BOTH Implicit Declaration - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG)

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Big Beautiful Dreamer

ridiculously contented
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~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG. A former high-school crush gets a rare chance to see her guy before -- and after. Which will appeal to her more?

Implicit Declaration
by Big Beautiful Dreamer


Author's Note: Jess Schwartz Academy in Scottsdale does exist, and as of January 2011 was advertising for a part-time history teacher.



I heard her before I saw her.

“Oops, sorry.”

I turned to look at the woman who had jostled me from behind in the soup aisle. She looked awfully familiar.

“Eileen Grant,” she said, tentatively, as if I looked awfully familiar too.

“David Fair,” I prompted. (My last name is of Welsh origin and is pronounced Vye-er.) Eileen Grant’s eyes widened.

“David Fair? No. No,” she said, shaking her head. “David ...”

I was grinning now, enjoying watching her try to put two and two together.

“I looked a lot different in high school,” I finally said with a wink designed to soften the inevitable embarrassment.

“Wow, you sure did,” Eileen said, giving me a long, appreciative look. “You, um ... wow.”

In high school, you see, my five-eleven frame carried over three hundred pounds. And not of muscle, either. Smart, I was, but much more a couch potato than a jock, and a big kid. My parents had tried everything and by the time I was in high school were reduced to occasional eye-rolling glances. They’d given up.

I’d gone to a small college in the mountains, one with ample opportunities for white water rafting, hiking, and mountain biking – it even had a mountain biking team. Its working farm provided a salad bar whose offerings couldn’t get any fresher. Without really meaning to, I started moving more and eating my veggies. By the time I realized that I was losing weight, I felt terrific.

I started freshman orientation weighing three hundred eleven pounds. I graduated weighing one hundred ninety pounds. No wonder Eileen, on whom I’d had a major crush in high school, hadn’t recognized me.

We chatted a little longer, exchanged e-mail addresses and cell phone numbers and moved on.

Following the requisite steps, I sent her a few e-mails, sussed out the possibilities, and asked her out. We went on a first date, then a second. We played our roles perfectly and for six months and change carried out a relationship exactly according to social expectations. Except that it wasn’t.

That is, I wasn’t happy. And neither was she. We weren’t unhappy. At least, we couldn’t put a finger on what might be causing unhappiness. I guess we’d given it a try and discovered, to our mutual disappointment, that it wasn’t True Love. The sex was ... well ... very nothing. More times than not, I was unable to perform; when I could get somewhere, it was about as exciting as assembling a bookcase.

She broke up with me. Simply, cleanly, one evening she admitted that she’d liked me in high school and always harbored a curiosity about “what if.” Her curiosity had now been satisfied. That is to say, she had conducted her experiment and no longer needed the lab rat. (She didn’t say it like that, of course.) She gathered up the bits and pieces of her life scattered around my apartment and left.

I’d felt it coming. So why did it hit me so hard? I reacted like the heartbroken high schooler who thinks that life will never be worth living again. I plodded through work, and when not at work, sprawled on the sofa. The stuff I usually ate didn’t hold any appeal and required too much preparation. I turned to my old friends and numbly worked my way through bags of chips and jars of dip, M&M’s, burgers, fries, bottles of pop, doughnuts, popcorn at the movies (the louder and more action-filled the better), Chinese delivery, pizza delivery. As in high school, food was uncritical, food would never find me wanting, food always gave and never wounded. Food was comforting, food tasted wonderful and boosted my endorphins. For a little while, I was at least marginally happy.

I trudged through a full year that way, curled in on myself, nurturing my loneliness and hurt.

One evening, preparing to surf the Internet, I saw a familiar e-mail address in my in-box.

Hi, David –
I moved to Arizona a couple of months ago, but I’ll be back in town this weekend for a wedding. How about coffee Friday night?
-E.


Well, hell.

The momentary jolt of hope was quickly snuffed out. Needless to say, having devoted the year since our breakup in a self-centered and food-fueled wallow, I looked more like the David of high school days. My damnably reliable scale had lately been clocking me in between 245 and 250, and since exercise had long since gone down the tubes, a rather flabby 250 at that. My pecs sagged, my belly rolls flabbed softly around my broader hips, my backside was soft.

I thought about e-mailing her back, brief and snarky: Forget it. I’m fat again. Then I decided to let her see for herself.

I was deliberately late, and when I walked in, there she was. Her hair was long again and put neatly up. Her figure was a trifle fuller than I remembered, or was that wishful thinking? This time she recognized me, and her expression froze.

“Hi, Eileen.”

“Ah, David. Hi.” She bit her lip.

The conversation was awkward at first. She certainly wasn’t going to ask me what happened. And there is no polite way to say, “Wow, you’ve gained weight!”

“I bet I look more like you remember,” I said, grabbing the bull.

“Oh. Well. Um. Um, there’s that straightforwardness. You always were one for just putting it out there. That’s what I remember from high school.”

“Well, that and Susan Quarles,” I said, deadpan. Susan had shaved half her head in eleventh grade and dyed the remaining hair blue.

Now Eileen laughed, not out of nervousness but gladly and with relief.

“That humor, too. Your wit – it’s always been so quick. Just zing, right in there,” she said.

Her blouse was a little too snug, and I could not miss the way she was becoming aroused. I couldn’t explain it, but I could see it. She was starting to blush, as if aware that she’d inadvertently said something a little suggestive.

The conversation got awkward again, but for different reasons. I kept trying to keep the conversation going, but Eileen was severely aroused – and both of us could tell. Finally, I said what needed saying.

“How about we go back to my apartment?”

We barely made it in the door. I’d never seen a woman disrobe that quickly. Seriously, by the time I had the door locked and made it to the bedroom, she was down to under things.

I had not been mistaken. Eileen was definitely softer than previously. Her bra was well filled and then some, and her tummy was a little cushioned. Was that a fold? Her underpants appeared to be cutting into deliciously curvy thighs, and when she turned around so I could unhook her bra, I got an eyeful of ripely rounded backside that commanded my attention.

The second she was naked, Eileen was in my arms, clutching my biceps, and laying a kiss on me about twenty times as passionate as when we’d been dating.

Again: what the hell!

We wasted no time, as should by now be obvious, getting into bed. And later, after it was all over, and Eileen lay on my sweat-soaked chest, I asked.

“What just happened?”

“I was hoping you would know,” Eileen murmured, as exhausted as I was. “I’ve never responded like that to anyone in my life.”

“Oh, come on now,” I said, automatically dismissing the hyperbole.

“No, seriously,” she insisted, propping herself up on her elbows. She looked at me. A long, searching, thorough gaze. “I can’t explain it,” she said slowly. “But that was extraordinary. Really extraordinary.”

And so was the second time, which commenced about six seconds after that surreal conversation.

Afterward, we slept tangled in the sheets and each other, until the sun woke us up far too early.

We showered together, which was revelatory in itself, and then Eileen dragged me off to IHOP. Feeling obligated to be on my best behavior, I asked for egg substitute and fruit. Eileen blithely ordered the whatever-it’s-called that nets you three eggs, three pancakes, sausage and hash browns.

When the waitress delivered, naturally enough she put the fakes-and-fruit in front of Eileen and the Big Daddy Plate in front of me. I started to switch plates, and Eileen arrested my hand.

“No,” she said, kindly but firmly. “That’s yours.”

“Okay, what?”

Eileen bit her lip and looked down at her plate. “It’s true I never gave you the time of day in high school. And yes, I do remember that we dated. Recently. But ... you remember ... our sack time was ... well....”

“Yeah. I remember.” I poured syrup over the pancakes and added salt and pepper to the eggs.

“You know what tripped me last night?”

I shook my head, mouth full.

“I’ve never seen a more attractive body in my life.”

If Eileen had had any sense, she would have timed that line for when my mouth was empty. As it was, I came within a hairsbreadth of choking on pancake.

“Bull,” I proclaimed, huskily, when I could speak again. I gave her a hard look.

“It’s true.” Eileen threw her hands up in mystification. “I can’t explain it. And I can’t explain why this didn’t occur to me when we were sixteen.”

As we ate, Eileen continued to enumerate, as if making her case, my points of desirability. To wit:
The adorable cheeks. (Oh, God.)
The cozy chin. (Chins.)
The soft warmth of my shoulders. And, as a corollary, the way my biceps were cuddled in extra flesh, but still obvious to the touch.
The snuggliness of my pecs. (See: cheeks.)
The warm softness (as opposed, I guess, to the soft warmth) of my belly. Running her hands in, on, and around my midsection was, it seemed, delightful.
The indecent cushiness of my backside.
Etc. Etc. Etc.

By now she was finished with her meal, so I forked the remaining pancake and hash browns over to her. She looked wistfully at my offering.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Oho. Who’s spent her entire conscious life insisting that there ought to be no double standards, missy?”

“David,” she pleaded. “Look.” She pressed a hand to her tummy, that soft sweet cushion.

“Yes,” I said patiently. “I see. Do you or do you not recall every single point you just enumerated regarding my so-called desirability?”

She nodded.

“Back at you,” I said firmly.

“But ... but ... but ...”

I waited until her mouth was open on one of the protestations and shoved a large bite of pancake into it.

“I really thought,” I said, “that you had only moments ago implicitly declared your independence from the patently artificial standards that society creates and enforces. Have you not?”

“Um, what?” Eileen gave me a limpid gaze. “You’re smarter than me, ’member?”

I scooped up a large forkful of hash browns and steered it toward her mouth. “No, I’m not. And before you disagree, you can too make an implicit declaration. It’s the same as a tacit declaration, which diplomats do all the time. Hence the ultimate unconstitutionality of the recent Supreme Court ruling that a suspect must state his desire to remain silent rather than just exercising it, which would be an ... ahem ... implicit declaration.”

“Um, okay,” Eileen mumbled. “Now what are you saying? About implicit decorations.”

“Declarations.”

“Yeah, those.”

“All that you just spilled out about the desirability of my, um, plus-sized body? Your implicit declaration was that my avoirdupois is appealing. If that is objectively, or even subjectively true, why can it not apply in the reverse?”

“In English, please?” Eileen poured herself more coffee and added cream judiciously.

“You’re hot for my large bod,” I said mildly. “Your bod is not anywhere near approaching large – but I happen to find your cuddly tummy area – and other cuddly areas – very, very appealing. As I believe I have demonstrated – have I not?”

Eileen blushed.

She nodded, swallowed, took another large mouthful. “Mmf-hmm-mmf.”

I said nothing, my point having made itself.

“Oh.” Her eyes grew wide. “Ohhhh.” She sat for a long moment, contemplating the forkful of pancake, syrup lazily dripping.

“You’re not calling me fat,” she said cautiously, as if the answer would bite if provoked.

“Indeed I am not.”

“You’re saying that if I refuse to hold you to artificial social constructs for standards of appeal...”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Then you may refuse to hold me to artificial social constructs of standards of appeal...”

“Mmm.”

“And that I should revel in the freedom of your ... um ... implicit declaration.”

I smiled. She blushed.

Suddenly we were in rather a hurry to pay the bill.

It wasn’t until after our intimacies that we both remembered that Eileen was in town for a reason. She griped and bitched her way through showering, doing her hair with my 3-in-1 liquid body wash and ratty old hairbrush, and preparing herself as best she could. She threw on the blouse and jeans that had been fine for last night’s get-together, but which looked appealingly odd with her now-done hair, even without makeup, and prepared to head back to the hotel that held her room, her dress, her makeup and (luckily) the site of the wedding.

“I’ll be back afterward,” she murmured, coming up for air after a long goodbye kiss. “Wait up?”

I said I would and she was out the door.

I waited up, sort of. That is to say, I fell asleep watching television. Eileen came in close to midnight and tiptoed toward the bedroom, but some indefinable change in the air woke me up.

“Hey, Cinderella,” I murmured sleepily.

“Hey yourself.”

I struggled out of the deep, soft chair, letting the afghan fall to the floor. “How’s’wedding?”

“Fine,” she said warmly. “Nice.” As she spoke, she was groping for the zipper on her dress. “And this dress is too...blasted...tight.”

I tugged it undone for her. It gaped open as if in appreciation, revealing a breathtaking view of back and backside. Whoo.

“Tomorrow ... you have to leave?” I sounded plaintive as a puppy. By now I had her in a loose embrace.

She turned to face me. “Mmm,” regretfully, while nuzzling. “Plane. Rental car....”

“I’ll follow you to the airport,” I said. “Give you a proper goodbye.”

“Wish you were in Arizona,” she said wistfully. “You’d like it there. It really is a dry heat.”

“Ah ... well ...” I taught high school history and civics. I was licensed in North Carolina, but....

“I’ll see what I can do,” I promised, and on that note we went blissfully to bed.

* * *​

Eileen Grant was grateful for the length of the flight. It gave her time to think. She sipped bottled water and reflected. She’d had a little crush on David in high school, but in honesty, most of the time when she saw him she’d thought: He has such nice features. He could be really hot if he was thin.

The last thing she expected was to encounter him again as an adult, much less after such a transformation. She’d suddenly gotten her high school half-wish: There was David Fair, thin. And she’d been right – he’d been hot.

So where had the attraction gone?

Because it was gone. Evaporated as surely as an ice cube on hot pavement. They’d tried a relationship, it hadn’t worked, and they’d gone their separate ways. And then there was David, looking like the David of old, and – bam – her whole body lit up from within. And the sex was – not good, great. Awesome.

She shook her head and snorted quietly. As soon as she got back she was sending David an e-mail, no two ways about it.

* * *​

I grinned. Eileen’s e-mail had been uncharacteristically hesitant, even in written form. I could almost see her at her computer, erasing, deleting, starting again.

Hey David,
Enjoyed seeing you last weekend. It was really, well, special. I hope we can have another weekend like that soon.

I’m including a link to the state site for teacher certification in Arizona.

Fondly,
Eileen.


The link gave me good news, if I were interested in moving to Arizona. The state accepted North Carolina exams, and if they were more than 7 years old, which mine were, all I needed was a letter verifying teaching experience for “5 out of the 7 years prior to use of the test.”

Was I interested in moving to Arizona? I’d enjoyed the weekend as much as she had. But it might be more prudent to move slowly.

I covered my bases. I looked up job postings and made plans to spend a week in Arizona over spring break.

I grimaced, holding my mobile phone well away from my ear. Finally Eileen ran out of breath and stopped squealing.

“OhmyGod OhmyGod OhmyGod!” she squeaked. “Are you really spending a whole week here?”

“Yes. That is, if you promise to stop busting my eardrums.”

She giggled. “Oops, sorry.”

“Now, Ben Franklin was right when he said, ‘Fish and houseguests smell after three days,’ so after a couple of nights at your pad I’m taking up residence in a Holiday Inn down the road,” I said firmly.

“Oh… okay,” she sighed. “But that first weekend’s all mine.”

I was holding at a solid 260 when I arrived in Arizona. (Well, not solid, exactly.) It had been 62 and cloudy in North Carolina; 75 and sunny in Phoenix. Not that we spent much time outside.

As the week spooled on, we took walks, made the obligatory Grand Canyon pilgrimage, visited a few historic sites, and continued to marvel at the change in our relationship. For with David Fair 2.0, Eileen was superbly comfortable, happy, attracted, and positively effervescent. And I was likewise completely at ease with Eileen Grant 2.0. (Rather, 2.0.0.) I enjoyed the feel of my hand on her softly cushioned waist, the enticing roundness of her bottom, the overall warmth and glow of her naked in bed with me.

“I don’t understand it,” she murmured one such evening, slowly tracing a finger down my softening torso to my belly, several soft rolls resting on one another, damp with postcoital perspiration.

“Dearest Eileen,” I mumbled, kissing her throat, “stop analyzing. It is what it is. And,” I added mildly, struggling to a sitting position, “The Jess Schwartz School in Scottsdale has an opening for a history teacher beginning in August. Private school, small classes, knowledge of Hebrew preferred.”

“You don’t know Hebrew.”

“That’s what you think,” I said in flawless Hebrew. Eileen sat up and stared at me.

“Three years ago,” I said, “I became engaged to one Shayna Schachter after two years of dating. I was taking classes in Hebrew and studying with a rabbi and I was planning to convert.”

“Then…”

“Then,” I said, and paused, “then … Shayna left me … for Naomi Reiber.”

“Ooh. Ouch.” Eileen grimaced.

“Yep. Ouch.” I grinned. “But the boo-boo’s all better now. And I do actually know Hebrew and a fair amount of Jewish custom and history.”

“So…”

“So what?”

“So… are you … um … going to apply?”

“Nah,” I said casually. I watched her struggle to hide her dismay for only a few seconds before adding, “I already did, and I’ve got an interview tomorrow.”

“You snake!”

I fell back amid a flurry of pillow hitting. Then: “What you going to wear?”

“Um. Oh. Crap.” I’d brought only casual clothes.

“Off we go,” Eileen said briskly, hopping out of bed. “Take a shower, pal, we’re heading to Casual Male Big & Tall.”

Ninety minutes later I was admiring my appearance in a mirror. Lightweight, light gray suit that actually covered my broad shoulders and … even more amazing … buttoned across my expanse of belly. Trousers that fit around my thick waistline, that zipped up, that sat comfortably in the seat and crotch. A crisp white shirt whose buttons closed without strain and a necktie that was long enough.

Damn. I would have hired me.

And so, it seemed, would Dr. Janice Johnson, Head of School. She’d been impressed when I’d greeted her in Hebrew and had questioned me not only about history but subtly sussed out my knowledge of Judaism and Jewish history.

The hard part was leaving Eileen. “Temporarily,” I mumbled between kisses at the airport. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

I thanked whatever gods may be that my school system had years ago put all teachers on two-year renewable contracts. Mine was up – I was a free agent.

“I um, I don’t plan to renew my contract,” I told the principal gently. “I’m moving to Arizona. My girlfriend…”

The surprise on his face melted. “Ah. Say no more,” he said, waving a hand at me. “I completely understand. I thought something was in the air when you asked me for that letter. We’re sorry to be losing you, Mr. Fair. I wish you luck.”

I went through the same routine with my apartment complex manager, tossed and cleaned my apartment, and by the end of June was driving a Ryder truck west. I’d sold my eight-year-old POS, planning to buy another car at the other end.

Eileen stood on the balcony, waving. She wore a pink bikini that left nothing to the imagination and that showcased her gloriously cushioned tummy. I heaved myself out of the cab and stood for a moment, arms wide, catching my breath. When I had left North Carolina I had weighed two hundred and seventy-four pounds. Given that Mexican is my favorite cuisine, I could see that number ticking upward.

Then Eileen was in my arms.

“Welcome home,” she mumbled into my soft chest. “I love every inch of you.”

By the time Jess Schwartz offered me a bonus for having taught there five years, I carried three hundred and thirty pounds and was unmistakably the big man on campus, having eclipsed Eli Lieberman, who taught domestic science, by at least fifty pounds.

The school day had ended and I was at my desk, grading papers, when I heard the classroom door open. I looked up.

There stood Eileen, a soft blue cotton dress draping her two hundred and forty-some breathtakingly gorgeous pounds. At her side were Prescott, who had just turned four, and Ann Marie, a two-year-old with hair just like her mother’s.

“Daddy!” Ann Marie squealed. I rolled the chair back and opened my arms. She bounced up, wriggling into a comfortable position on my belly cushion.

“We’ve been to the doctor’s office,” Eileen announced.

I stopped tickling Ann Marie. “What? Why?”

“Nothing’s wrong, silly,” Eileen said. She was grinning. “It’s just that….”

“I’m gonna be a big sister!”

“I hope it’s a boy,” Scott said, rolling his eyes.

I stood and made my way to Eileen, then slid my arm along her back. “I love you, Eileen Fair,” I said. “Every inch … and every inch to be.”
 

strataadvance

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Joined
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I Love your mutual gaining stories so much. Your writing is genius. Of hundreds of stories read over 10+ years-this one had the warmest fuzziest feeling-but still packed a nice erotic punch! Another Masterpiece! :)
 

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