chapter 3

I slipped into the most sensual, alarming days I'd ever known. I didn't stuff myself, I simply ërelaxed' and gave in to my appetite. Michael bought me silky robes to wear, loose, flowing gowns that didn't restrict my body in any way. He also threw himself into culinary creativity with fresh gusto. He perused the sidewalk markets during his morning jog, and cruised the cooking channel in the afternoons, loading our table with lavish spreads, anything to tempt me into ëjust a wee bit more.'

And that was the alarming part ñhow easy it was. Those last few bites that were beyond hunger, that were simply luxurious enjoyment, came effortlessly to me, despite the sudden flares of guilt. I would hear my family harping in the back of my mind, and shrug them off with defiant pleasure.

Still, I avoided Brenda in those dreamy months, blocked her out of my mind whenever I could. She was my only sister and I loved her, but for years our relationship had been measured on barbed-wire rungs. My step up had always been my slender figure.

"It's not fair. We have the same genes," she'd pout, then cast me a feline glance. "It might catch up to you, eventually."

I was too much in love to look over my shoulder. The days were rapture and any meal could be an adventure. One morning I woke up and Michael was already back from his morning's run, damp and sweet from the shower, creating in the kitchen.

"Aren't they beautiful?" he said, showing me the golden stack of pancakes, butter melting in a rich stream down the side. "And look at this."

"Oh, Michael, not whipping cream," I protested.

"Don't you like it?"

"I love it."

His eyes took on a wicked, teasing glimmer. He scooped a fluffy white spoonful out of the bowl. "Well, just have one taste, then."

I walked over, clit already starting to throb, and opened my mouth. Creamy sweetness purred on my tongue. He had the next spoonful ready, and the next. I heard Michael's breath quicken, felt his free hand part the folds of my robe and reach between my thighs to stroke me through my panties. My nipples hardened against the slippery fabric, and I spread my legs wider, back arching to thrust the first rounding of my stomach forward.

His voice was hushed with lust. "Aye, Michael knows what you want."

So did I. Stepping back from him, I opened my robe with one hand. With the other I reached into the bowl on the table, three fingers scooping out a healthy dollop that I daubed on both my breasts. My fingers went into my mouth and I sucked them clean, like a greedy child. Michael's spoon clattered to the floor, and he fell on me in a frenzy of licking.

I was late for work that morning.

Michael came to the bank sometimes at noon, his earthy, auburn-haired good looks sending a titter through the tellers' stalls. More often, though, he sent lunch with me, leftovers from his previous night's extravaganza: gooey lasagna dripping with cheese; a generous serving of chicken tarragon. Eight women pecking at their miserable salads eyed those lunches with a mixture of astonishment, envy and needling triumph.

"Jane's certainly blooming in love," I overheard one say to another.

"Yes, and at the rate she's going, she'll bloom right out of her skirts."

Their laughter snapped me like a riding crop, a sting that quickly flared into heat. I felt radiantly sinful under their scrutiny, both ashamed and excited. Other people could hide their lusts but a woman gaining weight as quickly as I was, had no secrets. But what did it matter? I was happy, and so was Michael.

He was waiting at the end of every day, his frail, ratty work shirts smudged with rust clay, his eyes shining.

"Ah, you've got me in a trance, Janey girl. That old bastard from Birchwood gallery phoned today, wanting the whole edition of Springtime Revel?at fifty percent, not sixty. And I said yes. You'll be the ruin of me," he said, brushing the hair from my face to kiss me.

October, November, December. I was alert to my body as I'd never been before, aroused by the growing fullness of it. I felt it first in the tightening of my waistbands, an initial pulse of panic that eased into smoldering heat. As the pounds added to my hips, I could feel a difference in my walk, a saucy sway, the slow friction of my thighs rubbing together.

I was aware of my blossoming shape, but Michael was utterly enraptured with it. We would stand naked in his studio in front of a full-length mirror, his hard, lean male body a sharp contrast to my growing roundness. Sometimes he would trail his fingers reverently over the curves, sometimes he wanted to pinch or even gently spank the new plumpness, just to watch it ripple. By the time he leaned me over a red-dusted worktable, I was slick with desire and he was panting. In a dream of pleasure I stared at the mirror, watching that handsome man thrust against the full, quivering ass of the woman he was fattening.