- Jun 3, 2013
- , Female
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog… Iris nibbled at her thumb nail, trying her best not to stare. But she was at such a perfect angle.
He was sitting at a table for four, but was clearly alone. He had been in the restaurant when she had been seated thirty minutes ago. Iris had glanced at him earlier, at which point a momentary flush of heat ran its course through her body. He was just her type. But she was just coming for lunch, so she didn’t pay him much attention.
At first, anyway. It was hard for her to focus when he was flagging down servers every few minutes, one flabby arm raised. The wait staff seemed to be at his every beck and call. A regular… She squirmed.
This was one of her favorite restaurants. It was known for being relatively cheap, with some of the best food in town, and definitely the best pulled pork you could find within the surrounding several counties. They did real southern barbecue—proper slow cooking and smoking, with thick, sweet sauce. And half their menu was deep fried. They did fish, too, and even their salads were fantastic. Her friends claimed the burgers must have been sanctified by a great prophet they were so good, and she didn’t doubt it, though she had never tried one. And even though it wasn’t really their thing, their pastas and pot pies were great, too. Their dessert selection was expansive and satisfied every possible taste. Honestly, it was a wonderful mish-mash kind of joint. And while she liked to come for the food, she couldn’t deny that fellow patrons like the young man eating at the next table made her meals much more… exciting.
While she had spent ten minutes poring over the menu and trying to make a decision, he had been chowing down. There were three entrees in front of him, complete with sides: the four-patty bacon burger (which the menu stated was two pounds of beef), complete with gloriously melted cheese, lettuce, crispy fried onions, and gobs of their homemade sauce (a combination of mayonnaise and their signature barbecue sauce). It came with a large side of fries, which he covered in a generous amount of ketchup. The next entrée was a pot pie (she was unable to tell if it was chicken or beef from this distance, but it looked heavenly either way) that looked big enough that if she ordered it herself and ate it all at once she would be stranded at the restaurant for an extra half hour trying to digest. That came with mashed potatoes and lots of extra gravy. Then there was a huge plate piled high with pulled pork and several small buns, so that the customer would be able to make their own sliders. And it looked like he’d asked for extra buns. He’d gotten a salad with that. To drink he had gotten what looked like their biggest malt, and a soda in the same size.
By the time her food had arrived, he had gotten through two of the entrees and ordered more as he began to work on the third. Iris sipped at her water and worked her way through her brisket and mac and cheese very slowly. She didn’t have anywhere she needed to be, and she was getting the show of a lifetime.
She paid more attention as he began to build his sliders. He slathered the buns with extra barbecue sauce and the mayo-barbecue mix, then piled the pulled pork on with his fork until it seemed he would hardly be able to hold the slider together. Somehow, though, his deft, plump fingers would easily ferry each sandwich to his waiting mouth. He’d finish each slider in three bites, cheeks bulging. He would take a long sip of soda, stifle a belch (his hand would often flutter to the top of his belly when he did that, which just about had her swooning), and then start on the next one. Twelve sliders disappeared into his gut, which hung heavily between his thighs. Thick thighs that she was sure were butter-soft beneath the jeans he was wearing.
He leaned back in his chair and a server came by to refill his soda and clear away the plates he had practically licked clean. He spoke to them for a time, and the server nodded and walked away. He rubbed at his gut, half-discreetly, but clearly so full he didn’t particularly care if anyone noticed. His stomach had swollen outward several inches. His button-up shirt was still rather loose (Iris could tell he was no stranger to this kind of gorging—he had planned ahead. She liked that.), but the buttons definitely looked under more pressure than when he had first begun his meal. He seemed to be groaning softly, but she was too far to hear for sure.
She took another few bites of her mac and cheese.
The server returned with a plate of pasta that was heaped so high that Iris realized it was approximately two orders in one. And a single order of pasta here made Olive Garden’s portions seem snack-sized. I didn’t even know they would give you a double order, she thought breathlessly. The new object of Iris’ lust grinned at the server and thanked them, then sat up, his movements heavy and a bit sluggish. He let out a loud belch that he couldn’t quite stifle in time. It was mostly lost in the din of the lunch rush. Iris had to look away as she tried to calm her blushing.
He dumped huge amounts of cheese onto the pasta—the servers had provided several small bowls of freshly grated cheese for him. When he began twirling the pasta onto his fork and lifting it towards his mouth, it looked as gooey as Iris felt. He ate each bite as if it was the apex of every food he had ever had. The look of bliss on his face as he shoveled hundred-calorie bites of pasta, alfredo sauce, chicken, and cheese between his lips was like nothing Iris had ever witnessed before. And there were dozens of those bites. He ate slowly, with short breaks for sips of his soda. By the time his plate was empty and he was scraping up the last stray bits of cheese and sauce, Iris estimated that he had consumed around 2,500 calories just in that one dish. She about hyperventilated as she realized she could look up the calorie counts of what he had eat online—they were in a state that required that the information be made publicly available. The burger was 3,200 calories. The pot pie was a little over 2,000. The pulled pork order looked like it had been doubled, which meant it was around 1,500 calories. With the soda and the shake, he had almost definitely gorged his way into eating 10,000 calories.
He sat in the chair for a bit, clearly needing some time to let his stomach settle. Iris ordered a small ice cream sundae for dessert—just one scoop in a small cup, with a little chocolate sauce, crushed nuts, and a cherry on top. She honestly didn’t even want it, but she needed an excuse to stay. She ate extremely slowly. His server came and cleared away the pasta and his soda glass. He shut his eyes for a moment and breathed, his gloriously round, heavy belly rising and falling with each breath.
And then they brought it out.
It took two servers to carry it out on a tray.
Iris had never actually seen anyone attempt to eat it alone. People usually got it as a dessert for groups of six people or more. She’d had it, and it was absolutely delicious. But far too much food for one person.
Iris recalled that if you could finish it by yourself, your entire order was free.
She felt like she was going to faint with pleasure.
They called it the Monstrosity. It was a gargantuan ice cream sundae. Approximately a gallon’s worth of various ice creams, covered in hot chocolate fudge, nuts, whipped cream, maraschino cherries, bananas, bits of Oreo, chocolate chips, thick ribbons of caramel syrup, brownies (not even brownie bits—whole brownies), chocolate chip cookies, cookie dough, sprinkles, and so many other sweet things that it honestly looked like something straight out of Candy Land.
Other people in the restaurant turned to look. Eyebrows were raised. The eating machine that Iris had been ogling looked ready, despite also looking like if he walked away now he’d be full for the next two days.
As soon as the sundae was set down, he began to dig in. The spoon he was using was enormous. He started at the bottom. Iris could imagine what he was feeling: the warmth in his belly after his three hot entrees; the cool ice cream on his lips and then moving into his belly. The expansion all that cream was going to cause. Iris was halfway ready to see him packing on the pounds as he ate.
The mountain of ice cream and toppings slowly diminished. He slowed down about a third of the way through. He was breathing heavily. Iris was now openly staring. Each bite seemed like the best combination of pleasure and the agony of a too-heavily gorged belly. Another bite. Another. He took a few moments to lift up his belly and unbutton his pants. His shirt buttons had actually begun to look stressed. And still he ate. And ate. Scoop after scoop of ice cream down his gullet, his eyes glazing over as he devoured ice cream-soaked brownies, cookies, donut holes, and hot fudge.
Eventually, it had almost entirely melted. Everything left in the dish the Monstrosity had arrived in was either liquid or so soggy with ice cream it might as well have been. He lifted the dish to his lips and drank it down—a good fifteen seconds of long, deep gulps, as if the dregs of his dessert were ambrosia gifted to him by Bacchus.
And he finished it. Licked his soft, plump lips. His server arrived to congratulate him. Iris approximated the calories: the Monstrosity had to be well over 5,000.
So he had, all within about two hours, eaten around 14,000 calories. Or, as Iris knew, enough calories to put at least four pounds of fat on his butterfat body. And he seemed quite proud. He signed his check and set down a thirty dollar tip. So that’s why they pay him so much attention.
He was stranded there for a while. Leaning far back in his chair, eyes closed, far too full to move. Iris took that as her cue to leave. She got up and went to her car, breathless, and trying to restrain herself from coming to this restaurant every day for the rest of her life just to ensure she never missed watching one of his displays again.
Continued in post #4