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Milf Avenue

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Right, here's a new story, set in Southern California. I hope I have time to work on some more chapters, but I guess we'll see. 

 

Oh, and since I'm trying to write about LA, a question for American writers: when referring to “one of the most exclusive streets in Los Angeles,” where would the apostrophe go if I needed one? Is “one of LA’s most exclusive streets,” or “one of Los Angeles’ most exclusive streets” correct?

 

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Milf Avenue

 

Mill Avenue. A highly desirable residential street amid the north-western periphery of Beverly Hills, Mill Avenue combines glorious seclusion, spacious mansions, and fresh air with convenient access to some of the most prosperous and exclusive locales in Los Angeles and, therefore, the world.

Milf Avenue. Widely understood as a reference to Mill Avenue – much to the chagrin of its well-heeled residents – ever since the street sign was vandalised by a local youth who had chanced upon a much more apt name for the neighbourhood.

Rebeca Moore. Mill Avenue’s newest resident. Rebeca’s exotic beauty captured the heart of a wealthy LA fertility consultant so comprehensively that her pre-nup doesn’t even require the former fitness-instructor and model to maintain her exquisitely-taut figure. Which, given the number of fattening pastries consumed during Milf Avenue’s infamous ladies’ brunch meetings, is probably just as well…

 

* * *

Chapter 1

 

 

 

Mrs Rebeca Moore reached for a fluffy towel as she stepped from her monsoon shower alcove into her en-suite bathroom proper. No expense had been spared on the cool marble floor, the gilded plumbing, or the spacious hot-tub – and yet this was merely one of the two en-suites attached to the matrimonial bedroom of her new Mill Avenue mansion! She’d washed off the sweat of the sultry Californian evening, and now just had to do a teeny little bit of work to perfect herself for a night of passionate sex with her rich new husband.

“Urp!” Rebeca huffed.

Okay. Maybe a bit more than a teeny little amount of work.

The thought of her bed, and its luxurious satin sheets, made Rebeca feel suddenly self-conscious of her belly. It was, without a doubt, swollen. Very swollen. Much too swollen for her husband’s liking – as he had, unfortunately, been prompted to mention a few times during their honeymoon and the months since.

Surprisingly, considering Doctor Rob Moore was a noted Hollywood fertility consultant whose chosen day-job surrounded him with sexy actresses with hips and thighs that were being rapidly fattened up by high-calorie fertility diets, Rebeca’s husband was no admirer of bulging tummies. Indeed, his taste for rock-hard abs and lean, sexy female bodies was exactly what had drawn him to Rebeca. It was Rebeca’s fitness-instructor body which had caught Dr Moore’s eye, perhaps even more than her exotic Puerto Rican beauty or the fact that she was modelling skimpy bikinis for his clinic’s latest promotional campaign.

Unfortunately, as far as the long-term prospects for the Moores’ marriage were concerned, Rebeca’s fitness-instructor body came with a fitness-instructor sized appetite. Also, her exotic Puerto Rican looks came with an equal love of Caribbean food and relaxing on the beach. And whereas pre-marriage Rebeca spent three hours a day in the gym and had been able to indulge in all the milkshakes she could afford without any risk of growing fluffy, married Rebeca had spent her recent honeymoon combining the appetite of a former fitness instructor with the food budget and laxer fitness regime of a wealthy trophy wife. As a result, Rebeca was aware that she might have grown a little softer around her middle…

Rebeca’s challenge for this evening, however, was not primarily one of selecting lingerie to distract from the inch of pinchable softness on her formerly-ripped body. She had a far bigger problem – namely, the fact she currently looked four months pregnant. It seemed likely that the seventeen course tasting menu and multiple wines she’d packed away during the evening’s dinner date might have something to do with it.

“Urp! Oh Gods! Why did the jerked chicken have to be so good?” Rebecca moaned to herself, as she tried to suck in her gut and realised she couldn’t. “And what kind of tasting menu has ribeye steak and fillet steak, and amazing roast catfish? Ugh I’m gonna explode!”

Rebeca burped some more as she adjusted her hair and refreshed her perfume. Then she patted her uncomfortable belly, slightly disappointed that all the burps didn’t seem to have let it down any.

Ugh! Seriously, if he puts one cream pie in my belly, I am going to explode! My belly will pop right down the middle, and cake and steak will go everywhere… Guess that’s one reason to be grateful one’s hubby barely even shoots blanks!”

From the bedroom, Rebeca heard the impatient tones of her husband. Dammit: she still didn’t have any clue of anything in her lingerie collection that would cover up her severely overfed gut.

“Darling, are you coming to bed?”

Rebeca rolled her eyes. She regarded her magnificent breasts. “Hmm.” She mused. That gave her an idea.

“Coming, Darling! I’m worth waiting for!”

“You certainly are, Rebeca!”

Huh. Rebeca huffed. She felt bloated from all the dinner she’d packed away, but not too bloated to fuck – her husband was much older, not heavy, and tired quickly. He wasn’t likely to put much strain on her belly. Of course, he was likely to complain about its size… But only if he saw it.

Rebeca threw her towel under the washbasin, and grabbed another one from the rack. She wrapped it around herself and tied it under her impressive breasts. Then she stepped back and admired the result in the mirror.

“Heh!” Rebeca exclaimed.

A towel wasn’t exactly lingerie, but she still looked damn sexy in it. And it completely covered up the swell of her belly.  

“Urp.” Rebeca burped. “Oops. Better let the burps out… Urp. Uuuurrrp! Urp!” She patted her chest.

She would keep the towel on for a while. Probably her hubby would collapse into a deep sleep after she gave him a blow job with the assistance of her oily tits. And, on the offchance he didn’t, and wanted her to ride him naked, without the towel… Well, she could always claim the blow job had made her incredibly bloated all of a sudden, because there was so much of it. He was vain enough to believe that, for sure. Rebeca congratulated herself on a well-formed plan.

Of course, in the remains of Rebeca’s fitness-instructor brain she was aware that her overindulgence at tonight’s dinner date had probably loaded up her gut with a good six-thousand calories. And that wasn’t counting the fine wines, if indeed wines that expensive contained anything as base as calories. She’d felt uncomfortably stuffed and bloated before she’d even ordered pudding. And she’d ordered two of those, despite her husband’s tutting, on top of the small dessert-like dishes that had come as part of the main 17-course tasting menu. Rebeca acknowledged there was a possibility that if she kept eating like this, then in the long term, say after a few months, she might risk starting to get a little bit fat! It was a concerning thought, as she did have a figure to maintain if she was to remain the hottest trophy wife in prosperous Mill Avenue. The thought orbited Rebeca’s head for a moment, and she resolved to eat a bit more lightly for a while – at least until her currently very swollen tummy was back to normal. Yes: she would eat a light breakfast tomorrow, with four rashers of bacon and only two eggs. And she would go for an extra session at the gym… Straight after the Mill Avenue Ladies Association brunch.

With her swollen, gurgling belly muffled under a very fluffy white towel, Mrs Rebeca Moore strode confidently into her bedroom, and sashayed alluringly towards the bed.

 

* * 

 

 

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Chapter 1 (part 2)

 

“OMG! How could this happen?” Rebeca gasped breathlessly, as she cracked a fifth free range egg into her biggest frying pan and stirred the mountain range of sizzling food around it to make room.

“Oh my Gods!” She repeated.

It was true, and a part of Rebeca the former fitness-instructor was aware of the fact, that she’d meant to only eat a light breakfast this morning. Unfortunately that plan had gone out the window the moment she’d discovered the disastrous secret that had left her mind spinning, and her belly in need of a big, solid meal to calm her nerves.

“An affair!” Rebeca fretted as her Olympian breakfast fried.

Rebeca had snooped through her husband’s phone after he’d chanced to murmur a suspicious name while she was awakening him with a morning kiss. Well, not just a name… Specifically, he’d fondled Rebeca’s ample breasts and her slightly-fleshy shoulders, and then, while still mostly asleep, moaned. “Mmm, Maria! You’d better cut back on the gelato or you’ll grow as fat as my overweight wife! And we wouldn’t want that!”

Shortly after, Rebeca had unearthed the very worst fact a trophy wife could learn: her rich hubby was arranging steamy hook-ups with the hottest – and skinniest – nurse in his clinic.

“Fuck! We’ve only been married three months! And one of those was the honeymoon! Fuck me!” Rebeca almost shrieked to herself, before she took a few deep breaths and considered the situation carefully. “Fuck! And it’s not like I haven’t been spreading my legs five times a week… Dammit! I guess that isn’t the only thing that’s been spreading!” Rebeca untied her morning robe and regarded her soft potbelly. “Fuck!”

Rebeca had enjoyed a lie-in once her husband had headed to the clinic, and so she’d had plenty of time to digest last night’s blowout, and then she’d refreshed herself in her massive bathroom before heading down to make breakfast.  Unfortunately that hadn’t been enough to deflate the round shape of her midriff. And, nonetheless, she was about to gorge on enough breakfast to feed a family of four…

“Fuck!” Rebeca recriminated with herself. “I knew I shouldn’t have eaten all that gelato on the honeymoon! It’s not rocket science, is it Rebeca? A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips! And tummy, in my case! Fuck! What’s wrong with just staying at the wedding weight, you gluttonous pig? You thought because you have big tits and you’re tall you could let your diet slide for a month… Well, three months. ”

Rebeca groaned. And selected a huge plate from under the counter – which was barely big enough to hold the small mountain range of fried meat, eggs, and stodge she decanted from the frying pan.

“And now you’re about to pig out on pounds of not-so-shallow fried protein and fat, and make yourself even fatter! Ugh!”

Still, Rebeca wasn’t about to deny herself the heavy breakfast she’d prepared for herself. It would, after all, be counter-productive to do so. A bulky, fattening meal was essential, to calm herself down… And, since she was tall, and muscular, she’d be able to carry it well until she exercised it off at the gym.

Mrs Rebeca Moore sat at her breakfast table, wearing her loosely-tied black robe, and ate. And ate, and ate, and ate.

“Urp!” Rebeca eventually remarked, wiping her platter clean and feeling disgusted at the pounds of stodge and grease she’d just crammed down. It had made her tummy feel uncomfortably full, and hadn’t done much to calm her hysteria over the skinny nurse who was displacing her as a trophy wife after less than one summer of marriage.

Rebeca headed to the dual refrigerator, and drew out a fresh quart of whole milk. Drinking the whole quart from the bottle helped to wash down the grease and settle her tummy. But no doubt at the cost of yet more fats and sugars added to the weighty bulk in her gut… And probably then adding to her bloated ** belly, once her greedy digestive system processed it all.

“Urp! I’m so fucking stuffed.” Rebeca groaned. Then she realised she was kidding herself… Somehow – perhaps because the overeating habits she’d acquired since the wedding had stretched out her stomach – she still had room for more.

“Hmm. Fried bread.” Rebeca mused.

Six slices of thick white bread soon sizzled in the frying pan, soaking up more than their own weight in cooking oil.

Shortly afterwards, the six big slices of bread, soaked in cupfuls of grease, sat uncomfortably at the top of Rebeca’s overloaded belly.

“Urp!” Rebeca groaned, and felt disappointment when the burp didn’t even make her overfed tummy feel better. It was a pretty sure sign she was overstuffed… Ugh. It would take hours at the gym to deal with the consequences of her morning binge. And that was before she could even get started on her self-inflicted overweightness problem that had brought her marriage to an early crisis.

Hours in the gym…

Rebeca’s attention flicked to the wall clock. Damn! She was late! Today was a brunch meeting with her good friends from the Mill Avenue Ladies Club. The gym would have to wait. Brunch with Marcela, Nikki, and Lara was exactly what she needed – they were all self-acknowledged trophy wives of long standing, and would be sure to have just the advice that Rebeca needed right now.

Of course, another brunch with the Mill Avenue girls was going to leave Rebeca too stuffed to do much in the gym today, as well as piling on yet more hours’ worth of calories. But that was a problem Rebeca would deal with later. For now, she had to get her makeup done and slip into a floaty, ankle-length summer dress – preferably without any underwear more constricting than a string bra and thong – and hope she walked off enough breakfast on her way to Sophie’s mansion to make room for a dozen or so of her delicious pastries.

* *

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This is glorious, the fit beauty already eating herself obese at the slightest excuse and claiming she'll work it off. Hopefully she'll get advised to get knocked up as a way to hold on to her hubby and really balloon. Any chance of a cameo from a no longer so athletic Chloe?

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38 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

This is glorious, the fit beauty already eating herself obese at the slightest excuse and claiming she'll work it off. Hopefully she'll get advised to get knocked up as a way to hold on to her hubby and really balloon. Any chance of a cameo from a no longer so athletic Chloe?

Thank you!

Chloe is indeed from southern California, and we shall see... (I mean, I don't think it would be a unreasonable assumption on my part to suppose that all gluttonous, tall, athletic hotties from southern California know each other.) Also, I can neither confirm nor deny that she's been encouraging her boyfriend to overfeed her.

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Chapter 1 (part 3)
 

“Urp! Oh, please! No more pie!”

The rail-thin socialite Lara Lys exchanged a glance with her overly-voluptuous blonde Mill Avenue friend, Sophie Smithe. And then promptly dug the serving spoon back into the monstrous bowl of apple pie and heavy cream she was holding, and crammed the resulting mound of calories in between the lips of the moaning Puerto Rican trophy wife who was sat between them on Sophie’s comfortable new sofa.

“Mmm! Mmmph.” Rebeca gulped, before gasping, “My guts hurt!”

Sophie, the blonde mom-of-four who had seen all manner of upset young women during her years in Beverly Hills, was having none of it.

“Nonsense, Rebeca! In all my years in Beverly Hills, I’ve never met a young woman of your age whose problems could not be solved by a sufficiently large serving of my apple and cinnamon pie. And I do declare you shan’t be the first!”

“Mmmn.” Rebeca protested, and refused to open wide for the next spoonful of her neighbour’s exquisite pie. The woman trying to spoonfeed it to her, the raven-haired 30-year old Lara Lys, socialite, occasional lady of the night, and current mistress of the avenue’s oldest and richest financier, harrumphed in frustration.

“Really, Rebeca.” Lara pouted. “It’s not like we haven’t all seen you eat three servings of Sophie’s pie before. Now eat up! It’ll make you feel better.”

Lara crammed another big spoonful of pie and cream into the Caribbean girl’s mouth, then loaded up the next scoop.

“Tummy hurts!” Rebeca moaned at length. “Too much food!”

Lara and Sophie exchanged another glance. Their friend did have honey and icing sugar smeared around her mouth. And Rebeca had eaten several servings of honey and lemon cake, as well as scones dripping with jam and clotted cream, and numerous little fruit-topped puff pastry delights along with full-cream coffee, and that was before Sophie had resorted to her magical apple pie in an attempt to bolster the young woman’s spirits. So perhaps she was feeling a little full. Certainly there was no way Lara could have packed away so many pastry-based calories without feeling very sick – not now that she had reached the age of thirty, anyway. And even when Lara had been Rebeca’s enviably youthful twenty-two, she wouldn’t have dared risk eating so many baked treats in one sitting, because that sort of fare would quickly have made her exceedingly fat! On the other hand, Rebeca was a towering 5’10’’ to Lara’s petite 5’5’, and Rebeca had never previously shown much sign of watching her weight at their brunches. And she’d definitely eaten more than two bowls of pie on several occasions.

“Don’t be such a drama queen, Rebeca!” Lara chided. “Everyone’s first time being cheated on is tough! Trust me, I know all about it!”

“Quite right!” Sophie continued, seeing Rebeca slump back into the couch at the mention of cheating, allowing Lara to pop another huge helping of pie between the dark-blonde’s lips. “The important thing is to eat plenty of stodge until you stop worrying about her! That’s the best advice, in my experience.”

“Urrrrr!” Rebeca groaned, as she struggled to swallow her latest mouthful. Lara backed off to give her friend time to swallow. “Can’t eat anymore! Tummy too full! If I eat another slice of pie, I’ll die! Uuuurp!”

 “Now Rebeca.” Sophie expounded. “You have to eat up. It’ll make you feel better. I’ve seen you eat plenty more of my baking than this, and I want you to put that appetite to work again now, for your own good!”

Rebeca made a pained whimper and her hand rushed to her belly… Which, Sophie noticed for the first time, through the concealing folds of Rebeca’s light, full length summer dress, looked absolutely huge. Distended, in fact, like she was smuggling a football. It was more than should be accounted for by the moderately large number of Sophie’s excellent pastries that Rebeca had packed away. Was it possible that Rebeca was pregnant? That would account for the emotional mess she was in… But from the size of her belly she’d have to be five months along, and she’d only been married for three!

“Ate too much!” Rebeca cried out. “Binged at breakfast before I came here! Five eggs! Ten rashers of bacon. Five sausages and potato waffles! A huge pan of beans, six slices of fried bread and a whole quart of milk! Uurrp! And half a box of pop tarts. Oof! I feel so sick!”

Sophie took a third sideways glance at Lara, who had put down the potentially-lethal bowl of apple pie and cream, and was patting their young friend’s shoulder. That amount of food would explain the distended state of Rebeca’s potbelly, and the urgent gurgling sounds it was making, and, coincidentally, proved Sophie’s theory that a bust as ample as Rebeca’s could only be grown by a young woman with a very gluttonous appetite.

Rebeca slumped back in the sofa, sweating profusely and seemingly grateful that Sophie’s “food remedy” for soothing her stressed nerves seemed to have stopped. Sophie busied herself tidying up plates, and signalled to Lara to escort their friend outside onto a sun-lounger as soon as possible – lest Rebeca’s overloaded belly rebel and make her sick all over Sophie’s costly couch.

* *

A short while later, Rebeca drifted awake from a pleasant dream about an evening-long beach barbeque under the tropical night sky of Hawaii. She had vague memories of being helped outside by Lara, while her grossly overfull belly had gurgled and ached tremendously. But Rebeca felt better now: her guts still felt uncomfortably heavy and stretched, but they no longer hurt.

“Mmm.” Rebeca murmured.

“Oh, hey there, sleeping beauty. You Okay there?” Lara inquired from the adjacent sun-lounger.

“Mmmm.” Rebeca agreed. The afternoon air felt nice, and a tranquil breeze stirred the palm trees around Sophie’s pool.  

“You want anything to drink? Water? I’m just going to the kitchen, if you’d like me to get you some?” Lara inquired, knowing the dark blonde must need a good serving of zero-calorie water to help her poor belly deal with the huge load of breakfast and pastries with which she’d overstuffed herself. But Lara also knew of her friend’s rather fattening tastes. “Or milk?”

Rebeca perked up at the mention of milk.

“Oh. Milk, please, Lara!”

“Okay, Rebeca. Would you like whole milk, or skimmed?”

“Whole milk, please.”

“And would you like one pint, or two?”

“Mmm. May I have…” Rebeca asked hopefully. “Four pints, please?”

Lara suppressed the urge to arch an eyebrow.

“Of course you may, Rebeca. But drink them slowly or you’ll make yourself sick.”

* *

A very short while later, Lara reclined on her sun-lounger and sipped her glass of iced water while watching Rebeca surreptitiously through her mirrored sunglasses. The dark blonde had removed her sun dress while Lara was fetching her milk, and now the former fitness model was slathering sun lotion over her… surprisingly curvaceous body, was the politest way to put it.

Fuck! When had Rebeca grown so fat? Lara pondered.

Oh, the ex-fittie still had the long limbs and strong frame of a woman who worked out professionally. But her legs were curvier, and her arms fleshier, and that was barely the start! She still rocked a string bikini, enough to make Lara salivate and wish she had something more substantial than an ice cube to suck on, but Rebeca Moore’s once-taut abdomen and torso seemed to have suddenly grown curves for days… Well, the enormous breasts weren’t new, but the curvy hips were, and the full bottom was – not to mention the swollen food-bump of her belly.

Lara had watched Rebeca “slowly” drink her way through half a gallon of full-fat milk, which was now sloshing around a belly that could already have convinced anyone the new Mrs Moore was a solid four months pregnant. Lara had felt her tummy start to ache just from thinking about the calories the former fitness model must be packing into her already overfed belly. No wonder her husband had called Rebeca overweight! Overweight? As far as Lara could see, Rebeca must be getting pretty near to obese! The astonishing thing was that the model’s strong frame and well-developed muscles seemed to have totally concealed Rebeca’s gain, until Lara had just now seen her practically naked. Until today, Lara would have said that Rebeca was a trim fitness model who was retaining just a hint of honeymoon chub – not a full blown heifer! Lara guessed that Rebeca’s fit, strong body had been able to manage the consequences of three months of heavy overeating, until one day it just couldn’t and had to let her belly suddenly swell up three dress sizes!

Maybe Lara was being too critical? Perhaps Rebeca was just bloated. Well, obviously Rebeca must be bloated – after all the food she’d gorged on. And maybe, Lara considered, Rebeca’s engorged belly would deflate once she’d digested her excessive meals… If so, Lara supposed it would leave the ex-fittie still looking quite chubbily curvaceous, but not really fat. Still, the sight was a warning to Lara of just how quickly a beautiful woman could lose her figure if she gave into temptation and allowed herself to indulge in all the fattening treats that her Beverly Hills lifestyle could afford!

Lara patted her flat tummy. No – it was a good thing she’d never let herself go like that! Of course, as an independently wealthy socialite, Lara didn’t depend like Rebeca on a rich husband… Lara was the well-funded mistress of a wealthy older man, but she didn’t really need to be. And she didn’t really need to hire herself out as an exclusive escort either – but she did it for the excitement. In fact, that was precisely why her tummy was so flat at the moment. Lara normally would have packed away several of Sophie’s excellent pastries, and then burned them off in the gym later. However, Lara was planning ahead. She had an assignation this afternoon with Mill Avenue’s newest resident – a fact she was keeping professionally private. Lara wouldn’t normally be tempted to fuck a client who lived so near to her own residence, but she’d made an exception for Eris. This was because, apart from being fabulously wealthy, and willing to offer Lara a twenty thousand dollar Tiffany’s voucher for an afternoon in her company, Eris had the body of a Greek demigod. He was tall, muscular, and clearly well endowed. Lara suspected the extra pelvic stretching exercises she’d scheduled in advance of their assignation might barely be enough. Fucking him promised to be a delight. The only slight issue was that as soon as Eris had learned of Lara's occasional work as a courtesan, he had expressed an interest in contracting her to eat an entire cheesecake prior to an afternoon of fucking. Normally, Lara would have declined, but this time she’d been persuaded. Hence why she patted her trim tummy with satisfaction whilst watching Rebeca slather sun lotion over her own less disciplined body.

Yes, this afternoon threatened to be a rather fattening one for Lara. But nothing she couldn’t work off with discipline and a couple of days in the gym. Rebeca, on the other hand, had clearly grown too used to stuffing her belly with a small mountain range of food to have any chance of slipping into a slinky little black evening dress ever again!

A satisfied grin spread over Lara’s face. Her position as Mill Avenue's most beautiful woman was undoubtedly secure for another year.

Lara was disturbed from her reverie by her name being called.

“What is it, Rebeca?”

“I asked if you’d like anything from the kitchen.” Rebeca said. “I’m just going to get myself one more glass of milk, and check if Sophie still has the rest of that apple pie. I’ve got a bit of a second wind after that nap, and I’m just a little bit peckish. You?”

“Oh, no thank you, Rebeca.” Lara smirked. “But you go ahead!”

* * 

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Chapter 2

 

Meanwhile, in the kitchen of the stately limestone mansion at 12 Mill Avenue, a plump Beverly Hills realtor toasts her latest sale…

 

Nikki Berger silently uttered a quick prayer that the seams of her skintight orange lycra miniskirt wouldn’t burst, before clinking a brimming champagne flute with her ultra-sexy client, and chasing down a big glug of the bubbly vintage with an enormous mouthful of deliciously decadent carrot cake.

“Uhn!” Nikki groaned with pleasure. 

It shouldn’t be possible for even the sweetest mouthful of freshly-made carrot cake in the world to give a grown woman a tectonic orgasm. But for Nikki Berger, as the great glob of gooey, sugary cake bulged its way down her throat, threatening to pop the buttons of her overtight black silk shirt on its way to her tummy, where it loaded even more strain on her soon-to-pop miniskirt, fantasy was fast becoming reality! She had just handed over the keys to a crumbling mansion which Beverly Hills’ other realtors had considered unsaleable without a steep discount – and she done so at list price, to a client with the body of a Greek demigod! And the very best part was that the aforementioned wealthy and super-buff client was responding enthusiastically to the thirty-something realtor’s unsubtle and slightly out-of-practice advances – despite Nikki’s post-twins tummy and her wobbly, seven-desserts-a-week bottom.

“Oh my Gods!” Nikki gasped. “Where did you learn to bake this carrot cake, Eris? It’s so good! And so sweet!”

“Oh, I’ve picked up a few recipes over the years... I take it you approve, Nikki?”

Oh! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this cake! Mmmph!” Nikki Berger shovelled another handful of the unnaturally pleasurable cake into her mouth.

“Then perhaps I can cut you a second helping?” Offered her sexy client.

“Mmmph!” Nikki moaned as she swallowed. Her tummy pooched out even further than it already had as she gulped down another mouthful. She’d been treated to a big restaurant lunch by her client, and her full belly had grown bloated even before she’d been tempted by the cake which her client had set down on the rustic dining room table of his new kitchen.

“I mustn’t eat any more!” Nikki exclaimed, hoping desperately that her rich client would use his powerfully muscled arms to force her to anyway. “After all that lunch, one more slice of this cake will either give me a heart attack; or an orgasm I’ll pass out from; or it’ll burst my skirt clean off!”

Despite her protests, Nikki scooped the last huge handful of carrot cake from her hand-painted porcelain platter, and wolfed it down. Then, for the first time in many years, she began to lick the plate clean. She felt utterly out of control – the cake was that good, and her client was very sexy!

Her client – for some reason she could only recall his name as Eris – placed a firm hand on her side. Just at the moment he touched her soft abdomen, Nikki heard an embarrassing tearing sound as the side-seam of her flimsy orange skirt gave way. That was strange. She’d been sure it could have handled just a little more of the irresistible cake! But no matter! It meant she could have more cake!

“Well, Nikki.” Said her client. “It seems you have one less reason for turning down my offer of a second slice!”

“Oh!” Nikki exclaimed. “Go on then! Cut me a big one, this time! But…”

Her client patted Nikki’s milfish tummy. It was already swollen. His home-made carrot cake wasn’t the only thing bulking up the realtor’s belly: at the restaurant lunch to celebrate his purchase of the mansion, Nikki had really made a pig of herself! She’d gorged until her always-tight silk shirt had been on the verge of losing at least two buttons.

“But what, Nikki?” Asked the client. His urbane voice sounded sinfully enticing in Nikki’s ear, and she knew she would be able to cease gorging if he offered her a third slice – even though her poor overstuffed tummy already felt very painfully stretched and more than a little sick.

“But…” Nikki moaned. “But, I’m getting so stuffed! My skirt can’t take anymore!”

“Your skirt is mostly ripped anyway, Nikki. Why don’t you slip it the rest of the way off?”

The realtor moaned in pleasure as her client stuffed a big chunk of cake in her face. It was so sinfully delicious! She unwrapped the remains of her micro miniskirt – all the better to make room for more cake! Of course, removing it revealed not only the swollen state of her stretch-marked mummy tummy, but also the fact that Nikki Berger had gone without underwear – and that her Brazilian wax was a couple of weeks overdue! Fortunately her client didn’t seem at all put off by the bulging and sagging caused by the combination of Nikki’s pregnancies and her very minimal exercise regime… She felt him lift her to a sitting position on the edge of the cool granite countertop, and she grunted with the exertion of spreading her thighs as wide as she could manage – Nikki was disappointed that her bulging tummy protected her modesty; however she groaned with enthusiasm as her well-endowed client slipped off his shorts and showed her just how much he desired to fuck the out-of-shape milf.

“Oh! Yes!”

Nikki moaned with pleasure as she ate. Eris must have helped her to a third and fourth big slice of the cake, but Nikki couldn’t keep count – she was too turned on by the way he teased her with his rock-hard manhood, pressing himself against her naked belly each time she impressed him by swallowing another fattening gulp…

Eventually, Nikki could take no more! Her belly was so tight she could feel her stretch marks tingling angrily. She’d eaten so much her stretch marks were growing!

“Oh! Fuck me now!” She cried. “Uhn!” She groaned, as she felt herself being stuffed full of her rock-hard client. “Uuuurrrrrrrep!” She burped – he was so big her overstuffed, churning tummy needed to expel gas!

“Too much, Nikki?”

“Uhn! No! More! Please!” Nikki cried.

A few more hard pumps from her client, and Nikki felt a river of cream explode inside her.

“Uh! Yes! More!” Nikki wanted more.

Her client, however, patted Nikki’s cream-cheese textured belly. Unfortunately he showed no sign of being about to pump her again.

“More, Nikki?” He asked.

“Yes, please! I want to fuck more! Let’s go to your new bedroom! Then you can cream me again! Any way you want!”

Her client’s face took on a stern look.

“I could do, Nikki. But I think not!” He told her, in a mocking tone. “You see, Nikki – I think I might get better offers from the other ladies on this rather decadent street you’ve just welcomed me to!”

Nikki Berger, who was well aware of the habits of the other lady residents of Milf Avenue, was hardly in a position to disagree. Certainly, there would be a great deal of competition among them as to who would get to fuck their handsome, rich new neighbour. Pity though – he’d been Nikki’s best fuck all year, and she was eager for more!

“Perhaps so…” Nikki sniffed haughtily. “But don’t think I didn’t notice how much you appreciated my big fatty tum, with all these pregnancy pounds still sticking to it!” She patted her overstuffed belly.

Eris smirked. Obviously, with his demigod body he must get offers from ladies far younger and prettier than Nikki Berger…

“I did, didn’t I?” He agreed. “But, the thing is, Nikki, as I think you might be able to guess, I’m an admirer of ladies with a big appetite!”

“Urp!” Nikki burped, feeling sick. There was no way she could eat another crumb. Alas, she knew of one or two neighbours who probably could.

“And.” He continued.

“Although I do like the way you squeeze that thirteen-stone, forty-year-old body of yours into a shirt and skirt suitable for a nine-stone twenty-year-old, you just aren’t quite gluttonous enough for me, Nikki… And, now I’m in Beverly Hills, I plan on devoting most of my attention to a woman who can really pack it away like a hog. In fact, I’m planning to host a housewarming party soon and invite a few of Mill Avenue’s more attractive ladies to show off their stuff… And their appetites! If you think you’ve got what it takes to beat them, Nikki, I’d be happy have you come along. But, be warned, I’m expecting some very gluttonous competitors, and I’m planning quite a challenging feast for them!”

“Urp!” Was all Nikki Berger could manage in response.

Nikki’s poor tummy was stuffed. She would need to wrap the remains of her orange skirt around her middle while she drove home to change, then check in at the office… Then she would have a think about how she might beat the other Milf Avenue ladies in an eating contest. After all, Lara Lys might pride herself on being the best seductress in the neighbourhood, but there was no way that tight tummy of hers could hold an entire carrot cake.

Eris helped Nikki recover her skirt from the floor of his kitchen – she was too bloated to pick it up herself. Then she burped, wished him a good day, and headed out to her car.

On her way down the drive, Nikki raised an eyebrow and nodded – as she was passed by none-other than the tight-tummied Lara Lys, her boobs wobbling in a skimpy black party dress and a huge cake-tin tucked under her arm.  

 

*

 

In the kitchen of number 12 Mill Lane, the wealthy new mansion owner with the body of a demigod snapped his fingers – and a short-lived halo of blue motes sparkled around his fingers.

In the mirror, his features shifted: the heavy muscles that had been the build of Nikki Berger’s perfect man were replaced with a lighter, leaner look that was more ideally adapted to the tastes of one Lara Lys. Of course, it wasn’t necessary – Eris was more than skilled enough in the art of seduction to enmesh Lara Lys in his plan for Milf Avenue, even without the aid of a little sorcery… But it would probably make fucking her that much more enjoyable. And why not, thought Eris? After all, his main business in Milf Avenue might involve the south Californian ley line he'd traced to the crumbling Beverly Hills mansion at number 12 – which he’d been delighted to find for sale at a much lesser price than he’d have been willing to pay. But that didn’t preclude him indulging in a little kinky feeding of his slutty new neighbours in his free time…

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Chapter 3: Girl Versus Gravity

 

Mrs Rebeca Moore panted heavily as she jogged, jiggled, and sweated her way onto the tree-shaded final stretch of the short run from a local boutique gymnasium back to her home on Mill Avenue. The sweat band around her brow was sodden, her thighs were only prevented from chafing by her marvellously firm blue lycra running tights, the fashionable mini-dumbbells clenched in her hands felt like lead, and – after a gruelling 45 minute morning session on a range of the state-of-the-art exercise machines – she felt absolutely pooped.

But the 22-year-old trophy wife was also proud of herself! She had, after all, through sheer willpower, forced herself back onto a good exercise regime. Not the brutally-strict regime of near-starvation, weight-training, and gruelling daily swims she had been obliged to undertake when she had been an impoverished fitness model, but the more civilised regime of a Beverly Hills hotwife. And it had only taken her six days to climb back on the wagon – six days, since she had discovered her hubby’s shocking affair with the skinny nurse, during which time, Rebeca would have to concede, she had been rather lax with her diet and fitness… To be more candid, Rebeca had gorged herself almost nonstop for those days, with brownies, and icecream, and chocolate cake, and other sugary things to help ease the anxiety of her husband’s marital infidelity. But that was in the past now, and Rebeca congratulated herself on getting back onto a healthy fitness regime – and indeed, on limiting herself to just one cream cheese bagel with Brussels pate this morning, plus two croissants and a fried egg. Soon, her hard abdominals would no doubt be fully visible again in any of her designer string bikinis. And, until such time, she had ordered a small selection of very expensive lingerie with deceptively-strong bodycon capabilities – and her husband had been most impressed by the effect! Indeed, Rebeca was confident she’d be browsing the maternity ranges soon – just so long as she could squeeze herself into one of her racy new corsets at an appropriate time of the month!

The exercise-driven endorphins that were raising Rebeca’s mood were further enhanced by a distinctly-gratifying sight as she turned onto Mill Avenue. It was the sight of Lara Lys, looking rather uncomfortable as she stepped around the corner of a secluded driveway… The slutty socialite – whom Mrs Rebeca Moore could truthfully call one of her best friends at the Mill Avenue Ladies Club, but who was also Rebeca’s strongest competitor for the title of the neighbourhood’s hottest young woman – looked a bit bloated! Her skimpy red party dress did absolutely nothing to disguise the bulge of Lara’s swollen tum! A tum that was no-doubt churning uncomfortably with the former contents of the large cake-tin tucked under Lara’s arm…

Interesting. Rebeca thought. This was the fourth morning this week she’d espied Ms Lara Lys dragging herself home from number 12 – looking like she’d just had sex, or stuffed herself with far too much cake, or both!

“Hello Lara!” Rebeca trilled as she pulled up next to her shorter friend.

Rebeca luxuriated in the way her tight lycra leggings caused her bottom to wobble to a pert halt almost immediately.

Lara Lys stifled a burp, as she turned uncomfortably.

“Oh! Hello, Rebeca.”

“I’m just running back from the gym after a long workout!” Rebeca chirped proudly. “And I’m just about to make a light lunch at my place! My mouth is watering for a juicy burger with plenty of mustard and cheese! Would you like to come? I’ve plenty in the refrigerator for two!”

“Urp!” Lara replied sickly. “Not today, Rebeca. Thank you for the offer.”

“Suit yourself! More for me!” Rebeca trilled and jogged on.

Behind her, Rebeca didn’t notice Lara Lys standing and staring at the Puerto-Rican’s broad rear. The trophy wife’s immense ass was being suspended and almost-immobilised by a pair of vastly-firm, sky blue shaping leggings – but while its over-ripened wobble had been constrained, its spectacular width certainly hadn’t!

“My Gods!” Lara shook her head. “Her ass is getting fatter by the day!”

That said, Lara winced at a spurt of indigestion from her bloated belly. She presently had an entire double decker cheesecake churning inside her, and she badly needed to pass out on her couch and digest… Of course, the sex with the neighbourhood’s hottest new bachelor had been spectacular, and made it all worthwhile… Lara supposed.

“Urp!” Lara groaned, as she struggled home to her own mansion.

 

*

 

A half-inch depth of extra-virgin olive oil sizzled in the big, silver-bottomed frying pan. A sixth patty of extra-lean, organic minced steak plopped into the fat and began to cook alongside five others. 

Rebeca Moore’s tummy rumbled impatiently! She was freshly showered, and changed into a comfortable short pink robe that was far less constricting than her high-performance gym gear. And she was very much in need of a recovery meal after all that exercise! After all, she’d barely eaten any breakfast! The former fitness model was a little concerned she might faint from hunger before she had the chance to assemble her three organic wholeseed bread buns with their required duo of extra lean steak patties, quartet of American cheese slices, pickles, fried onion, four rashers of bacon, crumbled stilton, parmesan, mayo, chilli sauce, English mustard, and a high-fiber slice of freshly-picked garden lettuce.

“Come on!” Rebeca yelled at the burger patties and her belly rumbled loudly. She could swear her tummy was swelling up and starting to ache from the consequences of starvation.

Soon, the burgers were cooked – albeit a little rarer than Rebeca would have preferred them, but she was so hungry she found them delicious nonetheless. After wolfing them down at the pinewood kitchen table, she groaned. Her tummy felt uncomfortably heavy - probably from eating too fast in her weakened state, so she collected a drink from the fridge, and headed across the veined marble floor to one of the sofas, where she washed down her lunch with a quart of whole milk and rested to allow her tummy a little time to digest.

After a nap, Rebeca stirred and began to look up some of her old social media contacts. What she really wanted was a slice of cheesecake, but she felt too fatigued and stiff to stand up and fetch it, and her tummy was uncomfortably bloated, so she resolved to give herself some more recovery time on the couch before moving.

Hah!” Rebeca snorted. “Oh my Gods! Looks like someone’s too fat for her wedding dress!”

Rebeca’s lips curled with extreme amusement.

A few years earlier, Rebeca Moore had discovered a fringe pleasure that had come along with being a underpaid summer-school fitness instructor at a private LA athletics institute. The Belleforte Institute had catered to rich girls – rich girls whose parents wanted to get them onto college athletics scholarships, sometimes to secure cheaper tuition, but usually, in Rebeca’s experience, due to unresolved psychological issues on the part of the moms and stepmoms. The fringe pleasure had been following social media timelines as the rich, spoiled, lazy students quit their sports scholarships at the earliest opportunity – say, at the very instant they got married to a rich frat boy – and immediately blew up into disgustingly fat piggies! To Rebeca, the phenomenon – which happened remarkably fast, so she’d seen it many times even though she’d only done the job for four summers – was karmic justice for the over-privileged princesses who were thenceforth condemned to lives squeezing their fat figures into sweaty shapewear, and moaning about their “metabolic problems.”

For some of Rebeca’s most spoiled charges, it seemed as if the act of saying “I do!” caused them to gain fifteen pounds on their tummies in a heartbeat… Promptly followed, in most cases, by an evening of glutting themselves on about ten pounds of wedding cake, and soon having to get pregnant to provide a socially-acceptable excuse for their gluttonously engorged guts. The fragile and easily-collapsed fitness of the irksome rich girls was, for the grossly underpaid staff at the institute, a source of amusement. Not that Rebeca had ever mentioned that to the girls… Noooo – and risk being unfriended so she wouldn’t get to smirk at the pictures of the future-fatties as they swelled up from lean-and-fit through healthily-curvaceous to plumply-pretty and then, for the payoff, hilarious, bovinely-fat!

“Hahaha!” Rebeca howled with laughter.

The target of Rebeca’s amusement was a tall Latina named Maria Torres who’d won a sports scholarship one year ago – and apparently got married to a medical graduate in the last week or so. And now she was pictured, strapped into a far too-tight little wedding dress, enjoying an icecream cone that was far too big for a woman who was developing an obvious weight problem around her tummy area as rapidly as Maria Torres!

“Someone’s going to have to lay off those greasy tortillas, Maria --- URP!” Rebeca let out a big burp as she laughed heartily. “Oof, that’s better! Time for a bit of cheesecake, I think!”

Rebeca made an attempt to heave herself up, but was so stiff she decided to browse a few more pictures of Maria’s wedding first – after all, the way the girl’s potbelly protruded through her white silk dress was hilarious. The next few pictures didn’t disappoint.

“Mwahaha!”

Rebeca chortled at photographs of Maria in front of a succession of food tents.

“Ohmigods!” Rebeca gasped.

 In the background of one of Maria’s shots, a towering, hugely-busty blonde in a sluttishly-short pink dress revealing hard calves and thighs for days was bending over a table to lick an ice-lolly being held out by a captivated young man. The blonde’s build marked her out as a competitive swimmer – and, unlike Maria Torres, clearly a good one who was still very much on her sports scholarship. Except she was carrying more muscle than a competitive swimmer probably ought to… And giant tits. But… Apart from the size of the tits, and the extra muscle – her lats bulged through her dress – the blonde was the exact image of the woman whom Rebeca knew to be the fittest, most gifted, and best swimmer the Belleforte Institute had ever trained.

“Chloe?” Rebeca asked, as her tummy rumbled urgently for cheesecake and sent her hobbling to the fridge. “When the fuck did you get all grown up?”

 

*  *

 

 

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19 minutes ago, zachi said:

best story for years

Oh, well thank you! I'm trying to write Milf Avenue in shorter, faster sections. So it's slightly different. I've got to think of some additional ways to embarrass Rebeca, beyond the obvious of having her husband call her a fat piggy. 

Also, I do want to write some more Donuts and Duchesses, but I don't have much control over what I have ideas for...

 

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Chapter 3: Girl Versus Gravity (part 2/2)

 

Rebeca Moore scooped a generous quantity of granola into her pint-tub of Greek yoghurt, added a generous squirt of sustainable organic honey, and stirred it all together with a silver spoon.  It was just what she needed to soothe her stomach! Unfortunately, lunch had left her with quite a bad tummy ache.

Rebeca’s blamed her indigestion on her vigorous morning workout. Indirectly… After the workout, her legs had felt so stiff as she’d walked to the refrigerator to grab dessert that she’d brought an entire raspberry cheesecake to the coffee table so she wouldn’t need to get up again if she happened to fancy a second slice… Unfortunately she’d then grown a bit distracted on her social media, and hadn’t noticed just how many second slices she’d served herself. Until she’d started feeling a little sick and had resolved to take the cheesecake platter back to the fridge – at which point she’d discovered there wasn’t any left! After dropping the empty platter in the sink for the maid to clear up, Rebeca’s tum had begun to churn and gurgle painfully, due to all the cream cheese on top of the heavy burgers. Consequently, she’d decided not to eat another bite whatsoever until dinnertime – except for some wholesome Greek yoghurt and granola to soothe her belly.  And maybe a banana or two and a quinoa snack bar if she felt faint later.

“Mmm, yum!”

Rebeca’s silk robe had slipped open while she was browsing Maria Torres’ wedding pictures, and now revealed the gravid food bump caused by her lunch of three huge burgers plus a whole cheesecake. The fact that these came on top of a week of glutting herself with greasy takeout and cheesy junk food, all containing very little dietary fibre, probably wasn’t helping matters. The mound of her overfed belly bulged upwards, just downhill of her large, caramel breasts. Her gut churned gassily, swelling up yet another dress as her heavy meals bubbled within. Rebeca pushed it out in the vain hope of obtaining a bit of relief from the bloated sensation, and tried to ignore the fact that she looked like she was pregnant in her third trimester.

The burgers weren’t sitting at all well, probably because of the hefty Chinese meal she’d packed away the night before, which was still bloating her lower belly and impeding her digestion… Or maybe it was the triple meat feast pizza and all the garlic bread she’d had in the afternoon… Or even the leftover boxes of Indian takeout she’d heated up after breakfast – although that had been over 24 hours ago, so surely her tummy had dealt with that! But maybe not!

Glurp!

The delicious, wholesome Greek yoghurt which Rebeca had chosen for today’s afternoon snack was something her poor tummy sorely needed! The pint of low-fat dairy goodness, along with plenty of fibre-rich granola, was exactly what her overburdened digestive system was crying out for! Indeed, after a week on a diet of very unhealthy junk food in colossal quantities, Rebeca felt a bit constipated… And, while the soothing yoghurt was helping, she felt in need of a fruit-heavy smoothie to speed her digestion along. Perhaps a smoothie with prune juice, as well as a tin or two of organic apricots and peaches – in syrup, naturally!

“URRRP!” Rebeca moaned, leaning back and massaging her bloated middle.

“Oh! My! Tummy! Aches! Very! Bad!”

There was no choice! Rebeca hauled herself stiffly to the kitchen, and fixed up a big fruit smoothie. She opened a carton of prune juice, and poured the whole lot into her blender with a “Yuk!” She swiftly added two tins of her favourite organic apricots and peaches to the luxury blender. They would improve the taste of the prune juice – and the sweet corn syrup they were preserved in, which Rebeca imagined was organic and compatible with her all-natural Beverly Hills diet, would make the stuff practically palatable! A punnet of fresh strawberries and a squirt of honey later, and Rebeca gave the mix a noisy minute of blending until the whole lot was smooth, pinkish, creamy, thick, and sweet.

Then the bulging Puerto-Rican beauty decanted the entire jug of smoothie into her favourite Oktoberfest stein, and raised it to her lips – with a little trepidation! There was so much laxative fruit! It was certain to blast through Rebeca’s poor guts very harshly in the bathroom in the near future – but if it relieved her agonisingly bloated tummy then so be it!

Rebeca guzzled the entire laxative litre contents of her stein, burped, and deposited the dirty glass near the sink for the maid to wash later. Then she returned to the reception room and settled a sofa to resume flicking through pictures on her phone while her poor, over-filled tummy struggled with its churning load.

Maria Torres’ newly-fat figure and too-tight wedding dress had given Rebeca Moore a good giggle. Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the spectrum of social media schadenfreude, the wall of pictures from Chloe Southern’s summer left the Puerto Rican ex fitness model feeling green with envy.

Rebeca had liked Chloe Southern. The tectonically-strong Californian blonde had been the fastest female swimmer in the history of the Belleforte Institute in every format except backstroke, at which she was merely excellent. Unlike the typical students at the institute, whose parents had paid exorbitant sums for a world-class coaching programme to transform their spoiled princesses into averagely competent athletes, Chloe Southern had been trained for free. This was because the blonde was blatantly gifted and her future aquatic achievements were sure to enhance the institute’s reputation. Consequently, unlike her spoiled peers, Chloe had been endearingly grateful to her coaches. 

Rebeca had also felt sorry for Chloe because of the rangy blonde’s mean stepmom. Mrs Melissa Southern had made it loudly clear, after eight or nine flutes of Champagne at a parents’ evening, that Chloe would not be attending college. Unless, that was, Chloe won a fully-funded sports scholarship. This was because Mrs Southern had wrapped her husband around her little finger – so she said, while hiccupping her way through her tenth glass of Champers and nervously checking her Spanx were still holding her into her pencil skirt – and so they were saving up the tuition money for Chloe’s stepbrothers. Rebeca had been infuriated on Chloe’s behalf, but the blonde had taken it philosophically – it probably helped that Chloe was a shoe-in for pretty much any sports scholarship in the country. Hell, in the head coach’s view she could have qualified for the Navy SEALs.

A couple of years later, Chloe had turned down swimming scholarships at Stanford and Dartmouth, in favour of a flyspeck Florida college town called Gainesburg. Her decision had annoyed a lot of people, most especially her stepmom. These people had lined up to explain to Chloe that the name of an Ivy League institution was worth a lot, and – a not minor consideration – it’d be much easier for her to procure a rich husband in a famous college rather than a backwater. Chloe had ignored all these people and chosen Gainesburg, quite possibly to annoy her stepmom. Chloe said her selection had been swung by Gainesburg’s brand new Aquatics Center; the Floridian weather; the surplus of cute boys at the open day; and Gainesburg College offering her a more generous stipend along with the opportunity to earn money from “promotional activities,” whatever that meant. At the time, Rebeca had shaken her head in disbelief at the blonde’s dumb choice. But, on reviewing Chloe’s social media feed, maybe she wasn’t as dumb as she looked…

Despite Gainesburg’s female swim team having been a joke for the last thirty years, recruiting Chloe Southern as its captain would probably have to go down in collegiate history as the strategic sporting decision of the century. For starters, to judge by this summer’s slew of photographs with Chloe standing near various large swimming pools holding an armful of gold medals, she was individually responsible for turning Gainesburg into a successful swimming college. But that was just the female swim team, which wasn’t the full extent of Chloe’s success.

Gainesburg College had suffered some sort of financial setback early in the summer – apparently related to the collapse of a food company that was sponsoring the college – and had sacked most of its athletics staff. At that point, being short of money, they had put their most successful athlete – Chloe – in complete charge of both their swim teams, and the football team. Placing an untested blonde in charge of all their sportsmen had been… weirdly successful! Whatever Chloe Southern was doing to motivate her teams was clearly something that highly-paid coaches in other colleges couldn’t compete with.

And then there was “Girl Versus Gravity.”

Girl Versus Gravity was an internet hit. Actually, it was a cheap television show, padded out to an hour by vast quantities of adverts, and promotions for other shows made by the same production company – “Whale TV” – which apparently included such forgettable trash as “Dessert Duel,” “Cheesecake Contest,” and “Bulge Battle.”

Anyway, “Girl Versus Gravity” followed Chloe Southern as she toured gyms across America, in which the beautiful, busty blonde wore skimpy bikinis or tight, tight lycra workout gear while taking on a series of very photogenic local male athletes in various contests of fitness. The emphasis was very much on cheesecake shots of Chloe’s considerable assets while she performed exercises like 150 lb bench-presses or 200 lb squats. This was bulked up to an hour of TV per contest with an intro of Chloe diving into a pool and swimming in skimpy bikinis, eating local delicacies and touring the local nightlife, drooling over the latest selection of buff male athletes picked to compete against her and – most suggestively of all – saying goodbye to said cute boys in a very friendly way. Her actual results in the athletic contests were barely of interest at all, and in fact she lost the first series 5-6, because her impressive 36 pullups were beaten by her wiry Asian competitor in the final episode. Anyway, more importantly, Chloe had shared an Instagram picture with the rules of a drinking game one of her many internet admirers had invented…

 

1 finger fines

Camera zooms in gratuitously on Chloe’s breasts

Chloe licks her lips

Chloe is wearing a bikini in an inappropriate location

Chloe eats something

Chloe hugs someone

 

2 finger fines

Slow motion camera shot of Chloe flexing

Chloe touches her competitor to distract him

Chloe dives into a pool while fully clothed

Chloe loses a contest

 

3 finger fines

Slow motion camera shot of Chloe’s ass

Chloe pushes someone into a pool

Chloe wins a contest

 

4 finger fines

Chloe eats meatballs while wearing a bikini

A woman makes an outraged expression in Chloe’s direction

 

Finish entire drink

Chloe is filmed leaving her competitor’s room wearing the same outfit as the previous day.

 

"Oof! Urp!" Rebeca's belly - perhaps envious of the less taxing regime which Chloe Southern's tummy appeared to enjoy - protested painfully. 

 

* *

 

“Oh!”

Rebeca groaned as she lay back on the sofa, arching her back to try and relieve the intense pressure in her poor tummy. Her overfed guts were in agony, but – dammit – she just wasn’t quite ready to poop! She struggled to the mansion’s kitchen in a doubled-over posture and rummaged through the cupboards while rubbing her swollen tum.

“Dammit!” Rebeca exclaimed. She’d opened up the cupboard with her stock of laxatives, but there was just an empty box which the lazy maid hadn’t restocked!

There was only one other promising option. Since she’d already guzzled the mansion’s entire prune juice supply, and it hadn’t been enough to provide relief, there was only one other fluid in the kitchen that Rebeca could see which might help lubricate her gurgling guts… Of course, it wasn’t the best thing to drink in large quantity… After all, it was rather high in calories… Still, she felt so overstuffed due her junk-food diet that it had to be worth a try!

Olive oil! Extra virgin, of course. And a fresh quart, to boot!

Rebeca raised the bottle to her lips, and took an experimental swig.

“Mmm!”

The expensive olive oil from the Hollywood healthfood boutique was actually quite tasty. Floral!

Of course, it was four thousand calories per pint. Not that Rebeca intended to drink a pint of the stuff! Just enough to relieve her tum… So Rebeca took another gulp of the tasty oil. And another…

A little time passed.

“Buuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!” Rebeca gasped, after another big swig of the olive oil.

“Oh no!” The bottle was empty! That meant she’d taken in a whole quart of olive oil! Which was 8000 calories! And her poor tum still didn’t feel relieved… But Rebeca certainly felt the effects in other ways! Her heart hammered! She panted. She sweated! In fact, she felt like she was oozing olive oil out of every pore… Hmm, at least it would be very good for her skin –

“Ooooooh!”

Rebeca’s musing about the health-giving effects of olive oil were cut off.

“My belly!”

Rebeca clutched her middle! Never had she received such an urgent sensation from her tum! She needed to poop, right now!

Miraculously, and only because her mansion was equipped with ten bathrooms, the Puerto Rican ex fittie managed to make it to the nearest loo in time!

“UUUuuuugh!”

The moans and groans that emanated from within the east downstairs bathroom of the Moore mansion were more like the sounds an experienced farmer might associate with an outbreak of contagious flatulence at a concentrated beef fattening unit, rather than with a recently-successful bikini contest winner at her toilet!

“Ooooh!” Rebeca’s groans emanated through the door. “That’s better!”

In no time at all, Mrs Rebeca Moore felt greatly relieved! All that fatty Chinese takeaway was now comfortably out of her system – not to mention the cheesy XL pizza and all that Indian takeout she’d also gorged on yesterday. Phew! It was a tremendous relief! In fact, after a nice hot bath and fixing her hair for the evening, she even felt like she might be peckish for a bit of popcorn. Not too much though! After all, her recent indulgences had left her a little thick around the middle, and it wouldn’t do to make herself bloat again before dinner with her hubby – he was heading off on a business trip tomorrow, and Rebeca wanted to impress him with her trim figure beforehand… With a bit of luck, she might even get pregnant! To which end she planned to squeeze herself into a luxurious new black leather corset that she had recently acquired… And it wouldn’t do to overeat before she dressed in it for the evening! After all, there was already a risk she might need some spanx underneath in order to give her bottom and thighs a little additional pertness!

 

* *

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Right then, here is part 1/2 of a chapter which I think sets up some nice teasing possibilities. In fact, I'll consider any suggestions for the second part, because I'm finding it hard to decide between various amusing options...

 

Chapter 4: Corselets and Carbohydrates (part 1)

 

“Are you sure you want that second serving of potatoes, Honey?”

Mrs Rebeca Moore paused as she leant over the candlelit dinner table – a posture that put a well-concealed but severe squeeze on her abdomen, due to the body-shaping corselet she had elected to wear underneath her slinky little black evening dress. 

What an outrageous question for her husband to ask! After all, Rebeca had exercised in the gym, extremely vigorously, that very morning. And not only that! She had also, apart from a large lunch followed by a cheesecake, washed down with an enormous amount of syrupy fruit smoothie and a quart of olive oil, eaten exceedingly lightly today! Indeed, after her olive-oil induced visit to the bathroom in the mid-afternoon, where she had expelled the vast amount of yesterday’s junk food that was bloating her, Rebeca had been quite cautious about the delicate state of her tummy and had scarcely eaten a thing! Just one bag of microwaved popcorn, in fact… Oh, and a couple of chopped bananas with honey and jam. Oh, and a Mars bar.

Rebeca had needed the Mars bar to fuel herself for the effort of squeezing into her corselet! She’d bought the sheer, tailored black girdle at an expensive Beverly Hills boutique. And she hadn’t expected to need it – especially not after her over-consumption of olive oil in the afternoon had eliminated her bloatedness! But Rebeca had needed the corselet…

Rebeca had begun dressing for a romantic dinner at home at around 6pm, at which point she had discovered some unexpectedly-thick inches of flab all around her lower belly and sides! It had come as a major shock! To be frank, Rebeca’s little black dress – an exceptionally demanding outfit that required its wearer to maintain an absolutely exquisite figure – made it look like Rebeca had developed the beer-belly and fupa of a woman seven years older who had overindulged herself with fattening treats throughout her late twenties!

Of course, Rebeca had known her belly had been a bit bloated – in fact, she had felt very bloated for the entire week, due to junk food – but after her massively-relieving session on the loo she’d expected her waistline would snap back at least to a size eight, and probably slimmer! But it hadn’t, and rather than select a less exquisite dress, Rebeca had squeezed and grunted her way into her tailored black girdle. It had taken severe effort – and an energising Mars bar – to get into the underwear. But the result was that Rebeca Moore once again sported the perfect, bikini-contest winning figure that her slinky black dress demanded. And, as a bonus, the corselet had suspenders for stockings, and it would keep her belly under control during sex later, even if she really stuffed herself at dinner! For now, however, it was giving Rebeca back her hard, narrow, bulge-free middle – at a cost of a little extra bulging around her bottom, which was hardly noticeable by candlelight.

“Don’t be so outrageous, darling!” Rebeca trilled, and patted her tummy to emphasise her flat and firm silhouette.

“I told you I had a very energetic gym session this morning! And I’ve scarcely eaten a thing all day! So, frankly, I’m going to need quite a bit more dinner to work up some strength for…” Rebeca continued… “Tonight’s bedroom athletics!

Rebeca’s hubby, Dr Moore, licked his lips. Having a bimbo trophy wife less than half his age had its benefits. Even if her taste for Beverly Hills luxury was giving her a fat ass… At least Rebeca’s boobs were still phenomenal – their generous bulk wobbled out of her provocatively low-cut dress, and worked their charms on Dr Moore.

“Oh, very well, Darling. But only have a little more! You’re looking trimmer tonight, and we wouldn’t want to spoil it!”

Rebeca pouted. She was using a pair of big spoons to serve herself large boiled potatoes in ragu sauce, and was more concerned about saving space on her plate for some extra meat rather than skimping on potatoes – after all, the steel-reinforced fabric of her corselet was going to prevent any risk of a post-meal tummy bulge tonight.

“Darling!” Rebeca scolded. “Please don’t limit me! I’m so hungry tonight, after all that gym! And I promise I won’t gain even one single inch around my tum from tonight’s dinner!”

Dr Moore harrumphed. His young wife had a very bad track record when it came to keeping off the inches during dinner. In fact, he had bad memories of taking her to expensive restaurants and Rebeca gorging herself until she’d added multiple inches to her waistline – per course! And those were five course meals. Which were her second favourite kind of meal, after tasting menus.

“Harrumph! It’s not one inch I’m concerned about, Rebeca. It’s when you stuff yourself like a pig at a very fine restaurant, and leave the establishment looking six inches fatter and drawing stares!”

“What a thing to say!” Rebeca exclaimed. “I’ll have you know my waist was 29 inches when we sat down to dinner, and it’s still exactly 29 inches now! I did so much exercise today that the little buttered bread rolls, the sushi, and the soup, and our first serving of casserole haven’t touched my figure at all! In fact, I’m still quite famished!”

“Hmm.”

Dr Moore mused, as his wife ate her second helping of the main course. Rebeca was actually looking attractively-slim tonight, and he certainly wanted to have her. Tomorrow he would be flying to Texas for a week-long business trip, and he fancied a good fuck beforehand. And the best way into his gluttonous wife’s panties – at least, with Rebeca in a good enough mood to give a decent blow job – was to pour a couple of bottles of wine down her and let her gorge herself on her favourite costly delicacies! He mused some more.

Tonight’s excellent casserole was certainly one of Rebeca’s many favourite dishes. It was a pity the cook had made so much – Rebeca was certain to inflate her belly like usual if she took it into her head to finish the lot, which was a distinct possibility. Still, a little more of the rich wine sauce might put her in exactly the mood that Dr Moore wanted her in.

“Rebeca, you’re right!” Her husband announced.

“Urp.” Rebeca wiped her lips, as she looked up from cleaning her plate with the aid of a little bread roll from the basket. “Well, of course, Darling!” The Puerto-Rican ‘fitness model’ trilled happily.

“I shouldn’t stop you from indulging yourself a little bit, before we go to bed!”

Rebeca licked her lips of the tasty ragu sauce, and smiled happily at her husband. Having him under such good control gave the trophy wife a warm feeling of success!

“Quite right, Honey! And I can assure you that you won’t regret letting me eat a little more to fuel up before we retire for our… Bedroom activities!

Dr Moore smiled indulgently.

“In, fact, Rebeca, since you’re looking so slim I must concede that I wouldn’t complain if you ate a hearty amount tonight – as long as you exercise a little moderation so your waist only swells up two or three inches!”

Rebeca burped happily as she reached for another serving of casserole.

“Well, Honey, that’s very kind of you! But, as I said, I shan’t be gaining a single inch tonight!”

Rebeca patted her steely firm midriff for emphasis.

Dr Moore sipped his wine, and looked forward to fucking his hard-bellied, fitness-model trophy wife. Still, he had to get Rebeca in the mood, and he knew the best way!

“No, Rebeca… I insist!”

Rebeca swallowed.

“Insist on what, Honey?”

“That you eat a hearty dinner, Rebeca! Well, not so hearty that you blow up more than three inches! But I absolutely insist you indulge yourself sufficiently to gain at least two inches around your waist! That means, what… I want you to have at least a 31 inch waist measurement, before we finish dinner and go upstairs!”

Rebeca burped.

The truth was that Rebeca wasn’t especially hungry anymore! Her corselet saw to that! Oh, she fancied one more serving of casserole, and she’d been looking forward to trifle and a big slice of German chocolate cake for dessert –perhaps two. Plus, of course, a liqueur coffee, cheese and biscuits, and a couple of cocktails. But only a couple! After all, she’d shared a bottle of Champagne and most of a fine red with dinner, and alcohol was notoriously fattening! It would detract from her gym efforts and slow down her slimming progress if she indulged in more than a couple of cream cocktails on top of that little lot… Plus, of course, Rebeca was finding it increasingly hard to breath! The 29’’ waist of her steel-bound underwear was already making her feel quite stuffed as it compressed her somewhat-full stomach upwards! Breathing was now causing her bosom to heave upwards like a Jane Austen heroine who’d attended two huge banquets in quick succession!

Still, at least her husband had finally decided to treat her to a properly indulgent meal, and Rebeca wasn’t one to look such a gift-horse in the mouth. She might not be especially hungry, but she still had the appetite and tummy-capacity of a professional fitness competitor, and even though she was wearing very stiff underwear she didn’t imagine it would be that hard to make her waistline puff out a bit.

“Oh, well, if you insist, Honey. I wasn’t planning on eating much more, but I’m sure I have room to indulge a little!”

 

* *

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Ha Ha Great,Write about how hot 🥵 band uncomfortable she is and how the shapewear  turns her on.Also do other characters being not what they appear to be ,pads Spanx control top pantyhose and all the extreme effort and exhaustion it takes to look hot, and then epic wardrobe malfunctions at a televised event that is televised and they are exposed as ahoy hefty mess,Would be great!🥵🔥

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