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Old 07-07-2014, 05:35 PM   #1
Cylon_bob
 
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Default Florence Reflects (BBW, WG)

Florence Reflects
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The morning after her 29th birthday, Florence took a long, hard look at herself.

Stripped down to her underwear, her reflection showed that the past year had been very unkind on her trim, feminine body, she thought, her fingers digging into the softness of her stomach. No, she thought, it wasn't all from the past year. It was the past five, ever since college graduation.

Those were the days, when her stomach was flat and firm, not fat and flabby. A time when her butt was well-rounded, shaped like an apple, soft to the touch, but firm. She turned where she stood, craning her neck to see the fat, blubbery buns that she'd made for herself, and her thick, meaty thighs supporting the rest of her heavy, over-fed body.

God, what did she do to herself? Her hand went to her face, rounded out now, but no less beautiful for it. Two chins, she mused, once upon a time, her angular chin was a point of pride to her, her trademark look, you might say.

Softening, that was the trend she saw, if you could still use such a word to describe what had happened to her body. Softening implies a firm body being coated in a thin layer of fat, Florence hadn't 'softened a little,' she'd fattened a lot.

Looking at her reflection, there was no trace of the slim, athletic cheerleader she'd been barely five years ago. No more tight, sculpted stomach, just soft, fluffy, roundness, all convex curves, pushing outward from her person. Thin, wiry arms were fleshy, defined by fatness instead of firmness. Five years of indulging, eating more than she should, all of it showed in the way she had changed.

It took five years for her to become this fat, but last night had been big enough to leave a mark. It wasn't much, just a small inflation of her already grapefruit-sized breasts, growing them just enough to test their cotton constraints, spilling slightly over the cups, the straps cutting into her ever growing layers of back fat. Well, if she had to get fatter, she thought, and time was telling her she did, bigger boobs was the best way to do it.

Plus, it was a welcome change. Most of the time, the fat went to other places. Well, one other place.

She stepped backwards, she had to, if she wanted to get her wide, fertile hips within the frame. Most of her weight went there, it was her problem area, without a doubt. No, that wasn't it, calling it her 'problem area' implied she disliked her larger lower half.

The cellulite and stretch marks, she wasn't a fan of those. The stretch marks were a particular fear, she used cocoa butter daily to avoid them, but as the mirror testified, she wasn't entirely successful. Dimples were spread across the pale expanse of her large, luscious legs, popping up at random alongside the faded paleness of the lightning bolt pattern of stretch marks.

That was the closest to a negative Florence could imagine. Her extended curves, problematic though they could be, they were nice. They made her feel hot, that's for sure. She struck a pose, her hip cocked to the side, little rolls of fat bunching up on her side, and held it for a second. Aside from the rolls, sexy.

But she couldn't just ignore the rolls. Or that whole area in general.

Florence's attitude towards gaining weight was like this, Fatter boobs, great, bigger butt, fantastic, fatter midsection, well, not so excited. But it wasn't anything she could help. Getting fat meant her booty getting gigantic, and that, she loved. It also meant growing a bit of a belly, and that, she wasn't so fond of.

She turned to the side to get a better view. It didn't look any better. Maybe it was the pizza she'd drunkenly ordered for herself last night doing it, or more likely the one she'd ordered after it, but she could pass for pregnant, probably. Big bulging belly, round and puffy, white, and above that, her white, cream-colored breasts looking hefty, and inflated by indulgence, yeah, she thought, if she saw a woman like herself on the streets, she'd think pregnant, 6 months along, most likely.

She wasn't pregnant, she knew that, she'd gotten fat, though, fat enough to pass for pregnant on an empty stomach.

That her stomach was empty was an important distinction. Her stomach capacity was impressive, it always had been. She remembered in college, going to buffets, thin and hungry, and leaving full, her belly as round as a bowling ball, stuffed to capacity with as much chicken fried rice, or chow mein as she could manage. She could fake looking pregnant back then, easy, just give her access to a buffet.

Now, she looked preggers, and she hadn't eaten a thing. Fatness.

Not to mention, she could eat the same amount as then, and still feel hungry. Five years of feeding herself beyond satiety, going for seconds when her stomach screamed for her to stop, and all of that piggishness had an effect, and right then, it was staring her right in her rounded, chubby face.

College was the turning point, that was a fact. Not college itself, she'd stayed skinny all the way through those four years, but the part after that, where her gym access was cut off and she made new friends with some pretty serious weight problems.

Erica was the big one, literally a three hundred plus pound blimp of a woman with breasts like zeppelins, and as a bad influence on the then-thin Florence. They'd met at work, same job, same boss, same massive, overflowing jar of chocolates to snack on throughout the day, plenty of common ground. Before they'd worked together for even one month, the well-chested Erica had started warming up to her, talking, sharing snacks, joking around.

They ate lunch together, Florence's tray looking empty compared to that of her morbidly obese friend, at least at first. Without even noticing, Florence started eating larger lunches. Over time, her stomach capacity increased, and her already larger lunches grew more, little bits at a time, a second serving of pasta, a dessert, two desserts, always a little, her tray looking almost empty compared to the small feast Erica was eating.

Now, her lunches weren't much different, maybe even just as bad, seeing as her sweet tooth was bigger than Erica's. Erica was eating more than ever, too, she'd put on some weight, too.

For a second, Florence thought about suggesting Erica diet with her, lose some lard, but nah. That would never happen. They'd had that conversation, four pants sizes ago.

That was a particularly traumatic experience, Florence recalled. It was at work, and she had dropped a chocolate from the drawer. She'd bent to retrieve it, and learned that her pants couldn't take the strain. They'd talked after that, Erica and Florence, about getting fat, diets, all that, and Erica was pretty clear. How Florence felt about her big, bodacious bottom, that's how Erica was about the beach balls that were her boobs.

Erica would never risk losing her boobage, so she was out of the running for potential diet partners. Who else was there? Who else could she blame for this belly? Who else did she know that needed to lose weight?

Well, there was Marie, her drinking buddy, she was a factor in Florence's fattening, too. She looked down at the two large supreme pizza boxes on the floor standing witness to how she ate while drunk. Drunk Florence was an unrestrained piglet, she'd eat anything in front of her, regardless of how much she'd already eaten, no care for dignity or comfort, just in greedy consumption. The pizza boxes brought back some memories from the night before, of her on all fours in her underwear, the pizza in front of her and her hanging gut below, wobbling with each movement she made, made heavy with indulgences. The worst part, she thought, she couldn't put any blame for this on Marie, it was after her party, after the cake and ice cream, and yet for some reason, drunk Florence had thought pizza was the way to go. Marie might not have been there, but it was her influence that caused this pig out.

She'd done plenty of drinking in her life, but these intoxicated gorges, those were new, a habit she'd picked up from Marie. Marie wasn't as fat as Erica, but that wasn't for lack of eating. Get a few margaritas in her, she could close a buffet line all on her own. She could do it without the alcohol, only then she wouldn't have an excuse. Drinking with Marie, Florence had developed a love of both of high calorie sugar booze, and of buffet lines, the combination of which had landed her in this situation.

Marie was the kind of fat that should have a girl be up to losing some serious weight, Florence thought. She wasn't fat anywhere specific unlike Florence and Erica, just big all over, sort of like an average woman, only two feet wider and way softer, thanks to her constant, careless snacking and to regularly getting shit-faced and bingeing on any and all junk food in the surrounding area.

Florence didn't consider Marie as a diet partner for long, though. Marie was in a happy relationship. She really needed to lose weight, Florence thought, like, a lot, judging from the way her belly hung out over the waistband of her jeans, or even from how obviously obese she was with her muffin top and non-situational fat rolls, but it wasn't likely.

Florence was fat, yeah, she couldn't deny it, and Erica was a cow and a half, but Marie still was the one out of the three that anyone would call the fat one.

See, there are slang words for girls with amazingly generous chests. Big boobs can forgive a lot of sins, and the MM-cups in Erica's chest make it difficult to recognize the size of her stomach. They say big boobs don't count if you're fat, but the truth is, they do, but they have to be that much bigger, and Erica's watermelons were that much bigger, plus another cup size.

On the other side, there are countless songs written to describe the glories of a girl with Florence's figure. A girl with a distinct waistline and an ass to take up both seats in a booth. The fact her waist was less than thin and more than chubby, unimportant in the context of the booty!

Marie, though, fat all over, was different. There are no songs for a girl like Marie, with her 46-38-49 figure, no titles except fatty, or piggy, or cow.

Yet there was at least one guy interested. Marie's man was more than accepting of his girlfriend's weight problem. He was beyond 'okay' with it, from what Florence could see. They hadn't said it out loud, at least not around her, but she could pick up hints.

She saw the delicate, tender way Sam fondled the flab around Marie's meaty midsection, she noticed how he was always offering them both food. She was smart enough to figure things out. She didn't know if they'd agreed to anything, but she knew Sam liked Marie fat, and who was she to come between them?

Florence was out of ideas. She was fat, that wasn't in question, she just was. Her options to lose weight were down to two. One was to exercise, and that stood exactly no chance of ever happening, and the other was for her to diet, which she would be doing alone. She left the mirror and walked to the couch, ultra aware of how each step sent shockwaves up her legs and across her gelatinous body, jiggles rippling across the expanse of her plumpened form.

Falling back on the couch, Florence felt immensely heavy. She could feel every second helping weighing her down, turned into fat by her constant inactivity and indulgence. The scale had put her weight somewhere around 220, but that was the last time she'd been checked, she was fatter now. She had to be, especially after last night.

She leaned back, relaxing completely, leaving her mostly naked body out in the open air. Looking down, she saw her gut poking up, from fatness, though, not from fullness as was usual. She straightened back up for a second, feeling her stomach bunch up into rolls, reminding her once more that she' crossed into fatty territory. She ignored that, though, reaching behind her to unhook the clasp, freeing her breasts from her bra.

Her heavy, F-cup breasts tumbled out, unsupported, falling off slightly to the sides of her so very fat stomach. She remembered them being firm and perky in college, but that was two cup sizes and more than a hundred pounds ago, she rationalized, she should just be glad for any level of perkiness they still had.

For a fat girl, she thought, she wasn't half-sexy. Big booty, thin waist, at least compared to her ass, big boobs, she had nothing to complain about. She looked at the pale dome of her tummy critically. She gave it a testing slap and watched the response rippling. Yeah, she thought, definitely fat.

A loud grumble sounded from the bloated bulge of her belly, reminding Florence how she lived her life. A few hours, no food, she was starving, this was the pattern, this is where the fatness came from. Now she had a choice.

Get food, keep the pattern going, packing pounds onto her padded body, or start the diet today. Tell herself 'no,' that no, she wouldn't have another plate of food. Do some sit-ups, side bends, get rid of the belly.

Or. . . A sinister voice in the back of her mind reminded her, you can order a pizza. . .

She debated back and forth with herself for a few seconds, on the down side, a dieting Florence would be so very hungry, and on the plus side, her plus sizes would start being too small. She could starve herself, alone, or stuff herself with friends. She could be a dieting fat ass, all alone, or she could be a happy fatass, surrounded by a bunch of even bigger women.

Another rumble.

That was it. She picked up her phone and hit 3 on the speed dial,

"Hey, yeah, this is Florence Macciata again. Yeah, the usual, large supreme. Actually, you know what, make it extra large. And add some breadsticks. Alright, yeah, thanks!"
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