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Big Beautiful Dreamer

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New Khakis
by Big Beautiful Dreamer



It was my sister who noticed it first. And honestly, she was the only one in the family who would have said something. The others lacked the necessary schadenfreude.

I had always prided myself in staying in shape and in having the same waist size as I had in college. But then, all during high school and college I had played varsity rugby, so there had always been training and making weight and the coach and the trainer keeping a very close eye on physical matters. And now that I was all but 30, the old metabolism wasn’t what it once was. Still, I fooled myself into believing that manufacturers were skimping on material and that sizes were deceptive.

At home for Christmas, though, Denise couldn’t wait to get on my case.

“I’d stay away from all those cookies if I were you, Joe,” she said happily.

“Why? What do you mean?” Oh, a top-notch comeback, weakened further by the fact that my mouth was full of maple sugar crumble.

“Startin’ to look like the Pillsbury Doughboy,” she said.
 
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Big Beautiful Dreamer

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“Denise,” my brother said mildly. “Is that necessary?”

Chris was both an ordained minister in the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers, to the rest of us) and a licensed professional counselor. He was also the author of Out of the Silence: Quaker Perspectives on Pastoral Care and Counseling, which had become a standard text in the field.

“Maybe I just want to guide my brother on the path to wellness,” she suggested, which earned her a famous raised-eyebrow look from the middle child.

“He’s twenty-nine years old, Denise,” Chris said. “I think he knows how to feed himself.”

Denise pouted and headed for the stairs. Of the whole family, she was farthest away from our religious roots. Our parents were birthright Quakers who would have pulled out their fingernails rather than criticize a person. Our upbringing had been mostly questioning our choices and making us think through our decisions and their consequences. Worked better than you might think. And I still attended First Day services. Denise, to my knowledge, hadn’t been to Meeting, or to any church, since leaving home to go across the country to UCLA. She was a devotee of the tanning bed and in fact managed a salon in Irvine.
 

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Ruffled from the encounter, and feeling suddenly awkward, I took another cookie. The crunching sounded loud to my ears.

“Guess I’ll go down to the cellar,” I mumbled, and made my escape.

The cellar had been converted into a basement suite, and from time to time my parents rented it out to make a little extra money. For the next three days it was all mine. I peeled off my sweatshirt and T-shirt and took a good hard look in the mirror: full-on, then sideways.

Crap. Denise was right. There was no denying the fact that I’d, well, put on a few pounds. It wasn’t bad – I wasn’t outright fat – but my belly was soft instead of firm, my waistline squashy and inching over the khakis that were already a size 36, up from my standard 32-inch waist. Come to think of it. If I were honest, I’d know I didn’t have a hope of squeezing into 32s, and I knew that the way Mom cooked, the pants I was wearing would be awfully snug by the time I left.

Maybe I’d exercise some restraint.

Maybe Chris would be the next pope.

My parents had invited a few strays over, as they always did around the holidays: a widower from church, a bachelor from down the street, our maiden aunt from King of Prussia.

Not that my mom needed an excuse to go nuts in the kitchen. A retired home ec teacher, she’d won state fair ribbons for preserves, bread, produce, and cakes. A local shop sold her fudge.

There was scarcely room on the table for our plates and silverware. The table was so crowded, in fact, that once we emptied a dish my dad took it out to the kitchen to give us some much-needed elbow room.
 

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And most of the time, being a bachelor, I survived on sandwiches, scrambled eggs, and freezer meals, so I told myself I needed to make up for lost time now that I was around some real home cooking. By the time I was ready for seconds, I had forgotten all about Denise’s teasing – and that look in the mirror.

An hour later – when it was too late – I remembered. All of us dopey and dazed, we sort of staggered into the living room. I noticed with some satisfaction (misery loves company) that mine was not the only visibly swollen stomach. I sank onto the bagged-out sofa, wincing as the hook cut into my full belly. My pants hadn’t been slicing my midriff this afternoon. I remembered a soft cushion, my gut a modest pouch, but the pants hadn’t been uncomfortable.

Now, though, I hastened to undo the hook and let the zipper down, mildly embarrassed at how much relief the move brought me. I glanced down. “Soft” wasn’t the word for it. Tight as a drum, my belly was aching and tender, full as a balloon and without any give. And like a balloon, it felt as though the slightest poke would make it burst. I found myself breathing shallowly through my mouth, too full for a deep breath.

My dad was in the same state, dreamily rubbing his bulging midsection. “I’m puffing, Peggy,” he said. “Ate too much.”

“Oh, no such thing,” Mom scoffed. “Not at Christmas.”

Chris hiccupped loudly. “Whoa – hic – beg to differ,” he said. “So stuffed it hurts to breathe. Hic.

At that, I felt better about having to undo my trousers. Surely some of the problem was that I was just a little bloated. Too much fat, too much salt, had kicked my digestion into high gear. Later on, when I was downstairs, I’d visit the bathroom and would feel much better. I couldn’t have eaten that much.

“Yo, bro,” Chris said drowsily.

“Mmm.” Why was I so sleepy? My brain felt waterlogged.

“We did a number on that pie, huh?”

“Pie,” I repeated stupidly.

“Yeah, the Dutch apple. You don’t remember? We basically split it down the middle.”

I stifled a belch, which was a mistake. “Did I eat half a pie? Ooohhh.” I winced as my swollen stomach, bloated and sore, groaned and sloshed audibly.

“It’s all right. Urrrp. I ate the other half.” He rubbed his own belly, noticeably ballooning out beneath his gray polo shirt.

I was starting to feel a little warm. And just a little queasy. “Maybe I’ll go lie down.”

Dazed and logy, I hauled myself up and stumbled down the stairs, clinging to the hand rail. Once downstairs, I peeled off everything and pulled on a forgivingly loose pair of sweatpants and oversized shirt, my pajamas. Sank into the recliner and pulled the handle.
 

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I felt a little better. Had the floor fan oscillating, blowing cool air on my flushed face. I pulled the shirt up and mindlessly massaged my full stomach. I was stuffed up to my eyebrows, so overloaded that every movement hurt. Like the skin over my distended abdomen was pulled to the breaking point and that with any sudden movements it would pop. Almost felt as though I’d pulled a rib, the kind of aching soreness that I used to feel after a rugby match. Only this time it wasn’t my muscles that had gotten a workout. Just how much had I eaten?

Half a pie, Chris said. That by itself would result in an achingly full belly. And I remembered at least two rounds of a plate heaped with dinner. Now that I thought back, I remembered feeling contentedly full after the first helping. I could have stopped. But the smells were so enticing, and the tastes and flavors on my tongue so irresistible that I kept wanting just a little more. And after seconds, I was pretty sure I’d had thirds. Three huge platefuls, probably a day’s worth of food. Topped off with fully half of a Dutch apple pie swimming with cream.

I woke up an hour later, stiff-necked and groggy, and feeling a little less sick. But if I went back upstairs, I’d be around more food. Besides, I was in my pajamas. So I stayed downstairs, taking it easy, channel surfing until I was ready to actually go to bed. My last waking thought: I’ll take it easy tomorrow.

Christmas Eve was not a day to take it easy in the food department. Mom’s famous breakfast casserole, and coffee cake, and more apple pie. Lunch was turkey soup, filling and warm … and her homemade egg salad, and red-beet salad, and chips and dip, and chocolate oatmeal cookies. Then the touch football game in the back yard, after which we all declared we were starving. Mom had made enough food for twenty people – and, amazingly, we managed to eat most of it.

I’ll spare you the details. But over three days, I ate so much that I had to wear my sweatpants for the drive home – because even on an empty stomach, even with khakis boasting a 36-inch waist, when I tried to do them up, they dug uncomfortably into what might have been new flab around my midsection.

Luckily, the part of the bank where I worked didn’t require suits – a shirt, tie, and khakis was the informal uniform. I was an actuary and did a lot of my business by phone call, advising the bank of risk management in its insurance portfolios. Trust me, it’s too boring to explain, but I enjoyed it, in a wonky kind of way.

After the wake-up call of having to hunt through the Goodwill for pants I could actually fasten – and finding that 38-inch waists were just barely fitting – I joined probably thousands of Americans in a New Year’s resolution to lose weight.

I started eating salads for lunch and choosing diet frozen dinners. But it wasn’t until I had to go back to the Goodwill for 40-inch pants that I realized I had been subconsciously sabotaging myself. Because of the salad, I rationalized a midafternoon snack from the vending machine. And the diet dinners were leaving me so hungry that I was hitting up the kitchen in the evenings before bed. Maybe it was true: Diets make you fat.
 

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I tried Weight Watchers – which turned out to be a terrific place to meet women. Most weeks, there was only one other guy, an 80-year-old who was on his twentieth year of maintaining. Week after week, I paid my fee only to have the receptionist hand me back my little booklet showing a gain.

I guess I wasn’t being conscientious enough. I mean, I know I wasn’t. Every time I looked in the mirror I could see a visibly thickening waistline. My modest pot from December was a full-grown paunch by March. A spare tire once I squeezed it into the now-snug 40-waist khakis.

One evening after a meeting, frustrated because I wasn’t getting anywhere, I kicked the tire. And heard a giggle.

“Another refugee,” I said, covering my embarrassment at the sight of a brunette in a cotton wrap dress.

“If those tires are up for kicking,” she said, making a face, “I’ll join you.” Dramatically she held up her booklet and tore it in two.

“Three months and I’ve lost a whole pound and a half. They say if you do everything you’re supposed to, it works,” but I swear I’ve been gaining and losing the same pound over and over. I’ve had it with paying money every week.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “Joe Shepherd,” she said.

“No way,” she said, which was not what I expected by way of a response.

“I’m Joanna Schaf,” she said, and then I laughed. “Schaf” is the German word for sheep.

“How about I herd you to a restaurant for a good dinner?”

“Honestly,” she said, “that sounds great. I’m starving. I never eat before a weigh-in.”

She was short, five foot four or so, and bewitchingly plump, with softly rounded arms and legs, a nice womanly backside, and a generous bosom. I imagined running my hands along her belly and finding a soft cushion there.

“The trouble is,” she said over sizzling steaks big enough to hang off the plates, “my sister used to do ballet professionally. She was a soloist for a regional company. And now she teaches yoga. So Rebecca probably hasn’t weighed a hundred pounds in her whole life. My folks don’t say anything – but they can give you a look.”

“My parents are too gentle to say a word,” I said, “but my sister Denise got on me pretty good at Christmas.”

“I’m a fully functioning adult,” she said. “We both are. But it’s funny how families can make you feel like a misbehaving kid.”

“Speaking of full…” I gestured to my plate, which, despite the huge restaurant servings, was empty. I’d even eaten the gristle.

“Oof, me too,” Joanna said, her face becomingly flushed.

Out on the sidewalk, though, revived by the crisp cold air, I didn’t want the evening to end.

“Hey look, that new bakery’s open,” I said.

“Oh, no. Don’t even,” she said, laughing. “I’m stuffed.”

“We’ll just go in to warm up,” I suggested.

Twenty minutes later, I was scraping the crumbs of a cherry tart off my plate, while Joanna unabashedly licked her finger and dotted up the last bits of a double-chocolate brownie. We were still, unironically, talking about weight loss.

“I swear,” she said with a sigh. “Every year I make a resolution to lose weight. And every year I don’t. I’ve had it up to hear with feeling guilty about every bite I put in my mouth.”

“It’s harder on women,” I said, nodding. “I never thought much about it until Denise said something.”

“And why should she?” Joanna asked. “No offense, but it’s none of her business how you look after yourself.”

“I work out,” I added. And I generally eat okay. But I have put on a few pounds.”

“Looks good on you,” Joanna said, and then blushed furiously.

“Since when does ‘fat’ look good?”
 

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She shrugged, self-conscious. “I think it’s society as a whole that decided it doesn’t. Honestly. There used to be ads showing girls in bathing suits saying they were unpopular and lonely because they were too thin. Then they tried some powder or something and gained weight. When did we decide that being deluxe-size was a character flaw?”

“Deluxe-size, I like that,” I said.

“Then let’s make a new resolution,” Joanna suggested. “Let’s resolve that this year, we will not worry about how we look – we’ll celebrate it.”

“Deal,” I said.

I had the taxi drop her off first so I could see her inside, and incidentally enjoy a rear view of a nicely rounded bottom and legs with a lovely curve to them. But even though more than an hour had passed since dinner, once I got home, I couldn’t wait to get the khakis off. I looked in the mirror and groaned. Those added pounds stuck out like a sofa cushion, my belly round and distended with the huge dinner and dessert. Then, remembering Joanna’s idea, I frowned. Celebrate it?

I made a strongman pose and drew myself up. Substantial, that was me. I slapped my bulging midsection, then slapped it again, mildly impressed with the hollow thunk it made. I let out an impressive belch. There we go.

As January slid away, I noticed that most of my acquaintances had eased up on the obligatory New Year’s diets. Tupperware containers of salads in the fridge were replaced with leftover takeout.

And Joanna and I were still working on celebrating our bodies. It was uphill work, for her more than for me. Most of the time, she was a cheerful soul, but every once in a while she’d get in a funk.

“I feel fat today,” she’d grouse, usually because something didn’t fit. But she usually cheered up when I suggested a thrift-ship date. It was only partly altruistic. We were doing a lot of eating out, and my waistline was steadily expanding. What had been only a modest pot at Christmas had become, by Easter, quite the spare tire, thickening seemingly by the day. I looked like I was hiding a soccer ball under my shirts, and I could see my face becoming fuller. But nobody in my world was saying anything about it.

Except Joanna.

By the first time we made love, I had thought I was looking forward to it. Until it dawned on me that she would see me naked. In a mild panic, I didn’t eat anything all day, like that would make a difference, so that by the time we met up at the restaurant, I was starving. So I overcompensated, which made it worse. We headed back to her apartment, with me at least, dazed and logy, my belly throbbing with discomfort.

Without saying anything, she led me to her bedroom. We both just knew. I stood in appreciative silence as she tugged her dress over her head and then with relief undid her bra.

“Oh, that’s better,” she said. She wore only bikini panties, and I could ogle her breasts, warm and soft. In the lamplight her own tummy was clearly full, gently swollen and heavily rounded and rosy. She rubbed it, her eyes half-closed, looking well sated herself.

As if in a dream I undid my shirt and slid it off, then the undershirt. I’d started wearing one recently because as my chest had gotten softer, my nipples were more prominent. Without meaning to, I let out a groan of relief as I undid my khakis.

“Full tummy?” Joanna murmured.

“Mm,” I grunted. She took a step forward and began to massage it in gentle circles. Wow, did that feel good.

It felt even better when we were in bed. Counterintuitive, I know, but something about the pressure of her belly, firmly full, on my own swollen and aching gut eased my discomfort and heightened the pleasure.

Afterward, warm and content, we lay naked in bed, Joanna snuggled into me.

“I have to say,” she murmured. “That felt really good. I thought it wouldn’t. But something about the pressure, the warmth…”

“The sloshing,” I added. I pressed a hand to my still-distended gut and it gurgled obligingly.

“You’re right, though,” I said. “It felt good.”

“Well, look,” she said, sliding a hand around her rosily gravid tummy. “Why do otherwise functional adults all stress themselves out feeling guilty about every bite to try to adhere to impossible standards? Unhealthy standards?”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t try to lose weight before we go home for Memorial Day?”

“Because either way, Denise will get on your case, right? Are you ready to find a Quaker way to tell her to mind her own business?”

“No silence, huh?”

“Transparency,” she proclaimed. “Open communication.”

“Okay,” I said, still dubious.
 

Big Beautiful Dreamer

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By Memorial Day weekend, my new khaki shorts bore a 42 waistband – 42! -- but they fit. With even a trifle of breathing room. Joanna, sitting in the passenger seat, displayed a tummy that squished into a plump little waistband roll. A short-sleeved top displayed soft curves of arms.

We pulled in at my parents’, and I was suddenly nervous. I felt a strong urge just to back out and head to the nearest Amish restaurant.

“Celebrate, remember?” With Joanna’s prodding, I pulled myself out of the car and stood up. The polo shirt clung damply to my rounded belly. And here came Denise. I bit my lip, but it was to keep from smiling. Denise had visibly put on weight. Not nearly as much as I had, but there was an unmistakable cushion around her waistband, and her top was stretched rather snugly across her chest.

Clearly, she wasn’t going to say anything. So I did.

“Hey, Denise…”

“Hey.”

“You know, at Christmas you gave me a pretty hard time about gaining weight.”

“I know.” Her voice was subdued.

“I just want to say, in case you hadn’t noticed, that I’m an adult. A fully functioning grownup. I choose to celebrate who I am and how I look instead of worrying about it. I’m a big guy. And that’s okay. It’s not like I’m the only one.”

Oops. “I mean…”

Denise looked away, then looked back. “You’re right. It’s awful to feel like crap about yourself all the time, isn’t it?” She laid a hand on her softened midsection. “And you might have noticed I’ve put on a few pounds myself.”

“You look good.”

She looked up quickly. “I do, huh?”

“Yeah. You do.”

“So I should quit being miserable?”

“And later on … we’ll both enter the family watermelon-eating contest?”

“You’re on,” she said.

By twilight, I was having second thoughts. I’d been grazing all day, then sat down to a huge lunch: two plump burgers, a sizzling brat, potato salad, deviled eggs, red-beet salad, cookies. Later on, brownies a la mode, and, after a plea from Mom, helping finish off the deviled eggs and red-beet salad.

I was already stuffed to the brim before Dad brought out the watermelons. Still, it was a tradition, and Denise and I had a challenge to meet.

The winner was the first one to finish a whole watermelon. Dad was the judge of whether the rind was clean enough.

“Go,” Mom said clearly, and we were off. Of course, I had the handicap of an already full belly, but watermelon is mostly water, right?

Mostly water it might be, but water can be awfully filling. Still, I plowed away steadily, my face growing sticky, my mouth numb from the cold. I glanced around. Joanna, the wimp, had quit after three slices.

“Miscalculated,” she mumbled. “Too much – oohhh – potato salad.”

“You help us judge, sweetie,” Dad said kindly.

Chris was well ahead of me, ready to start on his second half. I grabbed the last two slices and scarfed them down together. And then Denise saw me and did the same.
 
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Big Beautiful Dreamer

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After one slice from his second half, though, Chris gave up, as did Mr. Meyerson, the widower from down the block. Denise’s boyfriend lasted a couple more slices. Then it was just Denise and me. Neither one of us was capable of rushing.

God, was I full! I paused and gave my aching belly a gentle massage. Tautly distended, it ballooned out beneath my shirt. I leaned back a little to ease the pressure. My abdomen was stretched to the bursting point, my sides tender and sore, the weight of my hugely overloaded gut heavy. I glanced over. Denise was sporting a pearlike tummy, rounded and firm, the thin fabric of her top pulled tightly enough to outline her belly button, poking out like a little doorbell.

“Give up?” she puffed?

“Never,” I grunted. Three-quarters of a watermelon down. This would be a task on an empty stomach and mine was stretched to the limit as it was. I hiccupped sharply.

“I’m – hic – gonna win,” I said, short of breath myself.

I picked up the next piece and chomped it down in big messy bites, juice running along my chin. Any advantage in time I might have gained was lost when afterward I had to stop and catch my breath. I was full up to my eyebrows, my hugely stretched stomach jostling my diaphragm, my packed belly squashing my lungs. Even shallow sips of air put a hurt on my tender and aching midsection. I was much too stuffed for a deep breath.

Denise and I made it through the next slice together. We picked up the next slice. Denise eyed it. Her gaze was a little glassy, her eyes glazed over.

“Need a break,” she panted. “Not done. Urp. Just … oof … resting.” She laid her free hand on her bloated midriff, tried to tug her shirt up to cool her doubtless warm and churning belly, but the fabric clung too tightly. My own shirt had begun to inch up, revealing that the 42-inch waistband of my khaki shorts was now slicing into my gut, which rode well proud of the 42-inch mark.

Two more slices remained. Could I pull off the first-half trick again? I picked them both up. Slowly, dazedly, I crunched down to the rind. Dopily bleary-eyed, I glanced over, seeing a blurry image of Denise, who was stoically biting through the piece in her hand.

“The new winner!” Dad proclaimed. He grabbed my hand to raise it up. The movement, gentle as it was, set off an unwelcome tsunami in my gorged and swollen belly.

“Oof, Dad, don’t,” I groaned.

“Everyone pull your shirts up for a picture,” Mom announced. Grumbling, we all lined up. Chris, who had wimped out after half a watermelon, displayed a little soccer ball of a belly. Mr. Meyerson, slight of build, looked like a snake that had swallowed a possum. Denise’s boyfriend, who was pretty sturdy, displayed a spare tire with a little extra air in it.

“Come on, you two slowpokes,” Mom chided. Denise and I looked at each other. Grunting with effort, we wobbled to our feet. Denise staggered slightly, caught off balance. As she did, her gravid and swollen tummy gurgled. With an effort, moving cautiously, she peeled her shirt up and away. Stretched and shiny, her middle looked like an overinflated balloon. With slow careful steps she thudded over and leaned herself against her boyfriend.

Standing up meant leaning forward – only a little, it hurt too much to really bend over – but that slight movement was enough for my khakis. The button pinged off. As I stood, the zipper slid partway down and I felt my belly, pendulous and gorged, sag heavily enough that I thought I might have pulled a muscle.

What muscle? My abdomen was taut, all right, but swollen with far too much food. My head swam a little. Without quite meaning to, I waddled as I walked, staggering over to join the rest. In a daze, I dragged my shirt up, displaying a hugely distended midriff. I looked down. My blurred vision showed a vast field of pale skin, tightly bloated and pulled so tight my belly itched. I thought I might pop. With every move, my massively overfilled stomach sloshed and groaned.

“Here ya go, sweetie,” Mom said, placing a box in my hands.

“What?” Stupidly, half-asleep.

“For winning. It’s traditional.” I forced my gaze into focus. “A dozen watermelon macarons from the Pennsylvania Bakery.”

I felt a huge belch gurgle up. “Urp. More food.”

“Oh, ya don’t have to eat ’em now. They’ll keep.”

By now, it was getting dark. Joanna and I said our goodbyes and headed to the hotel. Joanna drove without even asking. I reclined the seat and leaned back, letting the air conditioning blow coolly onto my hot and distended gut, the 42-inch khakis now wide open and not a hope of closing. I looked as though I had swallowed the watermelon whole; my belly was tautly convex and still tight as a drum, no give at all. I lay in a half-doze until we got to the hotel. Joanna carried in the box. I was still waddling, I could feel it. Apparently walking normally involves enough hip and waist movement that it felt safer to sort of rock back and forth. I moved slowly, my belly aching and tender.

Once we were inside, Joanna popped the lid on the box. “Ooh, those look good,” she exclaimed.

“Knock yourself out,” I said. “Someone didn’t top off a day’s worth of stuffing with a whole watermelon.”

“Well, now I’m a little hungry again,” she admitted. There was a pause. “Hey. Can you hold any more?”

I was reclining in the easy chair, my hand resting on my still-bloated abdomen. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s just us … let’s see if we can kill this whole box. And then…”

I was about to decline, reflexively, but we had both discovered that sex on a full stomach is incredibly intimate. The stretch and pressure, the warmth and movement, all combine to heighten the effect.

“Need some water,” I grunted.

Joanna filled the ice bucket with tap water and pulled up the desk chair. “Here we go.”

She popped the first one in and dispatched it quickly, reaching for a second. I was taking small, cautious bites. I could feel my belly, stretched to its limits, swell even more with each mouthful of meringue, each swallow of water. My stomach and I groaned in unison.

Macarons might look insubstantial, but they can add up. By unspoken agreement, we both knew we were responsible for six of those delectable puppies each. Joanna had managed four, but was slowing down. Even though she’d wimped on the watermelon, I could see that she was now very full. Sitting down was apparently putting too much pressure on her ballooning belly. Slowly, she hauled herself up.

“Ooohhhh,” she groaned. “Hic.” Bracing herself, she gently traced her hands down her midriff. She was utterly naked. Below her ripe peach breasts, her tummy swelled tautly outward, gleaming in the lamplight. Her navel was a slit, and I could see slight indentations where her tummy normally began on the sides of her waist.

Good idea. I’d also consumed four and a decent amount of water. Grunting with effort, I got my feet on the floor, braced my hands, and fought gravity. I got upright, sort of, but I was struck again by the sheer heaviness of my gut. It sloshed and swayed a little, and it was with caution that I started to straighten up. Oh, that hurt. It felt better to stay in a half-crouch. But I had two more macarons to go. Inch by inch, fighting gravity, I stood up. Even leaned back a little, bracing myself.

“You can do it,” Joanna said.

“So can you. My beautiful voluptuous babe.”

I took a large bite of the next one. Paused for a shallow gulp of air. I ventured a poke at my achingly distended belly. Rock hard. Swollen outward and upward, a solid dome. With difficulty, I swallowed, washing it down with water. Macaron. Water. Macaron. Water.

Amazingly, we both finished. I had topped off a disgracefully large meal with an entire watermelon – and capped the gorge with half a dozen macarons.

It took some effort for both of us to haul ourselves onto the bed. Every movement was agony. Our bellies stretched almost to bursting, the skin shiny and tight. In slow motion we turned toward each other, groaning together at the thump and slosh of hugely distended tummies. Then the discomfort ebbed, replaced by the exquisite tension of foreplay. Warm full belly pressed to warm full belly.

“Next year,” Joanna murmured, “we’ll bring you new khakis – size 44.”

I slid a hand down to my still-bloated belly and pressed gently, enjoying the ache and pull of a gut stuffed to the limits. I grinned.

"Make if a 46."
 
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loopytheone

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Ohhh, it's great to see you and a new story, BBD!
 
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