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BHM Two Desserts (BHM, ~WG)

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Ffancy

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Mar 20, 2017
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In a salt fog
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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Mar 20, 2017
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86
Location
In a salt fog
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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In a salt fog
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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Mar 20, 2017
Messages
86
Location
In a salt fog
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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Joined
Mar 20, 2017
Messages
86
Location
In a salt fog
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

Dimensions' loiterer
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The great white north, eh?
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)
 

clockworklove

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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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Joined
Mar 20, 2017
Messages
86
Location
In a salt fog
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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Mar 20, 2017
Messages
86
Location
In a salt fog
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.
 
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