~BHM, ~BBW, Force-Feeding, ~XWG – A twentysomething young man is struck with desire for a young voluptuous woman – but they can only be together if he agrees to swap his role with her, from the ‘thin’ one to the ‘fat’ one! Thus begins a story of invitations…
Enjoy!]
Wayyy back in the summer of ____ I woke up, sat up in bed and scratched the back of my skull – and at that moment my life changed forever.
I have no idea what it was specifically – a dream I’d had and forgotten, the bashing my head had gotten the day before when going through an old cupboard, or even simply the strange stripped-away feeling of clarity that comes from awaking early. But I suddenly felt…empty.
It was hard to describe. I had the odd sensation of something having gotten into me and scraped me open from the inside out. I was like a rigid frame of skin, stumbling about at a slow, measured pace and hardly feeling anything I touched. And something – I couldn’t put my finger on what – but something very very simple was somewhere lurking that could help me out.
The morning went smoothly on, apart from that. Slide out of bed; realize it’s the weekend; crawl back in; sleep a few more hours; slide out again; feel the same way despite the extra sleep; begin tidying around the kitchen.
The Kitchen! Now it all came flooding back…
My poor ankles began to ache at the memory of the alcohol-inspired hustling and strutting around that smokehouse of a club I’d been dragged to by one of my so-called friends. By the looks of it, my initial reaction of sobering distaste hadn’t been snobbish. Truly, the people who frequented that dump were either losers or too drunk to notice how horrible it was, as I became. Pretty soon, I was hammered and giving in to primeval male impulses – desperate to impress a chick I wouldn’t have wanted to be seen dead next to ten minutes before.
Long story short – I ended up taking one of these girls who I could barely see in the drunken night-time haze on the short walk back home. Don’t think I’m an alcoholic – I’d probably only had so much to try and cope with being there and not deserting my friends – but I can become very suggestible when drunk.
What I became very suggestible to, on the other hand, was something odd. This mystery woman – one I could hardly recall the look of – must have only been a tad less drunk than I was. Instead of cruising after any romantic intent, or even just wanting to crash at my place, she offered to cook me dinner. Being drunk, it probably seemed a good idea – and now I realized that lining the stomach is a reliable method of avoiding a hangover – but it seems mighty strange, doesn’t it?
Even stranger: I knew this girl was drunk. I knew I was drunk. Certainly she shouldn’t have been handling dangerous utensils, let alone using them to prepare a meal for two. But what she made – a couple of omelettes made from my spare leftovers – was fantastic! It hit all the right spots, it had this sort of creamy, tangy, salty…the mere thought of it, the recollection had me drooling like a psychologist’s German shepherd. No doubt, the girl had talent.
As I looked over my oddly spotless kitchen, I recalled how we had eaten in a silence broken only by a couple of grunts and my compliments on her food – and then she’d thanked me politely for having her over, and left. A little too politely, an inner voice in me suddenly piped up, for someone that intoxicated. I gave a mental shrug and took it for granted. At least it was good. I wish I’d remembered her name…she sounded like someone I’d love to know as a friend.
And, as I stood there wondering this, the doorbell – a shrill, horrible rattle that I had meant to replace when I bought the apartment, but never got around to – clanged into the back of my head. Yikes…maybe my hangover wasn’t completely gotten rid of. I stumbled over to the doorway, calling out my apologies and more properly tying up my bathrobe, and clicked back the deadlock, throwing the white door – I’ve never been too cautious, even living in New York.
It was her. The girl from last night.
How do I describe her? Certainly, she looked completely different from the vague blur my brain had previously shoved in front of my recollected visions of last night. For one thing, she looked a far cry from the typical club-goer, dressed in an interesting pair of denim overalls, tight (but not too tight) leather jacket, boots; her mass of brown curly hair was tied up in a sort of exploded ponytail around the back of her head.
For another thing? She was a whole lot bigger. While before I had only guessed at how she could have become such a wonderful cook, now I was able to partially guess that practice had something to do with it. Her beautiful face – beaming and positive, with a complexion that accentuated the faint brown of her skin – was framed by a healthy wodge of chins, leading down to a rounded figure that may once have had a touch of hourglass in its origins. Her body seemed mostly composed of her ponderous bosom and belly, which stretched out all around and led the wandering eye to her lovely rear. Her limbs were just as thick as the rest of her, tapering out to big, supportive feet and sausage-like fingers. All in all, she looked to be from around 350-410 pounds of gorgeousness.
I was barely able to take the whole of this in as well as allowing my pained cranium to fill in the necessary holes RE: last night’s escapades, when she looked at me with a smile betraying nothing but sincerity. Well? she asked. Are You Or Aren’t You Letting Me In?
I wanted to say Gladly!, but instead I merely stammered nervously, grinned disarmingly and stepped back. She waddle-walked past me, her body moving in places that were not good for a young man to be focused on in the middle of the morning. She slid onto my small TV couch, taking up a large part of it. I followed after putting the kettle on quickly.
Well, she said as I seated myself on a chair in front of her, I Can’t Tell You How Embarrassed I Am, Mister…Mister – she suddenly put her head into a hand, giggling quietly. Man, I Must Have Been Hammered – I Can’t Even Remember Your Name! she laughed.
I smiled back, hoping to hide the feeling of bliss that came with that rippling laugh. Don't Worry, I'm Just As Guilty. I made the necessary introduction as I held out my hand for her to shake. She took it, smiling still but with a gentleness as if she was expecting it to explode if mishandled.
Bliss, she replied. Bliss Acuna. If You Want To Laugh, Please Do So And Get It Over With.
Not At All, It’s Wonderful. It Suits You.
Yeah…It’s Actually Just A Nickname That Stuck. My Real Name’s Supposed To Be Britney, But…Well…I’m Not The ‘Britney’ Type, You Know What I’m Sayin’? I nodded, quickly. Anyway…Back On Topic. I Am So, So Sorry For What I Did Last Night.
What?
She smirked. You Know.
I smiled back, shaking my head. Nope. No Clue Here. Was It… I raised my eyebrows, ’Compromising’?
That made her giggle, like a schoolgirl. I calmed my inner self down in time to hear her reply No, Nothing Of That Kind, Groucho. I Meant The Making You A Meal. I Mean, The Sheer Audacity…
But I was already feigning realization, and having had a large number of seemingly fruitless teenaged summers in acting class, did it quite convincingly. Ohhh…right! That! Oh,Yeah. Wow, How Could I Forget That?
She was still smiling, seeing through my façade, but with a tinge of hope. What, You Liked It? You Really Liked It?
I sat back. I Take It There’s A Reason You’re Named Bliss. And I Take It That My Tastebuds Managed To Deduce That Reason Last Night, Alcohol Or No Alcohol. You, My Friend, Have A Gift.
Gosh…You Really Think So?
Honey, I Know So! Man, If We Weren’t Just Strangers, I’d Want You To Move In And Cook For Me Every Day!
You Mean It? Really? She had a tiny spark dancing in her cool blue eyes.
Really Really.
There was a slight awkward pause as we gazed into each other’s eyes. A, dare I say it, meaningful pause.
…You Eaten Breakfast Yet? she asked. One look was all it took to deduce the answer. She got up, seemingly without difficulty, and I went to set up my table for two.
The rest of that day I spent in a sort of warm, fuzzy haze as I built upon the foundations of a solid friendship with the attractive Miss Bliss. We discovered mutual loves in all fields, from our art fascinations to our taste in music. We spent the day talking, walking around the city, doing this and that. For lunch, she took me to a restaurant that she apparently had complete control of.
It turned out that she had been cooking professionally since age thirteen, when her surprising gift had been snapped up by her Father – a cheerful Spanish cook who had emigrated to America seeking fame and fortune. Along the way, he found June Avery, who shared with him a wonderful marriage until her tragic death in childbirth. His restaurant – which, upon retiring, he had handed down to his ‘miraculous’ daughter – was famous across the city for its lovingly-prepared cuisine, made to keep up with the tastes of the day for food that both tasted wonderful and gave the eater no ethical/nutritional crises of faith.
Bliss was not only a cook – and a successful one at that, already planning for the opening of a chain of similar eateries within a few years – but an artist, continually concocting new and dangerous experiments every chance that she got, and testing the large majority of them on herself, just to be safe. You Sly Devil, my inward voice taunted as she told me. All That ‘You Really LIKE It?’ Routine, Just To Get Me Interested. She was an even more convincing actor than me. Scary.
This day of days finally spun to a close in the evening, when we sat together in her own spacious, beautifully-furnished living space and enjoyed a beautiful casserole – one which she guaranteed no-one on Earth, save for myself and her, had ever had the likes of – coupled with a fine wine that rolled across the tongue with a beautiful nobility.
So… I said, sitting across from her as she forked the last mouthful on her plate, …Answer Me One Question.
Mmp…What?
Last Night – What In The World Was A Girl As Rich And Beautiful As You Are Doing In A Place Like That?
That caught her off-guard. She shrugged, nervously, sending a ripple through her wonderful body, but I was still a tad intrigued. I mentally filed it away for later as I sipped the last of her wonderful wine.
Oh, Well…I mean, I Guess Sometimes You Get A Certain Itch, Right? An Itch To Go Somewhere, Somewhere Specific… She trailed away as I looked back at her, smiling.
I placed my wine coolly down, and strode down the length of the table towards her. I pulled up another chair, and took one of her hands in my own, trying to put as much earnest as I could into my voice.
This Morning…The Morning After We Met…I Felt As If Something Had Been Scraped Out Of Me And Tossed To The Wind.
This Is Wonderful Dinner Conversation, she smiled awkwardly.
Let Me Finish. This Morning, I Was So Empty…Until The Moment That You Came Back To Me. The Moment That You Came Into My Apartment. Bliss Acuna, You Are The Most Wonderful, Remarkable Woman I Have Ever Met.
Now her smile was confident, suave. Speech Aside…Your Point Is?
No more words. I placed my hand behind those beautiful golden-brown curls and pushed her forward. She lingered for a second, hovering in uncertainty, then we pushed forward and our lips met. Oh, the touch of those beautiful lips! It was like being connected to the very soul of a person, fused with their very essence into one being, composed of passion and desire.
And then…she pulled away.
I can’t tell you how that felt. The best metaphor would be to simply say that I was in Heaven, and then the lights were turned off. I stared, shell-shocked, as she held up her hands defensively, head down, eyes closed as if shamed.
Bliss… I’m Sorry…Was I Too –
NO! No, It’s Not You. I’m So Sorry, It Really Isn’t You, It’s Me. I Just…I Want To, But, But I…I’m So Sorry, I Shouldn’t Have – She suddenly got up. All the shy nervousness seemed to shrug off her shoulders like a loose cloak, and she had the aloof authority of a Warrior Queen. I Think You Have To Go Now.
But, But If You Want To Talk – I began, but she waved it away.
I’m Sorry, But No. I Don’t Want To Hurt You Or Get You Into Something You Don’t Want To Be In. I Shouldn’t Have Encouraged You… She looked back at me for a fraction of a second, and I was able to detect a slight dampness as she did. I’d Like To Be Alone Now.
Imperious, but still shaky with sadness, she strode to her own bedroom, leaving me sitting there, puzzled and more than a little sorrowful. What Did I Do? I kept thinking. What, What, WHAT DID I –
Suddenly, I clutched at my chest. The hollow feeling had returned, built up with a vengeance. I gasped as I pushed myself upwards, forcing movement into my limbs. It was like something was inside me now, something eating away at my muscles!
I staggered home, weary, distressed, and by now silently sobbing to myself; and having closed the door behind me, I took no pains in quickly making it to bed, clothes and all, and instantly falling asleep before I could feel even more sorry for myself.
(Continued in post 6 of this thread)
INVITATIONS
By Jimbob
[Author's Note: I’m trying to experiment here in creating a story that isn’t pinned down to a certain time, or even a certain person, one that the reader could almost picture themselves in.By Jimbob
Enjoy!]
Wayyy back in the summer of ____ I woke up, sat up in bed and scratched the back of my skull – and at that moment my life changed forever.
I have no idea what it was specifically – a dream I’d had and forgotten, the bashing my head had gotten the day before when going through an old cupboard, or even simply the strange stripped-away feeling of clarity that comes from awaking early. But I suddenly felt…empty.
It was hard to describe. I had the odd sensation of something having gotten into me and scraped me open from the inside out. I was like a rigid frame of skin, stumbling about at a slow, measured pace and hardly feeling anything I touched. And something – I couldn’t put my finger on what – but something very very simple was somewhere lurking that could help me out.
The morning went smoothly on, apart from that. Slide out of bed; realize it’s the weekend; crawl back in; sleep a few more hours; slide out again; feel the same way despite the extra sleep; begin tidying around the kitchen.
The Kitchen! Now it all came flooding back…
***
My poor ankles began to ache at the memory of the alcohol-inspired hustling and strutting around that smokehouse of a club I’d been dragged to by one of my so-called friends. By the looks of it, my initial reaction of sobering distaste hadn’t been snobbish. Truly, the people who frequented that dump were either losers or too drunk to notice how horrible it was, as I became. Pretty soon, I was hammered and giving in to primeval male impulses – desperate to impress a chick I wouldn’t have wanted to be seen dead next to ten minutes before.
Long story short – I ended up taking one of these girls who I could barely see in the drunken night-time haze on the short walk back home. Don’t think I’m an alcoholic – I’d probably only had so much to try and cope with being there and not deserting my friends – but I can become very suggestible when drunk.
What I became very suggestible to, on the other hand, was something odd. This mystery woman – one I could hardly recall the look of – must have only been a tad less drunk than I was. Instead of cruising after any romantic intent, or even just wanting to crash at my place, she offered to cook me dinner. Being drunk, it probably seemed a good idea – and now I realized that lining the stomach is a reliable method of avoiding a hangover – but it seems mighty strange, doesn’t it?
Even stranger: I knew this girl was drunk. I knew I was drunk. Certainly she shouldn’t have been handling dangerous utensils, let alone using them to prepare a meal for two. But what she made – a couple of omelettes made from my spare leftovers – was fantastic! It hit all the right spots, it had this sort of creamy, tangy, salty…the mere thought of it, the recollection had me drooling like a psychologist’s German shepherd. No doubt, the girl had talent.
As I looked over my oddly spotless kitchen, I recalled how we had eaten in a silence broken only by a couple of grunts and my compliments on her food – and then she’d thanked me politely for having her over, and left. A little too politely, an inner voice in me suddenly piped up, for someone that intoxicated. I gave a mental shrug and took it for granted. At least it was good. I wish I’d remembered her name…she sounded like someone I’d love to know as a friend.
And, as I stood there wondering this, the doorbell – a shrill, horrible rattle that I had meant to replace when I bought the apartment, but never got around to – clanged into the back of my head. Yikes…maybe my hangover wasn’t completely gotten rid of. I stumbled over to the doorway, calling out my apologies and more properly tying up my bathrobe, and clicked back the deadlock, throwing the white door – I’ve never been too cautious, even living in New York.
It was her. The girl from last night.
***
How do I describe her? Certainly, she looked completely different from the vague blur my brain had previously shoved in front of my recollected visions of last night. For one thing, she looked a far cry from the typical club-goer, dressed in an interesting pair of denim overalls, tight (but not too tight) leather jacket, boots; her mass of brown curly hair was tied up in a sort of exploded ponytail around the back of her head.
For another thing? She was a whole lot bigger. While before I had only guessed at how she could have become such a wonderful cook, now I was able to partially guess that practice had something to do with it. Her beautiful face – beaming and positive, with a complexion that accentuated the faint brown of her skin – was framed by a healthy wodge of chins, leading down to a rounded figure that may once have had a touch of hourglass in its origins. Her body seemed mostly composed of her ponderous bosom and belly, which stretched out all around and led the wandering eye to her lovely rear. Her limbs were just as thick as the rest of her, tapering out to big, supportive feet and sausage-like fingers. All in all, she looked to be from around 350-410 pounds of gorgeousness.
I was barely able to take the whole of this in as well as allowing my pained cranium to fill in the necessary holes RE: last night’s escapades, when she looked at me with a smile betraying nothing but sincerity. Well? she asked. Are You Or Aren’t You Letting Me In?
I wanted to say Gladly!, but instead I merely stammered nervously, grinned disarmingly and stepped back. She waddle-walked past me, her body moving in places that were not good for a young man to be focused on in the middle of the morning. She slid onto my small TV couch, taking up a large part of it. I followed after putting the kettle on quickly.
Well, she said as I seated myself on a chair in front of her, I Can’t Tell You How Embarrassed I Am, Mister…Mister – she suddenly put her head into a hand, giggling quietly. Man, I Must Have Been Hammered – I Can’t Even Remember Your Name! she laughed.
I smiled back, hoping to hide the feeling of bliss that came with that rippling laugh. Don't Worry, I'm Just As Guilty. I made the necessary introduction as I held out my hand for her to shake. She took it, smiling still but with a gentleness as if she was expecting it to explode if mishandled.
Bliss, she replied. Bliss Acuna. If You Want To Laugh, Please Do So And Get It Over With.
Not At All, It’s Wonderful. It Suits You.
Yeah…It’s Actually Just A Nickname That Stuck. My Real Name’s Supposed To Be Britney, But…Well…I’m Not The ‘Britney’ Type, You Know What I’m Sayin’? I nodded, quickly. Anyway…Back On Topic. I Am So, So Sorry For What I Did Last Night.
What?
She smirked. You Know.
I smiled back, shaking my head. Nope. No Clue Here. Was It… I raised my eyebrows, ’Compromising’?
That made her giggle, like a schoolgirl. I calmed my inner self down in time to hear her reply No, Nothing Of That Kind, Groucho. I Meant The Making You A Meal. I Mean, The Sheer Audacity…
But I was already feigning realization, and having had a large number of seemingly fruitless teenaged summers in acting class, did it quite convincingly. Ohhh…right! That! Oh,Yeah. Wow, How Could I Forget That?
She was still smiling, seeing through my façade, but with a tinge of hope. What, You Liked It? You Really Liked It?
I sat back. I Take It There’s A Reason You’re Named Bliss. And I Take It That My Tastebuds Managed To Deduce That Reason Last Night, Alcohol Or No Alcohol. You, My Friend, Have A Gift.
Gosh…You Really Think So?
Honey, I Know So! Man, If We Weren’t Just Strangers, I’d Want You To Move In And Cook For Me Every Day!
You Mean It? Really? She had a tiny spark dancing in her cool blue eyes.
Really Really.
There was a slight awkward pause as we gazed into each other’s eyes. A, dare I say it, meaningful pause.
…You Eaten Breakfast Yet? she asked. One look was all it took to deduce the answer. She got up, seemingly without difficulty, and I went to set up my table for two.
***
The rest of that day I spent in a sort of warm, fuzzy haze as I built upon the foundations of a solid friendship with the attractive Miss Bliss. We discovered mutual loves in all fields, from our art fascinations to our taste in music. We spent the day talking, walking around the city, doing this and that. For lunch, she took me to a restaurant that she apparently had complete control of.
It turned out that she had been cooking professionally since age thirteen, when her surprising gift had been snapped up by her Father – a cheerful Spanish cook who had emigrated to America seeking fame and fortune. Along the way, he found June Avery, who shared with him a wonderful marriage until her tragic death in childbirth. His restaurant – which, upon retiring, he had handed down to his ‘miraculous’ daughter – was famous across the city for its lovingly-prepared cuisine, made to keep up with the tastes of the day for food that both tasted wonderful and gave the eater no ethical/nutritional crises of faith.
Bliss was not only a cook – and a successful one at that, already planning for the opening of a chain of similar eateries within a few years – but an artist, continually concocting new and dangerous experiments every chance that she got, and testing the large majority of them on herself, just to be safe. You Sly Devil, my inward voice taunted as she told me. All That ‘You Really LIKE It?’ Routine, Just To Get Me Interested. She was an even more convincing actor than me. Scary.
***
This day of days finally spun to a close in the evening, when we sat together in her own spacious, beautifully-furnished living space and enjoyed a beautiful casserole – one which she guaranteed no-one on Earth, save for myself and her, had ever had the likes of – coupled with a fine wine that rolled across the tongue with a beautiful nobility.
So… I said, sitting across from her as she forked the last mouthful on her plate, …Answer Me One Question.
Mmp…What?
Last Night – What In The World Was A Girl As Rich And Beautiful As You Are Doing In A Place Like That?
That caught her off-guard. She shrugged, nervously, sending a ripple through her wonderful body, but I was still a tad intrigued. I mentally filed it away for later as I sipped the last of her wonderful wine.
Oh, Well…I mean, I Guess Sometimes You Get A Certain Itch, Right? An Itch To Go Somewhere, Somewhere Specific… She trailed away as I looked back at her, smiling.
I placed my wine coolly down, and strode down the length of the table towards her. I pulled up another chair, and took one of her hands in my own, trying to put as much earnest as I could into my voice.
This Morning…The Morning After We Met…I Felt As If Something Had Been Scraped Out Of Me And Tossed To The Wind.
This Is Wonderful Dinner Conversation, she smiled awkwardly.
Let Me Finish. This Morning, I Was So Empty…Until The Moment That You Came Back To Me. The Moment That You Came Into My Apartment. Bliss Acuna, You Are The Most Wonderful, Remarkable Woman I Have Ever Met.
Now her smile was confident, suave. Speech Aside…Your Point Is?
No more words. I placed my hand behind those beautiful golden-brown curls and pushed her forward. She lingered for a second, hovering in uncertainty, then we pushed forward and our lips met. Oh, the touch of those beautiful lips! It was like being connected to the very soul of a person, fused with their very essence into one being, composed of passion and desire.
And then…she pulled away.
I can’t tell you how that felt. The best metaphor would be to simply say that I was in Heaven, and then the lights were turned off. I stared, shell-shocked, as she held up her hands defensively, head down, eyes closed as if shamed.
Bliss… I’m Sorry…Was I Too –
NO! No, It’s Not You. I’m So Sorry, It Really Isn’t You, It’s Me. I Just…I Want To, But, But I…I’m So Sorry, I Shouldn’t Have – She suddenly got up. All the shy nervousness seemed to shrug off her shoulders like a loose cloak, and she had the aloof authority of a Warrior Queen. I Think You Have To Go Now.
But, But If You Want To Talk – I began, but she waved it away.
I’m Sorry, But No. I Don’t Want To Hurt You Or Get You Into Something You Don’t Want To Be In. I Shouldn’t Have Encouraged You… She looked back at me for a fraction of a second, and I was able to detect a slight dampness as she did. I’d Like To Be Alone Now.
Imperious, but still shaky with sadness, she strode to her own bedroom, leaving me sitting there, puzzled and more than a little sorrowful. What Did I Do? I kept thinking. What, What, WHAT DID I –
Suddenly, I clutched at my chest. The hollow feeling had returned, built up with a vengeance. I gasped as I pushed myself upwards, forcing movement into my limbs. It was like something was inside me now, something eating away at my muscles!
I staggered home, weary, distressed, and by now silently sobbing to myself; and having closed the door behind me, I took no pains in quickly making it to bed, clothes and all, and instantly falling asleep before I could feel even more sorry for myself.
(Continued in post 6 of this thread)
