Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, Stuffing, Pregnancy, ~SWG - A man keeps pace with his wife's pregnant - and expanding - belly.
[Author's note: Hi. This installment has been knocking around in my draft file for quite some time, so I decided "now that I've blown the dust off I'lll post it.]
“I’m just saying I don’t want to have the only big belly in the house,” Anne Foster said.
Jamie Foster took another swallow of coffee with cream (or cream with coffee). “Your belly’s not only not ...”
He psaused and tried again. “You don’t have a big belly.”
It was true. His wife of six months had a lovely hourglass figure.
“I won’t nine months from now,” Anne said with a pout. Her eyes clouded.
Jamie managed not to roll his eyes. Why couldn’t she just speak English instead of Woman?
“Look,” he said. He made a come-here gesture and she did, resting her hands on his love handles. Since the wedding, Jamie had put on twenty pounds, a third of it on their Italian honeymoon.
“Even pregnant, you still have a smaller tummy,” he pointed out.
“Now I do, yeah. But ...” she absently traced a finger down his chest and along his visibly rounded midriff.
“Ooh,” she said, with an involuntary shiver. “Oh. Mm. Ooh. Don’t.”
Through the thin cloth of her dressing gown Jamie could see her nipples stiffen to attention. “Don’t, I’ll be late for work.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Jamie said teasingly. He cupped her chin and lifted her face to his. “Just tell me what you want. Finish this sentence: I wish...”
Anne bit her lip.
“I wish,” she repeated.
She sighed.
Spit it out, Jamie thought.
“I wish,” Anne said again, “I wish that your waistline would always be bigger than mine.”
Jamie grinned, the smile lines curving around his mouth and eyes. “It is, pumpkin.”
“Always,” Anne repeated. “Even when...” she backed up and pantomimed a nine-months’ belly.
“Ohh,” Jamie said slowly.
“Hmm.” He pursed his lips, trying to keep her in suspense, but she was already grinning.
“I’m going to need some help on this one,” Jamie said playfully.
“And,” Anne said, “let’s be sure to visit your mother often.”
Jamie’s snort of laughter echoed down the hall as he headed to the bedroom to dress. Anne’s work as an advertising executive paid more than Jamie’s work at a nonprofit, and she kept her growing guy well dressed.
That night, Jamie found a message on the answering machine. “Don’t make dinner; we’re getting takeout.”
We? Jamie thought.
Anne’s voice continued.
“The bump and me,” she said.
An hour later, Anne came in the door, dropped the bags and made a beeline for the bathroom.
“I thought that came later,” Jamie called.
“Later is pressure,” Anne called back. “Now is hormones.”
Sorry I asked, Jamie thought, but dutifully unloaded foil dishes of Italian food: Spaghetti, ravioli, tortellini, a whole loaf of garlic bread, and a box full of cannoli.
“Someone’s hungry,” Jamie teased as Anne came back into the kitchen.
“Just remember what you agreed to this morning.”
“Oh, boy,” Jamie said. “Hey. How big is your waist?”
Anne giggled and dug out the measuring tape. “Twenty-seven inches. For now,” she added, patting her still-modest belly. “Now you.” She drew the tape around Jamie’s thickening waistline, fiddled, hummed, and announced, “Thirty-eight.”
“So I’ve got a head start.”
“Not for long,” Anne challenged. She heaped a plate and handed it to him.
Jamie was hungry and emptied the plate quickly ... too quickly, he thought, as a belch surprised him. Anne, too, was eating like a stray dog. “Hormones,” she mumbled through a mouthful of ravioli. Between them, they ate every crumb, and Jamie honestly couldn’t tell who had eaten more, although he probably came out on top. He grunted with effort as he pushed himself up and plodded to the recliner, resting his hands on his swollen and aching belly and fighting sleep to watch the news.
He had eaten a really astonishing amount and now that he had stopped, he was feeling the effects. His grumbling and engorged gut was blocking his view, not to mention his feet, and pressed heavily, feeling taut and sore. He knew not to press down on the distended belly, since that would hurt, but instead lay still, waiting for the pull and warm heaviness to gradually ease. He had unbuttoned his pants, but the full tightness of his tummy pulled at his sides and offered scant relief. After a time, he began to gently massage his bloated gut, occasionally groaning at the relief it afforded his aching stomach. Gradually he drifted imperceptibly into a food-dazed doze.
The first trimester passed quickly, and Anne was luckily spared morning sickness, facing only tiredness and a number of trips to the ladies’ room. Her actual weight didn’t go up by much, but her belly started to poke out, and it wasn’t long before Jamie found himself falling behind. He stepped up his intake. Each evening found him groaning with fullness, staggering to the recliner and massaging his bulging and heavily sore belly, reveling in the dopey satiation he’d induced and the taut distention of his gut. Anne’s “bump” turned out to be twins, which explained why her belly was becoming so distended, and Jamie wondered what he’d let himself in for.
“Just wait,” Anne said. “You’re going to be huge.”
“Just waist,” Jamie corrected, making her giggle again.
They were on their way home from a visit to his mother’s. She’d pointedly not offered them dessert, only coffee, and conversation was strained, with Jamie’s mother trying to be subtle about the hints she dropped about weight gain. In her day, moms to be were told to gain no more than fifteen pounds; moreover, at the wedding reception she’d told Jamie, “Don’t let marriage make you fat.”
Jamie and Anne worked out what to do with that comment on the honeymoon.
In the second trimester the “bump” roared ahead, swelling Anne’s tummy visibly. By the halfway mark, Anne had shot up to an impressive forty-two inches and by the fifth month, Anne and the bumps (“Sounds like you should be on the bill with Gladys and the Pips,” Jamie would joke) clocked in at forty-nine inches, while Jamie had slowed to forty-three and a half.
“I don’t know where it’s all going,” Jamie groused. He paused to stretch and his shirt rode up, revealing a full belly swollen with dinner. He had eaten two footlong sub sandwiches and a heap of chips, and downed a quart of iced tea. Anne shrugged, then smiled the way that made his knees go weak, gazing at him while he massaged her feet.
“You’ll just have to eat more,” Anne said, “and more often.”
Jamie stopped massaging and shlumped closer to her on the sofa. She rested a hand on her gravid and roundly sagging belly and one on his, distended and firm, heavily full of takeout. He groaned as she poked his distended gut, finding no give. “Eat early and often,” she teased, poking his aching stomach some more.
So he did. He took to getting up early and getting a fast-food breakfast en route to work to supplement the breakfast he’d had at home. He was becoming friendly with the office vending machine during the day, and bringing home higher-end takeout in the evenings. He would routinely order two meals for him and one for Anne, and always a couple of desserts. Usually her stomach wouldn’t take the richness and he would eat both, the sweet treats sliding into a belly full of two large meals and sometimes part of hers.
Anne started making ridiculously big lunches for him; he would start unpacking the bag and wonder if it would ever be emptied, finding two or three sandwiches, a big fruit salad, a dozen peanut butter crackers, and a bag of cookies. He would chow it all down while draining a 20-ounce pop, then unbutton his pants and wish he could take a nap. He was getting used to feeling full and sleepy all the time, a little dazed, but if his performance at work was a trifle subpar, understanding co-workers put it down to impending fatherhood ... like his belly.
“Eating for two,” someone would say, and someone else would correct, “Eating for three. Twins, remember?”
Jamie thought, looking at Anne, that she couldn’t possibly grow any more. She was short, and all that pregnant-with-twins belly went straight out in front. But she surged again at the end of the second trimester, going in a week’s time to fifty-three inches. Jamie, despite his unflagging efforts, had only made it to forty-six. “You promised, remember?”
“Didn’t know it was going to be twins,” Jamie grumbled, but then he came over and kissed the back of Anne’s neck. “Help me?”
“Okay.” Her mood over, Anne began laying out dinner. She ate a little, but then began feeding Jamie while he fed himself, so that two big mouthfuls went in with every bite. Jamie ate and ate, feeling his belly stretching, his shirt shrinking. He paused to undo his pants, which had been loose that morning. He obediently plowed through three containers of rice, a quart of sesame chicken, a quart of lo mein, but was slowing down when Anne dished out egg drop soup.
“Come on,” she urged. “Nice and easy.”
Jamie leaned back as far as the kitchen chair allowed, easing the pressure of his overly full and aching belly. His sides pulled and stretched, and he could both hear and feel his stomach groaning and stretching, testing its enlarged capacity. He was already sated and dazed, pleased with the swell of his enormously protruding gut. He gently pressed a hand to it and coaxed up a belch.
“Okay,” he grunted. Anne lifted the bowl to his mouth and he drank, swallowing steadily, chugging it all down.
“Ohhhh.” The groan escaped him. His lips stung, his throat was warm, and his bloated and engorged midsection seemed to be throbbing. His shirt had ridden up, and he could feel a faint draft on his warmly heavy gut. Anne awkwardly got herself up and balanced, then helped Jamie to his feet. Ponderously he waddled to the recliner and hauled himself into it, grunting with every ripple and slosh of his sore belly. He drifted off despite his discomfort, and when he awoke managed to shovel down most of the tiramisu Anne served him.
In the morning, the tape measure showed forty-eight, a two-inch gain overnight. Jamie rolled his eyes. He was going to be not just full but stuffed to bursting for the last twelve weeks, he could tell.
Sure enough. Every time he turned around Anne was shoving food into his mouth, or he was plowing through another one of those bag lunches that held enough food for a village. He found himself falling asleep even while upright, just a ten-minute nap, briefly succumbing to satiation. Luckily, Anne’s massive girth was slowing its rate of increase a little, and the mountainous meals that Jamie was packing in began to show in his steadily thickening waistline. His waist grew to fifty-four inches, and he was unquestionably the Office Fat Guy. The teasing had tapered off as the novelty tapered off and colleagues became more accustomed to Jamie’s steadily protruding paunch, thickening double chin, broadening backside, and softer chest.
Anne was at thirty-six weeks and fifty-seven inches when she went into labor. Jamie cheered her through the delivery, though he had to sit and rest his back some of the time. The doctor referred to him as “Big Guy,” probably not remembering his name. Owen and Mary were born just two minutes apart, healthy and whole, four pounds eight ounces and three pounds eleven respectively. Anne, nursing almost around the clock, or so she claimed, shed her pregnancy weight quickly and exercise tightened her belly. By the time the twins were able to roll over, her waist was at thirty inches.
Jamie's was at fifty-eight.
Link to the next in the Jamie's Tummy series here
[Author's note: Hi. This installment has been knocking around in my draft file for quite some time, so I decided "now that I've blown the dust off I'lll post it.]
Jamie's Tummy for Two (or More)
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
“I’m just saying I don’t want to have the only big belly in the house,” Anne Foster said.
Jamie Foster took another swallow of coffee with cream (or cream with coffee). “Your belly’s not only not ...”
He psaused and tried again. “You don’t have a big belly.”
It was true. His wife of six months had a lovely hourglass figure.
“I won’t nine months from now,” Anne said with a pout. Her eyes clouded.
Jamie managed not to roll his eyes. Why couldn’t she just speak English instead of Woman?
“Look,” he said. He made a come-here gesture and she did, resting her hands on his love handles. Since the wedding, Jamie had put on twenty pounds, a third of it on their Italian honeymoon.
“Even pregnant, you still have a smaller tummy,” he pointed out.
“Now I do, yeah. But ...” she absently traced a finger down his chest and along his visibly rounded midriff.
“Ooh,” she said, with an involuntary shiver. “Oh. Mm. Ooh. Don’t.”
Through the thin cloth of her dressing gown Jamie could see her nipples stiffen to attention. “Don’t, I’ll be late for work.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Jamie said teasingly. He cupped her chin and lifted her face to his. “Just tell me what you want. Finish this sentence: I wish...”
Anne bit her lip.
“I wish,” she repeated.
She sighed.
Spit it out, Jamie thought.
“I wish,” Anne said again, “I wish that your waistline would always be bigger than mine.”
Jamie grinned, the smile lines curving around his mouth and eyes. “It is, pumpkin.”
“Always,” Anne repeated. “Even when...” she backed up and pantomimed a nine-months’ belly.
“Ohh,” Jamie said slowly.
“Hmm.” He pursed his lips, trying to keep her in suspense, but she was already grinning.
“I’m going to need some help on this one,” Jamie said playfully.
“And,” Anne said, “let’s be sure to visit your mother often.”
Jamie’s snort of laughter echoed down the hall as he headed to the bedroom to dress. Anne’s work as an advertising executive paid more than Jamie’s work at a nonprofit, and she kept her growing guy well dressed.
That night, Jamie found a message on the answering machine. “Don’t make dinner; we’re getting takeout.”
We? Jamie thought.
Anne’s voice continued.
“The bump and me,” she said.
An hour later, Anne came in the door, dropped the bags and made a beeline for the bathroom.
“I thought that came later,” Jamie called.
“Later is pressure,” Anne called back. “Now is hormones.”
Sorry I asked, Jamie thought, but dutifully unloaded foil dishes of Italian food: Spaghetti, ravioli, tortellini, a whole loaf of garlic bread, and a box full of cannoli.
“Someone’s hungry,” Jamie teased as Anne came back into the kitchen.
“Just remember what you agreed to this morning.”
“Oh, boy,” Jamie said. “Hey. How big is your waist?”
Anne giggled and dug out the measuring tape. “Twenty-seven inches. For now,” she added, patting her still-modest belly. “Now you.” She drew the tape around Jamie’s thickening waistline, fiddled, hummed, and announced, “Thirty-eight.”
“So I’ve got a head start.”
“Not for long,” Anne challenged. She heaped a plate and handed it to him.
Jamie was hungry and emptied the plate quickly ... too quickly, he thought, as a belch surprised him. Anne, too, was eating like a stray dog. “Hormones,” she mumbled through a mouthful of ravioli. Between them, they ate every crumb, and Jamie honestly couldn’t tell who had eaten more, although he probably came out on top. He grunted with effort as he pushed himself up and plodded to the recliner, resting his hands on his swollen and aching belly and fighting sleep to watch the news.
He had eaten a really astonishing amount and now that he had stopped, he was feeling the effects. His grumbling and engorged gut was blocking his view, not to mention his feet, and pressed heavily, feeling taut and sore. He knew not to press down on the distended belly, since that would hurt, but instead lay still, waiting for the pull and warm heaviness to gradually ease. He had unbuttoned his pants, but the full tightness of his tummy pulled at his sides and offered scant relief. After a time, he began to gently massage his bloated gut, occasionally groaning at the relief it afforded his aching stomach. Gradually he drifted imperceptibly into a food-dazed doze.
The first trimester passed quickly, and Anne was luckily spared morning sickness, facing only tiredness and a number of trips to the ladies’ room. Her actual weight didn’t go up by much, but her belly started to poke out, and it wasn’t long before Jamie found himself falling behind. He stepped up his intake. Each evening found him groaning with fullness, staggering to the recliner and massaging his bulging and heavily sore belly, reveling in the dopey satiation he’d induced and the taut distention of his gut. Anne’s “bump” turned out to be twins, which explained why her belly was becoming so distended, and Jamie wondered what he’d let himself in for.
“Just wait,” Anne said. “You’re going to be huge.”
“Just waist,” Jamie corrected, making her giggle again.
They were on their way home from a visit to his mother’s. She’d pointedly not offered them dessert, only coffee, and conversation was strained, with Jamie’s mother trying to be subtle about the hints she dropped about weight gain. In her day, moms to be were told to gain no more than fifteen pounds; moreover, at the wedding reception she’d told Jamie, “Don’t let marriage make you fat.”
Jamie and Anne worked out what to do with that comment on the honeymoon.
In the second trimester the “bump” roared ahead, swelling Anne’s tummy visibly. By the halfway mark, Anne had shot up to an impressive forty-two inches and by the fifth month, Anne and the bumps (“Sounds like you should be on the bill with Gladys and the Pips,” Jamie would joke) clocked in at forty-nine inches, while Jamie had slowed to forty-three and a half.
“I don’t know where it’s all going,” Jamie groused. He paused to stretch and his shirt rode up, revealing a full belly swollen with dinner. He had eaten two footlong sub sandwiches and a heap of chips, and downed a quart of iced tea. Anne shrugged, then smiled the way that made his knees go weak, gazing at him while he massaged her feet.
“You’ll just have to eat more,” Anne said, “and more often.”
Jamie stopped massaging and shlumped closer to her on the sofa. She rested a hand on her gravid and roundly sagging belly and one on his, distended and firm, heavily full of takeout. He groaned as she poked his distended gut, finding no give. “Eat early and often,” she teased, poking his aching stomach some more.
So he did. He took to getting up early and getting a fast-food breakfast en route to work to supplement the breakfast he’d had at home. He was becoming friendly with the office vending machine during the day, and bringing home higher-end takeout in the evenings. He would routinely order two meals for him and one for Anne, and always a couple of desserts. Usually her stomach wouldn’t take the richness and he would eat both, the sweet treats sliding into a belly full of two large meals and sometimes part of hers.
Anne started making ridiculously big lunches for him; he would start unpacking the bag and wonder if it would ever be emptied, finding two or three sandwiches, a big fruit salad, a dozen peanut butter crackers, and a bag of cookies. He would chow it all down while draining a 20-ounce pop, then unbutton his pants and wish he could take a nap. He was getting used to feeling full and sleepy all the time, a little dazed, but if his performance at work was a trifle subpar, understanding co-workers put it down to impending fatherhood ... like his belly.
“Eating for two,” someone would say, and someone else would correct, “Eating for three. Twins, remember?”
Jamie thought, looking at Anne, that she couldn’t possibly grow any more. She was short, and all that pregnant-with-twins belly went straight out in front. But she surged again at the end of the second trimester, going in a week’s time to fifty-three inches. Jamie, despite his unflagging efforts, had only made it to forty-six. “You promised, remember?”
“Didn’t know it was going to be twins,” Jamie grumbled, but then he came over and kissed the back of Anne’s neck. “Help me?”
“Okay.” Her mood over, Anne began laying out dinner. She ate a little, but then began feeding Jamie while he fed himself, so that two big mouthfuls went in with every bite. Jamie ate and ate, feeling his belly stretching, his shirt shrinking. He paused to undo his pants, which had been loose that morning. He obediently plowed through three containers of rice, a quart of sesame chicken, a quart of lo mein, but was slowing down when Anne dished out egg drop soup.
“Come on,” she urged. “Nice and easy.”
Jamie leaned back as far as the kitchen chair allowed, easing the pressure of his overly full and aching belly. His sides pulled and stretched, and he could both hear and feel his stomach groaning and stretching, testing its enlarged capacity. He was already sated and dazed, pleased with the swell of his enormously protruding gut. He gently pressed a hand to it and coaxed up a belch.
“Okay,” he grunted. Anne lifted the bowl to his mouth and he drank, swallowing steadily, chugging it all down.
“Ohhhh.” The groan escaped him. His lips stung, his throat was warm, and his bloated and engorged midsection seemed to be throbbing. His shirt had ridden up, and he could feel a faint draft on his warmly heavy gut. Anne awkwardly got herself up and balanced, then helped Jamie to his feet. Ponderously he waddled to the recliner and hauled himself into it, grunting with every ripple and slosh of his sore belly. He drifted off despite his discomfort, and when he awoke managed to shovel down most of the tiramisu Anne served him.
In the morning, the tape measure showed forty-eight, a two-inch gain overnight. Jamie rolled his eyes. He was going to be not just full but stuffed to bursting for the last twelve weeks, he could tell.
Sure enough. Every time he turned around Anne was shoving food into his mouth, or he was plowing through another one of those bag lunches that held enough food for a village. He found himself falling asleep even while upright, just a ten-minute nap, briefly succumbing to satiation. Luckily, Anne’s massive girth was slowing its rate of increase a little, and the mountainous meals that Jamie was packing in began to show in his steadily thickening waistline. His waist grew to fifty-four inches, and he was unquestionably the Office Fat Guy. The teasing had tapered off as the novelty tapered off and colleagues became more accustomed to Jamie’s steadily protruding paunch, thickening double chin, broadening backside, and softer chest.
Anne was at thirty-six weeks and fifty-seven inches when she went into labor. Jamie cheered her through the delivery, though he had to sit and rest his back some of the time. The doctor referred to him as “Big Guy,” probably not remembering his name. Owen and Mary were born just two minutes apart, healthy and whole, four pounds eight ounces and three pounds eleven respectively. Anne, nursing almost around the clock, or so she claimed, shed her pregnancy weight quickly and exercise tightened her belly. By the time the twins were able to roll over, her waist was at thirty inches.
Jamie's was at fifty-eight.
Link to the next in the Jamie's Tummy series here
