Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, ~BBW, ~Sex, ~~WG - A romantic short story of a few extra pounds adding to mutual pleasure.
A finger lightly slid along the slope of my belly in profile as I lay in the bed. The finger, faintly scented of lavender, found my belly button, a deeper hollow than in the past, and nestled there, then hopped back up the hill to my ribs, where it poked unmercifully.
Mmf. Stop, I mumbled, my voice husky with sleep. Stoppit.
The finger slowed and came to rest on my right nipple. Pushed gently.
Mmf.
Wakey wakey, sang a voice above me. My eyelids reluctantly parted a slit. Eyes slid left, then right, considering the request. My nose, a bit late to work this morning, sniffed out baking cinnamon and a rich wave of coffee wafting through the lavender. Oho.
Breakfast in ten minutes, the voice said. We have time for a quick workout.
Groaning, I raised my arm and the possessor of the voice (and the wandering finger) draped herself over my side and slid her hand along my chest. Come on, she coaxed. I slowly turned onto my back and my vision was filled with the blurred image, gradually clearing, of Sara, my cohabit, dark hair tumbled with sleep, lightly tanned skin glowing with morning. She got all the morning person-ness in the house, leaving me less than none. I wake like a bear coming out of hibernation into a spring fog bank.
She manipulated her elbows and wrists and pressed herself down on my belly, which gave under her softly cushioned hourglass figure, and pressed her lips softly to mine, engaging in a kiss that was, admittedly, a lovely way to wake up. Parts of me woke up rather suddenly after that, and we started our Friday morning in our absolute favorite style, a session of intimacy that started out languid and ended up flushed and perspiring. After that, coffee was almost optional. Almost.
Sara bounded out of bed and slipped on a thin dressing gown, tying the sash deftly. Breakfast on the deck, she said, and was gone. By the time I got out of bed, relieved myself, pulled on a too-snug pair of boxers and T-shirt ditto, and juggled the fruit and cinnamon rolls onto the deck, she had poured coffee and had her feet up.
I kissed her before laying the breakfast on the table, and she nibbled the back of my neck as she rose to help.
Not on the menu, I growled, sliding my arm around her waist. Mm, was that a grabbable little cushion? I grabbed it, eliciting a squeal and an evasive maneuver.
Robbie. Stop. Im starved, for breakfast. I was too, actually, so I stopped.
Between us we laid waste to the bowl of fruit and the 12 oversized cinnamon rolls dripping with icing. I licked my fingers and patted my stomach. Oof. Have to watch that, I mumbled, stifling a burp.
Watch what?
I frowned. Since I got promoted Im getting kind of a ... a desk belly. I patted the offending belly, warmly full of breakfast. Not outside and slinging lumber the way I used to.
Sara waved off my concerns. Oh, phoo. Youre my handsome brown-eyed guy.
I stood and stretched, rubbing my now-bare middle, the shirt having tugged upward. It felt taut and stretched, a good sensation but also one that reminded me (again) how my clothes seemed to be shrinking of late. I decided against a comeback and padded to the shower. On the way, I noticed the scale shoved under the bathroom counter. Hmmm. On the one hand, Id just eaten breakfast. On the other hand, all I wanted was a ballpark figure, right?
Right.
I stepped on, squinched my eyes shut, and reluctantly opened them to focus on the big red numbers, which read ... 225. Holy crap. Desk belly my ... foot. Id packed 25 pounds onto my averagely built frame, most of it, the mirror unkindly informed me, right out in front. My face might be a little fuller, my chin a little softer, and no doubt the circumference of my upper arms had a layer of suet over the years of muscle. But my chest, though still firm, was visibly floppier. My stomach protruded roundly, as though I had a basketball tucked under the skin, though it was really just breakfast. I made a face, then went on with my ablutions.
At work that day, I played a game with myself. (No, not that. Tch.) As I passed by offices or interacted with others, I surreptitiously glanced at the waistlines. Bingo. Of the other six guys who I knew had started in the field and gone into management, as I had, all six were at least a little paunchier than theyd once been. A couple were quite a bit bigger in the tum. I felt better enough about things that at lunch I ordered a burger, although I did opt for pasta salad over fries. Hey, they have good pasta salad.
Because of a meeting that went long, lunch was later than usual, so I wasnt all that hungry when I got home. I was hungry enough, though. Sara had beaten me home by 30 minutes and had a stuffed chicken roasting in the oven and scalloped potatoes waiting their turn. Lima beans simmered.
Mmmmmm. I dropped a kiss on her neck and fingered her apron strings.
That for me or the dinner?
Both. I remained behind her, hands on her shoulders, my belly pushed against the small of her back. My hands found another playground ... and she pushed me away, but gently.
Dinner first, she chided. First? Ohboy.
Normally, a meal like that would generate leftovers, but, helped along by a bottle of Pinot Grigio, we kept going back for additional helpings of chicken, stuffing, scalloped potatoes, and lima beans until there was so little left it seemed silly to save it, so we put it away in our tummies. Sara pushed back her chair first, standing with an entirely unintended little grunt, like a puppy.
Ooh ... wow ... Im stuffed, she admitted. Her lovely face was damply flushed, her dark hair curling round her face. Her faux-silk blouse clung at breasts and tummy, outlining a visibly protruding belly, roundly stuffed full of dinner, her belly button piercing pushing against the fabric. Her skirts waistband was stretched and I imagined that the back button would be relieved to be undone. The sight sent a surge of arousal through me. I stood, pressing a hand to my own swollen and aching belly, which was pushing insistently against my waistband, desperate for liberation. I drew her to me and we both said Oh simultaneously as our full stomachs met.
We were in the bedroom and she raised her hands for me to undress her. Her shirt strained, sweat and snugness keeping it from sliding up over her round tummy. I gently tugged it up and off and undid her bra as a bonus, catching her plump handfuls of breasts as they landed damply in my palms, cupped like huge Mediterranean peaches ripe from the branch, soft and warm, nipples invitingly erect. With decided reluctance, I took my hands away and slid them down her back, making her shiver. I found the skirt button straining, as Id guessed resting just below a pair of unmistakable love handles canted upward. Got it undone, then slid the zipper down. I tugged the skirt off her wondrously curved hips, taking my time and cradling her cradle, cupping her backside and feeling my fingers tingle with the warm softness of it. She slid her hands up and down my shoulders ... it was her turn to make me shiver ... as I tugged her pantyhose and underwear down, liberating her belly, which had an unfortunate red mark around its circumference from that wretched invention. Why did stockings and garters ever go out of style?
By the time I got Sara undressed, I could hardly stand the pressure anymore. Luckily Sara is a quick study and started with the belt. Thankyou thankyou thankyou. She undid the belt and trousers and slid her hands up under my shirt. Before undoing the buttons, she made small circles with her palms on my tautly bloated belly, distended and round. She poked gently round the edges where my aching sides stretched and then ... some sort of woman trick ... began undoing the buttons from within, all the while keeping in contact with my stuffed stomach. She got most of the way up, then stopped to undo the tie and collar, and very, very slowly tugged them off. Both our faces were damp, our bodies stiff with expectation. I reached out and, on the second try, got hold of her bottom, cradling her plumply soft cheeks, one in each hand. I closed my eyes and let a deep sigh of pleasure escape and traced my fingers up the small of her back, pausing to graze those new love handles, eliciting a groan from Sara. Dismay or pleasure? I think mostly the latter.
Meanwhile, her hands were tracing a similar odyssey. Like mine, hers paused just above the small of the back, lingering on ... what the hell were those? ... love handles. I had love handles. I had love handles? Then Sara cooed into my collarbone. Shhhhh, she murmured. Shhhh. So good ... so soft .... mmmm. Her hands continued, tracing a zigzag up my spine, giving me chills of anticipation. The fingers worked their way in between us onto my now-bare belly, still achingly stuffed. Oh so gently she probed and pressed, burrowing into my belly button, teasingly tracing up to my nipples, now as firm as her own. My hands found hers and together we sort of sidewaysed into bed, groaning with desire. I pushed into her as fast as I could find the right door and moaned aloud as I felt the pressure of her own full tummy, rounded with dinner, on my bulging gut. Oh, that ached, but in a strange, wonderfully evocative sort of way that made me want for it to stop and also to keep going forever and ever. We found a rhythm, her hips riding mine, and her hands gripping my shoulders so firmly I felt them tense with effort but that didnt matter because we were both surging with the climax, making untranslatable sounds of ecstasy, gripping each other as though we were afraid we would vanish into stardust.
When we finally admitted to ourselves that it was over, we were spent, exhausted, thoroughly drained. Sara reluctantly pushed herself up off me and I surprised myself by feeling a pang of regret at the loss of that sweet warm pressure all up and down my midsection. Minded it quite a lot, in fact. She padded naked from the room and I heard clinking in the kitchen, followed by Saras return with two martinis, condensation sliding down the glasses and dripping drop drop drop onto her fingers. I hauled myself into a sitting position, smoothed the sheets and took one from her. We clinked glasses, toasting ourselves, I suppose, and drank. Ahhhhhh.
Sara, I mumbled, Wow.
Sara smiled, catlike. Mmm-hmmm. She laughed and poked my belly button with a cold damp finger. We should have sex on a full tummy more often.
Full. Ohhh, I groaned as my belly, now free from welcome distractions, clutched painfully. Ate too much.
Aw, poor tummy, Sara crooned. We had drained our drinks and slid back down among the pillows, and she began gently massaging my middle with fingers that were still cold but, as always, gentle. Does it hurt ... here?
I grunted as she pressed my full stomach. Oof. Stop. I stilled her fingers, then raised them to my damp lips and kissed them. She leaned in and kissed me.
Mmm... martini kiss, she mumbled. I stroked her hair. Imperceptibly, we drifted into sleep.
In the morning, she actually let me sleep in ... a little ... before waking me at 9 a.m. Hey, lets go to IHOP! she crowed. Theyre having a special on pancakes.
Whaddya mean, I mumbled. Pancakes are their special. Is their special? Whatever.
Of course, 30 minutes later, I was steering us into the parking lot at IHOP, and 20 minutes after that, Sara and I were addressing ourselves to stacks of plate-sized pancakes. We ate a disgraceful amount I lost track of how much so much that when we got out to the car, we just kind of sat there in a carbo daze until I realized that other folks probably wanted our parking space. We made it home, driving under the influence of syrup, and immediately went back to bed, peeling off our clothes along the way. We both grunted and groaned with pleasure. Hardly anything beats sliding back into the sack. She began gently and silently massaging my stomach, now swollen and aching with pancakes and syrup and awash with coffee. Her fingertips pressed and circled, rested and held, and somehow eased my discomfort. I reached for her tummy and encountered a distended mound crowned with that navel piercing, which now seemed to bob atop a swell of rosy belly, soft yet firm, a perfect handful, with those eminently squeezable love handles ... handles ... what a perfect term. I wanted nothing more than to fill my hands with the handles and pot of my beloved, cradle her softening bottom, trace patterns on her golden mound of tummy.
We met our bodys most immediate needs first, lightly dozing, sated, then waking to drowsy, languid intimacy, pressing full bellies, shivering at the contractions of desire the sensation produced, feeling the tug and press of stomach to stomach, navel to navel piercing (you have no idea how sexy that feels!) ... adjusting to the pitch and roll of overloaded bellies as they sloshed and groaned, the heightened intensity we both felt without any need to put it into words.
There were no words, in truth, for what kept niggling at the back of my mind. At first I had attributed the uptick in sex to my not being so tired since I moved to a desk job, but I could add two and two, most days, and I was seeing a connection. Was Sara seeing it? I had no idea, but as spring moved into summer, one thing I could see and that was that we were both getting a little broader in the beam, as they say. My visibly thickening waistline forced my belt to the next notch, and the next, and finally, reluctantly, into a larger pants size. I tried not to wince at the number on the pants I tried on that finally fit. Lets just say it was higher.
Sara, too, was adding some padding. Her belly thickened, so that even empty, her tummy perched cutely rounded above the jeans she wore low-slung. When she wore one of her crop tops, which were much tighter through the chest than previously, that navel piercing winked at me from its little mound like a Siren singing, Come hither. Her backside packed said jeans a lot more righteously, and her breasts ... well ... it was a record peach harvest.
For me, the day of reckoning came in mid-June when we went to the pool for the first time that season. I had already broken down and bought new trunks, so I was feeling pretty stylin, ignoring the pot that perched below my torso. Sara, too, had opted for new gear. She had kept to a bikini my inner chauvinist was cheering but oh, the way she filled it out made it suddenly hard for me to stand up when she took off her gingham bigshirt. Lightly golden orbs brimmed above the pink fabric and the neck halter was doing a job of work. Her breasts rounded out the sides and hung heavy along the base of the top. Southward, her midriff curved outward like a ships sail gently belled by a persistent breeze. The hourglass of her waist, the way it used to dent decisively inward, was blurred by the smooth merger of those lovely love handles into the ohmygod curve of her ... hips. I was frozen, stunned into pleasant shock at the sight of Saras hips, the in-and-out of the way they suggested a waistline and sprang outward into bounteous celebration, joyfully rounded, with the suggestion of bikini ties gently denting into the soft ripe flesh. She turned slightly to let her shirt fall onto the chair and I was gifted with the backview, her high bottom out-thrust and testing the seams of the pink fabric, like her breasts, her backside brimming over, promising endless pleasure.
I drew in a breath so deep I should have hyperventilated. Sara turned and unleashed a brilliant grin.
Like my new suit?
Ah ... oh ... I ... ah ... I stuttered.
Sara leaned in and with that gentle fingertip pushed my lower lip up to meet its mate. Last one in ...
We splashed. In the deep water we found each other, grabbed each other, kissed, broke the surface laughing and wet like gods.
Piercing
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
A finger lightly slid along the slope of my belly in profile as I lay in the bed. The finger, faintly scented of lavender, found my belly button, a deeper hollow than in the past, and nestled there, then hopped back up the hill to my ribs, where it poked unmercifully.
Mmf. Stop, I mumbled, my voice husky with sleep. Stoppit.
The finger slowed and came to rest on my right nipple. Pushed gently.
Mmf.
Wakey wakey, sang a voice above me. My eyelids reluctantly parted a slit. Eyes slid left, then right, considering the request. My nose, a bit late to work this morning, sniffed out baking cinnamon and a rich wave of coffee wafting through the lavender. Oho.
Breakfast in ten minutes, the voice said. We have time for a quick workout.
Groaning, I raised my arm and the possessor of the voice (and the wandering finger) draped herself over my side and slid her hand along my chest. Come on, she coaxed. I slowly turned onto my back and my vision was filled with the blurred image, gradually clearing, of Sara, my cohabit, dark hair tumbled with sleep, lightly tanned skin glowing with morning. She got all the morning person-ness in the house, leaving me less than none. I wake like a bear coming out of hibernation into a spring fog bank.
She manipulated her elbows and wrists and pressed herself down on my belly, which gave under her softly cushioned hourglass figure, and pressed her lips softly to mine, engaging in a kiss that was, admittedly, a lovely way to wake up. Parts of me woke up rather suddenly after that, and we started our Friday morning in our absolute favorite style, a session of intimacy that started out languid and ended up flushed and perspiring. After that, coffee was almost optional. Almost.
Sara bounded out of bed and slipped on a thin dressing gown, tying the sash deftly. Breakfast on the deck, she said, and was gone. By the time I got out of bed, relieved myself, pulled on a too-snug pair of boxers and T-shirt ditto, and juggled the fruit and cinnamon rolls onto the deck, she had poured coffee and had her feet up.
I kissed her before laying the breakfast on the table, and she nibbled the back of my neck as she rose to help.
Not on the menu, I growled, sliding my arm around her waist. Mm, was that a grabbable little cushion? I grabbed it, eliciting a squeal and an evasive maneuver.
Robbie. Stop. Im starved, for breakfast. I was too, actually, so I stopped.
Between us we laid waste to the bowl of fruit and the 12 oversized cinnamon rolls dripping with icing. I licked my fingers and patted my stomach. Oof. Have to watch that, I mumbled, stifling a burp.
Watch what?
I frowned. Since I got promoted Im getting kind of a ... a desk belly. I patted the offending belly, warmly full of breakfast. Not outside and slinging lumber the way I used to.
Sara waved off my concerns. Oh, phoo. Youre my handsome brown-eyed guy.
I stood and stretched, rubbing my now-bare middle, the shirt having tugged upward. It felt taut and stretched, a good sensation but also one that reminded me (again) how my clothes seemed to be shrinking of late. I decided against a comeback and padded to the shower. On the way, I noticed the scale shoved under the bathroom counter. Hmmm. On the one hand, Id just eaten breakfast. On the other hand, all I wanted was a ballpark figure, right?
Right.
I stepped on, squinched my eyes shut, and reluctantly opened them to focus on the big red numbers, which read ... 225. Holy crap. Desk belly my ... foot. Id packed 25 pounds onto my averagely built frame, most of it, the mirror unkindly informed me, right out in front. My face might be a little fuller, my chin a little softer, and no doubt the circumference of my upper arms had a layer of suet over the years of muscle. But my chest, though still firm, was visibly floppier. My stomach protruded roundly, as though I had a basketball tucked under the skin, though it was really just breakfast. I made a face, then went on with my ablutions.
At work that day, I played a game with myself. (No, not that. Tch.) As I passed by offices or interacted with others, I surreptitiously glanced at the waistlines. Bingo. Of the other six guys who I knew had started in the field and gone into management, as I had, all six were at least a little paunchier than theyd once been. A couple were quite a bit bigger in the tum. I felt better enough about things that at lunch I ordered a burger, although I did opt for pasta salad over fries. Hey, they have good pasta salad.
Because of a meeting that went long, lunch was later than usual, so I wasnt all that hungry when I got home. I was hungry enough, though. Sara had beaten me home by 30 minutes and had a stuffed chicken roasting in the oven and scalloped potatoes waiting their turn. Lima beans simmered.
Mmmmmm. I dropped a kiss on her neck and fingered her apron strings.
That for me or the dinner?
Both. I remained behind her, hands on her shoulders, my belly pushed against the small of her back. My hands found another playground ... and she pushed me away, but gently.
Dinner first, she chided. First? Ohboy.
Normally, a meal like that would generate leftovers, but, helped along by a bottle of Pinot Grigio, we kept going back for additional helpings of chicken, stuffing, scalloped potatoes, and lima beans until there was so little left it seemed silly to save it, so we put it away in our tummies. Sara pushed back her chair first, standing with an entirely unintended little grunt, like a puppy.
Ooh ... wow ... Im stuffed, she admitted. Her lovely face was damply flushed, her dark hair curling round her face. Her faux-silk blouse clung at breasts and tummy, outlining a visibly protruding belly, roundly stuffed full of dinner, her belly button piercing pushing against the fabric. Her skirts waistband was stretched and I imagined that the back button would be relieved to be undone. The sight sent a surge of arousal through me. I stood, pressing a hand to my own swollen and aching belly, which was pushing insistently against my waistband, desperate for liberation. I drew her to me and we both said Oh simultaneously as our full stomachs met.
We were in the bedroom and she raised her hands for me to undress her. Her shirt strained, sweat and snugness keeping it from sliding up over her round tummy. I gently tugged it up and off and undid her bra as a bonus, catching her plump handfuls of breasts as they landed damply in my palms, cupped like huge Mediterranean peaches ripe from the branch, soft and warm, nipples invitingly erect. With decided reluctance, I took my hands away and slid them down her back, making her shiver. I found the skirt button straining, as Id guessed resting just below a pair of unmistakable love handles canted upward. Got it undone, then slid the zipper down. I tugged the skirt off her wondrously curved hips, taking my time and cradling her cradle, cupping her backside and feeling my fingers tingle with the warm softness of it. She slid her hands up and down my shoulders ... it was her turn to make me shiver ... as I tugged her pantyhose and underwear down, liberating her belly, which had an unfortunate red mark around its circumference from that wretched invention. Why did stockings and garters ever go out of style?
By the time I got Sara undressed, I could hardly stand the pressure anymore. Luckily Sara is a quick study and started with the belt. Thankyou thankyou thankyou. She undid the belt and trousers and slid her hands up under my shirt. Before undoing the buttons, she made small circles with her palms on my tautly bloated belly, distended and round. She poked gently round the edges where my aching sides stretched and then ... some sort of woman trick ... began undoing the buttons from within, all the while keeping in contact with my stuffed stomach. She got most of the way up, then stopped to undo the tie and collar, and very, very slowly tugged them off. Both our faces were damp, our bodies stiff with expectation. I reached out and, on the second try, got hold of her bottom, cradling her plumply soft cheeks, one in each hand. I closed my eyes and let a deep sigh of pleasure escape and traced my fingers up the small of her back, pausing to graze those new love handles, eliciting a groan from Sara. Dismay or pleasure? I think mostly the latter.
Meanwhile, her hands were tracing a similar odyssey. Like mine, hers paused just above the small of the back, lingering on ... what the hell were those? ... love handles. I had love handles. I had love handles? Then Sara cooed into my collarbone. Shhhhh, she murmured. Shhhh. So good ... so soft .... mmmm. Her hands continued, tracing a zigzag up my spine, giving me chills of anticipation. The fingers worked their way in between us onto my now-bare belly, still achingly stuffed. Oh so gently she probed and pressed, burrowing into my belly button, teasingly tracing up to my nipples, now as firm as her own. My hands found hers and together we sort of sidewaysed into bed, groaning with desire. I pushed into her as fast as I could find the right door and moaned aloud as I felt the pressure of her own full tummy, rounded with dinner, on my bulging gut. Oh, that ached, but in a strange, wonderfully evocative sort of way that made me want for it to stop and also to keep going forever and ever. We found a rhythm, her hips riding mine, and her hands gripping my shoulders so firmly I felt them tense with effort but that didnt matter because we were both surging with the climax, making untranslatable sounds of ecstasy, gripping each other as though we were afraid we would vanish into stardust.
When we finally admitted to ourselves that it was over, we were spent, exhausted, thoroughly drained. Sara reluctantly pushed herself up off me and I surprised myself by feeling a pang of regret at the loss of that sweet warm pressure all up and down my midsection. Minded it quite a lot, in fact. She padded naked from the room and I heard clinking in the kitchen, followed by Saras return with two martinis, condensation sliding down the glasses and dripping drop drop drop onto her fingers. I hauled myself into a sitting position, smoothed the sheets and took one from her. We clinked glasses, toasting ourselves, I suppose, and drank. Ahhhhhh.
Sara, I mumbled, Wow.
Sara smiled, catlike. Mmm-hmmm. She laughed and poked my belly button with a cold damp finger. We should have sex on a full tummy more often.
Full. Ohhh, I groaned as my belly, now free from welcome distractions, clutched painfully. Ate too much.
Aw, poor tummy, Sara crooned. We had drained our drinks and slid back down among the pillows, and she began gently massaging my middle with fingers that were still cold but, as always, gentle. Does it hurt ... here?
I grunted as she pressed my full stomach. Oof. Stop. I stilled her fingers, then raised them to my damp lips and kissed them. She leaned in and kissed me.
Mmm... martini kiss, she mumbled. I stroked her hair. Imperceptibly, we drifted into sleep.
In the morning, she actually let me sleep in ... a little ... before waking me at 9 a.m. Hey, lets go to IHOP! she crowed. Theyre having a special on pancakes.
Whaddya mean, I mumbled. Pancakes are their special. Is their special? Whatever.
Of course, 30 minutes later, I was steering us into the parking lot at IHOP, and 20 minutes after that, Sara and I were addressing ourselves to stacks of plate-sized pancakes. We ate a disgraceful amount I lost track of how much so much that when we got out to the car, we just kind of sat there in a carbo daze until I realized that other folks probably wanted our parking space. We made it home, driving under the influence of syrup, and immediately went back to bed, peeling off our clothes along the way. We both grunted and groaned with pleasure. Hardly anything beats sliding back into the sack. She began gently and silently massaging my stomach, now swollen and aching with pancakes and syrup and awash with coffee. Her fingertips pressed and circled, rested and held, and somehow eased my discomfort. I reached for her tummy and encountered a distended mound crowned with that navel piercing, which now seemed to bob atop a swell of rosy belly, soft yet firm, a perfect handful, with those eminently squeezable love handles ... handles ... what a perfect term. I wanted nothing more than to fill my hands with the handles and pot of my beloved, cradle her softening bottom, trace patterns on her golden mound of tummy.
We met our bodys most immediate needs first, lightly dozing, sated, then waking to drowsy, languid intimacy, pressing full bellies, shivering at the contractions of desire the sensation produced, feeling the tug and press of stomach to stomach, navel to navel piercing (you have no idea how sexy that feels!) ... adjusting to the pitch and roll of overloaded bellies as they sloshed and groaned, the heightened intensity we both felt without any need to put it into words.
There were no words, in truth, for what kept niggling at the back of my mind. At first I had attributed the uptick in sex to my not being so tired since I moved to a desk job, but I could add two and two, most days, and I was seeing a connection. Was Sara seeing it? I had no idea, but as spring moved into summer, one thing I could see and that was that we were both getting a little broader in the beam, as they say. My visibly thickening waistline forced my belt to the next notch, and the next, and finally, reluctantly, into a larger pants size. I tried not to wince at the number on the pants I tried on that finally fit. Lets just say it was higher.
Sara, too, was adding some padding. Her belly thickened, so that even empty, her tummy perched cutely rounded above the jeans she wore low-slung. When she wore one of her crop tops, which were much tighter through the chest than previously, that navel piercing winked at me from its little mound like a Siren singing, Come hither. Her backside packed said jeans a lot more righteously, and her breasts ... well ... it was a record peach harvest.
For me, the day of reckoning came in mid-June when we went to the pool for the first time that season. I had already broken down and bought new trunks, so I was feeling pretty stylin, ignoring the pot that perched below my torso. Sara, too, had opted for new gear. She had kept to a bikini my inner chauvinist was cheering but oh, the way she filled it out made it suddenly hard for me to stand up when she took off her gingham bigshirt. Lightly golden orbs brimmed above the pink fabric and the neck halter was doing a job of work. Her breasts rounded out the sides and hung heavy along the base of the top. Southward, her midriff curved outward like a ships sail gently belled by a persistent breeze. The hourglass of her waist, the way it used to dent decisively inward, was blurred by the smooth merger of those lovely love handles into the ohmygod curve of her ... hips. I was frozen, stunned into pleasant shock at the sight of Saras hips, the in-and-out of the way they suggested a waistline and sprang outward into bounteous celebration, joyfully rounded, with the suggestion of bikini ties gently denting into the soft ripe flesh. She turned slightly to let her shirt fall onto the chair and I was gifted with the backview, her high bottom out-thrust and testing the seams of the pink fabric, like her breasts, her backside brimming over, promising endless pleasure.
I drew in a breath so deep I should have hyperventilated. Sara turned and unleashed a brilliant grin.
Like my new suit?
Ah ... oh ... I ... ah ... I stuttered.
Sara leaned in and with that gentle fingertip pushed my lower lip up to meet its mate. Last one in ...
We splashed. In the deep water we found each other, grabbed each other, kissed, broke the surface laughing and wet like gods.
