Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BBW, Eating, Romance, Imagery, ~MWG - what happened to a demure librarian when she met an art historian able to percieve her true beauty
[Author's Note: Thanks to the Web site www.artchive.com from which I obtained the information about Edward Hopper and his paintings.]
It is all too easy to eat too much without realizing it.
Eleanor Holloway didn’t realize how much she had, in fact, eaten, until she got into the car to head home from the party. She’d been on her feet the whole time; when she sat down in the car, she felt the waistband of her skirt pinch unexpectedly and her tummy told her in no uncertain terms that it was stuffed. She hiccupped sharply. Wincing, she dug a thumb into her waistband.
“Good grief (hic!) … how much did I … (hic!) … eat?” she said aloud. She winced again as three belches in a row topped with another hiccup bubbled up, giving her chest a stab. She managed to buckle her seat belt and as she drove home, reviewed the evening.
There had been heavy hors d’oeuvres, so substantial that she’d assumed that was the refreshments. The guest list was stellar and the food delicious, and she now realized that she’d essentially been “nibbling” for close to two hours nonstop.
She’d been full without it registering even before the hostess had cleared away the trays and laid out a large spiral-cut Honeybaked ham, garlic mashed potatoes, sweet potato puree, rolls, corn bread, green beans, lima beans, corn, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts, steamed broccolini, four pies and two cakes.
As she reviewed the party, she remembered that several guests had groaned aloud at the sight, laughingly moaning about how full they already were.
Nell, caught up in conversation with somebody, hadn’t gone to the table again right away, but when she did, it somehow hadn’t registered that her stomach was already filled up with snacks. She’d heaped her plate and, going out on the deck, laid her plate on the broad railing to eat, following other guests’ example. She’d gotten a big wedge of pie, too.
Vividly her mind flashed back. She remembered the moment her body entered puberty. No one could persuade her to believe that puberty was gradual. Until that night, she’d been a prepubescent 80-pounder, giving scarcely a thought to her body and certainly none to her shape. But her family had gone to an outdoor concert and brought a big grocery bag of nibbles.
At home, changing for bed, she’d noticed her tummy pouching out. She’d inquired of her mother, who’d said gently that her tummy was full because she’d been snacking for several hours, and made light of it.
From that moment forward, her body had become "the Enemy." By dint of unflagging attention and effort, she kept her 5’5” at 135 pounds. But she’d certainly let her guard down tonight!
“It’s only one party,” she told herself. “I’ll be … (hic!) … ow! I’ll be good.”
Still, she was mortified at the relief she felt when she peeled off her blouse, skirt, stockings and undergarments. In the mirror, she saw a thin red underwear line around her belly, which seemed to her to be hugely swollen. Her stomach had never looked like that before.
Her mirror image appeared to be a woman with her face, the one sahe was used to, but who was now hugely pregnant. Of course, her abdomen was distended, but in realoty nowhere near as large it seemed to her horrified eyes. Tentatively, still watching herself in the mirror, she poked her bloated midsection. It was tight as a drum.
It registered that stripping had not much eased her discomfort. Her stomach hurt, its skin stretched taut over her bulging belly and her whole lower half feeling somehow bruised, as if she’d received a good drubbing.
Tearing herself away from the critical self-examination, she completed her preparations and fell into the bed. Oohh, big mistake. Her usual casual flop on the bed had created a ruckus in her overloaded tummy, which sloshed heavily, audibly groaning and squealing in protest. A huge belch, frat-like in quality and tone, ripped out, making her moan out loud.
She couldn’t stay lying on her back, that was for sure. Her heavily packed stomach pressed down like a weight, and she could feel the heartburn starting. But she was so full that moving any more than absolutely necessary didn’t seem to be a great idea, either.
Slowly, carefully, she eased herself, belly and all, onto her side, groaning aloud at the sloshing and slopping the inevitable turning over produced. She finally achieved her position and drew her knees up a little – not too much, her bloated midriff was in the way – cradling her swollen and aching stomach. It felt as though she were holding a watermelon.
She was tired, and the hour was late, but it took a while for her to fall asleep. Finally, she drifted into a fitful sleep, and when she woke up she didn’t remember dreaming anything.
In the morning, after relieving herself, she stepped onto the scale, bracing herself. The scale read 140. Yikes! That can’t be right. She stepped off, then on again, trying not to stand fully on the scale: 140. Crap. Crap. She stepped off again and mechanically started the shower.
In the shower, she found her hands gliding again and again over her abdomen. In truth, the number on the scale was temporary, and the next morning she would show a more realistic 136, but she didn’t know that. In the meantime, she stroked and massaged her midsection, eyes closed, thinking of herself as grotesquely huge.
She avoided looking at herself in the mirror as she dried off and chose to skip breakfast before heading to her job as a reference librarian. All day, she gave most of her mind to her work, but a part of her brain hummed away: “FAT fat FAT fat FAT fat FAT fat….”
Of course, by lunchtime she was starved, and when she went out with a couple of other librarians, she found herself eating a good portion of a cheese-laden appetizer, and every scrap of her club sandwich and fries.
Of course, that much food made her feel stuffed and drowsy, and for an hour or so after returning she sort of sat at her desk in a daze, her hands resting on her aching midsection. She answered patrons’ queries mechanically, her mind elsewhere, until midafternoon, when a Diet Coke helped perk her up.
By the time she left, though, she was hungry again. She stared at her stomach in amazement at the audible growls it was producing. Somehow she knew that a diet frozen dinner wasn’t going to do the trick tonight. On her walk home – 12 blocks – she stopped in at a Chinese takeout. She’d forgotten, if she’d even known, how big those servings were.
Back in her apartment she spooned some out onto a plate and put the rest back in the fridge. Even half the meal looked huge and she thought that she wouldn’t finish it.
Of course, she did. Plate empty, she leaned back on the sofa, propping her feet up on the coffee table, and clutched her swollen and aching belly. Ooohhh, her stomach hurt!
“Why did I do this?” she groaned aloud.
A huge belch gave her pause. Ah, that was better. Her immediate discomfort relieved, she settled back and watched television, massaging her distended abdomen.
She slept fitfully, this time dreaming of possessing the world’s biggest stomach. In her dream, sticklike arms dangled, and she balanced awkwardly on bony legs, wobbling back and forth, her equilibrium thrown off by this enormously distended sac that seemed grafted to her front.
She awoke parched and drank a glass of water before starting her workout. An hour later, damp with sweat and pleased with herself, she showered and prepared one slice of toast and a cup of coffee.
Skimming the paper, she noticed an Edward Hopper exhibit at one of the museums. Excellent! She pulled on a floaty gauze top and slim-legged pants and slipped on a pair of low-heeled sandals. There.
At the museum, she wandered happily through the exhibit, enjoying the extraordinary quality of light and the beauty of the simplicity in Hopper’s paintings.
“Neat, isn’t it?” a voice said as she gazed at “Chop Suey.”
“Hm?” She turned and glanced at the man who had spoken.
"Oh," she thought. "Oh, well."
Her first glance had categorized and dismissed him without conscious thought. He was about 5’10” and stocky, with a handsome enough face, but his chest looked soft and underexercised and a round gut pushed against the buttons of his blue shirt. His dark hair was damply tousled and his green eyes were serious and kind.
“Hopper used an extraordinary blend of colors to get that swamp green on the window glaze,” the man went on, “and reinforced the image in the mind’s eye by using a similar, but not identical, shade in the girl’s sweater.
"Then,” he pointed, coninuing, “You see how natural that light looks coming in through the window? That’s because the ‘window’ is a bit of canvas he left blank.”
“Wow,” Nell said. She curtsied. “Thank you sir.”
The man blushed and ducked his head. “Sorry. I’m an art historian. I get carried away.”
“So this is sort of a busman’s holiday for you?”
“Yes,” he agreed, and extended his hand. “I’m Ben Milam.”
“Eleanor Holloway,” she said. “Nell.”
“Little Nell,” and he bowed gravely as he took his hand. “May I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Charmed,” Nell replied, and curtsied again. “But could we see the rest of the Hoppers first?”
“Gladly,” and Ben gave her a personal guided tour.
“Hopper studied under William Merritt Chase,” he said as they set off, “and was selling his paintings by 1913. This was his first really famous work,” he said, gesturing to “The House by the Railroad.”
“Notice the brushwork,” he pointed, “reminiscent of his teacher, Chase, but already he’s advanced from basic Impressionism. And look at how extraordinary the shadows are. You can tell from the columns and shadows on the right that he actually painted the outline of the house in black and painted white over it.”
They moved on, Ben doling out information easily and expertly.
“Hopper’s most important overriding theme is loneliness,” Ben told Nell, “not only in ‘The Nighthawks’ but in most of his work. Many of his paintings have few or no people in them, and the people who are in them always seem if not unhappy, at least distracted and anxious.”
He pointed to “Office at Night.”
“Notice how worried the man at the desk looks,” he said, “yet his secretary doesn’t look sympathetic or understanding but blankly impatient, as if she couldn’t care less. Her dress fits poorly; perhaps she can’t afford better clothes, and there’s a patina on his suit; it’s clearly pretty old. This is a tiny shoebox of an office several stories up, not one that reflects any kind of prosperity at all.”
“Wow,” Nell said again. “How do you keep all that in your head?”
“Just doing my job, ma’am,” and Ben tipped an imaginary hat. “Now how about that coffee?”
Over coffee they talked about their work and branched off into other topics. When he called her “Little Nell” again, though, Nell made a face.
“Not so little,” she admitted, putting a hand to her belly. “I seem to be putting on weight.”
Ben raised his eyebrows. “I think you’re beautiful.”
As they parted, Ben said, “May I phone you?”
Nell hesitated. He was a nice guy, no question. But she didn’t want him to think there could be anything there. Because there couldn’t. Of course there couldn’t.
Still, she agreed, but turned down an offer to come to his apartment. She didn’t want to move too fast.
Instead, she went back to her apartment and reheated the leftover Chinese.
She’d skipped lunch, half on purpose, and she was starving. “I had no lunch and hardly any breakfast,” she said aloud, “I guess I do need to eat.” While the Chinese heated, she absently scooped out a handful or two or three of mixed nuts.
Then, though she thought she wouldn’t, she ate every scrap of the leftovers, and the egg roll, and dug out a half-full pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Once the container was empty, though, she realized she’d overeaten again.
“Gah (hic!),” she moaned. “Why … do I … (hic!) keep doing … this?”
She belched.
“Ohh, oww, ooh.” She pressed her bloated midriff, swollen and aching, moaning aloud as her massage made her distended abdomen slosh and growl. She felt heavy, sated, maybe a little nauseated. Her head buzzed and she wanted to sleep, but she was far too stuffed to move; even the thought of standing up made her moan. She groped for the remote and found something mindless to watch.
Ben, meanwhile, did call, and a relationship built itself slowly and naturally. Nell worked out every day, and five days a week she was walking 12 blocks each way to and from work. Well, to, at least. Quite often Ben picked her up.
Their time together was fun and varied; neither was a “rut” kind of person. Sometimes food was involved, sometimes not. When it was, Ben always ate hugely and encouraged Nell to eat more.
Finally, one evening after she’d turned down dessert (his third attempt of the evening), she said, “Ben. Look.”
Her tone was stern. “I’ve gotten into this cycle. I started gaining a few pounds, so I started skipping breakfast. But that makes me ravenous, so I eat too much at lunch. Sometimes I decide to skip lunch too, but then I’m starved by 3, so I eat vending machine junk and then too much dinner. And you’re always trying to get me to eat more. I used to weigh 130.”
She was verging on tears. “Do you know how much I weighed this morning – 150 – I’ve gained fifteen pounds.”
Ben put his arm around her and deliberately squeezed her left love handle as he let her lead him away from the ice cream shop. “I’ve told you many times,” he said, “you’re beautiful, Little Nell.”
“I’m not Little Nell,” she snapped. “I’m big fat Nell.”
He sat down on a bench, half-turned to face her, and she did the same. “Nell, I’m going to tell you something about myself.”
She sniffled. “You’re gay.”
“Nope.”
“You’re moving to California.”
“Nope.”
“You’re a closet Modernist?”
Ben laughed out loud. “Nell, I’m an FA.”
Nell knit her brows. “Like AA?”
Ben smiled. “No. I’m a … Fat Admirer.”
Ben explained to her how he found larger women appealing – aesthetically, intimately, and every other way. By this time, having resumed walking, they were at the subway entrance. Nell followed automatically and they took the train to his apartment.
There, he showed her several Web sites, letting her look at stories, art, and photos.
“I expect you think this is all too weird for words. You know where the door is if you want to walk out,” he laughed nervously.
Nell cocked her head to one side. “It’s different, all right.”
She paused. “Just let me … think about this … for a while.”
She sighed. “Are you saying you want … me … to do that?”
She pointed to the computer screen.
“I’m just saying I’m attracted to women of an adorable size.”
“Adorable? I’m f…” she couldn’t finish the word.
“You’re absolutely beautiful,” Ben said firmly. He sighed, then said slowly, “If you ever thought you might want to be bigger, that would be okay too.”
She gazed at the floor.
“I’ve been fighting hard to keep my weight down and my figure nice for 15 years,” she said, half laughing.
“Why?” he asked bluntly.
“Why?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Well …” she was stymied. That was suddenly an awfully good question.
“Just stop trying so hard,” he counseled. “Exercise, eat what you want to eat, make sure you get plenty of good fresh unprocessed food, and enjoy yourself, for once!”
“Well…” just then her stomach growled, making her laugh.
“Here. You keep looking at that Web site. I’ll make supper.”
The smells coming from the kitchen were marvelous. When Ben called her in, Nell’s eyes widened.
“Holy moley,” she said.
Ben smiled like a cat. “When was the last time you just ate and enjoyed good food and company without feeling guilty about every bite you put in your mouth?”
He shook a finger at her. “I bet it’s been at least a decade.”
“Longer,” she said.
“Well then. Mangia!” Nell sat down, grinning and shaking her head as Ben piled her plate.
“Good grief,” she said. “I’ll never…”
“Just eat.”
So she did. They ate and talked and talked and ate. Ben was deliberately keeping Nell distracted, and subconsciously she realized it, but that was all right.
Finally, Ben declared, “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Nell hiccupped. “Full to the eyebrows.”
“How’s it feel?”
“I’d tell you … (hic!) if I could move.” Nell was so stuffed she was puffing. After several minutes, they reluctantly rose and staggered to their feet.
“Oh!” Nell clutched her distended belly.
“Careful there.” Ben helped her straighten up as far as she was able and they staggered heavily to the sofa.
“Don’t flop,” Ben warned her. “It will hurt. Lower yourself.
Then he paused.
"But wait,” he added. “Stay standing a minute.”
She did, watching as he carefully lowered himself onto the sofa. His pants were unbuttoned and the opening gapped. He cradled his bloated stomach, distended and aching, gently and carefully massaging it.
“Now,” he said. “Would you take off your clothes?”
“Like those girls on that Web site?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Leave on your underthings.”
She did. She’d gained 15 pounds as it was, before the enormous dinner, and now she felt stretched to her limits. Her breasts were full and round, a big handful, spilling out of the top of her bra. Her belly was magnificent, Ben thought. It flared from below her bra, swelling out like a heavy, firm pear. Tautly swollen, it gleamed in the lamplight, protruding rosily, ballooning out over her panties. The scrap of cotton seemed meager next to the spherical swell of her tummy.
In awe, Ben struggled to his feet and gently placed a hand on her firm midsection. Nell stood as he explored with an artist’s eye and artist’s hands, standing back to appreciate her composition, the play of light and shadow, moved in to press, massage and cradle her magnificently protruding belly. He traced, kissed, cradled, embraced, and finally led her to the bedroom.
“No,” Nell groaned half-heartedly. “Too full.”
“You won’t believe this experience,” Ben said.
He belched. “Nothing like it.”
They moved languidly, mindful of their stuffed tummies, cuddling and stroking. Ben was especially attentive to Nell’s marvelous architecture, tracing her belly, tickling the vanishing navel, jiggling her plumpening breasts.
After a slow-motion, dreamlike session, they cuddled and talked.
“Seriously, Nell,” Ben said. “I want you to know you’re beautiful just as you are. I think you would be outstandingly ridiculously gorgeous as a Big Beautiful Woman. A BBW.”
“Ohhh. I’ve heard that term before,” Nell murmured. “Women are catty about weight though.”
“Can you live with it?”
“As long as I have you.”
“You have me,” Ben assured her. “You have me.”
The next day, Ben took her out and treated her to three new tops and two new bottoms for work, as well as a crop top and elastic-waist capris. Nell protested at how much he was spending, but Ben wouldn’t hear of it.
On Monday, having weighed in at 153, Nell went tentatively in to work. The other librarians oohed and aahed over Nell’s outfit. Later, though, over tuna salad in pitas in the lunch room, Suzanne said gently, “Nell, is everything ok with Ben?”
“Okay? It’s great.” Nell swallowed. “Why?”
Suzanne frowned. “I wonder if … maybe … you’ve put on a pound or two?”
You have no idea, Nell thought. She said, “Mm, maybe. Why?”
Suzanne plunged ahead. “Sometimes weight gain is a sign of depression.”
Nell laughed. “Farthest thing from the horizon, Suze,” she said.
She popped a grape into her mouth. I’ve put on a couple of pounds,” she said, “but I’m okay with it and so is Ben.” She tried to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. Suzanne changed the subject.
The whispers continued, though. Occasionally Nell heard them, or the tail end of them. “…packing it on,” she heard, and, “shame. She was so pretty.”
She was able to hang on only because of Ben’s nightly reassurances that she was breathtakingly more beautiful by the day. It was hard, though, the day she overhear a patron asking for “the … um … heavier one.”
"I’m not THAT heavy," she thought, but it was rough sledding with Ben that night.
Her weight climbed. By now she and Ben were living together, and Ben was a fabulous cook. He had joined her in her strenuous workouts and walked her to and from work every day. And she had joined in his eating workouts. They had agreed that because of heart disease that ran in his family, he would try to keep his weight around 200, but she would not need to be so particular.
She didn’t gorge herself every day, of course, but once a week or so, she would let Ben feed her, and she would eat … and eat … and eat.
She quickly grew to enjoy the feeling of becoming full, then stuffed, then stuffed to bursting, her belly bulging below her tops and straining against her waistband, the relief of undoing her pants, of undressing after a huge meal, the cool air on her swollen and aching tummy, posing for Ben.
She even began making extra money from it, having been hired by one of the Web sites that posted progressive photos of stuffing sessions for paying members. Occasionally she did requests, but Ben was awfully creative, and they had several series up that got many hits.
As her weight rose, however, the behind-the-back cattiness increased at work. The tension caused her work to begin to slip. She was becoming increasingly unhappy with living in the city as well.
One night, Ben took her out to a good Italian restaurant near Carnegie Hall, family-run, reasonably priced and with delicious food. Nell was wearing a new wrap dress and Ben had dressed up too.
Nell had prosciutto, then tortellini soup, trout – which the waiter expertly deboned at the table – and tiramisu. She was full to bursting and the ties of her wrap dress were beginning to cut into her sides.
Ben fumbled below the table and drew out a box. “Little Nell,” he said, “you make me the happiest man alive. Will you marry me and be mine forever?”
“Yes,” Nell said, her eyes brimming with tears. The ring slid onto her plump, perfectly manicured finger.
Over coffee, they talked. Nell was still bothered by the increasing comments of her co-workers, the occasional murmur of “Muffin top” when she walked by (her skirts had gotten pretty snug), and her increasing distance from her co-workers.
“I’d like to see you get up to at least 300,” Ben had confided. Nell sat gazing at the ring. “Do you feel as though you want to live in New York forever?”
“No…” Ben said slowly. “There are terrific museums everywhere…”
He, like a typical male, didn’t see what Nell was getting at.
“If we moved somewhere else … after I got bigger… people wouldn’t know that I used to be thin.” Ben got it.
“I’ve got the perfect solution,” Ben said. “Just the other day, I got an offer for a one-year job at the University of Nebraska for someone going on sabbatical. I haven’t told you because I didn’t know how you’d react.”
“We could live in Nebraska for a year…”
“And then move anywhere you like!”
“And I could grow in Nebraska…”
“A nice corn-fed girl!”
They both laughed.
“Fabulous!” Ben added.
And so that’s what they did. The year in Nebraska was heavenly. They moved to Lincoln and got married at the courthouse. The cost of living was so much lower that Nell didn’t have to get an outside job. She found one, though, as an online editor, which allowed her to work from home. Thank goodness for sweat suits!
And Nell bloomed.
Away from the city and the cattiness and the taxis and tourists and crowds and subways, she fell in love with the Nell that Ben loved. Her face became glowing as it became fuller, her cheeks rounding into apples and a second chin sliding out cutely below the first. Her breasts ripened, spilling over into more than a double handful. Below, her belly flowed ripplingly downward, bulging out into a double spare tire, which Ben loved to fondle. Her belly at rest was a soft cushion; when she was standing or gorging, it glowed, rosy and radiant.
Her bottom became a nice balance to her chest, and her thighs thickened along with her waistline, becoming sturdy and tempting, which Ben was … often.
After the year ended, they took their time heading across the country toward Seattle, where the Seattle Art Museum had offered Ben a job. Nell was at 285 when they arrived, and she quickly got a part-time job as an elementary school librarian.
The kids loved being embraced by the cushiony, maternal Aunt Nell, which suited Nell beautifully. She and Ben had discovered early on that they loved children … other people’s children … and didn’t want any of their own.
After reaching 300 pounds, glowingly beautiful, Nell settled at about 325 and though her weight moved up and down in a 10-pound range, that seemed to be where she was happiest.
It was amazing, Nell thought one Saturday morning, relaxing with coffee on the deck. After 15 years of treating her body as the Enemy, she’d made her peace with it. She was overflowing with happiness.
“You make me very happy,” Ben mumbled, kissing her neck. “Little Nell.”
[Author's Note: Thanks to the Web site www.artchive.com from which I obtained the information about Edward Hopper and his paintings.]
Little Nell
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
It is all too easy to eat too much without realizing it.
Eleanor Holloway didn’t realize how much she had, in fact, eaten, until she got into the car to head home from the party. She’d been on her feet the whole time; when she sat down in the car, she felt the waistband of her skirt pinch unexpectedly and her tummy told her in no uncertain terms that it was stuffed. She hiccupped sharply. Wincing, she dug a thumb into her waistband.
“Good grief (hic!) … how much did I … (hic!) … eat?” she said aloud. She winced again as three belches in a row topped with another hiccup bubbled up, giving her chest a stab. She managed to buckle her seat belt and as she drove home, reviewed the evening.
There had been heavy hors d’oeuvres, so substantial that she’d assumed that was the refreshments. The guest list was stellar and the food delicious, and she now realized that she’d essentially been “nibbling” for close to two hours nonstop.
She’d been full without it registering even before the hostess had cleared away the trays and laid out a large spiral-cut Honeybaked ham, garlic mashed potatoes, sweet potato puree, rolls, corn bread, green beans, lima beans, corn, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts, steamed broccolini, four pies and two cakes.
As she reviewed the party, she remembered that several guests had groaned aloud at the sight, laughingly moaning about how full they already were.
Nell, caught up in conversation with somebody, hadn’t gone to the table again right away, but when she did, it somehow hadn’t registered that her stomach was already filled up with snacks. She’d heaped her plate and, going out on the deck, laid her plate on the broad railing to eat, following other guests’ example. She’d gotten a big wedge of pie, too.
Vividly her mind flashed back. She remembered the moment her body entered puberty. No one could persuade her to believe that puberty was gradual. Until that night, she’d been a prepubescent 80-pounder, giving scarcely a thought to her body and certainly none to her shape. But her family had gone to an outdoor concert and brought a big grocery bag of nibbles.
At home, changing for bed, she’d noticed her tummy pouching out. She’d inquired of her mother, who’d said gently that her tummy was full because she’d been snacking for several hours, and made light of it.
From that moment forward, her body had become "the Enemy." By dint of unflagging attention and effort, she kept her 5’5” at 135 pounds. But she’d certainly let her guard down tonight!
“It’s only one party,” she told herself. “I’ll be … (hic!) … ow! I’ll be good.”
Still, she was mortified at the relief she felt when she peeled off her blouse, skirt, stockings and undergarments. In the mirror, she saw a thin red underwear line around her belly, which seemed to her to be hugely swollen. Her stomach had never looked like that before.
Her mirror image appeared to be a woman with her face, the one sahe was used to, but who was now hugely pregnant. Of course, her abdomen was distended, but in realoty nowhere near as large it seemed to her horrified eyes. Tentatively, still watching herself in the mirror, she poked her bloated midsection. It was tight as a drum.
It registered that stripping had not much eased her discomfort. Her stomach hurt, its skin stretched taut over her bulging belly and her whole lower half feeling somehow bruised, as if she’d received a good drubbing.
Tearing herself away from the critical self-examination, she completed her preparations and fell into the bed. Oohh, big mistake. Her usual casual flop on the bed had created a ruckus in her overloaded tummy, which sloshed heavily, audibly groaning and squealing in protest. A huge belch, frat-like in quality and tone, ripped out, making her moan out loud.
She couldn’t stay lying on her back, that was for sure. Her heavily packed stomach pressed down like a weight, and she could feel the heartburn starting. But she was so full that moving any more than absolutely necessary didn’t seem to be a great idea, either.
Slowly, carefully, she eased herself, belly and all, onto her side, groaning aloud at the sloshing and slopping the inevitable turning over produced. She finally achieved her position and drew her knees up a little – not too much, her bloated midriff was in the way – cradling her swollen and aching stomach. It felt as though she were holding a watermelon.
She was tired, and the hour was late, but it took a while for her to fall asleep. Finally, she drifted into a fitful sleep, and when she woke up she didn’t remember dreaming anything.
In the morning, after relieving herself, she stepped onto the scale, bracing herself. The scale read 140. Yikes! That can’t be right. She stepped off, then on again, trying not to stand fully on the scale: 140. Crap. Crap. She stepped off again and mechanically started the shower.
In the shower, she found her hands gliding again and again over her abdomen. In truth, the number on the scale was temporary, and the next morning she would show a more realistic 136, but she didn’t know that. In the meantime, she stroked and massaged her midsection, eyes closed, thinking of herself as grotesquely huge.
She avoided looking at herself in the mirror as she dried off and chose to skip breakfast before heading to her job as a reference librarian. All day, she gave most of her mind to her work, but a part of her brain hummed away: “FAT fat FAT fat FAT fat FAT fat….”
Of course, by lunchtime she was starved, and when she went out with a couple of other librarians, she found herself eating a good portion of a cheese-laden appetizer, and every scrap of her club sandwich and fries.
Of course, that much food made her feel stuffed and drowsy, and for an hour or so after returning she sort of sat at her desk in a daze, her hands resting on her aching midsection. She answered patrons’ queries mechanically, her mind elsewhere, until midafternoon, when a Diet Coke helped perk her up.
By the time she left, though, she was hungry again. She stared at her stomach in amazement at the audible growls it was producing. Somehow she knew that a diet frozen dinner wasn’t going to do the trick tonight. On her walk home – 12 blocks – she stopped in at a Chinese takeout. She’d forgotten, if she’d even known, how big those servings were.
Back in her apartment she spooned some out onto a plate and put the rest back in the fridge. Even half the meal looked huge and she thought that she wouldn’t finish it.
Of course, she did. Plate empty, she leaned back on the sofa, propping her feet up on the coffee table, and clutched her swollen and aching belly. Ooohhh, her stomach hurt!
“Why did I do this?” she groaned aloud.
A huge belch gave her pause. Ah, that was better. Her immediate discomfort relieved, she settled back and watched television, massaging her distended abdomen.
She slept fitfully, this time dreaming of possessing the world’s biggest stomach. In her dream, sticklike arms dangled, and she balanced awkwardly on bony legs, wobbling back and forth, her equilibrium thrown off by this enormously distended sac that seemed grafted to her front.
She awoke parched and drank a glass of water before starting her workout. An hour later, damp with sweat and pleased with herself, she showered and prepared one slice of toast and a cup of coffee.
Skimming the paper, she noticed an Edward Hopper exhibit at one of the museums. Excellent! She pulled on a floaty gauze top and slim-legged pants and slipped on a pair of low-heeled sandals. There.
At the museum, she wandered happily through the exhibit, enjoying the extraordinary quality of light and the beauty of the simplicity in Hopper’s paintings.
“Neat, isn’t it?” a voice said as she gazed at “Chop Suey.”
“Hm?” She turned and glanced at the man who had spoken.
"Oh," she thought. "Oh, well."
Her first glance had categorized and dismissed him without conscious thought. He was about 5’10” and stocky, with a handsome enough face, but his chest looked soft and underexercised and a round gut pushed against the buttons of his blue shirt. His dark hair was damply tousled and his green eyes were serious and kind.
“Hopper used an extraordinary blend of colors to get that swamp green on the window glaze,” the man went on, “and reinforced the image in the mind’s eye by using a similar, but not identical, shade in the girl’s sweater.
"Then,” he pointed, coninuing, “You see how natural that light looks coming in through the window? That’s because the ‘window’ is a bit of canvas he left blank.”
“Wow,” Nell said. She curtsied. “Thank you sir.”
The man blushed and ducked his head. “Sorry. I’m an art historian. I get carried away.”
“So this is sort of a busman’s holiday for you?”
“Yes,” he agreed, and extended his hand. “I’m Ben Milam.”
“Eleanor Holloway,” she said. “Nell.”
“Little Nell,” and he bowed gravely as he took his hand. “May I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Charmed,” Nell replied, and curtsied again. “But could we see the rest of the Hoppers first?”
“Gladly,” and Ben gave her a personal guided tour.
“Hopper studied under William Merritt Chase,” he said as they set off, “and was selling his paintings by 1913. This was his first really famous work,” he said, gesturing to “The House by the Railroad.”
“Notice the brushwork,” he pointed, “reminiscent of his teacher, Chase, but already he’s advanced from basic Impressionism. And look at how extraordinary the shadows are. You can tell from the columns and shadows on the right that he actually painted the outline of the house in black and painted white over it.”
They moved on, Ben doling out information easily and expertly.
“Hopper’s most important overriding theme is loneliness,” Ben told Nell, “not only in ‘The Nighthawks’ but in most of his work. Many of his paintings have few or no people in them, and the people who are in them always seem if not unhappy, at least distracted and anxious.”
He pointed to “Office at Night.”
“Notice how worried the man at the desk looks,” he said, “yet his secretary doesn’t look sympathetic or understanding but blankly impatient, as if she couldn’t care less. Her dress fits poorly; perhaps she can’t afford better clothes, and there’s a patina on his suit; it’s clearly pretty old. This is a tiny shoebox of an office several stories up, not one that reflects any kind of prosperity at all.”
“Wow,” Nell said again. “How do you keep all that in your head?”
“Just doing my job, ma’am,” and Ben tipped an imaginary hat. “Now how about that coffee?”
Over coffee they talked about their work and branched off into other topics. When he called her “Little Nell” again, though, Nell made a face.
“Not so little,” she admitted, putting a hand to her belly. “I seem to be putting on weight.”
Ben raised his eyebrows. “I think you’re beautiful.”
As they parted, Ben said, “May I phone you?”
Nell hesitated. He was a nice guy, no question. But she didn’t want him to think there could be anything there. Because there couldn’t. Of course there couldn’t.
Still, she agreed, but turned down an offer to come to his apartment. She didn’t want to move too fast.
Instead, she went back to her apartment and reheated the leftover Chinese.
She’d skipped lunch, half on purpose, and she was starving. “I had no lunch and hardly any breakfast,” she said aloud, “I guess I do need to eat.” While the Chinese heated, she absently scooped out a handful or two or three of mixed nuts.
Then, though she thought she wouldn’t, she ate every scrap of the leftovers, and the egg roll, and dug out a half-full pint of Ben & Jerry’s. Once the container was empty, though, she realized she’d overeaten again.
“Gah (hic!),” she moaned. “Why … do I … (hic!) keep doing … this?”
She belched.
“Ohh, oww, ooh.” She pressed her bloated midriff, swollen and aching, moaning aloud as her massage made her distended abdomen slosh and growl. She felt heavy, sated, maybe a little nauseated. Her head buzzed and she wanted to sleep, but she was far too stuffed to move; even the thought of standing up made her moan. She groped for the remote and found something mindless to watch.
Ben, meanwhile, did call, and a relationship built itself slowly and naturally. Nell worked out every day, and five days a week she was walking 12 blocks each way to and from work. Well, to, at least. Quite often Ben picked her up.
Their time together was fun and varied; neither was a “rut” kind of person. Sometimes food was involved, sometimes not. When it was, Ben always ate hugely and encouraged Nell to eat more.
Finally, one evening after she’d turned down dessert (his third attempt of the evening), she said, “Ben. Look.”
Her tone was stern. “I’ve gotten into this cycle. I started gaining a few pounds, so I started skipping breakfast. But that makes me ravenous, so I eat too much at lunch. Sometimes I decide to skip lunch too, but then I’m starved by 3, so I eat vending machine junk and then too much dinner. And you’re always trying to get me to eat more. I used to weigh 130.”
She was verging on tears. “Do you know how much I weighed this morning – 150 – I’ve gained fifteen pounds.”
Ben put his arm around her and deliberately squeezed her left love handle as he let her lead him away from the ice cream shop. “I’ve told you many times,” he said, “you’re beautiful, Little Nell.”
“I’m not Little Nell,” she snapped. “I’m big fat Nell.”
He sat down on a bench, half-turned to face her, and she did the same. “Nell, I’m going to tell you something about myself.”
She sniffled. “You’re gay.”
“Nope.”
“You’re moving to California.”
“Nope.”
“You’re a closet Modernist?”
Ben laughed out loud. “Nell, I’m an FA.”
Nell knit her brows. “Like AA?”
Ben smiled. “No. I’m a … Fat Admirer.”
Ben explained to her how he found larger women appealing – aesthetically, intimately, and every other way. By this time, having resumed walking, they were at the subway entrance. Nell followed automatically and they took the train to his apartment.
There, he showed her several Web sites, letting her look at stories, art, and photos.
“I expect you think this is all too weird for words. You know where the door is if you want to walk out,” he laughed nervously.
Nell cocked her head to one side. “It’s different, all right.”
She paused. “Just let me … think about this … for a while.”
She sighed. “Are you saying you want … me … to do that?”
She pointed to the computer screen.
“I’m just saying I’m attracted to women of an adorable size.”
“Adorable? I’m f…” she couldn’t finish the word.
“You’re absolutely beautiful,” Ben said firmly. He sighed, then said slowly, “If you ever thought you might want to be bigger, that would be okay too.”
She gazed at the floor.
“I’ve been fighting hard to keep my weight down and my figure nice for 15 years,” she said, half laughing.
“Why?” he asked bluntly.
“Why?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Well …” she was stymied. That was suddenly an awfully good question.
“Just stop trying so hard,” he counseled. “Exercise, eat what you want to eat, make sure you get plenty of good fresh unprocessed food, and enjoy yourself, for once!”
“Well…” just then her stomach growled, making her laugh.
“Here. You keep looking at that Web site. I’ll make supper.”
The smells coming from the kitchen were marvelous. When Ben called her in, Nell’s eyes widened.
“Holy moley,” she said.
Ben smiled like a cat. “When was the last time you just ate and enjoyed good food and company without feeling guilty about every bite you put in your mouth?”
He shook a finger at her. “I bet it’s been at least a decade.”
“Longer,” she said.
“Well then. Mangia!” Nell sat down, grinning and shaking her head as Ben piled her plate.
“Good grief,” she said. “I’ll never…”
“Just eat.”
So she did. They ate and talked and talked and ate. Ben was deliberately keeping Nell distracted, and subconsciously she realized it, but that was all right.
Finally, Ben declared, “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
Nell hiccupped. “Full to the eyebrows.”
“How’s it feel?”
“I’d tell you … (hic!) if I could move.” Nell was so stuffed she was puffing. After several minutes, they reluctantly rose and staggered to their feet.
“Oh!” Nell clutched her distended belly.
“Careful there.” Ben helped her straighten up as far as she was able and they staggered heavily to the sofa.
“Don’t flop,” Ben warned her. “It will hurt. Lower yourself.
Then he paused.
"But wait,” he added. “Stay standing a minute.”
She did, watching as he carefully lowered himself onto the sofa. His pants were unbuttoned and the opening gapped. He cradled his bloated stomach, distended and aching, gently and carefully massaging it.
“Now,” he said. “Would you take off your clothes?”
“Like those girls on that Web site?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Leave on your underthings.”
She did. She’d gained 15 pounds as it was, before the enormous dinner, and now she felt stretched to her limits. Her breasts were full and round, a big handful, spilling out of the top of her bra. Her belly was magnificent, Ben thought. It flared from below her bra, swelling out like a heavy, firm pear. Tautly swollen, it gleamed in the lamplight, protruding rosily, ballooning out over her panties. The scrap of cotton seemed meager next to the spherical swell of her tummy.
In awe, Ben struggled to his feet and gently placed a hand on her firm midsection. Nell stood as he explored with an artist’s eye and artist’s hands, standing back to appreciate her composition, the play of light and shadow, moved in to press, massage and cradle her magnificently protruding belly. He traced, kissed, cradled, embraced, and finally led her to the bedroom.
“No,” Nell groaned half-heartedly. “Too full.”
“You won’t believe this experience,” Ben said.
He belched. “Nothing like it.”
They moved languidly, mindful of their stuffed tummies, cuddling and stroking. Ben was especially attentive to Nell’s marvelous architecture, tracing her belly, tickling the vanishing navel, jiggling her plumpening breasts.
After a slow-motion, dreamlike session, they cuddled and talked.
“Seriously, Nell,” Ben said. “I want you to know you’re beautiful just as you are. I think you would be outstandingly ridiculously gorgeous as a Big Beautiful Woman. A BBW.”
“Ohhh. I’ve heard that term before,” Nell murmured. “Women are catty about weight though.”
“Can you live with it?”
“As long as I have you.”
“You have me,” Ben assured her. “You have me.”
The next day, Ben took her out and treated her to three new tops and two new bottoms for work, as well as a crop top and elastic-waist capris. Nell protested at how much he was spending, but Ben wouldn’t hear of it.
On Monday, having weighed in at 153, Nell went tentatively in to work. The other librarians oohed and aahed over Nell’s outfit. Later, though, over tuna salad in pitas in the lunch room, Suzanne said gently, “Nell, is everything ok with Ben?”
“Okay? It’s great.” Nell swallowed. “Why?”
Suzanne frowned. “I wonder if … maybe … you’ve put on a pound or two?”
You have no idea, Nell thought. She said, “Mm, maybe. Why?”
Suzanne plunged ahead. “Sometimes weight gain is a sign of depression.”
Nell laughed. “Farthest thing from the horizon, Suze,” she said.
She popped a grape into her mouth. I’ve put on a couple of pounds,” she said, “but I’m okay with it and so is Ben.” She tried to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. Suzanne changed the subject.
The whispers continued, though. Occasionally Nell heard them, or the tail end of them. “…packing it on,” she heard, and, “shame. She was so pretty.”
She was able to hang on only because of Ben’s nightly reassurances that she was breathtakingly more beautiful by the day. It was hard, though, the day she overhear a patron asking for “the … um … heavier one.”
"I’m not THAT heavy," she thought, but it was rough sledding with Ben that night.
Her weight climbed. By now she and Ben were living together, and Ben was a fabulous cook. He had joined her in her strenuous workouts and walked her to and from work every day. And she had joined in his eating workouts. They had agreed that because of heart disease that ran in his family, he would try to keep his weight around 200, but she would not need to be so particular.
She didn’t gorge herself every day, of course, but once a week or so, she would let Ben feed her, and she would eat … and eat … and eat.
She quickly grew to enjoy the feeling of becoming full, then stuffed, then stuffed to bursting, her belly bulging below her tops and straining against her waistband, the relief of undoing her pants, of undressing after a huge meal, the cool air on her swollen and aching tummy, posing for Ben.
She even began making extra money from it, having been hired by one of the Web sites that posted progressive photos of stuffing sessions for paying members. Occasionally she did requests, but Ben was awfully creative, and they had several series up that got many hits.
As her weight rose, however, the behind-the-back cattiness increased at work. The tension caused her work to begin to slip. She was becoming increasingly unhappy with living in the city as well.
One night, Ben took her out to a good Italian restaurant near Carnegie Hall, family-run, reasonably priced and with delicious food. Nell was wearing a new wrap dress and Ben had dressed up too.
Nell had prosciutto, then tortellini soup, trout – which the waiter expertly deboned at the table – and tiramisu. She was full to bursting and the ties of her wrap dress were beginning to cut into her sides.
Ben fumbled below the table and drew out a box. “Little Nell,” he said, “you make me the happiest man alive. Will you marry me and be mine forever?”
“Yes,” Nell said, her eyes brimming with tears. The ring slid onto her plump, perfectly manicured finger.
Over coffee, they talked. Nell was still bothered by the increasing comments of her co-workers, the occasional murmur of “Muffin top” when she walked by (her skirts had gotten pretty snug), and her increasing distance from her co-workers.
“I’d like to see you get up to at least 300,” Ben had confided. Nell sat gazing at the ring. “Do you feel as though you want to live in New York forever?”
“No…” Ben said slowly. “There are terrific museums everywhere…”
He, like a typical male, didn’t see what Nell was getting at.
“If we moved somewhere else … after I got bigger… people wouldn’t know that I used to be thin.” Ben got it.
“I’ve got the perfect solution,” Ben said. “Just the other day, I got an offer for a one-year job at the University of Nebraska for someone going on sabbatical. I haven’t told you because I didn’t know how you’d react.”
“We could live in Nebraska for a year…”
“And then move anywhere you like!”
“And I could grow in Nebraska…”
“A nice corn-fed girl!”
They both laughed.
“Fabulous!” Ben added.
And so that’s what they did. The year in Nebraska was heavenly. They moved to Lincoln and got married at the courthouse. The cost of living was so much lower that Nell didn’t have to get an outside job. She found one, though, as an online editor, which allowed her to work from home. Thank goodness for sweat suits!
And Nell bloomed.
Away from the city and the cattiness and the taxis and tourists and crowds and subways, she fell in love with the Nell that Ben loved. Her face became glowing as it became fuller, her cheeks rounding into apples and a second chin sliding out cutely below the first. Her breasts ripened, spilling over into more than a double handful. Below, her belly flowed ripplingly downward, bulging out into a double spare tire, which Ben loved to fondle. Her belly at rest was a soft cushion; when she was standing or gorging, it glowed, rosy and radiant.
Her bottom became a nice balance to her chest, and her thighs thickened along with her waistline, becoming sturdy and tempting, which Ben was … often.
After the year ended, they took their time heading across the country toward Seattle, where the Seattle Art Museum had offered Ben a job. Nell was at 285 when they arrived, and she quickly got a part-time job as an elementary school librarian.
The kids loved being embraced by the cushiony, maternal Aunt Nell, which suited Nell beautifully. She and Ben had discovered early on that they loved children … other people’s children … and didn’t want any of their own.
After reaching 300 pounds, glowingly beautiful, Nell settled at about 325 and though her weight moved up and down in a 10-pound range, that seemed to be where she was happiest.
It was amazing, Nell thought one Saturday morning, relaxing with coffee on the deck. After 15 years of treating her body as the Enemy, she’d made her peace with it. She was overflowing with happiness.
“You make me very happy,” Ben mumbled, kissing her neck. “Little Nell.”
