eat out.”

She started circling a finger round her wine glass, looking sad and vulnerable. I was moved, and wished she could see herself as I saw her, newly transformed and beautiful.

With regret I realised I had to go. Karen and dinner were waiting. We made some tentative arrangements. “Better call me at work,” I said, giving her my business card.

“I’ll squirrel this away.” Then, standing up, she prepared for departure by stretching her arms up and out, like a bird’s wings - a movement that lifted her white blouse sufficiently to expose the layer of fat padding her waist. It was like a vision of heaven, abruptly ended when she pulled the blouse down with the swift gesture of someone used to regularly adjusting her clothes. We kissed, fervently; then she walked off, her bottom swinging inside tight slacks. 20 pounds, I kept on thinking as I wended my home, 20 pounds . . .

By the time I’d reached my doorstep, guilt had hit me. I knew that the next time I saw Simone, I wouldn’t tell Karen about it. I’d tell a lie, or be conveniently vague: anything but the truth. I tried telling myself that if I picked up the reins with Simone, it would have nothing to do with Karen herself. But that was a fudge. It was about Karen, as well as Simone. With Karen I felt bound by habit and duty, but not overpowering love. Whether it was love with Simone, or nostalgia, or unvarnished lust, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that the force she exerted was real, driving, and dangerous.

I found Karen down in the kitchen, fretting among the saucepans. It was almost serving time. “I thought I’d have to call out the police. What took you so long?”

“We got trapped reminiscing. Sorry, I should have called.”

She looked at me with beady eyes. “You won’t be making a thing of this, will you? Seeing your old girlfriend?”

“No, no, of course not.” Lie number one.

“It’s going to be haddock,” she said, pulling from the oven two white slabs of fish. They looked singularly unappetising. “How is Simone, anyway? Different? The same?”

“She seems well. She’s put on a bit of weight.” I added that partly because I enjoyed saying it, partly because I thought it might help Karen not see Simone as a threat.

“Wasn’t she always going to the gym?”

“Not so much now. She’s grown a little chubby.”

“Well, that’s not our problem,” Karen said, brushing the topic out of the way as she guided the vegetables to the dinner plates. Then she gave me a straight look. “She is out of your system, isn’t she?”

“Absolutely. No problem there. ” Lie number two.

The haddock proved as tasteless as I’d expected. Simone’s taste continued to linger, and she kept popping up in my head even when I did the right husbandly thing, asking Karen about her day, generally being solicitous and interested. All the while I kept thinking about Simone’s slim body slowly softening year by year, say half a pound a month, slow enough for no-one for a time to notice. And then, suddenly, the moment of truth: the favourite jeans that wouldn’t fit; the shock encounter with the scales; the comments from people, certainly Dave, about her chubbier face or the fat built up on her tummy. It was as though I was going back in time, feeling Simone’s own discomfort at watching her old body disappear.

When she called me at work a week later, wondering if an evening might be possible, I immediately said yes. I told Karen I had a new project at work. I’d have fed her some made-up details if she asked, but she didn’t. “Better get dinner for yourself on Wednesday,” I said. “Ok, I’ll get some haddock.”

Once again, lying made me feel guilty, so did saying goodbye to her as I left for work on the big day. Yet by the time I’d got to the end of the street I could already feel the black cloud lifting. I told myself I was only going to absent myself from my marriage for a few hours. I was only locking Karen briefly in a box. I would be back. The box would be reopened.

We’d arranged to meet at a restaurant south of the river, Quaglino’s, new to me. It was a typical family-run Italian place, with too many waiters hovering about. I wondered why Simone had chosen it. She was already there, wearing a form-fitting sleeveless black dress, probably bought recently, with the curves of her breasts and her little tummy visible but not under stress. I noticed this time the smooth glow of her bare arms, visibly meatier in the upper reaches. “Well!” she said, touching hands; “Who’d have thought it, after six years?” I nodded agreement. Our eyes locked together; we sighed heavily; and if the waiters hadn’t been hovering, we could probably have stayed in that state for at least ten minutes more.

But we had to move on. From the menu she chose soup and pasta; I picked a chicken salad. The food was nothing special, though it served its purpose. I found a new kind of pleasure simply in watching Simone eat. She ate more quickly than before. Once again we reminisced, yet I felt we were now marking time. As soon as the main course was over I glanced round the restaurant’s walls, with faded signed photos of supposed celebrities and photos of the proprietor grinning. “Simone, why are we here? It looks like the decor hasn’t changed in 50 years.”

“Proximity, Steve. It’s around the corner from my place. I thought we could go there for – dessert.”

I nodded knowingly. “Ah yes, dessert.” I looked at her in her tight black dress, her flesh glowing. I felt I could eat her alive. “Dave I take it is still in the Philippines?”

“He is. He wouldn’t be joining us.” We immediately paid the bill.

The flat was pleasant, though lacking in personality. Furniture, shelving, mantelpiece, mirror: each followed the other with a yawn. She told me the flat had originally been Dave’s mother’s. Simone obviously didn’t like it either. “Make yourself at home,” she said coyly, pointing to a beige sofa before disappearing into what I supposed was the bedroom.

I loosened my shirt, but thought it best to go no further for the moment. Instead I patrolled the lounge’s decorations. Sports DVDs: obviously Dave’s. A few rom coms: Simone’s. Edward D. Wood’s masterpiece Plan 9 from Outer Space: definitely Simone’s. On the mantelpiece, a photo of the pair of them in Venice, taken when Simone was closer to her old slimmer self, though already a bit rounder. Books were the kind given for Christmas presents. Dave again seemed in evidence: biographies of sportsmen; humour books that I didn’t think Simone would find funny. Tucked away I found what was probably one of her own purchases, How to Lose Weight Without Trying Very Hard. It didn’t look as if it had been read.

“The drinks are in the cabinet,” she called out. I crouched down, and was about to extract a whisky bottle when the bedroom door opened. Simone was standing naked except for her bra and panties, and a come hither look in her eyes. “Or is it time for cheesecake?” she said. As if to help me make up my mind, she let her bra drop to the floor. Her panties followed.

Staggered, amazed, I managed to mutter “Definitely”, then began moving forward towards a body which I now could see had become sweetly softened all over. An athlete’s body, machine-trimmed, had become the body of the normal child-bearing woman; a healthy woman, who doesn’t miss any meals. Though her chubbier face had attracted me first, it now became clear that most of the pounds had settled round her middle. The flesh on her tummy curved and shimmered, leading the eye naturally down to her hips and thighs, which had widened enough to give her a touch of the pear shape. She certainly couldn’t be called fat, or plump, and she wasn’t I’m sure officially overweight. Even so, over the missing six years she had clearly laid down the foundations for becoming a voluptuous woman.

“Well, this is me,” she said, apologetically. We fell immediately into an embrace. How differently she felt, cushioned with her extra flesh. There was more of her to get hold of, curves I just wasn’t used to. The force of our fondling took us to the edge of the bed, with me kneeling the floor. As she sat, I watched entranced as her tummy’s curve followed the laws of physics and bulged into a definite roll spread across the width of her waist, the fat scissored by two creases. Impulse took over, and one of my roving hands slid down her arm to poke and tweak her spare tyre. “Where did all this come from?” I said, playfully.

She looked down at her waist. “I told you I’d put on weight.” Tweaking again, I replied that it was very sexy. “Oh yes? You try squeezing into office suits that don’t fit.”

I told her that was sexy too. I moved up to plant kisses over her breasts. They had to have gone up a cup size, maybe two.

By now Simone was giggling. “Steve, wouldn’t we make more progress if you took off your clothes? That is what’s normally done.”

Feeling a fool, I ripped off my shirt, kicked off my shoes, yanked down my trousers, and levered both of us horizontal. In olden times, if I laid on top, she’d have felt pretty much hard as a board. Now I sensed myself sinking into her, her breasts half squashed, a little extra chin dancing under her face, the fat on her tummy the perfect cushion as I thrust myself in, pulsing with a rhythm that chimed exactly with her cries and moans. It felt good. It felt very good.

And it did so, I was sure, because she was fatter. The cushion effect was important. But she was also simply more beautiful, more arousing. Before Simone materialised at my door I’d never considered what you might call the aesthetic effect of gaining weight; but the change in her was so potent, and so beneficial, that I knew I’d never want her to go back to her old lean physique. I also knew, then and there, that I now had a new mission in life: I wanted to encourage her to eat.

Passion took us sky high that night. Both of us had the thought, I think, that it might never be as good again. So we clung to each other until exhaustion took over, along with the awkward realisation that I had a home and a wife to go to. We said little; we didn’t need to. Finally our bodies separated. As Simone pulled herself up and her torso twisted, two little flesh folds appeared in the flesh on the side of her back. Another new addition to the landscape.

“Can you work late another night soon?” she asked. I said I was sure that could be arranged. “You don’t have time for some cheesecake? I do actually have some dessert.”

I could picture it in the kitchen, waiting to be sliced up – I imagined blueberry. But I had to be practical. “I’d better not. Eat some for me, will you?”

“I will. Good sex makes me hungry.” She lingered over the last word, as if it were the cheesecake itself.

I looked up from putting on my shoes. “That’s interesting.”

Last edited by Britt Reid; 07-24-2011 at 12:59 PM.
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Old 07-23-2011, 08:05 PM   #2
Join Date: Nov 2005
Posts: 44
Swordfish has said some nice things
Default Old Girlfriend, New Fat, Part 2 - by Swordfish (~BBW,~SWG, Romance)


I was back home at 9.30. Karen seemed unconcerned. When she asked me what the extra work was about, I told her our firm was investigating a merger, and we had to plan strategy quickly. She didn’t seem very interested. I’d grabbed a bite, I told her. There was more “merger work” a few days later, and a few days after that. I knew I couldn’t continue the excuse indefinitely, but it still saw us through numerous weeks of hot nights in Simone’s apartment. We fell into a pattern. An early dinner, though not at Quaglino’s. Often we went to a new fish restaurant, recently opened; I urged her not to neglect the chips, which were crisp and tangy beyond belief. She didn’t. Then, her place and the magic bed; then, sometimes, a restorative dessert, sometimes chocolate profiteroles. I loved the way Simone licked her spoon as the final mouthfuls came to an end. I also liked thinking of the calories possibly wending their way to layer her with a little more flesh. She’d certainly developed her appetite.

Bed continued to be wonderful. Some nights were better than others, but each brought gratification and joy. Foreplay alone was hot stuff. I never tired of my fingers prowling over her new body landscape, lingering over the gossamer softness above her crotch, or circling over her breasts towards her buds. The weight she’d added seemed to make Simone extra sensitive to touch. In the act itself she certainly came more quickly than before. I know I did, and I knew why. The way she savoured the chips and licked her spoon began to suggest that Simone knew too.

Fortune continued to shine, keeping Dave in the Philippines. Even Karen helped out at times. Sometimes she worked at the bookshop at night. One weekend she went to a literary conference about some weedy English poet whose name began with a W. Another weekend, an old American school friend with money flew in and insisted she joined her in Paris. Those weekends were the best: not just because of the sex, but because it became possible to do the rest of the things a normal couple would do. Spend the entire night together, wake up together. Have breakfast. Shop at the supermarket. They gave us a sense of what things might be like “if things were different”, a phrase I found myself often using. By now of course both Simone and I had admitted that our current relationships weren’t really working.

Unlike our own relationship. Simone especially was blossoming. The clinching proof came one Sunday morning during one of those precious weekends. I’d stayed over, and was lingering in the kitchen after breakfast reading the paper. Suddenly she appeared before me, naked on top, but with coral-coloured jeans down below. The coral colour was striking. More striking still was the jeans’ front zip, hung loose halfway down, progress blocked by her looming tummy. She breathed in, struggling to pull the zip further up, her fingers squishing deep into the fat. The zip advanced just a little, only to fall back as soon as she breathed out. Her tummy sat there, victorious.

“You see what’s happened, Mr Steve? This is all your fault!” She sounded more amused than aggrieved, though I still detected a faint note of reproach. “These jeans fitted two months ago.”

It didn’t come as a revelation. As the weeks had passed I’d already realised that our meals and post-sex treats were having the effect I’d hoped for and had made a soft body softer. In bed, or when we shared the shower, I’d noticed her belly had widened and deepened, and her upper arms grown fleshier. Her face too had softened a fraction more, enough to put her chin’s occasional pillow of fat on more or less permanent display. But seeing that zip, helpless before her stomach: well, you couldn’t have asked for a more graphic confirmation.

I told her there was nothing to worry about, and said I’d put on a bit of weight myself. She joined me sitting at the kitchen table. It was hard to stop looking at the bulge of tummy fat, so soft and creamy, oozing over her jeans. “But you haven’t put on another ten pounds!”

“You stepped on the scales?”

“I stepped on the scales. You know I’m now technically overweight? The body mass thing?” She still sounded lightly amused, though I knew that inside she was still casting a wistful look back into her slimmer past.

This was a historic moment, and I couldn’t let the matter rest. “What’s the damage, exactly?”

She had no problems obliging. “Just over ten stone. 142 pounds. Dave will kill me when he comes back. He already thought I’d put on too much.”

“Maybe he won’t notice.”

Laughing, she looked down at her tummy spill. “He’d have to be blind!”

Trying to keep things light-hearted, I said that she ought to celebrate becoming officially overweight by eating the remaining muffin, the one breakfast leftover. She rolled up the Sunday newspaper and hit me. Undeterred, I then suggested it might be fun if she complemented the jeans by wearing a t-shirt or a blouse that also didn’t fit, or at least was extremely tight. She looked at me in wonder. “You really do like me fatter, don’t you?”

Willing to play along, she returned a minute or so later wearing a red blouse, not yet buttoned up. “I’m surprised I’ve still got this. Maybe you remember it?” I quickly realised that I did: a classy blouse in a claret kind of red - it didn’t go with the coral at all. Most of its class came from the buttons, which were square, black, and shiny. “I can’t have worn this in at least three years.”

The top button, one of five, was positioned just at the point where her breasts began. She had to yank both sides of the blouse to slip the button into its hole, but she made it. The next button came just before the breasts’ peak, above the buds. This time she had to yank harder, but by breathing in, and with much puckering of the blouse, she eventually managed to close the two sides, at least round the button itself. Then came the hardest task, pulling the blouse across the breasts’ peak to where button number three was waiting, almost where the breasts’ curves subsided and the curve of her stomach began.

She puffed a bit with her exertions. “Do you realise how humiliating this is?” But she said it with a laugh. Finally, after repeated tugs she worked the third button into its hole. It looked as though it was going to pop off any second. “You know what this reminds me of?” she said; “putting a blouse on Mount Everest”. The fourth button, positioned just at the start of her belly, proved relatively easy. The fifth button, down at the bottom, had always been more for ornament than use: just as well, as the bulk of her belly now meant that it couldn’t be done up at all.

I gave her a rousing burst of applause, and followed her into the bathroom. “God, I’ve got so chubby!” she cried, looking at herself in the mirror. “I look as if I’m about to burst.”

I loved every pound, especially the pounds she’d just put on. They were “our” pounds, I told her; they were love pounds, and I wanted her to be as happy with them as I was. “Well, I’d be happier if I could fit into my clothes.” As she turned swiftly, the third button caved in to the pressure, flew off, and hit the mirror.


Soon after that things changed. Simone phoned me up at work – not a regular occurrence. Dave was coming back at the end of the week: she’d just had an email. I thought of him as a snake in the grass, slithering along, about to poison our Arcadia. A few days’ later, once I’d returned home straight after work like a good boy, Karen said something that got me seriously worried. She said she’d been in the West End and had met and chatted with Jason, a colleague from Witchett and Phipps who must have out running an errand, or possibly pursuing an affair of his own. They’d met before at some social gathering. Idly chatting, she told him that the merger plans were keeping me pretty busy. Jason said what merger? Told her he knew nothing about it. “So what’s been happening?” she said to me, flashing her gimlet eyes.

My brain whirred for just a second. I knew delay would be fatal. “He wouldn’t know anything about it. He’s not in the loop. It’s being kept pretty secret in case things fall through. The effect on the stock market, you know. I should have told you to keep quiet about it yourself.”

“What could I tell people? You haven’t even told me the name of the other company. For all I know it might not exist.”

This was getting stickier. “It certainly does. It’s – it’s Beringer Solutions” - God knows why I called it that. “Getting to be very big in Asia, or it will if we take it over.”

“And what is it a solution to? Not an affair, by any chance?”

I should have confessed immediately. But I felt like a rabbit in a car’s headlights, and I couldn’t think. “Of course not. You can look them up on the internet.” This was the stupidest thing to say, because Karen was bound to do it, probably in the next five minutes. Heading off into the kitchen, she continued to sound sceptical: “It still seems strange that Jason doesn’t know about it.”

“Well, frankly, Karen, he’s a bit of an idiot. He’s out of the loop on a lot of things.” “Hm,” she said.

I went to the bathroom, did some business, dashed my face with water, and tried to calm down, which was very difficult. Then I ascended into the work study we’d made of the spare bedroom, only to find Karen already on her computer. “Beringer Solutions,” she was reading from the screen. “It’s in New Zealand.”

“That’s kind of Asia, isn’t it?” I was flabbergasted. Beringer Solutions actually existed?

Karen pressed on. “But it’s in this list of business companies that have ceased trading. Look . . .”

I’d gone in too far; I couldn’t back out. “That’s an old web page. The company’s been revived. New management, new goals. Shouldn’t you be monitoring the pork chops?”

“I’m not the one who burns dinner.” Another twist of the knife. And then and there I knew I couldn’t continue the charade. Things had to be brought into the open. But not that night. I had to talk to Simone first. If I could hold off Karen for just another day. . .

Either Karen was a very good actress, or my preposterous alibi was starting to stick; anyway, she then dropped the matter. After dinner I popped out, ostensibly to the off-license, in reality to phone Simone. Grim news, she said, in a suspicious whisper. Dave had been able to catch an earlier plane, and was right now shaking off his long-haul flight in a bubble-filled bath. What a ghastly image that conjured up. She then said he’d told her she was looking “piggy” and needed to go on a diet. “Tell him to get lost,” I said. I then plunged into my own travails, Beringer Solutions included. We both agreed things couldn’t stay as they were.

“You know what I think?” she said. “I think all four of us should get together and talk about it. Be adult about it. It couldn’t make things any worse.”

I thought this was crazy. “Get together? Like over a meal? We’re chattering politely, then suddenly I tell everyone I’m banging Simone?”

“Things happen in relationships. It’s not unusual. Actually a meal sounds a very good idea. We’d be more civil about things.”

“There’s such a thing as a food fight. We need to think about this properly, in person. Can I see you tomorrow?”

Simone’s whisper got even quieter. Maybe she heard Dave’s bath water gurgling. “I could just about make it for lunch.”

She made lunch, in tight office gear that only emphasised her stomach’s enlarged curve. Dave couldn’t have been pleased. Over hamburgers and fries we chewed things over, especially things about Karen, our marriage, and her being a displaced American. Simone said that it sounded as if Karen would be much happier cutting her losses and going back home if things did break up, since she obviously felt herself an outsider. At the same time she let slip that Dave had just mentioned some American computer job that might be in the pipeline; he belatedly seemed to be becoming a whiz kid.

That didn’t help Karen, I told her. Then I remembered that she herself had a computer problem: some scrolling glitch, intermittent, but still maddening. “Dave doesn’t do house calls, does he?”

“He could if we came for dinner.”

“I still can’t see it. What am I going to say to Karen? ‘I just bumped into Simone again, and her partner fixes computers. Let’s invite them to dinner.’ It’s ridiculous.”

“She swallowed Beringer Solutions, didn’t she?”

I wasn’t so sure about that, I told her. Then she asked if I was going to finish my chips. “You know,” she said, “I’ve thought of one way I could speed my separation from Dave.”

“What’s that?”

She dipped my chips in the tomato ketchup. “I could get a little fatter.”


Last edited by Britt Reid; 07-24-2011 at 12:53 PM.
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Old 07-23-2011, 08:11 PM   #3
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Default Old Girlfriend, New Fat - Part 3 ~BBW,~SWG, Romance


It took some weeks to stir the plot, gird our loins, and do other necessaries, but the ridiculous eventually came about. Karen raised an eyebrow when I told her I’d phoned Simone. “I thought Simone could ask her partner Dave about your computer glitch”. “Oh yes?” she said.

Even so, the possibility of a glitch solution seemed to appeal. So I gradually upped the ante. Simone asking Dave’s advice became Simone and Dave coming over for drinks, which in turn became Simone and Dave coming to dinner. I hoisted that bit up as my way of apologising for the burnt vegetables, as I said I’d do all the preparation and cooking, and all Karen needed to do was, as the old song said, “glitter and be gay”. Not that she could easily do either. I found Karen’s willingness to accept the dinner idea more than a bit suspicious, though it could have been that she liked the promise of new faces and a change. Our own dinners, after all, had become deadly dull: the same food, the same conversation.

Dave, according to Simone, definitely found the proposal bizarre. A dinner? After-hours computer servicing? For the wife of a former boyfriend? Yet for the sake of “old times” and being friendly he seemed prepared to come along. She thought he hadn’t the slightest suspicion anything had been going on behind his back, other than Simone eating too much. Then I asked her if she’d ever cleared out the foreign hairs probably trapped in her shower’s drain. She said she hadn’t.

Whether Simone and I at this famous meal would really admit our ongoing affair – well, that was still a subject of debate. I wanted to get there by degrees; Simone urged a more direct approach. By this time we were communicating only by phone and text, deciding to lay off secret meetings in the preparatory weeks. We said we’d see how the evening went, and both of us promised not to make any move unilaterally.

I was torn about what to cook. Too fancy a meal, and it would seem absurd. Too skimpy or plain, and it would be rude. I went for beef bourguignon – something that needed a slow cook (representing effort) and had a touch of luxury about it, yet wasn’t impossibly grand. Besides, I thought Simone might like the roast potatoes.

Visiting me in the kitchen on the designated Sunday, Karen surveyed the pots and pans, the chopped this and that. She looked decidedly sceptical. “All this for an extinguished old flame, and a bit of computer help? Haven’t things got out of hand?”

“Maybe,” I said, chopping the garlic, “but it’s too late now.”

It certainly was, and before I knew it, with the stew still simmering, a ring came at the door. Then the reality hit me, too. What had we been thinking of, two lovers parading ourselves before the very people we were deceiving? Nothing good could come of it. Yet there they stood, Simone and Dave, about to cross the threshold. “Welcome!” I said, with what must have looked a very plastic smile; “Good to see you!” Karen was soon by my side. She was polite and dutiful, but had the aura of a detective looking for clues.

Settling them down, my first priority was to size up the legendary Dave. I hadn’t seen him in six years, when he’d been something of a snooper himself, sniffing round Simone behind my back, just as I was now doing behind his. I’d almost forgotten what he looked like. He was long and thin, with light brown, almost ginger-coloured hair. The ensemble gave him the look of a carrot, a geek of a carrot, obsessed with computers. There was something dead about the eyes, the sign of someone with limited horizons. He seemed an odd partner for Simone.

And there was Simone beside him, looking a little nervous in what I immediately recognised as the sleeveless black dress she’d worn at Quaglino’s and the hot night that followed. What had been a snug fit a few months ago had now become ridiculously tight. How had she got herself into it? Creases criss-crossed the sleek material, especially around her hips. Her prominent belly was on full display, along with the buxom breasts that seemed ready to pop out dancing. Two fleshy upper arms gushed out from under the dress’s top.

Sitting alongside on the sofa, Karen looked exceedingly pinched, almost anorexic, though Simone herself had once been almost as thin. And now? Ripe as the juiciest peach. How could Dave not approve? One time, as she fiddled with her dress (it kept wanting to ride up), I saw him staring at her bulging waist, his dead eyes shaken into a look of distaste.

As we chatted through the pre-dinner drinks, another thing – a remarkable thing – swiftly became clear. Karen definitely approved of Dave. This was most odd. I’d come to think that Karen didn’t like anyone, including herself, yet here she was, constantly giving him lingering glances, deliberately keeping him in the conversation, asking him minutiae about the Philippines with a degree of heat that I never thought she possessed. It was as if she thought him the most captivating person in the world. Dave, in turn, seemed to find her interesting, certainly easy to talk to, even when Karen started quoting poetry, probably by the guy with the W. Between the two of them, there sometimes wasn’t much for Simone and me to do, except exchange tense glances and smiles.

Eventually I excused myself to serve the dinner. Karen, dragging herself away from the fascinating carrot, belatedly joined me. “Going alright so far, I think,” I said, laying out the plates on the kitchen table.

Karen didn’t answer directly. “Simone’s put weight on, hasn’t she? Wasn’t she always slim in your photos? She’s clearly outgrown that dress.”

“I told you she’d got a bit chubby.”

“More than a bit, I’d say.”

“I think the weight crept up over time - you know, the way it does.” Karen, of course, didn’t know at all. “How do you find Dave?” I added.

“Oh yes,” she piped, rather airily. “Interesting chap. I hope he can cure my scrolling glitch.”

“Sure he can, sure he can.” By now I was carefully spooning out the stew. “Let’s have the vegetables in dishes, then everyone can help themselves.”

“I expect Simone will take quite a few.” I told Karen not to be catty.

We then moved to what passed for the dining table, and summoned our guests. True to expectations, Simone didn’t stint on the roast potatoes. I saw Dave eyeing her as she took a big share, but if he wanted to say something he bit his lip. I kept on seeing her double chin, moving in and out as she ate, and talked, and listened; it was obvious that she had gained more weight in the few weeks since I’d seen her. She seemed to be glorying in it, sitting back after cleaning her plate, a hand briefly rubbing her belly as a sign of her pleasure in the meal.

Picking up her lead, I said to her, “I hope you’ve got room for dessert. It’s going to be cocoanut ice cream.”

“Lovely!” Then, in a confidential girly voice she said to Karen, “Dave keeps trying to make me lose weight. But he’s not having much success.” Simone and Dave had obviously had a brittle time since he returned.

Dave looked on discomfited. Karen immediately rode to his rescue, asking about the food in the Philippines. And off they went on another weird duet of billing and cooing. Really, I hadn’t seen such flirting since I’d last visited the ostriches at London Zoo. By now I’d come to think Karen and Dave were mounting this gruesome display just to needle us. They knew something was up between us. They had to.

Eventually this preposterous meal came to an end. Then Dave leaped into action. “Was there some glitch with your computer you wanted me to check out?”

“Oh yes!” Karen said, voice tinkling like a little bell. “Very kind of you. Will you excuse us for a moment?” Dave joined in the faint apologies, then the two of them went off towards the spare room, leaving us among the meal’s remains, feeling bemused.

“God, this has been bizarre,” I said to Simone, before firmly clasping her warm, soft hands and giving her my biggest kiss. “They are play-acting, aren’t they?”

Simone shrugged, but didn’t seem that interested. “I’ve missed you, Steve.” “Me too,” I said, and we slid into a passionate embrace. Uncurling ourselves, Simone spoke urgently and directly. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think we should do what adults do and talk it over with Dave and Karen. I want to do the other thing that adults do. Just be brutal, and walk out.”

There was a look of hard resolve on her face, something I’d not seen before. I took it as a sign of her exasperation with Dave, like her needling remarks during the meal. “I get the impression that things with Dave haven’t been easy.”

“They’ve been foul. You should have heard him when I was putting on this dress. It was so hard trying to find one that fitted.”

“I can see that. But forget him, think of us.” I ran a hand over her curviest places, which only increased my body temperature. By a series of long kisses and hugs we had now moved ourselves into the kitchen, with Simone leaning against the oven, looking more opulent than ever before, hands pressed hard on the oven top. I wanted to get at her. I wanted to get inside her. Or at the very least undo her dress.

“Is it buttoned up anywhere?” My breaths were getting shorter and heavier.

“At the back,” she panted, “but we don’t want to get caught. . .” Too late: I’d found the buttons, and ripped two off in my rush to enjoy her creamy soft curves. To advance any further she’d have to do the drastic thing of lifting the dress over her head. Still, by loosening the buttons I’d given myself room to see the breasts leaping out of her bra and press my fingers into her midriff bulge. The depth of the flesh seemed without end. “You know, Simone, you’re really getting fat!”

“Good,” she said. “It’ll turn off Dave.” Then she undid my trouser belt. “Your place or mine?” she whispered in a husky voice.

Pausing to consider, I was pulled up short - not by the question, but by the sounds I heard seeping down from overhead. The source was unmistakeable. The bed in the spare bedroom was creaking. There was rhythmic thrusting. There were rhythmic groans. Passion had conquered computer technology; Karen and Dave were hard at it.

“Bloody hell, that was quick!” I cried, staring at the ceiling in disbelief. Then I cast my eyes around. The location problem, along with others, was now easily solved. “How do you feel about the kitchen table?”


Last edited by Britt Reid; 07-24-2011 at 11:04 AM.
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Old 07-23-2011, 08:16 PM   #4
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Damn me, I've titled this thread wrongly, and also the thread that contains part two. Comes of doing this at 4 in the morning. The threads should be titled just like the story: OLD GIRLFRIEND, NEW FAT.

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Old 07-24-2011, 01:14 AM   #5
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Excellently written, sounds plausibly realistic. I hope you will continue.
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Old 07-24-2011, 03:08 AM   #6
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The other parts are written and posted! Look further down the list of threads.
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Old 07-24-2011, 12:57 PM   #7
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OK - Lou Grant combined the threads so they're all together and I handled the formatting. including the post titles. Everything should now be correct in one thread as you intended.

Please keep up the great work and don't beat up on yourself - if a posting error occurs (which of us hasn't done it?) you can usually get it corrected with a simple PM.

Last edited by Britt Reid; 07-25-2011 at 09:27 AM.
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Old 07-25-2011, 05:17 AM   #8
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I see there is a new story by Swordfish and I know without even reading it that it will be great.

So no surprise having finished reading Old Girlfriend, New Fat, that it lived up to my high expectations of your stories.
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Old 07-25-2011, 05:23 AM   #9
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Loved this. The only problem is I wish there was more.
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Old 07-29-2011, 09:09 AM   #10
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Whoa! Great story, Swordfish...
It comes down to a simple choice. Get busy eating or get busy starving! I prefer eating, myself!
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Old 07-30-2011, 07:01 AM   #11
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Originally Posted by TheOwl View Post
I see there is a new story by Swordfish and I know without even reading it that it will be great.
I agree! Full acknowledge!

Thank you, swordfish, for this great story, although with a very sudden end.
I always appreciate your stories!
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Old 07-30-2011, 10:18 AM   #12
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Thank you! The ending may seem sudden, but I wanted the reader to be pulled up short - and if you think about it, it does after all tie the plot up, with all four characters obviously set up for a permanent partner swap. Living full-time with Steve, Simone would of course put on more weight.
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Old 08-15-2011, 07:59 AM   #13
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Default Yes, yes, yes!

My favorite writer is back!
Same skills and humor.
Holy Lord, Sweet Mother of God, Jesus and so on: I adore you all!
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Old 08-10-2013, 06:49 PM   #14
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An excellent read. A real pleasure to revisit Swordfish's stories.
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Old 08-23-2013, 04:25 PM   #15
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Very nice writing man! Really pulls you in.
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Old 08-24-2013, 04:49 AM   #16
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Default Great Fun

Nice story. Fun reading and allows the mind to engage the possibilities of the future. Well done.
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