Pie in the Sky - by BBD (~BHM,, Eating, Sex, ~MWG)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BHM,, Eating, Sex, ~MWG - a loving wife adds a new dimension to the relationship

Pie in the Sky
by Big Beautiful Dreamer​

I was 12 the first time it happened. The church picnic had a pie-eating contest for adults but also a “junior” division, and my best friend dared me to enter.

“What about you?” I challenged, witty as always.

“Yeah, I’m going to,” he said, after only a moment’s hesitation.

So there I was. The juniors, so as not to get too messy and make the parents mad, were allowed to eat the pie one slice at a time. A wedge of chocolate pie appeared in front of me, and Mr. Kubolec blew his whistle. I was competitive by nature and dived right in. Everything after that was kind of a blur. Next thing I knew, Mr. Kubolec was lifting my hand high in the air and declaring me the winner!

Then I tried to stand up. Was I full! I had a monster belly ache, and my stomach looked as though I was hiding a basketball under my shirt. It was round and tight and my sides kind of itched. How much pie had I eaten?
“How much did I eat?” I kind of moaned to Nick, who was looking a little green himself.

“Nine pieces,” he mumbled. Then he belched. Only it wasn’t just a belch. Some brownish green stuff came out of his mouth and nose. I closed my eyes, not wanting to know any more.

“Are you all right, sweetie?” Mom helped me into the back seat and laid her hand on my forehead.

“Yeah (urp),” I said. Without meaning to, I winced and held my stomach, which was sloshing around.

“I don’t know, Mike,” I heard her say to Dad. “He looks pretty green.”

“Just don’t throw up in the car, champ,” Dad said. “He’ll be all right.”

My stomach had never hurt so bad in my life. But at the same time, “down there” was feeling a little strange too. As I pressed my bloated belly, I realized I was getting kind of a charge off being so full. After we got home, I lay down for a while, and as my stomach began to hurt a little less, I discovered I was, in fact, enjoying the tightness of my belly, how firm and round it was.

Even so, I didn’t do anything about it for a long time – except at Thanksgiving and Christmas, when it seemed like everyone ate too much. Sometimes it seemed, especially at Thanksgiving, like that was the whole point. After dinner, my brother and I would go back to the bedroom and flop on our backs on the bunk beds, where we would moan and groan about how much our bellies ached and how we couldn’t even get our pants buttoned any more.

Then our church had a “homecoming.” That’s a Sunday when the life of the church is celebrated and former members are encouraged to attend. I was living upstate by then, and was married, but Mom’s latest e-mail urged us to come.

“Lots of folks haven’t met Michelle yet,” she noted. Well, as a newlywed, I was glad to be able to attend a function as a married man, free at last of the question, “So, Nick, when you getting married?”

So we went. And wouldn’t you know, there was a pie-eating contest. Memories rushed back. I remembered having the worst belly ache of my life, remembered how it felt afterward … remembered how oddly good it felt afterward.

“Why not, darling? You love pie,” Michelle whispered.

Well, why not?

I was in the adult division, of course, but sometime over the years they’d changed the rules, because the adult division was now also by the slice. Mr. Kubolec wasn’t the youth leader anymore, and one of the ushers, Wayne Merton, was presiding over the adults’ contest.

“Nicholas Krieger!” he exclaimed. “Good to see you back in town. So this is Mrs. Krieger!” Mr. Merton was like that, always talking in exclamation points.

“Gonna have a go at it? Young Nick was quite the pie eater when he was younger,” he confided to Michelle. “Won the juniors’ contest back when he had a full head of hair!” Yeah, rub it in, I’ve got male pattern baldness. At least I don’t wear orange ties, Merton.

“Oh, you have to, now,” Michelle said, squeezing my hand.

So I did.

Just like that contest 15 years earlier, everything was a blur after I picked up that first slice of pie. This year it was coconut cream. Next thing I knew … old goofy Wayne Merton was grabbing my hand and waving it, proclaiming, “The winnah … and STILL champeen!” Then I had to stand up.

Or try to.

Holy moley, was I in pain. Where to begin? I felt as though I’d eaten a car or something. My stomach ached fiercely and I felt a draft where my newly swollen belly bulged out below where my shirt ended. Experimentally I patted it, drawing laughter from those watching. It was tight as a drum and produced the same deep thud. I tried to stretch, which was a mistake. My belt creaked ominously. I thought my stomach might burst on the spot. Please don’t let me barf, I sent a desperate message to whom it might concern.

Michelle helped me into the car. She was driving, no debate. I was so dazed I could hardly walk. The minute we pulled out, I was fumbling at what had once been my waist. With some effort, I undid my belt, then my pants button and zipper.

“Ahhhh (urrrrrp).”

That felt much better. No longer hemmed in, behind and before, my bloated gut surged forward and the worst of the pain ebbed. Gingerly, I pulled my shirt up to survey the damage.

“Wow, look at my stomach.”

Michelle tapped it. “That’s one full tummy,” she said. Was it ever. The skin of my midriff was stretched taut and I felt so stuffed that every jounce of the car made me think I was going to overflow, which wouldn’t be pretty. Through the haze of satiety and physical discomfort, though, was a feeling I recognized better at 27 than I had at 12.

I was aroused. Very aroused. If I’d had room, I’d have had a woody, but the thing was out of luck, because boy, was there ever no room at the inn. The arousal was intensified when Michelle started massaging me with her right hand, driving with her left.

“Mmm … (hic!) … don’t stop … (hic!) feels good,” I mumbled, so stuffed I could scarcely breathe.

The drive home took about an hour, but I was in a semi-doze for most of it. I knew only that my belly was stuffed to bursting, yet was also being gently massaged, and that my privates wouldn’t stop sending messages.

I think Michelle was getting those messages, because no sooner were we home than she was steering me toward the bedroom. With some effort, I got my clothes off, then hers (which was more fun). I collapsed onto the bed and she bounced down next to me. Ow. She massaged a lot more than my swollen gut, and I happily reciprocated. She mounted me, which was harder than usual because Mount Stomach was in the way. Once we got situated, though, we both discovered that it was kind of fun having sex on a full belly.

Oh sure, we were warned about swimming on a full stomach … but no one ever warned us about this. It was amazingly good. I moved as much as I could – which wasn’t much – but I sure enjoyed the sloshing and plunging effects, kind of like having sex on a roller coaster with an achingly stuffed belly – wow!

“That,” Michelle panted, “was the best sex we’ve ever had.” Now we’d been married only about eight months, so the sex was usually pretty good, but I had to agree. There was something about that full tummy that made it unusually good, a little like a threesome without the weirdness.

Reader, you can guess where this is going.

There were no more pie contests, but Michelle started dropping hints. Very un-subtle hints.

“You’re pretty tall,” she would say, smoothing my shirt. “A tall guy can carry some poundage so much more effectively.”

Mornings, she’d hug me from behind and caress me from pecs to navel. Not a word – just a caress.

There was homemade dessert every night, and the dinners she made featured a lot more comfort food. If it had been a restaurant, it would have been the kind where every menu item features the words “creamy” in its description. Seconds were urged on me … if “urged” isn’t too mild a word. Dessert was presented, not offered.

I was, of course, a freely willing participant. There were no pouts, hints, threats, or other female tools utilized if I hinted at declining second helpings or desserts. I could accept or decline, just as I pleased. But, frankly, I enjoyed feeling my privates respond whenever I ate until I was stuffed. I liked having a brownie tucked into my lunch bag.

And I liked the sex.

No, I loved the sex.

The rate went from once a week, maybe twice, to a minimum of four times a week, sometimes twice a night on Saturdays. New positions were introduced, new activities, new lingerie for her.

Oh, and new clothes for me, too, but not lingerie, exactly.

Every once in a while, after my shower, I’d find that Michelle had laid out an outfit for me to wear to work. Invariably, I’d discover that the pants and shirt fit better and the tie wasn’t too short. Duh. She was quietly taking away the increasingly snug clothing and replacing it, elf-like, with stuff that fit … at least for the moment.

I wasn’t blind, and I wasn’t stupid. I could tell and feel that I was gaining weight. Did I mind? Well, let me think. NO. Michelle’s happiness seemed directly tied to my size, both trending upward together, parallel lines going in the … well … right direction.

Oh, I got some grief about it. My weight climbed from 180 to 200, and co-workers began to tease me about “married man’s spread.”

“Someone’s taken over your feeding,” Rick from accounting said, “and you look like one contented stallion.” Stallion, ha. If he only knew.

From 200 to 220.

“Gettin’ bigger there, Nick,” Ira from sales said. I had to bite my lip to keep from blurting, “Takes one to know one.” Rumor had it that Ira had been thin … during the Nixon administration.

From 220 to 250.

“Nick,” Mom murmured during a visit home, “have you put on some weight?” Well, yes, Mom. How astute.

“Yeah, a few pounds, Mom,” I said. “Michelle thought I was too thin.”

“Well, maybe she was right,” Mom said. That would be the end of that discussion.

From 250 to 260, 270, 280. A hundred pounds over my starting weight, and there was no denying it, I was now officially A Fat Man. My pecs had turned into flabby pancakes and my stomach started at my breastbone and curved outward and downward. Somewhere around my now-invisible belly button, tucked between two spare tires, were good-sized love handles. Now I knew why they were called love handles. Michelle “loved” to grab them when she was giving me the morning caress from behind. She’d put on a few pounds too, just enough to make her beautifully curvy. But clearly her mission as my missus was to make me her Mr. Big.

How to respond? Um, okay, honey.

Finally I said something. I arrested her hands in mid-caress.

“Michelle?”

“Yeeesss?”

“Am I too fat?”

That was probably not phrased to intelligently, but it was 6:45 and I hadn’t had my coffee yet.

The hands vanished. Michelle moved out from behind the shadow of the buttocks moon. “Too … fat?”

“Michelle. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve gained one hundred pounds in the last two years. Hello.” I slapped my stomach, starting a wave of juddering that moved up and down the belly fat. Nurse, cancel my 1:00.

“I know that,” she said. “Have I ever once suggested that I thought you should lose a few pounds?”

“No.”

“Have I ever cut back on your portions?”

“No.”

“Have I ever let you wear pants that were too tight for comfort?”

“No.”

“Am I blind?”

Oh.

“No.”

“Then,” Michelle said, “perhaps you could understand that I happen to like you just exactly as you are. A little bigger, maybe.”

“Uh….”

“I know,” Michelle said, moving into the bedroom. I followed, dressing as we talked. “We’re culturally conditioned to look down on fat people and/or people who gain weight, right? People spend billions of dollars a year on the diet industry. And you know what? I find you, and your build, attractive. It arouses me. Have you ever had the least doubt of that?”

“No,” I said, unbuttoning the shirt I had just buttoned. I might be a little late for work.

As usual, Michelle had to have the last word. “Then,” she mumbled through a kiss, “eat on, Macduff. I will let you know when you are big enough.”

We both giggled at her accidental rhyme. Then we kicked back the covers and got busy.

 

[zonker]

 

[HDANGEL15]