Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BBW, ~BHM, ~~WG, Romance. Set up on a blind date, a banker on the rebound finds he has no objections to a comely attorney.
I tossed my pajama shirt onto the bed, quirking a smile as it landed on the pillow. Two points. Then, standing at my closet, I contemplated the situation. I was dressed from the waist down, in gray gabardine trousers that were tugging uncomfortably at the waist. I ran my thumb along the inside of the waistband, trying to create some play where there was none to be had. Sighed. Finally settled on a lavender shirt so pale it was nearly dove gray, with contrasting collar and French cuffs. A dark gray tie with lavender stripes in a rep pattern. Threaded a leather belt through the loops, wishing that it werent on the last hole. Raised my arms up over my head, then brought them back down, deliberately creating a little rumple where my shirt was tucked in, hoping it would somehow camouflage the weight that had started to attach itself to my belly.
All through my twenties Id eaten and drunk with abandon, played hack hoops with the guys a few evenings a week, lifted weights a few mornings a week, and not given any thought to my waistline. Now that I was 30, it seemed, the wings and the brews, the occasional skipped workout, were catching up. I had maybe 50, maybe 60 years ahead of me and I was damned if I was going to spend the rest of my life doing penance at the table over steamed oatmeal or whatever.
Resolutely putting the matter out of my head, I slid into my Saab for the drive to work. I was a big fish in a small pond by choice, quite liking the arrangement. In English? I was the vice president of a small chain of banks that, resolutely refusing to be swallowed, maintained eighteen shops in three counties in upstate New York, the Van Der Meer Merchants Trust Bank. In business since 1648, and avoiding messes like subprime mortgages as a matter of instinctive probity. We were probably one of the few banks in the country anymore where you could apply for a loan and not get told to come back in 15 days after some bobble-head at a desktop in Albany had crunched your numbers.
And if I was nervous about this evening, it had nothing to do with the fact that my belly was getting a little doughy.
When I got to the restaurant, my date was just arriving. Katie Henkel, a co-worker of one of my neighbors, a tax attorney I played handball with a couple of times a month.
Id been in a couple of long relationships. The first, when I was just out of college and had held a low-level position at a bank in the city, had lasted for four years. It hadnt ended quickly or neatly, but had sort of trailed off with a whimper. The last year had been increasingly awkward, and Id been almost relieved when she had told me she had met someone else.
Five or six months later, Id started dating a blonde named Alix, and wed gone so far as to move in together before she finally revealed that our sex life was boring because there were never more than two of us in the bed. That one had ended quickly.
I had vague ideas about settling down, but hadnt felt an urgent need to do anything about it. But Randy, after Id kicked his butt at handball one Saturday, had said, So theres this lawyer in my office He thought we should meet. I had resisted, on general principles, probably, and he had managed to talk me into it. So here we were.
Hi. Christopher Van den Heuvel. I stood up and shook hands.
Katie Henkel. Nice to meet you, and we sat down. Miss Henkel was maybe 5 foot 4, average height, with a creamy figure and equally creamy complexion. Think milkmaid in a $400 suit. Fair hair in a razor-cut bob, a smooth, lightly made-up face, large blue eyes, apple cheeks. A tempting expanse of throat and breastbone, the view cut off (damn!) but a peep of white blouse under the slate blue of her suit jacket. Before she had sat and the table had hidden her lower half from view, I had caught a glimpse of a sturdy waist, hips that were proper hips, and a peek of shapely, delectably curvaceous legs. Hell-o.
Menu choices made, we chatted, a little awkwardly, about her work, my work, our home towns, our shared Dutch ancestry. We both made short work of the shared appetizer, and over our entrees and the sinfully tasty bread kept warm in the basket, we discovered a number of overlapping outlooks about movies, about politics, a shared interest in gardening, similar financial philosophies. Somehow, before we finished scraping up the last of the spinach and artichoke dip, the awkwardness of a blind first date had vanished and we were enjoying each others company like old friends.
Without really conscious of what I was doing, I tried to prolong the meal and thus our time together. Ate every bite of the huge serving of steak, mashed potatoes, broccoli, caramelized onions, three or four or five rolls, ordered dessert, followed dessert with coffee until finally, our meal was over. Id run out of courses and more to the point, Id run out of room in my now-swollen and aching belly.
With real reluctance and incidentally managing the heroic feat of mostly stifling a gigantic belch I stood up. I think I succeeded in not wincing at the heaviness and discomfort of my overburdened stomach. We exchanged cards, and when shed gotten into her VW Passat and headed off, I lowered myself carefully into my Saab and navigated home. The six-minute drive seemed endless.
Back in my apartment, I whipped off my tie and cuff links, jerked open my belt, undid my trousers, stripped myself naked as quickly as I could manage. God, was I full. I hoisted myself up onto the bed and leaned back, resting a hand on my gorged and tender belly. Whereas this morning, getting dressed, I had noticed in passing what felt like a perfectly acceptable little ribbon of flab at the old belt line, now when I looked down I saw my entire midsection, distended and sore, and tight as a drum to boot. I was so full I felt a little queasy, like after Thanksgiving dinner, and too dopey and stupid with food to do anything. With some effort I groped for the remote, turned on the TV, gazed unseeing at some game.
Full as I was, though, my thoughts were primarily occupied by Miss Katie Henkel. They ran something like this:
Ow oof, my stomach <slosh, gurgle> *urrrrp* whew Katie beautiful face those hips ow <clutch stomach, groan> Ive never seen such gorgeous legs classic legs that curve to them wonder what her butt looks like naked *urrp* ow! Dammit, oof, ugh ahh, thats better ooh I may explode here hey! Catch the ball, you get paid enough Can you imagine what her boobs look like? Mm, I can almost feel my hands on them *hic* most women cant talk about sports like that she really knows a lot ow, OW! God. Ahh ahh, whew. Good thing Im sleeping alone wish I werent s it over? Who won? oof Im too full to sleep funny what she said about Ridley Scott movies ohhh, my stomach zzZZZzzz.
Determined to play it cool, I tried my hardest to keep Katie out of my head the next few days. At the same time, I sent her flowers the next morning. Sweated through my workouts. Fought to keep my mind on my work. And all I could think about was Katie.
A week later, our second date a walk in the botanic gardens. That ended when both our stomachs growled in unison. We went to the pizza parlor and made short work of a very large pizza. Afterward, strolling back to where wed parked, she laid her hand on her tummy, this time covered by a silk T-shirt and, to my uncritical eye, pressing rather firmly against the waistband of her dark blue jeans.
I ate too much, she said sheepishly, noticing my glance. She hiccupped.
I could feel a blush spread across my cheeks. Uh, me too, I admitted. I patted my own stomach, which my almost-too-snug-anymore polo shirt did little to conceal. Stuffed full of five very large slices, and two large beers, my gut was churning loudly enough to be embarrassingly audible and felt as though it was a basketball about to burst the hook on my khakis.
I guess Ive reached the age where I ought to watch it, I ventured.
Katie snorted and, without hesitation, patted my swollen belly. Teddy bear. Its a nice look for you. She rearranged herself so that somehow her arm was around me and her free hand was massaging my aching gut. In public. I had to admit it felt wonderful.
Naturally, my arm now had to go around her waist, and my fingers landed gently on her side. A very welcoming cushion of warm flesh sat there, lapping over the jeans, and the tips of my fingers grazed the edge of her tummy-load of pizza and beer, giving me a mild tingling shock at the sensation of warmth and tight firmness in her bellys unyielding distention.
In contented silence we strolled, pausing now and then to admire and exclaim over the various flora on display, talking about her garden (she had a small house) and the couple of pots of flowers I tended on my apartment balcony.
We parted, finally, as it began to grow dark and the mosquitoes came out to play, and I drove home, my thoughts swarming in a pleasant muddle.
She called the next afternoon, about two.
Chris? It was Katie, and she was crying.
Hey. Hey now. Whats wrong? I sat up in bed and with my free hand scrubbed at my nap-crusted eyes.
Farley. My dog, she managed. Hes he just
I managed to get her address out of her and pulled up a few minutes later in front of a small, tidy Dutch Colonial, the flower beds in front lush with geraniums and Russian sage.
She answered the door and stepped wordlessly into my embrace. Someone else came through from the kitchen, a slender woman with a head of tight dark curls.
Seeing me, she nodded and sketched a polite smile, then patted Katie on the shoulder.
Ive got to go. See you at work, and she slipped out.
Abby, the muffled voice buried in my shoulder informed me. From work. She stepped back and swiped the back of her hand across her nose. She brought supplies.
Supplies. Katie took my hand and tugged me toward the kitchen.
Four pints of Ben and Jerrys, she opened the freezer door, and a dozen chocolate peanut butter cupcakes.
Aha. Supplies. I was now being led out to the living room. Also DVDs of Sleepless in Seattle and When Harry Met Sally.
I was in way over my head. Isnt this like a girl thing? Shouldnt you want, um, Abby?
She buried her head in my chest. No. I want you here. Please?
I stepped back. Um, Farley?
She sank onto the sofa and I sat down in a club chair opposite.
He just went to sleep last night, peaceful as anything, and he was gone this morning. I dont think anything was wrong, she said slowly. But, well, he was eighteen.
Im so sorry, babe, I said. Um
Abby helped me bury him, she said. She led me into the small back yard and pointed at a low mound of fresh earth marked with a recently transplanted mountain Andromeda bush.
Wordlessly, I folded her into my arms and we stood at the gravesite for a few moments.
I shot her a glance, not at all sure why I was here, but prepared to follow Katies lead.
She started Sleepless in Seattle and went to the kitchen and listed off the ice cream choices. I settled on Caramel Sutra, while Katie chose Phish Food. Each armed with a spoon, we sat side by side and devoured ice cream by the pint while we watched Meg Ryan walk away from Perfectly Respectable Fiance and pine for Tom Hanks.
My job, it transpired, was to let her talk about Farley, hand her tissues when needed, hand her a chocolate-peanut-butter cupcake when needed, refill her glass of milk when needed, fetch her another pint of ice cream when needed, and provide a sympathetic and attentive audience while she mourned the dog.
Katie seemed a good deal better when I finally left about seven. She was, she said, going to take a long hot shower and get a good nights sleep.
I stayed for a few minutes, puttering around tidying our debris, throwing out four empty ice cream cartons, the empty cupcake container, a large pile of tissues, putting the DVDs back in their cases, washing the spoons and the milk glasses, all the while vaguely aware of the steady stream of complaints my stomach was issuing.
Drove home, my overloaded stomach compressed by my sitting up and squeezed by the seat belt griping all the way, got home and stripped off my jeans and T shirt, kicked off my boxers, and sprawled out on my bed, cradling my hugely distended and very tender gut and wondering what the hell had possessed me.
Two whole pints *hic* ow two pints a lot of ice cream <groan> Katie looks so pretty and vulnerable I just wanted to hold her *urrurrp* six cupcakes? Did I really eat six cupcakes? <gurgle, churn, groan> oof guess I did oh God, my stomach much rather see Katie naked than Meg Ryan owww
I hauled myself out of bed with vague thoughts of showering, and paused to examine my naked and hugely stuffed self in the mirror.
Acceptable face. Nice broad shoulders and firm chest from workouts. And then, like something completely not belonging to me, a belly that swelled roundly outward, a firm dome of full stomach, skin stretched tightly across the protrusion, every inch of flesh tender and aching, sides pulling, stomach clutching and grumbling with the effort of processing the dump truck load of sugar and fat it had received. My navel stuck out, the lower part of my gut sagging heavily below it, bloated and sore.
While I let the warm water pour over me, I rested my hands on my gorged and distended belly, feeling buzzed from all that sugar and thinking about Katie.
Gorgeous if her stomach feels anything like mine *urrrp* oof bloated and *hic* swollen like a balloon buzzin what would it feel like if she lay down, her boobs resting on that tummy, round and firm and pink ow, ohh ohh ow ahh, oh thats better whew P.U. <cradle stomach> mmm oh, so full feels kind of good my hands on her belly massaging her tummy she might like that
Seven minutes later, hair still wet, I was knocking on Katies door. She greeted me in a bathrobe, her own hair damp.
Somehow, I didnt have to say anything. We both knew.
We snuggled under her covers and tenderly and with wonder explored each other. Pressed with infinite tenderness on each others tautly gorged and and aching tummies lay facing each other and drew close groaning at the exquisite, painful pleasure of feeling the warmth and gentle pressure of anothers full belly pressed to our own filled our hands with the spilling, lush bounty of buttocks, nuzzled chins discovered with delight unexpected little folds and burrows
Afterward, as we cuddled, damp and exhausted, Katie said, I think Im going to need another shower.
That was fun. We were both still exquisitely stuffed, our bellies tightly bloated and loudly gurgling and squeaking with the digestive process, which we assisted in each other with much attentive care. Warm water cascaded over our shoulders, puddled in the tiny human lake where our swollen tummies met, squirted through the cracks and crevices. We soaped, caressed, traced each other, clutched and cuddled, and finally held each other, replete, straining our necks over the combined circumference of two roundly protruding tummies to kiss, and kiss, and kiss, until the water ran ice cold and finally forced us out of the shower.
It was after eleven before I finally left, knowing full well that I had plenty of work waiting for me on my desk, and she had a full docket as well.
We managed to behave with reasonable restraint for about a month before she invited me to move in. I was racing for the liquor store for boxes before she finished her sentence.
How did it happen so fast? How did it happen at all? Its not something either one of us could put into words. We only knew that such certainty comes only once in a lifetime, and we both shuddered at the past-that-wasnt, the alternative reality in which wed ducked the blind date and never would have met.
Moving in together, happily, did not put the brakes on our actual dating. We still went out at least once or twice a week. She became a regular in the bleachers when I met up with the guys for hack hoops, although she scrupulously avoided tagging along when I met Randy for handball. She had acknowledged to him that I was a nice guy; Were seeing each other, but that was all she was ready to reveal. Since Randy had been my apartment neighbor, I expect he noticed when I moved out, but he was, evidently, polite enough not to say anything to Katies face. Or mine, whenever we met for handball.
Domesticity also failed to put the brakes on my steadily thickening waistline. What had once been a mere suggestion of flab, a subtle hint of puffiness at the belt, was now an unmistakable pot, so that my button-down shirts had to be a little too loose in the shoulders and chest to be large enough to cover my growing girth. Larger trousers, longer belts, Id put on enough poundage that it was taking more fabric to dress me.
Katie, too. Id observed with increasing delight that her sturdy, dairy-farm figure was softening, adding a delectable cushion of rosy flesh nestling softly between her bra and panties. Her sturdy hips were now somewhat more padded, the dent at her thickening waistline more pronounced than before as her bountiful rump swooped upward to her breasts or down toward those creamily curvaceous legs.
Once I stretched out on the floor as she dressed, nuzzling her neatly turned ankles, devouring her calves with kisses, burying my face in her velvety expanse of thighs even as she laughed and slapped ineffectually at my head with her underwear and gasped that we would both be late for work. Then shed turned around and squeezed me to her in a heart-stopping embrace, fondling my increasingly squashy bottom, pinching my love handles, bringing her hands around to my pecs.
We were late for work.
Katies sister and brother-in-law had a dairy farm in Norwich, and Katie and I had been invited for Thanksgiving dinner. Katies widowed mother, who lived in an attached granny suite, was doing the cooking. I could tell from the initial expressions on her relatives faces that Katie was visibly more padded than she had been the last time theyd seen her, but with their usual low-key, stolid Dutch heritage in hand, they composed themselves quickly and greeted Katie with enthusiastic embraces and me with firm handshakes.
We talked about the dairy business, the banking business, Katies work, the weather, and then Katies brother-in-law fetched out the turkey as Katies mom called us to the table. Once you counted heads, there were nine of us in the room, but enough food for about thirty people.
We put a respectable dent in the feast. I certainly did what I could to help out. Everything was very good, the vegetables all clearly home-grown, picked and put up at the height of summers goodness. I tucked away a heaped plateful, turkey and dressing, gravy, squash, sweet potatoes, cabbage, scalloped potatoes, garlic knots, cold sliced ham, broccoli casserole, banana muffins and when my plate was empty I piled it all up again.
After several rounds I could feel myself slowing down and surreptitiously laid a hand against my belly, which by now protruded well forward of wherever my belt was (in hiding, by this time). My spare tires had become well inflated and perched atop my waistband, and as I paused to take stock I swear I could hear threads beginning to snap.
My sides pulled heavily, stretched and sore as my midsection swelled outward to accommodate my bellys overtaxed capacity. The delicious food had been crammed into every spare inch of my stomach and was fighting to make its way into the intestines, while the fourth or possibly seventh garlic knot tried to shove itself in. I was ready to burst, my midsection stretched perilously across the gorged distention of thousands of delectable calories. My ears buzzed, my face flushed, I was stupefied and dopey, all of the blood racing toward the abdominal pile-up.
My belly ached, my gut exquisitely, tenderly sore, so bloated and stuffed it had become a fragile thing, a massive soap bubble at risk of popping at the slightest quiver.
In endless slow motion I hauled myself into an approximation of the vertical. My face was beaded with perspiration, my massively gorged belly so laden and weighed down that it was an effort to stand. I raised an eyebrow at Katie, who had been enjoying the feast as much as I had.
She achieved standing up, with much more grace than I had, and I paused a moment to savor the sight. My beloved, her fair hair slightly tousled, her apple cheeks pinked with warmth, the vee of her dress gaping invitingly and offering just a suggestion of the bounty within. The dark blue cotton fabric dotted with tiny white flowers clung temptingly to a firmly gravid belly. She wasnt pregnant (yet!), but her warmly rosy tummy was swollen with goodness, firmly distended from the good food she had consumed, and I was struck dumb at the sight of her dress hugging her delectably convex tummy, the cloth rumpled as it sought to drape all of my darlings luscious belly, the dove-soft handfuls of curves expanded to hold her fill of the feast, her navel a marvel, a distended slit that would act as the doorway to paradise later that night.
By all that is holy, I should have gone down on my knee to her. I couldnt do it. Katie would later tell me that she nearly burst into giggles at the thought of what that unmanageable action would have done to the seat of my trousers.
Katie Henkel, I said loudly, over the buzzing in my ears, will you take me as your husband? Will you give me your hand?
And then she was beside me, leaning into me, one plump white hand resting on the belly that was stretched nearly to bursting.
My hand my foot all of me, she whispered. Head to toe.
Head to Toe
I tossed my pajama shirt onto the bed, quirking a smile as it landed on the pillow. Two points. Then, standing at my closet, I contemplated the situation. I was dressed from the waist down, in gray gabardine trousers that were tugging uncomfortably at the waist. I ran my thumb along the inside of the waistband, trying to create some play where there was none to be had. Sighed. Finally settled on a lavender shirt so pale it was nearly dove gray, with contrasting collar and French cuffs. A dark gray tie with lavender stripes in a rep pattern. Threaded a leather belt through the loops, wishing that it werent on the last hole. Raised my arms up over my head, then brought them back down, deliberately creating a little rumple where my shirt was tucked in, hoping it would somehow camouflage the weight that had started to attach itself to my belly.
All through my twenties Id eaten and drunk with abandon, played hack hoops with the guys a few evenings a week, lifted weights a few mornings a week, and not given any thought to my waistline. Now that I was 30, it seemed, the wings and the brews, the occasional skipped workout, were catching up. I had maybe 50, maybe 60 years ahead of me and I was damned if I was going to spend the rest of my life doing penance at the table over steamed oatmeal or whatever.
Resolutely putting the matter out of my head, I slid into my Saab for the drive to work. I was a big fish in a small pond by choice, quite liking the arrangement. In English? I was the vice president of a small chain of banks that, resolutely refusing to be swallowed, maintained eighteen shops in three counties in upstate New York, the Van Der Meer Merchants Trust Bank. In business since 1648, and avoiding messes like subprime mortgages as a matter of instinctive probity. We were probably one of the few banks in the country anymore where you could apply for a loan and not get told to come back in 15 days after some bobble-head at a desktop in Albany had crunched your numbers.
And if I was nervous about this evening, it had nothing to do with the fact that my belly was getting a little doughy.
When I got to the restaurant, my date was just arriving. Katie Henkel, a co-worker of one of my neighbors, a tax attorney I played handball with a couple of times a month.
Id been in a couple of long relationships. The first, when I was just out of college and had held a low-level position at a bank in the city, had lasted for four years. It hadnt ended quickly or neatly, but had sort of trailed off with a whimper. The last year had been increasingly awkward, and Id been almost relieved when she had told me she had met someone else.
Five or six months later, Id started dating a blonde named Alix, and wed gone so far as to move in together before she finally revealed that our sex life was boring because there were never more than two of us in the bed. That one had ended quickly.
I had vague ideas about settling down, but hadnt felt an urgent need to do anything about it. But Randy, after Id kicked his butt at handball one Saturday, had said, So theres this lawyer in my office He thought we should meet. I had resisted, on general principles, probably, and he had managed to talk me into it. So here we were.
Hi. Christopher Van den Heuvel. I stood up and shook hands.
Katie Henkel. Nice to meet you, and we sat down. Miss Henkel was maybe 5 foot 4, average height, with a creamy figure and equally creamy complexion. Think milkmaid in a $400 suit. Fair hair in a razor-cut bob, a smooth, lightly made-up face, large blue eyes, apple cheeks. A tempting expanse of throat and breastbone, the view cut off (damn!) but a peep of white blouse under the slate blue of her suit jacket. Before she had sat and the table had hidden her lower half from view, I had caught a glimpse of a sturdy waist, hips that were proper hips, and a peek of shapely, delectably curvaceous legs. Hell-o.
Menu choices made, we chatted, a little awkwardly, about her work, my work, our home towns, our shared Dutch ancestry. We both made short work of the shared appetizer, and over our entrees and the sinfully tasty bread kept warm in the basket, we discovered a number of overlapping outlooks about movies, about politics, a shared interest in gardening, similar financial philosophies. Somehow, before we finished scraping up the last of the spinach and artichoke dip, the awkwardness of a blind first date had vanished and we were enjoying each others company like old friends.
Without really conscious of what I was doing, I tried to prolong the meal and thus our time together. Ate every bite of the huge serving of steak, mashed potatoes, broccoli, caramelized onions, three or four or five rolls, ordered dessert, followed dessert with coffee until finally, our meal was over. Id run out of courses and more to the point, Id run out of room in my now-swollen and aching belly.
With real reluctance and incidentally managing the heroic feat of mostly stifling a gigantic belch I stood up. I think I succeeded in not wincing at the heaviness and discomfort of my overburdened stomach. We exchanged cards, and when shed gotten into her VW Passat and headed off, I lowered myself carefully into my Saab and navigated home. The six-minute drive seemed endless.
Back in my apartment, I whipped off my tie and cuff links, jerked open my belt, undid my trousers, stripped myself naked as quickly as I could manage. God, was I full. I hoisted myself up onto the bed and leaned back, resting a hand on my gorged and tender belly. Whereas this morning, getting dressed, I had noticed in passing what felt like a perfectly acceptable little ribbon of flab at the old belt line, now when I looked down I saw my entire midsection, distended and sore, and tight as a drum to boot. I was so full I felt a little queasy, like after Thanksgiving dinner, and too dopey and stupid with food to do anything. With some effort I groped for the remote, turned on the TV, gazed unseeing at some game.
Full as I was, though, my thoughts were primarily occupied by Miss Katie Henkel. They ran something like this:
Ow oof, my stomach <slosh, gurgle> *urrrrp* whew Katie beautiful face those hips ow <clutch stomach, groan> Ive never seen such gorgeous legs classic legs that curve to them wonder what her butt looks like naked *urrp* ow! Dammit, oof, ugh ahh, thats better ooh I may explode here hey! Catch the ball, you get paid enough Can you imagine what her boobs look like? Mm, I can almost feel my hands on them *hic* most women cant talk about sports like that she really knows a lot ow, OW! God. Ahh ahh, whew. Good thing Im sleeping alone wish I werent s it over? Who won? oof Im too full to sleep funny what she said about Ridley Scott movies ohhh, my stomach zzZZZzzz.
Determined to play it cool, I tried my hardest to keep Katie out of my head the next few days. At the same time, I sent her flowers the next morning. Sweated through my workouts. Fought to keep my mind on my work. And all I could think about was Katie.
A week later, our second date a walk in the botanic gardens. That ended when both our stomachs growled in unison. We went to the pizza parlor and made short work of a very large pizza. Afterward, strolling back to where wed parked, she laid her hand on her tummy, this time covered by a silk T-shirt and, to my uncritical eye, pressing rather firmly against the waistband of her dark blue jeans.
I ate too much, she said sheepishly, noticing my glance. She hiccupped.
I could feel a blush spread across my cheeks. Uh, me too, I admitted. I patted my own stomach, which my almost-too-snug-anymore polo shirt did little to conceal. Stuffed full of five very large slices, and two large beers, my gut was churning loudly enough to be embarrassingly audible and felt as though it was a basketball about to burst the hook on my khakis.
I guess Ive reached the age where I ought to watch it, I ventured.
Katie snorted and, without hesitation, patted my swollen belly. Teddy bear. Its a nice look for you. She rearranged herself so that somehow her arm was around me and her free hand was massaging my aching gut. In public. I had to admit it felt wonderful.
Naturally, my arm now had to go around her waist, and my fingers landed gently on her side. A very welcoming cushion of warm flesh sat there, lapping over the jeans, and the tips of my fingers grazed the edge of her tummy-load of pizza and beer, giving me a mild tingling shock at the sensation of warmth and tight firmness in her bellys unyielding distention.
In contented silence we strolled, pausing now and then to admire and exclaim over the various flora on display, talking about her garden (she had a small house) and the couple of pots of flowers I tended on my apartment balcony.
We parted, finally, as it began to grow dark and the mosquitoes came out to play, and I drove home, my thoughts swarming in a pleasant muddle.
She called the next afternoon, about two.
Chris? It was Katie, and she was crying.
Hey. Hey now. Whats wrong? I sat up in bed and with my free hand scrubbed at my nap-crusted eyes.
Farley. My dog, she managed. Hes he just
I managed to get her address out of her and pulled up a few minutes later in front of a small, tidy Dutch Colonial, the flower beds in front lush with geraniums and Russian sage.
She answered the door and stepped wordlessly into my embrace. Someone else came through from the kitchen, a slender woman with a head of tight dark curls.
Seeing me, she nodded and sketched a polite smile, then patted Katie on the shoulder.
Ive got to go. See you at work, and she slipped out.
Abby, the muffled voice buried in my shoulder informed me. From work. She stepped back and swiped the back of her hand across her nose. She brought supplies.
Supplies. Katie took my hand and tugged me toward the kitchen.
Four pints of Ben and Jerrys, she opened the freezer door, and a dozen chocolate peanut butter cupcakes.
Aha. Supplies. I was now being led out to the living room. Also DVDs of Sleepless in Seattle and When Harry Met Sally.
I was in way over my head. Isnt this like a girl thing? Shouldnt you want, um, Abby?
She buried her head in my chest. No. I want you here. Please?
I stepped back. Um, Farley?
She sank onto the sofa and I sat down in a club chair opposite.
He just went to sleep last night, peaceful as anything, and he was gone this morning. I dont think anything was wrong, she said slowly. But, well, he was eighteen.
Im so sorry, babe, I said. Um
Abby helped me bury him, she said. She led me into the small back yard and pointed at a low mound of fresh earth marked with a recently transplanted mountain Andromeda bush.
Wordlessly, I folded her into my arms and we stood at the gravesite for a few moments.
I shot her a glance, not at all sure why I was here, but prepared to follow Katies lead.
She started Sleepless in Seattle and went to the kitchen and listed off the ice cream choices. I settled on Caramel Sutra, while Katie chose Phish Food. Each armed with a spoon, we sat side by side and devoured ice cream by the pint while we watched Meg Ryan walk away from Perfectly Respectable Fiance and pine for Tom Hanks.
My job, it transpired, was to let her talk about Farley, hand her tissues when needed, hand her a chocolate-peanut-butter cupcake when needed, refill her glass of milk when needed, fetch her another pint of ice cream when needed, and provide a sympathetic and attentive audience while she mourned the dog.
Katie seemed a good deal better when I finally left about seven. She was, she said, going to take a long hot shower and get a good nights sleep.
I stayed for a few minutes, puttering around tidying our debris, throwing out four empty ice cream cartons, the empty cupcake container, a large pile of tissues, putting the DVDs back in their cases, washing the spoons and the milk glasses, all the while vaguely aware of the steady stream of complaints my stomach was issuing.
Drove home, my overloaded stomach compressed by my sitting up and squeezed by the seat belt griping all the way, got home and stripped off my jeans and T shirt, kicked off my boxers, and sprawled out on my bed, cradling my hugely distended and very tender gut and wondering what the hell had possessed me.
Two whole pints *hic* ow two pints a lot of ice cream <groan> Katie looks so pretty and vulnerable I just wanted to hold her *urrurrp* six cupcakes? Did I really eat six cupcakes? <gurgle, churn, groan> oof guess I did oh God, my stomach much rather see Katie naked than Meg Ryan owww
I hauled myself out of bed with vague thoughts of showering, and paused to examine my naked and hugely stuffed self in the mirror.
Acceptable face. Nice broad shoulders and firm chest from workouts. And then, like something completely not belonging to me, a belly that swelled roundly outward, a firm dome of full stomach, skin stretched tightly across the protrusion, every inch of flesh tender and aching, sides pulling, stomach clutching and grumbling with the effort of processing the dump truck load of sugar and fat it had received. My navel stuck out, the lower part of my gut sagging heavily below it, bloated and sore.
While I let the warm water pour over me, I rested my hands on my gorged and distended belly, feeling buzzed from all that sugar and thinking about Katie.
Gorgeous if her stomach feels anything like mine *urrrp* oof bloated and *hic* swollen like a balloon buzzin what would it feel like if she lay down, her boobs resting on that tummy, round and firm and pink ow, ohh ohh ow ahh, oh thats better whew P.U. <cradle stomach> mmm oh, so full feels kind of good my hands on her belly massaging her tummy she might like that
Seven minutes later, hair still wet, I was knocking on Katies door. She greeted me in a bathrobe, her own hair damp.
Somehow, I didnt have to say anything. We both knew.
We snuggled under her covers and tenderly and with wonder explored each other. Pressed with infinite tenderness on each others tautly gorged and and aching tummies lay facing each other and drew close groaning at the exquisite, painful pleasure of feeling the warmth and gentle pressure of anothers full belly pressed to our own filled our hands with the spilling, lush bounty of buttocks, nuzzled chins discovered with delight unexpected little folds and burrows
Afterward, as we cuddled, damp and exhausted, Katie said, I think Im going to need another shower.
That was fun. We were both still exquisitely stuffed, our bellies tightly bloated and loudly gurgling and squeaking with the digestive process, which we assisted in each other with much attentive care. Warm water cascaded over our shoulders, puddled in the tiny human lake where our swollen tummies met, squirted through the cracks and crevices. We soaped, caressed, traced each other, clutched and cuddled, and finally held each other, replete, straining our necks over the combined circumference of two roundly protruding tummies to kiss, and kiss, and kiss, until the water ran ice cold and finally forced us out of the shower.
It was after eleven before I finally left, knowing full well that I had plenty of work waiting for me on my desk, and she had a full docket as well.
We managed to behave with reasonable restraint for about a month before she invited me to move in. I was racing for the liquor store for boxes before she finished her sentence.
How did it happen so fast? How did it happen at all? Its not something either one of us could put into words. We only knew that such certainty comes only once in a lifetime, and we both shuddered at the past-that-wasnt, the alternative reality in which wed ducked the blind date and never would have met.
Moving in together, happily, did not put the brakes on our actual dating. We still went out at least once or twice a week. She became a regular in the bleachers when I met up with the guys for hack hoops, although she scrupulously avoided tagging along when I met Randy for handball. She had acknowledged to him that I was a nice guy; Were seeing each other, but that was all she was ready to reveal. Since Randy had been my apartment neighbor, I expect he noticed when I moved out, but he was, evidently, polite enough not to say anything to Katies face. Or mine, whenever we met for handball.
Domesticity also failed to put the brakes on my steadily thickening waistline. What had once been a mere suggestion of flab, a subtle hint of puffiness at the belt, was now an unmistakable pot, so that my button-down shirts had to be a little too loose in the shoulders and chest to be large enough to cover my growing girth. Larger trousers, longer belts, Id put on enough poundage that it was taking more fabric to dress me.
Katie, too. Id observed with increasing delight that her sturdy, dairy-farm figure was softening, adding a delectable cushion of rosy flesh nestling softly between her bra and panties. Her sturdy hips were now somewhat more padded, the dent at her thickening waistline more pronounced than before as her bountiful rump swooped upward to her breasts or down toward those creamily curvaceous legs.
Once I stretched out on the floor as she dressed, nuzzling her neatly turned ankles, devouring her calves with kisses, burying my face in her velvety expanse of thighs even as she laughed and slapped ineffectually at my head with her underwear and gasped that we would both be late for work. Then shed turned around and squeezed me to her in a heart-stopping embrace, fondling my increasingly squashy bottom, pinching my love handles, bringing her hands around to my pecs.
We were late for work.
Katies sister and brother-in-law had a dairy farm in Norwich, and Katie and I had been invited for Thanksgiving dinner. Katies widowed mother, who lived in an attached granny suite, was doing the cooking. I could tell from the initial expressions on her relatives faces that Katie was visibly more padded than she had been the last time theyd seen her, but with their usual low-key, stolid Dutch heritage in hand, they composed themselves quickly and greeted Katie with enthusiastic embraces and me with firm handshakes.
We talked about the dairy business, the banking business, Katies work, the weather, and then Katies brother-in-law fetched out the turkey as Katies mom called us to the table. Once you counted heads, there were nine of us in the room, but enough food for about thirty people.
We put a respectable dent in the feast. I certainly did what I could to help out. Everything was very good, the vegetables all clearly home-grown, picked and put up at the height of summers goodness. I tucked away a heaped plateful, turkey and dressing, gravy, squash, sweet potatoes, cabbage, scalloped potatoes, garlic knots, cold sliced ham, broccoli casserole, banana muffins and when my plate was empty I piled it all up again.
After several rounds I could feel myself slowing down and surreptitiously laid a hand against my belly, which by now protruded well forward of wherever my belt was (in hiding, by this time). My spare tires had become well inflated and perched atop my waistband, and as I paused to take stock I swear I could hear threads beginning to snap.
My sides pulled heavily, stretched and sore as my midsection swelled outward to accommodate my bellys overtaxed capacity. The delicious food had been crammed into every spare inch of my stomach and was fighting to make its way into the intestines, while the fourth or possibly seventh garlic knot tried to shove itself in. I was ready to burst, my midsection stretched perilously across the gorged distention of thousands of delectable calories. My ears buzzed, my face flushed, I was stupefied and dopey, all of the blood racing toward the abdominal pile-up.
My belly ached, my gut exquisitely, tenderly sore, so bloated and stuffed it had become a fragile thing, a massive soap bubble at risk of popping at the slightest quiver.
In endless slow motion I hauled myself into an approximation of the vertical. My face was beaded with perspiration, my massively gorged belly so laden and weighed down that it was an effort to stand. I raised an eyebrow at Katie, who had been enjoying the feast as much as I had.
She achieved standing up, with much more grace than I had, and I paused a moment to savor the sight. My beloved, her fair hair slightly tousled, her apple cheeks pinked with warmth, the vee of her dress gaping invitingly and offering just a suggestion of the bounty within. The dark blue cotton fabric dotted with tiny white flowers clung temptingly to a firmly gravid belly. She wasnt pregnant (yet!), but her warmly rosy tummy was swollen with goodness, firmly distended from the good food she had consumed, and I was struck dumb at the sight of her dress hugging her delectably convex tummy, the cloth rumpled as it sought to drape all of my darlings luscious belly, the dove-soft handfuls of curves expanded to hold her fill of the feast, her navel a marvel, a distended slit that would act as the doorway to paradise later that night.
By all that is holy, I should have gone down on my knee to her. I couldnt do it. Katie would later tell me that she nearly burst into giggles at the thought of what that unmanageable action would have done to the seat of my trousers.
Katie Henkel, I said loudly, over the buzzing in my ears, will you take me as your husband? Will you give me your hand?
And then she was beside me, leaning into me, one plump white hand resting on the belly that was stretched nearly to bursting.
My hand my foot all of me, she whispered. Head to toe.
