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Chub-Love Shorts: Fat Tuesday
🕑 Added 2023-02-21 23:44:46 +0000 UTCYou’re overdoing it.
She’s breathing heavily, her eyes distant and unfocused as she watches the fire. Her thumb and forefinger squeeze the large sweet, marked by white fluff and small chocolate stains. Still, the fingers are as focused as her eyes, and she’d have dropped her assembled confection were it not held between her lovely, sugar-stained lips.
The girl before you could have been made from marble. Not because her figure is hard, in fact it’s quite the opposite, but in this snapshot in time she looks like a living art piece. Plump thighs pinched in teeny jean shorts, a muffintop tummy pudging beneath her dark tube top. Her eyes glitter like ocean jewels in the firelight, stealing your breath and halting your heartbeat.
The Birth of Venushas come to life, and she has moved into your place, and is now eating your cooking.
Well… if you can consider a mostly burnt s’more ‘cooking.’
Her hair has gotten longer. It’s falling just past her shoulders, tickling the exposed shoulders of her fair skin. You used to be able to see her collarbones.
You can’t anymore.
“Another?”
“Hmm?” she looks over to you, then starts. “Mmm! Mhmm!!”
Abruptly, she blinks, as if she hadn’t intended to agree but you’d caught her off guard and her belly spoke for her.
She looks down at her full fingers and sticky lips as you lift from your seat beside her, grabbing another marshmallow and your little cooking stick. When she resumes chewing it’s slower, more thoughtful, though clearly no less pleased than her first four treats had inspired.
Her hand goes to the side of her chair, lifting a small glass cup, a wineglass without its stem, and sips from the fruity alcohol to wash down the sticky bite.
When she finishes, she finally allows herself a soft, “Ahhhh…” of refreshment, then lifts her shoeless feet to rest by the fire. “What a wonderful night.”
“I’m glad it didn’t rain.”
“I told you it wouldn’t,” she grins, shimmying down so that her wiggly toes can reach closer to the pit.
While you snap the next graham cracker in two, you wonder if she’s really aware of it yet. Does she feel it on her legs, in her feet? You remember once reading an article that said that eight pounds was kind of like carrying the equivalent of a watermelon hanging onto you all the time.
But one quick glance as you tear open the next chocolate bar has you appreciate how many extra melons she wears on her waist…
It’s not that her breasts were small, but they weren’t bra busters. They were now… just as her belly had become a belt breaker.
You’re overdoing it. You’ve been feeding her too much, she’s gaining too quickly. What if she gets upset about outgrowing her clothing? You’ve seen what her thighs have done to her leggings, all the wear that’s caused from her legs constant rubbings.
What will you do if she gets upset?
What if she wants to eat healthier? What if she wants to lose weight?
You’ll support her of course. Just like you’re supporting her now, by double stacking the chocolates so the single s’more uses the whole chocolate bar, just like she had shown you earlier tonight.
You grab another marshmallow from the bag, squeezing the chubby confection before setting it onto your special stick.
If she wants to work out, you’ll help her. If she wants to eat fish or salmon or shrimp, you’ll learn to cook them and feed her those things.
A slight tap near your calf makes you turn to her. She strokes your leg with her foot, but she doesn’t say anything. She just smiles, her bright eyes lovely in the firelight. There’s chocolate on her fingers, marshmallow on her lips, and a smoldering hearth in her amorous eyes.
Whatever she wants, you’ll make sure that she has. And if she wants dessert, well… whatever she’d like.
“Burned, again?”
“Of course!”
You chuckle before lowering the marshmallow into the fire pit. It catches almost immediately, but you leave it in there, turning it over to make sure the fire spreads across the white surface.
“You know, it’s better if you do it properly. Let it cook right so that it’s an even golden brown.”
“Meh!” she shrugs, and the motion causes her pooching belly to lift and fall and her shirt rises up another slight inch. “That stuff takes too long. I like the crunchy texture, and I’d rather just eat it now.”
Maybe it’s just the alcohol, or maybe the fire feels warm on her stomach. Whatever it is, she doesn’t fix her shirt, and you’re allowed to look at her chubby belly button until you remember that you had been trying to say something.
Oh, right, the marshmallow.
You choose to relent the topic. Instant gratification has become her norm. You… haven’t really helped in that regard…
“How did you know it wouldn’t rain?” you ask.
She lifts a hand to her face, winking and flashing an adorable peace sign. “I could feel it in my gut!” she chirps through a snicker, her other hand patting her plump waist.
It’s enough to make your mind blue screen. The ring of an emergency broadcast plays in your ears as you helplessly blink at the adorable jiggle from her delighted display.
By the time your systems have finished rebooting, the sweet is done burning and you go back to the table to complete the assembly.
You’re just smushing the top cracker and chocolates onto the marshmallow when you hear something that makes you stop. Then, understanding, it makes your skin tingle.
She’s humming. You don’t know the song. You think you’ve heard the tune once or twice. It’s low, with long notes that hang onto the air, but hearing the luscious notes from her makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.
You watch her as she lightly rocks in the chair. Eyes closed, hands interlocked across the swell of her belly, her hair hanging over the back of the seat. She brushes one foot against the ankle of her other, the picture of spoiled relaxation.
Her cheeks blush from the food and the drink, or perhaps just from the joy of the moment. She looks comfortable, sweet, happy.
She looks fat.
It’s not just chubby. Not anymore. Her belly puffs in and out with each breath, pushing against the crevice created by her smothering thighs. You notice that her shorts have a tear in the seam, one which neither of you heard, but it’s a horizontal gap that gives you a glimpse of her pink flesh and red underwear.
You go to her and she turns up to you, grinning. You offer the treat, but she doesn’t lift a finger.
Instead, she opens her mouth, and you feed it to her.
When she bites down, you feel the vibration as her teeth shear through each of the crackers and the four slabs of chocolate. You feel her lips touch your fingers. The burned marshmallow crackles as she closes her teeth and pulls away, sighing in glutted pleasure.
If she cares about the mess of white tendrils which trail between the treat and her mouth, she doesn’t show it. She’s chewing through a fatty’s smile of delicious satisfaction.
“Mmmgggh,” she groans, and crumb fall from her lips. “Poor-feckt.”
And then she goes for the next bite.
No words pass between you. She doesn’t even sit forwards, just sits back with her belly puffing out of her shirt like the marshmallow does of the tightly held s’more.
You try to keep your hand from shaking. You’re not sure if you’re succeeding.
Judging by the teasing smirk that fills her sticky lips before she goes for the last bite, you’re clearly not.
The last mouthful is the biggest, but she takes you by the wrist and guides your hand in. You feel as her tongue laps at the melting chocolate before it playfully pokes at one of your fingers.
When her mouth closes, she leaves your hand with a kiss. But she doesn’t let go.
Her blush brightens and she gives your arm a soft tug that feels as commanding as the tide.
She guides you down and, with her mouth still full and hopelessly sticky, she kisses you. You kiss her back, leaning into her chubbiness and letting one hand lower to touch at her naked stomach.
She feels just like the marshmallow, but so much more warm, and tender, and no less delicious.
Her hand touches your neck, tugging you deeper into the kiss. She tilts her head, opens her mouth, and kisses again. Then again, and again, with you following her lead.
You wouldn’t have believed that any noise could affect you so deeply, but the moans of her kiss have your heart racing. It’s as if you can feel the vibrations through the jiggles in her stomach, and it’s making you worried.
But your hand doesn’t care. It grabs a handful of her belly and squishes it, and your fat girlfriend trembles against your delectable kiss.
She lifts her other arm, plucking at your shirt while you play with her gut.
You’re overdoing it.
But she is too.
