A Survey of the Prof

[chrissy]

Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy this -- Chrissy

 

A Survey of the Prof: A Tale of Two Perspectives

Him: He’s five foot nine and a hundred and twenty five pounds. His short chestnut hair tends to stand up on it's own. His brown eyes are dark to the point of being nearly black, framed by heavy brows and sharp cheekbones. His skin is tanned a deep carmel from working outside and skating. There's lean muscles across his body, with broad, calloused hands. He has about a dozen tattoos and one piercing in the bridge of his nose. He laughs easily and flashes a crooked smile that creeps across his narrow cheeks. He can be equally at home at a discussion of literature and philosophy as at a basement punk show. He tries not to take himself too seriously.

Her: She’s five foot nine as well. Her weight... is a secret, for now. She uses every trick in the book to conceal her burgeoning curves. Her brown reverse bob extends to her cheekbones or so, which are well hewn, belying her extra curves elsewhere. Her skin is fair, but a bit tan from the summer, still. There's a tattoo on her ankle, but you can barely see it. She smiles a lot. You'll find her at the indie shows. Her adjuncthood is only a few years old, and she has just finished my PhD, so it's all fresh in her mind...

                        * * * 

HIM:
Syllabus day is one of my favorite days of the semester. Even starting my fourth year, something about the potential excites me. I like the shift, the change of gears, a new routine rumbling into motion. Campus feels like a train pulling out of the station, crawling now but with the promise of hurtling.

That, and the chance to see who I would be in class with.

When you get to be a senior there aren't many surprises left. You've seen everyone, you've had class with them, you know their style and who refuses to proof read their rough drafts. And yet, the surprises their still are have an special impact.

When I strolled into my survey of contemporary American literature I received one of those surprises. The adjunct strolled into the front of the room and my eyebrows raised for a split second before forcing them back down. I had seen her before, at department events. And at the Quarry, a dive bar frequented by faculty that usually looked like they were competing in a Camus look alike contest. But she was different. There was something about her that seemed to get more.... appealing every time I saw her.

I straightened up in my seat, following her words closely. This class just become vastly more interesting.

HER:
“A Confederacy of Dunces... no, not the current administration. The book. On our syllabus.” Various students chuckled at my little joke. And of course, we’re going to try Gravity’s Rainbow. I’m sorry if it reads like a who’s who, but I don’t get a whole lot of leeway with survey courses. That being said, term papers are wide open so long as they involve at least one text from the syllabus in some way. Some of you -“ I glance at you, recognizing you — “some of you have been on this rodeo before, some of you are buckling up. That’s the thrill of the ride. Now for fear of overextending the metaphor, let’s chat briefly about the circumstances surrounding our first syllabus entrant, Faulkner.” I pause, for effect.
“Not all at once.” A few chuckles. Typical sophomores.
“Fine ..... you. Take it away for us today.” I point over at you, my blazer visibly straining a little.

HIM:
I flash a quick smile, my eyes briefly flickering across the taunt seams of your blazer before locking back onto your eyes.

"So, Faulker, Nobel prize winner, came of age in Lafayette Mississippi. And he would fictionalize this location in most of his best known short stories and novels. Which some would argue laid the foundation for works like A Hundred Years of Solitude. Which I don't one hundred percent agree with."

I wait a beat to see your reaction before continuing. "Along with Flannery O'Connor Faulker is part of what's called the Southern Renaissance. And is differentiated by his extensive use of stream of consciousness. As opposed to the more minimalist style that was all the rage at the time. And he worked continually until the horseback riding accident that led to his death. Which is all I can pony up off the top of my head."

I run a hand through my shaggy hair, feeling most of the class already labeling me teachers pet. Which, in this case, isn't a label I particularly mind.

HER:
“Not wanting it get to the top of that head of yours, but I’m... impressed.” I take a tentative step forward, thighs inadvertently rubbing against taut jeans. 

“A model opening for our Southern Renaissance section of the course. Your name? .... On we now...”

So the banter went from week to week; sometimes, I had to pull myself back from rendering it a one-on-one seminar. And it seemed like every weekly meeting, my allure only grew, more and more...

HIM:
"Sylvan," I answer when asked.

The class quickly became my favorite, and even as I felt the rest of the class rolling their eyes at me I had no desire to stop, or even dial it back.
And as the weeks went on, i came to notice more and more the changes in Shannon. I started noticing the repetition in her outfits, and how they never seemed to fit quite the same every class. How the seemed tighter, more filled out every week. The soft swells above her hips stretching her shirts, the sway in her pants when she wrote on the white board.

So when I started hanging flyers for shows across the hall from her office it was deliberate. I would sit in the small bars and venues, nursing a beer and watching the door. I hoped to see her, and wondered if I ever would, or if I would simply have to be more direct....

HER:
It took perhaps longer than expected, and yet exactly as long as expected for me to bite. It was a brisk early December Saturday evening when you, nursing a beer at the local bar that was somewhat busy in anticipation of the local punk act, saw a tell tale head of hair walk in.

I took my coat off at the coat check, revealing something only mildly more risqué than my usual professor getup — a casual blazer, a loose shirt, and — this was new — a belt around my midriff, emphasizing my growing bosom just above. Just a hint of cleavage completed the look; below, black jeggings and the aforementioned breezy dark blue shirt hnderemphasized my lower half.
I look around, notice you, and wave.

HIM:
I decide to play it cool, and casually wave back before taking a sip of my beer, nodding towards the stool beside me.

I was dressed light for the weather, a thin black T-shirt with the collar cut off hanging from my shoulders, exposing the sharp lines of my collar bones, and a curl of indecipherable ink peeking above the light fabric. Tight jeans, gray faded nearly to white clinging to my legs.

I pull out the stool for you and wave over the bartender. "Hey Professor. I'm happy to see you, I was starting to think you lived on campus. Can I buy you something to drink?"

HER:
“Hahaha, well it’s nice to get away from the paper chase and the ivory tower climb. It’s all bullshit anyway — you know that.” You’re taken a little aback by the sudden shift in tone, but you realize that yes, I am quite real. As I take a seat, my thighs spread luxuriously, getting dangerously close to yours. I adjust a little to compensate.

“So I’ve never been to this place. Go to beverage on tap?” I smile, looking you in the eyes, searching and evidently ready to break down the student/professor barrier a little.

HIM:
I lean on the bar and swirl my cup. "I have to be honest with you, I pretty much always just drink Coors and well whiskey. I'm cheap and trashy like that." I give a theatrical wink, "But, if you're a hair classier than me the Fat Tire Belgian is good, and the Sierra Nevada pale is always nice."

Resting against the bar my elbow brushes yours, "So, can I call you Shannon or do you want to be in a position of authority all night?"

HER:
"Haha, you're really that kind aren't you, not just in class... Of course. Friends call me Shay. Hell, you could call me Shay Shay if you get a kick out of it." I smile. I let my mild perfume of apricot linger in the air, my voice sounding a shade thicker than usual as no longer limited to the dynamics of the classroom.
"Fat Tire Belgian. Never heard of it. Sounds intriguing," I offer, subconsciously and subtly yet still visibly sucking in my paunch, which I've allowed to blossom far more than you perhaps yet even realize. I let my elbow jostle with yours again, casually.

"So tell me about this band playing tonight. Friends?"

HIM:
When the bartender wanders by I order a pint of the dark amber, floral scented beer and have it put on my tab.

"Something like that. A couple of years ago I helped put together this practice space. We rented this warehouse down on 33rd, built a bunch of rooms in there, that kind of thing," I take a sip of my considerably lighter beer, "and I met the keyboard player for this band during that project."

I point through the thin crowd of people towards a shock of green hair bobbing near the stage. "Kris, good people. Their new band is called Monitor. They're doing a kind of electro-new wave, Devo sort of thing, and this is their first show so I was helping them flyer and shit."

HER:
“Well you did a great job flyering — I saw it everywhere. Even outside my office. Did you ever have a band? You strike me as the time. A good lyricist, anyway, I bet.”

As I talk, I’m knocking back the beer far faster than you anticipated. I’m already a quarter finished or so.

HIM:
I raise an eyebrow and let a mischievous smile creep across my face. "Outside of your office? Huh, what a coincidence."

I watch you sitting next to me, breathing in your scent that filters through the bar smell of spilled drinks and stale cigarettes. It's fresh and bright, a moment of refreshment. I observe the way you shift and hold your body, slightly tilting and shifting your shoulders to change the angle I see you from. I think I know why you're doing it, but the thought is still bubbling on a mental back burner.

"Yeah, I've been in a few. When I was little I was in a folk band with my big sister because she wanted someone to harmonize with her. And then a handful of punk bands. Nothing special. It's fun though," I swallow some of my drink, trying to decide if I can keep pace with you. 

"What about you? I feel like I only know one little sliver of Shay."

HER:
I keep adjusting my posture, shoulders upright, bust out a little, increasingly aware that I’m unable to manage the perception of my body quite as much in such close proximity. My spanx are holding me in tight, but they feel increasingly tauter still as I move to finish beer number one. I’d always been good at this, but for some reason, right now, I felt just a bit less comfortable.
“Haha, yeah. Well here’s a slice. I sung in a band once. Not sure I’ll tell you with who just yet, but it was kind of a shoegaze thing.” I take another solid bit of beer, carefully placing it on the table, careful not to let my arms move too much.

“These days it’s karaoke when I’m on conference trips. Lame, I know. I really have to get back into the whole scene....” I drift off, realizing the mild untenability of my words.

“So yeah, I don’t know. What do you want to know about Shay.” I turn a little, vying for just the right angle to face you, and smile a little.

HIM:
I drain my cup and slide it away, waving to the bartender. "I, fucking, love karaoke. I go every week with some of the poetry kids, down at Langdon Tavern. You should come out sometime," I order us another round.

I grin back and lean on the bar, "Oh you know, the same things anyone wants to find out. How do you feel about long walks on the beach? Coke or Pepsi? 

What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

HER:
“Hahaha, sure.” I order my second. “I’ll get another of those... Fat ones.”

“Well I dunno if I wanna make a habit of being the faculty member who’s always hanging out with students, but I don’t see the harm in sometime, absolutely.” I take a healthier swig at my second, some inhibitions mildly chipped away at.

“Well that’s easy. The photography is great along the beach at sundown. If you drink a Coke, make sure it’s a Coke. And sometimes... you just gotta look around and see what’s out there. Sometimes there isn’t a reason. It’s the writer’s motto, n’est pas? ... Hold my beer, I think I should go to the washroom before this show really starts.”

I shimmy off the stool, and you can’t help but observe....

HIM:
I feel a brief flash of guilt, but from my perspective, the show has begun in full. I can't help but watch the roll of your broad hips and slip of your thighs against each other. And peaking through the loose shirt, smooth, rounded jiggling swell of ass that bumps and bounces with every step. Just the same, I realize you've been trying very carefully to dress and present yourself. As you walk through the small bar I can see the plump skin pushed over and below the belt at your midriff, and turn shake of your arms.

I realize, with a moment of melancholy, that I'll never really understand the pressure to cloak my body in techniques, to have to constantly manage it. And at the same time I'm gripped by a burning desire to see you, all of you. I can't help but picture you, and imagine the feeling of your skin.

When you glance back, standing at the door to turn washroom, I don't bother to pretend like I wasn't looking.

HER:
As I’m about to enter the washroom, I feel your eyes on me. I look back. Sure enough — there you are, not even attempting to be inconspicuous about it. I flash a little smile as if to assure you I wouldn’t be long, and go in. I take the opportunity while inside to carefully readjust my attire, as I felt my lower stomach slipping out a little bit.

As I return I say “hey you,” somewhat affectionately. I carefully position myself back on the stool and resume my second drink. The band had already begun.
All too soon, three (or was it four?) beers in and the last chords struck, it was time.

“Well I had an awesome time. I have to go prep for teaching tomorrow — yeah, I know — but who knows, maybe you might find me here again!” I go in for a small hug, which mildly overwhelms your senses, inasmuch as you’d been drinking me in this whole time.

Alas, as each week proceeded to roll on to the next in the remainder of the term, I did not come for seconds. Occasionally you might wryly mention it after class, but I’d sort of brush it off, explaining one duty or conference or another getting in the way. You noticed that I had turned to looser shirts in the last two months of term, and I began to have a bit of an “overstuffed” look in my blazer, but it was impossible to know just what was going on, or how much, especially given my face always stayed as sharp as ever.

                        * * * 

Until a chilly evening in mid-March, in whole a full three months after the original concert. It was the same venue. You almost had a distinct sense of deja vu about the the whole thing. Whatever had changed, something opened up in my schedule or I had some change of mind about it all.

As I went in, I carefully took off my coat once more. I was even dressed in a similar manner to the first time. And yet, so much was different.

HIM:
When you walk in, I'm at my usual post, drinking rather glumly. The senior grind is really starting to get to me; dog eared texts, scraps of poems and MFA applications hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. So I find myself here, scarcely hearing the dreampop band tuning up, dressed in an oversized purple sweater that only makes me look thinner and more drawn out.
Seeing you walk in shocks me. First, because I never really expected to see you outside of class again. I had given up on strategically placing flyers, the casually mentioned karaoke night and friends of a friend playing at coffee shops.

And second, because the change in you was impossible to hide now. A parade of loose, flowy shirts couldn't cover up the growing expanse of your bust and hips, belly and booty. And there are the subtle moments, like when you're writing on the board and I notice how soft and plump your hand seem, the soft motion of your arms. Even as I had given up on seeing you out again I had watched you grow curvier from my desk in the second row.
So when you step through the door I wonder what has changed, and cautiously wave.

HER:
I’m genuinely surprised to see you, and a little embarrassed because I’ve dressed down even more this time. I had taken to bar hopping every weekend, and this was just one stop. I hadn’t realized a show might be going on — let alone you being there. A red flowy shirt featured open stitching that showed an overly healthy expanse of cleavage — 38F, or even G, in estimation. A fat tire’s adipose presence made itself known around the contours of some of the folds of my attire; dark blue jeans appeared to be painted on. Even my gait was different. I was as careful as ever about my angles and camouflage, but at this point it was almost en exercise in futility.

I approach you slowly, a bit nervous. He’d never seen me like this, much less with all of my extra poundage recently acquired. I slowly get on a stool next to you. It audibly creaks a little and I grimace. My face, against all odds, is as thin and svelte as ever. My belly visibly bunches up under my midriff belt and I suck it in as hard as I can, waiting for your response, my arms stretching the sleeves of my blazer to its limit.

“Well hey there. It’s been a little while. What’s.... new?” It’s clear I am already a touch inebriated.

I tilt my head a little as you hesitate. “Well you must be knee deep in grad school applications. I remember doing that not that long ago. Do you have ambitions for a certain school?” I discreetly adjust the amount of cleavage I have on display, aware I’ve already crossed a line but needing to backtrack on it a little anyway. I order a beer.

“You know you’re not my student anymore. We can just be friends... if you want.”

HIM:
I rub my eyes and drain what's left in my glass, "Yeah, I'm pretty bogged down honestly. It's a lot to put together, and fucking expensive. I never thought I'd pay so many people to just tell me no. I'd like to get into Rutgers, but I applied to the program here too. Pretty much every where really."

I turn on my stool and look at you, my eyes are rimmed in red and more bloodshot than than they had been at any point in the semester, but still intense. 

"I kind of hope I get in here. It would be nice to not have to pick up and go. And there are things I'd like to stay for," I let it hang in the air.

I nod slowly, "I would like that. I feel like I need a friend right now," I bite my lip, "how about you? Are you doing alright Shay?"

HER:
“I’m... alright.” I hesitate, uncharacteristically. “You deserve Rutgers. They don’t deserve you. To be quite honest a change of pace is important when it goes to grad work. What reason do you have to stay here? You know honestly Syl, you look like you just need a good night’s sleep... not here, drinking.” You notice that even my eyes are looking a touch bloodshot as well, heavy from a night of pre-drinking and making the rounds.

HIM:
I shrug, "I'm set up here, you know, part of a community. And there are people I want to get to know better, like there's something I want to explore," I say vaguely, while who I'm thinking of isn't vague in the slightest.

I let out a short, barking laugh. "I need a good nights sleep? Pot, meet kettle," I poke myself in the chest and then gently prod your shoulder. "Right now we're like the poster children of haggard. That's like the whole dream though? Not sleeping, skipping meals, subsisting on instant coffee, alcohol calories and Newports."

I roll my empty glass on the bar, "What am I going to school for? You can't teach talent like this."

HER:
“Hahaha, oh, man,” I laugh as you prod my shoulder. “Well, cheers to that. To be honest, I never had a better writer in my class and I never will. I will lucky to get to see you so regularly and witness your flourishes of prose, your turns of phrase, your saccharine wit.”

I eye you up and down. It’s obvious what you want. So obvious. And for months I’ve resisted. But fate put us in this room.

“Well I guess it’s time for another, then.”

I slowly take off my blazer, and you can’t help but stare...

HIM:
Color creeps into my cheeks when you compliment me, "It's not all that, sometimes it just feels like a lot of posturing," I motion over my shoulder to the band we've been ignoring. "Writing and performing are all the same, just go through the motions your audience is looking for and wear the right outfit while you do it," I bite my lip.

"Still, thank you anyway," I mumble, for a moment bashful and exhausted by my own ennui. Clearing my throat I wave towards the bartender and order us another round.

I watch you slip off your blazer with hungry eyes, taking in the expanses of your soft, smooth skin. My gaze rolls over the landscape of your cleavage, loosing myself in a brief fantasy. I can tell something has changed, and I'm unabashed about staring. Like a liquid thing, my eyes drip and roll across your curvaceous body, mental hands running across your folds and swells.

HER:
“Oh, it’s just the truth.” I lean in a little, nursing my new beer, and my shirt rides up, exposing a flash of my voluminous lower back and love handles — unimaginably plush, soft things that gently sloped and hung over everything it could. It was clear that I somehow had managed to avoid pants shopping since last fall, opting instead for more and more elaborate camouflage.

I see you mildly transfixed on my appearance and I slyly grin in appreciation. 

“What’s wrong?” I feign. As I giggle, my arms — big, pogo-like shafts of sex — shake and heave mesmerizingly. “Is this outfit not right for you?”

As I move, my entire body shifts in response, swelling hips and ass almost gyrating to my postures. As I begin to let go, my stomach flanks over and under my belt, and it’s clear that holding it in could soon be an exercise in futility. 

Unless held in by the most perfect of wardrobes, it was impossible to suggest I was now anything if not… fat.

HIM:
I lean in and across the bar, inching closer to you. "Nothing at all is wrong. I haven't felt this right in a long time," I draw one of my long, slender fingers across the back of your plump hands.

"I've thought you looked great since the day I met you. And you've looked better and better all the time. I just didn't know if you felt the same way about me," I'm speaking in a low, quiet voice, inviting you to inch closer to me to hear.

HER:
I pause and go right up to your ear, whispering and chilling you to the depths. “Well I think we ought to continue this seminar on a special topic at my place. Shall we?” My hand grips yours with a gentle firmness, my chest a flutter as I lean in deeper than ever.

HIM:
With my heart pounding, blood roaring behind my eyes and between my legs, I squeeze your hand back softly, "in the interest of continuing education, I think we should," I respond lightly.

Guiding you off the stool I toss a pile of crumpled money on the bar, not bothering to count or consider it, and head out into the sharp, March night. As our shoes hit the pavement I pause and fumble in my pockets for phone, lighter, making sure I have the basic necessities. But really, I just want to give you a couple feet of lead time, to watch you walk.

HER:
You see my soft, jiggly ass shake with every step on the hard pavement, and I’m not so secretly allowing you to trail along to get a view. We arrive a few blocks later at my place, a nicer apartment on the seventh floor. As we enter the elevator, the silence is thickened by my apricot aroma which infiltrated every inch of the cloistered quarters.

                        * * * 

“Make yourself at home,” I offer simply, taking your jacket. My apartment is immaculate; vinyls lines the walls and local art adorns every other wall.
“I’ll make coffee. Aeropress?”

You ask where the bathroom is as I get busy in the kitchen.
“Just down to the left!” I gently holler.

As you enter, you see a scale, curiously decorated with markings.

HIM:
We walk together, and I admire the view immensely. The neighborhood is alright too.

"Nice place," I say admiringly, running a finger along the spines of records, breathing in the apricot scent I'm starting to think exudes from your very skin. "I love a house that feels like a home, you know?"

In the bathroom I kneel to get a closer look at the scale. Along the low side of the dial numbers are marked with dates and small notes, pant and bra sizes, lists of things that don't fit anymore and frowny faces. Then, at a point in December the frowns turn upward.

'Feb. 14th. Feeling new sensitivity in hips and pelvis. Feeling good, erotic.'

And then, the notes continue along the dial, with dates reaching into the future. 

I realize you're planning your prospective growth, and that excites me immensely.

I splash a little cold water on my face and sit down at your table, taking the cup of coffee with gratitude. For a moment I feel unsure, awkward in your presence and unnerved by my own excitement.

I take a sip and set down the mug. "Shay..." I say slowly. And as if on it's own my hand reaches out and runs through your hair and down along the sharp lines or your cheek.

HER:
“What.” I say quietly, taking your hand it directly it towards a firm embrace of my bottom.
“What’s on your mind, Syl.”

HIM:
I bite my lip and dig my fingers into the soft, ample flesh padding your rear.
"You're on my mind. I'm not....a very sexual person. But ever since the day I first saw you I've been thinking about you, picturing and imaging you. And us together. You're waking up these parts of me that have been asleep."

HER:
“Oh? Yet you have such an imagination... I can’t imagine one as virile as you with the pen would be anything but assertive underneath...” I get closer and closer with my mouth to yours, and you can practically taste the transfer of my beer-laden breath to your tongue.

“Mmm... I need a coffee.” I suddenly turn away, aware I am teasing you mightily, and grab my favourite mug.

“Are you a documentary buff? I have a few films on the laptop. There was one about Zeppelin I thought you might be into...”

I turn and sit on the couch, infinitely content to lead you on a bit further and further still. As I sit deeply ensconced in the seats, my stomach bunches up around my belt in a way you’d never quite seen before, my chest sitting pretty.

HIM:
I let out an audible groan when you turn away from me. I can tell you're playing games, trying to get me riled up. It's working. But I don't particularly mind. After all, I'm a willing participant.

"Me? Not assertive? I'm the picture of chest pounding masculinity," I flop on to the couch and drape my legs across your lap. "How do you know I haven't been trying to get you to show me documentaries this whole time?"

I lean in close, so my lips brush your ear and the heat of your body pours into mine. "After all, isn't that what all teachers do? When you can't come up with anything just show a movie." I say teasingly, letting my chest rest against your shoulder.

HER:
“Oh, I can come up with something alright.” I stand up, and you watch my entirely body shift and shake as I do so.

“Not all shows have to be boring.” I slowly undo my belt and begin to lift my shirt, standing as you watch from the couch.

HIM:
I watch hungrily as your hands slide under the fabric of your shirt, pressing up to caress your body and reveal the smooth, round expanse of your belly. Your pale skin shines, reflective as silver, your deep belly button a dark point. I have to actively keep my hands from reaching up to you as the the bottom of your bra comes into view. The reinforced material is printed with purple flowers, and strains to hold the weight of your heavy breasts.

I wonder where this show is going as excitement surges through me.

HER:
I begin to undo my jeans, and this is when the real show begins. I zip them down to reveal a taut black fabric —

HIM:
The silky black thong is stretched like a piano string over your voluptuous hips, straining against soft mound of your pelvis. It digs into your skin, drawing a sharp line the traces across your curves as you turn slowly in place.

The back of it vanishes into your thick, juicy ass. 

"Oh my God," I say quietly and drop to my knees off the couch, reach up to grab one of your cheeks in both hands. I marvel at the weight, the pressure, the ample flesh spilling between my fingers.

HER:
“Grab my hips...” I say softly, letting my lower belly spill into your face as I turn around, kneeling a little and amplifying the effect of all of my soft delicious rolls.

“I guess I’ve gotten a bit... fatter... since I last saw you.... care to guess my weight?” 

My boobs are nearly spilling out of my bra betwixt small mountains of cleavage.

HIM:
I bring my hands to your hips, squeezing firmly. Pressing my face up into your stomach I relish the skin and weight pressing down on me, catching my breath and enveloping me. My excitement strains against my tight jeans, mimicking the pressure of your belly against my lips and eyelids.

Coming up for air, I make a show of examining you. And although I know your weight from the marks on your bathroom scale I say tentatively, "I'd have to guess you're about twice as heavy as I am. Maybe, two hundred pounds? Two fifty?"

HER:
“Mmmmm.... recently hit the big two-four-oh.... I hope it isn’t too noticeable.... still trying to keep up appearances in class, you know.” I giggle sheepishly. 

“Granted, these size 16 jeans were getting terribly tight, weren’t they, lovehandles spilling over like that.” I gently moan as you begin to lick and grab every inch of my waist, moving up towards my huge lovely arms and bosom.

HIM:
"It wasn't that noticable. I could only really tell because I was looking for it. Seeing your hips bubbling up over the seams of those pants was the highlight of my week," I kiss and nibble my way across your waist the the hill of your stomach. My fingers tracing the folds of your skin, and up to your arms. I stroke the and caress them, feeling the way they flow and flap under my fingers.

"Sometimes I would imagine those pants just bursting at the seam. They were working so hard."

HER:
"Oh, you're such a liar... mm, you don't know how true that is. Sometimes I get worried about it... but then, honestly, super turned on... it's kind of a problem really..." I stretch casually, causing my belly to stretch and surge, my belly button stretching along with it, a curiously cavernous thing.

"Going to have to straight up try a corset if I keep this up, honestly. All the faculty are talking."

"You have no idea how long I've wanted you to do this... not sure why I resisted so long.... and you know, I'm just saying... I have a friend in quite a similar predicament..."

My panties are visibly just a touch wet at this point, and at this point it's apparent that I'm not kidding about how turned on I am.

HIM:
"Let them talk," I say in a purring voice, my finger sliding around the edge of your belly button and in, a blatantly sexual motion. "I don't know why we've waited so long either,"

I let a hand dip between your legs, gently touching the wetness of your panties and pressing my teeth against the skin of your breasts overflowing the top of your bra. "I'd like to meet this friend some day," I say looking up at you with bright, eager eyes.

[jewbacca]

I just wanted to say that this story was great! Are you planning on continuing it?

[chrissy]

Thanks! As usual, I have no idea to be honest. I feel like I'm achieved everything I wanted to with this one. I would appreciate it if you checked out my other stories and made a recommendation to me as to which you might wanted to see continued the most...

[AllContrast]

Borrowing a cup of Sugar! Please write more!

[flavor42000]

I really enjoyed this story. Thank you.