Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
(BHM, Eating, Romance, Stuffing, ~SWG) - A new bride exerts creative control over her husband's belly
Jamie Foster stretched and yawned, feeling the sun striping through the windows, warming his skin. Blinking awake, he turned languidly in the bed and ran a hand through the tumble of his new wifes hair.
Good morning, Mrs. Foster, he mumbled.
Anne Moody, who had been Mrs. Foster for some 22 hours, smiled with her eyes closed. Mmm.
Lets hear it for jet lag, Jamie said dryly. He tossed the covers back and, groaning, got out of bed and padded across the hotel room, opened the French doors, and stepped out onto the balcony. Below, light midday traffic hummed along the narrow street. Murmurs and bellows in musical Italian drifted up.
Anne came out and leaned into him, sliding an arm around his waist.
Hungry?
Starved. Jamies tummy obligingly growled, making them laugh.
Lets go. Ursula told me about this restaurant she said we had to try.
Waking as they walked, the newlyweds strolled through the neighborhood to the center of town, where they caught a taxi. A hair-raising ride ensued, but somehow they made it to the restaurant intact.
They were seated, and Anne, who spoke Italian, ordered wine for them immediately.
I need it after that cab ride, Jamie grumbled. Italians seem to think traffic lights are suggestions.
Anne laughed, her eyes lighting up. Jamie reached across the table and took her hand.
They placed their order, then drank the wine.
Ahem, Anne said.
Uh-oh.
Time to talk about it.
Do we have to?
Yeah, we really do.
My mother, Jamie groaned. Jamies mother might have been well-intended, but no scissors were ever going to touch her apron strings. She did her very best to make sure that both her sons were mamas boys, and though they were both fully grown, insisted that their rightful place was by her side as often as possible.
Anne, however, was no dummy. Think, sweetie, she said. What did your mom say to you at the wedding?
Jamie frowned. She said a lot of things.
What did she say while we were eating the cake?
Oh, that, Jamie said. What his mother had said was, Dont let marriage make you fat, dear. What a thing to say at your own sons wedding!"
So Anne said.
So
So if you let marriage make you fat, what can she do about it?
Nothing, Jamie said slowly.
Thats right. Nothing. And what is Italy famous for?
Food, Jamie said, catching on.
Weve got two weeks, lover, Anne said.
Bring it on, Jamie challenged.
Just then, the antipasto arrived, a huge platter that practically covered the entire table. Anne scooted her chair around and snuggled up against her new husband.
Here, she said, reaching for her wineglass. You drink mine too.
Jamie, who didnt speak Italian, thought that the antipasto might be the whole meal and dived in. As he steadily emptied the platter, he felt his stomach becoming pleasantly full. The antipasto was replaced by a huge shallow bowl of minestrone. Anne tucked Jamies napkin into his collar.
The soup was warm and mildly spicy, and so tasty that every swallow made Jamie want another one. The soup vanished into his stomach before he knew it. His midriff began to feel tight, pushing against his belt. After the soup came fish. No, not just fish a whole fish, on a bed of saffron rice.
Jamie steadily ate, savoring the symphony of flavors. His belly was starting to bulge, pushing insistently against his belt. Jamie shifted uncomfortably in his chair, beginning to feel rather stuffed. His midsection swelled with each breath, making the waistband of his pants slice and pinch. Pausing to drain his wineglass, Jamie let out his belt a notch and stifled a belch.
The fish plate, containing nothing now but bones, vanished, to be replaced by a deep bowl of pasta. From the first bite Jamie was hooked. This was nothing like Muellers brand spaghetti-from-a-box. These noodles were as homemade as you could get, carefully rolled out and sliced by hand, and the sauce wow! Like tomatoes exploding in the mouth, fresh from the vines. Jamie inhaled deeply, savoring the smell.
Inhaling deeply, however, seemed to have been a mistake, as it reminded him that his gut was running out of room. His abdomen was compressed between his ribcage and his waistband, clearly a mistake on natures part, and it was getting awfully packed. He let out his belt another notch. That pasta was so delicious, full or not he had to have it all.
Slowly, dreamily, he gorged on forkful after forkful. His tummy swelled with each bite. Anne laid a hand on it, her eyes widening at how distended his midriff had become. She herself had eaten only sparingly from his plates.
Jamie felt himself slowing down. He drew breath and belched sharply.
Overfilled the tank, he said apologetically.
Anne handed him his wineglass, which had magically been refilled.
Take your time, she said. Just relax. Meals here arent meant to be rushed.
Jamie sipped his wine, relaxing as Anne gently and steadily massaged his bloated and aching belly. Whoo. That was better.
Given a momentary pause, his stomach gurgled and churned. Jamie belched again.
Pardon me, he mumbled.
Anne patted Jamies distended abdomen.
Let it out, she urged.
Jamie felt better as he returned to the pasta. Holy cow, was it good. Even as he felt his stomach being stretched to capacity, he savored every bite. He could almost feel his aching belly swelling as he ate. No matter. Nothing mattered but this delicious food, his wife his wife! stroking his thigh and bloated gut, the wine, Italy, everything.
After the pasta came homemade Italian ice, a refreshing palate cleanser. It slid cool and smooth down Jamies throat and into his swollen stomach, gently bathing his overloaded gut and preparing him for what lay ahead. Which turned out to be not Italian but Viennese, the famous Sacher torte. Seven layers of sinfully rich, dark chocolate cake layered with apricot jam.
By now Jamies stomach was filled beyond capacity and he was so full he was puffing. The moist dark sweetness filled his mouth and slid painlessly down his throat into his aching belly, tautly distended, straining the seams of his shirt.
He fumbled for his belt. Where was it? His midriff protruded so far over his waistband that it took some searching. Finally he found it and discovered that he had already let it out to the last hole. Giving up, he undid it altogether and unbuttoned his pants for good measure not without a grunt of effort.
Jamies tummy was stretched so full he thought he might burst with every bite. His stomach, aching and distended, swelled tautly outward, his shirt riding up, unable to cover the acreage any further. Anne began massaging his bloated gut, gently, gently, rhythmically, handing him his wine. Jamie belched, then belched again. He began to recover. Oh, was he full, though.
The final course appeared, a fruit and cheese tray. Anne began to feed Jamie. Strawberry, a sharp tangy cheese, pear, a mild dry cheese, a swallow of wine, a bite of sponge cake, on and on and on. Jamie was dazed, stupefied, stoned on food. His stomach was in another universe, beyond imagining, beyond description.
He was only dimly aware of Anne helping him to his feet. He waddled clumsily out onto the square, his overloaded gut slopping and sloshing with every step. Anne stopped and gazed at it, running her hand down it with something like awe. She pushed his shirt the rest of the way up so she could admire it better. In the afternoon sun, it gleamed like a work of art, a taut dome, smooth and perfectly round, bulging hugely with good Italian food.
Anne pressed a fingertip to it here here here there was no give anywhere. That bloated midriff was hard as a rock. Jamie tried to speak and hiccupped instead, short of breath.
Well (hic!) that ought to (hic!), ought to show Mom, he managed.
Anne smiled like a cat. It will drive her crazy to find out theres something in your life she doesnt have any control over.
Jamie blinked, lengthening his gaze to focus on a church across the square. What (hic!) ex actly is that?
Anne, deliberately misunderstanding, laid a hand on the magnificent sculpture. Jamies tummy.
Jamie's Tummy on Honeymoon
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
The Third installment in the Jamie's Tummy series
Click here for the prior installment
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
The Third installment in the Jamie's Tummy series
Click here for the prior installment
Jamie Foster stretched and yawned, feeling the sun striping through the windows, warming his skin. Blinking awake, he turned languidly in the bed and ran a hand through the tumble of his new wifes hair.
Good morning, Mrs. Foster, he mumbled.
Anne Moody, who had been Mrs. Foster for some 22 hours, smiled with her eyes closed. Mmm.
Lets hear it for jet lag, Jamie said dryly. He tossed the covers back and, groaning, got out of bed and padded across the hotel room, opened the French doors, and stepped out onto the balcony. Below, light midday traffic hummed along the narrow street. Murmurs and bellows in musical Italian drifted up.
Anne came out and leaned into him, sliding an arm around his waist.
Hungry?
Starved. Jamies tummy obligingly growled, making them laugh.
Lets go. Ursula told me about this restaurant she said we had to try.
Waking as they walked, the newlyweds strolled through the neighborhood to the center of town, where they caught a taxi. A hair-raising ride ensued, but somehow they made it to the restaurant intact.
They were seated, and Anne, who spoke Italian, ordered wine for them immediately.
I need it after that cab ride, Jamie grumbled. Italians seem to think traffic lights are suggestions.
Anne laughed, her eyes lighting up. Jamie reached across the table and took her hand.
They placed their order, then drank the wine.
Ahem, Anne said.
Uh-oh.
Time to talk about it.
Do we have to?
Yeah, we really do.
My mother, Jamie groaned. Jamies mother might have been well-intended, but no scissors were ever going to touch her apron strings. She did her very best to make sure that both her sons were mamas boys, and though they were both fully grown, insisted that their rightful place was by her side as often as possible.
Anne, however, was no dummy. Think, sweetie, she said. What did your mom say to you at the wedding?
Jamie frowned. She said a lot of things.
What did she say while we were eating the cake?
Oh, that, Jamie said. What his mother had said was, Dont let marriage make you fat, dear. What a thing to say at your own sons wedding!"
So Anne said.
So
So if you let marriage make you fat, what can she do about it?
Nothing, Jamie said slowly.
Thats right. Nothing. And what is Italy famous for?
Food, Jamie said, catching on.
Weve got two weeks, lover, Anne said.
Bring it on, Jamie challenged.
Just then, the antipasto arrived, a huge platter that practically covered the entire table. Anne scooted her chair around and snuggled up against her new husband.
Here, she said, reaching for her wineglass. You drink mine too.
Jamie, who didnt speak Italian, thought that the antipasto might be the whole meal and dived in. As he steadily emptied the platter, he felt his stomach becoming pleasantly full. The antipasto was replaced by a huge shallow bowl of minestrone. Anne tucked Jamies napkin into his collar.
The soup was warm and mildly spicy, and so tasty that every swallow made Jamie want another one. The soup vanished into his stomach before he knew it. His midriff began to feel tight, pushing against his belt. After the soup came fish. No, not just fish a whole fish, on a bed of saffron rice.
Jamie steadily ate, savoring the symphony of flavors. His belly was starting to bulge, pushing insistently against his belt. Jamie shifted uncomfortably in his chair, beginning to feel rather stuffed. His midsection swelled with each breath, making the waistband of his pants slice and pinch. Pausing to drain his wineglass, Jamie let out his belt a notch and stifled a belch.
The fish plate, containing nothing now but bones, vanished, to be replaced by a deep bowl of pasta. From the first bite Jamie was hooked. This was nothing like Muellers brand spaghetti-from-a-box. These noodles were as homemade as you could get, carefully rolled out and sliced by hand, and the sauce wow! Like tomatoes exploding in the mouth, fresh from the vines. Jamie inhaled deeply, savoring the smell.
Inhaling deeply, however, seemed to have been a mistake, as it reminded him that his gut was running out of room. His abdomen was compressed between his ribcage and his waistband, clearly a mistake on natures part, and it was getting awfully packed. He let out his belt another notch. That pasta was so delicious, full or not he had to have it all.
Slowly, dreamily, he gorged on forkful after forkful. His tummy swelled with each bite. Anne laid a hand on it, her eyes widening at how distended his midriff had become. She herself had eaten only sparingly from his plates.
Jamie felt himself slowing down. He drew breath and belched sharply.
Overfilled the tank, he said apologetically.
Anne handed him his wineglass, which had magically been refilled.
Take your time, she said. Just relax. Meals here arent meant to be rushed.
Jamie sipped his wine, relaxing as Anne gently and steadily massaged his bloated and aching belly. Whoo. That was better.
Given a momentary pause, his stomach gurgled and churned. Jamie belched again.
Pardon me, he mumbled.
Anne patted Jamies distended abdomen.
Let it out, she urged.
Jamie felt better as he returned to the pasta. Holy cow, was it good. Even as he felt his stomach being stretched to capacity, he savored every bite. He could almost feel his aching belly swelling as he ate. No matter. Nothing mattered but this delicious food, his wife his wife! stroking his thigh and bloated gut, the wine, Italy, everything.
After the pasta came homemade Italian ice, a refreshing palate cleanser. It slid cool and smooth down Jamies throat and into his swollen stomach, gently bathing his overloaded gut and preparing him for what lay ahead. Which turned out to be not Italian but Viennese, the famous Sacher torte. Seven layers of sinfully rich, dark chocolate cake layered with apricot jam.
By now Jamies stomach was filled beyond capacity and he was so full he was puffing. The moist dark sweetness filled his mouth and slid painlessly down his throat into his aching belly, tautly distended, straining the seams of his shirt.
He fumbled for his belt. Where was it? His midriff protruded so far over his waistband that it took some searching. Finally he found it and discovered that he had already let it out to the last hole. Giving up, he undid it altogether and unbuttoned his pants for good measure not without a grunt of effort.
Jamies tummy was stretched so full he thought he might burst with every bite. His stomach, aching and distended, swelled tautly outward, his shirt riding up, unable to cover the acreage any further. Anne began massaging his bloated gut, gently, gently, rhythmically, handing him his wine. Jamie belched, then belched again. He began to recover. Oh, was he full, though.
The final course appeared, a fruit and cheese tray. Anne began to feed Jamie. Strawberry, a sharp tangy cheese, pear, a mild dry cheese, a swallow of wine, a bite of sponge cake, on and on and on. Jamie was dazed, stupefied, stoned on food. His stomach was in another universe, beyond imagining, beyond description.
He was only dimly aware of Anne helping him to his feet. He waddled clumsily out onto the square, his overloaded gut slopping and sloshing with every step. Anne stopped and gazed at it, running her hand down it with something like awe. She pushed his shirt the rest of the way up so she could admire it better. In the afternoon sun, it gleamed like a work of art, a taut dome, smooth and perfectly round, bulging hugely with good Italian food.
Anne pressed a fingertip to it here here here there was no give anywhere. That bloated midriff was hard as a rock. Jamie tried to speak and hiccupped instead, short of breath.
Well (hic!) that ought to (hic!), ought to show Mom, he managed.
Anne smiled like a cat. It will drive her crazy to find out theres something in your life she doesnt have any control over.
Jamie blinked, lengthening his gaze to focus on a church across the square. What (hic!) ex actly is that?
Anne, deliberately misunderstanding, laid a hand on the magnificent sculpture. Jamies tummy.
