Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~~WG, Both, Gluttony – A woman discovers just how attractive she finds her man after he indulges in a huge meal.
Lindsey shifted restlessly on the sofa. She had eaten so much that she’d had to unbutton her jeans and was afraid that it would show. More to the point, her swollen and aching tummy made it hard for her to find a way to sit that didn’t actively hurt.
Lindsey’s boyfriend had no such concerns. His jeans were unbuttoned, the zipper down, and David had a hand under his shirt, resting on his own distended belly. Lindsey watched with interest as David hiccupped, his tautly stretched abdomen visibly flexing with the motion.
In the battered and sagging easy chairs opposite, Lindsey’s two brothers sprawled, glutted and drowsy. Sam was actually asleep, his normally flat belly visibly swollen, rising and falling rhythmically. Bobby wasn’t quite socked out, but his eyelids were fluttering and his faded college T-shirt, which had just fit that morning, was fighting a losing battle to cover his gorged stomach. Unbuttoned jeans and a belt let out a couple of notches testified to the amount of dinner he had put away.
Lindsey winced as David reached over and covered her hand with his, inadvertently pressing a little on the sprained wrist that was the reason she wasn’t helping with the dishes. Well, one of the reasons. The fact that she was too stuffed to stand was purely incidental. Dopily sated, she half-heard the splashing, clinking, and muffled conversation among Mom, Sam’s wife, and Aunt Bella. Mom and Aunt Bella, her sister, had both been widowed several years, so she always came over for Thanksgiving. Her children tended to have other obligations with work and in-laws.
Once upon a time, Mom and Dad had hosted fourteen or fifteen people for Thanksgiving dinner. Lindsey suspected that Mom was incapable of scaling down. How else to explain serving that much food for six people? Of course, among them they’d managed to put away most of the food … in tummies, not Tupperware.
Lindsey slid a hand across the bloated arc of her belly and groaned. David seemingly couldn’t resist balancing the tip of his forefinger in her tautly straining navel and pressing down. Lindsay obligingly burped. Then, tit for tat, she leaned over and did the same to David, prompting another hiccup. Lindsey felt that one. Wow, David’s belly was not just swollen but surprisingly firm, as if its whole bloated distention was full to the brim. Lindsay suspected her own tummy looked and felt the same. She winced as a groaning digestive rumble circulated through her, diverting her train of thought.
“All right, babes?” David’s low, slightly husky voice aroused her. He could be reciting DVR directions and make her excited.
“Ooh,” Lindsay groaned, giving up any and all pretense. She seized the tip of her zipper and, with an effort, slid it open. She watched in mild dismay as the fabric of her jeans slid apart, a surprising amount of bloated and firm tummy in the way. “Ate too much,” she admitted, her voice thick with drowsiness. “Hic! Ohh.”
“Your mother,” David said good-naturedly. “Thinks it’s unpatriotic to have any … anything-hic-left over.” By way of emphasis, he slowly patted his own belly, impressively swollen and decidedly tender. He hadn’t intended to eat nearly so much and could not have pinpointed the moment when he had gotten full. It had happened seemingly without his notice, and by the time he finally made to stand up, his aching belly was so heavily distended that he had sort of staggered away from the table. He tipped his head back and beneath lowered lids surveyed Sam and Bobby.
“Course, we made sure … there wasn’t. Hic.” David arched his back a little to ease his discomfort, feeling the weight of his warmly stuffed midsection. He grunted a little, catching and stifling a belch just shy of eruption. Lindsey tripped her fingers idly down David’s drum-tight belly and then back up, oddly taken with the swell and with its spherical firmness. David watched, silently, but his full lips quirked when Lindsey tugged up his shirt. Patiently he let Lindsey drum lightly on his bloated gut, rest her hand on it, and finally tug his shirt back into place. He half-dozed and half-watched the football game, and when Lindsey’s mother brought in large slices of pumpkin pie, he ate all of his and half of Lindsey’s, a little drunk on food, glad he didn’t have to drive home that night.
In the morning, after coffee and sweet rolls, they headed out, David concentrating on the spitting snow, Lindsey fiddling with the radio until she found a station she liked.
“Penny for them,” David said idly.
“Mmm,” Lindsey replied. “Nothing.” Nothing with Lindsey never meant nothing, it always meant something. Lindsey wriggled in her seat. The thought itself was making her uncomfortable, never mind voicing it.
She took a deep breath. “I thought you looked very … sexy … yesterday,” she said finally. She looked out the window, not wanting to meet his eye.
“Sex-ay,” David growled, making her giggle. “Yesterday, yesterday … why, what’d I do?”
Lindsey bit her lip. “After dinner.”
“You mean when we lay around digesting for hours? That after dinner?”
“Yeah.” Lindsey chewed her lip some more. Thinking.
David was too much concentrating on the road to turn his head and actually look at Lindsey. He snorted. “Yeah, sexy like a python after eating a raccoon,” he muttered, debating whether to turn the wipers up a notch.
“I mean it,” Lindsey said, the surprise she felt finding an echo in her voice. “It was kind of cute, and really … well … sexy. I don’t know why, it just was.”
“Hey, I’m not arguing with you,” David said mildly. “I thought getting a little peek of your belly button there was pretty sexy myself.”
After that, Lindsey napped and David concentrated on driving and they got home in one piece.
Lindsey didn’t bring the subject up again. On Monday evening, though, when David got home, he found Lindsey in the kitchen and a huge dinner on the table: pot roast with potatoes, carrots, and onions; homemade applesauce; crescent rolls, broccoli casserole; corn pudding.
“Um. Linds?” David stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his attaché case having fallen to the floor at his ankles, his hand frozen at the knot of his tie, which he had been prepared to loosen.
Lindsey shrugged. “Felt like cooking.”
“Call,” David said immediately. “Come on, what gives? Not that I’m complaining.”
Lindsey handed him a heaping plate. “Here. Eat. I’ll try to explain.”
David obeyed.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about Thanksgiving,” Lindsey said.
David frowned. “You mean … when you said it was … sexy?”
“Yeah … that.” Lindsey took a mouthful of pot roast. “I can’t explain it. I can’t. It’s like explaining arousal. This makes you aroused, that doesn’t. When he puts his hand here it feels good, when he puts his hand there, it doesn’t. It’s not something I can explain. I just … it just … all I know is that when I was lying there … digesting …” she made a funny face, and David laughed, the queer tension broken.
“I saw your … you know … I saw you all full, with your jeans undone … and it made me crazy for you. Something about it that I, I, I just can’t explain.” She seemed on the verge of tears.
“Hey, hey, it’s all right,” David said soothingly. David looked down at his plate, which was already half empty. “But, you know, actions have consequences. Equal and opposite reactions and all that.” David gestured with his fork. “If I treat every dinner like Thanksgiving, I’ll get really fat.”
Lindsey said nothing.
“I mean, Linds, come on. A Thanksgiving belly is different from being fat, right?”
Lindsey opened her mouth, closed it again. “Yeah. I know.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
With nothing resolved, David picked up his fork again. He was comfortably full already, but since the food was on his plate, he was habituated to eat it. He scarcely noticed when Lindsey scooped seconds of the broccoli casserole and corn pudding onto his plate.
Afterward, the damage was not quite as extensive as it had been the previous Thursday, but David and Lindsey were both groaningly stuffed. Silently they plodded to the sofa and sank onto it side by side. David had loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, and now let his belt out two notches and undid the hook of his trousers. Lindsey had undone her jeans and now lay with her hand resting on her tummy, a firm bulge of dinner swelling her abdomen and making her navel prominent. David, seeing it, pressed it like a doorbell, mildly surprised at the taut distention of the flesh.
Lindsey in return slid a hand up under David’s shirt and gently massaged his bulging belly, taut and warm, smooth, swollen and tender, David wincing as he hiccupped.
“Linds. Listen,” David said. “Don’t go nuts, okay?”
“I know,” Lindsey said. “I know. I won’t.” And the reclined in companionable silence, slowly digesting, until the immediate discomfort eased enough for the dishes to be seen to. After that, though it was early, there was no question but that they would go to bed, because they had something they had to do.
Lindsey backed off, uncertain herself of what she wanted or what her motives were. But every week or ten days, a little imp in her prompted her to produce an enormous dinner. David didn’t protest; in silent consent they both contentedly downed platefuls of food, beginning to find some odd pleasure in the sensation of being stuffed to bursting, of experiencing the logy satiation of Thanksgiving dinner more often. And when Lindsey started her holiday baking, David helped himself, lowering the level of goodies in the tin before Lindsey could take what was left in to work.
Inevitably, some holiday pounds crept on. It happened to everybody. David found his trousers growing snug, a pad of flesh resting atop his waistband, found himself wearing his belt a notch over. Lindsey, without being entirely conscious of what she was doing, bypassed certain skirts and trousers in her closet, choosing more forgiving outfits.
Christmas dinner at Lindsey’s mother’s house was a rerun of Thanksgiving dinner, only with more desserts. David was wearing new jeans to accommodate the ten pounds and inch of belly he had picked up; Lindsey had prudently opted for slacks with a broad elastic waist and a loose top.
Both plunged in with a will, hungry and eager for the familiar, special tastes. Talk was of football, the weather, gifts to be exchanged, holiday plans -- David and Lindsey would visit his side of the family that weekend. Because he was alert for it this time, David was a little better able to pinpoint when he felt full – when, under other circumstances, he might have quit eating. But he was also aware that Lindsey was right, that there was something deeply fulfilling and oddly arousing about pushing the envelope. Or the belt. Not that he was wearing one. Dreamily, lightheaded with food and wine, he emptied his plate again and again, dimly aware the Lindsey was keeping up right along with him.
Afterward she unhesitatingly rested her hands atop her gorged and swollen tummy, massaging the bloated and tender distention and hoping the gentle contact would help her digestive efforts. Beside her, David, struggling mightily to keep his eyes open, had a hand slid down his undone waistband, fighting a case of the hiccups. It was a lost cause, since his gorge had actually distended his stomach, which in turn compressed his diaphragm, but as full as his stomach was, those hiccups hurt.
Because they were not alone, David didn’t bring up the question of arousal, but Lindsey’s eyes, and hand, kept straying to David’s bloated protrusion, the strain of his shirt fabric over his gorged belly, the flutter of stretched skin when he hiccupped. And David, stuffed as he was, would have thought that his achingly full belly would have been all that he would be aware of: the warmth, the heaviness, the stretch and pull of the huge dinner in his stomach, the supreme effort of digestion would have commanded all his attention. He was definitely aware of his overloaded stomach, that was true; but at the same time, he was aware of the arousal coursing through him. He could hardly be oblivious to it. Even as he contemplated the pleasant possibility of sinking into hibernation, of not having to move for hours … days … he was increasingly aware of his desire, his need, even, to do something about the urgent signals that other parts of his body were sending.
Lindsey was receiving similar signals. She was stupid with fullness, glutted, dazed, incapable of activity. As her distended and aching stomach struggled to digest its enormous intake, the blood flow to her brain temporarily diverted to emergency digestive work, whatever it was that prompted arousal was fired up as well. She felt unmistakable urgings, impulses crackling with desire.
She and David struggled simultaneously to their feet, helped each other gain their balance, the heavy fullness of their bellies tweaking their centers of gravity.
“Little nap before church,” David said, and hiccupped.
Bobby was already off somewhere with the same idea, and Sam was propelled to his feet.
“Hey, good idea. Roberta!” he called, and went off in search of his wife.
In the bedroom, David and Lindsey shucked their clothing hastily, impatiently, and sank onto the bed with twin groans of desire and discomfort.
“Do I have to move?” Lindsey moaned. “I’m so full.” She rubbed her bloated tummy, feeling it gurgle and churn.
“Here. Hic. C’mere,” David mumbled, turning cautiously onto his side, motioning Lindsey to do the same. Gently, mindful of their loaded stomachs, they came together, coupled, their slow hypnotic rhythm enhanced by the pressure of very full tummies pressed together, easing the immediacy of their fullness and providing it some relief. The heavy, gravid movement of their bellies, hips, chests, the feel of gripping shoulders, stroking hair, entwining legs, surged and ebbed, and when it ended they lay tangled in each other, too sated to move, and drifted into a glutted doze.
Thanksgiving All Year
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
Lindsey shifted restlessly on the sofa. She had eaten so much that she’d had to unbutton her jeans and was afraid that it would show. More to the point, her swollen and aching tummy made it hard for her to find a way to sit that didn’t actively hurt.
Lindsey’s boyfriend had no such concerns. His jeans were unbuttoned, the zipper down, and David had a hand under his shirt, resting on his own distended belly. Lindsey watched with interest as David hiccupped, his tautly stretched abdomen visibly flexing with the motion.
In the battered and sagging easy chairs opposite, Lindsey’s two brothers sprawled, glutted and drowsy. Sam was actually asleep, his normally flat belly visibly swollen, rising and falling rhythmically. Bobby wasn’t quite socked out, but his eyelids were fluttering and his faded college T-shirt, which had just fit that morning, was fighting a losing battle to cover his gorged stomach. Unbuttoned jeans and a belt let out a couple of notches testified to the amount of dinner he had put away.
Lindsey winced as David reached over and covered her hand with his, inadvertently pressing a little on the sprained wrist that was the reason she wasn’t helping with the dishes. Well, one of the reasons. The fact that she was too stuffed to stand was purely incidental. Dopily sated, she half-heard the splashing, clinking, and muffled conversation among Mom, Sam’s wife, and Aunt Bella. Mom and Aunt Bella, her sister, had both been widowed several years, so she always came over for Thanksgiving. Her children tended to have other obligations with work and in-laws.
Once upon a time, Mom and Dad had hosted fourteen or fifteen people for Thanksgiving dinner. Lindsey suspected that Mom was incapable of scaling down. How else to explain serving that much food for six people? Of course, among them they’d managed to put away most of the food … in tummies, not Tupperware.
Lindsey slid a hand across the bloated arc of her belly and groaned. David seemingly couldn’t resist balancing the tip of his forefinger in her tautly straining navel and pressing down. Lindsay obligingly burped. Then, tit for tat, she leaned over and did the same to David, prompting another hiccup. Lindsey felt that one. Wow, David’s belly was not just swollen but surprisingly firm, as if its whole bloated distention was full to the brim. Lindsay suspected her own tummy looked and felt the same. She winced as a groaning digestive rumble circulated through her, diverting her train of thought.
“All right, babes?” David’s low, slightly husky voice aroused her. He could be reciting DVR directions and make her excited.
“Ooh,” Lindsay groaned, giving up any and all pretense. She seized the tip of her zipper and, with an effort, slid it open. She watched in mild dismay as the fabric of her jeans slid apart, a surprising amount of bloated and firm tummy in the way. “Ate too much,” she admitted, her voice thick with drowsiness. “Hic! Ohh.”
“Your mother,” David said good-naturedly. “Thinks it’s unpatriotic to have any … anything-hic-left over.” By way of emphasis, he slowly patted his own belly, impressively swollen and decidedly tender. He hadn’t intended to eat nearly so much and could not have pinpointed the moment when he had gotten full. It had happened seemingly without his notice, and by the time he finally made to stand up, his aching belly was so heavily distended that he had sort of staggered away from the table. He tipped his head back and beneath lowered lids surveyed Sam and Bobby.
“Course, we made sure … there wasn’t. Hic.” David arched his back a little to ease his discomfort, feeling the weight of his warmly stuffed midsection. He grunted a little, catching and stifling a belch just shy of eruption. Lindsey tripped her fingers idly down David’s drum-tight belly and then back up, oddly taken with the swell and with its spherical firmness. David watched, silently, but his full lips quirked when Lindsey tugged up his shirt. Patiently he let Lindsey drum lightly on his bloated gut, rest her hand on it, and finally tug his shirt back into place. He half-dozed and half-watched the football game, and when Lindsey’s mother brought in large slices of pumpkin pie, he ate all of his and half of Lindsey’s, a little drunk on food, glad he didn’t have to drive home that night.
In the morning, after coffee and sweet rolls, they headed out, David concentrating on the spitting snow, Lindsey fiddling with the radio until she found a station she liked.
“Penny for them,” David said idly.
“Mmm,” Lindsey replied. “Nothing.” Nothing with Lindsey never meant nothing, it always meant something. Lindsey wriggled in her seat. The thought itself was making her uncomfortable, never mind voicing it.
She took a deep breath. “I thought you looked very … sexy … yesterday,” she said finally. She looked out the window, not wanting to meet his eye.
“Sex-ay,” David growled, making her giggle. “Yesterday, yesterday … why, what’d I do?”
Lindsey bit her lip. “After dinner.”
“You mean when we lay around digesting for hours? That after dinner?”
“Yeah.” Lindsey chewed her lip some more. Thinking.
David was too much concentrating on the road to turn his head and actually look at Lindsey. He snorted. “Yeah, sexy like a python after eating a raccoon,” he muttered, debating whether to turn the wipers up a notch.
“I mean it,” Lindsey said, the surprise she felt finding an echo in her voice. “It was kind of cute, and really … well … sexy. I don’t know why, it just was.”
“Hey, I’m not arguing with you,” David said mildly. “I thought getting a little peek of your belly button there was pretty sexy myself.”
After that, Lindsey napped and David concentrated on driving and they got home in one piece.
Lindsey didn’t bring the subject up again. On Monday evening, though, when David got home, he found Lindsey in the kitchen and a huge dinner on the table: pot roast with potatoes, carrots, and onions; homemade applesauce; crescent rolls, broccoli casserole; corn pudding.
“Um. Linds?” David stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his attaché case having fallen to the floor at his ankles, his hand frozen at the knot of his tie, which he had been prepared to loosen.
Lindsey shrugged. “Felt like cooking.”
“Call,” David said immediately. “Come on, what gives? Not that I’m complaining.”
Lindsey handed him a heaping plate. “Here. Eat. I’ll try to explain.”
David obeyed.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about Thanksgiving,” Lindsey said.
David frowned. “You mean … when you said it was … sexy?”
“Yeah … that.” Lindsey took a mouthful of pot roast. “I can’t explain it. I can’t. It’s like explaining arousal. This makes you aroused, that doesn’t. When he puts his hand here it feels good, when he puts his hand there, it doesn’t. It’s not something I can explain. I just … it just … all I know is that when I was lying there … digesting …” she made a funny face, and David laughed, the queer tension broken.
“I saw your … you know … I saw you all full, with your jeans undone … and it made me crazy for you. Something about it that I, I, I just can’t explain.” She seemed on the verge of tears.
“Hey, hey, it’s all right,” David said soothingly. David looked down at his plate, which was already half empty. “But, you know, actions have consequences. Equal and opposite reactions and all that.” David gestured with his fork. “If I treat every dinner like Thanksgiving, I’ll get really fat.”
Lindsey said nothing.
“I mean, Linds, come on. A Thanksgiving belly is different from being fat, right?”
Lindsey opened her mouth, closed it again. “Yeah. I know.” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
With nothing resolved, David picked up his fork again. He was comfortably full already, but since the food was on his plate, he was habituated to eat it. He scarcely noticed when Lindsey scooped seconds of the broccoli casserole and corn pudding onto his plate.
Afterward, the damage was not quite as extensive as it had been the previous Thursday, but David and Lindsey were both groaningly stuffed. Silently they plodded to the sofa and sank onto it side by side. David had loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, and now let his belt out two notches and undid the hook of his trousers. Lindsey had undone her jeans and now lay with her hand resting on her tummy, a firm bulge of dinner swelling her abdomen and making her navel prominent. David, seeing it, pressed it like a doorbell, mildly surprised at the taut distention of the flesh.
Lindsey in return slid a hand up under David’s shirt and gently massaged his bulging belly, taut and warm, smooth, swollen and tender, David wincing as he hiccupped.
“Linds. Listen,” David said. “Don’t go nuts, okay?”
“I know,” Lindsey said. “I know. I won’t.” And the reclined in companionable silence, slowly digesting, until the immediate discomfort eased enough for the dishes to be seen to. After that, though it was early, there was no question but that they would go to bed, because they had something they had to do.
Lindsey backed off, uncertain herself of what she wanted or what her motives were. But every week or ten days, a little imp in her prompted her to produce an enormous dinner. David didn’t protest; in silent consent they both contentedly downed platefuls of food, beginning to find some odd pleasure in the sensation of being stuffed to bursting, of experiencing the logy satiation of Thanksgiving dinner more often. And when Lindsey started her holiday baking, David helped himself, lowering the level of goodies in the tin before Lindsey could take what was left in to work.
Inevitably, some holiday pounds crept on. It happened to everybody. David found his trousers growing snug, a pad of flesh resting atop his waistband, found himself wearing his belt a notch over. Lindsey, without being entirely conscious of what she was doing, bypassed certain skirts and trousers in her closet, choosing more forgiving outfits.
Christmas dinner at Lindsey’s mother’s house was a rerun of Thanksgiving dinner, only with more desserts. David was wearing new jeans to accommodate the ten pounds and inch of belly he had picked up; Lindsey had prudently opted for slacks with a broad elastic waist and a loose top.
Both plunged in with a will, hungry and eager for the familiar, special tastes. Talk was of football, the weather, gifts to be exchanged, holiday plans -- David and Lindsey would visit his side of the family that weekend. Because he was alert for it this time, David was a little better able to pinpoint when he felt full – when, under other circumstances, he might have quit eating. But he was also aware that Lindsey was right, that there was something deeply fulfilling and oddly arousing about pushing the envelope. Or the belt. Not that he was wearing one. Dreamily, lightheaded with food and wine, he emptied his plate again and again, dimly aware the Lindsey was keeping up right along with him.
Afterward she unhesitatingly rested her hands atop her gorged and swollen tummy, massaging the bloated and tender distention and hoping the gentle contact would help her digestive efforts. Beside her, David, struggling mightily to keep his eyes open, had a hand slid down his undone waistband, fighting a case of the hiccups. It was a lost cause, since his gorge had actually distended his stomach, which in turn compressed his diaphragm, but as full as his stomach was, those hiccups hurt.
Because they were not alone, David didn’t bring up the question of arousal, but Lindsey’s eyes, and hand, kept straying to David’s bloated protrusion, the strain of his shirt fabric over his gorged belly, the flutter of stretched skin when he hiccupped. And David, stuffed as he was, would have thought that his achingly full belly would have been all that he would be aware of: the warmth, the heaviness, the stretch and pull of the huge dinner in his stomach, the supreme effort of digestion would have commanded all his attention. He was definitely aware of his overloaded stomach, that was true; but at the same time, he was aware of the arousal coursing through him. He could hardly be oblivious to it. Even as he contemplated the pleasant possibility of sinking into hibernation, of not having to move for hours … days … he was increasingly aware of his desire, his need, even, to do something about the urgent signals that other parts of his body were sending.
Lindsey was receiving similar signals. She was stupid with fullness, glutted, dazed, incapable of activity. As her distended and aching stomach struggled to digest its enormous intake, the blood flow to her brain temporarily diverted to emergency digestive work, whatever it was that prompted arousal was fired up as well. She felt unmistakable urgings, impulses crackling with desire.
She and David struggled simultaneously to their feet, helped each other gain their balance, the heavy fullness of their bellies tweaking their centers of gravity.
“Little nap before church,” David said, and hiccupped.
Bobby was already off somewhere with the same idea, and Sam was propelled to his feet.
“Hey, good idea. Roberta!” he called, and went off in search of his wife.
In the bedroom, David and Lindsey shucked their clothing hastily, impatiently, and sank onto the bed with twin groans of desire and discomfort.
“Do I have to move?” Lindsey moaned. “I’m so full.” She rubbed her bloated tummy, feeling it gurgle and churn.
“Here. Hic. C’mere,” David mumbled, turning cautiously onto his side, motioning Lindsey to do the same. Gently, mindful of their loaded stomachs, they came together, coupled, their slow hypnotic rhythm enhanced by the pressure of very full tummies pressed together, easing the immediacy of their fullness and providing it some relief. The heavy, gravid movement of their bellies, hips, chests, the feel of gripping shoulders, stroking hair, entwining legs, surged and ebbed, and when it ended they lay tangled in each other, too sated to move, and drifted into a glutted doze.
