Andi's Chest, by Jimbob (~BBW, ~SSBBW, ~Magic, ~XWG, ~Body Transformation, ~Sex, ~Stuffing, ~Stuckage)

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JimBob

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(~BBW, ~SSBBW, ~Magic, ~XWG, ~Body Transformation, ~Sex, ~Stuffing, ~Stuckage) --- Sometimes you order something off the internet and it just doesn't fit. This is not one of those times.

Andi's Chest
by Jimbob

Transcript: “Every Day Is Murdery Gras”, a true crime and politics podcast examining the torrid underbelly of New Orleans, hosted by Eileen Sanders and Lamont Beechwood. Episode #72, “He Cut It With WHAT?!”; Timestamp 42:03; Ad Break.

- Hey, Eileen?

- Yeah, Lamont?

- You know how I’m always saying you’re a slob.

- This is news to me.

- Oh stop it, you’ve read my notes. The ones written with magazine letters?

- That was you! Give me a minute, I gotta go call the CIA.

[Guffawing]

- Well while you’re waiting for them to pick up, you should probably take a minute and look up our sponsor for today’s episode, Seams Likely!

- Lamont!

- Uh, heheh, yeah Eileen?

- How does it work?!

- Well it’s real simple [Reading From Notes] Seams – that’s S-E-A-M-S for you listeners at home – Likely are a brand new entrant to the world of mail-order clothing. Not only do you get the benefit of a qualified, experienced personal stylist to make your wardrobe [Sarcastic] come-A-live!, but SL’s service guarantees that every item in the box comes custom fitted to your exact proportions without them ever stepping a foot into your home.

- Lamont that sounds impossible.

- It really does, right? They must have some kinda, like, algorithm.

- This is the part where I ask if you use Seams Likely, right?

- It’s more than likely, Eileen, it’s entirely probable. I am actually wearing a...uh, I blanked on the name--

- [Guffawing]

- Sweater! Why did I forget the word sweater? Anyhew, it’s made of New Zealand Merino wool, it’s maybe the most comfortable winter clothing I’ve ever worn, and for the price I paid--

- How much? Or does a gentleman never tell?

- Absolutely he doesn’t, and for the price I paid this is a solid bargain. I may never take it off.

- Never?

- Never ever.

[Pause]

- Ohkayyy, anyway before we run out the clock that's seamslikely.shop - again, Seams Likely DOT Shop - for a clothing experience that'll suit you down to the ground and up to your collar!

- Oh they don't do hats?

- They do not.

- Maaan!
 
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JimBob

like a thief in the night
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Joined
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Messages
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The package is waiting on Andrew’s doorstep when she gets home, and instantly she’s suspicious, because the mail definitely doesn’t arrive during her 6:30 AM run. She stares at it, hands on hips, for a moment before remembering how exhausted she is and carefully kicking the box into her third-floor apartment, pausing to pant every second or so.

As soon as he’s inside the sweatband comes off and she collapses onto the sofa – taking care not to sit back and coat it in hot perspiration – before squirting herself with the last dregs of her water bottle. “Goddamn,” she gasps, itching at her pits.

It’s a little fitting that the two should be paired up, since Andrew’s morning run is what got her interested in “Seams Likely” in the first place. She’s not usually a podcast listener – truth be told, she’d hate to look like one of those other douchebag joggers with his earbuds crammed in and keeping him from the gorgeous chilled soundscape of the waking city – but this week her bro Noah has been on a week-long conference, and it gets lonely without him.

So in the earbuds went, and the long-neglected siren call of paid content wormed its way into her brain and had her wondering whether it might be time to indulge in a little wardrobe expansion. They work lickety-split, it occurs to her. Didn’t she make that order last thing on Saturday?

Andrew’s had a lot of bad luck with clothes, the way some have with pets, or new hobbies. The kind of bad luck where no matter how excited you make yourself, no matter how good you think it feels...in two weeks, it's just garbage, just no better than a garbage bag you draped yourself in, and you want to throw it away and only ever wear sweatpants from now on and never look anyone in the eye again ever.

Surely there’s something in this box that’ll look decent. They guarantee it’ll fit right, anyway. Maybe a new pair of slacks or a peacoat or something. You only pay for what you keep, right? There’s gotta be something in there that she’ll like. Something that’ll feel...right.

She sits pondering for a while, staring at the logo-and-label emblazoned cardboard box for a while. The itch on her cheeks makes her weigh up whether it’s riskier coming in five minutes late and clean-shaven or right on time with the weekend’s scruff.

She opts for shaving, and shuffles into the bathroom, box forgotten, already feeling the muscle tiredness as she crosses the floor. She’s in there for maybe twelve minutes, shaving included. She doesn’t look at the mirror, much, until it’s done.

She rubs her clean chin and gives herself a little smile, as though mothering a kid. There. All gone.

It’s a new Monday for Andrew, and straight out of the shower she’s just got time to get her morning protein shake out of the fridge, remember to put on some bodyspray and struggle out the door to work, and by the time she’s ten minutes into her commute and choking down the shake she’ll have forgotten all about Seams Likely.

As she begins her day, the box sits conspicuously across from her L-shaped practical sofa, its whimsical and cartoon-laden red cardboard a little out of place in Andrew’s minimalist, spartan apartment, where everything is shades of white or grey.

It doesn’t think anything, because it is a box.

If it did have the capability, however, it would probably be smiling inwardly, and its’ train of thought would go something like: Eeheehee. Ohoho.

In a pleasant, non-threatening way.

See, for the past 26 years of Andrew’s life, everyone’s been telling her who she was. Not knowing any better, and not being one to put up a fight, she’s always gone along with that idea. No matter how much she never wants to.

Andrew doesn’t invite friends over, much, or go to parties, and her apartment is like a stock photo, and her hobbies include morning runs, morning cycle rides, maintaining her bike, and obsessively reading self-help books for something, anything, that will fix this...wrongness inside of her.

Until today, Andrew always thought she was a skinny man named Andrew who works in accounting, and that’s all she’ll ever be.

Until today, Andrew always thought she’d be hungry, too.

The box, if it could, would tell her different.

But it’s just a box.

It will have to wait.
 

JimBob

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In fact it's not til two hours after she gets home that Andrew looks back at the box still sitting peacably on her bamboo flooring. Her spinach pesto pasta supper is finished and tupperwared for tomorrow's lunch, and she's sipping a cool beer as she crosses over to the couch for an hour or two of gaming when the cardboard grazes her toe.

"Codbucket," she mumbles, a reluctance to swear inherited from her morality-obsessed churchgoer parents, back home in the suburbs. She looks back and sighs a little; 10 hours of neglect and the box is already more of a chore than a treat. What the hell was she thinking just impulse-buying like that? And why the hell were they so eager to get it to her?

"May as well get this over with," she sighs, hefting it into her arms. She opts to open it here on the sofa, closer to the bathroom, and thus the apartment's only available mirror.

The cardboard falls away with ease to reveal a beautiful polished and oiled oak chest, sealed with an ornate lock out of which is stuck a key with a heart shape in the handle. Attached to the key is a label:

Sometimes you'll find things are not always what they seam. Happy fitting!

Andrew scratches at it. "Cheesy wordplay, dude. Did someone write this by hand?" she asks aloud, to no-one. The chest sits silent on her sofa.

With a small but significant amount of trepidation, Andrew turns the key, and finds herself...confused.

Inside the chest is a selection of finely-made, exclusive-looking clothing. Tailor-made, to be sure, and from materials that feel...intriguingly silky and smooth, but all of them...well. Many of these could charitably called unisex. Maybe not the panties. Or the bra...bras?!

"What the duck?" Andrew asks, brow furrowing. This kind of makes sense with the early delivery. Clearly someone at Seams Likely is royally dropping the ball! Slipshod courier service, doesn't even get it signed for, and now, the box is just full of...clothes that aren't even a little appropriate. For a minute she ponders calling SL's customer service and reading them the riot act.

Though there again...

"You could do," Andrew murmurs, picking up a silky little scarf tucked in the corner of the elegant velvet-lined display. It's not so bad, a shade of midnight blue that wouldn't be inappropriate for the office, and maybe if she tucked it this way, she could sell it as an ascot. It'd be fun! People didn't think of Andrew as a fun guy, or she doesn't think so. Maybe this could be the start of Fun Guy Andrew.

It seems to twinkle as she threads it around her neck, and undoes one of the buttons on her shirt to tuck it in. She steps towards the bathroom and staggers for a minute, uncertain. What? Why did...did everything look, like, a little orange for a second?

All the better reason to go to the bathroom, splash some water on her face.

When Andrew goes to check herself in the mirror, see how the scarf fits, she screams. Staggers again, grasping the bathroom sink for support. "What the duh-- duh-- fffFUCK?!," she says, as she begins to violently sob, and the sobs redouble on each other, a weird little recursive loop before she settles down on the cold tile floor and gasps for sheer exhilaration.

It's not Andrew's voice doing the sobbing any more.

It's Andrea's.
 

JimBob

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Ugly-crying takes something like twelve minutes, it's not like she's on a goddamn clock. She grasps the edge of the sink and heaves herself up as though out of a grave to look, for the first time, at herself.

Andrea's red hair is tied up in a messy bun, and her cheekbones are as sharp as ever, and there's those familiar bags under the eyes from weeks of dragging herself up at Six Shitty In The A Fucking Em to go and jog with her favourite person in the world, Noah Yeong (God, did she ever tell him that? Did she ever tell herself that?), and yet everything. Everything.

Her lips are a fuller shape, her eyebrows arched, little freckles dust her face and - yeah, there, the upper arms. The stubble is gone. Hell, where there's body hair at all it's just...peach fuzz!

She steps back, lifting her shirt to reveal the flare in her hips and pinch in the waist, and breasts, adorable little teacup breasts that sit strange and unsupported in clothes that not only don't fit her, but she knows now, irrevocably, that they never did. This is...this is a symphony, it's like stepping up to the piano for the first time in twenty six fucking years and playing a Rachmanjerkoff-or-whoever symphony without even looking at your hands. In front of everyone you know. On Christmas Day.

Her hands! They're so streamlined, so much more an extension of her than they ever felt (when she was a kid she used to wonder if you could twist them off like doll hands, or lightbulbs). Somehow her nails are longer? And they're that neon pink shade that Carol in marketing said would look so pretty on her, and she only has to agree, even if she's a little giddy at how it got there.

"Wait." She bites her lip, notices herself in the mirror and thinks how cute that looks, and refocuses. "I...who's Carol in marketing? When did I...talk about nails...last Tuesday, right? I..."

Another stream of sparkly orange light dances over her eyes, as though her world were dipped in amber. Words flash through her head from a conversation that never happened to Andrew and never would, but got Andrea ten minutes over her lunchbreak and a playful warning from the shift supervisor. Andrew doesn't work in marketing, he's in sales. Andrea has the head and the confidence for a good meeting-room pitch, and she's a whiz with the graphic design software.

She hiccups, and staggers. Everything about this is confusing except for the certainty that she wants more, needs more.

"I am NEVER taking you off," she says to the navy scarf, tracing a finger along the white stars and moons printed on its semi-transparent material, totally unaware of how wrong she is.
 

JimBob

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It wasn't obvious to Andrew when she first opened the box - like everything up until the last hour of her life, she barely paid attention, drifted as though in a haze - but now it's like she's seeing it all in IMAX 3D. Every item is femme or gender-neutral, sure; every item is also differently sized. Why is that? Wasn't the whole point of Seams Likely to get you clothes that were tailored to you?

The thought lingers for so little time, as solid on her mind as candyfloss on the tongue. Now is not the time to wonder about details, not when there's magical clothing to try on. What matters is when you wear it, it fits. It's always the right size for the woman (WOMAN) you are.

"Who is she?" she mutters to herself, laying them out side-by-side on her sofa. "Who ARE all you...you, girls?" (GIRLS!), and she giggles, wiping away a little tear, clapping her softer hands.

What happens next is a whirlwind of changes.

Her routine abandoned, she finds herself pulling on a pantsuit and taking on the persona of Anna, team leader in the Asset Management division of the company, all danger curves and toned muscle...

...or shimmying into the crop top of Ani, cocktail enthusiast and weekend LARPer, who's never had an office job before and doesn't intend to start now...

...or feeling the clench of Ann's rock-hard glutes in her neon gym shorts, the ache of the twelve-day squat challenge she was still only halfway through...

...or sashaying around in the curve-hugging skirt, waist-long hair and easy attitude of Anna-Lee, local college assistant lecturer in English and the muse of poems penned by many a wistful student and faculty member alike...

...all of them not so much cancelling or ursurping Andrea as layering over her like coats of paint, creating variations on this gorgeously alive, gorgeously real woman...

...and everything fits, it fits right down to her mind and her backstory. They're all so much more than who she could have been, they're who she IS the minute she wiggles into them, and she can't help but roar and sigh and weep with pleasure at every new transformation. The neighbours and their opinions are now backdrop as far as she concerns. She zips and buttons herself up with more giddy passion than her life has ever known, and everything she steps into hugs and squeezes and lifts the instant she's in it.

"Huh..." Anna-Lee catches her breath for a second. In all this time she hasn't checked...stealing into the bathroom, she lifts her skirt. No, that's...still there.

"Huh", she says again, but it's decisive. This is nothing she's uncertain about, in any of her incarnations. She's never liked knives or needles when she can avoid them, and she's never felt...ashamed of what's between her legs. There's one or two memories of Anna-Lee's buried in here, of feeling grateful for spanx when certain Professorial eyes met hers in the staff lounge. Maybe she's always wanted it hidden away in all of her selves, but only in the way you hide away the good tablecloth, for special occasions.

It's thinking about downstairs that makes her remember upstairs, and suddenly her attention is called to the bras. She shrugs Anna-Lee's skirt off, sighs into the marmalade feeling of her world, her mind returning to Andrea. The bras are arranged in order of size, the humble b-cup sitting on top of a tower of five or so that seem to expand around it like ripples.

This is, more than what's come before, a fateful moment. It's growing closer to bedtime, and even if she awakens as only (only?!) Andrea, she has to make this quick. She's got memories now of pulling open the hooks, the kind Andrew would never have let herself think about. She could try on...maybe the B-cup?

Her hands move of their own accord. The carefully ordered pile is upset, spilled to the floor as her busy fingers shrug on the DDD cup and clasp it shut. She laughs a little, and shudders, and...and...and a thunderwave of orange light overcomes her until she feels she's going to faint, right there in her bra and panties.

Andrea collapses backwards onto the sofa.

A moment later, not without difficulty, Andi is the one who rises.
 

JimBob

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The clothes...the clothes were one thing.

If the clothes were like instantly knowing piano, this is like...like playing it makes the whole world go round.

Andi stands, panting. Jiggling. She shivers. That floor was so much colder than she remembered, and she's never had so much of her touching it. Thank God the sofa's here or how would she have gotten up again?

Slowly, her hands, swollen and dimpled, begin to explore her many, many inches.

That dump-truck ass, dappled with cellulite and stretchmarks, jutting out and interrupting the flow of her mass of curly red hair. These delectable love handles, saggy and thick enough to hide a candy-bar or two for one of those boring bus rides into the city whenever she goes out. Those

This mighty chest, the death of the ego for so many men, destroyer of buttons, despoiler of shirt-seams. Her plush, cushiony upper arms, swallowing up whatever might have remained of "wrists" and "elbows" into ivory-smooth plumpness worthy of a pampered princess.

And her belly. The upper roundness rising like dough beneath her cleavage, the lower softness oozing over her waistband, a perfect weighted blanket to keep her swollen, buried girlcock snug and tight. Her hands worked it over, doomed satellites around a heavenly body.

Every other role had been a possibility, something she strangely remembered; only now did she hunger for new-lived experience. This was more than Anna-Lee, Ani, Andrea or Ann. Andi was not a What If, but a What Must Be.

"Oh, you poor thing," she coos, waddling - a natural waddle, her treetrunk legs shifting around each other like old lovers holding hands - and hefting the mass of her underbelly in each palm. "She never even knew you were there, did she?"

It gurgles, a sound that Andi relished several times throughout any day. She wrestles on an oversized t-shirt in pale violet (it does not go with the scarf and she does not give two fucks), and a pair of denim shorts that Anna-Lee might have suited, that somehow (of course) wrap perfectly around the glorious sphere of her ass.

Like a sleepwalker, she drifts into Andrew's modest kitchen and throws open the fridge to find a salted caramel cheesecake that Andrew had definitely not placed there the day before, rippling a little with orange light as she reaches her greedy paws for it.

The two chairs at the kitchen counter creak as she settled one cheek atop each of them. She gives them good reason. Forgetting knife or fork, Andi, the new-awakened, settles quickly to her work, humming a merry song and pausing only to occasionally lick her pudgy fingers, to burp or fart or adjust herself so that more room can be made. This belly needs to be shown just how well it is appreciated.

It is the work of a craftsperson, and save for anything lost in the chasm of her cleavage, not a crumb is left by the end of her ten-minute spree. Smirking, burping wetly, she hefts herself up to the bathroom to survey her work.

There, barely contained beneath the glass: a swollen, moon-round face, framed in so much delicious fat you could almost mistake her cheeks and chin for a mini-belly. That smile so much deeper, the skin so much clearer. Here stands a woman who'd never even heard of morning runs, a woman who sleeps in as late as she could and struts into the office every Monday with one box of donuts for the break room and another for her, and everyone knows the first one is really for her as well.

She wipes back another tear. She's never felt proud of herself before.

She lost the scarf somewhere in her binge. All that's keeping Andi in place is the bra. Curiosity steals over her and she reaches, awkward, obstructed, and more than a little turned on, to try and unhook herself.

She lifts the bra away, and for a moment, she is Andrew.

This isn't strictly true. She'll never be Andrew again. But for a moment she is in the body that family and society gave her, a body not made to be swollen to the gills with sticky, indulgent treats. For as long as she can stand it, she pants, winded, her indulgence a cannonball that threatens to bring her heaving to the toilet, her skin glistening with sweat...

And then she hooks the bra again, and stands tall and wide and proud, her Monday-night snack a mere jutting rock in the glorious cascading waterfall of her belly, of her whole being.

Andi is awake. She will not rest easy.

The bra will come off, nevertheless; she is cautious enough not to gamble with reality, and does not know if they'll know her at the office. Let Andi sleep off the cheesecake and let Andrew work to get them another. And maybe...maybe forget about those morning runs. She'll make it up to Noah somehow.

As she shuffles to a bed that she hopes won't crack beneath her, she only idly thinks about the clothes she's going to keep, and not at all about the washing-label instructions. She'll sort that out, probably.

If she checked, she might be surprised to find that beneath the usual symbols and material information, there is a little something extra on the label of each garment.

WARNING: 12 hrs+ =

¯\_(ツ)_/¯
 

JimBob

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For Andrew, the next few months are as humdrum as they've always been.

Up until 17:00 PM.

From that point on, every weekday and all the weekends to follow, Andi's chest becomes the leader, pulling her like a pinball from one corner of the town to the next.

Bartenders find themselves re-ordering tequila by the crate as she shimmies around the dancefloor, twerking at two or three lucky individuals at once, invariably clad in a vinyl dress that only just counts as "covering" her.

Any hour of the day, diners start to draw chanting crowds, pushing her to finish yet another breakfast platter faster than the waitresses can thump them down.

"Ya know we're not doin' the offer no more", one plump waitress reminds her on a Sunday morning, gesturing at a sign whose words EAT MORE THAN THE OWNER, YOU EAT FOR FREE are now scrawled out with sharpie. Framed next to it is a picture of said owner with a face full of sausage and toast, gazing into the middle distance with glazed eyes. Not pictured is Andi, on her seventh plate.

"Sure, hurp, I can't change your mind?" she giggles, drumming her fingers on her swollen gut as it threatens to eat the table in front of her.

This is the life she never knew she deserved, a beer-chugging, booth-bending, out-loud life that spirals into wilder hedonism every day. Every Monday, she wakes up, shrugs off whatever clothes Andi is threatening to bust out of, and lets Andrew get out there keep earning enough to buy all the yummy treats she needs.

It's the perfect partnership.

Until.
 

JimBob

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On an autumnal Monday, some time around 14:00 PM, Andi's long eyelashes flutter open and her portly face wrinkles. Sunlight has crept in through the gap in the curtains. She yawns, and turns to look at the clock, and even though she's moved out of the light, everything is still in a marmalade-orange haze.

This should concern her. But what should concern her more than that is the clock. But what should concern her more than that is the fact that for the first time ever, Andi is wearing...nothing at all.

Her eyes open wider, or as wide as they can against her pudgy cheeks. "Whadafugg?" she sighs as elegantly as ever.

She's having a bit of a difficulty getting up, all of a sudden.

She rolls, turtle-like, this way and that before noticing the long rope hanging from a reinforced hook in the ceiling, each end looped around a wide wooden ring. Andi's hands find purchase, and an old muscle memory swaddled in so many layers of fat memory help to guide her to her giddy feet.

This has not been a journey of numbers. Accounting was always Andrew's game, or she thought it was...it's so hard to remember...but all in all, she never bothered to step on a scale and take stock of...all of this. It's clear to her she's grown. If she had to put a sticker on it - 500 pounds? 550? Climbing?

And no clothes. This isn't a magic any more. Standing, panting, in an unfamiliarly wide room, by an unfamiliarly luxuriant bed, she is befuddled.

On a chair nearby is a bottle of massage oil and a sheer turquoise teddy that doesn't look at all big enough. She makes use of them, even if all of her is hard to reach, idly rubbing her belly as she waddles - lumbers - out into the rest of her first-floor apartment, following the scent of frying. Her red curls fall like a cloak around her shoulders and rump.

She remembers to move sideways out of the bedroom, but the kitchen is a different matter. She's too distracted by the sight of Noah Yeong. He's at the stove, nothing on except for briefs and an apron, the tight muscle of his butt almost falling second behind the pile of bacon, eggs and the fluffiest pancakes that is steadily growing beside him.

"Mornin', Hubby," she smiles. There's no way she could sneak up on him.

"Afternoon, you mean, Fatty," he grins back at her, and she mews a little, unconsciously. Something about the way he teases her always seems to push her buttons.

She forgets all about turning to the side as she shuffles forward, only to come suddenly to a halt. "Oops," she giggles, biting her lips, grinding her hips against the groove they've worn in the doorframe. "I never seem to learn, do I?"

He turns the heat down low, flips the pancakes, tuts dramatically. "And I suppose you expect me to help you out of your mess," he grins, hefting the package of butter in his left hand.

"I always said that stuff, urp, does a body good," she snickers back.

He reaches a hand under the wiggling folds of her underbelly, cold and greasy with fattening dairy, and it traces a delectable path up her rolls and under her bust, his thumbs massaging lazy circles over her nipples.

"Silly," she says, tickled, shivering with anticipation.

"What?"

"That's...not the part that's stuck," she says, gesturing to her hips.

His fingers work around them, freshly greased, squeezing handful after handful, applying the pressure with a workmanlike calm until...

She's a freckled avalanche pouring onto a steady rock, and he catches the full force of her, holding steady until she jiggles to a halt. He's a wrestler, her Noah, a steady little unit of a man, perfectly capable of deadlifting her in a pinch if the fancy takes him...but good habits spread between couples, and he sports a nice little round gut over his speedos, a nice cushion of fuel to keep him going in the coming winter months.

"You're...breathtaking," he says between kisses, the way he never stops saying. (Somehow she both remembers and doesn't remember, and the not-memories are fading fast.) "Worked up an appetite yet, big gal?"

"Could keep...workin'", she gasps, sinking onto the floor, lifting the apron of her belly.

Noah doesn't need to be told twice. He shimmies off what little clothing he's wearing and grabs a plate of pancakes.

Last night, he pegged her diagonally as she lapped up a black forest gateaux from the side-table, making sure each careful thrust sunk her face deeper into the treat. This time he's in more of a mood to give than to receive; a single of her plump hands explores between his legs and finds his pussy is already flush and wet.

She holds up her belly for as long as she can, propped sitting against the kitchen cabinet as he sinks onto her fat little cock, rocking up and down on the head as he feeds her bite after bite of pancake, sitting comfortably on the cushions of her plump legs. She moans into every bite as he shifts their bodies together, the hard prortrusion of his own belly enveloped in the endless rolls of her own.

As she hits pancake number 5 or 6, lost in a haze of caramel light, she looks down to see his cheeky, bratty grin as he pulls her oversized clit inside him again, sinking himself simultaneously into her fat, and she can't help but cum in a tremble, tongue soaked in sweetness, gasping against a mouth that is truly stuffed.

When they come back for air, he licks the sticky syrup from her left breast and kisses it into her mouth.

This is everything she ever wants, for the rest of her life.

Her life...

"Baby..." she whispers into his ear. "Do I ever seem...different to you?"

"Ah, I remember back when you were that plump young girl pretending to do morning runs around the park so she could chat up charitable young men with a water bottle," he says, grinning. "You seemed different then, because you were a goddamn liar." He pokes her in her swollen gut.

"FuUUURRRArppck you," she laughs, as he pulls himself off her, ready to refill the plate. "All I'm saying is...is..."

Andrew is nearly gone in her head. Andi is more than awake now, she's everything. Two lives hang on the precipice of a possibility.

"...you're happy with...all of me, right?"

He crunches a rasher of crispy bacon and shakes his head. "We both knew what we were signing up for when we did this," he says, flashing the wedding band in his free hand. "For better or for worse means for bigger or for smaller, hun. All of you is you, and that's all I love. And as long as you grow, that's as long as I'm going to keep you growing."

She sits with her hands on her belly, thoughtfully taking in an apartment that once belonged to a lost woman who never knew herself, a home that is now filled with treats, and books, and plants, and smells like a home, and has her husband in it.

"Open wide, fatty," Noah teases, and all the love in the world swells in the ample chambers of Andi's chest.

~FIN~
 

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