He is sitting in the armchair and she is surreptitiously eyeing the way his soft thighs spread out, touching each other while still touching the wide edges of the chair. She doesn't know why, but plump thighs on a man have always driven her wild with desire. Maybe it's because they're so rare. Even men with big ball bellies tend to have skinny chicken legs. He doesn't have a big ball belly, though. He has a wide, soft belly like a child's set of stacking rings - the biggest slab of flesh at the bottom, with two more rings piled on top. When he leans forward, the lowest ring of belly spills forward on his lap. The sight of his generous stomach pressed against his chubby thighs has distracted her unduly on more than one occasion. Usually he wears button-down shirts, untucked, and the button tugs just below the thickest part of his belly, clings to the slope of it. Even standing up, his belly sticks out enough to disguise the flabbiness of his moobs, each a yielding handful surrounding a sensitive nipple. She knows they are there, though. She thinks about carressing him, hands on his chest. She wants to stroke his moobs, his belly rolls, every pound and ounce of him. She wants him to know, beyond all doubt, that his fat body is desirable, is gorgeous. Everything in mainstream culture tells both her and him that gorgeous men are supposed to be angular, hard, able to fuck her on a shark while playing poker with one hand and shaving himself with the other. In fact, he hasn't shaven in a few days, and she wonders if he is growing the ubiquitous Fat Man's Beard. Normally she dislikes it when men try to hide their double chins by growing a beard, but on him it looks sexy. Scruffy and sexy. Anyway it isn't long enough to disguise the fact that he has a proper double chin, not just a wobble or a bit of softness, but a full-on double chin that drops in a solid roll from the tip of his chin to the bottom of his neck. If he gains more weight, he'll go from having a double chin to a jowl. If he gains more weight... oh, yes, please do, she thinks. Nothing about him is angular, everything about him is plump. He has plump hands, not unpleasant or moist, but warm and dry and pudgy. He keeps his fingernails short. He has solid forearms, plump upper arms, though somehow the flesh there is firmer than the soft fat at his waist. She knows this from friendly hugs, they are always very friendly. No ulterior motive, she tells herself, after all she hugs her other friends, too. Even if she is thinking about how solid his back is, wondering how soft and squeezable his bottom is. He's just big. It makes her feel smaller, more vulnerable, even as she wants to protect him from hurt. He looks toward her then, thick lips curving up and round cheeks rounding further. Her heart leaps up, like a trapped bird beating frantically against the inside of her chest. She wants to kiss him wetly, tongues darting, then trail kisses down his meaty neck, pull aside his shirt collar, unbutton his buttons. She wants to dig her fingers into his soft belly rolls and squeeze. She wants to see how much chest hair he has, if he has stretch marks running like lightning tattoos up his expanded sides. She wants to squeeze and kiss and lick her way down his plump body, over the curve of his belly and down to the cock nestled below. She would have to lift up his belly to get to it, fuck. Fuck, she's wet. She wonders how big his cock is, if it's as plump as the rest of him. He is neither particularly tall nor particularly short, not that that's a universal guide. He hasn't always been this fat. She has seen pictures of him from years ago, though even then he was never skinny. He had a kind of proto-chubbiness to him, a combined solidness and softness that seem to forehadow what he is today. Though juding by the way he put away that burger and plate of poutine at lunch, what he is today may be only the foreshadowing of an even bigger man. She squirms at the thought. Even though he is completely beautiful as he is, he'd look good with a few more pounds on his frame, too. Would his belly round out more, or droop and sag more? Oh, sexy choices. Today he is wearing a suit and it is boss. She has complimented him on how good he looks, and then she found a button, and he sheepishly admitted it is his. He is busting out of this boss suit. She looks at him and desire dries out her mouth (even as it moistens other things) and she can't think of any way to tell him how she feels. But she knows he knows, he knows he could have her by batting his (long, dark) eyelashes any day. But he doesn't. She is the subject of this desire and he is the object. Looking at him is not enough, never enough, but it is all there is, so she sits quiet and still and watches him surreptitiously, just for a little while.