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Old 12-16-2011, 11:53 AM   #1
Big Beautiful Dreamer
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Default A touching Holiday

Foreplay, ~~WG. A couple who have always been turned on by their fit firm bodies accidentally discover pleasure in indulgence.

A Touching Holiday

by Big Beautiful Dreamer

Kristin was a tactile young lady and the first person I had been in a relationship with who awakened tactile responses in me in return. When we held hands, instead of feeling sweaty and trapped, I felt a tingle run up my arm and speed up my heart rate. I got a similar result when we each had an arm around the other. We both worked out, and it was satisfying to feel her trim waist and firm belly beneath my fingers, satisfying to know that my own belly was flat to the touch.

This was our first holiday season together since meeting at a friend’s Super Bowl party eleven months ago. We had survived Thanksgiving, eating too much and missing a few workouts, but we’d both quickly gotten back on track and knocked out the resulting stray pound or two.

But as soon as the calendar page turned to December, demented elves took over the world. Someone was having a party every time I turned around. The tennis club on whose board I sat started the rush with a “holiday party” on the first Friday. As it happened, I’d sprained my ankle badly in a match just the day before, which kept me from dancing, but Kristin, looking extremely hot in a jewel-green, tight-fitting cocktail dress, danced the night away, keeping her energy up with platefuls of high-end hors d’ouevres that she shared with me between dances – salsa to salsa by – and I munched along to keep her company.

“I have to keep dancing,” she informed me breathlessly, over mini quiches. “My gym just closed for three months for renovations. They say we can use their other location, but it’s way across town.” She paused. “Can they do that?”

“They’re a private company, honey, they can do whatever they want,” I said mildly.

Kristin pouted as she brushed a crumb from my mouth and hopped back up, taking Jack Ferrin’s hand with a dazzling smile.

A couple of days later, her Sunday School class had a chili party at someone’s house, and then it was the bash for public radio volunteers, and then it was a cookie exchange with her women’s group. My office party was followed by her office party, followed by her book club’s party, followed by my own book club’s party. And sandwiched in there were half a dozen smaller gatherings with other friends.

Kristin had several party dresses in rotation. I had just the one tuxedo, and it was getting a workout. Between the parties and the sprained ankle, however, I was not.

I picked Kristin up dressed for the current shindig one Friday a week before Christmas. I was, thankfully, not wearing my tux, which had been feeling distressingly snug of late. I was wearing instead a navy blue sweater that I hoped disguised the thickening of my waistline.

It might have fooled the eye, but it couldn’t fool Kristin’s tactile sensibilities. She slid her arm around my waist, and I felt her fingers hesitate.

“A little too much holiday cheer,” I said sheepishly.

She kept her hand in place, her fingertips beginning to explore the modest overlay of pudge beneath the sweater.

“Well – me too,” she said, as I slid my arm around her waist in turn. The royal blue flapper dress, of all her party dresses, had been I noted, getting heavier rotation.

“That’s mainly why I keep wearing this dress. It goes straight down, so I have breathing room, and it doesn’t make me look squashed in and gross.”

My own hand, beneath a slippery layer of satin and fringe, encountered a little pad of tummy, with some give to it, instead of the usual sharp hip bone. Though it spoke of indulgence, I found to my surprise that I liked it. I felt a surge of warm desire at the unexpected sensation of a thin ribbon of flesh beneath my fingers.

Kristin snapped her fingers at my nose.

“Earth to Gideon.”

“Um, sorry, what?”

“I said, I can hardly zip the green thing, and when I do, I bulge. Yucko.”

I shrugged. “Hey, like I said, I’m picking up a little pudge myself.”

“You look fine,” Kristin said. “Guys can get away with it.”

“And with this,” I replied, giving her a quick smooch before we rang the doorbell.

That night – I was staying over – I stripped to my underwear in her white-and-yellow bathroom and contemplated the scale. I made a face. I was stuffed full of cookies, brownies, rum balls, meatballs, spinach dip, chips and salsa, all topped with several beers, giving me a buzz. I ran my hand lightly down my bare front and decided judiciously to wait until morning.

Then I peeled off the underwear, standing by the bed, with Kristin already under the covers, looking ferociously cute.

We turned toward each other and began our usual lengthy foreplay, which I didn’t need, but which I endured for sweet Kristin’s sake, since she reveled in it.

Only this time I was having some performance anxiety. There was no disguising my full belly and my recent upward tick in the waistline region. The flat stomach of which I was rather proud was in temporary hiding, and at the moment, stretched to hold a zillion calories of Christmas treats, was hiding behind a hard round ball of midsection.

Kristin noticed, of course, but said nothing and simply continued her ministrations.

Meanwhile, my own hands were discovering that Kristin’s breasts seemed just a trifle larger. Larger? Mmm, riper, fuller, rounder, maybe. Whatever they were, I certainly enjoyed the sensation.

And there was something sensuous and welcoming in the warmth and softness of her tummy. She’d eaten and drunk her fair share, but instead of being taut, her belly was softly inviting, like a little blanket just for me. I pinched her sides and felt a tiny bit of squashiness in return; tickled her belly button and felt a responding jiggle instead of taut concavity.

As if in response, my performance anxiety went poof and my parts responded as instructed – maybe it was thanks to Kristin’s magic fingers.

I’d always gotten turned on by Kristin’s tautly toned figure, her nearly-visible rib cage, her flat belly, the tidy nipping in of her waistline. And, I’d assumed, she had by mine. But if she was turned off by my holiday indulgence, she wasn’t saying so – and her body was certainly responsive. And here I was, unmistakably turned on by Kristin’s little Christmas cushioning. And then I was much too occupied to think about it.

In the morning, I woke first, started the coffee, and again contemplated the scale. Hmph.

I stepped on and waited – 202, read back the digits.

Temporary. Of course it was temporary. Once this damned ankle settled, and all these holiday bashes ended, I’d get right back to my usual 190, and anyway, 202 wasn’t bad for 5’11, not bad at all.

Kristin shuffled in and embraced me from behind. Guiltily, I hopped off the scale.

“Ugh, is it my turn?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” I said, sliding my hand over her shoulder.

She shrugged and stepped up, and I got a glorious view of her naked backside, lyrically heart shaped and just made for grabbing.

“Ooh. Mm,” Kristin said.

“Ooh, mm?”

“Ooh, mm, 140,” she said. Her usual was 133. Of course, she’d been doing some dancing at these parties.

“Temporary,” I scoffed. “And…” I reached around and cupped her breasts, which really did feel fuller.

She batted my hand away. “Pig.”

“Speaking of. Is there any bacon?”

She made the bacon while I managed pancakes from a mix. Somehow five didn’t seem quite adequate, but having just discovered a 12-pound gain, I probably shouldn’t have been eating any. Oh, well. They were so light, they just floated away, right?

I headed out to my parents’ house determined not to add to the uptick, while Kristin vowed the same.

Of course you can imagine how well that worked. I had to undo the drawstring on my sweatpants afterward, I was so stuffed. I lay back and massaged my swollen and aching belly, which was distended so far it was firm to the touch, and tried not to think about how many calories I had ingested, how many pounds of food, and what the scale would say a few days from now.

I would later learn that Kristin had eaten so much that she had to undo her jeans (her size 6 skinny jeans) and that she was still so full even after that maneuver that her stretched and “totally bloated” stomach hurt, that she had actually had to go lie down and take a nap, and that she had looked “like I was hiding a basketball.”

Meeting up again the weekend after Christmas, however, such confessions would wait. First we had more important matters to attend to, and I tried to ignore my midriff, which was dismayingly sticking out even though I’d tried to eat lightly the last two days. I peeled off my underwear and climbed into her bed.

And found a Kristin even more sexy than I remembered. The breasts were definitely rounder, fuller, and even more tempting. I found myself suckling them, which I’d never done before and which made Kristin gasp and grow rigid with pleasure.

And whatever I felt about it intellectually, my body’s responses to a distinctly blooming Kristin were instinctive and definitely tactile.

“Oh, my,” Kristin laughed shakily. “And here I thought you wouldn’t be turned on by my fat Christmas turkey bod.”

“You,” I said. “I’m the one who’s as round as Santa Claus.” I continued letting my fingers burrow into a belly that now had something to burrow into. Continued to squash and pinch sides as pliable as bread dough, and as warm and inviting. Continued to hunt for the belly button in a tempting little velvet cushion of tummy.

Kristin mashed her palm against my flabby belly, jiggled my newly arrived love handles, massaged my midsection, seemingly enjoying the movement of flesh under her hand.

“Mmmm.” Her nipples stiffened and I felt the surge flow through her to her fingertips, giving me a little jolt.

“Warm and cuddly, like a teddy bear,” she murmured.

There wasn’t much conversation after that.

On New Year’s Eve, we’d planned to go to a party at a downtown hotel. The green dress, however, wouldn’t zip up. Or rather, I got it closed, but Kristin swore she couldn’t breathe. Her breasts popped invitingly out of the top and the torso’s ruched fabric was pulled snugly over a rosy tummy. And the pantyhose, she said, were slicing her in half.

Meanwhile, I was squeezed into that tux, the waistband pinching fiercely around a decidedly flabbier waist than I had had in November. The cummerbund, let out to its loosest, was cinched around me like a girdle, and I couldn’t bend over. I wasn’t sure I could sit down.

Kristin looked at me.

I looked at her.

In five minutes we were naked and under the covers.

Afterward, we threw on some comfortable, forgiving clothes and went around the corner to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. We ate ourselves under the table for $22 each.

Afterward, Kristin insisted on undressing me, taking her time about it, tripping her fingers down my pecs and cuddling my bare, bulging belly, which was heavily full of Chinese food, swollen and aching with a couple of pounds of chopped meat and spicy veggies, not flabby but firm, distended and tautly warm.

My own love looked rosily gravid, her full belly a pendulous teardrop resting sturdily below roundly ripe breasts, peaches brimming with nectar. I traced her outline, no hint of that nipped-in waist I’d once treasured, no suggestion of the sharp hip bones I had once thought appealing. Beneath my palm, her swollen tummy was firm and warm, vibrating with life, nearly humming with the tight stretch of the pulling of her flesh over a heavily bloated dome topped with a slit of belly button, like a hidden entrance to which only I was privileged.

. . . We never went back to the gym, of course.

Eventually my ankle healed. Eventually her gym reopened. But by then we were busy planning our wedding. By the following Christmas, we were on our honeymoon and my only thoughts were of her golden tanned folds of belly flopping one-two-three-in-a-row between her straining bikini top and equally straining bottom, from which her backside rose, full and luscious.

She flopped heavily down on to the towel and handed me a cold one.

I struggled up from my elbows and wiped a trail of sweat from the crease separating my top and bottom spare tires.

And then she was tugging me to my feet and we were plodding through the sand to the hotel room and we had no more thoughts for the ocean or the towel or the beers or anything but slowly, lovingly, peeling off our bathing suits and letting our growing bodies – ripe, luscious, overflowing with soft tender folds of skin – respond to each other’s touch.
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Old 12-16-2011, 12:46 PM   #2
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Default Sweet!

Sweet story, the very essence of Love-Touch. Oddly, I felt cold and naked before I became extremely fat and feel way less body-conscious now than when I was thin.
Not pious, just saved by grace. Your true Christianity
shows in how you treat those who hate you.

You got to lose to know how to win.(Aerosmith-Dream On)

Fat is like grass, it'll never go away and there's a hell
of a lot of money to be made by controlling it!

Life is only therapy, real expensive and no guarantees.

Fat is only ugly to those who hate.

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Old 02-13-2012, 04:46 PM   #3
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hurleycrouse has said some nice things
Default Perhaps we share more than we know

Originally Posted by imfree View Post
Sweet story, the very essence of Love-Touch. Oddly, I felt cold and naked before I became extremely fat and feel way less body-conscious now than when I was thin.
I am a Christian. I love stories about gaining. I love Areosmith! It may all make sense afterall............... Actually I have no idea...........Do you?
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Old 02-10-2013, 03:15 PM   #4
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Default really sweet and sexy ^^

story ^^
I so liked it cause it´s a little similar to what i hope to happen one day ^^

please i´m really curious about if the two ever manage to get back in shape or rather accomodate to a new shape ;-) ^^
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