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Good Company - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (BHM, WG)

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Library Girl
Staff member
Library Mod
Jun 21, 2008
Good Company
Parts 1-9

by Big Beautiful Dreamer

Part One - An Idyllic Evening

For a first date, Jake thought, things were going amazingly well. He’d been skeptical – a co-worker’s sister’s roommate – but Emma Cressman was turning out to be good company. He would have been surprised to learn that more than two hours had passed. Emma apparently had a habit of nursing both her drinks and her food, but Jake, entranced, had unthinkingly eaten rather a lot. Nearly all the appetizer, every scrap of his entrée, most of two complimentary loaves of bread, and was finishing an obscenely delicious apple crumble a la mode.

“Well, what shall we do now?” Emma asked.

“Um.” Jake had to think fast. He wasn’t ready for the evening to end, but the meal was clearly, unfortunately, over.

“Ah, maybe we could stroll along to the African Bean for some coffee.”

“Okay,” Emma said brightly.

Jake signed the debit card receipt, adding a healthy tip, and began to slide from the booth. Whoa. That didn’t feel like it usually did. He frowned as he felt his belly slosh heavily, laden with way too much food. He leaned on the table as he rose, a grunt of effort involuntarily slipping out. He didn’t want to look like a goof in front of Emma. He turned to take her arm and added a bow just for flourish.

Ooh, that was a mistake. He could scarcely bend. His waist was painfully stretched and tight as a drum. Carefully, carefully, he straightened up, feeling as though he might burst … or overflow. He didn’t want Emma to know that he’d overeaten.

They made it to the coffee shop, two doors down, and settled into comfortable chairs with a table between them. Sipping his latte, Jake leaned back to ease the discomfort on his swollen and aching belly. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this full, so stuffed that he didn’t want to eat for three days. As he reclined, his belly visibly protruded, the waistband straining. If only he could undo the button.

Emma tried not to stare too obviously. She’d taken as long as she could over dinner, hoping that Jake would eat steadily, downing a big meal. And he had. Though he had shown up with only a modest pot belly, she thought that he might possibly have potential as a BHM. She could picture him larger … much larger … mmm, she was getting aroused just thinking about it.

"Crap," Jake thought, Emma was stealing glances at his engorged gut. Clearly, his hope that he hadn’t eaten all that much was shot. He must look like a real pig.

Wow, Emma thought. Jake looked so handsome. She loved the sexy way his shirt tugged at his swollen belly, the way the taut waistline strained his belt, the way his bulging midriff shimmered with every move. Jake kept shifting uncomfortably in his seat, alternating between leaning forward and leaning back, trying to find a position that eased the fullness of his gorgeous tummy. And with every shift, his gut wobbled just a little, giving Emma a surge of arousal each time.

She kept up her end of the conversation distractedly, automatically, trying hard not to stare at his waistline, but every time she looked she was rewarded with that pleasing flutter. He must think she was a moron, eyes flicking everywhere, conversation banal. She took a deep swallow of coffee and tried to focus on Jake above the neck. Luckily, it seemed she put on the gaze and the smile just in time, because it seemed that Jake was asking for another date.

“Friday?” she repeated, a handy social trick of echoing the last word. It worked!

“Yes, Friday,” Jake said, smiling gently. “We could meet at Antonio’s at 7 if that works for you.”

She broadened her smile and tipped her head to one side. “Yeah … that works.”

Jake hailed a taxi for her, helped her into it, and handed the driver some money.

“Keep the change,” he said. As the cab glided through the light traffic, Emma sat with her hands fiddly in her lap, imagining Jake. With a start she realized that the conversation, as much as she had been tuned in for, had been enjoyable. Jake was well-spoken, with a dry wit she admired and a broad taste in books that many men didn’t have. Not once had he referenced television, hunting, car racing, or other hobbies that she found distasteful.

Back in his apartment, Jake undressed down to his T-undershirt and boxer shorts, poured himself a glass of water, and sat down in his favorite easy chair. He rubbed his aching stomach, which was not as drastically overloaded as it had been but was still well stuffed. What a pig he’d been! Emma had been glancing at his fat belly all evening. No wonder. He was surprised she had agreed to a second date.

He’d certainly enjoyed the evening, but had she? Moreover, he was paying for his enjoyment of the meal with his sore tummy, stretched taut and hard beneath his undershirt, straining the fabric. He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Abstractedly he massaged his swollen midsection. Ah, that felt good. Never would he stuff himself like that again.

On Friday, determined not to repeat his gaucherie, Jake employed a trick he’d read about somewhere and ate supper before going out for his “public” meal. He watched Sports Center while scooping down a bowl of canned chili and a stack of crackers with a tall glass of tea. Half an hour later, he left his apartment, his belly pleasantly full. He arrived at Antonio’s at 7 on the dot, just in time to see Emma stroll up. They exchanged light kisses on the cheek and he escorted her in.

They were scarcely seated when his willpower crumbled. The server laid a basket of assorted rolls in front of them and the warm, yeasty scent was nearly overpowering.

"YOU ARE NOT HUNGRY," Jake thought as he picked up a roll.
"NOT HUNGRY" as he broke it and nearly went dizzy with the steam.
"NOT HUNGRY" as he dipped his knife into the butter.
"NOT HUNGRY" as he crunched down on the first bite oh my oh my ohmyohmyohmy.
Mmmmm. "Not…. hmpf…. hungry."

Jake watched himself eat what would have been a hearty meal even on an empty stomach: a crisp, cool salad, a huge bowl of linguini with clams, topped off with a deceptively thin slice of very rich cheesecake and a cup of strong coffee. And the bread, of course. The amazing bottomless bread basket that kept getting refilled.

Only, of course, his stomach hadn’t been empty at all when he sat down, and he was abstractly aware that he was ladling all that food into a container with limited capacity. And he was making a pig of himself again in front of Emma. Crap!

He managed to keep up his end of the conversation while mentally berating himself. His trick had not worked; just the opposite. He’d eaten as much as ever and was now painfully overstuffed, the huge meal he had consumed resting uncomfortably atop the smaller one. He could feel the strain of his gut against his breathtakingly snug waistband, could feel (and hear) the grumble and groan of his engorged stomach struggling to digest, surely the whole restaurant could hear this symphony of digestion.

He dimly heard Emma suggest that they stroll across the street to the park, sit on a bench and people-watch. With a grunt of effort he could not suppress, he huffed out of the booth.

Oof. His belly was so laden that straightening up became painful. Still, he could hardly remain hunched over like this. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright – ow ow ow – and presented his arm, which Emma took. They moved very slowly across the street and to a bench along a path. This presented a new problem.

So full was Jake that he doubted, having achieved verticality, that he could stand to sit again. If he did, that pesky waistband would slice him in half. Awkwardly he phoomped onto the bench, hoping it didn’t shake too much with the impact, and struggled to find a position that would ease his discomfort, to no avail.

At least Emma seemed at ease – no doubt too polite to mention his gluttony. And she had no idea that he’d chowed before their meeting. She snuggled up next to him quite casually, seemingly pleased that his arm was draped along the bench back, and they people-watched. Emma proved to have a wit as quick and dry as his, and they enjoyed each other’s snappy comments on the passing scene.

Jake employed only part of his mind for the chat, however; a part was efficiently and steadily agonizing.

“How,” he thought, “could I eat so much – again? Where’s my willpower, why am I such a pig, and moreover, why does it only happen around Emma? I don’t pig like this otherwise. Heaven help us, I just can’t seem to restrain myself. Does she let off some sort of vibe? No, stop it, stop it! It’s my own fault, I’m such a pig, oof, am I ever stuffed to bursting, if only I could take off my clothes and lie down and rub my stomach, it aches so much, oh dear, oh dear.”

So his thoughts ran.

Emma, meanwhile, had a different train of thoughts chuffing through her brain. “Ah, my, what a delight that meal was! So pleasurable to see him eat like that, what a man he is, most men these days are as skittish as women about food. If only I’d been able to have a better view of that darling tummy as it filled up! I mustn’t look at it too much now, or he’ll grow suspicious. But every time I do I get that lovely electric surge down below, and oh my goodness, it certainly is bigger than it was when we sat down. It’s so fabulously sensuous to see that swell of midriff, the snugging of the shirt, the pressure of the growing waistline against those trousers.”

Thinking thus, she unconsciously snuggled close against him, quite enjoying the soft warmth of contact with his expanded belly, which seemed to radiate coziness. She shivered happily as he draped his arm across the bench back.

“Wow,” she thought. “I wonder if we keep dating, will he get bigger? He’s already got a cute little starter belly. Will it just keep getting rounder and softer and sexier?”

Immersed in their own private thoughts, quite enjoying each other’s company, they passed the evening together. As the darkness drew in, Jake, more able to maneuver though still quite stuffed, hailed a cab for Emma. As he handed her in, he suggested a tennis date the next morning.

“I took a chance,” he admitted, “and reserved a court for 11.”

Emma blushed appealingly. “I’d like that,” she said. “Meet you there?”

Both proved to be about evenly matched – not very good, in other words – so their game was leisurely paced, and they batted the ball back and forth for an hour, getting exercise, working up a decent sweat anyway, and desultorily keeping score. When they’d completed a couple of sets, they headed for lunch at the clubhouse.

Determined to behave, Jake ordered a chicken salad sandwich. It came with a haystack of fries, however, which Jake systematically demolished. Emma didn’t want hers, and insisted that Jake would be doing her a favor.

As he stood, he quite unconsciously rubbed his belly, gently rounded and pleasantly full. He’d chugged down three tall glasses of iced tea along with the sandwich and a double helping of fries.

It was time for Emma to take it up a notch.
"Bam, "she thought. She came around to his side and slid her left arm around his waist. Having established her position, she gently and deliberately rested her right hand against that swell of midriff, so pleasantly pillowy. She felt that pleasant jolt of arousal.

To his surprise, Jake felt it too. His tummy was full, warm and round; his girlfriend was snuggling, and when she laid her hand on his satisfied stomach, he felt a surge, an unmistakable throb of pleasure. A crazy idea flitted through his head. "Who decided that a big belly was bad?"

Clearly, Emma had no such thoughts. She had begun to gently massage the roundness, pausing to slide a hand down the front of his pants – very, very discreetly – and thus relieve the slight pressure. On his waistline, at least. The pressure elsewhere, however, was increasing. And it felt wonderful.

Part 2 - the Art Gallery

A dozen questions were flitting like butterflies through Jake’s mind, but instinct told him that this just wasn’t the time for questions. They took a slow turn around the courts, then he asked if she wanted to “go see a movie, or something.”

She made a face. “Ooh. Can’t. I have a hair appointment. Sorry.” She sounded genuinely disappointed.

Jake stroked the hair in question. “Such pretty hair it is, too. Have to look after it, don’t we?” It was a goofy thing to say, but it came out just right, and Emma giggled.

“What about Tuesday at 6?” Emma countered. “The Weatherspoon has a new exhibition.”

“Terrific,” Jake said. He could stand to look at art for an hour or two. And no food involved, his brain chimed in.

So Jake went home and took a nap. Awakening, he idled the evening away: a load of laundry, channel surfing, finally settling on “Once Upon a Time in the West,” to which he dozed off on the sofa.

He awoke Sunday with a stiff neck and spent the day with a pot of coffee and the Sunday Times, vaguely aware of an indefinable absence. The vagueness clarified itself Tuesday when he saw Emma on the steps of the museum, wearing a brown wrap shirt and a brown, red, and blue patterned skirt. Something in the cut made it flattering, but Jake didn’t give a rat about the skirt, only the person in the skirt. His steps quickened and he all but flew into her arms.

“Jake,” Emma gasped, taken aback by the ferocity of his hug.

“Missed you,” he mumbled, unnecessarily.

Emma giggled as she twined her arm through his. “Me, too,” she said. “Missed you, I mean.” She blushed.

As they strolled, they chatted, talking about the pictures and the artists and from there sharing their likes and dislikes, both silly and serious, and life paths, dreams, and sometimes nothing at all, the silence comfortable as a hammock strung between them.

Jake inadvertently broke the mood when his stomach growled loudly. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Emma smiled indulgently. “I know how to fix that,” she said. “The museum has a great café, down one level.”

The café had a members’ special that week, free tapas with any entrée. Emma flashed her card and soon a large plate of nibbles was on the table with their drinks. Emma, as always, nursed her food and drink; Jake ate steadily, as if doing a job of work, and Emma propped her chin on her hand and gazed at him, enjoying watching someone who was good at what he did.

By the time the tapas plate was empty, Jake could already feel a tug at his belt. Admittedly, it took less in his belly now to create that tugging, the belt was tighter than it once was. To loosen or not to loosen? Jake thought he would soldier on for the moment, determined to order only a salad. But Emma took the menu out of his hands. “I know this menu well,” she said. “May I?”

“I just want a salad,” Jake started to say, but what came out was, “I would love to have this beautiful woman tell me what to do.”
"Holy crap, who writes this stuff," Jake thought, but Emma giggled and blushed: a twofer.

A salad was placed on the table – in front of Emma. Jake was given a plate piled with thick, succulent lamb chops (big ones), an apple salad, garlic mashed potatoes, and a pile of sautéed string beans. Oh, boy. It all looked and smelled insanely good. Helped along by a second drink, Jake happily and steadily ate his way through the mountain of food. By the time the first chop was history, however, he sensed trouble. His belt was positively creaking, and “pinching” was not the word for his waistband. “Slice and dice” would be more accurate. Any deeper and the grooves would be as permanent as tattoos. Of course, it didn’t help that in the last week his trousers seemed to have shrunk. He was having to suck in his gut to get them fastened lately.

As discreetly as he could, he let out his belt a notch, hoping that Emma didn’t see. “What a pig I am,” he thought. “When will I ever learn? I could stop right now,” he thought. “Other people do it all the time.”

History was replete with examples of people no braver or stronger than he who had courageously laid down the knife and fork when their bellies had signaled fullness. He could just say, “Mmm, that was good,” and push the plate away. He paused to see if he could gauge Emma’s thoughts, covertly glancing at her. As he leaned forward for his glass, he felt the pressure of his growing midriff pushing against his overworked waistband. That settled it. He straightened his spine and set down his knife and fork.

“Wow, that was delicious,” he said, improvising slightly. Emma looked up, surprised.

“You can’t be done already?” Her gaze started at his face and slowly tracked downward, her eyebrows raising. Jake hesitated, aware that he was somehow on the fence. What the heck? This wasn’t his mother telling him to clean his plate. He was 27 years old, a fully functioning adult, did his own laundry and all. A small spiral of resentment bubbled up in him. Instead of feeding the tiny flame, however, he equivocated. He felt himself waver. He said, “Oh, I don’t know….”

Emma said nothing, merely took a swallow of wine. Silence is a remarkably effective negotiation tool, as most people are uncomfortable with it and will hasten to fill it one way or another.

Jake eyed his plate again. That had been an awfully tasty chop. Full as he was, he really did want another mouthful or two of that flavor. On the other hand, what exactly did she mean, “You can’t be done already?” Jake decided to take the lamb chop by the horns.

“What do you mean?” The potential impact of his question was undercut by the fact that it was mumbled through a mouthful of lamb chop.

Emma blushed. She dropped her gaze. She fiddled with her napkin.
“Oh … um … I just meant … it’s nice to see a big handsome guy enjoying a good meal.” She lifted one shoulder delicately. “My two brothers and my dad have always had healthy appetites. I guess it reminds me of home or something.” She took a swallow of wine to cover her confusion.

“Caught!” Jake thought. “She called me a big guy.” His brain conveniently skipped over the “handsome” part. He thought, “She all but said I’ve been eating like a pig; well, I have, too, and I’m getting the belly to prove it. I should stop, I should stop right now. I did, a minute ago, but there’s not much left really, I can clean my plate, ooh, I am getting stuffed, I should stop, but I’m almost done. This is one full belly, my lad; so stop already! There. I’m done anyway.”

“Caught!” Emma thought. “He thinks I’m being critical. Oh no. How can I make him understand how appealing it is to me, how I get aroused watching a big guy eat? It’s too culturally weird, he wouldn’t understand, no one does. I’ve already lost two boyfriends by being too forward about my … fetish … but ohh, look at that tummy. Wow. Like a work of art. Mmm, so round and full, look at the way the shirt pulls, look at that poor belt, he really ought to let it out another notch; if only we could snuggle, just to lay hands on that soft warm belly, that pillow of a midriff, ah, heavenly.”

Emma looked up, blinking. “What?”

Jake gestured with his wineglass. “So you’re used to your dad and brothers having … um, healthy appetites.”

“Yeah,” Emma said, squirming in her seat. Now or never. “Truth is,well-I think it’s cute.”


“I just love a big pillowy middle on a guy,” Emma blurted, then closed her eyes. Suddenly, her hand was being lifted off the table and being held in both of Jake’s hands.

“Emma,” Jake said softly. “What’s wrong?”

She hadn’t realized she was crying. “I’ve weirded you out.”

“Not yet,” Jake said, laughing.

“I haven’t?”

“No,” Jake said. “I thought that my … appetite … was … well … turning you off.”

“Just the opposite,” she said.

“Oh,” Jake said.
If there was a spell being woven, it was broken by the waiter bringing the bill. Emma paid over Jake’s protests, then they stood. This time Jake felt able to express his discomfort aloud. “Oof,” he grunted, laying a hand on the stomach in question. That had been a big meal, and his belly was stretched and aching.

Emma assumed the position she had at the tennis courts, one arm around his thickening waistline and the other resting on his distended abdomen. “Let’s get you home.”
Jake floated out of the museum, six inches off the ground, scarcely coming to earth until he was in the elevator of his building. With Emma’s help, Jake was able to stagger out of the elevator and into his apartment. Then it dawned on him. His apartment! Emma was in his apartment. With him. Him. Emma. Together. Alone.

Then Emma’s fingers were deftly undoing that pesky belt, getting the pants undone, sliding the trousers and underwear floor-ward. Oh, that was better. Emma’s soft hands slid up under his shirt and found his engorged gut. Hastily Jake undid the buttons, letting himself be shuffled backward toward the bedroom.

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