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Old 08-05-2008, 11:38 AM   #1
Big Beautiful Dreamer
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Default Pie for Breakfast - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, ~BBW, Stuffing)

~BHM, ~BBW, Stuffing - Mmmmmm ... pie for breakfast!


Pie for Breakfast

by Big Beautiful Dreamer


“I will if you will.”

“No, I will if you will.” We were both giggling like 14-year-old girls, though we were supposedly grown-up college graduates. A display in a bakery window had caught our attention on the way to the coffee shop.

“Those pies are so little,” Kira had scoffed. “I could eat a whole one and not even feel it.”

“You could not,” I had said automatically.

“Gre-eggg. I could too.” Somehow that had escalated. And twenty minutes later we sat at the battered secondhand yellow chrome dinette table, a whole pie, warmed in the microwave, in front of us, a gallon of softening vanilla ice cream to help us along. Both were apple, to make things “even.” Tall glasses of milk stood in front of us and the gallon sat on the table for easy access.

Ceremonially Kira lifted a big slice onto each plate and we toasted each other.

“First one to bail … does the dishes for the rest of the month!” Of course Kira would say that. She hated doing dishes.

“Deal.” I was sure I would win.

We both dived in. Mmmmm, warm apple pie topped with Breyer’s Vanilla Bean ice cream, hints of vanilla-bean flecks sparking the texture, hot apples fragrant with cinnamon, gooey melting crust. Oh boy. That slice got gone awfully fast, even though I wasn’t accustomed to pie for breakfast. I chugged the rest of my milk to wash the thickness from my throat and eyed Kira.

“Had enough?” I said teasingly.

In response she served herself out another slice of pie. I took a slice from my pie. I swear I could hear “Dueling Banjos” start up. Defiantly I scooped ice cream onto our second slices and poured some more milk.

As anticipated, I had no trouble downing a second large slice of pie a la mode. The warm sticky texture of the apples melding with the hot flaky crust and the icy cold vanilla ice cream only made me want another bite and another and another.

In the normal way of things, I would certainly have stopped after two slices. Kira took her time and unthinkingly rested her hand on her tummy after finishing.

“Ah, the truth will out,” I crowed. “Kira’s fu-ull.”

Kira suppressed a belch. “Nope.” Did I mention how much Kira hates to lose? She thunked a third slice onto her plate and added ice cream. Then she looked at me. Not to be outdone, I copied her moves.

Three pieces of pie is a lot, even on an empty stomach, even when it’s as good as warm apple pie with ice cream. I forced myself to blank out, to keep my mind on other things, as I forked down mouthful after mouthful. My stomach was getting full. I could register the “I’ve had enough” needle clicking to the top of the meter. I didn’t want any more milk sloshing into there – but my throat felt gummed up with pie. I chugged some milk, easier now that it wasn’t so cold, and was pleased to discover that I’d made it through another slice.

Kira’s eyes were wide and she openly rubbed her stomach, pooching gently out over her waistband and poking up the hem of her cropped shirt.

“Oooh.” She eyed her milk glass, still half full. “Well.” She took a deep breath, then drained the glass. There was no suppressing the belch, though it was ladylike, if there is such a thing.

“Kira, look,” I said gently. “This is too much – for you. You can stop.”

Her eyes gleamed. “No way, Jose – Greg.” She served herself a fourth slice, though the server hung suspended in midair for a long minute before she transferred it to her plate. She avoided my eyes as she topped it with ice cream.

No way was I letting a girl beat me. I served myself another slice. Soon I would have eaten half a pie.

No – don’t think about that, don’t think about it. I poured more milk. I tried to take on the mindset I had in my tae kwon do class when the instructor counted off the push-ups at the end of class. You can do it, you can do it, I told myself. I was full all right – verging on stuffed. My stomach ached and my belly pressed heavily against my waistband, pushing the denim down out of the way. I was discovering it was a little less uncomfortable not to breathe quite so deeply.

The slice loomed large. I chipped away at it, zenning out. Chew, swallow, chew, swallow. I deliberately avoided looking at Kira. Then I heard a little moan.

“Oooh. Hic!” Kira had set her fork down. “Not … finished.” She was puffing too. “Just … resting.”

“Kira … hic! … listen,” I said thickly.

“No. Hic! No,” Kira said firmly. “I said it and (hic!) I meant it.” She picked her fork up again. Then that inimitable smile curved up and I saw her tilt her chin, the light of friendly combat in her eyes.

Well. Who could resist? I went back to the pie. There! Four slices down, halfway there.

“We could take a break,” I suggested. I was only looking to give her an easy out. I was fine. Absolutely (urrp) fine. Perfectly (oof) fine. I resolutely ignored the throbbing ache in the side of my abdomen, the rounded heaviness of my gut.

I took the server and dished out slice number five. Ice cream. Milk. I picked up my fork and looked at Kira.

She quirked a smile and took the server from me. Plop – pie on plate. Plip – ice cream. Slosh – milk. Then she puffed a little and gave me another smile. O—kay….

An invisible hurdle had been crossed. The fifth slice went down remarkably easily. The only mistake was pausing to give my swollen belly time for an assessment. And my stomach unmistakably registered its overloaded condition. It felt stretched beyond capacity and my whole midsection was tender and bloated. I leaned back and rubbed my distended belly. Owww. It was firmer than I’d expected and I inadvertently groaned, then belched.

Now it was Kira’s turn to look over. Her mouth was crammed full of the last bite, crumbs quivering on her soft lips, a stripe of ice cream rimming the side of her mouth. With an effort she swallowed.

“Hic!” Her eyes widened and she, too, leaned back, pressing a hand ever so gently to her tummy. I could see that it too was tautly swollen, peeping rosily from beneath the cropped shirt, which rode up when she reclined. Her waist was squashing out above her pants, which seemed to be straining at the button.

“Break?” I suggested, belching again.

“Hic! Nope.” She stifled her own belch and with a grunt of effort leaned forward. Then she quirked a smile again, shoved the plate aside, and pulled the pie toward her, the three slices remaining. She scooped a big chunk of ice cream onto it and poured milk into her glass.

I copied her, eyeing the three slices warily. To be honest, my stomach was grumbling and complaining and I was starting to feel a little queasy. This was rich fare for first thing in the morning.

I sat back a little, catching my breath, then picked up my fork.

The next while passed in sort of a haze. I know I was puffing, and every bite turned to mush in my mouth. It got harder and harder to swallow. I kept chugging milk, trying to wash the stuff down.

The pie seemed to go on forever. I felt my sides stretch with each swallow, my aching stomach hard as a rock, I found myself squirming as I continued. Then – incredibly – there was nothing left but pie plate. My glass was empty as well.

Carefully, gently, I leaned back in the chair. My aching belly sloshed heavily and I hiccupped. In a haze, I pressed a hand to my bloated and swollen midriff. I thought I might burst. My belly had ballooned outward, stretching my shirt and painfully straining my jeans. I was full, far too full to move, but I had to recline, had to get to the easy chair. Grunting, I hauled myself upward, caught off balance by the sheer weight of the pie in my belly. It dragged me down. I had forgotten about Kira. I waddled heavily over to the recliner and carefully lowered myself into it. Oof – ugh – the handle seemed too far away. I grabbed the lever and pulled it back. There. I fumbled my jeans undone and let out a huge belch as some of the pressure was relieved on my aching gut.

Only then did I notice Kira. She had stood, sort of, but was now clutching her belly, which protruded roundly outward, a tanned little dome topped with her outie. Her pants had, I guess, popped when she stood up and her crop top was stretched out around her swollen middle. She saw me and picked up her empty pie plate.

“Hic! Owwooo… I did it,” she moaned. She let the pie plate fall and staggered over to the sofa. Incautiously she flopped down. “Ow! Hic! Ooohhh.” She sank back, resting her hands on her engorged tummy, which was audibly growling and gurgling. She shot me a grin.

“Did it.”

“Hic! Me too,” I managed.

For a time, there was silence, each of us gently massaging our bloated and aching bellies, me at least enjoying the sensation of dopy satiation, and of my hands warming and softening the distended flesh. I was dozing, half asleep, when I heard my name being called.

“Greg?”

“Mmm?”

“Sign at the bakery said – tomorrow their special will be chocolate cream pie.”

Last edited by Risible; 08-06-2008 at 09:17 AM.
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Old 08-14-2008, 02:48 AM   #2
JimP
 
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It's what I call a good description of a binge. Too bad you don't post so much about girl(s) only binges, I really liked your "Experiment" story.
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