BHM Two Desserts (BHM, ~WG)

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Ffancy

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Two Desserts
by Ffancy



It is the second dessert that gets me in trouble, I think. I am sitting next to him at lunch time at the conference, a metaphorical horde of bees buzzing in my torso every time our elbows brush against each other, every time he leans toward me to address a remark exclusively to me. His voice is deep but it also has a slight droning quality to it, which some might find nasally unpleasant, but right now it reminds me pleasingly of the contented droning of bees on hot summer days. There are three or four others at the table with us, I think, but I couldn’t tell you who they are or what they’re saying. I haven’t been this attracted to a man in years. I haven’t been this attracted to a thin man in over a decade and I’m confused. It’s been fat boys for me ever since I fucked my first one and realized the lusty joys of luxurious rolls of plush fat. Thin men leave me meh. So why is this one clanging the alarms so hard?



He is tall, but I’m short so anyone over 5’ 5” towers over me. He’s got an average face - nice but nothing special - and his hairline is distinctly retreating. He has long fingers, no ring - I checked. And okay, there is a tiny bit of softness at his waist, enough to catch my attention. Not enough to call him chubby, or even plump, but not a hard body.



I am eating a slice of chocolate pie in small bites. He asks me if it’s good, then he grabs a slice from the buffet table behind us. He eats it neatly and rapidly as we talk. When his plate is empty, he looks back at the buffet, stands quickly and returns with one of the other dessert on offer - a miniature Oreo cheesecake. He looks at me and holds a finger to his lips before digging in. I am uncomfortably warm. Am I blushing? I am watching an attractive man eat two desserts, without any urging or encouragement from me. He can’t have any idea that he is tapping into my deepest sexual fantasies.



I imagine him swelling up, the hint of softness at his waist turning to an undeniably pudgy belly, soft and jiggly. His long-fingered, well-made hands becoming chubby and dimpled. His jawline softening and disappearing into the plush roll of a double chin. The soft mounds of manboobs straining the buttons of his neat button down shirt. The undeniable evidence of denying himself nothing.



I imagine myself feeding him sweet treats as he lays under my honeyed thighs, ready to eat his fill of delectable desserts and his mistress’s sweet pussy. Greedy in every way. A haze of lust carries me through the afternoon, and then we pack up and go back to our respective homes.



Maybe I’ll see him again at the next conference. Maybe he’ll be fatter then.
 
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Clandy Caine

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I’m not sure if this is just intended as a short vignette or if you plan to continue the story but I would love to read more from you!
 

Ffancy

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Part 2

I am surprised to see his name in dark blue letters in my inbox mid-morning Monday. Taliesin Jones. My eyebrows quirk up. I enjoyed our conversation on Friday, but I wasn’t expecting there to be follow-up. I didn’t even give him a business card, so he must have looked up my email in the staff directory for the Archives.

“Potential project?” reads the subject line. He says he enjoyed our conversation on Friday and asks if I would be willing to meet with him about an oral history project he has been contemplating. I answer at once: Yes, certainly I am interested. Within ten minutes he has emailed me back to propose a day and time for a phone call to discuss it. (A phone call! Who makes phone calls in this day and age?) My eyebrows are threatening to stick in a risen position.

I do what any sensible person does these days, of course: I google him. I’m not flattering myself when I say that I’m a good researcher. It’s not long before I know a good deal about Taliesin Jones. Doctoral candidate and sessional instructor in Atlantic Studies at St. Mary’s University. Cellist. Akido enthusiast. A person with a startling lack of social media presence. I stop on an old photo of a 20-something Taliesin - a decidedly chubby young man with a double chin and a soft belly. I stare at it for far too long a time.


I am unsettled. It’s been less than two weeks since my break-up with Matt - a reasonably amicable parting that had been preceded by a long, slow pulling away, but I wasn’t expecting to be attracted to anyone else so quickly. In the past it’s always taken me a while to get over the end of a relationship. It’s true that Matt was different from the men I’ve dated before. He was four hundred pounds of sexy beast, for one thing, beyond my wildest hopes for physical perfection. I loved squeezing the roll of fat on the back of his head while kissing him and then burying my face in the unbelievably soft pillow of pubic fat surrounding his cock until I nearly suffocated on his glorious obesity. And he was nice to me, kind and caring, which is not something I can say about many of my previous exes. But there was something lacking. I always thought I’d laugh a lot when I was with my love, but somehow with Matt, well, we just never seemed to laugh very much. At first it was good between us, but after about 10 months it stalled out. He stopped texting me kissy face emojis. He stopped calling me pet names. By the time we broke up, six months later, I had already accepted that things were over between us. He didn’t want to be my partner. I miss his luxuriantly, gluttonously, massively fat body, though. Maybe that’s why I perceive Taliesin as terribly thin - he’s perhaps half the man Matt was. Two hundred pounds? Maybe. It’s hard to estimate these things, although I’ve spent a lot of time looking at pictures of fat men on the internet. More that enough to know that one man can look bigger at 220 than another does at 315. And Taliesin is slightly taller than Matt-

I shouldn’t compare them.
 
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Ffancy

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Tal’s e-mail- I call him Tal now, so that should give you a clue how things are going- sparked off a chain reaction of phone calls and zoom chats and emails, so, so many emails. My inbox is an avalanche of his name. That’s what she said. Most of this activity is centered around the project he first contacted me about, a foray into oral history collection from the older residents of Shelburne County, but it spills into discussions of ethical collection practices and folklore and academia and reversing rural outmigration and a thousand other things. Tal is a circuitous talker. Everything is connected in his mind. Slowly bits of our personal lives enter the conversation- a childhood memory here, an anecdote about an ex there. He is straight, and single - also recently.

Throughout this whole period I only see him on screens, from the shoulders up, in blurry webcam definition. I’m desperate to see him in person again. I will, soon - we’re planning three weeks of driving around interviewing senior citizens together, after all - but not soon enough for me. I want to know his scent, learn the lines of his body. Getting to know him has only confirmed my initial attraction, and deepened it. I could love him, I think. If he is willing to be loved by me. If he could love me in return.

A cold surge washes over me. So far all men agree that I can’t be loved. I fight the little voice in my head that whispers that it’s true, the voice of 3 am despair. I deserve love, I know it in my head, but sometimes I don’t feel it in my heart. I remember the first and only time I said the words “I love you” to Matt. It was just before Christmas and he had made homemade eggnog and we were cuddling on his couch with a fireplace video on the tv and jazzy holiday music playing and the lights down low, and we were kissing and I felt so cozy and special and my heart brimmed over and I said, “I love you.”

And he said, “Oh, ah, are we doing that?”

That was the moment I knew we weren’t on the same page in our relationship. Things limped on after that for a while, but that was the moment when my heart broke. By the time we broke up, I’d accepted it.

So you see, none of this is easy for me.
 
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Ffancy

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I hope neither of the men on whom Matt and Tal are based are on Dims because this story is so semi-autobiographical I might as well call it autobiographical. Details changed ever so slightly.
 
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Ffancy

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Part 3

I can’t concentrate at all this morning. I’m as jittery as if I’d had three espressos and an iced mocha, and it’s all because Tal is coming to see me for what he called “a working lunch.” I suggested a fish and chip shop near my office, and we’re meeting there in 20 minutes and I am a ball of nerves.

I go to the washroom to check myself over. Long brown hair with reddish highlights, too curly and unruly. A fat and curvy body. Short. Freckled face with a distinct and permanent worry line between the eyes. Glasses with the thick square frames that were fashionable in the oughts. No makeup. Not an assortment of features that screams beauty. Cute, maybe. At best. I am wearing a t-shirt and a circle skirt, slightly retro, comfortable and work appropriate. I consider putting on red lipstick but that might look like I’m trying too hard. Plus it’s inconvenient to eat with a retro red on.

It’s time. Time to go meet Tal in person.

He’s already there when I walk in to the diner. He’s sitting at a table and he is in fact already eating- two big pieces of battered haddock, a mound of fries, coleslaw, tartar sauce and a slice of butterscotch pie on the table in front of him. He waves at me. Hugs aren’t really a thing since the pandemic. Alas.

I order my one piece meal and join him. It takes me a while to take him all in, in quick glances. But soon my nerves settle and conversation flows.

He is wearing a blue button down shirt and it is distinctly tight around the midsection. The buttons gape slightly to reveal the white t-shirt he is wearing underneath. There’s no denying it - in the four months since I saw him last he has tipped over the line into chubby. Well, his arms and legs are still slender, but his belly juts forward proudly. I want to touch it. There’s a new softness at his chest and his jawline, too. I want to unbutton this tight shirt and discover if his belly is soft or firm. I want to put my tongue in his bellybutton and cover all his fattest bits in kisses.

Even from across the diner table I can smell his spicy masculine scent. Lust coils between my legs.

He eats every bite of his meal, leaving empty plates behind him. We’re not finished talking so we walk back to my office and continue. There are a lot of details to work out for our trip. His belly rumbles and he confesses that he stocked up at the best bakery in town and he’s been snacking in his car. I feel faint.

We talk for four hours. His eyes are like the sea on a stormy day, changing from brown to pale green and back again. I never noticed that before. I want to kiss him. But this is a professional meeting, on a professional topic. I am a professional. Completely. Professional.

And, well, we’ll be spending three weeks together when we start the interviews.
 
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Tad

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I love your writing style. So tasty! (and the story is interesting too, but given that it is largely autobiographical I figure the brilliance is in the way it is told, rather than the outlines of the plot)
 
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I love your writing style. So tasty! (and the story is interesting too, but given that it is largely autobiographical I figure the brilliance is in the way it is told, rather than the outlines of the plot)

Seconded! Your writing style is so evocative and realistic. I can’t wait to see where you take this!
 

Ffancy

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Part 4

Tal is telling me what he did on his birthday: ate a full turkey dinner at his parents’ place, with two kinds of cake.

“Two kinds of cake?” I repeat with buzzing delight. Images are blossoming in my mind of Tal, leaning back at the table, his belly as full and rounded as an egg, yet still lifting his fork to take rapturous bites of two big slices of cake.

“Chocolate and vanilla,” he says, sounding slightly shame-faced. I am certain suddenly that he did indeed eat two big slices of cake.

“Excellent,” I reply. “It sounds like you had a good day.”

He hesitates, then says, “Do you know, it actually was. Usually I don’t enjoy my birthdays, but this one wasn’t so bad.”

“43 is a new adventure,” I tease. It turns out that I am six months older than Tal.

“Yes, o wise and experienced one,” he answers.

We both laugh. We’ve finished up our last meeting before departing on the research trip on Monday. Every box is ticked, every dotted line signed on.

Every box is ticked, except mine.

After we say our goodbyes, I can’t help daydreaming of watching Tal eat a heaping helping of turkey smothered in gravy, mashed potatoes swimming in butter, savoury dressing, tender carrots, mashed turnip and sweet potatoes topped with toasted marshmallows, glazed green beans, a dollop of sharp, sweet cranberry sauce... a groaning plateful of home-cooked food steadily disappearing between even white teeth, filling up all the corners and turning him into a groaning, sated, overfed piglet. My piglet, in the daydream. His hand rubbing his swollen belly as the cakes are brought to the table. The way he’d practically pant from over fullness by the time he’d swallow the last bite of cake. The way he’d stand and stretch, after, and his shirt would pop up to reveal a sliver of taut, pale belly, rounded as the moon... my imagination wanders to the firm feeling it would have if I slid my hands under that shirt. My own breathing is rapid and shallow now, just from the thought.

How in the world am I going to get through three weeks of being together constantly?
 

Ffancy

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Part 5

I’m in charge of microphones and camera, so I’m a bit busy with making sure the setup is okay during this first interview. Tal and I are at the home of a retired sailor. As the talk winds on, I notice that Tal’s button down shirt has come slightly untucked on one side and now, whenever he leans back his shirt lifts to reveal a glimpse of plump flesh. He reminds me pleasingly of a boiled perogie - soft, pale and doughy. Delicious. I want a bite.

The old man makes us strong tea (Tal drinks his with cream) and offers us fig newtons. We each take one to be polite. It’s not until the next interview, with a woman named Sadie, that I begin to have an inkling of what is going to happen. Sadie is telling us about her days in the fish plant, but she won’t let us leave without offering us the hospitality of a tea. The hot drink is accompanied by tea biscuits with real butter and sharp cheese, little cinnamon rolls, a lemon loaf and four kinds of cookies: chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, molasses, and caraway sugar cookies. I take a slice of lemon loaf, but Tal, well. Tal samples one of everything, and he doesn’t protest too hard when Sadie presses a half-dozen oatmeal raisin cookies on him as we pack up and leave.

“Time for lunch?” I ask, slightly arch, as I slide into the driver’s seat.

“I could eat,” says Tal.

“There’s a diner on the way to our next stop where they do a divine fish chowder,” I say. “Best in the county.”

“Well, if it’s the best in the county, I’d say we have to stop there,” Tal replies.

The decor at Linda’s Diner hasn’t been updated since 1991, I swear. That’s part of what I like about it. Tal is enthusiastic about the tole painted farm animals hanging on the walls as we slide into a booth. He slips in easily, not like Matt, who would have a roll of belly wedged above the fixed table, a slab of flab rolling above and below the edge. It’s difficult for me to imagine Tal being that big. He crackles with too much energy to waddle as slowly as Matt.

I order the cup of chowder, he orders the bowl. Then he wolfs it down as hungrily as if he hadn’t just eaten an entire plate of baked goods. I savour the rich, creamy broth as he talks. His eyes stray to the glass cabinet where a dazzling array of cakes and pies are displayed.

“Dessert?” I ask, after I’ve finished my meal.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, frowning a little. His eyes won’t meet mine. “I’m getting-“

He cuts off that thought abruptly. I wonder if the word in his mouth is fat.

“Ah go on. Push the boat out.” I say mildly.

He flashes an indecipherable look at me. But when the waitress comes along he orders the coconut cream pie.

I’ve lost count of how many desserts that is.

Back in the car, on the way to the next interview, I catch out of the corner of my eye a view of Tal surreptitiously rubbing his belly. Keep your eyes on the road, Laura. Dear God.

He stifles a burp as we pull into a driveway. I can’t help wondering if there will be another tea served here.
 

Ffancy

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Part Six

This sets the pattern for the whole project: everyone offers us tea, which means tea and baked goods. We stop somewhere for lunch. Tal doesn’t hold back his appetite, and I’m afraid I encourage him. I can’t help it. It’s so easy to tip him over the edge into taking one more cookie. Every evening when I drop him off at his motel, he is visibly bloated and full.

Apart from the unintentionally erotic tension that grips me, the project is going well. Tal and I make a good team.

On Thursday I ask him casually if he wants to take a stroll around town after supper. The Festival of Lights is on. He agrees and we make a plan to meet later.

I rap on his door precisely at 7 pm. He opens the door and lets me in. This is the first time I’ve seen him in just a t-shirt. It clings to his belly and his soft chest, revealing larger manboobs than I had realized. His bellybutton winks through the taut fabric. I take a deep breath as he bends over to put his boots on and his belly pooches out.

I want to push him onto the bed and squeeze that roll of flab- Actually, now that I look around, I realize that there are a lot of empty take out containers, chip bags and chocolate bar wrappers strewn all over the room. Tal notices me noticing. His cheeks flush red.

“Sorry, this place is a mess,” he stammers.
“Hey, you’re practically on vacation,” I reply.

We head out for a leisurely stroll along the riverside boardwalk. Tal has much longer legs than I do and he is obviously slowing his pace to match mine. Matt could never keep up to me and would be sweaty and winded after a mere 15 minutes - and I am not exactly a speed walker. My kink side enjoyed that, but my practical side likes this, a man who is able to go out and do things without complaining about how much effort they are.

We walk and talk for about an hour, admiring the sculptures made of strung lights and taking silly pictures. We fetch up in front of the Gingerbread Haus, a little coffee shop and bakery that’s open late for the festival.

“Feel like a hot drink?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” Tal answers, peering eagerly through the window at the baked goods.

The bell jangles cheerfully as we enter. I order an espresso and a bear claw. Tal can’t decide between a marzipan cake and the signature gingerbread with butterscotch sauce to go with his hot apple cider.
“Why not get both?” I say. He looks at me, the same indecipherable look I’ve been getting all week. He carries both small plates over to the table and we sit.

“You’re so different from Amy,” he says, before digging a fork into the gingerbread and taking a bite. “Oh god, that’s good. She would be very unhappy if I took two desserts. She didn’t want me to get, uh, heavier... I used to be heavier, you know. Uhmmm, that’s delicious. In my 20s. And then I lost 60 pounds, well, it’s not 60 anymore... Oh god, shut up, Tal.”

There’s a lot to process here. Is comparing me to his ex a good thing, because he’s put me in the same category as a woman he’s dated, or a bad thing, because he’s still thinking about her? And hearing him talk openly about his weight is such a turn-on, my mind is barely functioning right now, as all my blood has rushed elsewhere. But I cough up a reply.
“I believe in enjoying life’s pleasures,” I say. “Walking in the moonlight. Good company. Warm gingerbread. And if that means being less than thin, so be it.”

“Yeah, but you’re,” he makes a curving hand motion, “voluptuous, and I’m... a dough boy.”
“The cutest dough boy,” I say, and my hand seems to move of it’s own volition and suddenly I am poking him in his belly.
 

Ffancy

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Poor Laura and Tal here are finally making progress! We’ve diverged significantly from reality, since we are of course still in lockdown and certainly not visiting a lot of elderly people. But there are still little bits of reality mixed in. Dear readers, I leave it to you to judge what has happened and what has not happened.
 

Ffancy

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I draw my hand back as if scalded.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks, suffusing my skin with pink blushes of embarrassment. “I, uh, I have to go!” I stand up. Tal is looking at me with an odd expression in his face. I don’t have time to interpret it. I have to flee.


I rush out into the cool night air, forgetting that my car is parked in the parking lot at his motel. I walk restlessly through the streets, my heart pounding. The feel of my finger sinking ever so slightly into his soft fat belly... I shudder. It was incredible, a rush, a terrible violation of boundaries.


Eventually I creep into the parking lot. I get into my car, but before I can pull away, I spot Tal moving across the lot, towards his door. He is carrying a large brown paper bag with a McDonald’s logo on it. Did he get fast food after his two desserts? It’s not a small bag either. I imagine him sprawled on the bed, stuffing a greasy burger and fries into his mouth, his shirt pulled up over the mound of his belly, panting and moaning with overfullness. I begin to rock my hips, panting and moaning with arousal. Finally I drive home.


It’s not an overstatement to say that things get weird after that. I never mention the incident, and neither does Tal, but I think there’s a hint of speculation in his green eyes. And then there’s the gluttony. I thought Tal was a big eater before, but now he’s almost constantly snacking on something. Two cookies becomes four or five. He’s always got chocolate or nuts or chips to munch on in between all those big teas. He’s constantly suggesting we stop for ice cream or a meal or a creamy coffee. I enable all of this, of course, I always say yes. And so he eats, even when he is obviously painfully full. The buttons on his shirts are straining all the time.


I’ve never seen anyone puff up so rapidly. His body is like bread dough, proofing and rising, almost visibly quickly. His jawline disappears and a double chin grows, solidly in evidence at all times and not just when he bends his head. A roll of fat creases across his back, thick love handles becoming evident from behind. His belly surges forward, rounding out in front of him. His soft chest bulges into distinctive moobs. He is no longer merely soft, not longer chubby - he is fat. And getting fatter.


He is constantly teetering on the edge of being too stuffed to function, as if daring me to comment on his growth. On one afternoon near the end of our project, he asks me to pull over on a quiet country road, where bees buzz over fields of sweet-smelling clover. He has been stuffing food in his gob almost continuously since we started the day six hours ago. He undoes his seat belt and removes it from his taut, packed gut. He reclines, urgent burps escaping his lips. The dome of his belly is glorious, revealed by a tight t-shirt and a no-longer-buttonable button down.


“Could you get me a pop, please?” He hiccups.


I rummage around in the cooler the back seat. I pull out a pepsi and my hand brushes something else - a little baggie full of half a dozen pieces of smooth, creamy, soft butterscotch fudge. I know how delicious it is because I nibbled a corner of a piece at the house of the old lady who gave us these. I draw the bag out. I pass the fizzy drink to Tal and then hold up the fudge and ask, “Do you want this?”


It’s a ridiculous question. This man can barely breathe from how stuffed he is, and I’m asking if he wants to eat more?


“Yes,” he says, low and with an intensity that seems to come from deep inside, his eyes gleaming. “I want it.”

“Eat,” I say.

I break off a piece of the fudge and hold it to his lips. He opens his mouth and my fingers brush against his lips. Tal obediently closes his mouth and lets the brown sugary sweet dissolve on his tongue.
 

Tad

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I just re-read this whole story and it is all still so very, very, tasty! Thank you for the update. :)
(Although your food descriptions have made me so hungry, all I can think about now is fudge)
 

Ffancy

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It is a sacrament of sugar as I slowly feed him every piece of fudge in the bag. He has his eyes closed and he is breathing heavily. I can hear him panting. I am breathing hard, too. This might be the hottest thing that has ever happened to me.


Tal opens his eyes, pale green and glowing as he looks at me.


“You do like this,” he says.


In for a penny, in for a... pound, as it were.


“Yes,” I say, the honest truth burning on my lips.


“And what about... this?”


He reaches over and pulls my hand down so that I am touching his tightly packed stomach. It is firm, as he is so full. I shiver with desire.


“Oh yes!” I burst out.


“Just the bloatedness, or do you also like the-“ He cuts off, his tone serious.


“Both,” I reply. “The bloatedness and the softness. The fatness.”


My hand traces the curves of his belly, the flesh yielding under my touch. He burps as I press into his stomach.


“Are you saying I’m fat?”


I look at him. His jawline is blurred by a small roll of fat. His chest pushes forward in two tits and his belly mounds against his shirt.


“Yes, you are fat. Not very fat, but a bit fat.”


He lets out a sound between a mew and a moan. I open the pop and hold it to his lips. He drinks.


“Are you gaining on purpose?” I ask him.


“No. Maybe. I don’t know? I was just enjoying myself and it seems to have spiralled into, whatever is happening here. You feeding me - that was incredible. I uh I- can we do that again?”


“Of course,” I say. My hands are still rubbing his gut.


“I’ve gained 50 pounds since we met, do you know that? I’m almost back to the heaviest I ever was. Just 10 more pounds...”

“And are you going to gain those ten pounds?”


He squirms and says, “It’s probably inevitable, isn’t it?”


I grab an edge of his lower belly and squeeze a little.


“No. Are you,” I say, my voice low, “going to gain those ten pounds on purpose? You love eating delicious food. You love stuffing yourself as full as a nut. You’re a glutton, Tal, and it is in your nature to be a fat little roly-poly piglet. Are you going to admit the truth?”

His eyes are wide. I can see the bulge in his trousers that tells me I am absolutely on the right track here.

“I am,” he squeaks out, “I’m a glutton.”


I lean forward and kiss his lips. There’s no air anywhere in the universe, it seems. From this close I can be see the flecks of brown and gold in his eyes.


“We should probably,” I whisper into his face, “cancel our last interview for the day.”
 

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