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Old 11-02-2011, 10:45 PM   #1
NKT
 
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Default Lose the Battle; Win the War by NKT - ]~BBW, Realistic, Mild Sex, ~SWG

~BBW, Realistic, mild sex, ~SWG - - time and patience makes a dream into reality

Lose the Battle; Win the War
by NKT


Part One

The day that exercise bike moved into our house seemed like a most unlikely turning point. A fat admirer bringing home exercise equipment for his wife should be the very antithesis of the desired outcome. However, it was demanded, and for those who are married and have any hope to remain that way, demands will be met.

When I met her we were both juniors in college and randomly thrown together in a study abroad program. She was a knockout. Her jet black hair and olive skin made the Mediterranean locals think she was a native. Distinctly short, not quite five feet, but you never saw her in anything less than four inch heels. She even had this weird pair of beach sandals that had at least three inch lifts on them.

She had worked the previous summer at a Club Med, and she laughed as she revealed that the staff had nicknamed her “Miss Wonderbra” in recognition of the way her beautiful, round, B-size breasts so prominently filled the slinky costumes during the evening spectaculars in which all the staff participated. Despite her wondrous breasts and many other titillating features, it was the face that truly astonished.

You know how Hollywood runs through so many actresses and yet so few seem to ever stick around? They are certainly beautiful enough in that generic sort of way, but almost purposefully not dramatically beautiful in a way that might distract you from the explosions, inane dialogue, and product placement. My wife was that dramatic beauty, a beauty that interested you, a beauty that uniformly made males stop in their tracks and look inquiringly into her face searching for the source of that beauty. It was her nose.

Yes, she had the requisite luscious lips, high cheekbones, and doey eyes that you expected in an attractive female, but the nose was large. It was long. It protruded with defiance. Yet somehow, someway, it melded perfectly into her face and into the hearts of males everywhere. Hers was the face that was not merely beautiful, it was beautiful and different.

I pride myself on being able to make honest assessments. To the chagrin of fat admirers, if there is only one thing you could say about a woman who attracts an extraordinary amount of male attention, it would be that she is not fat. And she was not. At the time we met, she weighed 103 pounds, and that is exactly what you would have guessed had you seen her.

She had a wonderfully curvy body in spite of her slight weight. A cute butt, soft arms, and thighs that, if they didn’t jiggle even remotely enough to make me pant, at least made me pay attention.

She was truly a sight on those Mediterranean beaches. She tanned in a day, and the deep golden patina lasted for many months after the passing of seasons had long since driven us indoors.

So why the heck was she interested in me? I was Midwestern nobody with only two years of college and the dim glow of a suburban upbringing to restrain me from being an out-and-out redneck. She was East Coast sophisticate with a World’s worth of experience that I couldn’t even imagine. I was abroad struggling with my second language, she was polishing her sixth. She was the effortless socialite, the flirt, the tease. She appeared to have her pick of any of the dozens of men who regularly prostrated themselves before her. Yet she gravitated towards me almost from the day she first saw me.

A better question might be why was I interested in her? I have no way of knowing if my actions and choices were in any way typical of a fat admirer. I have never been in a fat admirer focus group. I have never even met another fat admirer. From the moment I gained sexual awareness, my desires had two prerogatives: short and fat. She had the “short” in spades, but as I have already described, her weight should have made my interest in her quite limited. But I challenge you, all you fat admirers out there, to have a woman of such particular beauty and sexual allure basically throw herself at you and yet remain unmoved!

Oh, I had plenty of other ridiculous justifications and psychobabble backing me up in my own introverted logic. She loved food. Certainly no glutton, but this girl loved to eat. She had never been on a diet in her life. She would snack absentmindedly if there was any food in sight. To top it all off, she was incredibly lazy. No sports, no exercise, she would ask you to bring her anything that was more than an arm’s length away. On the beach she would spend five minutes in the water and four hours on her recliner. Not on the sand – “too uncomfortable”- but draped across her recliner like a Greek Goddess with a cool drink within easy reach.

How could I go wrong? All I had to do was to hitch my horse to this wagon, and given these habits, how could I not end up with the fat wife of my dreams? Besides, don’t women gain weight as they get older anyway? Don’t they gain weight after getting married? Don’t they gain weight after having children? How could such a woman, surprised and thrilled in her husband’s obvious delight at her increasing size, not totally let herself go and arrive to contented, sated fatness?

One of the pitfalls of being a fat admirer is the unlikelihood of having a friend who knows your preferences, with whom you can share your logic, and who can look you in the eye after hearing that logic and tell you that you obviously don’t know a heck of a lot about women.

In another insightfully honest assessment, I was painfully aware of how little experience I had with women to that point in my life. That, I feel with certainty, is a reality is shared by many young fat admirers, particularly the introverts - unwilling to announce their preference, withdrawn from their friend’s lurid appreciative appraisals of thinner girls, and unmotivated to seek out a less-than-desired girlfriend.

In the absence of much previous positive reinforcement, I don’t think it strange that I dove right in with this new delicious, yet obviously flawed girl. We officially became an item in November of that year abroad, and she certainly made the year more pleasurable. She was as smart as a whip, and her language skills made touring and interacting with the locals all the more easy. There was no mistaking the way she looked at me. She was in love and I was immensely pleased to actually have a girlfriend.

The year abroad ran its course and we each returned to our universities. This was in that distant past when email was still a novelty and even college students hadn’t stopping writing letters. We wrote. We talked at length on the phone throughout the year. We exchanged tape recordings of our voices and mix tapes of our favorite music.

At the end of that school year I went to visit her. The chemistry was still there. We fell back together like two landslides meeting at the bottom of the valley. Of instant note and thrill to me at our reunion was that she had gained around ten pounds. It was definitely noticeable to me, but certainly too little to be remarked upon by either of us.

This development only fed into my oblivious belief that she would be overjoyed to be fat and was destined to be so. We discussed our situation. The long-distance relationship only made sense to continue if there was a goal at the end. It was time to make a decision, all chips in or cash out and go home. All chips in it was. Actually, it was all chip in, as in the tiny chip of a diamond that was all I could afford from the mall jewelry shop at the shopping center nearest her apartment the next day.

(continued in post 3 of this thread)

Last edited by Britt Reid; 11-07-2011 at 07:03 PM.
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Old 11-03-2011, 04:30 AM   #2
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A nice introduction, looking forward to where you go from here.
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Old 11-03-2011, 07:19 AM   #3
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Part Two

The year abroad had left us both with still a few credits needed before graduation, her somewhat less than me. It was agreed that we would marry after I graduated the next spring. So again the long-distance relationship returned and for six months I didn’t see her again until after the Holidays. Her classes were done and her parents granted her permission to come live with me until the wedding. She looked out-of-place arriving at the cold Midwestern airport with her East Coast style and six huge suitcases packed with her wardrobe.

To my vast delight, her face was again noticeably plumper, no less gorgeous, but rounding with a softness, and the formerly firm jawline advancing towards a double chin. It wasn’t until we arrived back to my apartment and the thick down coat came off that I could see the evidence on her body as well. She remained eminently well-proportioned, and that made the effects more subtle, though no less gratifying. Every single part of her was just a little larger, not only her face: arms, breasts, belly, hips, butt, thighs, and calves.

The size twos I saw in her room during the year abroad had been exchanged for a pile of sixes, plopped on the floor from those massive suitcases. Now sporting about 120 pounds, we began our lives together.

We had approximately six months in our love nest before our wedding back East in late June. We had come together because of our love and our personalities, but we had never given a moment’s thought to what our lives would actually be like. I was still desperately wrapping up classwork, but she languished in the apartment. Depressed to be away from family and friends in a cold, empty, midwinter Midwestern city, she waited anxiously for me to return each day. Nearly every night we went out to eat to grant her relief from the four walls of the apartment. I made sure there were plenty of her favorite treats available. She had taken to wearing my baggy sweatshirts, her haute couture had no place in flyover country.

It must have been sometime in March that we had returned from dinner. She had worn one of my sweatshirts over a favorite pair of black jeans. I sat on the couch as she went into the bedroom to change. Through the open door I had a clear view. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and those black jeans were on prominent display. She was wearing them fully unbuttoned and unzipped and her belly gushed into the void. The legs looked painted onto her thighs.

I was amazed to think that she had decided to go out in that state, trusting to the length and shapelessness of my sweatshirt to disguise the dramatically unpresentable situation of the size six jeans. She removed them with mild struggle and incidentally they never again reemerged from her drawers. I decided to press my luck. When she came out to sit with me on the couch, her body hidden under her usual houseshirt, I asked her if she wanted an ice cream bar. She refused, turning and staring at me with a look of puzzlement. Why in the world would she want an ice cream bar? It would just mean extra weight. My response that she looked great was met with a chortle and the subject was dropped.

Over the next few days she went to the mall and returned with a smattering of size eights. The next week I came back to the apartment to the shock of her cooking in the kitchen. I don’t know if I had ever seen her in the kitchen doing something besides eating and/or obtaining food. But this was definitely earnest food preparation. My heart sank with the revelation of a cabbage soup recipe and her very-first-ever-in-her-life diet. The diet lasted all of three miserable, tortured days. The idea of restraint was untenable.

The day the diet ended was a day I will always remember. She ate non-stop. She packed it away with complete abandon. She must have easily made up for the three days of lack and then some in less than 8 hours. It must be noted that although she loved food, and constantly nibbled, she was in no way a big eater. At five feet nothing, there just isn’t a lot of room. This was an extravagant exception.

The weeks ticked away towards our wedding. It is amazing to think back at how the small gains during our time apart seemed so noticeable, yet this period passed under-the-radar because I was with her every day. I think I was most aware that her face was definitely rounder, the double chin now a fact and not an impression. Her proportionality still ruled the day. She was thicker, but in an almost natural way. While I saw her every day, it was now the family and friends who had not seen her for some time. The shock was now theirs.

The onslaught began mere moments after our arrival back East – directed to me, to us, but mostly to her. What have you been feeding her? What are you eating? I hope those are happy pounds! Oh my God, you’ve gained so much weight! Out came the scale for the first time in a long time, maybe years – 135.

She seemed stunned by the sudden realization that she was now emphatically beyond her former lithe form. She kept repeating the number. 135. 135. My hopes that this was only the beginning of a blissfully fat future came to a screeching halt. She didn’t want to be fat. She thought 135 was huge and couldn’t imagine anything more. My reassurance, compliments, and lavish physical attention did nothing to calm her despair or change her outlook.

The wedding went off perfectly. She was glorious in everyone’s eyes despite (or for me, because of) the extra pounds. We settled into a life back in the big Midwestern city where employment opportunities seemed more promising. Weight became a forbidden subject. The unstoppable force that was her committed vigilance met the immovable object that was her hunger and habits. That three day diet seemed to have scarred her; she said she would never try another.

She came to recognize my preference. It didn’t take a smart woman long to understand my joy with all things cheesecake and sofa and dislike of all things celery and kettle bell. But it did not change her underlying sadness with her body and the despairing acceptance that she would probably never return to the svelte form she knew. Over the next three years, she remained relatively faithful to her promise not to go beyond 135 pounds and added only ten in that entire time.

With her massive language skills, she was a lucky catch for a legal documents publishing house working as an editor/translator. The work environment helped her to restrain her weight. All the gals dressed very nicely and she was more than happy to match them fashion-for-fashion. The size twos she wore when we met were now a mix of tens and twelves. She knew how to dress and she was as radiant as ever.

It was a necessity for me not to be the jealous type. Despite her ring and some extra pounds, there was always an unending parade of males desperately seeking her attention and that reassured her of her continued beauty and soothed her disappointment with her weight. She would regale me with their ploys, come-ons, and pleas to abandon her husband. We were a secure and happy couple.

After three years and now at 145 pounds, I had learned to rejoice in the softness of her belly, the luscious plumpness of her thighs. Her breasts, while so proportionate to her body, were so large for a woman only five feet tall. I was resigning myself to being pleased that she was at least plump, if unhappy with it.

(continued in post 5 of this thread)

Last edited by Britt Reid; 11-07-2011 at 06:25 PM.
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Old 11-03-2011, 05:05 PM   #4
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great story so far. keep it up!
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Old 11-03-2011, 07:44 PM   #5
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Part Three

We were a happy and secure couple, yes, but the work environment must change with the changing economy. Her publishing house was struggling. It wasn’t too much of a shock when she arrived home one day with the news that it had been purchased by a much larger firm on the West Coast. Most would receive severance; a precious few would be given the opportunity to tele-commute.

My wife’s language skills were apparently just as rare on the West Coast as they were in the Midwest and she was among the first to receive the offer. They didn’t want her to leave. It was a no-brainer. The local branch would close at the end of the year and she would start working from home at the start of the new.

Leave it to a man to be oblivious. Maybe I had truly begun to believe that nothing would change. It didn’t even occur to me that working from home would be a big shift in her routine. Gone was the office fashion competition; hello to sweat pants and my baggy sweatshirts. Gone were the meetings, long hallways, going from department to department, the up-and-down; hello to not moving more than a twenty foot radius all day and the vast majority of it on the couch. She was incredibly effective.

When she had a task in front of her, she barreled through it. No more office politics, chit-chat, or gossip to slow or interrupt her. It rarely took her more than a few hours to impeccably complete a day’s worth of work. Daytime TV, movies, and books filled in the rest. But she was a social girl; she missed her office friends and the regular interaction. Her new coworkers didn’t know her and treated her as a distant, yet highly effective tool.

By the time I got home not only was she ready to talk my ear off, but she was ready to get out of the house. We started eating out every night, mostly at a great local Chinese buffet where I would sit and watch her eat and listen to her for hours.

It started to hit me sometime in late spring or early summer. As part of out longstanding marital routine, when I got home she would put her arms around me and hold me tight. I would reach around and put my hands on her butt and hold her tight. Now her butt had a strange heaviness under my hands that it previously lacked. Her belly had been soft for a long time now, but suddenly I could feel its presence pressing into me as we embraced.

That jawline hadn’t just softened. It was gone. How could I have missed it? How could I not have expected it? Our love life, which had been neither bad nor stellar, was given a deep breath of lust. From the very start, she had never been shy about her body, and thankfully that hadn’t changed with her weight. She knew I especially grooved on her tummy and would always let me rub it. Now, I reveled in a belly that was clearly more rounded even as she lay in bed, in thighs that needed to be spread a little bit more to reach the glory within, a new softness that reached all the way down to the tops of her knees on the inside of her legs. She appeared to be just as invigorated as me, and she responded willingly and readily.

It was a corn that blew the whistle, a stupid little corn on the second toe on her right foot. Yet it required a visit to the doctor’s office nonetheless. It was the end of June. Six months of home office freedom and ease. She returned home less one corn, with a bandaged toe and a raging fury. 162 pounds! She was furious that she could have let herself become that fat! There was no way in which this was acceptable. Strong and immediate action was required – she needed a plan.

Three and a half years of marriage and the chagrin of the weight she had never managed to lose gave her the insight that there was only one way this weight would disappear – and disappear it must – exercise. If she had come to terms with the idea that she could not restrain her eating to reduce her weight, that still left the road less taken by most dieters and certainly never by her – lots of strenuous, aerobic exercise.

She talked herself out of joining a gym before I could even mention it. No, it had to be visible, something she couldn’t get away from, something that stared her in the face every day. Despite my inner alarms flashing red alert, I knew enough to keep my cool and go along. This was Angry Wife and treacherous ground, she must be appeased – lose the battle, win the war.

Our house was comfortable enough, but no mansion. I carefully pleaded that the center of the living room floor was not going to be the best long term position for a treadmill. Those things are huge, those things are expensive, those things make noise. I bargained her down to the exercise bike. It was lower profile, it was less expensive, it was narrow enough to fit against the wall of the laundry room downstairs in the basement. With the difference in price I could buy and mount a small TV down there and still save money over the treadmill that we didn’t have room for anywhere. Lose the battle, win the war; an exercise bike it was.

The dutiful husband took up the tasks honorably, if with trepidation. I bought her a frighteningly expensive reclining exercise bike, bought and mounted the TV. Would she turn the corner? Would she become the exercise-obsessed wife I was always so glad that she wasn’t? There is nothing sexier to me than a woman, relaxing on a sofa, maybe nibbling on a little something indulgent. For as long as I had known her she had admirably filled that role for me.

I loved my wife, and we had always clicked wonderfully, our friends and family marveled at our easy-going, steady happiness. My secret to our success? Give in. They say that in good marriages each person always feels like they are giving 60% and only getting 40%. I was positive I was at 70%. Don't want to do housework? Marry a man who gets off on laziness. I cleaned, I dusted, I washed, I laundered, I picked up, I straightened and organized.

Beyond her laziness and welcomed inability to diet, my wife was a very strong-willed woman. When she made a decision or came to a conclusion that was important to her, it was insurmountable, challenges were null and void. Why even try to fight it? It would only be asking for trouble. For the most part, giving in on a daily basis had meant pampering to her overwhelmingly lazy nature, and in that I was more than happy to comply. These would now be uncharted waters. I knew I would need to tread carefully. I knew she would quickly sense if I was offering something less than the same full support I offered in response to her typical requests for cheesecake. This battleship was immune to currents and winds; it would be turned only by its own rudder.

There were very few varieties of food that she didn’t enjoy, and certainly sweets no less than hearty entrees. But that classic staple of the stereotypical woman’s food desires – ice cream – was surprisingly far down her list of favorites. Early in our marriage, I tried to press her with ice cream as she lay on the sofa in the evenings. She could see right through it. She accused me of just trying to make her fat. I was put on notice that I was never to present her with unrequested ice cream. However, on rare occasions, when I had been an especially good boy, she would make that most excellent request as she lay in bed watching the Late Show. She would let me feed her, spoon-by-spoon, into her open and waiting mouth. Those nights always ended very, very well.

Last edited by Britt Reid; 11-07-2011 at 06:33 PM.
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Old 11-04-2011, 07:58 AM   #6
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Part Four

The very week that the bike was in place and ready to begin its new life of endless rotations in our basement, I arrived home to find her scooping out ice cream into a dish. The bike, the fear of a withering wife, now the ice cream, I felt my life was a party where I didn’t know anyone. I stood there at the entry to the kitchen, watching her. I had no idea what to say, so I decided to stick with the obvious.

“Wow, ice cream.”

“Hey, if I am going to be working out on that bicycle for hours a day, I at least get to reward myself.”

She didn’t even look up as she continued to struggle to excavate small chips out of the rock-hard ice cream, her soft, round arms quivering with effort. It was Haagen-Daas. Though she hardly ever had ice cream, when she did, it could only be the best. I always made sure it was on-hand, waiting so patiently at the back of the freezer, for those glorious requests. The typical use of the Haagen-Daas sprang to mind. I carefully took a playful tone in case I was about to step out of bounds.

“You know honey, we should make a deal. Every day you do the bike, I get to feed you ice cream. That way we both get rewarded.”

She set her hand down, still holding the scoop, on the counter next to the carton. A brown sliver of ice cream, leaving its golden creamy trail, slid slowly down the handle towards her fingers. Her eyes raised up at me from under her lashes, her mouth twisted in a seductive smile, and her voice oozed sultry.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you big boy?”

“I don’t think I’m the only one who would end up pleased.”

Her eyebrows arched up in appreciative acknowledgement at my come-back. She set down the scoop and came around from behind the center island, putting her arms around my neck, up on her tip-toes as my hands slid around with long practice onto her widening butt. Our lips were inches apart as she pressed into me and the ooze of sultry now ran like that ice cream melting down the handle.

“Well, well, well. I think these are terms I can accept.”

We had a long kiss as my hands caressed her butt, relishing that new-found heaviness. I could feel the outline of her larger belly against my groin and my growing erection fought for space. This brought her back to reality.

“Let’s save that for later. Go get changed and let’s go get some dinner, I’m starving.”

She grabbed the bowl as she walked into the living room to wait for me. The empty bowl was next to her as I bent down to give her a peck on the cheek and ask if she was ready.

That night as we went to bed, I was prepared for the earlier exchange to have been forgotten, postponed, or reneged entirely. She just had her bimonthly serving of ice cream before we went to dinner, would she actually be willing to have more? Did she even really mean it? Maybe it was just sexy talk? I could be in major trouble if I judged wrong and tried to bring her Unrequested Ice Cream. There was no way I could take the risk. She was already in bed as I jumped in next to her and pulled her close. This time her eyebrows raised in bemused disappointment.

“I knew it, all talk and no walk… I want my ice cream.”

She laughed out loud as I raced at high speed out of the room and down to the kitchen. In silence, spoon after spoon was ladled into her waiting mouth, and as soon as she swallowed, it popped open in anticipation of the coming bite, her eyes watching my eager face. With the clink of the spoon against the bottom of the empty bowl, I flipped her over and began a full body massage.

Flipping her again onto her back, her arms raised up over her head, I made a fervent pilgrimage to every inch of her arms, breasts, belly, and thighs. I had never heard her scream like that before. It was a great, great night.

The next day I returned from work to find her on the couch, watching TV and mindlessly snacking on some chips. I was still feeling for the boundaries in this wonderful new game.

“What, no ice cream?”

Her chin dropped, her eyes looking up at me, slowly shaking her head, she cooed.

“Now, now, now, don’t start getting greedy. You know I can’t eat a lot of ice cream. If I have some now I probably won’t want it later. Do you want me to have it now or later?”

My feet shuffled, hands in pockets, the scolded schoolboy.

“Later.”

“That’s a good boy, now go get changed, I’m starving.”

So the pattern began and my mind reeled. This was way too erotic for normal life. What was going on? Did my wife love me so much that, being sensitive to my preferences, she didn’t want to scare me with the exercise? Was she trying to appease me? Was the exercise bike just making her that much more hungry? Had she always actually been restraining her eating and now the exercise gave her the freedom or excuse to indulge?

Most importantly, would she lose weight? She certainly wasn’t eating any less. I always had to pick up after her at the end of each day, enabling her laziness, and there were no fewer plates, utensils, and wrappers lying around. All her favorite treats disappeared at the same rate they always had. And now there was nightly ice cream on top of it. Would it be enough to balance out the time on the bike and the dramatically turbocharged sex life?

Last edited by Britt Reid; 11-07-2011 at 06:37 PM.
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Old 11-05-2011, 06:07 AM   #7
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Part Five

That first glorious, scary, puzzling week rolled around to an end. Working from home she was always starved for attention and companionship during the week, and had typically counted on me for social release during the weekends. However, on this Saturday, we were like glue. I made her breakfast, we did a little shopping, we had a very nice dinner, we snuggled on the couch watching a movie. We were constantly touching, she seemed to be at least slightly aroused the entire day. She couldn’t take her eyes off me.

This was an unprecedented level of intimacy and desire. It was hang-gliding but the ground was made of pillows. I came upstairs after doing my daily pick-up of her detritus, and as per usual she was already in bed, watching me come through the door with a look of obvious expectation. Seeing my empty hands, her hands went to her softening hips, she opened her mouth in pretend shock and teased.

“You idiot, you know just how to blow a girl’s mood, don’t you? Where’s my ice cream?”

I stood there stunned. It had been such an unequaled day. I thought we were both on the same page. I was trying to follow the rules. I was trying to be a good boy. I was way too afraid to potentially rock this wonderful, amazing boat. My voice was defensive and shy.

“You didn’t ride the bike today.”

Her eyes grew into saucers in realization. I could see the wheels turning in her head. Moments passed. She licked her lips. I swallowed hard and looked at her searchingly. The ball was very much in her court.

“Well… I think what we should do… if I ride every day during the week, then I should get the weekends off, just like work, right? You don’t want me to work out every day do you?"

I shook my head emphatically.

“And I should still get the ice cream as my reward for the week, right?”

I nodded emphatically. Her mouth turned up in a sly grin.

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

I nodded even more emphatically. She laughed.

“you’d better be back here in less than three minutes, mister.”

It was a great, great night.

The weeks slid by in a blissful, exhilarating haze. I was beside myself with joy, getting to both feed her and dive into her every night. She had a glow that made me wonder if she was pregnant. I had never seen her this consistently horny, every night she was ready to pounce on me as soon as the ice cream was done.

Should I sheepishly admit that the exercise was doing her some good and giving her some extra energy? But what if she really started losing weight? So far, she had not lost any as far as I could tell, she actually seemed plumper than ever. Perhaps, despite the detailed nightly inspections with my hands and lips, my mind was clouded by the fog of lust and I was just feeling what I wanted to believe.

It was true that I didn’t really have many opportunities for a good visual read. Her wardrobe since working from home was almost exclusively sweatpants and baggy sweatshirts, even on evenings and weekends. Every evening she was already changed and in bed by the time I finished garbage and dish patrol and came up with the ice cream. I was feeling like a teenager, just wishing to see my wife standing in front of me naked. She wasn’t avoiding me at all, she was never shy about her body; it was just the slow, steady drumbeat of routine. The contented ease of a married couple’s daily schedule.

The lighting during our love sessions didn’t help me either. I was usually on top and she couldn’t stand bright lights in her eyes. A lava lamp in the corner provided just enough light to know where to put the spoonful of ice cream and where to find the rest of her body when it was finished. She was always still in bed when I left for work each morning, a voluptuous, rounded hump under the blankets.

After a month or so, the heat of August arrived, the air conditioner was cranked up, and there really seemed to be little doubt. She was still gaining weight. She must not be riding that bike enough to offset her daily diet plus the ice cream. I didn’t dare say a word of course, lest the bubble burst. Her gorgeous face was looking beautifully plump, you could barely see where her jawline used to be. The welcome-home hug put my hands on a butt that was widening not only in my imagination, her belly starting to press not just into me, but around me. She giggled at the instant erection that the hug provoked each day. If she now weighed more than 162 pounds, that was getting to be a pretty substantial weight for someone five feet tall. Would it be harder for her to notice if she was sliding from chunky into fat, than going from thin to curvy, or curvy to chubby?

It was inevitable that at some point I would decide to start snooping. Discussion of her exercise efforts was as forbidden as her weight was. I was down in the basement one evening grabbing some stuff out of the dryer and I took a close look at the exercise bike. It was uncluttered and ready to be used. There was no dust on the seat, pedals, or handles, the wheel spun smoothly and noiselessly, the TV was tuned to one of her usual channels. Oh well, nothing wrong with her being fit and fat if that’s where this was going. My guess was that she just wasn’t doing a very long or intense routine. Time for a little test - was she really riding every day? Before I went upstairs I hung one of my work shirts on one of the bike handles. Coming home the next day, she immediately met me with a caught-ya glare.

“Keep your stuff off of my bike, I’m not going to start doing your ironing for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She knew that’s not what I was thinking. She knew I was checking up on her. On her way up to bed that night she told me she didn’t want any ice cream. Ouch. She knew how to hit me where it hurt. When I came up to bed, her back was turned and she seemed to already be sleeping. On a normal night, after sex we would fall asleep spooning, with my arm wrapped around her belly and my hand tucked in between her belly and the mattress. So despite being struck out, when I got in bed I went for the same position. Was she really sleeping?

She didn’t stop me and I started my usual caress of her belly. This belly was definitely getting bigger. I remembered back to doing this same thing years ago, on hot Southern European nights, when my hand slid around a thin waist, and her fat was only a pliability protecting me from the hardness of her bones. Back then I couldn’t even put my hand under her because the angle of her narrow body made my wrist hurt. Now, as my hand slid over her waist it passed the rounded hump of her newly-padded hips rising three or four inches above the low point of her thickened waist and my hand no longer sliding down as it used to, but out across inches of flesh, finally meeting the mattress in a soft pillowy curve.

When I tucked my hand under, I lifted her belly, all flab, and felt its heft smothering my hand. My caresses moved from the swell that started immediately below her breasts, gliding all the way down to the roundness that now hung beneath her navel. Her belly not so long ago used to just bulge out, now it was starting to hang, beginning to hide the cute bubble of flesh right above her glory. She really was starting to get fat.

Last edited by Britt Reid; 11-07-2011 at 06:41 PM.
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Old 11-05-2011, 01:26 PM   #8
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Part Six

After she shut me out that one night, everything had thankfully gone right back to the pattern. I think she just wanted to send me a reminder as to who was really in charge.

Every night I rewarded her for her efforts on the bike and every weekend I rewarded her for a successful week. The summer was coming to a close. She had been working from home since January and been doing the exercise bike since the beginning of July. Even though she was doing the same job, she was technically a new hire and wouldn’t have any vacation until next year. We had been without a vacation for a long time. We jumped at the chance when I was invited to join some of my coworkers for a Labor Day weekend couples outing on a giant pontoon boat.

The last time I had seen her in a swimsuit was the previous summer when she weighed her long constant 145. I couldn’t wait and was giddy with anticipation. The week before Labor Day she called me at work to tell me she might be out when I got home, she was going out to buy a new swimsuit. My request for a bikini was met with a polite chuckle and she deadpanned.

“Whatever.”

The forecast for the weekend looked fantastic, sunny and eighties. We arrived to our friends’ cabin mid-evening after stopping for a nice dinner and a couple of drinks on the way - just one for me and a few for her actually. Apparently her goal was to have fun this weekend. We had always been social drinkers, pretentious cocktails with a nice dinner, or sipping wine while watching a movie. Neither of us had been to a kegger since college.

My coworkers, due to the combined impact of Midwestern geography and demography, were certified Rednecks. Arriving to join the festivities, they blinked stupidly as she rattled off the names of her usual frou-frou drinks when asked what she wanted. The Redneck alcoholic repertoire is beer, beer, beer, and a couple of hard liquor options. Tangerine Schnapps and tiny umbrellas need not apply. They set her up with a Blue Moon. It was beer enough to be beer, but different enough to make her think it was something special. She loved it.

I have no idea how many Blue Moons she had that night. You could see the stars in my coworker’s eyes as she flirted with them and they would always hand her another one. Her face was still so beautiful that chances are these guys had never seen someone so beautiful. Air conditioning allowed her to still be in sweatpants and a pullover, but I could see she was larger than she ever had been. The true test is how you would describe someone if they needed to picked out of a group.

It was increasingly likely that the easy response for my wife would be “the fat one”. The loose attire hid the details of her body, but no one would have their expectations challenged by what was really underneath. I looked around at the other wives in the room and it was pretty evident that she outweighed most of them in spite of her vertical disadvantage.

She drank herself silly and she was the star of the party. As I hauled her to our room in the cabin, she stumbled into me as I reached to open the door. She knocked me forward a step and I hit my nose on the door. It suddenly occurred to me that not only did I not know exactly what she weighed, but how close her weight might be to mine. Once inside the room, she took charge.

She pushed me down on the bed, turned and stumbled back two steps to hit the lights. She felt for the bed and fell down on top of me, kissed me and struggled up to position herself on top. I was instantly hard, I didn’t get to enjoy this position very often and indeed hadn’t in a long time. She felt a lot heavier than I remembered. With my hands I could feel her rounded, sagging belly hanging down in front of her, almost touching me as she rocked back and forth, moaning. Sated, she collapsed next to me and was snoring moments later.

I covered her with a blanket and got up to brush my teeth. In the bathroom, there was a scale. If she repeated her performance the next night I just might have the chance to find out how much she had gained since she started her weight loss campaign riding the bike.

In spite of all the drink, she awoke in high spirits and tore through a hearty breakfast of pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, and bloody marys. Back in the room, it was time to change to go out on the boat for the day. She went into the bathroom to change into her new swimsuit. It was increasingly evident that her need for a new swimsuit had been a physical necessity and not a whim of fashion.

She opened the door and emerged with a flourish, doing a little spin as she came through the door. She was fat. There was no denying it, she was beautifully fat. A black one-piece is supposed to be slimming; it made her look wide. She was still eminently well-proportioned. Her fat face flowed into rounded shoulders, into puffy arms, around to large circular boobs with inches of cleavage, down to a round belly that stuck out almost as far as the boobs. The narrow point of her waist was now right at the bottom of her breasts and her hips swelled out in a round wave, blending into thick, jiggly thighs that met all the way down to her knees.

As she spun, her rounder, wider, dimpled butt gave a visual demonstration of that heaviness I had been feeling every day as she greeted me after work. Her face was glowing just like it had been for the past two months. She had a broad smile on her face as she watched my response – slackjawed and agog.

Did she actually somehow think she had lost weight with her exercise? Did she have no realization that she was steadily gaining weight even before we got the bike and then she added a healthy daily dose of ice cream? Knowing how lazy she was I had become pretty confident that her claimed “hours and hours” were very likely closer to minutes and minutes, but even I thought she would at least be doing a fairly significant amount of time, like a half hour or forty-five minutes.

She was so upset for gaining 17 pounds in six months, how could she have let herself pack on this much in just two months? I didn’t say a word, I charged at her with a snarl, she screamed and feigned resistance. The new swimsuit was only slightly damaged in its hasty removal. I caught glimpse of the tag – size 16. We were the last ones down to the boat, where they waited, honking that tiny ineffectual little horn that all pleasure boats have.

She was a fat goddess soaking in the sun with her oversized sunglasses and floppy broad-brimmed sunhat as I soaked her in, sitting across from her and devouring her with my eyes from top to bottom and back down again. Her belly was getting big. Sitting in the boat it folded at the navel, the top roll wrapping around her like a tire about five inches thick, the bottom roll bulging out onto her thighs. Her thighs thick and chunky, even her calves were noticeably meatier.

She ate and drank her way through the day in a way that came the closest I have ever seen to the epic day her first and only diet ended. She downed the Blue Moons with abandon. She shoveled her face full on a near constant basis. I was watching and nobody, not even the guys, ate as much as she did, not even close. The others moved around, the others swam, the others waterskied and tubed, but she didn’t move a muscle from her seat. She bantered happily with everyone, still the center of attention, as she ate and drank and ate and drank. I was her happy servant, bringing her this, bringing her that.

As the sun went down, we cruised back to the cabin. She was already quite drunk when we got back to the cabin. We set up tables and played cards - more beer, more snacks. The party didn’t stop until more than one person claimed they had six of a kind. She was so stuffed and drunk that she was already falling asleep as we came into our room. I guided her to sit on the edge of the bed. She mumbled that she was too full to bend over to take off her shoes.

I told her I would help take off her shoes. I ran to the bathroom to grab the scale. She was monotoning how much she loved me and how full she was as I removed her shoes and put the scale under her feet. I helped her up onto her feet, being careful not to let the scale slip out from under her, held her steady for just a moment, her eyes were closed and her breathing gentle, I looked down. 175 pounds. Her weight loss exercise regimen had resulted in a 13 pound gain in two months.

She flopped her arms around my neck and leaned her head against my chest, breathing deeply. I gently laid her down on the bed and then did my best to drag her into something like a normal position.

Sunday was a repeat of Saturday, a water-borne blitzkrieg of beer, food, and fun, with the addition that it was apparent that she was really starting to make a connection with the other wives. She needed friends, most of her friends had been through work and had drifted away when the company disbanded and the tele-commute hadn’t brought any new ones. On the boat, the other girls cooed over her beauty and East Coast upbringing. They didn’t know she was a waif when I met her. They brought her food and made her try all the desserts.

Monday morning the festivities ended with a last big brunch. She was going out in style. She ate and drank constantly for nearly three hours as they kept refilling her plate and glass. Afterwards, I packed up our small weekend bags and was tidying up the room. She came in and grabbed the bags and headed for the door. I whirled around in disbelief that she had lifted something on purpose. No, no, she was fine she said in response to my pleas to let me get the bags. Apparently, the other wives were bringing out their bags and gathering by the cars to chat. She was bonding, it was cute.

I wasn’t there to see it, I was still making the bed, but I heard the shriek and the muffled thumps. The bags were not big by any stretch but she was a five foot tall out-of-shape woman who had never lifted anything before. She got through the door all right with the two bags, but then one of the bags hit the railing, pushed her back the other way, she missed the step and down she went.

(continued in post 12 of this thread)

Last edited by Britt Reid; 11-07-2011 at 06:48 PM.
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Old 11-05-2011, 05:21 PM   #9
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This was good from the start, but it is just getting better and better.
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Old 11-05-2011, 07:31 PM   #10
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Thank you very much for the kind words. They are greatly appreciated. I have been lurking here forever and always loved the stories best. I was well-overdue to pay something back.
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Old 11-05-2011, 08:18 PM   #11
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I love the descriptiveness. Thanks for the update!
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Old 11-06-2011, 06:42 AM   #12
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Part Seven

There is no emergency room visit that takes less than four hours. If you walk in with a slight headache, it will still take at least four hours. We spent the rest of Labor Day in the emergency room. She had mushed up the ligaments and tendons in her ankle pretty bad. It was immobilized in a brace and she was ordered to stay off it for nine weeks.

We didn’t get home until late in the evening. We went straight to bed, exhausted from the exuberance of the weekend and the pain and worry of the day. The next morning I left late in order to get her situated on the couch in the living room before I left. Laptop, phone, remote, and an array of edibles surrounded her.

Now that I had seen her on display in the swimsuit for the past few days, she looked quite plump there on the sofa. I could see those belly rolls hidden under the sweatshirt. She didn’t call me during the day to ask for anything, so I went home early. She had plundered most of the edibles, so after hello and a few quick words, I started picking up all the garbage around her. She spoke in a tone of voice that said she had already had this conversation with herself earlier.

“You know, I would have ridden the bike if I could have, but I can’t, so now what are we going to do?”

“I know. Don’t worry about it. It will be there waiting for you as soon as you are ready. I know you won’t give it up.”

She starred at me in silence, like I had just spoken in one of the few foreign languages she didn’t know. I assume she was stunned that I had missed the point so badly, maybe worried. Her voice was quiet and pleading.

“You can still feed me ice cream if you want to, I was really getting to enjoy that… appetizer.”

Whoa. She wasn’t worried about the bike. She wasn’t worried falling off the exercise bandwagon. She was worried about our nightly ice cream-fueled lovefest. She was worried enough about it that she had been thinking about it all day and felt the need to address it as soon as I got home. This was incredibly good news. I rushed to reassure her.

“Oh honey, I am so glad to hear you say that. Screw this ‘reward’ crap. I have been so happy lately and I think you have too. I have never felt so close to you. I love you so much. Let’s keep doing it to reward us… for us.”

She was crying. She was biting her lip. She waved me to come in closer and planted a kiss on me that almost made me lose my balance as I leaned over her. We kissed for a while. It might have gone further, but there wasn’t room for me on the couch, and she couldn’t move much anyway. She was fanning her face to dry the tears as she picked up the phone.

“Go get changed, I’m going to call in for Chinese. You can go pick it up. I’m starving.”

That night I fed her a bigger-than-usual bowl of ice cream right on the sofa, with me sitting alongside her as best I could. Despite our best intentions, sex wasn’t really an option; it was too painful for her to move the ankle. She slept on the couch for the rest of the week, the stairs were too much for her.

Without the anticipation of sex, we had the luxury to stretch out the ice cream time and I kept increasing the portion size to accommodate it. Whereas the ice cream was previously just a modest prelude to get me excited and her warmed up, it was now the focus and I kept ladling it in each night until she announced:

“Oh my God, I am so stuffed, I can’t eat another bite.”

We would kiss and I would rub her belly after. We tried handwork a couple of times, but as soon as she started to get in the moment she would move wrong and wince in pain. We were eating in every night to save her the trouble of moving: pizza, Chinese, pizza, Chinese, etc.

The second week she started to hobble around a slight bit more than just to the bathroom and back to the sofa. She was willing to let me help her up the stairs at night and back down again in the morning. That first night back in bed she was so horny that there was no doubt that we wouldn’t try sex. It was the longest we had gone without in a long time. Even before it became a nightly event that July, we were typically a 2-3 times a week couple. It was messy, fast, and a little bit awkward, but still met our needs. The extended ice cream time continued now as a primary method of foreplay to replace what would otherwise require more movement from her. One night we were most of the way through a large bowl when she pressed her hands into her belly, now a large presence in front of her and flowing around to the sides, and leaned back against her pillows.

“Oh my God, I am getting so fat. Your dream is coming true.”

“Honey, you are absolutely gorgeous!”

“Shut up, I know you’re totally getting off on this. Get ready. As soon as I can get back on that bike all of this will be gone.”

“Well… until then, let me enjoy it.”

“You selfish prick! …feed me.”

Minutes passed as the spoonfuls slid between her lips and the bowl emptied.

“Oh my God, I am so stuffed, I can’t take another bite.”

I gently climbed on top of her and we made it work. Each night was getting a little better than the last. Spent, I collapsed next to her and carefully adjusted myself into the spoon position trying not to disturb her ankle. As my hand slid over her fleshy waist and out, out over her belly and finally down to get my hand under her belly, only my fingers went under, not my whole hand. I kneaded the fat on her soft belly with my fingers and started slowly caressing it from top to bottom. I oohed in appreciation. Her voice came sleepily from out of her pillow.

“You suck… but don’t stop until I fall asleep.”

I kneaded and caressed until her breathing was deep and even.

Last edited by Britt Reid; 11-07-2011 at 06:51 PM.
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Old 11-06-2011, 05:57 PM   #13
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Part Eight

I could hear the happiness in her voice as she was speaking when I came through the door at the end of the second week of her disability. I didn’t recognize the car in the driveway, but obviously someone had come to visit. The female voice that responded to my wife was equally happy and expressive. I shouted hello and walked into the living room to be greeted by my wife in her new permanent location on the sofa and one of the wives of my coworkers that had been with us that weekend.

A glance over to the counter revealed a stack of four giant boxes labeled “cheesecake” and a case of Blue Moon. The top box was open and they were each working on a piece, the wife’s accompanied by a Blue Moon. We chatted warmly for while until our guest rose, pleading the need to finish her deliveries. After she had left, I greeted my wife my intimately, sat down, and she could see my eyes moving from her to the stack of cheesecakes.

“Oh my, I probably never even told you about those. They are so huge! Her kid is selling them for school and she hit me up while we were on the boat. I don’t know why I ordered four. I was probably so drunk it seemed like a good idea. I guess I was thinking one for us, one to take to Thanksgiving, one for Christmas or New Years, and one to throw in the freezer. Why are they so big? We’re not even going to have room in the freezer.”

She popped the last bite into her mouth and drained the Blue Moon while batting a glance at the half-finished piece of our guest.

“So the kids are going door-to-door with beer these days too?”

“Oh no, that’s just a get-well gift. I’m sure she noticed how I couldn’t get enough of them that weekend and thought I’d appreciate it. You know I’m not the big beer drinker, but these things are GOOD. That weekend was a blast. Well big boy, tonight is the night! You are taking your girl out. I am so sick of this house and this couch. Go get changed so we can get some dinner. I’m starving.”

I went upstairs to change and came back down, but before we left, I picked up two empty cheesecake plates and put them in the sink.

Until the past two weeks, we had gone to the same Chinese buffet for dinner almost every night since she started working from home. On the weekends we might try someplace different, but as often as not, we would end up there anyway. It was hard to get tired of it, it was a huge buffet. It was easy to forget to even visit some of the serving islands, and then you would be surprised by the delicious new items you found there. They kept it impeccably clean, the staff was friendly, and the food was uniformly excellent. But it was the variety that kept us coming back day after day; you could get what you wanted. We always sat in one of the booths against the far wall, but as the staff greeted us and the dish-bussing girls cooed in sympathy over her leg, it was quickly apparent that the booth wasn’t going to work with the ankle.

Though we liked the coziness and high backs, they certainly weren’t spacious, and the table leg came straight down in the middle at the end of the table. They sat us at one of the tables with chairs in the center of the restaurant. When she finally got herself positioned, she looked at me in a way that immediately made me recognize that she wasn’t getting up again. It was a delight to serve her, to choose the delectables that would pass between those beautiful lips. Plate after plate passed before her. She was so happy to be in a different setting with people around that we stayed until closing time. We were almost the last people in the place when she finally struggled to her feet.

“Oh my, I am so stuffed I can’t even move.”

I paced myself beside her as she slowly shuffled past the darkened serving islands towards the door, only the dessert area was still lighted, the soft-serve machine chugged with a rhythmic hum.

“Go get me a cone – chocolate.”

I had already watched her nibble her way through a plate full of dessert items over the past hour, but I decided to be bold. I made it with five inches of glistening, winding chocolate soft-serve looming over the cone. She didn’t say a word. I carried it to the car and handed it to her once she sat down. Silently, it was gone in the next few minutes. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek as I drove. She was asleep even before we got home. I had to gently wake her and help her into the house.

(continued in post 17 of this thread)

Last edited by Britt Reid; 07-31-2012 at 08:20 PM.
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Old 11-07-2011, 07:42 AM   #14
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Amazing! You're quite the story teller. I'm really enjoying this
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Old 11-07-2011, 09:47 AM   #15
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This is one of the best stories Dims has seen in a while
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Old 11-07-2011, 02:21 PM   #16
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Really enjoying this one. Beautifully descriptive text and an overall sense of believability and, most importantly, a sense of humour! :-)

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Old 11-07-2011, 02:53 PM   #17
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Part Nine

This was becoming unreal. This was porno-like in its perfection. She had always been the consummate nibbler, unable to resist anything, always looking for that next bite, but she had always been just as likely to do it in moderation. Leave half a cookie, doggie bag the remains of a dinner for lunch the next day, take only one or two bites – carelessly, whimsically answering a steady hunger.

Now she was undeniably eating a lot more than she had been previously. Her eating took on the appearance of missions instead of absent-minded peckishness. Was the bum leg making her like the pregnant woman, who, knowing she is eating for two, gives herself license to act in a way that she never would otherwise? Was she really actually confident that her return to the exercise bike would suddenly reverse the changes? How could she not realize what impact this would have? She obviously wasn’t thrilled about it, even if she didn’t mind that I was. Was she bored? She certainly wasn’t depressed; she was more happy and alive than I had ever seen her. Was she using the ankle as an excuse? More than anything, she seemed resigned to it, a river pulling her along with a current too powerful to struggle against.

By removing a few bags of Paleolithic vegetables and assorted mystery items, I was able to get two of the cheesecakes into the freezer. The open one I left out. It wasn’t even a matter of tempting her, the way things were going it was a statement of fact to say that she was going to eat it. I put the fourth in the fridge, hoping it would still be good by Thanksgiving.

Her work was going well, she was charging through her projects with her usual intensity. With pride, she shared emails from her coworkers with glowing praise for her efforts and abilities. The rest of us suckers are just trapped, or maybe just stupid. I worked from 7 to 5 every day going to meaningless meetings, completing meaningless reports, wasting time, and stretching out or delaying tasks because you knew you couldn’t leave anyway.

For the diligent, tele-commuting is the bomb. Once she had settled in to the rhythm and philosophy of the new company, I had the distinct impression that her work hours were nine to noon. More power to her, she might be lazy in her personal life, but she took her work very seriously. She used her afternoons in decadent relaxation like she earned it.

The cheesecake was disappearing with expected alacrity. She would reuse the same plate even if she helped herself more than once, but based on what was left in the box, she was having a sizeable chunk every day. Blue Moon bottles began appearing in the moraine of debris that surrounded her on the couch. Her afternoons were hers to enjoy, I just told her to be careful about sending any emails too late in the day if she was knocking them back. She laughed.

By the end of her third week of repose, the ankle was obviously feeling more comfortable inside her boot and she was moving around more or less normally, just clumsily and well… less. I missed my welcome-home hugs, but she still wasn’t rising from the couch to greet me when I got home. I wanted to feel just how large that butt was getting.

She was drunk. There is no laughter like drunk laughter, and this was drunk laughter. I entered the living room to the serenade of her cackles. I counted them: one, two, three, four empty Blue Moon bottles, the fifth raised to her lips. Some kind of comedy jam was playing on the TV. A slice of cheesecake sat on her shrinking lap. A glance to the counter displayed a newly opened box, presumably the one from the fridge.

“Hey big boy, I have been waiting forever for you to get home. Get over here!”

I put down my laptop case, loosened my tie, walked over and kneeled on the floor next to her to give her a kiss. Before I could lean in for the kiss, she grabbed the plate and unsteadily shoved it into my chest.

“Are you hard yet? Your fat wife is drunk and feeding her fat face. This should be the best day in your whole life! Third piece… feed me, you ass hole!”

I was hard and she could see it. She clumsily opened my pants and grabbed me while I fed her. She moaned as each big hunk entered her mouth. It was gone in two minutes and we were racing to help each other get out of our clothes. It was beyond great, it was amazing. Now collapsed back onto the sofa, she momentarily complained that her ankle now throbbed despite the booze, but she didn’t care.

Her eyes were closed, her lips parted in a broad smile, her hair matted to her brow with sweat, her chest heaving from the exertion. She was a bloated, contented, beautiful mess. Sweatpants and underwear were still hanging around the leg with the boot. She needed a new bra a while ago, her breasts splashing over the tops of the cups, fat being squeezed out the sides. Her underwear had left detailed impressions where they had been stretched so tightly around her hips and across her belly.

Even as she laid stretched back, her belly, which was not so long ago a smooth round dome, was noticeably forming into an upper and lower belly with a crease running across her navel. The distance from the navel to the bottom of her belly was larger. Her breathing slowed as I kissed her and caressed her, she fell asleep. It was 5:30 in the afternoon. I carefully removed the underwear and sweatpants from her booted foot and covered her with a blanket.

At 7:00 I sat down on the floor next to the sofa and started stroking her hair. After a few minutes, her eyes flickered open, she looked at me dreamily, put my hands under her cheek, closed her eyes again and sighed.

“I love you so much you don’t even understand it.”

“You know, I’ve been missing my welcome-home hugs lately, but this would be a more than suitable replacement.”

Her eyes flashed open and she sparked a devilish grin.

“Oh you bad, bad boy. You’ll need to start wearing that tie a little looser, because you had better be ready coming through that door! Now go grab me a brush so I can fix my hair and we can get to dinner. I’m starving.”

Because of the late start, we closed the buffet down, which was unusual for us on a weekday night. We didn’t get back until well after 10. I am up at 5:30 every morning. She gets up at 8:30. She had an hour and a half nap before dinner. I could barely make my eyes focus. Her eyes were bright. She made a sad, pouty face and told her baby to go on up to bed. She wasn’t sleepy, she was going to stay downstairs and watch TV.

I woke up alone. I could hear her snores as I came down the stairs. To be honest, only needing five feet of room, the sofa made a pretty decent bed for her. I wanted to make sure she was well-covered by a blanket, but as I approached, I quickly stopped and drew up and raised my eyebrows. There on the table in front of the sofa was a large empty bowl. As I picked it up I could see that the entire interior surface had once been covered in ice cream. A full bowl of ice cream, self-administered. I checked the freezer. There had been one unopened pint of Haagen-Daas in there. It was gone. She had fed herself an entire pint while watching TV. I had no idea what she was doing. I really don’t think she had any idea what she was doing. She was just… doing.

Distracted does not even begin to describe my state at work that day. I could see her lying on the couch, watching the door, watching the time, waiting. I was a middle management Odysseus tied to the pole of work while my plump beauty called out her siren song to me.

I almost had an accident on the way home, driving too fast and blinded by desire. I burst through the door. The house was quite dim, she had closed the heavy drapes in the living room. I didn’t care, it was still a lot brighter than our room at night with the lava lamp. If this worked for her, then it was a win-win. There were no words. She was way beyond ready. Her eyes were on fire as she watched me approach. She lay on her side, naked, except for that dumb boot. Every ripple and roll in her fattening body cast deep shadows, her heavy round breasts and fat round belly spilling onto the sofa in front of her, her broadening hips rising surprisingly high above the rest of her body, her thighs plopped against each other like slightly under-filled sausages. On the table, right in front of her face, was a thick slab of cheesecake and a fork, shining strangely in the dim light.

As I stripped, she rolled on to her back, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth. With one hand I started forking in the cheesecake, with the other I caressed her body. I ran my fingers up and down. From her plump cheeks, down over and around her breasts, circling around her wide soft belly, down her thick legs to her toes and back up again, each time passing deep into her crotch along the way. She quivered as I did. A rhythm of quivers timed to the passing of my hand. She was moaning as the cheesecake disappeared. I put the last bite in, and seconds later she moaned as her mouth opened again, waiting for the next bite. I stared at the empty plate in horror. Mouth still open, she started pounding her fists on the sofa, her whole body jiggling wildly, her eyes still shut tightly. She started shouting.

“Hurry! More! YOU IDIOT! Go get more! Go get more!”

I was scrambling in panic. In microseconds, I had grabbed a hunk out of the cake with my bare hand and was back. I plunged my free hand deep into her and shoved the hand with the cake into her mouth. She let out a deep, deep moan and gripped the side and back of the sofa. I entered her while she desperately gobbled the cake from my hand until it was gone.

She bucked. She started shrieking incessantly. I was calling out to a higher power. I had just discovered the Grand Unifying Theory of physics… and seconds later forgotten it. We lay on each other in a heap, panting in exultation. She let out a deep breath, blinking as she finally opened her eyes, brushed the hair out of her face, threw her flabby arms out to the sides and exclaimed,

“Don’t EVER let that happen again!”

I thought it wise not to remind her she was the one who had cut the cheesecake.

(Continued in post 23 of this thread)

Last edited by Britt Reid; 07-31-2012 at 08:22 PM.
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Old 11-07-2011, 05:23 PM   #18
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Thanks much for all the positive feedback! More coming...
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Old 11-07-2011, 06:02 PM   #19
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This is so well-written that it doesn't even matter that it's a theme I'm not normally into. Great work!
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Old 11-08-2011, 12:21 AM   #20
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Man is that a good one, I am having flashbacks to me and my wife of nearly 20 years now. When we got married she was a slightly pudgy but gorgeous woman. Now she is a very beautiful SSBBW (424 pounds) and I am the chief cook so she has no idea that if I make four servings of anything (we are a family of three, with a precocious 10 year old girl), she will get half of everything I cook, or more (the kid is a light eater anyways).

I would love for this to continue.....and am hoping to see what further changes there will be in her form.
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Old 11-08-2011, 06:27 AM   #21
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Fooman and Geekybibabe, thank you for the praise. I feel very relieved as i was quite nervous to post it. The support means a lot.

Fooman, you are living the dream! Congrats! For me, the framework of the story is vaguely autobiographical up until the exercise bike arrives.

I have one more piece ready to go, another in porgress, and probably a couple more pieces in my head that still need to turn into bytes.

I am already planning my next story!
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Old 11-08-2011, 06:55 AM   #22
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I agree that the writing is good. It has me eager to find out the ending
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Old 11-08-2011, 05:21 PM   #23
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Part Ten

We immediately established a new normal. Without discussion, the pattern of that day became the standard our feverish desires demanded of us. I really should say that I missed sleeping with her. That would be the cute and romantic thing to say. It would still be a lie. Yes, yes, spooning and fondling that yielding, flowing belly while falling asleep is really cool, but do the math. Losing the cute couple cuddling through the night, that’s minus one. Gaining mega-hot afternoon stuffing sex as soon as I walk in the door multiplied by hot wife downing entire pints of fattening ice cream late at night, that’s plus forty-seven. You see what I mean? I was just along for the ride anyway, she was the one steering. I just kept wishing I knew where we were going and why. She was a smart woman, she beat me on the SAT by 350 points. She had to have some level of awareness of the impact of her behavior, didn’t she? She had known for a long time that this must be my ultimate fantasy, but she was acting like she was the happy one. She didn’t make any effort to hide her new-found gluttony. The use of bowls only lasted a few nights. I think she got tired of the effort of filling it. She started eating straight from the carton. Each morning an empty pint for me to pick up off the table. She never said a word about it.


Every mountain has a peak, and on the other side of that peak is always a valley. I had a feeling that this was the peak. It couldn’t go on like this. Or at least it couldn’t get any better, could it? Even status quo seemed like way too much to ask in the long run. I had a feeling that once that boot came off, the show would be over. I felt sure that the boot was her excuse. The ankle could be blamed. How cruel and callous for me to secretly be thankful she had been injured. Even though the ankle didn’t hurt her at all anymore, that boot was so big and clunky that she much preferred not moving to moving. She lived on the main floor. I think she actually preferred sleeping on the sofa just so she wouldn’t need to plod up and down the stairs sideways once each day. The upstairs and basement were my private domains.

She was asleep in her afternoon post-coital slumber, rebuilding her hunger so she could arise “starving” an hour and a half after downing enough cheesecake to stop a charging linebacker. The cheesecakes? Don’t make me laugh, we had already opened the fourth one and she still had one week to go before her nine-week check-up. She indicated absolutely no sense of shame when she called my coworker’s wife to see if there was a way to order more. I can only imagine how our friend thought we got rid of four Michelin-sized cheesecakes in six weeks. I was in the basement waiting for the dryer to finish. I had straightened some of my tools, looked at the condition of the paint at the base of the wall, and now I stared at the exercise bike. It had a computer. I had been too scared to even look at the thing after probing the first time, but she hadn’t been down here in nearly two months and wouldn’t be for another week at least. She would never know. Maybe she presumed I had already looked a long time ago and didn’t care anyway.

So just how much bicycle riding lets a woman put on 13 pounds in two months? I should be fair, that night at the cabin she was stuffed like a Christmas goose, but what does it matter? These bikes are incredibly high tech, they give you everything. They seem built to shame you into working out by tracking every facet of your activity. She had ridden the bike every day during the week, just like she said she would. She kept her promise to herself, but I was right. In nine weeks she had ridden 43 times for a total of 46 miles. The longest ride was 1.4 miles, the shortest was 0.3 miles. Every ride was at the lowest resistance setting – no resistance. Not even once was she on the bike for more than 15 minutes. Usually it was less than ten. She had never even broken a sweat. Apparently you can’t fight your nature. If you are as lazy as she is, maybe this is an achievement. Even if it is, that doesn’t mean it is going to bring results. Or at least not the results she expected.

The dreaded day had arrived. She had been to the doctor that afternoon and still wasn’t home when I arrived from work. As I waited, I munched on one of the few pieces of leftover Halloween candy that she had somehow missed. As I waited, I prepared myself for the days ahead: I love my wife, I will support her in whatever she does, she had given me the thrill of a lifetime that I never expected, she deserved my eternal gratitude and unending love. The view from the peak is amazing and the exhilaration feels amazing, but down in the valley was life, real life. Without valleys there is no such thing as a peak.

The door opens. No boot, she is walking normally, gone is the herky-jerky stumbling shuffle; she looks so graceful, so seductive, so smooth. She turns as she heads for the coat closet to hang up her jacket. That butt is wobbling like I have never seen it wobble. Two round globes shaking and pounding as she walks to the rack. My eyes almost leap out of my head when the shaking continues for just a moment after she stops. The sweatshirt sleeves are actually starting to get tight around her arms. In profile, her cheeks are jowly and the thick double chin seems to be inspiring a crease in her neck. She turns to me and I move to meet her. That smile, that smile will be forever and always a light and a vision of paradise.

She throws her arms around my neck, up on her toes as my hands remember the long practiced slide around to her butt. My hands don’t get quite all the way there. She feels noticeably wider, only my fingers now reach to the center of her butt, sinking into yielding flesh. Even as she threw her arms around me, the belly had already made its presence known. She hit me like a wrecking ball of pillows. I wavered and had to take a half a step back, but I hid it in the motion of leaning down to kiss her. Bending down just a little more than I used to reach that gorgeous face that was just a little farther away than it was a couple of months ago. We kissed as my boner raged. She started sloshing her belly back and forth over it. The trail of clothes began there at the kitchen, littered the stairs, a sock on a picture, a bra on a potted plant. We lay in bed after, cuddling, a heavy leg draped over mine, a belly pushed into my side. I inquired after the appointment.

“So how did it go with the doctor?”

“Why don’t you just ask the real question?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know I scored 350 points higher than you on the SAT. You can either stop playing dumb and just get it out or it if you haven’t figured it out yet, give yourself a few minutes.”

“Shut up, I have no idea what you are talking about. Just tell me what the doctor said about your ankle.”

“Like you actually really care about my ankle! I know you better than you know yourself. You are just dying to know how much your fat, fat wife weighs.”

“Well, how much?”

“See, I knew it!”

“Oh come on, what are you going to do, tease me now? You know I want to know. But you know what? I am also your dear and loving husband who has, at the very least, a distant and tangential interest in your ankle! So come on, how did it look?”

“The ankle is mostly fine as far as movement goes, but he said I will probably always need to be a little careful with it because I built up a lot of scar tissue. But the best news of all is - no more boot!”

“So how much do you weigh?”

“You jerk, can you not think with your groin for even a minute?”

“I was just trying to funny. You don’t have to tell me. I can just keep poking you until I get my best estimate.”

“You are incorrigible! A woman’s weight is supposed to be secret, but I just know it is going to make you so hard that I just can’t resist. Will you go get me some ice cream if I tell you?”

“I’m going to go with – YES!”

“196… Holy crap, instant dick, just add weight! Well don’t just sit there staring at me like a slack-jawed idiot. Hurry up! You don’t want your wife wasting away waiting for her ice cream do you?”

(Continued in post 25 of this thread)

Last edited by Britt Reid; 07-31-2012 at 08:23 PM.
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Old 11-09-2011, 12:39 PM   #24
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Bravo!

This is a story written by a writer. A writer with real talent and skill!

Thanks so much for sharing your work with us and I hope you will share more!
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Old 11-09-2011, 03:09 PM   #25
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Part Eleven

As we arrived at the buffet, it seemed weird that she was moving so fast, flowing instead of hobbling. I drank in the sight of her as she walked. Her ass had suddenly transformed into a mesmerizing sway of extravagant femininity, the hang of her belly now clearly outlined through her sweatpants. All that was gone was the boot, but it felt like we were on a first date.

She was so pleased that we could return to our cozy little nook, that row of booths against the back wall. Her feet once again could slide easily past the table leg that had denied entrance to her boot, but as the rest of her followed into the booth, what had been cozy was now tight. Her eyebrows arched up in surprise, and a look of consternation passed over her face as she moved herself into the center of the booth bench in little scoots. The edge of the table was an exact fit for the wedge where the bottom of her boobs met the top of her belly, not pressing in, but obviously creating a sense of restriction. I was still standing as I watched her, she looked up at me with a nervous smile.

“Well, that’s a little tighter than I remember.”

“Oh come on, these booths have always been really narrow.”

“Not this narrow!”

“Should we go to one of the tables?”

“No, I’ve already gone through the work of wedging myself in, I’m not getting up. You pampered me for two months going to get my food, we might as well let it continue, be a dear would you?”

“With pleasure!”

“I suspected as much. Hurry up, it smells wonderful, I’m starving.”

No sign of restricted intake followed, no refusal of my offerings, no requests for salad. She appeared to have forgotten the encroachment of the table as she happily ate, her face aglow as she talked the ears off of her adoring husband.

She made no comment as she carefully extricated herself from the booth when we finished. There was no chance I was going to say a word as we passed the soft-serve machine on our way out. I didn’t need to, her detour was self-initiated. The cone was self-made, but I smirked to myself when I saw she had made it to my standards. Back at my side, she lifted it to my mouth and let me have a lick, but only one. She was glancing at the tables in the center as we left.

"I think we should stick with the tables from now on. The chairs are a lot more comfortable."

"And it is easier for you to point out to me what you want."

"Yes, don't worry, you get to keep bringing me food. I get as much from being served as you seem to from serving. I'm not going to give that up."

That night in bed, the spooning suddenly turned problematic. It was supposed to be the relaxing, tender togetherness of a couple, and that is how we had always treated it – the embrace of the truly loved and in love as we drifted off to sleep. We had already had sex that afternoon, she had double-dosed on the ice cream fix, so it was no surprise that when I got upstairs her back was turned, ready for me to complete the spoon. As I climbed in bed, she backed her rump up into me, I slid my hand across her wide belly. Feeling that softness pressing into me I thought back to the stunning new motion of her unbooted walk, and I sprang to life almost instantly. She turned towards me with an astounded grin.

“What is wrong with you? How much more am I going to need to put out for you? Aren’t you tired?”

“Sorry, honey! You’re going to think this is stupid, but going into the buffet tonight I was watching your butt as you walked and I don’t know, you seemed so graceful and fluid without the boot. I’m not trying to say you weren’t sexy with the boot, but watching you walk… wow!”

“Uh-huh. Tomorrow I’m going to look up the word ‘graceful’. Apparently the definition has changed since the last time I looked it up.”

“Stop it, you know what you do to me. Any other man in the universe would have thought the exact same thing. Oh great! See? Look, it’s going away. Are you happy now? Whatever, don’t worry about it. Let’s snuggle, I know that does the same for you that watching your butt does for me. Give me a kiss.”

We lay back down and got in our position. That butt… that belly… the night watchman returned.

“Do you need me to take care of that for you?”

“Would you mind?”

“Uuuugh! The things I do for my dear, dear husband! Lay down, you horny bastard. Thankfully this won’t take long!”

I came home the next day with a fresh cheesecake. She had polished off the fourth one in near perfect synchronicity with her release from the prison of the boot the previous day. This new one looked positively sickly and diminutive in comparison, but it was the best I could find. She glanced up from the sofa, now coming towards me for the welcome-home hug. She stopped, looking at the cheesecake still in my hands.

“Can you take it back? Oh my God, my stomach did flip-flops just looking at it. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat cheesecake for a year.”

“Oh yeah, no problem. I’m sure I can take it back. Sorry, the way you went through the other ones, I wouldn’t dare try to leave you without.”

She could see I was crestfallen. I stood there not knowing if I could put it down in the kitchen or if it needed to go directly out to the car. She came up to me, put her hands around my waist, the box pressing into her boobs. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at me.

“I love your consistency. If you had come home without it, I really would have been worried. And if this was last week I would have killed you if you hadn’t brought it. Don’t worry, honey. I couldn’t help but notice the freezer is still packed with my ice cream. You’re going to be bringing one up tonight, aren’t you?

Her consoling always worked. She really did know me better than I knew myself. Of course, to me that only made her an even more impenetrable mystery. I could see the valley before me, the air warming as I descended from the dizzying heights. No more cheesecake and yes, the reward. She was back on the bike. Would the bike cajole her into more serious efforts?

Marriage is just a funny and legally-binding way to spell “negotiation”. That’s why giving in is such a crucial tactic. However, the negotiations relate not just to the couple themselves, but their interactions with friends, coworkers, and family. Both of our families were out of state, mine still in the Midwest, hers back East. Each year we had alternated Christmas at one and Thanksgiving at the other. This year we were due to head East for Thanksgiving. It was only two weeks away and she still hadn’t purchased our tickets yet. I shouted to her on a Saturday morning, pulling a sweatshirt over my head as I bounded down the stairs.

“So are we going to your folk’s house for Thanksgiving this year or not?”

She was still seated at the table where I had left her. She looked up at me from her stack of pancakes, half gone, with a pool of buttery syrup poured where the other half had been.

“I don’t want to go. I’m going to call Mom and tell her you are working or something.”

“Working? On Thanksgiving? Am I doing part-time at Macy’s or something?”

“Shut up, I’ll tell her your Dad is sick and we need to go there.”

“If the back-up is wishing disease upon my family, then I’ll stick with Macy’s.”

She started crying.

“You stupid jerk! I don’t want to go! I don’t want them to see me! I’m not ready to show them a daughter that can’t fit through the doors and her stupid husband charging up the stairs every night with a bowl of ice cream! Don’t you get it? I know you’re doing back-flips with how fat I’m getting, but think of someone else for a change!”

She had risen from her chair as she addressed me, standing, one knee on the seat of the chair, one hand gripping the back of the chair, the other, balled in a fist and trembling, on the table in front of her plate. Getting no response from me, she turned back, plopped down heavily onto her chair, and started forking huge bites of pancake into her mouth, her tears mingling with the syrup. I was obviously at a loss for words. I moved up behind her and started rubbing her shoulders, waiting for the right words to come into my head.

“You know I’m living a dream right now, but you’d better not be doing this for me. I will support you in whatever you want to do. I’m incredibly sorry if I’ve pushed you or missed how you are feeling. You seemed so happy.”

The last bite was stuffed in, the plate was empty, her cheeks puffed out ridiculously. I waited as she finally swallowed. She wiped her eyes with a napkin and put her hands in her lap.

“I am happy. I have never been so happy. I’m so lonely and you are my world. It’s like you make everything all right. I can feel how much you desire me and love me, like it’s a force that washes over me like a wave. I remember those girls I used to work with, they would always complain about their husbands and boyfriends and their problems. I felt so lucky that we weren’t like that, but at the same time I wondered ‘what if we did become like that?’

"Then this year suddenly I was all alone, needing you as my rock and fearing ‘what if we became like that’. But it was just the opposite. It was like I was melting into you, like I didn’t need anything else in my life but you. I’ve never known that I could feel like this – that you could make me feel like this. I don’t want my family looking at me like something’s wrong, when it couldn’t be more right. I don’t need them judging me. I don’t need them thinking I’ve failed.”

“Don’t you worry about it. If you don't want to go, then we don’t have to go. I am your rock and I always will be, but you are going to have to face them sometime. I told you I will support you in whatever you want to do and I promise you that, but if you are happy then you have to own that. You look them in the eye and say ‘this is me. Do you want me or don’t you want me?’ It is no different than if they were disappointed because they wanted you to be a lawyer, but you were a dentist, or they wanted you to marry some Italian Prince and you married… me.”

“Oh stop, Mom and Dad have always liked you.”

“They think I’m a goofball who stole their daughter.”

“You did steal me. We only see them once a year!”

“I notice you didn’t challenge the ‘goofball’ comment.”

“You are a goofball. A goofball who gets off on fat girls. Wait ‘til they hear that one. I love your ‘this is me’ crap, but I’m going to be blaming this on you!”

“Oh great, so now we’re going again?”

“No, no, I’m really not ready yet. I’m going to call her and tell her we’re coming for Christmas this year.”

“All right, tell her I said ‘hi’, but I had to run. My shift at Macy’s starts in 20 minutes.”

(continued on page 2, post 29, of this thread)

Last edited by Britt Reid; 11-11-2011 at 11:55 AM.
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