This is a long story which will be posted in several submissions.
Chapter One - Prologue
Eric hadn’t seen Colette in three long months, not since he dropped her off at the beginning of June to catch her flight to Paris. They had been living together for three years, starting when she was a student at Barnard and he was in getting my masters in architecture. After identifying as a dancer all of the way through college, Colette had finally come to the conclusion that she was not going to make it in ballet. Her attentions had turned to culinary arts and she had spent the year after college taking courses at the Culinary Institute. She left for Paris on a traveling fellowship that she had been awarded at graduation to fulfill her dream of gaining first hand experience with French and Italian pastries.
Eric got to the airport in time to park and position himself where Colette would see him when she was coming through customs. He could see her smile all of the way across the terminal. While they had kept in touch with e-mails, he was excited to finally be able to see her again.
Almost daily, she would update him about her travels and experiences. Her elegant descriptions of the croissants that she had at breakfast, the profiterole she had at lunch, the biegnet she enjoyed in the afternoon, the tarts she savored at dinner, and the Madeleine she had saved for a treat before going to sleep made him think that she had a future with Bon Appetit, if things didn’t work out with her becoming a pastry chef. She could go into beautiful detail about the flakiness of the crust of a brioche, the balanced sweetness of a pain au chocolat with the filling oozing from its buttery shell, or the crunchy outside and chewy inside of macarons that she had discovered during the day. She elevated her investigation of how eclairs varied from patissereie to patissereie to an art form, puzzling about whether experiments with rum-flavored custards could be preferable to the classic standard.
When she reached Florence, her focus changed to cannolis, with descriptions of various cream fillings in the perfect crunchy shell, to boconnotti being the perfect bite sized mouthful, and to la sfogliatella, which were so light when served hot that they were to die for. Her enjoyment of the pastries that were small enough to be consumed in the plural didn’t interfere, though, with her study of various rum cakes. Despite that they were intended to serve several people, Colette found herself finishing one each evening, as she relaxed in her pensione taking notes and keeping a journal of what she had discovered during the day.
Although her study was focused on pastries, her e-mails also included detailed descriptions of fabulous meals that she had in Paris, Florence, and everywhere in between. In Italy, she wondered if her real interest was even going to be baked goods in the end, since she had become fascinated with the different pastas and sauces. She had written that she felt she could make a lifetime out of studying the intricacies of balancing the tart acids of tomatoes with a combination of rich cheeses in a perfect manicotti; and then, the challenge of figuring out how spinach manicotti compares to chicken cacciatore manicotti compares to a manicotti made with prosciuto.
By the time she was on her way back to Paris for her flight home, she had become obsessed with comparing pot au feu with cassoulet as the perfect provincial food. Each little town had its own character for the dish and she was intrigued by the subtle nuance that a chef could achieve with a delicate touch. She also decided that foie gras was wonderful, if she could ignore the process of gavage, by which the duck or goose was force fed. When she discovered combining the foie gras with a pastry shell, she realized that all of her culinary interests could be engaged by creating the perfect pastry containing pate de foie gras and bacon. She wrote Eric that she would end up feeling so stuffed with the rich food that she empathized with the goose, deciding in the end that, if you were a goose, there couldn’t be a better way to go than effectively being fed to death.
In her last e-mail, before boarding the plane, Colette wrote to Eric that she had figured out how to bring him home a sampling of her eating escapade. Since he knew that she would not be allowed to bring baked goods or other foods through customs, he wondered what her gift would be.
As Colette wound her way closer to the customs counter, Eric started to get an idea of what she was "bringing". Although she had not mentioned it, he had wondered how she would maintain her lean, dancer’s figure, as she ate her way back and forth between Paris and Florence. When she finally was in the last part of the line, with no one in the line blocking his view, he could see that she was bringing him the results of 90 days of her efforts to make the most of every minute of her culinary experience.
Colette finally made her way through and Eric hurried over to help with her bags. The first thing he noticed, after the great big smile that let him know she was glad that he was there to pick her up, was that the jeans she was wearing were struggling to do their job. When she had left, those jeans would have hung loose on her hips, being one size larger than she normally wore. Now, they were as tight as could be without giving up the seams. There was something odd about the way that they were fastened, but it would be hard to confirm that they were even buttoned, since the full muffin top that she had developed rolled over the waistband in the front.
She was wearing a t-shirt top that she would have been swimming in when she left, but that was now stretched across her belly, inching up to reveal a band of ballooning paunch. Eric and Colette hugged and kissed and rocked together. With his arms wrapped around her, it was easy to document the difference in her circumference. His hands on her back felt how the bra that she was wearing cut deep into her back fat, forming a generous bulge both above and below the strap. When she finally leaned back so Eric could see her face, the softness around her jaw and the beginnings of a cute double chin were apparent.
Colette could sense that Eric was taking inventory on the changes to her body and her expression changed to one of being a bit sheepish. "You may notice that I gained a bit of weight," she said, nursing a smile. He hugged her in close again and calmed any concerns, saying, "I think you look great. I am so glad you are home. I missed you."
When she left, at 5'-8" and 130, she was lean and lithe; a bit tall for a dancer, and with long legs that emphasized her slimness. Assuming that she hadn’t been anywhere near a scale during her trip, Eric figured that there was no reason to risk increasing her anxiety by asking her how much weight she had gained. But, judging from her roundness and the way that everything looked thicker, he guessed that she must have added at least 40 pounds in that short time, if not more. Thinking it through, his first thought was that such a rate of gain sounded almost impossible. It would be gaining a pound roughly every two days. But then, doing some quick calculations, assuming 3,500 calories was an extra pound and remembering the long list of treats that she had reported consuming in a single day, he realized that it could be even more.
Eric grabbed Colette’s bags and they headed towards the car. As she was walking along, he noticed that her gait had changed and that she was no longer carrying herself like a ballerina. Before heading to Europe, there was a tautness to her stride and the way her body moved. Now there was a jiggle in her belly, a bounce in her breasts, and a wiggle in her ass as her hips swayed back and forth. Although he was trying keep his eyes on her eyes when they were talking, Eric knew that his gaze kept dropping to watch her body in motion. This was obvious to Collete.
"I know that this outfit is tight enough to be ludicrous, but these are the loosest clothes I have with me," she explained. "I am going to have to go shopping in the morning."
"Don’t worry about it. They’re just a bit snug," Eric replied in an effort to play down any concern.
"Well, the way you are looking at my tits and ass, I feel that I may have moved from ludicrous to lewd," she joked. "I guess you were serious when you used to say that you wouldn’t mind if I added some curves."
Eric smiled and tried to keep his eyes on her face, but he was having trouble. As she walked, each step was a rhythm of ripples that, if set to music, would have been a syncopated jazz score, instead of the classical ballet music that she once had danced to. Following behind her, as they walked through the doors to the street, he was entranced by the fullness of the ring of flesh above her pants, and how it bounced with each step. The roll formed by her belly continued as a projection over her hips, finally forming generous love handles above her still well formed, although much larger, rear. If forced to describe her though, instead using the word "fat", Eric would have said that she had more of an appearance of having been inflated. He imagined that, if she were to scrape against something sharp, she would ooze a kind of cream filling or sugar syrup. Or maybe foie gras.
The body that she had for 23 years was still clearly there. She had just added a layer over it. The extra weight appeared to all be on the outside of her core, as though it was between the real her and her skin. As they walked along, she told him about her trip, people she had met, places she had gone, and things that she had seen. "What about meals that you have eaten," Eric teased.
"You’ve been reading my e-mails. You know that I have expanded my experience with food dramatically. You had to expect that I would have put on a pound or two," she answered, sounding a little bit defensive.
"Of course," he responded, "I was just joking. So you put on a few pounds. You know I always thought you were too skinny."
"But, do you think I am too chubby now?" she asked.
"Too chubby for what?" Eric countered.
"For you. You know what I mean. Are you disappointed? Does it bother you that I may have gained a little weight?" she continued.
"Not at all. I am so glad you are home. I think you look great. I am just making fun of your clothes being so tight," he answered.
"I have to admit I was a bit worried," she said softly looking down and cradling her gut, "I am sure that a lot of it will simply fall off, since the excursion has ended. But I do have to admit that I kind of like not feeling like a stick. The men in Italy actually seemed to pay more attention to me with each extra pound."
"I am looking forward to paying more attention to you, too," Eric exclaimed, "I want to do a bit of exploring myself. It is all new terrain. It’s my turn to take a trip through new lands."
They reached the car and Eric put the bags in the back. Before getting in the car, they hugged again and he continued his exploration with their lips locked, while his hands found her love handles. Eric made a mental note that these could prove very useful later. He opened the door for her and she got in, and then walked around and got in the driver’s side. Sitting next to her, he noticed that her rounded form was even more dramatic when she was sitting. Her belly was a distinctly rounded ball filling her lap with her breasts propped proudly above. If the added weight challenged her previous pertness, the combination of thicker thighs and pronounced belly seemed to be helping her breasts defy the effects of gravity.
Feeling a bit awkward, but unable to prevent himself from taking a risk, Eric turned towards Colette and, smiling, asked, "If it is not too weird a question, I am wondering, are your pants actually fastened?"
She laughed and hefted her gut so that he could see that they were zipped, but that the button had been replaced by a couple of safety pins linked, struggling to hold the two sides together. "The button popped off this morning as I was getting ready go," she explained. "This was the only thing that I could do, since none of my other pants were a possibility, and I didn’t want to wear my sweats. They look like a second skin. The embarrassing thing was I set off the metal detector at the airport and had to show the officer that it was the safety pins holding my pants closed."
Eric reached over and started to caress her belly, which he was surprised felt very pliable and soft. Although she looked inflated, her skin was supple with a kind of gelatinous feel, almost like a water balloon. Clearly bloated from the steady stream of extra calories that she had consumed, her skin had give and was not taut. As he massaged her belly, he started feeling the response growing in his pants. Eric could tell that this was turning her on, as well, and she shifted position to create some room between her thighs and gut. It felt great to be able to touch her and he started looking forward to getting her home so that we could make up for lost time.
Eric started the car and turned back to her, asking with a grin, "Are you thinking what I am thinking?"
Colette smiled and answered with enthusiasm, "I sure am. Let’s go eat. I am starving. I haven’t had anything since the plane, and you know how skimpy those meals are."
While that was not what had been on Eric’s mind, he smiled, as Colette reached across herself to fasten her seat belt, adjusting the strap so it could find its way over her belly, but not squish her breasts. "So, the adventure continues," he thought to himself.
Eric pulled out of the parking space and they headed to her favorite steak house. He figured maybe it was time for her to rediscover American cuisine. He also toyed for a moment with the idea of picking up some things on our way home. Doesn’t America have the best ice cream? Did he have ice cream in the freezer? Eric took a deep breath and made a mental note that he should take it easy. He figured that might not be the right time for him to display his inner secrets.
Chapter Two - Her Voice
Getting ready for the flight in the morning when I was returning from Europe, I realized that I had done some serious damage to the body that I had spent my whole life training to be a dancer; that is until I had left New York in June for a three month field trip to get a first hand understanding of my new passion. I was worried about the kind of a reaction that I was going to get from Eric. As my boyfriend of three years, Eric had always known me to a fanatic about my weight and body. He was aware that I had transitioned from perceiving myself as a dancer with professional aspirations to just being a dancer for fun, but I had never let that difference affect how I maintained my body.
While I had always loved being a dancer, the fact was clear by the time that I was graduating from Barnard that I was never going to make it with a serious dance corp. Sure, it was fun performing with amateur groups and I had always enjoyed the rigors of being a dancer, but people who haven’t danced ballet seriously have no idea of how demanding it is physically. But I had loved it. Still, it was clear in college that I would have to find something else that I could pour myself into. I am kind of an obsessive person, but in a good way. At least I hope so.
During my senior year in college, although I was graduating with a major in environmental science, I knew that I wanted to do something more creative. I had always liked to cook, which of course was weird, since I was always totally disciplined in what I would let myself eat, but had never really learned how. I could make the occasional special dinner for my boyfriend over a long weekend at home, but trying to do anything in the kitchen where I lived at school was simply not realistic. I had enjoyed helping in the kitchen growing up and both my parents were good cooks, but it was becoming friends with a couple who were opening a restaurant that got me hooked on the idea of becoming a chef.
I was aware that wanting to be a creative chef seemed at odds with aspiring to have a body fat ratio of less than 15% and only tolerating 20%, but I was convinced that I would be able to separate the idea of eating from the idea of cooking. I had noticed that many chefs seemed to wear their work, but I also knew some very thin chefs. There was a sensuous component to creating food that seemed to almost be similar to the sensuous component of dance. Both seemed to benefit from the illusion that the result was effortless, with the real art being concealing the complexity. Ballet dancers who looked like they were straining were about as attractive to watch as a chef who seemed overwhelmed with cooking.
After graduating, I enrolled in the Culinary Institute of America and quickly discovered that my favorite was baking complicated desserts; pastries in particular. I was awarded a traveling fellowship from the Institute and was able to talk my parents into a graduation present to help me pay for a summer trip to Europe. Like dance, the only way to learn how to cook is to do it, and the only way to get better at it is to see how the masters do it. My summer was a foray into the world of the great pastry chefs. I figured that, by watching talented chefs work and seeing what they create, I would be able to elevate my own skills.
I know this sounds dumb, but I actually thought that my experience would be observation and evaluation based on what I heard and what I saw. The first chef I visited in Paris explained that there is just no way to learn about subtle taste other than by eating. I knew it would be a tough job, but somebody had to do it. Okay, maybe not so tough. And certainly delicious. But I am a disciplined person and I was confident that I would be able to control this and keep it scientific. A bite here and a sample there would suffice.
During my travels, I kept a careful record of everything that I got to taste. I wrote down every meal and tried to figure out the seasonings, flavorings, and details about how each dish was created. With the fact that I was a student at the CIA, I was able to get friendly with many of the chefs and a few invited me into their kitchens to watch them up close.
My enthusiasm for learning encouraged them to show off and I figured that I learned what would normally take years in just the three months of the summer. Each night, I wrote down what I had learned and the intricacies or special tricks that I had been shown. Watching something being made by a master chef and then being able to taste the food gave me a complete understanding of the sensuousness of the art. Again like dance, good cooking has to operate on several levels simultaneously, and I discovered that it was the sensuous qualities of texture and taste that had the most to do with making something special.
Don’t get me wrong. I took this experience totally seriously and I really did learn a lot, but it was as visceral as it was intellectual. Within the first week, I figured out that tasting a small piece of something was seldom sufficient to really understand it. Before I knew it, I was no longer tasting. I was eating; a lot.
As the days turned into weeks and the first month became the second month turned into the third month, the "record" of what I had tasted documented itself in another way. Slowly at first, and then at an accelerating rate, as I became more "experienced", my body kept a careful accounting of every calorie consumed. By the end of the first month, I figure I had gained maybe 10 pounds. Since I was in great shape when I started, the extra 10 pounds had little consequence. Maybe a bit more here and a bit more there, but not really noticeable. But I found my capacity increasing as each week passed. In the beginning, the richness of the desserts made it difficult for me to finish a full serving of something. After a week or so, that was no longer a problem.
During the second month, my rate of gain increased, as it was not only easy for me to finish any serving put in front of me, but I was also able to try a second serving of something slightly different so that I could compare. By the end of the second month, I had probably added another 15 pounds, which were harder to conceal and started to change my shape.
The third month had me conditioned to handle multiple servings and still be willing to try something else. I found myself not really feeling full unless I had consumed an obscene quantity, although my focus always remained on the quality of what I was eating. These were not fast food pounds finding their way to my belly. I was enjoying some of the best food in Europe and starting to realize that my time there was winding down.
Soon the thought that my escapade would be coming to an end gave me an enthusiasm for trying one more sampling of this followed by maybe a serving of that, only to pave the way for the next dish. I was running out of time and I still had a lot that I wanted to experience while I still could. While I was also seeing the sites and the cities, everything was structured around the bakeries, restaurants, and bistros that I just had to visit.
In the last week, the list of places that I had to try required me to ignore the structure of three meals a day, which I had already been punctuating with samplings of mid-morning, mid-afternoon, and late evening snacks. In the last week, I found myself having to arrange for six meals a day just to get close to completing the list that I had brought, which was a compilation of the recommendations from my teachers at the CIA. I would have an early breakfast and then a late breakfast, followed by an early lunch and a late lunch, followed by an early dinner and then a late dinner. I amazed even myself by still being able to hit a couple of patisseries that were rumored to have the best cream puff or maybe an unusual bichon au citron.
I had no accurate way to really gauge how fat I was getting, since I had no interest in finding a scale. My only indication was how my clothes were fitting, or I guess no longer fitting. I figured that whatever I gained in the first two months I outdid in the third month. My boyfriend Eric was always hinting that I could gain a few pounds, although my guess that he was hoping that more of the weight would go into my breasts than my belly. My ass and legs were bigger. Everything was bigger. Maybe it was my imagination, but even my feet seemed fatter. What surprised me was that this didn’t freak me out. I was actually enjoying the feel of the extra weight and had discovered that playing with my belly could be part of pleasuring myself.
Luckily, I have always preferred loose clothes, so there was room to grow in what I brought with me. I even brought a pair of pants that were a size 10, even though I was a size 8 when I left. I had thought that I might gain a few pounds and, as I said, I preferred loose clothes. Buying any new clothes while I was traveling was not in my budget, and the money I had was focused on my culinary expedition. It was during the last three week that getting dressed started to become a challenge. The last week was very difficult, since it was only the one pair of pants that I could even consider putting on. Nothing had really fit for a while, but by then it had simply becoming impossible to pour myself into any of my outfits, except those pants. Even tricks like lying down on the bed to get my pants buttoned weren’t working well.
By the last day, even the one pair of pants proved difficult to get into, let alone fasten. After struggling lying down, sucking in and pulling hard, I had finally gotten the button through the hole and the zipper up, but, as I got ready to leave for the airport, leaning to pick up my bags, the button on my pants gave its last gasp. I had nothing else to wear and so was forced to cobble together a couple of safety pins to hold my pants closed. This was effective, since it actually gave my pants a couple of extra inches in the waist. Still, they felt painted on and the waist cut deep into my gut. I was no longer able to stuff the extra flesh down in my pants and had to find that place under the bulge of my belly where my pants had a chance. I tried to pick a shirt that would hang down to conceal the roll that puffed out over the top of my pants, but my largest "T" kept riding up on my gut. There was nothing else I could do except keep pulling it down.
Now, with the experience coming to the end, I had to plan on re-entry to the real world. Most specifically, I needed to prepare myself to the readjustment of having something else to do besides traveling to eat. I was starting to worry about how Eric would react to my changed body, but there was not much I could do about that now. It was time to get back to New York.
A quick reminder of the extra weight was when I boarded the plane. I could also tell that the gain was truly significant when I was buckling my seat belt. I don’t think I had ever thought about how small the seats on planes were. It felt like the seats had shrunk, but I knew that it was me that had changed. I found myself thinking that I was glad that I still needed to tighten the belt, and how much do people eat, who need an extension belt.
Realizing how quickly I was expanding during the last week - the image of dough proofing in a warm kitchen crossed my mind, I figured that one more week and maybe I wouldn’t fit in the seat. Hell, maybe one more week and the plane wouldn’t have been able to lift off. I knew that I was exaggerating, but everything is relative. Strapped in and being propelled towards New York and Eric, I felt like everything was beyond my control and whatever was going to happen was going to happen. There was nothing that I could do about it then.
My thought that it would be a good idea not to eat on the plane lasted all of the way until they started serving dinner. By then, in what had become an unusual three hours without a meal, I was starving. Watching how quickly I cleaned my tray, the nice old lady sitting next to me offered me her entree. She explained that she didn’t like to eat while she was traveling. That reminded me that I, too, had never eaten a meal on a plane before. I realized that all was lost, or maybe gained, when I gladly accepted her offer and polished off her dinner as well.
After the plane landed, I made my way to where we had to go through customs. As I entered the hall, I saw Eric and gave him my biggest smile. I thought maybe, at that distance, a big smile would keep his attention above the shoulders. I felt myself breaking into an anxiety sweat. What if he reacted really badly to my burgeoning body? Suddenly, I started feeling wedged in my ridiculously tight clothes. Why hadn’t I broken down and bought something that concealed all of this undulating flesh. I tried to pull my shirt down. I tried to hold my gut in. I tried to do something to control the way that my body seemed to be moving on its own. I was a dancer. I was thin. What the hell had I done to my body.
When I finally got to Eric, I was giving my smile everything that I could. "Look up here, Eric. Keep your eyes up here. Don’t look down, or if you do, stop at my tits." I was shouting in my brain. It didn’t work. Eric couldn’t take his eyes off my belly. He seemed transfixed. But he also seemed really glad to see me and when he took me in his arms, it was not with revulsion. If anything, he seemed to be squeezing me tighter than ever before. Or maybe it was just that hugging me now required more of an effort.
Although I figured it was the last thing in the world that I should be thinking about, as we made our way to the car, I realized that I was starving again. Eric was so wonderful that he read my mind and suggested as soon we were leaving that we go for dinner. I rationalized that, in reality, my consumption had plummeted sharply on this day of travel. In the time that it had taken me the day before to finish five of six meals, I had only had one breakfast and a meal on the plane. Well, two meals, but they were very small compared to what I had become accustomed. Of course, I was starving, who wouldn’t be. Of course, we should go for dinner. And of course, this extra weight was going to simply fall off of me, now that I was no longer learning by example. I would start taking some dance classes. I would be back to my former form in no time. But first, dinner. I was starving.
Chapter Three - His Voice
I pulled up to the entry of the restaurant and suggested that Colette hop out, and I would park the car. "Eric, your sport coat, can I borrow it? The way I am dressed, I think this may go over better, if I have something over this outfit," Colette asked. "Sure," I replied, grabbing the jacket from the back seat and handing it to her.
After parking, I met Colette back in the entry and we were led to our table. We sat down and both ordered a beer. "Did you sample the French and Italian beers on your trip?" I asked.
"No. Most of the time it was cappuccinos or café au lait at the patisseries," she answered. "I did try various wines, but I didn’t want anything that was going to affect my palette," she continued. "It was difficult enough to sense out the seasonings and ingredients."
"I guess the French and Italians are not really known for their beers, anyway. They make some that are interesting, but its not as if you were in Germany or the Netherlands. Actually, I think the place that would be interesting to sample beers would be in the Czech Republic, anyway," I said.
Colette laughed, "Maybe next time, but that would have to be your trip, not mine. Besides, I wouldn’t want to get a beer belly." She punctuated this last comment with a smile and a long pull on her beer.
"No, you wouldn’t want that," I answered, trying to figure out if she was joking. Even in my jacket, her belly was pronounced. Her roundness when seated could easily be confused with her being maybe six months pregnant. Without the jacket, the jelly roll and love handles gave it away as more likely the result of her dedicated commitment to European desserts.
While I was still trying to get used to the way she looked, I had to admit that I was getting more and more enthusiastic about when I would get the chance to get up close and personal. I have always appreciated fuller figures and actually felt that it was unfortunate that I was a white bread white guy. I have always enjoyed watching music videos with J-Lo, Beyonce, and others who presented their "jelly" without apology. The whole idea of "booty" intrigued me. In the past, I had encouraged Colette to relax about her dance regimen with the hope that she would add some Beyonce "jelly" to her totally toned hips, ass, and thighs.
Colette had always had nice breasts, which she actually complained about, since they disturbed her "line" when dancing ballet. She used to wear a super tight sports bra to squish herself tight when she danced. The size and shape of her breasts had clearly changed with her weight gain and I was eager to feel them in my hands. Actually, I was eager to feel all of her against my body and started thinking about what it would be like with her on top. I started resenting that our first stop was a restaurant instead of our apartment.
The waitress came and we ordered. I asked for my regular, the porterhouse. I expected Colette to order her regular, the filet minion, but she surprised me. "I’ll have the same, and can I get that with the steak fries and with a side of onion rings, please," she ordered. "Oh, and can I get a Caesar salad? Thanks," she continued.
We started talking about what I had been doing while she was away. I made it clear that, without her around, things had been all work and pretty boring. That made her smile. "Well, I am back and ready to make things fun again," she promised.
The waiter brought over a basket of garlic bread and Colette snagged a piece as soon as the basket hit the table. We continued talking about what I had been doing and what she had been doing, with the intersection being we were both glad to be together again. I suggested that trials, such as her being away for three months, are a kind of test to a relationship. There are two alternatives: either "Out of site, out of mind," or "Absence makes the heart grow founder." We were both enjoying that it was apparent that the separation had resulted in the second, not the first for either of us.
"With everything that you were doing, I was worried that you didn’t have much time to think about me," I admitted.
"Hey, I thought about you all of the time. Didn’t I e-mail you every day and give you a complete history of every detail?" she asked.
"Yes, you did, and I appreciated every e-mail. It’s just that you seemed so consumed with your research that it didn’t seem like you had much time to think about anything else," I commented.
"I was consumed. That was why I was there and I wanted to make the most out of it," she explained, "but that didn’t mean that you weren’t in my thoughts. Still, I admit that I was glad that I was traveling alone so that I could concentrate on what I was doing. If you had been along, we would have been looking at buildings and seeing sites. All I wanted to do was my research on pastry. I guess I was consumed with consuming."
"When you were trying things, was it just a bite of this and a bite of that, or how did you do it," I asked.
"Are you kidding? First, it wasn’t easy. Sometimes I needed to have several pieces of the same thing, just to figure out how it had been made. I tried to hit some of the bakeries in the off hours so that I could talk with the chef or people working there. Usually, by the time that I had eaten three pieces of one pastry, they believed what I told them I was doing, and they got very generous with their information and samples," she explained. "In a couple of places, I got to be real friends with the people and they let me come into the kitchens to watch them work up close. There was one pastry chef at Pierre Herme’s in Paris who I got friendly with. He probably makes the best macaroons in the world. You wouldn’t believe how many I got to eat, just sampling all of the different types that he made. The white truffle hazelnut macaroons were amazing. So rich, but so good," she went on.
I swear that she started to drool as she was telling the story. As soon as she said that I wouldn’t believe how many she had eaten, I thought of mentioning that I had a pretty good idea that it was a lot, judging from her transformation, but I stopped myself. I was worried that she would take it negatively.
Colette reached for her third piece of garlic bread right before they brought her the salad. I had never thought much about the way that she had eaten before her trip, but now I was aware that she had a real enthusiasm for everything that she was putting in her mouth. It was like her taste buds had been energized and each bite released another sensation.
We continued talking as we ate dinner and I was impressed with the way that she managed to simply keep eating until every plate in front of her was completely clean, except for the bone from the steak. Maybe it was the conversation that kept her focus, but she didn’t seem aware of how much she had and how quickly she had eaten it. The porterhouse portions at this place are huge. I had to give up with enough steak still on my plate to ask for a doggie bag. Sensing that I was finished, Colette leaned forward and asked, "You’re not going to finish that?" and quickly switched plates before I could even finish suggesting that she could have it. I watched in amazement as she quickly finished the rest of my steak, too.
Realizing how this looked, Colette looked a little embarrassed and tried to offer an explanation, "Remember, I have been traveling all day and kind of missed a few meals." I just smiled and said that I was glad that she was enjoying herself.
The bus boy cleared the table and the waiter showed up with the dessert menu. Wanting to make sure that she didn’t feel awkward, I encouraged her to find something that she would like. Encouraged, she looked over the menu, exclaiming that there were a couple of things that sounded really good, and totally different from what she had been enjoying in Europe. "I am having a tough time deciding between the molten chocolate lava cake with sugar coated raspberries and the brownie ala mode. They describe the brownie as ‘intoxicating’," she said, licking her lips.
"Let’s just get one of each and share," I offered, although I was so full, I doubted that I would be doing much damage on either.
The waiter asked if we wanted fresh whipped cream on the brownie, and Colette answered, "Yes! With the ice cream, too. Right?" The waiter smiled and said, "Of course." Then he explained that there is a wait on the lava cake and suggested that he bring the brownie first. We agreed that made sense.
Probably sensing which of us was most excited by the dessert, the waiter set the brownie in front of Colette. I actually did get two spoonfuls before it was gone. The waiter then brought the lava cake and I swear it looked like Colette was turned on just by the sight of it. It was huge, gooey and looked like a sin of chocolate. He set it down in front of Colette, who sat back in awe. I could tell that she was feeling full. She had to be. I noticed that she had a few beads of sweat on her forehead. From the exertion of eating? "Do you want to take the first bite?" she asked.
"Why? Are you getting too full?" I countered.
"No. Not at all. I think my capacity may have increased a bit on my trip," she explained meekly with a smile.
"You think?" I asked her, laughing.
She looked at me, with an expression combining slight irritation and maybe worry. "What are you suggesting?" She asked.
I smiled and reached over to take her hands in mine. "I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just agreeing with you. Before you left for Europe, you would never have been able to handle half of the meal you just finished. I’ve read the e-mails. I know that you have been eating a lot for most of the summer, and I’m just saying that you have definitely increased the amount of food that you can consume in one sitting. And I am not suggesting that there is anything wrong with that." I looked into her eyes and reinforced that I was there with her and had no problem with the fact that she had just devoured twice the amount of food that I could eat.
"I am glad that you are home and I think you look great, including being a bit softer around the edges. Actually, I think you look great because you are softer around the edges and around the middle and everywhere in between. You had a great adventure that helped you learn what you need to know to be a real chef and the only way that you could learn some of those lessons was by actually eating the food. Who trusts a skinny chef?" I asked.
"I know you are stuffed, but you should really try some of that lava cake. It looks great," I suggested.
She looked down for a moment and then raised her face up to mine with a big smile. "Who said I was stuffed?" she asked.
Now it was my turn to feel defensive. "I just thought that maybe you were full and feeling overwhelmed by that dessert sitting in front of you. I know I can’t think of taking another bite." I explained.
"Oh, silly boy, there is a big difference between being full and not being able to eat another bite," she said with a gleam in her eyes. "I may be full, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do some damage to this mountain of chocolate delight. If you want some, better get it now."
I told her that it was all hers and she went to work slowly, but steadily, putting her spoon down only when there was nothing left. It was clear that she loved it and I almost expected her to pick up the plate and lick it clean. "Okay. Now I am finished," she announced, sitting back and covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a burp. She then put her hands on either side of her belly, as if trying to calculate what this meal may have added to its girth. "That’s it. My journey is complete. I am home again and my amazing gastronomical adventure has come to an end. I don’t expect to be hungry for quite some time. Tomorrow, I return to the real world," she said with authority, as if making this statement made it true.
We sat for a little while to let what she had ingested settle. I have to admit that I was feeling pretty full, too. We talked about our plans for the next couple of days and when we would be heading out to see her family in the Hamptons over Labor Day weekend.
"I have a bunch of things that I have to get done," she said. "I need to get some new clothes, since I can’t get into most of what I have, and what I can get into doesn’t really fit me right now. I don’t need a lot, since I will be back to my old self soon. I am signing up for some dance classes, and I have to admit that, as much as I have enjoyed these weeks of eating, I am not going to mind losing the feeling that I am carrying a food baby in my belly.
"I was thinking that you look like you’re several months along," I joked.
"Very funny. And how could that be? I haven’t had sex since our last time in June," she questioned me.
"I know we haven’t made love in all that time, but no sex?" I asked. "The way that you just finished that cake looked, your expression was one that I am familiar with. It looked like sex to me. I can just imagine what it must have been like in Europe."
"At least, not with anyone else," she added. "As I said, it’s a food baby," she laughed, patting her tummy for emphasis.
I had paid the check and we got up to leave. I took Colette’s hand to help her up. She took hold and actually pulled on me, which almost pulled me down, instead of her up. I laughed and braced myself to help her up. She actually seemed a bit unstable on her feet, as though she needed to recalibrate her balance.
We made our way out to the car and I kept my hand on her arm to steady her. She took off my jacket, as I opened the car door for her. She started to bend down to get in when suddenly the back seam of her jeans split wide open. She turned around quickly and kind of plopped herself down into the seat. She looked up to me and was biting her lip. Even in the dark, I could tell that her face was turning red. "Hey, were on our way home, baby. Don’t worry about it. Those pants are old. I am sure that the stitching was just worn."
I got into the car and gave her a big smile. She turned to me and said, "Oh, Eric, I just split my jeans!" It sounded like she was going to cry.
I soothed her and said, "Look at the bright side: you made it safely home intact. Better here in the car instead of on the plane or in the restaurant. Right?"
"What am I going to do?" she asked. "I feel like I have been in some fantasy and just woke up to find out that I wasn’t dreaming.
"Well, first, let’s go home. You take a long bath, and then we get a good night’s sleep," I said calmly.
She took a deep breath, blew it out and then reached under her belly to remove the safety pins. Seeing her do this out of the corner of my eye, as I was driving, I said, "Careful you don’t stick yourself."
She laughed and imitated a balloon flying around in the car. I laughed, too, glad that she wasn’t losing her sense of humor.
With her pants opened up so there was more room for her belly, she adjusted the back of the seat so that she was almost laying down. She closed her eyes and relaxed on the drive home. I noticed that she was massaging the sides of her belly, my guess to loosen its tightness from the meal and help her digestion.
After the performance that I had just witnessed, I decided that there was no need to stop at the store to pick up anything. I wasn’t sure how Colette would interpret my buying anything else for her to eat at that point. So far, everything that Colette had eaten was her decision. I hadn’t really encouraged or discouraged her. There were several different thoughts going through my mind and I felt the need to sort them out, before becoming anything but a observer .
We finally got home and I helped her into the apartment, before I went back out to get her bags. Colette said she was going to take a shower and then a long soak in the tub. She complained that the showers in Europe are all water savers with no force. She said it would feel good again to feel the real pressure from the shower in our pre-war apartment.
I came back up to the apartment and gave her time in the tub. Finally, after about 30 minutes, I knocked on the door. "Come in," she called to me. She had the candles lit and the lights off, soaking in the tub with the music on low. I sat down on the edge of the tub and told her to lean forward so that I could loofa her back. As she sat up, I could see the fullness of her breasts and belly. Gone were the abs that had been apparent before she left. Her collar bones were no longer pronounced. They were there, but now obscured under a thick layer of the softest chub I had ever seen. I noticed that even her upper arms looked plump. I rubbed her back, shoulders and neck.
"So, what do you think," she asked.
"About what?" I was being evasive and she knew it.
"Okay, let’s get to the here and now. You are looking at me now without any clothes on for the first time after I have completely changed my body. I was almost skinny, with clearly articulated muscles when I left, and I don’t look like that anymore. What do you think? I would like to know," she asked. "Don’t make me wait. It’s starting to make me nervous."
"Well, first, remember I told you that I always thought that you should gain some weight. So, can’t we just leave it that you have fulfilled my wish?" I proposed.
Colette laughed softly, "I think what you had in mind was me putting on about 10 pounds so that my tits and ass would look more like Beyonce’s. I think I passed Beyonce quite a ways back."
She sat back into the tub and I did notice that she now filled it pretty well. "Do you actually know how much you gained?" I asked.
"No, and I am not getting on a scale right now. Maybe in the morning, but I am not even sure of that. Somehow, until I weigh myself, I can maintain some level of self-denial," she explained.
"But maybe you really haven’t gained that much," I suggested. "If you weigh yourself, maybe you will be surprised."
She stood up to get out of the tub and I realized, now seeing her in her full splendor, that there would not be any surprise of a low number on the scale. No matter what she would actually weigh, it was not going to be "less". I noticed that her cunny was almost hidden by the combination of belly drop and thigh expansion. It seemed like she was holding water, as if she had soaked up water from the tub and could now simply squeeze herself out, like a sponge.
"There’s no rush. No need to check the scale," I confirmed.
She wrapped herself in a towel and chuckled, "Don’t think I am ready to see the truth, huh? Well, you’re right. Tomorrow is soon enough. Hmm, so what is there to do now? Think you might want to take this for a ride" she asked with a sexy little grin, squeezing the thick role of her lower belly.
There were thoughts flashing through my mind. Some things that maybe I had hinted at in the past, but not ever having really admitted to Colette or anyone else. I considered for a moment making a comment that could tip off my real feelings about her fatter body, but I worried that it would break the mood, and, yes, more than anything else, I wanted to make love to her right then. If Colette had any doubts about my answer to her question, all she needed to do is check my cock. I was doing my best to keep calm and laid back, letting the evening continue without a sense of urgency.
I took her hand and led her to the bed. I rubbed her with the towel and then massaged her back, starting at her neck and working my way down over generous wings of chub and her love handles to her ass, and then down each leg. Boy, was she ever fatter. And it felt real good. I worked softly in through the jellied flesh to feel the bones that once had been evident at her hips, but that were now concealed under the bulge of flesh. It was almost like I had to remap where things were.
She rolled over onto her back and I went down on her. I noticed right a way that I needed to find a new position. Her belly, perhaps because of that dinner, left no room for my head, which put my neck in an uncomfortable position. I shifted around so that we were almost perpendicular to each other. This way, I was able to lay my cheek against the bulge of her belly and approach her with my tongue from above. In this position, I was able to reach under her thigh with one hand and work her from below and caress her body with my other hand, at the same time I was stroking her with my tongue and nibbling on her "lips" with my lips. This worked great and in a few minutes I could feel the heat building in her body. She broke out in a thin, sweet sweat and started rocking her hips up and down, while she played with her own breasts. Finally, she crescendoed into a series of bucks and moans that left her laying limp on the bed afterwards.
"My God, that felt great," she said. "It feels like it has been forever."
After she had caught her breath, I swung around on top of her and slowly lowered myself into her. She felt completely different from that last time we had made love, which I was not expecting at all. But instead of being a discouragement, I suddenly felt myself completely overwhelmed with the feeling of pushing into her fat. There was contact everywhere and everything I held onto or touched or pushed up against felt great. Suddenly, and way before I intended, I came in an explosion that caused me actually to lose the perception of color for a moment. Not since I was in high school had the need to cum so overwhelmed me.
"So now what do you think?" she asked.
All I could do to answer was a kind of deep, animal, guttural moan. We lay there for a few minutes with our sweat swimming together. As soon as I started thinking again, my thoughts turned to what I had just experienced and I found myself ready to go again. This time, I was more in control and we experimented with a number of positions. Again, everything was different. Her center of gravity had shifted and, while she really wasn’t as athletic has she had been in the way that she could move her body, it didn’t matter. Her body was able to move all by itself, without her having to even use her muscles. It kind of felt like I was swimming in her.
Finally, I rolled onto my back and she mounted on top of me. Feeling her big belly pushing down on me, her thick thighs encasing me, and being able to play with the erect nipples on her full, bouncy tits was overwhelming. She was clearly having as much fun as I was and got into a rhythm that had her entire body rocking. I grabbed her ass and pulled her as hard into me as I could and she came, which was just too much for me, causing me to cum with her. That was something that had previously been difficult for us to coordinate. Now it felt like we were completely in sync.
We both collapsed, and I got to sense her real heft as she lay immobile on top of me like dead weight. While I loved the feeling, I finally had to roll her off of me so that I could catch my breath. "That gave me a sense of what you think of the chubby me," she mumbled into the pillow, sounding very confident.
There were thoughts again going through my mind, but again I figured this would not be the time for true confessions. Yes, Colette had gained a lot of weight and was actually teetering between definitions of chubby and fat, but I still wasn’t comfortable letting deep secrets loose. Besides, I was exhausted and decided that, if and when I would out my inner feelings, I would need her complete attention and some time to explain myself, if that was even possible.
I worried that admitting that she was fulfilling some fantasy for me would be difficult for her to understand. Guys are supposed to want thin girlfriends, right? Guys are supposed to want girls with small waists and long, lean legs. Just read Cosmo or look at Playboy. Guys may accept a fat girlfriend, because she "has a great personality", but they don’t want their girlfriend to get fat. Right? I had always known that there was probably something wrong with me, because I felt exactly the opposite. My fantasy was about my girlfriend getting fat, and here I was laying in bed with my newly fat girlfriend. If I didn’t figure that she was too exhausted, being next to my fantasy had me ready to go again.
We snuggled into one another, until we had both drifted off into the deepest sleep.
To be continued...