Chapter 3 - winning the wager

Again, vanity gets in the way, and you try to suck in your gut. Oh, you poor plumpened man!

"Pull up your shirt, so I can see your belly better," I say.

"Oh, forget it." You start to sit down.

"You embarrassed?" This gets you riled. You stand back up, trying again to suck in your obvious gut.

"Well, to tell you the truth, I am embarrassed. A little. My wife has been on me lately about gaining weight. I don't think I've gained that much. It's just kind of a sore subject with me right now."

"Oh, Wifey wants you to eat healthy and go to the gym, huh?"

You grunt and start to sit. "Stand back up there, mister," I say in a mock-command tone. "And pull up your shirt." With a resigned expression, you obey. You always do. You may act like you are in charge, but I know better.

I have you quite literally eating out of the palm of my hand. Besides, you still want to get into my bed tonight, and you know from experience that listening to me will help you get laid -- and laid wonderfully.

I can see now just how perfectly plump and round your belly has gotten. You didn't used to have a belly, but now.... mmmmm, it's beautiful. All that new flesh looks so soft and pale, a rounded globular belly with love handles setting up shop on each side.

"Turn around," I say, and I watch as you slowly turn around, as my eyes drink in the wonders of your plumpness. I see around the back that you are starting to "muffintop" - an especially nice view in those tight dress slacks.

"Seen enough?"

"For now."

You pull your shirt back down and start to tuck it in, then realize that doing so will require you to unbutton your pants because there is not a paper's width of space between your soft flesh and those slacks.

You sit back down with your shirttail hanging out.

"Okay, here's the bet, I'll give you 20 pounds."

"What?"

&quo t;You look pretty chunky there to me, porky, so I will give you up to 180 pounds. 180 or less, you win. More than 180, I win."

"No way I'm that big!" You smile confidently. "What's the wager?"

"If you are more than 180, you eat this entire pan of lasagna all by yourself," I announce. I use my hands like measuring tools, indicating the size of the pan - 10 inches by 17 inches.

"And less than 180?"

"I'll eat you up," say with my deepest sexiest throaty voice. "Every drop."

I know how much you love me to suck you into paradise. You can't resist this - just like you can't resist me.

"You're on," you say quickly.

I go to the bathroom and return with my digital scales.

"Okay, hop on."

You take your shoes off first, perhaps a bit uncertain if you have made a wise decision.

"What's it say?" you ask looking straight ahead.

"Just 165," I announce, then giggle as you look down, peering past your little food gut.

"Really?" You sound elated but also disbelieving.

"No, I was just joking. 188.5 pounds."

"Wow!" You are in shock. "I'm almost 200," you say to yourself absently.

"Yeah, and you might get there if you keep making bets like this," I say, pushing you back into your chair and pulling the lasagna up in front of you.

"Eat up, Chubs."

"I can't eat all that. If I do, I won't be much fun later in bed, Natasha."

"Oooh, really? Cause if you can eat all that, you won't be able to move in bed. And then I'm going to eat all of you, every slurpyslurp drop," I say, reaching under the table and grabbing between your legs.

You smile, then look at the pan of lasagna.

"Well, I guess I've already made a pretty big dent in it. I'll try, but it will be a sacrifice."

"I'll make it all worth it," I reply, putting a fork in your hand and leaning back to watch the show. I lick my lips and take a sip of wine.

You have no idea how many sacrifices you will be making this weekend.

(To be continued?)

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(NOTE to readers: I have worked on this and consider it a work in progress. Let me know what you think so far and where you would like to see this story go)