Fat Molly
hufflepuff hobbit
~BBW, ~BHM, ~~WG, Eating - Exes meet for dinner
Chapter 1
"You've gained a lot of weight, Felly."
"Huh?"
Her fingers continued to puncture the keys of her new phone as she composed a text message, ostensibly to make an appointment with her hairdresser.
"You got fatter since I've seen you."
Jonathan waited for her face to squeeze into a distorted shape; she once used to be quite dramatic when it came to his criticism of her appearance.
Instead, she giggled, though her table-partner knew it was a somewhat bitter giggle.
"It's not like you didn't already divorce me for it," she said, her attention still upon her digital toy.
"I didn't divorce you for it," he argued, though hesitation harbored in his voice. "We were mutually un-attracted."
He expected her to do as she'd always done in the past: lay a pensive hand on her expansive tummy, to consider his words with care, and, in the end, to quietly acknowledge that he was right and she just didn't want to admit it.
"Fuck you, John," she instead growled, like a confronted grizzly-bear mother. She was such a tight squeeze in the booth, with half her belly pressed against the underside of the tabletop, that the vibrations of her voice resonated through the surface like a piano string. He put his hand on the table to stop the thing's shaking.
"It wasn't 'mutual un-attraction'," she put forth, "and you bloody well know that. You lost every single pound of love that I labored to put on you."
"Pipe down," Jonathan said, terse and aware that others in the restaurant were watching. In a hissing repartee, he shot, "So what if I didn't want to be a fat, lazy blob anymore?"
"Oh! That's what you thought of it!" she said, making as though to get up but thinking better of it. Jonathan knew it was less out of care for finishing the conversation and more because striding regally out of a restaurant with four hundred pounds of fat wasn't easy to do with dignity.
"This isn't new territory, Felly," he said, becoming more irritated.
"I don't give a shit," she replied. "I don't give a shit about you, I don't give a shit about your opinions, I don't give a shit that you think I'm fat. I think you're a prick. And I think that's worse than being fat, because it's a character failing, not a failing of...opinion."
"Aesthetics is what you'd call it," Jonathan replied. His gears were grinding, now that he was on the offensive.
"I don't give a shit about that either."
"When did your language get so rude?" he said, trying to tackle another option. "Is it because of Bill, Felly?"
"Don't you fucking call me 'Felly' anymore," she exclaimed, shifting her massive form on the squeaky patent-leather booth seat. The table and the half-filled water glasses upon it trembled in the process. "You don't have the right. Not when I used to be 'Felly-Belly.' You call me Felicity now."
"I've been calling you that since we started having sex," Jonathan retorted, "so, so what if that old nickname still sticks?"
"It's Bill's nickname for me, now," she replied, haughty. "He likes my full figure. Like you used to, John." She paused. "He's my..."
He knew her hesitation was because it would be a silly name.
"...Blubbery Billy."
At the humorous incredulity in his eyes, she put forth venomously, "Like you used to be my Chubby Johnny."
Jonathan revolted. "Don't use that disgusting epithet!"
"Epi-wha?"
"Nickname!"
It was pathetic how small a vocabulary she had, so Johnny thought. And she an editor at a major publishing house, too! Had her immense portions of fat squeezed all the life out of her brain?
"Fuck you!" she rumbled. "You call me Felly, I'll call you Chubby Johnny again."
"I'm not even..." chubby, he nearly said, but he was painfully aware that his thin figure was not the paunchless stick with which he'd left the divorce court. "Fine, Felicity."
"Hmph!" was all she said to that, because the waiter approached at that moment to covertly drop the bill upon the table.
"Dutch?" asked Jonathan, but Felicity didn't make a move towards her purse. With a sigh, he realized that she still stuck to her old rule: at home she would always make a sumptuous dinner for her husband, but at restaurants she would never pay.
Producing three twenties and slipping them into the billfold, he watched as his date finished her triple-order of butterscotch blondies with ice cream on the side. She'd had a good appetite, which was far from unusual with her, and she'd polished off an enormous entrée, three bread-baskets, a cup of the creamiest soup offered, and a Caesar salad with extra dressing, not to mention the six or seven glasses of sweet iced tea.
He was glad that her eating habits were now somebody else's financial problem.
"So," Felicity prompted, apparently more comfortable with the brief détente, "I'm curious, John. This was quite 'out of the blue', as you Americans say."
He shrugged, noting that despite having lived over half her life in the U.S., she still considered herself a Britisher at heart. She might have changed a good deal since they separated, but she hadn't changed in that respect.
"Well...I'm writing a book, you see," he began, trying his hardest not to sound like the pathetic, hopeless loser that he felt he was. Who else would try to pitch the kind of book he was writing to an ex-wife?
"What sort of book?" She put down her spoon in attention.
"An...a biography," he said, putting off the shame for as long as possible.
"Of who? Lincoln? Those come a dime a dozen in my line of work, you know," Felicity said.
"No, actually," Jonathan said, "I'm not interested in Lincoln anymore."
"Oh. You used to be."
"I know. I used to be."
The silence was a trifle more congenial than it had been.
"So who is it?"
"Erm..." He swallowed the cottony feeling in his throat. "...Myself?"
Her laughing shook the table to the point that the bolts creaked. "Johnny's writing an AUTOBIOGRAPHY!" she laughed, her hands resting on top of her belly as though she relished feeling it jiggle.
Admittedly, he'd once been a subscriber to that fetish as well.
"I can't believe this," she said, still mirthful. "You...want to write a book...about you."
"I've been doing much soul-searching since we separated, Felicity."
The problem was, he was being serious, and she was not appreciative of the fact. Thank goodness they weren't still married. Being single and appreciated by no one was better than being with someone who didn't appreciate one, or so Johnny thought.
"Yeah, yeah," she replied sweetly, sarcastically. "All right, space cadet, what do you want from me?"
"What do you think I'd like?" he asked. Really, how dense could she be? No wonder she planned to retire soon, as she'd gleefully announced at the beginning of their conversation. She couldn't be keeping clients the way she'd used to, in his opinion.
"Oh no," she said with a snarl, though she didn't sound surprised. "I'm sure as hell not going to publish it."
"Why not?" he offered feebly. "I haven't even written it all yet. Couldn't you read the first few chapters and decide if you like it before you decide?"
"Absolutely not. I know you, Johnny, and I know all about your life. And I know, you haven't done shit. So if you tell the truth, then it's not marketable or bloody interesting. If you tell lies...well, I can't publish things that I don't have faith in."
She grimaced. "Besides, there's a conflict of interest here. You are my ex-husband. We were married ten years. Presumably, you will include our marriage in your book, correct?"
The fact that she even asked that question demonstrated her idiocy, in John's opinion. Really, he regretted having come to her. If he'd had any other friends already in the biz, even if they weren't as influential as her, then he wouldn't be here.
But he didn't really have any friends to speak of, much less any in publishing, and all his co-workers were in retail management like him, so his network was sparse.
"It won't be tall tales, Felly," he insisted, "nor will it put a bad light on our marriage...I...I swear."
He had actually not even thought about what he would say about their marriage. If he talked her down now, though, then later if she found something objectionable, he'd talk that down too. It was easier to deal with her on a case-by-case basis. Pretend to agree when it was a small issue, then go and do what he wanted, then deal with the aftershock later.
There was a little less guilt that way, too.
"Yeah right," she snapped. "What's this, your mid-life crisis?"
"No, I'm not having a mid-life crisis!" Jonathan exclaimed, indignant. "I...just want to write about a book. And I'd be writing what I know, you know?"
"That old rule? Oh, sweet plump honey bumpkin!" Felicity said, her irises flipping up as though to examine the topmost part of her cranium. "That's supposed to inspire you to write a textbook. Not an autobiography!"
With that, the waiter came by again, a hopeful look in his eye. He paused after picking up the billfold, checking to make sure it was not a credit card, and slipping the thing into his apron pocket.
"Are you an author?" he asked Jonathan, humbly, honestly, admiringly. Jonathan got the flutters just hearing the deference in the young man's voice. For a fleeting second, he was taken aback, conflicted between saying 'yes, my good man' and giving a spiel about the writing business and telling the truth.
Felicity chose for him, her thunderous laugh impatient and haughty.
"No. He's not."
She followed this pronouncement with a noise, and whether it was a burp or a fart, Jonathan could not tell.
It made him shudder to think that once upon a time, he would have desired to find out.
He was even more embarrassed when she tried to wiggle out of the booth. While it had been a tight squeeze to get Felicity into a position to dine in the first place, now...
"I'm stuck," she announced after vainly trying to rise, exerting all her force. She put her feet against the slope of the cushion on the opposite bench, pressed her hands into the table, and tried to eject herself in that manner.
The waiter just stood there, looking disgusted and horrified. Jonathan was thoroughly on his side, and out of more than male comradely.
It didn't take much effort to tire her out, though.
"Whew! I'm blown," she announced, a chipper light in her eyes, like a kid at a carnival. "You know what, server?" she said as she breathed heavily, her triple chins jiggling as they rose and fell, "Seeing as I'm going to be here for a while, go and get me that cake that the chef just put in the glass dish on the counter. Yes, the six-layered German chocolate one. Could you bring it to me right here?"
The boy looked as spooked as if he'd seen a multitude of ghosts.
"Don't worry," she assuaged him, winking in a manner that Jonathan used to think sexy, "I'll need two forks, not one."
"I'm leaving," Jonathan said, resolute, scared that she had wicked designs for fattening him up again.
"I didn't mean you, darling," Felicity said, a dapper smile upon her fat face. She drew out her cell phone. "I'm calling Bill. My husband."
"I'm so glad," Jonathan replied, and, smoldering, he left the restaurant.
Authors Note: I promise Jonathan will be happier by the end of the story.
Jonathan Spinner
by Fat Molly
by Fat Molly
Chapter 1
"You've gained a lot of weight, Felly."
"Huh?"
Her fingers continued to puncture the keys of her new phone as she composed a text message, ostensibly to make an appointment with her hairdresser.
"You got fatter since I've seen you."
Jonathan waited for her face to squeeze into a distorted shape; she once used to be quite dramatic when it came to his criticism of her appearance.
Instead, she giggled, though her table-partner knew it was a somewhat bitter giggle.
"It's not like you didn't already divorce me for it," she said, her attention still upon her digital toy.
"I didn't divorce you for it," he argued, though hesitation harbored in his voice. "We were mutually un-attracted."
He expected her to do as she'd always done in the past: lay a pensive hand on her expansive tummy, to consider his words with care, and, in the end, to quietly acknowledge that he was right and she just didn't want to admit it.
"Fuck you, John," she instead growled, like a confronted grizzly-bear mother. She was such a tight squeeze in the booth, with half her belly pressed against the underside of the tabletop, that the vibrations of her voice resonated through the surface like a piano string. He put his hand on the table to stop the thing's shaking.
"It wasn't 'mutual un-attraction'," she put forth, "and you bloody well know that. You lost every single pound of love that I labored to put on you."
"Pipe down," Jonathan said, terse and aware that others in the restaurant were watching. In a hissing repartee, he shot, "So what if I didn't want to be a fat, lazy blob anymore?"
"Oh! That's what you thought of it!" she said, making as though to get up but thinking better of it. Jonathan knew it was less out of care for finishing the conversation and more because striding regally out of a restaurant with four hundred pounds of fat wasn't easy to do with dignity.
"This isn't new territory, Felly," he said, becoming more irritated.
"I don't give a shit," she replied. "I don't give a shit about you, I don't give a shit about your opinions, I don't give a shit that you think I'm fat. I think you're a prick. And I think that's worse than being fat, because it's a character failing, not a failing of...opinion."
"Aesthetics is what you'd call it," Jonathan replied. His gears were grinding, now that he was on the offensive.
"I don't give a shit about that either."
"When did your language get so rude?" he said, trying to tackle another option. "Is it because of Bill, Felly?"
"Don't you fucking call me 'Felly' anymore," she exclaimed, shifting her massive form on the squeaky patent-leather booth seat. The table and the half-filled water glasses upon it trembled in the process. "You don't have the right. Not when I used to be 'Felly-Belly.' You call me Felicity now."
"I've been calling you that since we started having sex," Jonathan retorted, "so, so what if that old nickname still sticks?"
"It's Bill's nickname for me, now," she replied, haughty. "He likes my full figure. Like you used to, John." She paused. "He's my..."
He knew her hesitation was because it would be a silly name.
"...Blubbery Billy."
At the humorous incredulity in his eyes, she put forth venomously, "Like you used to be my Chubby Johnny."
Jonathan revolted. "Don't use that disgusting epithet!"
"Epi-wha?"
"Nickname!"
It was pathetic how small a vocabulary she had, so Johnny thought. And she an editor at a major publishing house, too! Had her immense portions of fat squeezed all the life out of her brain?
"Fuck you!" she rumbled. "You call me Felly, I'll call you Chubby Johnny again."
"I'm not even..." chubby, he nearly said, but he was painfully aware that his thin figure was not the paunchless stick with which he'd left the divorce court. "Fine, Felicity."
"Hmph!" was all she said to that, because the waiter approached at that moment to covertly drop the bill upon the table.
"Dutch?" asked Jonathan, but Felicity didn't make a move towards her purse. With a sigh, he realized that she still stuck to her old rule: at home she would always make a sumptuous dinner for her husband, but at restaurants she would never pay.
Producing three twenties and slipping them into the billfold, he watched as his date finished her triple-order of butterscotch blondies with ice cream on the side. She'd had a good appetite, which was far from unusual with her, and she'd polished off an enormous entrée, three bread-baskets, a cup of the creamiest soup offered, and a Caesar salad with extra dressing, not to mention the six or seven glasses of sweet iced tea.
He was glad that her eating habits were now somebody else's financial problem.
"So," Felicity prompted, apparently more comfortable with the brief détente, "I'm curious, John. This was quite 'out of the blue', as you Americans say."
He shrugged, noting that despite having lived over half her life in the U.S., she still considered herself a Britisher at heart. She might have changed a good deal since they separated, but she hadn't changed in that respect.
"Well...I'm writing a book, you see," he began, trying his hardest not to sound like the pathetic, hopeless loser that he felt he was. Who else would try to pitch the kind of book he was writing to an ex-wife?
"What sort of book?" She put down her spoon in attention.
"An...a biography," he said, putting off the shame for as long as possible.
"Of who? Lincoln? Those come a dime a dozen in my line of work, you know," Felicity said.
"No, actually," Jonathan said, "I'm not interested in Lincoln anymore."
"Oh. You used to be."
"I know. I used to be."
The silence was a trifle more congenial than it had been.
"So who is it?"
"Erm..." He swallowed the cottony feeling in his throat. "...Myself?"
Her laughing shook the table to the point that the bolts creaked. "Johnny's writing an AUTOBIOGRAPHY!" she laughed, her hands resting on top of her belly as though she relished feeling it jiggle.
Admittedly, he'd once been a subscriber to that fetish as well.
"I can't believe this," she said, still mirthful. "You...want to write a book...about you."
"I've been doing much soul-searching since we separated, Felicity."
The problem was, he was being serious, and she was not appreciative of the fact. Thank goodness they weren't still married. Being single and appreciated by no one was better than being with someone who didn't appreciate one, or so Johnny thought.
"Yeah, yeah," she replied sweetly, sarcastically. "All right, space cadet, what do you want from me?"
"What do you think I'd like?" he asked. Really, how dense could she be? No wonder she planned to retire soon, as she'd gleefully announced at the beginning of their conversation. She couldn't be keeping clients the way she'd used to, in his opinion.
"Oh no," she said with a snarl, though she didn't sound surprised. "I'm sure as hell not going to publish it."
"Why not?" he offered feebly. "I haven't even written it all yet. Couldn't you read the first few chapters and decide if you like it before you decide?"
"Absolutely not. I know you, Johnny, and I know all about your life. And I know, you haven't done shit. So if you tell the truth, then it's not marketable or bloody interesting. If you tell lies...well, I can't publish things that I don't have faith in."
She grimaced. "Besides, there's a conflict of interest here. You are my ex-husband. We were married ten years. Presumably, you will include our marriage in your book, correct?"
The fact that she even asked that question demonstrated her idiocy, in John's opinion. Really, he regretted having come to her. If he'd had any other friends already in the biz, even if they weren't as influential as her, then he wouldn't be here.
But he didn't really have any friends to speak of, much less any in publishing, and all his co-workers were in retail management like him, so his network was sparse.
"It won't be tall tales, Felly," he insisted, "nor will it put a bad light on our marriage...I...I swear."
He had actually not even thought about what he would say about their marriage. If he talked her down now, though, then later if she found something objectionable, he'd talk that down too. It was easier to deal with her on a case-by-case basis. Pretend to agree when it was a small issue, then go and do what he wanted, then deal with the aftershock later.
There was a little less guilt that way, too.
"Yeah right," she snapped. "What's this, your mid-life crisis?"
"No, I'm not having a mid-life crisis!" Jonathan exclaimed, indignant. "I...just want to write about a book. And I'd be writing what I know, you know?"
"That old rule? Oh, sweet plump honey bumpkin!" Felicity said, her irises flipping up as though to examine the topmost part of her cranium. "That's supposed to inspire you to write a textbook. Not an autobiography!"
With that, the waiter came by again, a hopeful look in his eye. He paused after picking up the billfold, checking to make sure it was not a credit card, and slipping the thing into his apron pocket.
"Are you an author?" he asked Jonathan, humbly, honestly, admiringly. Jonathan got the flutters just hearing the deference in the young man's voice. For a fleeting second, he was taken aback, conflicted between saying 'yes, my good man' and giving a spiel about the writing business and telling the truth.
Felicity chose for him, her thunderous laugh impatient and haughty.
"No. He's not."
She followed this pronouncement with a noise, and whether it was a burp or a fart, Jonathan could not tell.
It made him shudder to think that once upon a time, he would have desired to find out.
He was even more embarrassed when she tried to wiggle out of the booth. While it had been a tight squeeze to get Felicity into a position to dine in the first place, now...
"I'm stuck," she announced after vainly trying to rise, exerting all her force. She put her feet against the slope of the cushion on the opposite bench, pressed her hands into the table, and tried to eject herself in that manner.
The waiter just stood there, looking disgusted and horrified. Jonathan was thoroughly on his side, and out of more than male comradely.
It didn't take much effort to tire her out, though.
"Whew! I'm blown," she announced, a chipper light in her eyes, like a kid at a carnival. "You know what, server?" she said as she breathed heavily, her triple chins jiggling as they rose and fell, "Seeing as I'm going to be here for a while, go and get me that cake that the chef just put in the glass dish on the counter. Yes, the six-layered German chocolate one. Could you bring it to me right here?"
The boy looked as spooked as if he'd seen a multitude of ghosts.
"Don't worry," she assuaged him, winking in a manner that Jonathan used to think sexy, "I'll need two forks, not one."
"I'm leaving," Jonathan said, resolute, scared that she had wicked designs for fattening him up again.
"I didn't mean you, darling," Felicity said, a dapper smile upon her fat face. She drew out her cell phone. "I'm calling Bill. My husband."
"I'm so glad," Jonathan replied, and, smoldering, he left the restaurant.
Authors Note: I promise Jonathan will be happier by the end of the story.
