Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BBW, ~BHM, Stuffing, Feeding, ~XWG - Turn about is fair play when a feeder asks a beautiful BBW to be his wife.
[Author's Note: A companion piece to "The Old Ball Game", found here.]
I couldnt believe my luck when a total stranger sat next to me at the ball game. She was pretty, knowledgeable about the game, and happily scarfed the popcorn, hot dog, pretzel, frozen lemonade, and pop I brought her. Id never believed in love at first sight, but it had just hit me over the head. I quickly found out that she loved baseball as much as I did she was the only girl Id met who understood the infield fly rule she liked my poetry, she was funny and thoughtful and sweet and pretty and fun and wow!
I was a little hesitant to bring up the idea of being her feeder, but when I did, she didnt say no. She didnt say yes, either. She thought about it, and we talked about it, and she agreed to it. Although my love deepened as her curves ripened, it was much more than her appearance that was putting down emotional roots. I loved all of her, who she was as a whole person, and quickly came to know that I couldnt live without her, so completely had she become a part of who I was as well.
By the time we came back from our honeymoon a month in Italy! she was up to 180, and the surges of arousal and love I felt every time I looked at her were wearing me out. Of course, turnabout is fair play Id put on 15 pounds myself, but I felt more comfortable in the neighborhood of 220 rather than 235. I quietly pared off 10 pounds.
Id heard, of course, that men put on weight when they get married. But it honestly hadnt crossed my mind that I would be one of them. I spent most of my days overseeing the small foundation I had created, which gave grants to poets (okay, so Im not directly saving the world. But beauty is a rare and needed thing.) which meant that I spent most of my days sitting on my behind, which seemed to be spreading. I guess since Id married Stephanie, instead of going out in the evenings and finding some pickup basketball or going for a bike ride, I was staying in and finding exercise in bed. Stephanie was buying my clothes now, so I became used to finding new items from time to time.
And the food was fabulous. Id always liked to cook, and now that I had company in the kitchen well. And half the fun of liking to cook is enjoying the results. And its much more fun cooking for two than cooking for one.
So one Saturday morning in January I awoke to find myself alone in bed and good smells coming from the kitchen. I padded out to find my breathtaking bride, 225 pounds of curves in a sheer happy coat dressing gown, placidly stirring an egg dish at the stove. Oh, what that weight did! Her gorgeous face retained its heart-melting green eyes and was still framed by her shoulder-length brown hair, gleaming in the morning light. Her high cheekbones, no longer jutting starkly, had become rosy apples leading the tempted to her chin chins. The original chin still came to a fetching point, which upward tilt let me know when I was in the doghouse the only sign she ever gave, but Im good with signs. Below it, though, a soft hammock of flesh stretched from ear to ear, a hammock ripe for kissing, nuzzling, and as a freeway entrance to those eminently kissable pillows of lips. I could have stopped with her face and been a happy man.
Fortunately, I didnt have to. Her breasts now perched, ripely full and with nipples as inviting as peaches. I was sometimes embarrassed at how enthusiastic they made me, but that only made her giggle. And below, ah, below, her beautiful belly had pride of place, a softly round spare tire making a heavenly curve fore and aft, which led conveniently to her bewitchingly broad bottom. Plumptious thighs supported what lay within if I didnt stop, breakfast would get cold before it was made. I shook my head briskly and dropped a smacking kiss onto those lips. She laughed.
And what are you staring at, mister? One of our running jokes.
My gorgeous wife, I replied as expected. She beamed. Dear heaven, we were happy.
Here, she said, handing me a plate heaped with cinnamon rolls. A huge fruit salad was on the table, and sausages sizzled in a pan adjacent to the egg mix, which was, I noted, one of my recipes. I put the rolls on and fetched a container of juice.
We ate, I, at least, feasting my eyes as well as my belly. In my just-awakened daze, I had, I discovered, pulled on my jeans but nothing else. Stephanie, her eyes dancing, had pointed it out, but when I rose had waved me back into my seat.
I consumed a large plateful of eggs, sausage, fruit, and three cinnamon rolls and was deciding reluctantly against a fourth when Stephanie lifted my plate to clear it, I thought. Instead she laid it back down as piled up as before. I looked at her with my eyebrows raised.
Youre looking thin, she said lamely.
Ha! I blurted. I looked down and gave my midsection a pat easily accomplished, since it was now bulging with breakfast and my bare-chested state made it fairly obvious.
Well you know you cant save breakfast leftovers.
There was more truth to that. Shrugging, I dug in. Gazing at my beautiful wife, though, distracted me. I had soon cleaned my plate entirely and when I went to get up, discovered that my stomach was awfully stuffed. Wincing, I rubbed my distended gut and belched. Ate too much, I excused myself. Stephanie kissed me, hands full of dishes.
Scoot. Get dressed, she ordered, smiling.
I padded back into the bedroom and then the bathroom, planning to shave. I dont like the feel of stubble and so I shave every day. I paused in front of the mirror. I hadnt realized Id put on that much weight on our honeymoon. I stepped onto the scale and read 228. My weight loss was reversing itself. Of course, I had just pigged out on breakfast. I stepped back. My pecs were a little softer, and my stomach bulged, heavy with food; my jeans felt uncomfortably snug. I contemplated my reflection for another few seconds, then shaved and threw on a T-shirt.
In the afternoon, Stephanie and I went malling, snacking here and there, as one does. We somehow missed a proper lunch, and ended by going to a steakhouse for dinner. I cleaned my plate, as was my habit, but restaurant plates are big, and I ordered dessert out of habit without really checking with my stomach. By the time I was finished, my stomach was letting me know about it. My jeans were definitely pinching and my T-shirt was tugging at the chest and my swollen and aching belly, now uncomfortably heavy with the large meal and rich dessert. My face felt flushed. I had to stop overeating like this.
Of course, thats easier than it sounds. I spent the days glued to my computer, but whenever I got up to stretch my legs, there was always a plate of brownies on the counter, homemade cookies in the jar, and Stephanie served dessert with lunch and dinner. And there was always an evening nosh before bed. And as noted, cooking gets more fun with two in the kitchen.
I suppose the most obvious way to know youre gaining weight is by how your clothes fit, but Stephanie habitually updated my closet, and I didnt even look at the size tags who does? She seemed to have topped out at 240 and was now wearing her chestnut hair in a wedge cut that highlighted those rosy apples of cheeks. And never a word of complaint as many women would utter about how she wanted to lose weight. She happily spent her days cooking, cleaning, knitting, and volunteering at an urban elementary school as a reading helper. The kids called her Aunt Steph.
As for me, I vaguely realized that my waistline was thickening and my backside broadening, but I half didnt notice and half didnt care. Until one morning when Stephanie happened to step on the scale just as I was drying off from a shower. The scale read back 240, and she suddenly said, Hey, your turn.
There was a glint in her eye.
Obediently, I stepped on, but even though Id just seen the scale give what I knew to be Stephanies right weight, I thought something was wrong, because it now read 260. What the heck! I was shaking my head and opened my mouth then shut it. I stepped off the scale and gave myself a good gaze in the mirror. Good grief where had I been! An idiot could see Id gotten fat. My cheeks were full and my chin unmistakably doubling. My pecs curved forward into breasts, pert nipples and all. There was an unmistakable crease under each where the pecs met what used to be my stomach but was now a large round gut with hefty love handles on either side. My belly protruded forward a dismayingly long way before tucking under. I looked down. I could not see anything south of my belly button. I looked back into the mirror. My waistline seemed an acre.
Stephanie was all but dancing, a kid at Christmas.
Click.
Stephanie. Are you a feeder?
She blushed, the apples ripening. I think I must be, she said. Her chin tilted. I just cant resist all that cushy, cuddly, ohhhh, mmmmm the rest was lost as she threw herself onto me, propelling me bedward, not that I was resisting. We grappled frantically, then, a second time, languidly and dopily. I must have dozed, then, because I awoke to the scent of breakfast a rather delayed breakfast.
I leaned against the kitchen counter. Ive always been a proponent of turnabout being fair play, and now it was happening to me. Stephanie looked at me as I came into the kitchen and the chin went up again.
So feed me, I said. Her eyes stretched wide.
Stuff me until I cant move, I challenged, and flopped onto the couch. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, my standard getup. My stomach growled loudly. Today, I am all yours, I said.
Oh, boy, Stephanie said.
She brought me a heaping plate and sat next to me, feeding me as though I were a baby bird. Some bird. I ate for what felt like hours, Stephanie pausing to massage my growing belly. My stomach stretched and pulled, my sides ached, my gut grew distended.
Stop, I said. You win. Im stuffed. I was. My stomach felt as though Id swallowed a cannonball. Silently Stephanie pulled me to my feet.
You can move, you goof, she said. Not even close. She poked my belly. It felt tight, but she was right, there was some give. As I stretched, my gut slopped and sloshed, but the stretching felt wonderful. I was granted a 30-minute reprieve while Stephanie prepared lunch. In the interim, parched, I chugged most of a quart of water. My belly groaned and sloshed heavily as I shifted on the couch. It was getting hard to find a comfortable position. Stephanie set down the plate and helped me to my feet again before starting the second round. As I clumsily stretched, she cuddled and massaged my swollen and aching midriff. Playfully she drummed on it and tried to run a finger around the waistband of my jeans.
Plenty of room, she said confidently.
With a grunt, I thumped back down and she fed me lunch. She fed me lunch for so long that we watched all of Bull Durham while I ate. My stomach ballooned with each swallow, soft folds vanishing and becoming tautly distended. My shirt grew snug, then seemed to shrink, pinching and pulling. Stephanie tugged it off with difficulty. My belly jutted roundly over my waistband, and it took some digging for Stephanie to uncover the button and zipper and undo them.
Oof, stop, I grunted. My stomach hurts. She massaged it. Owoo, I moaned. Im full. Im stuffed. Oooh, I finished with a groan as she gave me a gentle shake. I was about to tell her that shed won, I couldnt move, but then Stephanie was massaging my swollen gut and it hurt and it felt wonderful and I belched, belched, belched, and suddenly it was a little easier to breathe. Stephanie heaved me to my feet and I tottered around, stretching and groaning.
Good night, am I full, I mumbled. I pressed a hand to my engorged midsection, tender, sore, inflated. Enough.
You can still move, she said playfully. Sit.
I watched the end of Bull Durham, Annie and Crash on her porch swing, and Annies voice-over, and after a while Stephanie came back in with delivery pizza and a 2-liter bottle of pop. I groaned.
Come on, she said, coaxing. You can do this.
She was wearing a peach shorty nightgown and if I could have, I would have flung her onto the thick carpet right there. As it was, I still wasnt sure I could move but somehow found my energy renewed and opened wide.
Have you ever eaten a whole pizza? Its a big darn undertaking. I thought my belly couldnt possibly stretch any more. It was globular, massive, tight as a drum and thrusting up and out, hugely pale. I felt my face flush and discovered I was puffing. I tried to breathe more deeply, but that hurt too much. I was full, stuffed, sated, bursting. With effort I lifted the tumbler and took a large swallow of pop. I closed my eyes and a moan escaped me.
Here, Stephanie said. She stood up and tried to tug me to my feet. Oof, ouch, ugh, no way. I was too full to move, I was pinned to the couch, I was set in concrete. My gut was full up to my throat, maybe up to my eyes. I could feel pizza oozing out my ears. My belly throbbed like a living thing and the skin seemed stretched to translucency across my aching and distended abdomen.
Can you move? Stephanie said softly.
No, I managed to groan.
So, she crooned. So.
As uncomfortable as I was, I have to admit it felt good. Pain and ecstasy, satiation and arousal all at once. The stretched ache of my sides and ballooning bloat of my gut felt terrible, but also triumphant and deeply satisfying.
I was dopey and only semiconscious. I think she covered me with a blanket. When I woke up, it was almost dawn. Stiff and hungover-feeling, I peeled myself off the couch. Lightheaded, I staggered, got my balance, and pounded to the bathroom, where I relieved myself. I looked in the mirror. Stephanie appeared next to me.
Did I stuff you until you couldnt move?
Yes.
Did you like it?
Suddenly my appetites surged. I gave her my answer in bed, where we ended up staying all day, provisioning ourselves on leftovers between bouts.
After that, life took on a dimension I hadnt dreamed of. Sometimes she stuffed me, sometimes I stuffed her, sometimes we stuffed each other. When I had asked if I could be her feeder, had my thinking really been so limited? As I grew, so did our pleasure, hers and indeed mine. Over the next year, her weight glided up and down a little, but 240 seemed to be her set point. Mine rose steadily to about 320, which is appearing to be my set point. Of course, that depends on whats for dinner.
[Author's Note: A companion piece to "The Old Ball Game", found here.]
Turn About
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
I couldnt believe my luck when a total stranger sat next to me at the ball game. She was pretty, knowledgeable about the game, and happily scarfed the popcorn, hot dog, pretzel, frozen lemonade, and pop I brought her. Id never believed in love at first sight, but it had just hit me over the head. I quickly found out that she loved baseball as much as I did she was the only girl Id met who understood the infield fly rule she liked my poetry, she was funny and thoughtful and sweet and pretty and fun and wow!
I was a little hesitant to bring up the idea of being her feeder, but when I did, she didnt say no. She didnt say yes, either. She thought about it, and we talked about it, and she agreed to it. Although my love deepened as her curves ripened, it was much more than her appearance that was putting down emotional roots. I loved all of her, who she was as a whole person, and quickly came to know that I couldnt live without her, so completely had she become a part of who I was as well.
By the time we came back from our honeymoon a month in Italy! she was up to 180, and the surges of arousal and love I felt every time I looked at her were wearing me out. Of course, turnabout is fair play Id put on 15 pounds myself, but I felt more comfortable in the neighborhood of 220 rather than 235. I quietly pared off 10 pounds.
Id heard, of course, that men put on weight when they get married. But it honestly hadnt crossed my mind that I would be one of them. I spent most of my days overseeing the small foundation I had created, which gave grants to poets (okay, so Im not directly saving the world. But beauty is a rare and needed thing.) which meant that I spent most of my days sitting on my behind, which seemed to be spreading. I guess since Id married Stephanie, instead of going out in the evenings and finding some pickup basketball or going for a bike ride, I was staying in and finding exercise in bed. Stephanie was buying my clothes now, so I became used to finding new items from time to time.
And the food was fabulous. Id always liked to cook, and now that I had company in the kitchen well. And half the fun of liking to cook is enjoying the results. And its much more fun cooking for two than cooking for one.
So one Saturday morning in January I awoke to find myself alone in bed and good smells coming from the kitchen. I padded out to find my breathtaking bride, 225 pounds of curves in a sheer happy coat dressing gown, placidly stirring an egg dish at the stove. Oh, what that weight did! Her gorgeous face retained its heart-melting green eyes and was still framed by her shoulder-length brown hair, gleaming in the morning light. Her high cheekbones, no longer jutting starkly, had become rosy apples leading the tempted to her chin chins. The original chin still came to a fetching point, which upward tilt let me know when I was in the doghouse the only sign she ever gave, but Im good with signs. Below it, though, a soft hammock of flesh stretched from ear to ear, a hammock ripe for kissing, nuzzling, and as a freeway entrance to those eminently kissable pillows of lips. I could have stopped with her face and been a happy man.
Fortunately, I didnt have to. Her breasts now perched, ripely full and with nipples as inviting as peaches. I was sometimes embarrassed at how enthusiastic they made me, but that only made her giggle. And below, ah, below, her beautiful belly had pride of place, a softly round spare tire making a heavenly curve fore and aft, which led conveniently to her bewitchingly broad bottom. Plumptious thighs supported what lay within if I didnt stop, breakfast would get cold before it was made. I shook my head briskly and dropped a smacking kiss onto those lips. She laughed.
And what are you staring at, mister? One of our running jokes.
My gorgeous wife, I replied as expected. She beamed. Dear heaven, we were happy.
Here, she said, handing me a plate heaped with cinnamon rolls. A huge fruit salad was on the table, and sausages sizzled in a pan adjacent to the egg mix, which was, I noted, one of my recipes. I put the rolls on and fetched a container of juice.
We ate, I, at least, feasting my eyes as well as my belly. In my just-awakened daze, I had, I discovered, pulled on my jeans but nothing else. Stephanie, her eyes dancing, had pointed it out, but when I rose had waved me back into my seat.
I consumed a large plateful of eggs, sausage, fruit, and three cinnamon rolls and was deciding reluctantly against a fourth when Stephanie lifted my plate to clear it, I thought. Instead she laid it back down as piled up as before. I looked at her with my eyebrows raised.
Youre looking thin, she said lamely.
Ha! I blurted. I looked down and gave my midsection a pat easily accomplished, since it was now bulging with breakfast and my bare-chested state made it fairly obvious.
Well you know you cant save breakfast leftovers.
There was more truth to that. Shrugging, I dug in. Gazing at my beautiful wife, though, distracted me. I had soon cleaned my plate entirely and when I went to get up, discovered that my stomach was awfully stuffed. Wincing, I rubbed my distended gut and belched. Ate too much, I excused myself. Stephanie kissed me, hands full of dishes.
Scoot. Get dressed, she ordered, smiling.
I padded back into the bedroom and then the bathroom, planning to shave. I dont like the feel of stubble and so I shave every day. I paused in front of the mirror. I hadnt realized Id put on that much weight on our honeymoon. I stepped onto the scale and read 228. My weight loss was reversing itself. Of course, I had just pigged out on breakfast. I stepped back. My pecs were a little softer, and my stomach bulged, heavy with food; my jeans felt uncomfortably snug. I contemplated my reflection for another few seconds, then shaved and threw on a T-shirt.
In the afternoon, Stephanie and I went malling, snacking here and there, as one does. We somehow missed a proper lunch, and ended by going to a steakhouse for dinner. I cleaned my plate, as was my habit, but restaurant plates are big, and I ordered dessert out of habit without really checking with my stomach. By the time I was finished, my stomach was letting me know about it. My jeans were definitely pinching and my T-shirt was tugging at the chest and my swollen and aching belly, now uncomfortably heavy with the large meal and rich dessert. My face felt flushed. I had to stop overeating like this.
Of course, thats easier than it sounds. I spent the days glued to my computer, but whenever I got up to stretch my legs, there was always a plate of brownies on the counter, homemade cookies in the jar, and Stephanie served dessert with lunch and dinner. And there was always an evening nosh before bed. And as noted, cooking gets more fun with two in the kitchen.
I suppose the most obvious way to know youre gaining weight is by how your clothes fit, but Stephanie habitually updated my closet, and I didnt even look at the size tags who does? She seemed to have topped out at 240 and was now wearing her chestnut hair in a wedge cut that highlighted those rosy apples of cheeks. And never a word of complaint as many women would utter about how she wanted to lose weight. She happily spent her days cooking, cleaning, knitting, and volunteering at an urban elementary school as a reading helper. The kids called her Aunt Steph.
As for me, I vaguely realized that my waistline was thickening and my backside broadening, but I half didnt notice and half didnt care. Until one morning when Stephanie happened to step on the scale just as I was drying off from a shower. The scale read back 240, and she suddenly said, Hey, your turn.
There was a glint in her eye.
Obediently, I stepped on, but even though Id just seen the scale give what I knew to be Stephanies right weight, I thought something was wrong, because it now read 260. What the heck! I was shaking my head and opened my mouth then shut it. I stepped off the scale and gave myself a good gaze in the mirror. Good grief where had I been! An idiot could see Id gotten fat. My cheeks were full and my chin unmistakably doubling. My pecs curved forward into breasts, pert nipples and all. There was an unmistakable crease under each where the pecs met what used to be my stomach but was now a large round gut with hefty love handles on either side. My belly protruded forward a dismayingly long way before tucking under. I looked down. I could not see anything south of my belly button. I looked back into the mirror. My waistline seemed an acre.
Stephanie was all but dancing, a kid at Christmas.
Click.
Stephanie. Are you a feeder?
She blushed, the apples ripening. I think I must be, she said. Her chin tilted. I just cant resist all that cushy, cuddly, ohhhh, mmmmm the rest was lost as she threw herself onto me, propelling me bedward, not that I was resisting. We grappled frantically, then, a second time, languidly and dopily. I must have dozed, then, because I awoke to the scent of breakfast a rather delayed breakfast.
I leaned against the kitchen counter. Ive always been a proponent of turnabout being fair play, and now it was happening to me. Stephanie looked at me as I came into the kitchen and the chin went up again.
So feed me, I said. Her eyes stretched wide.
Stuff me until I cant move, I challenged, and flopped onto the couch. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, my standard getup. My stomach growled loudly. Today, I am all yours, I said.
Oh, boy, Stephanie said.
She brought me a heaping plate and sat next to me, feeding me as though I were a baby bird. Some bird. I ate for what felt like hours, Stephanie pausing to massage my growing belly. My stomach stretched and pulled, my sides ached, my gut grew distended.
Stop, I said. You win. Im stuffed. I was. My stomach felt as though Id swallowed a cannonball. Silently Stephanie pulled me to my feet.
You can move, you goof, she said. Not even close. She poked my belly. It felt tight, but she was right, there was some give. As I stretched, my gut slopped and sloshed, but the stretching felt wonderful. I was granted a 30-minute reprieve while Stephanie prepared lunch. In the interim, parched, I chugged most of a quart of water. My belly groaned and sloshed heavily as I shifted on the couch. It was getting hard to find a comfortable position. Stephanie set down the plate and helped me to my feet again before starting the second round. As I clumsily stretched, she cuddled and massaged my swollen and aching midriff. Playfully she drummed on it and tried to run a finger around the waistband of my jeans.
Plenty of room, she said confidently.
With a grunt, I thumped back down and she fed me lunch. She fed me lunch for so long that we watched all of Bull Durham while I ate. My stomach ballooned with each swallow, soft folds vanishing and becoming tautly distended. My shirt grew snug, then seemed to shrink, pinching and pulling. Stephanie tugged it off with difficulty. My belly jutted roundly over my waistband, and it took some digging for Stephanie to uncover the button and zipper and undo them.
Oof, stop, I grunted. My stomach hurts. She massaged it. Owoo, I moaned. Im full. Im stuffed. Oooh, I finished with a groan as she gave me a gentle shake. I was about to tell her that shed won, I couldnt move, but then Stephanie was massaging my swollen gut and it hurt and it felt wonderful and I belched, belched, belched, and suddenly it was a little easier to breathe. Stephanie heaved me to my feet and I tottered around, stretching and groaning.
Good night, am I full, I mumbled. I pressed a hand to my engorged midsection, tender, sore, inflated. Enough.
You can still move, she said playfully. Sit.
I watched the end of Bull Durham, Annie and Crash on her porch swing, and Annies voice-over, and after a while Stephanie came back in with delivery pizza and a 2-liter bottle of pop. I groaned.
Come on, she said, coaxing. You can do this.
She was wearing a peach shorty nightgown and if I could have, I would have flung her onto the thick carpet right there. As it was, I still wasnt sure I could move but somehow found my energy renewed and opened wide.
Have you ever eaten a whole pizza? Its a big darn undertaking. I thought my belly couldnt possibly stretch any more. It was globular, massive, tight as a drum and thrusting up and out, hugely pale. I felt my face flush and discovered I was puffing. I tried to breathe more deeply, but that hurt too much. I was full, stuffed, sated, bursting. With effort I lifted the tumbler and took a large swallow of pop. I closed my eyes and a moan escaped me.
Here, Stephanie said. She stood up and tried to tug me to my feet. Oof, ouch, ugh, no way. I was too full to move, I was pinned to the couch, I was set in concrete. My gut was full up to my throat, maybe up to my eyes. I could feel pizza oozing out my ears. My belly throbbed like a living thing and the skin seemed stretched to translucency across my aching and distended abdomen.
Can you move? Stephanie said softly.
No, I managed to groan.
So, she crooned. So.
As uncomfortable as I was, I have to admit it felt good. Pain and ecstasy, satiation and arousal all at once. The stretched ache of my sides and ballooning bloat of my gut felt terrible, but also triumphant and deeply satisfying.
I was dopey and only semiconscious. I think she covered me with a blanket. When I woke up, it was almost dawn. Stiff and hungover-feeling, I peeled myself off the couch. Lightheaded, I staggered, got my balance, and pounded to the bathroom, where I relieved myself. I looked in the mirror. Stephanie appeared next to me.
Did I stuff you until you couldnt move?
Yes.
Did you like it?
Suddenly my appetites surged. I gave her my answer in bed, where we ended up staying all day, provisioning ourselves on leftovers between bouts.
After that, life took on a dimension I hadnt dreamed of. Sometimes she stuffed me, sometimes I stuffed her, sometimes we stuffed each other. When I had asked if I could be her feeder, had my thinking really been so limited? As I grew, so did our pleasure, hers and indeed mine. Over the next year, her weight glided up and down a little, but 240 seemed to be her set point. Mine rose steadily to about 320, which is appearing to be my set point. Of course, that depends on whats for dinner.
