Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG. A couple who enjoys living back to nature explores the subversive possibilities of defying convention.
I was letting the warm water spray over me, gently bobbling a bare breast in its hammock of washcloth. Squeezing the soft flesh and enjoying the sensation of its bounty overspilling my splayed fingers.
A pair of hands, large and rough, grabbed me at my waist. I squealed.
Turning around, I eyed Gabe and said dryly, You know, its a good thing youre not a big guy, because I doubt there would be room for two of say, me in here.
And what if I was? he growled, taking up my breasts and lightly jiggling them. Mmm, such ripe lusciousness. He pretended to bite.
What if I he suited his movements to his words had a spare tire that made creases in my back? What if I had a belly like a big old basketball? What if I had a cushion under my chinny-chin-chin? He switched from patting himself to my body, wet and gleaming.
What if my tummy was squashy like mmm like this lovely cushion? What if when you squeezed it, you made the belly button go bye-bye? What if my bottom were squashy like this and this what if my thighs were flabby and my chest was like
Like diving into a bowl of marshmallows, I suggested, and buried my head in his chest.
Ow! I jerked my head back and rubbed my nose, which had bonked his sternum and found no padding to break the fall.
Well, what if? he asked later, idly picking up another slice of pizza. After all, who dictates that slender is the right way to be?
Society I murmured.
Which we dont have much use for, he added.
We lived somewhat off the grid, in a solar-powered, green-energy home he had built himself on a three-acre lot. We grew our own vegetables, composted, had two cows for milk and five chickens for eggs. We bought our butter and cheese from an Amish cooperative, and I made most of our clothes.
I worked as a seamstress for a large formal-wear store, and Gabe made and ran websites for a couple of dozen churches. He also taught website classes offered at a local community college.
We lived like this not because we felt passionately disgusted with all mainstream global corporations but because living this way felt right.
Gabe finished off the crust and looked speculatively at the last slice. Of the two pizzas, Id had six slices of one; hed had the other two plus five slices of the second.
Easier than composting it, I suggested, and got up to fetch another beer for him.
Gabe chugged a third of the bottle, belched, and grinned. This pizza is history, he announced.
He leaned back, idly swiveling the empty bottle, and rested a hand on his belly. Ten slices of pizza and three beers had filled the tank, and his midriff, which was normally undefined but average-sized, was now bloated and distended, bulging with his feast.
This feels good, he admitted. Warm. Sleepy. Ready tourphibernate.
I wiggled my feet, which were resting on his lap. I was leaning back against the other arm of the sofa, my hands on my own aching tummy. Id had six slices and two beers and I was stuffed and a little tight, pleasantly buzzed. My stomach was pleasantly sore, the sides pulling and the weight of it sagging heavily toward the tops of my thighs. I was too full to move; if a bear came crashing through the window, I would become a snack.
The next morning, in addition to the steel-cut oatmeal (topped that morning with strawberries), I laid out bacon and a couple of fried eggs and biscuits. Gabes eyes widened.
Gonna make me fall asleep at my desk, he said playfully, squeezing my bottom as I laid the biscuits on the table. Gonna make me post the Episcopal Womens luncheon on the Temple Beth Shalom site and the Hadassah fund-raiser on the Unitarians page. He reached for a biscuit.
By the time wed finished reading the paper, the oatmeal bowls were empty and four eggs, six slices of bacon, and five biscuits had disappeared. Gabe stood up, stretched hugely, and belched.
That was outstanding, my love, he said, burying his face in my breasts and making nuzzling sounds. He came up for air. I will grill some salmon and vegetables for dinner. Pick up a loaf of bread from Great Grains?
Aye aye, sir, I said. I ran my fingers through my hair and went to brush my teeth.
That evening, feet up, we discussed the pleasantly subversive idea of choosing what eating habits and size we were comfortable with.
We dont receive electricity from a company that dumps coal ash into the lakes and cuts down trees, Gabe observed. We dont eat genetically modified, pesticide-laden, shipped-in-boxcars hydroponic tomatoes, or grapes from Chile, or corn that should have gone to cows. We dont have to worry about hormones in the milk; the eggs fresh from hens are light-years removed from the factory-farm ping-pong balls; we dont have television; what exactly has prompted us prompted me to make consumption of food unhappy, guilt-ridden, and controlled by total strangers?
He belched. If I wish to consume a pound of salmon and half a pound of sautéed zucchini, summer squash, and onion, and settle my stomach with four fat slices of whole-grain bread spread with pure Amish butter, and enjoy a glass of Zinfandel with it, why should I not?
He belched again. And then revel in the pleasantly dopey, comfortably sated, just-overfed-enough sensation that my stomach provides?
You should, I said.
But you, he pointed his pipe at me. You, my angel, ate only half your salmon, a token spoonful of vegetables, and one slice of bread. What is up, doggie?
I blushed and looked away. Nothing.
Sara Jane. My spouse, my companion, my partner, my genius lover. Speak truth to the angel Gabriel.
My pants are getting tight, I admitted. Im putting on weight.
Gabe closed his eyes and sighed deeply. When he opened them, I was stunned to see that tears gleamed in them.
Society, he said, is exponentially harder on women than it is on men. No one will say anything to a man who fattens up, but let a woman add even five pounds to her ripely luscious curves and she is a pig, a fatty, an ill-bred, uneducated twit with self-esteem issues and probably abuse in her past. Undesired and undesirable, low-class and not worth knowing.
He sighed again. You, light of my life, have been my right hand and half of my heart for four years. I love every inch of you. Your tummy is a work of art; your breasts are magnificently ripened lusciousness; your bottom a paradise. Your face is a bed of roses and your thighs are the gates of heaven. If your body, responding to your pleasure in its care and feeding, were to ripen even further, I would be enslaved to your magnificence and paralyzed by your beauty.
Gabe had a Ph.D. in Eastern literature. He wasnt being silly when he talked like that; that was just how he communicated. I had to admit, I had come to like the overwhelmingly extreme nature of his compliments.
If I feel unrestrained by the false constructs of society, and choose to enjoy food and filling my belly, I demand no less for you, he said firmly. Then:
As soon as you can arrange it, take a months vacation. Well travel.
It was September before I could get four straight weeks off. First we had to get through the busy season.
We left our home in Californias Central Valley and traveled north to San Francisco, then Seattle. East to Minnesota and south to Chicago. Then up into New England Boston, coastal Maine and finally ending in Pennsylvania.
We gorged ourselves at the French Laundry and ate until we were dizzy at Ivars Clam Bar. Enjoyed locally raised beef and discovered deep-dish pizza. Filled our bellies until we could not move at Legal Seafood and had to order dessert and coffee so that we could stall until we could bear to stand up. Delighted in using implements of destruction to get at the succulent, chewy lobster meat. And wended our way to Amish country in Pennsylvania.
The meals served at restaurants were made for hard-working farmers. A simple breakfast included eggs, bacon, Cheerios, coffee cake, scrapple, oatmeal, and biscuits. Lunch came with sides of beet slaw, potato salad, butter bread, and homemade pickles. Dinner was incomplete without oatmeal-raisin cookies and a fat slice of shoofly pie or a large bowl of peach cobbler.
After our last dinner, in Bird-in-Hand, before preparing to head west in the morning, Gabe and I leaned back in our chairs, panting, dazed, anesthetized by our gorge. He had undone his jeans, and I had undone mine, and it was going to be a while before we could even think about staggering back to the bed and breakfast.
Oh God breakfast. What would our drive home be like? I could just imagine.
To be continued
Off the Grid
I was letting the warm water spray over me, gently bobbling a bare breast in its hammock of washcloth. Squeezing the soft flesh and enjoying the sensation of its bounty overspilling my splayed fingers.
A pair of hands, large and rough, grabbed me at my waist. I squealed.
Turning around, I eyed Gabe and said dryly, You know, its a good thing youre not a big guy, because I doubt there would be room for two of say, me in here.
And what if I was? he growled, taking up my breasts and lightly jiggling them. Mmm, such ripe lusciousness. He pretended to bite.
What if I he suited his movements to his words had a spare tire that made creases in my back? What if I had a belly like a big old basketball? What if I had a cushion under my chinny-chin-chin? He switched from patting himself to my body, wet and gleaming.
What if my tummy was squashy like mmm like this lovely cushion? What if when you squeezed it, you made the belly button go bye-bye? What if my bottom were squashy like this and this what if my thighs were flabby and my chest was like
Like diving into a bowl of marshmallows, I suggested, and buried my head in his chest.
Ow! I jerked my head back and rubbed my nose, which had bonked his sternum and found no padding to break the fall.
Well, what if? he asked later, idly picking up another slice of pizza. After all, who dictates that slender is the right way to be?
Society I murmured.
Which we dont have much use for, he added.
We lived somewhat off the grid, in a solar-powered, green-energy home he had built himself on a three-acre lot. We grew our own vegetables, composted, had two cows for milk and five chickens for eggs. We bought our butter and cheese from an Amish cooperative, and I made most of our clothes.
I worked as a seamstress for a large formal-wear store, and Gabe made and ran websites for a couple of dozen churches. He also taught website classes offered at a local community college.
We lived like this not because we felt passionately disgusted with all mainstream global corporations but because living this way felt right.
Gabe finished off the crust and looked speculatively at the last slice. Of the two pizzas, Id had six slices of one; hed had the other two plus five slices of the second.
Easier than composting it, I suggested, and got up to fetch another beer for him.
Gabe chugged a third of the bottle, belched, and grinned. This pizza is history, he announced.
He leaned back, idly swiveling the empty bottle, and rested a hand on his belly. Ten slices of pizza and three beers had filled the tank, and his midriff, which was normally undefined but average-sized, was now bloated and distended, bulging with his feast.
This feels good, he admitted. Warm. Sleepy. Ready tourphibernate.
I wiggled my feet, which were resting on his lap. I was leaning back against the other arm of the sofa, my hands on my own aching tummy. Id had six slices and two beers and I was stuffed and a little tight, pleasantly buzzed. My stomach was pleasantly sore, the sides pulling and the weight of it sagging heavily toward the tops of my thighs. I was too full to move; if a bear came crashing through the window, I would become a snack.
The next morning, in addition to the steel-cut oatmeal (topped that morning with strawberries), I laid out bacon and a couple of fried eggs and biscuits. Gabes eyes widened.
Gonna make me fall asleep at my desk, he said playfully, squeezing my bottom as I laid the biscuits on the table. Gonna make me post the Episcopal Womens luncheon on the Temple Beth Shalom site and the Hadassah fund-raiser on the Unitarians page. He reached for a biscuit.
By the time wed finished reading the paper, the oatmeal bowls were empty and four eggs, six slices of bacon, and five biscuits had disappeared. Gabe stood up, stretched hugely, and belched.
That was outstanding, my love, he said, burying his face in my breasts and making nuzzling sounds. He came up for air. I will grill some salmon and vegetables for dinner. Pick up a loaf of bread from Great Grains?
Aye aye, sir, I said. I ran my fingers through my hair and went to brush my teeth.
That evening, feet up, we discussed the pleasantly subversive idea of choosing what eating habits and size we were comfortable with.
We dont receive electricity from a company that dumps coal ash into the lakes and cuts down trees, Gabe observed. We dont eat genetically modified, pesticide-laden, shipped-in-boxcars hydroponic tomatoes, or grapes from Chile, or corn that should have gone to cows. We dont have to worry about hormones in the milk; the eggs fresh from hens are light-years removed from the factory-farm ping-pong balls; we dont have television; what exactly has prompted us prompted me to make consumption of food unhappy, guilt-ridden, and controlled by total strangers?
He belched. If I wish to consume a pound of salmon and half a pound of sautéed zucchini, summer squash, and onion, and settle my stomach with four fat slices of whole-grain bread spread with pure Amish butter, and enjoy a glass of Zinfandel with it, why should I not?
He belched again. And then revel in the pleasantly dopey, comfortably sated, just-overfed-enough sensation that my stomach provides?
You should, I said.
But you, he pointed his pipe at me. You, my angel, ate only half your salmon, a token spoonful of vegetables, and one slice of bread. What is up, doggie?
I blushed and looked away. Nothing.
Sara Jane. My spouse, my companion, my partner, my genius lover. Speak truth to the angel Gabriel.
My pants are getting tight, I admitted. Im putting on weight.
Gabe closed his eyes and sighed deeply. When he opened them, I was stunned to see that tears gleamed in them.
Society, he said, is exponentially harder on women than it is on men. No one will say anything to a man who fattens up, but let a woman add even five pounds to her ripely luscious curves and she is a pig, a fatty, an ill-bred, uneducated twit with self-esteem issues and probably abuse in her past. Undesired and undesirable, low-class and not worth knowing.
He sighed again. You, light of my life, have been my right hand and half of my heart for four years. I love every inch of you. Your tummy is a work of art; your breasts are magnificently ripened lusciousness; your bottom a paradise. Your face is a bed of roses and your thighs are the gates of heaven. If your body, responding to your pleasure in its care and feeding, were to ripen even further, I would be enslaved to your magnificence and paralyzed by your beauty.
Gabe had a Ph.D. in Eastern literature. He wasnt being silly when he talked like that; that was just how he communicated. I had to admit, I had come to like the overwhelmingly extreme nature of his compliments.
If I feel unrestrained by the false constructs of society, and choose to enjoy food and filling my belly, I demand no less for you, he said firmly. Then:
As soon as you can arrange it, take a months vacation. Well travel.
It was September before I could get four straight weeks off. First we had to get through the busy season.
We left our home in Californias Central Valley and traveled north to San Francisco, then Seattle. East to Minnesota and south to Chicago. Then up into New England Boston, coastal Maine and finally ending in Pennsylvania.
We gorged ourselves at the French Laundry and ate until we were dizzy at Ivars Clam Bar. Enjoyed locally raised beef and discovered deep-dish pizza. Filled our bellies until we could not move at Legal Seafood and had to order dessert and coffee so that we could stall until we could bear to stand up. Delighted in using implements of destruction to get at the succulent, chewy lobster meat. And wended our way to Amish country in Pennsylvania.
The meals served at restaurants were made for hard-working farmers. A simple breakfast included eggs, bacon, Cheerios, coffee cake, scrapple, oatmeal, and biscuits. Lunch came with sides of beet slaw, potato salad, butter bread, and homemade pickles. Dinner was incomplete without oatmeal-raisin cookies and a fat slice of shoofly pie or a large bowl of peach cobbler.
After our last dinner, in Bird-in-Hand, before preparing to head west in the morning, Gabe and I leaned back in our chairs, panting, dazed, anesthetized by our gorge. He had undone his jeans, and I had undone mine, and it was going to be a while before we could even think about staggering back to the bed and breakfast.
Oh God breakfast. What would our drive home be like? I could just imagine.
To be continued
