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Old 02-05-2015, 05:18 AM   #1
Big Beautiful Dreamer
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Default The F Word

An accident at Thanksgiving leads to an accidental glimpse of someone who revels in her shape.
~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG, Eating, Acceptance

The F Word

Following Minna’s directions, I found the master bedroom and crossed to the door I guessed hid the bathroom. Opened the door. And stopped breathing.

I was looking at the back of a naked woman. And in the mirror I could see the front: Short hair – stained with gravy – round face – ditto, voluptuous breasts, and a magnificent tummy: Visibly rounded and full of dinner, and temptingly grabbable love handles sloping into a roll of flesh, barely dented at the waistline, pointing the way to paradise.

The woman snapped her head around.

“I… I… I am so sorry,” I stammered. “I… um…”

More poised than I (how hard was that), she quickly stepped into the shower and drew the curtain.

“You wanted the bathroom, right?”

“Um, uhm…”

She chuckled. “Help yourself. I’m Julianne, by the way. Rachel’s roommate.”

“Yeah. Uh… um… I’m Craig.” Shutting up now. I busied myself with fumbling open my jeans, uncomfortably snug now that my stomach was stuffed full of Thanksgiving dinner, and settling on the toilet.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to stare,” I added. First actual sentence of the conversation, at least from me. “You’re just so beautiful.”

I heard the inhalation. “Craig, I’m in the shower on the evening of Thanksgiving day, washing gravy off myself because Richard, possibly a little tipsy, tripped and spilled the refilled gravy boat on my head. I am particularly not in the mood for a line.” She paused.

“Pretty, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are,” I blurted out.

She chuckled again. “Craig. I’m fat.”

“Yeah, you are,” I said again. I was going to save this one. “A gloriously full woman’s bottom, magnificent thighs. And, uh, a beautifully round and rosy tummy warm and full of dinner, and, um, picture perfect love handles just begging to be grabbed, a slope of lower belly that I would love to bury my face in…” I stopped.

There was an audible pause from behind the shower curtain. Finally: “And blow raspberries on?”

“Big, round, ripe, juicy ones.”

Another pause. “Did you happen to close the bedroom door when you came in?”

“Uh, yeah.”

The water turned off. A hand snaked out and grabbed the towel from the hook. After a moment, Julianne stepped out, holding the towel in front of herself. She gave me a long look, up and down.

“Is that… are you…”

“Uhm, yes,” I said, painfully aware of just how erect I was.

She dropped the towel.

“You think this is beautiful.”

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I came even more to attention, and blushed. I might have gasped.

Wet and soap-scented. Hair plastered to her rosy round face. Those breasts, large and full, drooping slightly under their own weight, hugely ripe and plump.

Her tummy pale and stretched, holding a generous amount of the dinner we had just laid waste to. Those love handles, perfectly named, begging to be grabbed. The belly fold below her navel, a hammock I could lie upon forever. Thighs round and full, classical, womanly, drawing together toward her knees. A glimpse of pink and curvaceous calves.

She smiled, catlike. “You just came up to use the bathroom. They’re going to send out a search party soon.” She whispered her number in my ear. “Text me. Now.” Then she pushed me out.

I staggered into the bedroom and texted her. How soon?

I was back downstairs pretending that nothing had happened when my phone chimed. I pulled it out. How far away is your place?

Half an hour.

Then… thirty-six minutes.

It was more like forty-five minutes later that we were both naked and fondling each other in my bedroom.

“You really think this is beautiful,” she mumbled, biting my ear.

“Stop asking me that … oh … you know I do.”

She leaned into a hug and I held her, our breathing entwined, words unnecessary, and I felt her barriers slowly retract.

Wordlessly we got into bed. I began to stroke her midriff, slowly and gently. Almost an hour had passed since we’d eaten, and her belly was no longer tautly distended. Instead, it was warm and cushiony, slightly firm but with a very pleasant give to it. I was feasting my eyes as well as my hands, reveling in the slope and fold of her body.

“I never do this,” she murmured.

“What, look incredibly hot and sexy?” I slid my hand up and oh so lightly cupped her left boob.

She blushed. “Jump into bed with a guy I just met.”

“I’m Rachel’s brother … you’re her roommate… we’re practically family,” I said. Bobbled that gloriously plump breast.

She closed her eyes and gently pressed her own hand on her tummy. Belched.

“Oh God. Urp. Scuse me.” She blushed again. Tentatively she reached a hand out and, featherlight, started to run her fingertips up and down my belly. By genetic luck of the draw, my torso was smooth and hairless. By habit as well as old Mendel, plus a dose of Thanksgiving dinner, my belly was sofa pillow-esque, and currently warm and ever so slightly squashy.

She poked just a little too hard and it was my turn.

Urrp. Um. Urp. Well, there goes my shot at having a dignified adult relationship.”

I felt her warm, soft body start to shake with laughter. “Oh—hic—oh,” she managed. “Hic. Please … don’t … Hic.

Slowly, and carefully, I propped myself up on my elbows. With a grunt of effort I contorted myself. My stomach was still so stuffed to bursting, even after an hour, that I was making myself winded.

“Oof.” I blew a quick raspberry on Julianne’s tummy. Two seconds of sheer heaven. Her belly was still somewhat distended, but mostly warm and cushiony. I longed to fill my hands with her flesh, cradling, fondling, squeezing… “Urrp. Ow.” I bailed, slowly going back down onto the pillow.

“I owe you one,” Julianne said. She rested her hands on her tummy. “Urp. But I’m not bending over like that for anyone.” Her eyelids started to flutter.

“And, Craig? I hope this isn’t too forward of me or anything, but I’m going to sleep. Like, right here and now.”

All of a sudden I was so drowsy it was an effort to form words. “Mee. Too. G’night.”

That was all I knew until I woke the next morning. I felt hungover, though I hadn’t had much to drink. My mouth was dry and my head pounded. My belly was flaccid, my usual pooch flopping over my boxers. I looked over. No sign of Julianne… or, it appeared, her clothes. I smelled coffee.

Sure enough, there she was, rumpled and sleep-flushed, in yesterday’s clothes, in my little galley kitchenette, pot in hand.

“How do you take your coffee?” she asked.

“Mm. Naked,” I said. I shuffled over to her, embraced her from behind, kissed her neck, and gave her boobs a quick fondle before letting my hands settle on her midsection. Yum. Oh, the feel of her love handles, eminently grabbable, perfect hand-fulls. The soft cushion of her tummy, the little overlap of belly above her hips. I rested my hands on those hips, round and womanly, beautifully curved, filling my vision with her fabulously lyrical bottom. Oh, yeah. Coffee.

“Mm. Cream. No, don’t leave me,” as she slipped out of my hands to go to the fridge. She poured cream into two mugs, then added coffee, and we clinked cups.

“I think we might have accidentally fallen into a relationship, ma’am,” I said lightly.

She looked down into her coffee. “I really enjoyed last night. I just…” She turned her head and I caught a glint of tears. A deep breath. “I just assume that guys put up with my body. It’s not… I don’t…”

I set down my coffee and put my hands on her shoulders. “I find you extraordinarily attractive. I love your bodacious hips, your woman’s curves, your generous breasts…” I stopped to caress them… “I think every inch of you takes my breath away and runs chills up and down my arms and I don’t usually start a relationship by seeing a woman naked, but God bless Richard and his clumsy feet.” I kissed her, then reclaimed my coffee.

“I think…” Long pause. She blinked away tears. “I think I’ve never felt so at home with anyone in my life. And… I sure hope you’re not lying to me.”

I pointed. “This doesn’t lie.” Both our stomachs growled in chorus. “And neither does this. To IHOP!”

“I think they require pants, now,” Julianne said, her lips twitching.

I dressed, and off we went. I wanted Julianne to feel absolutely comfortable about her body and about eating, so I ordered first, the all-you-can-eat pancakes with sausage and eggs on the side. Came with hash browns. Julianne ordered the same.

Despite both of us having eaten hugely the day before, I devoured the food as though I was truly starving. First all the not-pancake stuff. Then I don’t know how many plates of pancakes. By the time I realized I was slowing down, well… the waitress kept clearing the plates, so I lost track.

Julianne ate, God bless her, as though food was meant to be enjoyed. She seemed lighthearted, and although we didn’t talk about the F word, we talked about everything else, and she didn’t stop eating until the waitress came back to ask if we wanted another round.

I looked at Julianne. She looked at me. “I guess I’m done,” I said, and Julianne nodded. I stood up to pay – whoa. My belly sloshed heavily with the movement. My jeans, yesterday’s jeans, pinched unmercifully. I glanced down. My belly was visibly bloated, round and bulging as a soccer ball. Julianne hauled herself to her feet. Her blouse was stretched, her tummy tautly distended beneath the fabric. She gulped a hiccup.

With effort, I made it through the business of paying the ticket and we waddled out to the car. Before getting in, without a word, both of us unfastened our jeans. We sank into our seats.

“Ooh,” Julianne groaned. “Whoops. I did not—hic—mean to eat that much,” she said. She was puffing, short of breath. Sitting up like that does no favor to a full stomach.

“Me neither,” I grunted. I thumped my sternum, coaxing up a belch. “I could stand to lie down.”

“Ooh.” Julianne closed her eyes and gently rubbed her belly. I kept mine open, but we got back to the apartment none too soon.

“Wait,” I said, once we were in the bedroom. Slowly I undid each straining button from her blouse. She grunted as she unhooked the bra, and slowly I took it off, releasing her glorious breasts. Slowly I traced the inviting hammock of her full chin. Slowly I pushed her jeans and panties down, and outlined blueprints of fantasy on her tautly bulging tummy.

Then she returned the favor. I moaned, a combination of pleasure and discomfort, as she lightly pressed my belly. I laid my hands over hers and cradled my roundly protruding belly, a little taken aback at how firm it was. Filled to the brim, not a hint of give to it, and my shirt, now unbuttoned, would not even come close to fastening over it. Without even a moment’s consultation, we eschewed the bed in favor of the oversized recliner that stood in the corner, a parental castoff.

With much grunting, giggling, and several large belches, we got our naked selves into it and reclined.

“Mmmm. Hic.

“Yup,” I grunted. “This feels so good.”

“Taking the pressure off.”

For a while, we just lay there, digesting, savoring the heavy ache and steady pull of full and tender bellies.

Then we made it to the bed. And actually consummated the weird backward relationship. You know, most people start with talking and might gradually end up in bed. We started out in bed.

That was the first weekend.

By the time the trees started to bud, six months later, Julianne had slowly come to realize that I meant what I said. That despite a lifetime of social pressure to the contrary, I admired and loved her generous body and found it utterly, breathtakingly gorgeous. That drape of breast! That tuck of belly! That cushion of hip, swoop of backside, scrumptious curve of calf and soft solidity of thigh. There were days I could hardly stand it. We were having more sex than teenagers on spring break.

I thought her impossibly beautiful. I loved her round apple cheeks, her golden brows, the little pads of skin that cradled her chocolate eyes. I loved the way she blushed when she laughed, which was often – she was easily delighted and took great pleasure in losing herself in helpless merriment. I loved her pink lips, the welcome mat of her soft chin, her billowing creamy shoulders.

I loved her generously ripe and bounteous boobs, her tease of cleavage, the cream-spill of flesh pointing toward the delights she concealed within. I loved to embrace her from behind and nuzzle and fondle the roll of her belly, draping ever so gently onto her gorgeous hips, her generously cushioned backside, the plump heart’s-curve of thigh and calf. We had found each other, and we loved each other, and slowly, slowly, perhaps my darling was beginning to allow to take root and flourish the idea that I truly found her lovely as she was.


Of course, we were getting to know each other in additional ways. Lots of talking – and it was the first relationship I had been in where neither of us was playing games, putting our best foot forward, keeping the mask on for the lover. From the first moment, we’d both felt utterly at home and at ease with each other. No games, no posing, just a deeply felt sense of being right. I’d never been so sure of anything as I was that we were meant for each other.

Of course, I was putting on weight my own self. I had developed the sort of softening midsection I’d seen on married men, a flop of love handles, and in a couple of snapshots of myself where I’d happened to be drawing my head back at the moment of snap I could see an incipient second chin beginning to push out, a pad of cushion at the throat. My ribs were warmed by a new layer of padding and I knew my waistline had thickened; I’d stepped up to 38-waist jeans, which were a little hard to zip up right out of the dryer. The sofa cushion I carried around had gotten visibly fuller.

Julianne carried her weight evenly distributed. If she picked up a few pounds, between her softly generous breasts and the hammock of her lower belly her tummy pushed out, warm and welcoming, just begging for a cuddle, which I shamelessly indulged, often.


“Julianne,” I said, one Friday evening. “Am I getting fat?” I was in my closet and my favorite polo shirt was just pulled too tight around my swelling belly.

“Ah, the F word.” Julianne waited for me to emerge half dressed, then eyed me slowly and hungrily. “You remember just about the first thing I said to you? Said I was fat.”

“And I said yeah you were, and next thing I knew I was saluting you and we wound up in bed.”

“Soo…. Are you F.A.T? Umm… Yup, a little and thank God for that.” She buried herself in my chest and hugged me fiercely. Then she pulled back. “No double standards around here. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I meant it, I think. But over dinner we talked about it, and as with so much else in our relationship it felt comfortable and natural for the first time. It might have been that we were talking while consuming a big dinner, or it might have been the ease with which Julianne tossed the word around herself. Emotionally, I think I was beginning to go from mildly shocked to somewhat comfortable with the word.

With the word – that was one thing. With my body – that was different.

I still didn’t know how reconciled I was to weighing 220 instead of 180. Forty pounds – that’s a goodly amount. You feel it, in big ways and small, and I was still getting used to it. My pecs feeling squishy, that was weird enough. But now when I walked I felt a kind of tug and flop of belly overhang. When I sat down I felt my paunch squish over the waistband, which was now a very tight 38 or a 40 with a belt, depending on the pants.

And those uninterested quick glances we give each other to acknowledge the presence of other people while on our daily rounds? They were beginning to be accompanied by pursed lips, the quick glance sometimes meriting a second. Occasionally I caught a whisper: “Didja see that guy?” And I wasn’t even that big, and certainly no more remarkable than half the population these days. Yet I was beginning to notice subtle and sometimes open signs of disapproval and even a little disgust.

I was fierce in my defense of Julianne, and my family, for the most part, knew not to even mention her weight. The fierceness sprang from the completeness of my love for her. To criticize her weight was to suggest that she was less intelligent, compassionate, amusing, valued, and valuable than others, and that was so patently untrue that my indignation rose at the least hint of it.

And now it was happening to me.


But if I meant what I said about Julianne’s beauty, which I did, why did it bother me that I was putting on weight? For the most part, it had to do with differing physical sensations: the tug of flesh at my thickening waistline, the work of hauling an extra forty pounds around, the odd feel of my pecs being softer. At the same time, Julianne was happier by the minute in the sack. She was spending a lot more time cuddling and was always playing with my nipples, mushing my belly like Play-Doh, giggling all the while. And when my beauty laughed, the seismic responses aroused me even more.

I’d had to buy larger clothes along the way, but that wasn’t much of a nuisance. Although it was beginning to feel like even 40-waist trousers weren’t going to do the job…

Snap. Snap. “Earth to Craig,” Julianne sang, snapping her fingers at my nose. “Dessert?”

“Oh.” How long had I been musing? “Uh, sure.” What had I agreed to again?

Julianne was talking to the waiter. Then to me again. “What were you thinking about? You were miles away.”

“Um. I should probably buy some new jeans.”

“We can go tomorrow,” Julianne said cheerfully. Then the conversation drifted into other waters.

Slowly, so gradually that it was impossible to quantify, my attitude began to change. The second glance or disapproving whisper made me feel not vaguely guilty – I’m sorry for causing you disgust – but mildly defensive pride. I’m a big guy. Yes ... yes, I am. And it feels better than you’d think. And I’m good in bed, too.


By July, I was reconciled to being fat. Enjoying it, actually. It was countercultural, but honestly, I had come to terms with realizing that it was what made my girl happy, just as her glorious avoirdupois made me happy. And, in fact, I was beginning to enjoy my bulk for its own sake. It felt good … impressive and masterful, perhaps … to be fat. My water bill had gone up because I took my time in the shower, patting and squeezing my belly, lathering my pecs, letting the water bounce off my ballooning midsection.

For Julianne was right – astonishingly, revealingly right – it was not a cumbrance to carry extra weight, it was a bounty, a blessing, a welcome homecoming. When my arm went around her as we strolled, and my fingers burrowed into the soft cushion above her waistband, it was like snuggling into a quilt worn soft by generations of use. When we lay side by side in bed, skimming our hands over our own soft bellies and padded hips, it was warmly arousing. When we turned and caressed each other, it was a glorious sensuousness to be found in meeting fold and roll, handful and squash, softness and curve and overspill.

When we undressed ourselves, or each other, I continued to be awestruck at the unveiling of each part of Julianne, and then the glorious, beautiful whole, lush and rosy in the lamplight. It felt like a secret I could hug to myself, amazed that the rest of the world was not only ignorant of this source of loveliness but in fact contemptuous of it. It made Julianne and me members of a select tribe, choosing to keep our existence low-key, knowing that others were not among the enlightened ones.

Saturday, it was, now. Hot. Julianne and I had been halfheartedly debating going to the local July 4 thing downtown, but neither of us much wanted to hike around in the heat all day. Then a lightbulb went off for her – I actually saw it illuminate.

“Let’s have a pie eating contest right here,” she said, getting to her feet. “Just the two of us.”

“You’re crazy,” I said drowsily, fanning my face with the magazine.

“Ha, you just don’t want to get fat.”

We both laughed. “Too late,” I said.

Two minutes later, she was jingling the car keys in my face. “Don’t move. I’ll be back with the goods.”

Forty-five minutes later, she was back with “the goods” – ten pies, a combination of chocolate, coconut, and lemon.

“I went to three different stores,” she said sheepishly.

I frowned. “That’s not like you, to worry about what others see you doing with food.”

She grinned. “No, silly – I own the F word, remember? I just didn’t want to wipe out any one store.”

“That’s my thoughtful little goddess,” I said, sliding my arms around her gorgeous rotundity. She was clocking in these days around 250 to my 260.

“Hey, who you calling little?”

“Sorry. My fat goddess.”

“That’s better. So when should we do this?”

“Um… like this evening? Around seven? Give us time to rest up and prepare.”

“Prepare,” she scoffed. “Okay, seven it is. Winner gets to cover the loser in whipped cream and lick it off.”

“Oh, boo,” I said. “Cherries must be involved.”

“Okay, a maximum of three cherries,” she agreed.

She put the pies out to thaw and settled down beside me for our back-to-back viewing of 1776 and Independence Day.

“Okay,” she said, clicking off the credits. “Goodnight, Will Smith. Hello, pie.”

It was 6:45. “Close enough,” I agreed.

I peeled off my shirt before I sat down. “You too,” I said. “Shirtless pie eating contest.”

“Okay,” Julianne agreed, quickly stripping off her top. The girl was game.

We both chowed down, eating slowly and steadily. This was not really a race. Each of us got the first pie down, no problem, and we were both drinking tepid tap water to keep the pipes cleared out. We stopped to catch our breath and mop up.

“I’m a little full,” Julianne admitted.

“Me too,” I said. “But hey… a whole pie. That will make anyone full.” Although in truth, I was a little disconcerted at how easily I had dispatched an entire pie. I was comfortably, mildly sated – but I could readily eat more, and I knew it.

Julianne stood, ostensibly to turn the music up a little, so I also stood, grateful for the chance to rub my belly. I coaxed up a belch and also, I thought, shifted stuff around.

Pie #2 went more slowly. I was starting to sweat a little. My stomach was stretched and aching a little along the sides. About halfway through I paused and drank some water. I belched. That felt good. I looked at Julianne. She was also half done.

“I’m really full – and it feels really good,” she admitted, flushing a little.

Julianne was right. Amid the discomfort, I could tell that in more ways than one I was enjoying the sensation of filling myself to capacity, the stretch and pull of my midsection, the warm heaviness of my belly. We marched on, talking as we did about the movies we’d just watched, about pie, about how full we were getting, about the fireworks, about pie.

I could feel my discomfort in every inch of my belly, and reveled in it. I was two-thirds of the way through my third pie, and each bite slid silkily down my throat. It didn’t have far to travel. I could feel the swell of my stomach, the stretch as it expanded, the familiar sensation of it jostling my diaphragm and squashing my lungs. I could feel the distention and bloat below my navel, the taut pull of flesh across my ballooning belly, the solid heft of gorged gut pushing out, out, out. The tease of ache along my sides as though my skin would actually burst, even though it wouldn’t, and already I anticipated the corollary sensation of that aching slowly dissipating with digestion.

As one, Julianne and I paused. Sipped some more water. Gently and cautiously rubbed our bloated and hugely swollen tummies, punctuating our massaging with “Mmm” and “Aahhh.” Don’t get me wrong, it would have been much more enjoyable to massage each other’s bellies – but moving at all seemed like a really bad idea.

Three pies gone for each of us. Slowly I reached for the fourth. Julianne slid her fourth toward her. Each of us forked up a mouthful. Slowly and steadily, about half my pie vanished down my throat. I looked at the forkful in my hand. I was faintly dizzy.

My head was swimming and I had unfastened my jeans (the new, 42-inch ones) somewhere around the third pie. My belly was taut as a drum, hugely distended from ribcage to pelvis, an acre of stretched waistline forming an equator from hip to hip. I was breathing shallowly, mouth open, and even that hurt, each sip of air an exquisite pain as my respiration forced the tiniest expansion of my engorged abdomen.

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Old 02-05-2015, 05:18 AM   #2
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I was in a haze of discomfort and it felt marvelous. Sated and dazed, I was dimly aware of the physical sensations of my stomach stuffed to bursting, my belly threatening to pop, my sides straining, my whole body flushed and heavy and warm. Oh God, it felt amazing! I was stupefied, I was glued to my chair, I couldn’t move if my life depended on it and I didn’t care. I just wanted to spend the rest of my days sprawled there, pinned down by the glorious weight of my gorge, reveling in the planetary sensation of the globe resting in my lap.

Across from me, I noted blearily, Julianne was looking stunning as well as stunned. Her hair was mussed and her face rosily flushed, her eyes half-closed. She had the hiccups, and with each eruption she said, “Ow,” grimacing adorably and pressing her fingertips to her tummy. We had both managed to push our chairs back slightly, and I had a decent view of that tummy of hers, and it was outstanding.

Round and full, it protruded well past her undone waistband. Her magnificent breasts rested on it, like doves on a cupola, and I could see that her belly was, like mine, firmly distended, stretching from side to side, the skin straining to cover the enormous bloat of her pink tummy.


Julianne focused bleary eyes on her pan and on mine. My fourth pie was half gone; hers was about one-third empty.

“You … oof … win. Hic!”

“OK,” I panted. “Celebrate… later.”

Both of us were dazed, glutted, surfeited. We were dizzily stoned and stupefied, socked-out by pie, taken out by the glorious extravagance of our consumption. Our bellies were enormous: swollen and taut, aching and tender, bloated beyond imagining. Time lost all meaning as with exquisite slowness we managed to haul our overloaded selves from the chairs and to an approximation of the vertical. As if moving under water, we slogged and waddled toward the bed. Grunting and moaning with effort, we hoisted ourselves up and lay back, our bellies protruding skyward, our chests tight, both of us ridiculously replete, dizzy with the sugar, pinned by the weight of our bowling ball guts holding us in place.

We lay that way for who knows how long – it had gotten dark and we could hear the whiz-pop of fireworks – before, as one, we turned toward each other. Julianne reached for the can of whipped cream. With a soft, eager smile, she handed it to me.
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Old 02-05-2015, 08:37 AM   #3
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oh that was a really a nice sexy situation you contructed there i loved it and all the following descriptions of changing bodies and lovely lovemaking ^^ with stuffed bellies
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Old 02-05-2015, 08:40 AM   #4
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Another beautiful work! I love the descriptions of the physical sensations that the characters feel from being fat.
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Old 02-07-2015, 07:01 PM   #5
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I've always enjoyed your stories. I just wish they went on and on and on and on.
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Old 02-09-2015, 10:47 AM   #6
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As always, you have done it again! Wonderful tale!
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