~BBW, Feeding, Surveillance, ~RWG - A fantasy gone wild explodes in an unexpected way
"The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea"
by Maverick
My name is Charles and I have the most wonderful job in the world: I'm a poolside bartender for Ventura Cruises, an exotic cruise line that runs throughout the Pacific. I know what you're thinking: "The fun, the sun, the travel...What's not to like?" Well, I'd be lying if I said that didn't help, but that's merely the umbrella that tops the drink. No, I enjoy my job because it allows--even encourages--me to do something that in normal circles might be considered nefarious or perverted: I get paid to fatten up women.
"Why?" I hear you ask. Well, the "why" is simply a by-product of the "how." It's my responsibility to keep the lovely ladies that frequent my deck constantly contented with caloric concoctions in a coconut. "Banana Monkeys," "BBCs," "Fudge Mud Pies," "Bikinies:" It's not a stretch to say that many of my creations would be more at home at a Dairy Queen than your typical pub. Heck, most of them have fat and caloric contents that would make a Blizzard blush.
You want to know the best part? The women DON'T CARE. Oh sure, I may hear the occasional feigned hint of restraint: "I really shouldn't" or "I couldn't possibly," but that's usually right before they order their third Pina Colada. Some even manage a few token visits to the gym, but most simply have resigned that for the week or two they're on our boat they're going to relax and indulge. That's where I come in.
I have made fattening women an art form. Of course, most people gain a little on their holidays even without someone like me counting their calories, but I make sure those women who are inclined to gain reach their maximum potential. It helps that I'm blessed with an honest face and a gift of gab. It also helps that my bar is not only adjacent to the most popular pool on the ship, but a 24-hour snack bar whose specialty is the carb-heavy snacks that liquor makes one crave. Needless to say, complimentary nacho, hamburger and pizza runs for my clients--even without their asking--have become an integral part of my job.
This extra attention for the customers, especially of the female persuasion, has made my bar even more popular. I suppose I should give SOME credit to my young, dim-witted assistant Sam; his rugged good looks and circus act with glasses, colanders and fruit attracts women like flies. We actually make quite a team; his looks and my charm make for the ultimate bait and switch.
As wonderful as my job is, it isn't perfect. Even our longest two-week cruise hardly allows time for me to work my magic, much less enjoy it. I have to be content cultivating the occasional tummy bulge and, if I'm particularly successful (as I was with a certain French lingerie model), a fresh set of "love handles." I also realize that the vast majority of the women I serve will eventually aerobicize away the 10-15 pounds I worked so hard to put on them and that's depressing. However, I take solace knowing that for some those pounds will linger and possibly be a springboard for bigger things to come.
Though my triumphs are often bittersweet, there was one glorious occasion during my tenure with Ventura Cruises where I was provided perfect time, opportunity, and subject for my alchemic bag of tricks. However, I learned the hard way that you should be careful what you wish for--especially when you wish upon stars aligned so perfectly.
Her name was Shanna Stevens and she had just signed for a six-month extended engagement as our liner's headlining singer. I was impressed. Traditionally, our liner's "entertainment" consisted of dynamic acts such as "Chocco the Dancing Squirrel" and the guys that sang the "Happy Days" theme song. Shanna, on the other hand, was young, talented and on her way up. There was already quite a bit of buzz calling her the "next" Charlotte Church (strange considering their close proximity in age), but with incomparable hot-blooded sex-appeal.
Usually, knowing such a beautiful creature was on board I'd be counting the minutes until they eventually stumbled into my poolside lair, but that never occurred to me with Shanna. My job was to keep the guests satiated and she was an employee. I also didn't expect to see a young woman of her relatively high-profile cavorting with us rabble on the poop deck. (Most of the other entertainers relaxed in a special VIP lounge.) So imagine my surprise when I looked up from blending a Mai-Tai shortly after embarking to find her seated directly in front of me!
"Good afternoon Ms. Stevens," I said without pause. "Welcome aboard!"
My ten-years bartending experience helped me contain my enthusiasm (and my drool), but had I turned into a blithering idiot it would not have been without merit; she was stunning.
"Why thank you..." She smiled and leaned in to read my name badge, "…Charles."
Even the shadowed canopy of the bar couldn't diminish the glow of her smile. In fact, every part of her seemed to radiate light: her smile, her alabaster skin, her fiery-red hair and most of all her piercing, emerald eyes. Part of me wanted to ask for I.D. before taking her order; not for her age (I'd read she was twenty-two), but to check her more vital statistics. I ultimately decided against it, but guesstimated she was about 5'6” and 125 pounds.
"What can I get for you today m'lady?"
"Hmmm…What would you recommend?"
She had just uttered my all-time favorite question--one that I had answered a thousand times--but I found myself momentarily flummoxed. What about a Cherry Zinger? No, too much alcohol. She had a show to do after all. A Chocolate Blitz? Too filling and fattening. I didn't want to bring out the heavy artillery too soon.
For what seemed like an eternity, I raced through my mental liquor cabinet in search of the perfect drink. Finally, it hit me.
"How about an Irish Float?"
She looked at me quizzically, but agreed without hesitation. For a young girl she had a sense of adventure. I liked that.
"I actually have a bit of Irish in me.” She smiled and her cheeks--still touched with the slightest hint of baby fat--dimpled as it grew, giving her face a slightly cherubic softness that accentuated her beauty.
"I know," I winked back. I actually had no idea.
As a bartender, you have to be equal parts detective, psychologist and showman. Her red hair, fair skin and slightly-Gaelic tinge to her music, made me think she might have some green blood in her, but the main reason for my selection was her psychological makeup.
At twenty-two years old, drinking was still new to her. Despite her mature presence, I could tell she was more used to malted milkshakes than malt liquor and anything stronger than Zima might pucker her enthusiasm. An Irish Float had the spirits to match her spirit, but a sweet smoothness more in line with her teenage tastes.
It also allowed me to “wow” her with my mixing technique. I didn't have the flair Sam did, but you don't bartend for ten years without developing a few tricks. She watched intently as I juggled jiggers and flipped flasks. More “mature” customers often ignore the theatrical elements of bartending, but Shanna giggled and smiled throughout.
I had impressed her to this point, but it wasn't until my frothy concoction passed through her delicately pursed lips, that I knew I had made the right decision.
“Wow,” she said, rolling her eyes back. “This is AMAZING!”
“I'm glad you like it.” Within minutes she requested another one. Fortunately, I had the foresight to make an extra-large batch.
“Well, well, well, who have we here?” Sam finally made an appearance. I knew it was just a matter of time.
“Shanna, I'd like you to meet my assistant, Sam Goodwin.” Sam shot me a dirty look on the my assistant line.
“Only for the time being.” Sam extended his hand to Shanna. “I fully-expect this joker to be answering to me in a few months.”
Shanna took his hand. “It's nice to meet you.”
“Oops, I think you dropped something,” Sam said, not releasing her hand.
Shanna looked around her. “I did?”
“Yup, my jaw!”
Somehow, Shanna mustered a pleasant smile that seemed more “thank you” than “screw you,” though I doubt Sam would have known the difference. In fact, his look of smug satisfaction probably had more to do with him getting the line right. Some people have a way with words; Sam has a war with them.
“Ok Romeo,” I said, pointing his way towards new clients at the other end of the bar. “This is Shanna's first day, so don't waste all your 'A' material.”
“Alright, alright, I'll go.” Sam moved to greet the customers, but turned and waved goodbye to Shanna. “I look forward to seeing a lot more of you.”
“I'm sure you will,” Shanna waved back.
I was sure too.
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Shanna spent the entire afternoon with me. Her fair skin kept her confined to the shadowed-canopy of the bar, and I kept her seated with an “around the world” tour of exotic drinks.
I also learned quite a bit about her. As I suspected, this was her first extended foray away from her home and friends. Her mom, who also doubled as her manager, was planning to come, but had to stay stateside to help coordinate Shanna's Fall U.S. tour. Shanna wasn't disappointed; though she loved her mom, she relished the idea of "being her own woman" for a change.
Much to my delight, being her own woman seemed to consist of an indulgence in the “forbidden fruits” of alcohol and junk food. Of course, I was there to make sure she overindulged at every turn. Shanna would occasionally chat with a fan that recognized her and I would use the opportunity to re-fill both her glass and the giant plate of nachos I had fetched her for lunch. She continued to nosh on the never-ending supply well into the afternoon.
“I don't know why I'm eating so much,” Shanna said as she chomped on another chip smothered in cheese sauce. “It must be nerves.”
Either that or the six drinks you've had, I thought. “I guess even the greatest aren't immune to opening night jitters.”
Shanna immediately bolted upright and looked at her watch. “Oh shit--I mean, shoot!” She was so cute. “I'm sorry; I have to go get ready. It's only two-hours 'til curtain.”
As Shanna jumped from her perch, she misjudged the distance from the stool to the floor and fell against the seat next to her.
“Oops! Careful now.” I reached across the bar to steady her. Her arm was warm and soft.
“I'm SO sorry,” Shanna giggled. “I guess I don't have my sea-legs yet.”
“That's OK my dear, you should see me on land.”
Shanna laughed and righted herself enough to extend her hand; I gladly took it.
“It was VERY nice to meet you, Charles. Are you coming to my show?”
“I'd love to, but I'm afraid I have to work.” I was genuinely disappointed; so was Shanna.
“Well, I guess I'll forgive you this time. You still have six-months to make it up to me.”
“I most certainly will.” With that, I released her hand and bid her adieu. She really was a polished performer: I could hardly tell she was drunk as she ambled towards her cabin; however, her circuitous path around the pool betrayed her stoic poise and posture.
Fortunately, it gave me a precious few extra seconds to examine her figure--stem to stern--for the first time.
The first thing I noticed was her skin; it was absolutely flawless. I also noticed that the tinge of baby fat adorning her cheeks wasn't just confined to her face. In fact, her entire body seemed to be covered with the slightest layer--though her proportions were every bit those of a grown woman. Perhaps "baby fat" is a bad choice of words, as she certainly exhibited no excess curves or bulges (other than her amply-filled C-cup top and perky posterior) and no one in their right minds would call her fat. "Untouched" would be more appropriate: untouched by life and the rigors associated with it. She was a fully-blossomed fruit ripe for the picking.
“Hubba-Hubba!”
Sam's eloquent comment snapped me from my trance. He rested his elbow on my shoulder and together we watched as Shanna sashayed away from us, her ample caboose undulating the thin fabric of her bikini with each step. With a final flip of her raven hair, she disappeared through the bulkhead. Hubba-Hubba indeed.
Six months. Those two words kept penetrating my thoughts as I grudgingly returned to my duties.
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Bartender's Credo #1: If you ever want to have lots of sex, become a bartender--especially on a cruise liner.
The aforementioned “fast and loose” attitude I described regarding food and drink among our guests also applies to sex. For the weeks they're on board, most people wave “bon voyage” to morals, self-control and repercussions. That suits me just fine. I don't consider myself a great looking guy; my nose is a little crooked (thanks to an unruly customer) and I'm getting gray, but I have been told I look distinguished--especially after a few drinks. I'm also at that age, thirty-six, where I have a somewhat universal appeal. I've bedded women 18-55 (at least that's all I'm admitting to) and my gift of gab allows me to change my approach accordingly.
It's not all fun and games though; the duration of my relations are limited and the taboo nature of most of my affairs--morally and professionally--prohibit any more than a quick tumble in the dark. Love doesn't even factor into the equation. In fact, I make a point of not exploring carnal relations with anyone I find particularly attractive (which isn't usually a problem with my particular tastes). I learned long ago that attraction leads to heartbreak once we reach port.
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The house lights were dim as I felt my way into an empty seat at the back of the theater. I couldn't resist; I had to see her perform. She was breathtaking. Even though her show was nearing its close, she seemed fresh as an ocean breeze and showed no ill-effects from her day's indulgences.
Her turquoise-sequenced dress gently caressed her shapely form and even further brought out her emerald eyes. Damn, they were hypnotizing--even from the back row. Her mane of red hair, fiery in the sunlight, now appeared a darker auburn and was styled straighter to frame her timelessly beautiful face. By the pool she was effortlessly sexy; now she was undeniably classy. I couldn't believe this was the same exuberant young girl I'd just spent the better part of an afternoon with.
Her performance also belied her age: Her mannerisms; her voice; the way she worked the crowd (I swear she winked at me in the back row); all seemed to belong to a woman that had been doing this for decades. This girl was going to be huge!
I skulked away in the dark just before her encore. I wanted to stay: I wanted to give her the standing ovation she would no doubt receive; I wanted to meet her back stage and congratulate her on her triumph; I wanted to hug her and feel her nubile young body pressed against mine…but I didn't. Instead, I went back to my lonely cabin and collapsed into bed.
As I lay there, I stared off into the empty space of my room and thought of Shanna. I imagined what she would look like with an extra ten pounds; twenty pounds; fifty pounds. I imagined fresh folds of fat slowly overflowing her sequenced dress, begging for some way to escape its increasingly restrictive confines. I imagined myself mercifully unzipping it as her fleshy body exploded outwards--free from its bonds--and into my waiting arms.
A smile crept across my face as one final thought crossed my mind just as sleep took hold…
Six months.
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“Did you see me last night?”
I whirled around to face the voice and nearly spilled the margarita I was carrying. Considering I had an eye out for Shanna all morning, I don't know how she was able to sneak up on me. I hoped in a few months she would be a lot easier to spot.
“I told you I had to work.” I tried to play it cool, but my feigned indignity was all but transparent.
“You did tell me that,” she said coyly, “but did you see me?” All night in my dreams, I wanted to say.
“I did.” Her face immediately lit-up.
“Well?”
“You were incredible.”
“Hurrah!” Shanna twirled around in her cute, form-fitting sundress. Her youthful exuberance was back in full-force. “I was SOOO nervous. Did you really think I was good?”
“Absolutely.” Despite her confidence on-stage, it was clear she still had a little self-doubt off it. I found it refreshing. Now came the moment of truth…
“Can I buy you a congratulatory Irish Float?”
“I'd better not,” she said, placing a hand on her stomach. “I'm amazed I was able to stand last night, much less sing. That wasn't very professional of me.”
I was disappointed, but unfazed. “Are you kidding? You were amazing. I was hoping it was my drinks that brought you luck.”
“I don't think it was the drinks…”
Shanna's coy smile said it all: This girl had a crush. I immediately became aroused; not just because this young, beautiful and talented girl was attracted to me, but because of the favorable position this put me in. It was an advantage I didn't intend to lose.
“I see.” I placed my elbow on the bar and my chin in my hand. “Well, truth be told, I had a particularly good day yesterday and I think it was thanks to a certain lucky charm of my own.”
Shanna blushed and looked away.
“Now I'm not superstitious, but I don't think we should risk altering a successful routine. I'll tell you what, let me make you one drink--just to keep me from getting in trouble--so you can stay here and we can test my theory.”
Shanna hesitated, and then nodded. I didn't ask what she wanted; I just started mixing her a Steel Magnolia: a light and fruity drink with less alcohol than an Irish Float, but all the sugar and calories. Once again it met with an enthusiastic response and before long I was whipping up another batch.
Over the years, I have developed a knack for keeping customer's glasses filled. The trick is never letting it get much below half-full. If it empties, most people become aware of how much they're drinking, but if you constantly top it off they usually don't. Needless to say, Shanna's glass was kept filled to the brim and I imagine she actually drank more than the first day--despite just ordering a single drink. I knew I was a bad influence, but I couldn't help myself.
I had to be careful, however, that my carnal urges didn't overwhelm my good sense. I was treading on dangerous ground and any misstep could foil my plan. I'd like to say I was looking out for her interests when I reminded her that she only had an hour until curtain, but in truth I was merely protecting my six-month investment.
"I think you've got a crush big man," Sam said to me after Shanna had left. "I don't think I've ever seen you dote on a customer as much as her...and that's sayin' something."
"Who?" I played stupid, a game that I should've known better than to engage with Sam; he was the master.
"Who?!? Who do you think? Ms. Goodbody.”
"She's just a girl, Sam. She's young…away from home. I want to make sure she's taken care of. I'm just being friendly."
"Then how come you never let me wait on her? I can be REAL friendly."
"I think you just answered your own question Sammy-boy."
Sam was subtle as a sledgehammer, but if my attentions were that obvious--especially to someone as dense as Sam--it showed that I needed to be doubly careful not to overplay my hand.
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Bartender's Credo #2: It's strange but it's true: The best looking women are often the loneliest.
My father--an average man, of average means, looks and intelligence--married the Homecoming Queen...Twice (first his High School, then his college sweetheart). Neither my mother, or his second wife looked much like Homecoming Queens when he divorced them a few years later, but that's not the point: The point is he walked where few men dared to tread and it paid off.
Growing up, it always seemed like fatherly rhetoric espoused to instill confidence in me, but as I grew older I was able to see the truth in it. There are certain women that 95% of the male population deem "unapproachable." As a bartender, I've seen average looking women swarmed by men, while women just south of perfection sit alone with their drinks. In fact, the whole bar mentality seems to work against beautiful women: "Beer goggles” only enhance beauty, while giving confidence to the more caddish among us. Why do you suppose so many great-looking women end-up with jerks?
My father's advice has served me well through the years; my conquests are fairly legendary despite my modest looks and “Charles At-less” physique. However, I can't take all the credit; my unusual preferences help to inoculate me from most Siren's songs. I wonder if my father benefited from the same immunity?
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The next two weeks went by in a blur. I've always loved my job, but I've never looked forward to starting my shifts as much as I did while Shanna was on board. I even volunteered to work on my days off, just so I wouldn't risk a day without seeing her. For her part, she was like clockwork and graced my presence from around 11 a.m. until at least 4 p.m. everyday.
Even though Shanna was quite a hit onboard, she never seemed to socialize with anyone other than myself for more than a few minutes. That's not to say she was rude; she was always gracious and would sign autographs upon request, but after a few pleasantries would always turn her attentions back to me. Despite her gregarious nature onstage, it was obvious she was uncomfortable being the center of attention off it. As long as she was eating, drinking or talking to me she felt insulated. Needless to say, I worked to ensure she was as insulated as possible.
She hinted at seeing me off the clock, but I always demurred in the name of company policy. In truth, there were many reasons I refused to see Shanna after hours and that was the least of them. Mostly, I was afraid: afraid I'd break my aforementioned rules of celibacy; afraid I'd become to obvious with my intentions; afraid I'd disappoint her away from my sanctum sanctorum; afraid I'd fall in love. While at work I could stay in my comfort zone and concentrate on the task at hand.
And what a wonderful task it was: Fattening was my art form and Shanna had the perfect palate for my palette. As the days passed and I continued to gain Shanna's trust, I became more emboldened with my drink selection and created heavier, more cream-laden drinks. I learned not to ask her what she wanted (that gave her the option of refusing), but instead would ask her opinion on “my latest creation,” or surprise her with something special “just for her.” She happily guzzled everything I set in front of her and more.
Lest you think I was creating an alcoholic, or working to sabotage Shanna's performances, rest assured that I was careful to monitor her intake and made sure she never got beyond tipsy. Most of the exotic drinks were designed to be served with varying degrees of alcohol (preferably less I was usually told by my superiors; alcohol can get expensive) and I was sure to supplement her drinks with lots of greasy food from the snack bar. Nachos smothered in cheese sauce were her favorite and I found that, as with her drinks, I could keep a nearby plate surreptitiously filled so she would nosh absent-mindedly. It was a joy to watch her eat several plates-worth of nachos between pizza lunches and hamburger dinners.
By the end of the second week, however, it had become less of a joy. Her flat stomach and sleek thighs seemed to mock me as she downed glass after glass and plate after plate with nary a bulge or blemish. I knew her youthful metabolism would be hard to overcome, but I had spent more time with her than any six of my previous projects and had nothing to show for my efforts.
“Where does she put it all?” Sam asked me one afternoon as Shanna helped herself to a third piece of pepperoni pizza within an hour. Usually, my discriminating eye could tell where my sieges overindulgences--however minor--were being stored, but with Shanna I honestly had no answer; she seemingly had an invisible third leg.
Had she been my normal, two-week visitor I might have been suicidal, but I knew, despite my lack of success, that I had time on my side and was laying the groundwork for what was hopefully to come. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait much longer.
It was the middle of the third week that I finally noticed that my intensive efforts weren't for naught after all. Shanna greeted me poolside in the same turquoise bikini she had been wearing the first day I met her. In fact, almost every detail mirrored that of our first meeting: the time, the temperature, and the day of the week. Perhaps it was these similarities that made the difference in Shanna more noticeable by comparison.
Her face seemed fuller; her dimples deeper; her cheeks softer. I couldn't see much with her sitting on the other side of the bar, but I didn't think it was my imagination; I had seen these changes countless times before. As we chatted, however, I began to doubt myself. Was my supreme desire to fatten this young girl making me see things that weren't there? It wasn't until Shanna rose to fetch a plate of nachos that I realized there was more to my observations than wishful thinking.
Anyone witnessing Shanna for the first time as she sashayed her way to the snack bar would've said her body was perfect, but I knew better. As far as I was concerned, her body still had a LONG way to go to achieve perfection, but as she stood scooping liquid cheese on a plate-full of fried chips I could tell she was about ten pounds closer than she was three weeks ago.
The spaghetti straps on her bikini bottoms seemed to dig ever-so-slightly into her waist where they once rested loosely just above her hips. A tiny, almost unperceivable roll of skin jutted out above where the straps now sunk into her spongy sides. Although her hips didn't seem any wider, it was evident there was a bit less bikini string available to tie into the neat little bow that rested on her side. Previously, her stomach concaved inwards below her ribs before meeting her hips to form a classic hourglass shape, but now it arched outwards slightly in front of her as if swollen from a large meal. It didn't appear any flabbier, but I wondered if she would be able to suck it into its previous shape.
In fact, Shanna's whole body seemed a bit more voluptuous--as if "Spinal Tap" had flicked her body volume switch from '10' to '11.' Her cleavage seemed deeper; her breasts more full. Her hourglass figure was definitely sporting more sand than when she boarded.
The snug nature of her bathing suit caused even more of a sensation among the males poolside, but I knew the next ten pounds might cause her to lose some of her audience. The rate in which she snarfed down her nachos led me to believe that was just a matter of time.
“Is it just me,” Sam whispered to me the following week. “Or is Shanna starting to pork-up?”
I looked over to where Shanna sat devouring a late breakfast of chili-cheese fries. In her haste, a dollop of cheese sauce had dribbled onto her chin.
“I hadn't noticed.” I lied.
“I think she is. She never had that roll around her waist…”
Sure enough, a delicate, yet perceptible roll of fat spilled over the string on her bikini bottoms as she leaned over her food. It was adorable and begged to be pinched.
“And her arms, remember how toned they were? They're getting flabby.”
Of course, he was right about that too. Even though “flabby” connotes a jiggling that wasn't present yet, her upper arms were noticeably thicker.
“You really think so?” I couldn't stop baiting him. Every artist enjoys a little recognition.
“Look at her ass…” Shanna had swiveled in her seat to watch some kids frolic by the pool and now had her back to us. “It never used to take up that much of the stool.”
I was impressed with Sam's keen eye. Her rear had definitely begun a pilgrimage towards the edges of her seat. I wondered how much was the new weight and how much was a result of hour after hour of sitting. Her widening hips forced the string of her bikini bottoms tighter and lower across her back, causing the cleavage from her growing butt cheeks to peep out above it. A few more pounds and Shanna might be arrested for indecent exposure.
I was so engrossed in admiring Shanna's ample assets that I didn't even notice that she had swiveled around to face us.
“Like what you see?” Shanna batted her eyes playfully and smiled--a bit of chili had lodged in-between her teeth, perfectly complimenting the smudge of cheese still smeared on her chin.
“Absolutely.”
"The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea"
by Maverick
My name is Charles and I have the most wonderful job in the world: I'm a poolside bartender for Ventura Cruises, an exotic cruise line that runs throughout the Pacific. I know what you're thinking: "The fun, the sun, the travel...What's not to like?" Well, I'd be lying if I said that didn't help, but that's merely the umbrella that tops the drink. No, I enjoy my job because it allows--even encourages--me to do something that in normal circles might be considered nefarious or perverted: I get paid to fatten up women.
"Why?" I hear you ask. Well, the "why" is simply a by-product of the "how." It's my responsibility to keep the lovely ladies that frequent my deck constantly contented with caloric concoctions in a coconut. "Banana Monkeys," "BBCs," "Fudge Mud Pies," "Bikinies:" It's not a stretch to say that many of my creations would be more at home at a Dairy Queen than your typical pub. Heck, most of them have fat and caloric contents that would make a Blizzard blush.
You want to know the best part? The women DON'T CARE. Oh sure, I may hear the occasional feigned hint of restraint: "I really shouldn't" or "I couldn't possibly," but that's usually right before they order their third Pina Colada. Some even manage a few token visits to the gym, but most simply have resigned that for the week or two they're on our boat they're going to relax and indulge. That's where I come in.
I have made fattening women an art form. Of course, most people gain a little on their holidays even without someone like me counting their calories, but I make sure those women who are inclined to gain reach their maximum potential. It helps that I'm blessed with an honest face and a gift of gab. It also helps that my bar is not only adjacent to the most popular pool on the ship, but a 24-hour snack bar whose specialty is the carb-heavy snacks that liquor makes one crave. Needless to say, complimentary nacho, hamburger and pizza runs for my clients--even without their asking--have become an integral part of my job.
This extra attention for the customers, especially of the female persuasion, has made my bar even more popular. I suppose I should give SOME credit to my young, dim-witted assistant Sam; his rugged good looks and circus act with glasses, colanders and fruit attracts women like flies. We actually make quite a team; his looks and my charm make for the ultimate bait and switch.
As wonderful as my job is, it isn't perfect. Even our longest two-week cruise hardly allows time for me to work my magic, much less enjoy it. I have to be content cultivating the occasional tummy bulge and, if I'm particularly successful (as I was with a certain French lingerie model), a fresh set of "love handles." I also realize that the vast majority of the women I serve will eventually aerobicize away the 10-15 pounds I worked so hard to put on them and that's depressing. However, I take solace knowing that for some those pounds will linger and possibly be a springboard for bigger things to come.
Though my triumphs are often bittersweet, there was one glorious occasion during my tenure with Ventura Cruises where I was provided perfect time, opportunity, and subject for my alchemic bag of tricks. However, I learned the hard way that you should be careful what you wish for--especially when you wish upon stars aligned so perfectly.
Her name was Shanna Stevens and she had just signed for a six-month extended engagement as our liner's headlining singer. I was impressed. Traditionally, our liner's "entertainment" consisted of dynamic acts such as "Chocco the Dancing Squirrel" and the guys that sang the "Happy Days" theme song. Shanna, on the other hand, was young, talented and on her way up. There was already quite a bit of buzz calling her the "next" Charlotte Church (strange considering their close proximity in age), but with incomparable hot-blooded sex-appeal.
Usually, knowing such a beautiful creature was on board I'd be counting the minutes until they eventually stumbled into my poolside lair, but that never occurred to me with Shanna. My job was to keep the guests satiated and she was an employee. I also didn't expect to see a young woman of her relatively high-profile cavorting with us rabble on the poop deck. (Most of the other entertainers relaxed in a special VIP lounge.) So imagine my surprise when I looked up from blending a Mai-Tai shortly after embarking to find her seated directly in front of me!
"Good afternoon Ms. Stevens," I said without pause. "Welcome aboard!"
My ten-years bartending experience helped me contain my enthusiasm (and my drool), but had I turned into a blithering idiot it would not have been without merit; she was stunning.
"Why thank you..." She smiled and leaned in to read my name badge, "…Charles."
Even the shadowed canopy of the bar couldn't diminish the glow of her smile. In fact, every part of her seemed to radiate light: her smile, her alabaster skin, her fiery-red hair and most of all her piercing, emerald eyes. Part of me wanted to ask for I.D. before taking her order; not for her age (I'd read she was twenty-two), but to check her more vital statistics. I ultimately decided against it, but guesstimated she was about 5'6” and 125 pounds.
"What can I get for you today m'lady?"
"Hmmm…What would you recommend?"
She had just uttered my all-time favorite question--one that I had answered a thousand times--but I found myself momentarily flummoxed. What about a Cherry Zinger? No, too much alcohol. She had a show to do after all. A Chocolate Blitz? Too filling and fattening. I didn't want to bring out the heavy artillery too soon.
For what seemed like an eternity, I raced through my mental liquor cabinet in search of the perfect drink. Finally, it hit me.
"How about an Irish Float?"
She looked at me quizzically, but agreed without hesitation. For a young girl she had a sense of adventure. I liked that.
"I actually have a bit of Irish in me.” She smiled and her cheeks--still touched with the slightest hint of baby fat--dimpled as it grew, giving her face a slightly cherubic softness that accentuated her beauty.
"I know," I winked back. I actually had no idea.
As a bartender, you have to be equal parts detective, psychologist and showman. Her red hair, fair skin and slightly-Gaelic tinge to her music, made me think she might have some green blood in her, but the main reason for my selection was her psychological makeup.
At twenty-two years old, drinking was still new to her. Despite her mature presence, I could tell she was more used to malted milkshakes than malt liquor and anything stronger than Zima might pucker her enthusiasm. An Irish Float had the spirits to match her spirit, but a sweet smoothness more in line with her teenage tastes.
It also allowed me to “wow” her with my mixing technique. I didn't have the flair Sam did, but you don't bartend for ten years without developing a few tricks. She watched intently as I juggled jiggers and flipped flasks. More “mature” customers often ignore the theatrical elements of bartending, but Shanna giggled and smiled throughout.
I had impressed her to this point, but it wasn't until my frothy concoction passed through her delicately pursed lips, that I knew I had made the right decision.
“Wow,” she said, rolling her eyes back. “This is AMAZING!”
“I'm glad you like it.” Within minutes she requested another one. Fortunately, I had the foresight to make an extra-large batch.
“Well, well, well, who have we here?” Sam finally made an appearance. I knew it was just a matter of time.
“Shanna, I'd like you to meet my assistant, Sam Goodwin.” Sam shot me a dirty look on the my assistant line.
“Only for the time being.” Sam extended his hand to Shanna. “I fully-expect this joker to be answering to me in a few months.”
Shanna took his hand. “It's nice to meet you.”
“Oops, I think you dropped something,” Sam said, not releasing her hand.
Shanna looked around her. “I did?”
“Yup, my jaw!”
Somehow, Shanna mustered a pleasant smile that seemed more “thank you” than “screw you,” though I doubt Sam would have known the difference. In fact, his look of smug satisfaction probably had more to do with him getting the line right. Some people have a way with words; Sam has a war with them.
“Ok Romeo,” I said, pointing his way towards new clients at the other end of the bar. “This is Shanna's first day, so don't waste all your 'A' material.”
“Alright, alright, I'll go.” Sam moved to greet the customers, but turned and waved goodbye to Shanna. “I look forward to seeing a lot more of you.”
“I'm sure you will,” Shanna waved back.
I was sure too.
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Shanna spent the entire afternoon with me. Her fair skin kept her confined to the shadowed-canopy of the bar, and I kept her seated with an “around the world” tour of exotic drinks.
I also learned quite a bit about her. As I suspected, this was her first extended foray away from her home and friends. Her mom, who also doubled as her manager, was planning to come, but had to stay stateside to help coordinate Shanna's Fall U.S. tour. Shanna wasn't disappointed; though she loved her mom, she relished the idea of "being her own woman" for a change.
Much to my delight, being her own woman seemed to consist of an indulgence in the “forbidden fruits” of alcohol and junk food. Of course, I was there to make sure she overindulged at every turn. Shanna would occasionally chat with a fan that recognized her and I would use the opportunity to re-fill both her glass and the giant plate of nachos I had fetched her for lunch. She continued to nosh on the never-ending supply well into the afternoon.
“I don't know why I'm eating so much,” Shanna said as she chomped on another chip smothered in cheese sauce. “It must be nerves.”
Either that or the six drinks you've had, I thought. “I guess even the greatest aren't immune to opening night jitters.”
Shanna immediately bolted upright and looked at her watch. “Oh shit--I mean, shoot!” She was so cute. “I'm sorry; I have to go get ready. It's only two-hours 'til curtain.”
As Shanna jumped from her perch, she misjudged the distance from the stool to the floor and fell against the seat next to her.
“Oops! Careful now.” I reached across the bar to steady her. Her arm was warm and soft.
“I'm SO sorry,” Shanna giggled. “I guess I don't have my sea-legs yet.”
“That's OK my dear, you should see me on land.”
Shanna laughed and righted herself enough to extend her hand; I gladly took it.
“It was VERY nice to meet you, Charles. Are you coming to my show?”
“I'd love to, but I'm afraid I have to work.” I was genuinely disappointed; so was Shanna.
“Well, I guess I'll forgive you this time. You still have six-months to make it up to me.”
“I most certainly will.” With that, I released her hand and bid her adieu. She really was a polished performer: I could hardly tell she was drunk as she ambled towards her cabin; however, her circuitous path around the pool betrayed her stoic poise and posture.
Fortunately, it gave me a precious few extra seconds to examine her figure--stem to stern--for the first time.
The first thing I noticed was her skin; it was absolutely flawless. I also noticed that the tinge of baby fat adorning her cheeks wasn't just confined to her face. In fact, her entire body seemed to be covered with the slightest layer--though her proportions were every bit those of a grown woman. Perhaps "baby fat" is a bad choice of words, as she certainly exhibited no excess curves or bulges (other than her amply-filled C-cup top and perky posterior) and no one in their right minds would call her fat. "Untouched" would be more appropriate: untouched by life and the rigors associated with it. She was a fully-blossomed fruit ripe for the picking.
“Hubba-Hubba!”
Sam's eloquent comment snapped me from my trance. He rested his elbow on my shoulder and together we watched as Shanna sashayed away from us, her ample caboose undulating the thin fabric of her bikini with each step. With a final flip of her raven hair, she disappeared through the bulkhead. Hubba-Hubba indeed.
Six months. Those two words kept penetrating my thoughts as I grudgingly returned to my duties.
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Bartender's Credo #1: If you ever want to have lots of sex, become a bartender--especially on a cruise liner.
The aforementioned “fast and loose” attitude I described regarding food and drink among our guests also applies to sex. For the weeks they're on board, most people wave “bon voyage” to morals, self-control and repercussions. That suits me just fine. I don't consider myself a great looking guy; my nose is a little crooked (thanks to an unruly customer) and I'm getting gray, but I have been told I look distinguished--especially after a few drinks. I'm also at that age, thirty-six, where I have a somewhat universal appeal. I've bedded women 18-55 (at least that's all I'm admitting to) and my gift of gab allows me to change my approach accordingly.
It's not all fun and games though; the duration of my relations are limited and the taboo nature of most of my affairs--morally and professionally--prohibit any more than a quick tumble in the dark. Love doesn't even factor into the equation. In fact, I make a point of not exploring carnal relations with anyone I find particularly attractive (which isn't usually a problem with my particular tastes). I learned long ago that attraction leads to heartbreak once we reach port.
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The house lights were dim as I felt my way into an empty seat at the back of the theater. I couldn't resist; I had to see her perform. She was breathtaking. Even though her show was nearing its close, she seemed fresh as an ocean breeze and showed no ill-effects from her day's indulgences.
Her turquoise-sequenced dress gently caressed her shapely form and even further brought out her emerald eyes. Damn, they were hypnotizing--even from the back row. Her mane of red hair, fiery in the sunlight, now appeared a darker auburn and was styled straighter to frame her timelessly beautiful face. By the pool she was effortlessly sexy; now she was undeniably classy. I couldn't believe this was the same exuberant young girl I'd just spent the better part of an afternoon with.
Her performance also belied her age: Her mannerisms; her voice; the way she worked the crowd (I swear she winked at me in the back row); all seemed to belong to a woman that had been doing this for decades. This girl was going to be huge!
I skulked away in the dark just before her encore. I wanted to stay: I wanted to give her the standing ovation she would no doubt receive; I wanted to meet her back stage and congratulate her on her triumph; I wanted to hug her and feel her nubile young body pressed against mine…but I didn't. Instead, I went back to my lonely cabin and collapsed into bed.
As I lay there, I stared off into the empty space of my room and thought of Shanna. I imagined what she would look like with an extra ten pounds; twenty pounds; fifty pounds. I imagined fresh folds of fat slowly overflowing her sequenced dress, begging for some way to escape its increasingly restrictive confines. I imagined myself mercifully unzipping it as her fleshy body exploded outwards--free from its bonds--and into my waiting arms.
A smile crept across my face as one final thought crossed my mind just as sleep took hold…
Six months.
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“Did you see me last night?”
I whirled around to face the voice and nearly spilled the margarita I was carrying. Considering I had an eye out for Shanna all morning, I don't know how she was able to sneak up on me. I hoped in a few months she would be a lot easier to spot.
“I told you I had to work.” I tried to play it cool, but my feigned indignity was all but transparent.
“You did tell me that,” she said coyly, “but did you see me?” All night in my dreams, I wanted to say.
“I did.” Her face immediately lit-up.
“Well?”
“You were incredible.”
“Hurrah!” Shanna twirled around in her cute, form-fitting sundress. Her youthful exuberance was back in full-force. “I was SOOO nervous. Did you really think I was good?”
“Absolutely.” Despite her confidence on-stage, it was clear she still had a little self-doubt off it. I found it refreshing. Now came the moment of truth…
“Can I buy you a congratulatory Irish Float?”
“I'd better not,” she said, placing a hand on her stomach. “I'm amazed I was able to stand last night, much less sing. That wasn't very professional of me.”
I was disappointed, but unfazed. “Are you kidding? You were amazing. I was hoping it was my drinks that brought you luck.”
“I don't think it was the drinks…”
Shanna's coy smile said it all: This girl had a crush. I immediately became aroused; not just because this young, beautiful and talented girl was attracted to me, but because of the favorable position this put me in. It was an advantage I didn't intend to lose.
“I see.” I placed my elbow on the bar and my chin in my hand. “Well, truth be told, I had a particularly good day yesterday and I think it was thanks to a certain lucky charm of my own.”
Shanna blushed and looked away.
“Now I'm not superstitious, but I don't think we should risk altering a successful routine. I'll tell you what, let me make you one drink--just to keep me from getting in trouble--so you can stay here and we can test my theory.”
Shanna hesitated, and then nodded. I didn't ask what she wanted; I just started mixing her a Steel Magnolia: a light and fruity drink with less alcohol than an Irish Float, but all the sugar and calories. Once again it met with an enthusiastic response and before long I was whipping up another batch.
Over the years, I have developed a knack for keeping customer's glasses filled. The trick is never letting it get much below half-full. If it empties, most people become aware of how much they're drinking, but if you constantly top it off they usually don't. Needless to say, Shanna's glass was kept filled to the brim and I imagine she actually drank more than the first day--despite just ordering a single drink. I knew I was a bad influence, but I couldn't help myself.
I had to be careful, however, that my carnal urges didn't overwhelm my good sense. I was treading on dangerous ground and any misstep could foil my plan. I'd like to say I was looking out for her interests when I reminded her that she only had an hour until curtain, but in truth I was merely protecting my six-month investment.
"I think you've got a crush big man," Sam said to me after Shanna had left. "I don't think I've ever seen you dote on a customer as much as her...and that's sayin' something."
"Who?" I played stupid, a game that I should've known better than to engage with Sam; he was the master.
"Who?!? Who do you think? Ms. Goodbody.”
"She's just a girl, Sam. She's young…away from home. I want to make sure she's taken care of. I'm just being friendly."
"Then how come you never let me wait on her? I can be REAL friendly."
"I think you just answered your own question Sammy-boy."
Sam was subtle as a sledgehammer, but if my attentions were that obvious--especially to someone as dense as Sam--it showed that I needed to be doubly careful not to overplay my hand.
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Bartender's Credo #2: It's strange but it's true: The best looking women are often the loneliest.
My father--an average man, of average means, looks and intelligence--married the Homecoming Queen...Twice (first his High School, then his college sweetheart). Neither my mother, or his second wife looked much like Homecoming Queens when he divorced them a few years later, but that's not the point: The point is he walked where few men dared to tread and it paid off.
Growing up, it always seemed like fatherly rhetoric espoused to instill confidence in me, but as I grew older I was able to see the truth in it. There are certain women that 95% of the male population deem "unapproachable." As a bartender, I've seen average looking women swarmed by men, while women just south of perfection sit alone with their drinks. In fact, the whole bar mentality seems to work against beautiful women: "Beer goggles” only enhance beauty, while giving confidence to the more caddish among us. Why do you suppose so many great-looking women end-up with jerks?
My father's advice has served me well through the years; my conquests are fairly legendary despite my modest looks and “Charles At-less” physique. However, I can't take all the credit; my unusual preferences help to inoculate me from most Siren's songs. I wonder if my father benefited from the same immunity?
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The next two weeks went by in a blur. I've always loved my job, but I've never looked forward to starting my shifts as much as I did while Shanna was on board. I even volunteered to work on my days off, just so I wouldn't risk a day without seeing her. For her part, she was like clockwork and graced my presence from around 11 a.m. until at least 4 p.m. everyday.
Even though Shanna was quite a hit onboard, she never seemed to socialize with anyone other than myself for more than a few minutes. That's not to say she was rude; she was always gracious and would sign autographs upon request, but after a few pleasantries would always turn her attentions back to me. Despite her gregarious nature onstage, it was obvious she was uncomfortable being the center of attention off it. As long as she was eating, drinking or talking to me she felt insulated. Needless to say, I worked to ensure she was as insulated as possible.
She hinted at seeing me off the clock, but I always demurred in the name of company policy. In truth, there were many reasons I refused to see Shanna after hours and that was the least of them. Mostly, I was afraid: afraid I'd break my aforementioned rules of celibacy; afraid I'd become to obvious with my intentions; afraid I'd disappoint her away from my sanctum sanctorum; afraid I'd fall in love. While at work I could stay in my comfort zone and concentrate on the task at hand.
And what a wonderful task it was: Fattening was my art form and Shanna had the perfect palate for my palette. As the days passed and I continued to gain Shanna's trust, I became more emboldened with my drink selection and created heavier, more cream-laden drinks. I learned not to ask her what she wanted (that gave her the option of refusing), but instead would ask her opinion on “my latest creation,” or surprise her with something special “just for her.” She happily guzzled everything I set in front of her and more.
Lest you think I was creating an alcoholic, or working to sabotage Shanna's performances, rest assured that I was careful to monitor her intake and made sure she never got beyond tipsy. Most of the exotic drinks were designed to be served with varying degrees of alcohol (preferably less I was usually told by my superiors; alcohol can get expensive) and I was sure to supplement her drinks with lots of greasy food from the snack bar. Nachos smothered in cheese sauce were her favorite and I found that, as with her drinks, I could keep a nearby plate surreptitiously filled so she would nosh absent-mindedly. It was a joy to watch her eat several plates-worth of nachos between pizza lunches and hamburger dinners.
By the end of the second week, however, it had become less of a joy. Her flat stomach and sleek thighs seemed to mock me as she downed glass after glass and plate after plate with nary a bulge or blemish. I knew her youthful metabolism would be hard to overcome, but I had spent more time with her than any six of my previous projects and had nothing to show for my efforts.
“Where does she put it all?” Sam asked me one afternoon as Shanna helped herself to a third piece of pepperoni pizza within an hour. Usually, my discriminating eye could tell where my sieges overindulgences--however minor--were being stored, but with Shanna I honestly had no answer; she seemingly had an invisible third leg.
Had she been my normal, two-week visitor I might have been suicidal, but I knew, despite my lack of success, that I had time on my side and was laying the groundwork for what was hopefully to come. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait much longer.
It was the middle of the third week that I finally noticed that my intensive efforts weren't for naught after all. Shanna greeted me poolside in the same turquoise bikini she had been wearing the first day I met her. In fact, almost every detail mirrored that of our first meeting: the time, the temperature, and the day of the week. Perhaps it was these similarities that made the difference in Shanna more noticeable by comparison.
Her face seemed fuller; her dimples deeper; her cheeks softer. I couldn't see much with her sitting on the other side of the bar, but I didn't think it was my imagination; I had seen these changes countless times before. As we chatted, however, I began to doubt myself. Was my supreme desire to fatten this young girl making me see things that weren't there? It wasn't until Shanna rose to fetch a plate of nachos that I realized there was more to my observations than wishful thinking.
Anyone witnessing Shanna for the first time as she sashayed her way to the snack bar would've said her body was perfect, but I knew better. As far as I was concerned, her body still had a LONG way to go to achieve perfection, but as she stood scooping liquid cheese on a plate-full of fried chips I could tell she was about ten pounds closer than she was three weeks ago.
The spaghetti straps on her bikini bottoms seemed to dig ever-so-slightly into her waist where they once rested loosely just above her hips. A tiny, almost unperceivable roll of skin jutted out above where the straps now sunk into her spongy sides. Although her hips didn't seem any wider, it was evident there was a bit less bikini string available to tie into the neat little bow that rested on her side. Previously, her stomach concaved inwards below her ribs before meeting her hips to form a classic hourglass shape, but now it arched outwards slightly in front of her as if swollen from a large meal. It didn't appear any flabbier, but I wondered if she would be able to suck it into its previous shape.
In fact, Shanna's whole body seemed a bit more voluptuous--as if "Spinal Tap" had flicked her body volume switch from '10' to '11.' Her cleavage seemed deeper; her breasts more full. Her hourglass figure was definitely sporting more sand than when she boarded.
The snug nature of her bathing suit caused even more of a sensation among the males poolside, but I knew the next ten pounds might cause her to lose some of her audience. The rate in which she snarfed down her nachos led me to believe that was just a matter of time.
“Is it just me,” Sam whispered to me the following week. “Or is Shanna starting to pork-up?”
I looked over to where Shanna sat devouring a late breakfast of chili-cheese fries. In her haste, a dollop of cheese sauce had dribbled onto her chin.
“I hadn't noticed.” I lied.
“I think she is. She never had that roll around her waist…”
Sure enough, a delicate, yet perceptible roll of fat spilled over the string on her bikini bottoms as she leaned over her food. It was adorable and begged to be pinched.
“And her arms, remember how toned they were? They're getting flabby.”
Of course, he was right about that too. Even though “flabby” connotes a jiggling that wasn't present yet, her upper arms were noticeably thicker.
“You really think so?” I couldn't stop baiting him. Every artist enjoys a little recognition.
“Look at her ass…” Shanna had swiveled in her seat to watch some kids frolic by the pool and now had her back to us. “It never used to take up that much of the stool.”
I was impressed with Sam's keen eye. Her rear had definitely begun a pilgrimage towards the edges of her seat. I wondered how much was the new weight and how much was a result of hour after hour of sitting. Her widening hips forced the string of her bikini bottoms tighter and lower across her back, causing the cleavage from her growing butt cheeks to peep out above it. A few more pounds and Shanna might be arrested for indecent exposure.
I was so engrossed in admiring Shanna's ample assets that I didn't even notice that she had swiveled around to face us.
“Like what you see?” Shanna batted her eyes playfully and smiled--a bit of chili had lodged in-between her teeth, perfectly complimenting the smudge of cheese still smeared on her chin.
“Absolutely.”
