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Dairy is Good for You


W4E

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Simply an idea I had; let's see where it leads! Mistakes (all) my own.

Part One:

It's an economically-depressed town where I live. Beyond working in a family business - there's fewer every year - or moving away for 'better opportunities', retail or hospitality seem to be the industries of choice. The people are great, however, with most families knowing each other like they were kith and kin, and the one school just off the high street is the alma mater for practically everyone. There is a private school about three miles out of town, still within the 'city limits', but we have a saying hereabouts regarding this: Once you send your child to private school, you stop being a part of the community. It's not that catchy as far as sayings go, and we're no longer that mean about such things, but it lets the casual visitor to town learn a bit more about us all. 

Should I say I attended the private school, Hilltop Manor, for most of my schooling? It was all due to a latent sporting prowess still very much not apparent - but I continued to live at home with my folks just off the high street. Apart from the first year, I was mostly immune to the verbal sledges, but for the occasional 'Grammar school wanker' or 'Tosser' remark by people I didn't really know anyway. I didn't care to know them either. I lead by example and all that. Still, when I wasn't on the pitch, I was very much left to my own devices, my old mates from 'civvy street', my interests and hobbies. 

And that's where I am today. 

I've been working in the local milkbar for the past few years, serving ice cream, frozen yoghurt, milkshakes, floats, and other interesting dairy-based creations. The milkbar itself - Frozen Dreams - was the original idea of Frankie, an older boy on the football team whose parents had filled the void of attention shown him with objects and cash. One day five years ago he opted for a milkbar, and that's what he got. Frozen Dreams is precisely what you might imagine it to be: a retro-style, 1950s ice cream parlour with vinyl booths along one side of the shop, and a shiny counter with plush stool seating running around the central ice cream fridges and display case. Frankie worked here by himself for the first year until he made a real go of it and it became a bright light in our otherwise decaying town. Once Frozen Dreams became quite profitable, he moved on to franchising the idea in other regional towns and is currently attempting one in Berkmore. He doesn't come back very often, which doesn't bother me one bit - I am the ice cream man to the stars, and have the place all to myself. I like the job, I like being out of the weather, which is generally grey and wet here, and, now I'm older, I notice the additional benefits to working in a glorified ice cream parlour. The women! 

Because I was playing football or training so much during those formative years, I didn't have much time for dating and so on; it was school, gym, homework, rinse and repeat. It didn't mean I wasn't into the scene - of course I was - but insofar as the whole meet-up scene went, I was a late bloomer. There was one girl, however, Stevie, who played goal for the girls' under-21s, who I was madly in love with more or less from the first time I saw her. She was unique for many reasons, I remember, after my first encounter with her as a spectator on the touchline during an intramural game between the lads and ladies. She was nearly my height - 5ft 11in - but she was solid, really quite sturdy, and she seemed to huffle her way around the goals, her face flushed by routine drills. And, I'm not too embarrassed to admit now my mates have moved on, she had the best arse I had seen to that point in time, capacious beyond belief and double-wide enough for my younger self to envisage her plush buttocks engulfing any chair it rested on - better yet, any stool or bench, where her big thighs would pancake over the rim. Needless to say, I made a beeline to sit in the row behind goal whenever our squads were training together. 

It must have been love (er, yeah, that's it!) because I didn't hesitate to ask for her number after the third training session we shared. I remember the exact moment well. She was in goal, extending her arms for easy set pieces, and very reluctantly diving for mildly harder shots at goal. By the time I had jogged over to the goals she was trotting over with big, heavy strides to retrieve the three or so shots she missed in the back of the old onion bag. With a laboured breath and orchestrated flourish downward, she dropped down to the earth and scooped the footballs up in three even attempts. 'One...' I heard her say first. 'Two!' she sucked in quite a bit of air and flicked her long blonde ponytail back. '...Andddd...Three!' she was stooped for a few seconds longer, her large belly protruding out in front of her shorter arms. At this moment, I was standing a few yards behind her and enjoyed the view of her thighs in knee socks and her big, glorious arse packed in tightly to her black shorts. '...Huhh...huhh,' she squared her shoulders and caught her breath, the last ball held firmly in her gloves. She was completely red in the face and her goalie's top had come untucked at the back, revealing a sumptuous roll of flab and what looked like the makings of a butterfly tattoo in the low of her back. What a beauty, I thought, breathless now myself. 

. . . But I'm talking about how I came to work at Frozen Dreams, aren't I? So I won't bore you too much with whole Stevie show. She was the daughter of the newsagent, not the one parents bought the paper from, had attended the school on the high street (she was several years ahead of me), was thinking about moving for uni - health science, London - and once had both a flair and real fire for football, which she'd lost. However, as we spent more and more time together, I learnt she felt she had stuck at football for too long and lost her place in it ('Goal's good for a big lass'), and that she was a big eater, a proud eater, as she'd put it. I probably should also tell you, it's only fair after all, that, yes, we were in heaven for the first few months together; mostly because she was receptive to my simple dates (movies, inexpensive restaurants, walks in the botanical gardens), and we were both so open when we shared a sofa or bed (quite often we'd simply strip off and just lie together, holding hands and telling jokes to one another; she was welcome to my touching her belly, cradling it in my hands, tracing the lip of where it overhanged and fondling her fulsome love handles). Despite all this, and the respect we held for each other, it didn't work out. We were both young and unsure about where we were going to; besides football and a love of food, and of course the tenderness between us, we drifted apart. Sometimes Stevie still drops into Frozen Dreams for a scoop - or two - and the smile is as warm as ever. 

 

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Part Two: 

Frozen Dreams is a funny, if somewhat grimly ironic, name for a business from our town. The more you think about it, the more it seems to describe the lives of the successive generations growing up in the shadow of the empty warehouses and workshops off Millson Lane, the stasis of life for these people. It's just as well, then, that Frankie's original promise of 'Pleasure for only a pound' was never lost in the industrial decay. 

That slogan - the founding offer per scoop of ice cream, no toppings - was Frozen Dreams' attempt at Cadbury's 99, though unlike our larger competitor, we've never raised the price in times of inflation, citing 'market forces' and 'shocks in the global supply chain'. You have your pound coin, you can have whatever flavour you like (no toppings). But now that I tend to be the only worker here, I encourage customers to return, so, yes, I allow free toppings too. It's a great way to endear yourself to pensioners and pretty girls alike. 

One such regular is Amita. She originally moved here from Shirley, having completed via correspondence a degree in accounting. She works as a sort of freelance tax agent for the town, her rates low and spirits (hers, her clients) high. That said, she is rather fond of 'freebies', and besides the occasional new item of clothing or 'overstock' from most retailers along the high street, she will often be seen planted comfortably behind her laptop in a cafe or restaurant window, sampling all and sundry off the menu. It's a great way to improve your firm's bottom line, but it's devilish to a young woman's firm bottom. Which is why I always enjoy her return visits to Frozen Dreams. 

For some context, Amita was visiting the milkbar at least three times a week for three months while she was compiling a report for the council audit earlier this year. In that time I would say she not once ate something 'solid' - we do offer sandwiches and pies in addition to the sweets - and frequently she would have both brunch and lunch here. I don't know what her diet is like at home, yet behind all those spreadsheets, slideshows, email and letters was a constant fill of sugar and cream and milk and chocolate. It took its time at first, but by the second month she was interrupting her phone calls with pauses to spoon the last of her sundae into her mouth or drain the second half of her 'One Pint Screamer', the outsize milkshake we offer with crumbled biscuits or doughnuts or chocolate bars and ice cream stuffed on top. And it wasn't just phone calls to council offices or other clients where she did this; sometimes she would be showing me a Powerpoint presentation, the red-painted nail of her index finger emphasising her point as she went, when she would break off to down her Screamer. It was an interruption, yes, but what an alluring one; especially if afterwards she had an elated look on her face or a milk moustache or she burped. It's always a pleasure to see someone enjoy themselves. To be honest, at our little meetings I hoped she would delay proceedings to eat or drink, with visions of that Felix the Cat episode where he stuffed himself with milk playing out in my mind's eye.

It was also in the second month where I noticed Amita's style changed. She was still very much 'business professional' in respect of her long, dark hair being pulled back into a bun, and her presentation (beside the 'interruptions') being flawless; it was in the clothes she wore that the change was marked. For starters, the houndstooth blazer she sported had gone from a simple close-fitted jacket buttoned over the belly, to an uncomfortable-looking, ill-fitting jacket that caught the breeze due to the button becoming a vanity. She still wore the white blousons from M&S, the satin material flowing over her well-nourished body and fat breasts like a wave upon the ocean, though increasingly, she was clearly keeping the buttons together with safety-pins and paperclips - I know this because after she had gone I would find them on the floor while I was cleaning. The crowning glory, however, was her insistence upon wearing pencil skirts. She already had a defined pear-shaped body, with a bit of fat around her hips, and the way she walked in ballet flats, her hips swivelling, was divine. I couldn't help but watch as she parked her plump bottom line (remember the mild pun from earlier?) on the booth bench seat and eased herself into position behind the table; it was even better now that she would get her belly stuck on the table and judder back and forth, rattling the napkin holder and sugar bowl as she went. I would watch, transfixed.  

But those pencil skirts are gone now, replaced by a pair of striped tights, the view of her wide, wobbling bottom obscured by a sweatshirt tied around her waist - the universal conceit of unexpected weight gain. And I don't even need to ask her now if she'd like something upon arrival; the Screamer is waiting for her in the fridge. But lately as she has dropped in, a plump double chin under her smile, her tights pulled high above her waist and a rounded and very visible belly outline pressing through the material, I have had to serve her from behind the counter as suddenly, I find the sap beginning to move.      

Pleasure for only a pound, indeed. 

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  • 1 month later...

Part Three:

Every business, even the ones that die off within the space of their short lease (I think we call them 'pop-ups' now), has its regulars, and Frozen Dreams is no exception. Some stop by on their way to a lunchtime meeting for a quick coffee and wave, others drop in after work or the gym or a visit to the local pool; many come with a book or phone in hand ready to park themselves in a neat corner of the shop and work their way through a series of drinks and slices of cake, (ice cream and books make a deadly, if sticky, combination) while the rest are just looking for a simple chat with a friendly face. 

In the case of this past Thursday, it was clear that was what Allison was looking for.  

Allison worked as an outreach nurse in this more regional part of the county, and supplemented her income by helping teach the next generation of students at the training college as part of the old wing at St Catherine's Hospital. She was only a recent graduate herself when the ravages of the GFC hit our part of the country, and since the pandemic reached us a bit over two years ago, she has continued to take on more work at St Cath's. I know most of this not by asking, but rather by hearing her news every time she drops in. Anyway, from her perch on one of the bar stools along the counter the two to three times a week she visits, she has told me much about the dilapidated hospital and the general poor state of our nation's health. 'When'd we all become so fat, pal?' is one of her favourite observations, often emphasised unironically by her shifting her considerable heft in her seat and leaning in to drain the last of her milkshake. 'The amount of fat lasses presenting themselves at training now - I mean it's good, yeah, the enthusiasm an' all, but, bloody hell!' At this she beams a wide smile and shakes her head laughing, before going on to tell me about the chunky awkwardness of her new students. 'They don't fit the uniforms we have, which, ya know, is a bit more of a stretch on the system with funding bein' what it is'. While I prepare a cup of tea for Bev, another much quieter regular who has been getting through a lot of Ken Follett lately, I usually nod and add something lame like 'Oh yeah? What happens then?' even though in my mind's eye I envisage these well-nourished student nurses struggling to pull their scrubs over their big plump bodies. I also picture most of them not batting an eyelid at the fact their obesity is detracting from their ability to even put on the right kit. 

Allison's Vauxhall is a common sight along the high street when she's on duty during the week, but when she drops in like she has now, she seems to appear from somewhere up the street like she has wandered down from the hospital or her flat, which from memory is nearby. If I'm not busy, her entrance is a sight to behold: her powerful frame strolling past the window, wrapped up in her fawn-coloured coat now far more form-fitting than ever, all as her long ginger hair flicks in the wintry breeze. Again, once she sees me she smiles a broad grin, all freckles and the nicest, plumpest double chin. You can almost hear her laugh booming from outside before she comes through the door. Today, however, was the first time I had seen her walk in without the coat tied up around her protruding belly. In fact, it was the first time I had seen wearing somewhat 'normal', non-work clothes. 

'I like your outfit,' I said tidying up a salt cellar that a few schoolboys had knocked over in their haste earlier, 'you look very professional.' And she did. Underneath the tight-fitting coat she had on a soft-looking white cotton long sleeve top with a streamline design to it that she had tucked into a pair of black corduroy trousers with six buttons - three by three - down the front. With her wide hips and embonpoint, the lower set of buttons jutted and rose up in a pleasing fashion. 'Job interview?' I asked, pointing. 

'No, no,' she hoisted her coat onto a hook along the right side of the shop by the rack of magazines left behind by minicabbers. As she turned on her heel I caught a promising glimpse of her fleshy behind. For reasons unclear to me, I could hear a horseback riding instructor from years ago say 'This one gives good seat, she does'. Don't ask me why. 'Well, actually, I guess it was - in a way.' Allison lowered herself onto her favourite stool dead centre along the counter. The rain had followed her down the street, crashing down upon the mere mortals ducking for cover outside in a heavy storm. 'Oh yeah? What sort of job's it for? Managerial or something?' I asked her, placing down her cookies and cream thickshake in front of her. 'Thanks,' she said drinking nearly half of it in one go. 'I guess I manage myself for it,' she toyed with the paper straw and swivelled the stool anticlockwise and back. A cheeky grin formed at the corners of her mouth. 'Um, but it's top-secret stuff, pal! So I really shouldn't tell you any more about it.' 

A secret! I was intrigued. Happily, knowing Allison is one seldom apt to keep schtum about anything, it wasn't long before she let me in on her new work. 

'. . .Well, I've taken on a sideline modelling an' that.' 

'Congrats and felicitats! The next one's on me,' I went to start up the milkshake mixer before I raised a finger and turned to face her. 'You know what? I shouldn't do that. Your new line of work and so on.' I felt quite stupid. 

Allison leaned her elbows on the countertop and pursed her lips. 'No. Go ahead. It's maybe a bit different to what you had in mind.' 

Edited by W4E
Minor typographical error
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  • 2 weeks later...
  • 3 weeks later...

Entr'acte: 

Wow! A model in our part of the world. Good on Allison for making a go of it. 

I thought about Allison's news as I tidied up Frozen Dreams for the night, rinsing out her glass and stacking it in the dishwasher. I guess it figures, though; a beautiful young woman, self-confident enough to light up any room, and somewhat statuesque too. Maybe she has a contract with one of the professional firms that established down Beacon Lane in the fashionable, gentrified part of town. They all have names like Robinson and Associates or Photogenia - and no sense of irony, really, working out of what were once railway workers' cottages and other workaday housing. I've walked by them a few times on my way to the gardens, but it always looks like no-one's inside. And I'd never dare to knock, given the vinyl stickers on the window often say things like: 'Find us on Facebook', 'Ready for an exciting career change?' and 'Send us your headshots and wait for London to call'. It's probably a few rich people from out of town making the most of tax inducements from the desperate council. I imagine Frankie's involved, too. 

It was too dark and wet to bother wandering that way this evening, I decided, so I stopped in at the Red Fox for dinner. I like it there, the last local for miles around, and the landlord Chris and his wife Laurie always seem pleased to see me, offering free drinks at the week's end or a free turn on the fruit machine. I play darts now and then with their daughter, Beatie, who also pulls beers and waits tables most nights. She and I go back quite some time, too, with her dead-eyed dart throwing taking us to the regional pub finals four years running. To my shame, I still haven't thrown a 180, but it's fun all the same. Plus I get accommodation, so long as we're winning, so who could complain? I also had a fling with Beatie while we were on the road together the other year, going to Macclesfield for a playoff berth, which appears to have lasted into brief assignations on slower days at the Red Fox. 

'Another one, then?' Beatie clears away my glass and dusts away some salt from the table with her free hand. I watch and smile but say nothing. '. . . Or something else take your fancy?' she places a hand on her hip, runs the open palm down her thigh to just above the knee. She parts her lips a little and inclines her head. I look into her hazel eyes that pierce mine and for a moment think about the soft belly and freckled teardrop breasts contained beneath her white cotton t-shirt. It was on this very banquette by the window overlooking the towpath that we celebrated our pinpoint accuracy one Sunday afternoon. I remember it well; both how she pressed me onto my back and sat astride my legs, then leaned down to kiss in a miasma of her cypress perfume, and how my fingers followed the curve of her spine down to the waistband of her unbuttoned jeans and squeezed her fleshy buttocks. In the privacy of the closed pub, our ministrations in the open of what was usually a full public bar seemed to add to the passion of that afternoon. I was surprised by how round and full her buttocks were, and by how much pleasure she took as I pressed them and her love handles. She was evidently well built in the tradition of a country doctor's wife, refined by a ready access to food and drink - and little starvation like some other local women.

Thinking about this and a few other intimate moments with her, I gulp and shake my head. 'Not tonight, thanks.' I add with a smile. Beatie nods and sashays over to some local sots at the bar. Her jeans, I spied as she turned to leave, were unbuttoned, and the trace of a noticeable belly outline had clearly formed in her profile. I rest my elbows on the table and laugh to myself for a moment, enjoying my good fortune before I resume my search for Allison the model. 

More soon!       

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  • 1 month later...

For the fifteen minutes it took to walk home from the Red Fox I kept guessing which type of modelling Allison did. By the time I reached the front gate I had managed to narrow it down to three areas: knitwear, for she had an impressive, if expensive, wardrobe full of nice coats; bridal wear because she represented the archetype for the emerging plus-size industry, thickset and plumptious; and swimwear because why not? 

I let the image of the Allison I served earlier at Frozen Dreams linger as I let it combine with the big beautiful woman I used to see on Tuesdays when I'd go swimming at the pool. It was a few years ago now, but this woman was about the same build as Allison, maybe an inch taller but several thicker at the waist. She was pear-shaped which, originally, might have given her a shapeliness most men would have found alluring, but by the same token, that had evidently been many pounds, stone, ago. The woman I'd see was now a tribute to porridge. That is to say, where once a small bit of junk would have gone to all the right places, it had redoubled, met inactivity and many calories, become subcutaneous, and then some. She was big all over and jiggled with every step. I hadn't seen a woman like her, and, truth be told, I was glad of the fact I was already in the water when she would totter into sight - otherwise I'd have had little to spare my reverence. She was so self-confident, stopping to chat to other regulars even as she was in her bathers and her low-slung fat stomach or ample bosom would bounce with every laugh (she laughed often and loudly) or gesture. It was mesmerising to see her cross by from behind, too; her arse, as capacious as it was fleshy, its buttocks shifting up and down like plump white clouds, while her dappled and welcoming thighs rubbed together. Not once had I seen in the pool, however. 

Three pleasant minutes had gone by before I felt for my keys and unlocked the door. As it squeaked open, I let the composite of Allison and the voluptuous bathing beauty wash away with the crackle of the television and the sounds of Ma and Pa laughing at it.  

'Is that you?' Ma's voice was its distracted self. 

'It's me.' I said, halfway up the stairs. 

'Is that me me? Or is that Mimi?' 

I gave a knowing sigh for effect, Ma's jokes being what they are, then asked who won the football. 

'Arsenal,' then after a pause, 'but you should've seen it.' 

Intrigued, I moved into the doorway and asked if it was a close match. 

'No, not the match, darling. The Scottish woman who commentates, you know, the one you like.' The Scottish woman; what was this? Some sort of Oscar Wilde play? 'I hadn't seen her in a while, she seemed different.'

Without hesitation I twisted to look at the TV, but only Gary Neville was on now. 

'I knew he'd do that!' cried Pa from underneath a sea of crisp crumbs. 'Been that way with women since he was a lad. Remember the newsagent's girl. Always clear what he's thinking, ha ha!' 

I felt my face flush red, but mercifully Ma, though smiling along, held a finger up to stop Pa. She said, 'The direct approach is the best, hint hint Jim,' she elbowed Pa in the side. 'Plus I find it gratifying to see we've raised a son who doesn't notice a woman's weight. Come here,' she ruffled my hair with her warm hands. I looked up. ' . . . Even if she's a bloater.' Ma and Pa both laughed reasonably, searching me for a reaction, then told me there was something in the oven if I wanted it. I told them I'd been to the Red Fox. 'How are Chris and Laurie, then?' they both asked in unison. 

Later, once I'd revisited my memory of the Voluptuous Bathing Beauty for a few minutes in the loo, and then showered, I switched my tablet on and laid back on my bed. I was going to find Allison the model before long. 

More soon(er than the last)!  

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  • 1 month later...

Part Four

It was the sort of evening where not much happened, and I liked it that way. The orange light of the sodium streetlamp outside my window peeked in at the edges of the curtain, while the occasional garbled advert on the telly buzzed in from downstairs. There was Ma and Pa's laughter at something - Alan Carr's taped comedy specials, repeats of Would I Lie to You?: who knows? - which distracted me from my thoughts for a moment, reminding me of how much warmer it was in my bedroom than downstairs. Again, I liked it that way. It was more conducive to, once not so long ago, studying, and now, following whatever whim took my fancy. 

What was Allison's surname? The thought rankled at me for some time as I tried in vain to find her on simple Google searches. I even went so far as to find her employee profile on St Cath's website, which I did, but it was of no use. She did not appear to have any accounts tied to her email address. Should I write to her to ask if she has a modelling portfolio? The idea seemed innocent enough to me; I could make a simple request, following up on what we'd discussed earlier at Frozen DreamsI could masquerade as a follower of fashion (I'm really not) and an advocate for body positivity (I am, should the question arise) and then as a friend interested in seeing locals' sidelines flourish. What's not to like about that? So I started typing a quick email. 

I'm not sure what it was that made me think of it, yet the phrase 'When'd we all become so fat?' entered my thoughts, and immediately I was transported back to Frozen Dreams. I let the lusty question linger on my mind and I imagined Allison sitting opposite me, her capacious arse engulfing the stool, a hungry look in her eyes. In her dimpled piggy hand she held a can of spray cream which she brought up to her wide, smiling mouth. She let the nozzle rest on her plump bottom lip for a few seconds before she pressed it down and delighted in the bounty of calories that danced quite suddenly on her palate. Knowing I was admiring her, she held my gaze at first, then closed her eyes and gave several low moans of satisfaction. What a picture of fulsome beauty! Rubens would agree, noting she was the fertile consummation of milk, sugar and cream. The way her breasts heaved as she gulped air between pumps of cream; the way her belly rested on her lap, folds cascading over the lip of the benchtop: it was a good thing I imagined her wearing her lingerie or I wouldn't have seen all of her. Still, had she been wearing something less revealing, I would have liked to see buttons strain or burst in protest at her heedless gluttony.

She seemed in this daydream to expand, growing wider and fatter with successive cans of cream, almost as if she was inflating herself. And other than the sounds of contentment coming from her, there was silence. I tried to wipe the counter from underneath her and remove the empty cans, my hands near-automatically replacing them and then filling tall glasses of milk, which she would similarly drain of their contents with glee. Magnetised by her mountainous girth and by the fact it was just the two of us, I find my hands are drawn to her lower belly. Placing my tea towel down, I reach for the plump folds, feel the warmth of the soft pink skin at my fingertips when . . . 

'Boy-o? Incoming!' Pa's head appears round my bedroom door, a small plate of biscuits in his hand. 'Friend not foe, this time at least.' 

My eyes fixate on the plate as I see Allison, Frozen Dreams, the whole scene, swirl and disappear into the ether.

'Ma had these waiting for you, on the kitchen table I mean. But you weren't hungry, you said, so, well, here ya are!' He crosses my bedroom and puts them on the table beside my bed. I say nothing but watch him catch my eyes. A smile forms at the corners of his mouth. 'Were you watching a comedy? If so, what's the punchline?' Regaining more composure from my little distraction, I find I am still smiling at the picture of Allison. 'Something to do with balloons,' I tell him. He laughs, a big, hearty laugh, then steals a custard cream for himself. 'I'll take this for sustenance, so you can keep thinking about those balloons of yours.' I feel somewhat relieved as he returns to the door, the sap having settled enough to spare my reverence if I had to get up, yet his parting comment leaves me wondering if he really didn't know what I was thinking about. 'You know it's a real pleasure to be with a woman who's not afraid to eat.' 

I long over this thought as I type into Google 'When did we all become so fat?' and notice, among various bodybuilding forum threads and scientific journals, a video site named 'Ample Ally' at the bottom of the results. Bingo.   

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  • 4 weeks later...

Part Five:

Safely up in my bedroom but for the passing noise of traffic on the street outside or periodic shriek from the pipes of the downstairs bathroom, I can trawl online uninterrupted. 

The woman in question, 'Ample Ally', is Allison the NHS nurse I know and serve at Frozen Dreams. No doubt about it. She looks bigger somehow though, more lumpen and doughy around the middle with a pleasing roll - a girdle, really - of creamy white flesh surrounding her waist as she sits, static, in the jpeg image on my tablet screen. I look twice at the image, study the burgundy-coloured lingerie she's wearing and the scant detail I can make out of the wooden chair she's sitting on. In the absence of any sound I imagine the chair creaking underneath her capacious arse, groaning more and more for dear life as she fattens herself up until one day, the chair collapses. How soft and warm and jiggly it must feel. . . I let the thought tantalise and amuse me while I feel the sap moving. . . No! Not so soon! Still, her larger frame online must have something to do with her having less clothing on, that much is obvious I suppose; but maybe it is because my eyes don't have to imagine what her body looks like underneath her daily, very attractive, wardrobe. What do they say about the camera adding ten pounds? In Allison's case, I'd plump for twenty-five. Intrigued to see what "Ample Ally Cat Gets the Cream" entails, I click on the play button icon over the jpeg. 

Without warning, the video booms into life. I instinctively flick the silent mode switch on and bury the tablet beneath my sheets as though someone might hear. Hearing nothing but the pipes downstairs again, I resume watching the video. 

'Hiya, guys. Ample Ally here, and welcome to ma website. Thought I'd start by showing ya all one of ma favourite pastimes - drinking cream straight from the container,' Allison runs her hands over the plastic tub lovingly. 'I do it often, more since the pandemic started, but well,' she laughs and caresses the girdle of flesh resting in her lap, 'I think ya'd probably be able to guess as much.' You pause the video, her plump double-chin perfectly accentuating her round face, ginger tresses falling over her forehead. This is amazing for a first video. I hit play again. 'Right, so, let's start shall we?' she giggles like she does at any one of my various jokes at Frozen Dreams as she pops the lid of the tub off. It falls to the floor with a plastic noise on linoleum. 'Ah, little sod,' she intones with an impish grin. 'Oof!' she exhales heavily as she tries to reach for the stray lid, failing the first time and needing to shift her fleshy body in a pendulous motion for momentum. 'One, two, three,' she groans with another deep breath and, eventually, she slips back against the wooden chairback, the lid in hand triumphantly. 'A good start, huh?' she lets fly a wave of booming laughter which causes her whole body to judder, the impressive rolls of flesh jiggling. She puts the lid on the small table beside her. 'Right. Take two.'

For the next eleven minutes I watch her drink pure double cream with pleasure. Occasionally she stops to catch some of the rich dairy that has formed at the corners of her greedy mouth, or spilled down her chins on to her breasts, the thick streaks of cream giving her burgundy lace bra a candy stripe pattern. As she does, she wipes the cream away with her open palm and looks down the barrel of the camera. It's almost as if she's watching me again at Frozen Dreams as I clean the counter. She licks the foil top of the next tub, her tongue expert at finding calories and she cradles the lower part of her belly, lifts it momentarily from her lap, revealing the faintest triangle of her burgundy undies. She blows out her cheeks. 'Oof! This is what I call heavy lifting,' she says with another fulsome laugh. And then she proceeds to drain the entire tub without pausing for breath; although by this one - her third tub - she does seem to be labouring breath decidedly more than with the first or second. I toy with the notion of her being this out of shape at St Catherine's hospital as she waddles about the ward in her ever-tightening PPE. 

The video rolls into the last minute with her sipping the final drip of cream. Red-faced and with quite some cream streaming down her breasts and over her belly, she slaps her dappled, powerful thigh (which jiggles) and mocks fanning herself with her open right hand. She studies the last tub with weary eyes brought on, presumably, by reaching her saturation point with the cream. 'Right, so, I've just downed 1335 calories, 5500 kilojoules, in a little over ten minutes. I'm,' now she pauses for breath, rolls her head back towards the chair, '. . . well, I'm impressed by my appetite.' She laughs resignedly and then quickly brings her hand up to her mouth. She burps, long and sonorously, then slumps back in the chair with a half-smile. 'I have to say, I am feeling mighty sick now. Might need to sleep some of this off.' She lifts herself gingerly and quite laboriously up from the chair and, on unsteady feet, totters towards the camera, her distended belly leading her. She burps again a few times and much like an upturned beetle, she reaches for the camera - eventually ending the recording. The static 'after' image is one of excess and a clear absence of lingerie, her cascading mounds of fat having all but concealed her lace undies. I think about watching it again, but instead walk gingerly myself across the landing to the bathroom, the sap nearly overflowing as I shut the door closed behind me. What dreams may come.  

More soon!

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  • 4 months later...

It's been a while. Apologies for the delay. Hope this satisfies some of your curiosity. 

Part Six: 

The sun rose with the morning, its lightly golden rays peaking in through the curtains as the last visions of Ample Ally danced in my head. Without opening my eyes for another few moments, I listened to the birdsong, joyful and sweet, be drowned out by the wheezing brakes of the bin lorry. 'Christ!' I sat bolt upright in bed. 'Did I remember to put the bins out?' 

After seeing the familiar toppled pair of bins lain in the gutter on the street outside, a crow circling the plastic and paper spoils of someone's KFC that must have been jammed in ours late last night, I pad my way downstairs. I shout 'Ma? Pa?' and hear no response. Feeling indulgent, I offer 'Anybody?' to the empty house and smile as I boil the kettle for the first brew of the day. I like being home alone on a sunny but cold morning. The things a young man can do. The things he can see. 

Over a plate of toast and jam I check my phone and read a text from Frankie. It states: 1/2 day at Frozen Dreams, starting at 11; remember to clean the espresso machine this time! And as I look over at the clock on the microwave, the vision of Allison wobbling in her burgundy undies, the mountainous rolls of soft, warm flesh, the cream dribbling down her chin on to her big breasts . . . I suddenly feel glad to be alone with a few hours to kill before work. As I look for my tablet I forget entirely about the mess of jam I've left over the kitchen table. And that is when the fun begins. 

As I watch the video "Ample Ally Cat Gets the Cream" again, I notice the lighter patches on her skin, the milky whiteness of her flabby upper arms and the array of freckles strewn across her chest and nose. Even though I have awareness enough to know what I am doing - watching a kink video - I appreciate these 'flaws' for what they are and, along with her booming laugh, how beautiful they make her appear.

I rewind and play the part where she closes her eyes and sighs as she downs the second tub, her plump cheeks coloured a soft pink by the process; and then I rewind it and pause the video at the exact moment she opens her eyes at looks down the camera. From the freeze frame in front me it is as if she is in this moment suspended in time, completely content. It is a greedy look, the same look she absentmindedly gives me on occasion at Frozen Dreams. When she pats her powerful thighs or runs a hand over her belly or through her healthy flowing hair in satisfaction with finishing her drink, her pale blue eyes unfocused and a pleasing stillness to her. In consequence, I imagine her clothes growing tighter in these moments.

I draw breath and shiver as a frisson courses through me one final, sensual time. It does not take much more of the video (I linger over the part where she softly moans and caresses the lower crest of her belly) before the sap overflows. After showering and while combing my hair, I hear my tablet ping. In the heat of the moment I must have accidentally subscribed to Ample Ally's clips page, because a notification pops up informing me 'A new video just dropped: Goddess Ally Desires Grapes'. In the attached jpeg, blurred behind one of those irritating 'click for more' buttons, I make out what looks like a chaise longue engulfed by a flesh-coloured figure, doubtless a bigger Allison. Inches above her pixelated lips is the unmistakeable V-shape of a bunch of green grapes. My thumb moves to press down on my tablet's screen, but, looking at the time - 10:34 - I pull back. 'No,' I intone to the bathroom mirror.

What an intriguing woman. 

More to come!

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