chapter 4

I was woken one afternoon by a phone call.

"Where have you been?" Brenda demanded. "You don't return my messages."

"Oh, you know. Busy. In love." My face flushed hot and cold at the sound of her voice, an abrupt U-turn into my old life. Just that week I'd hit the thirty-pound goal I'd promised Michael, maybe even passed it.

"Well, it's almost Christmas. We have to get together." Excitement bubbled under the words. "Oh, I can't wait. Jane, I lost twenty-five pounds."

I said that was wonderful. I said I would check with Michael about the visit, and call her. I hung up the phone, told my supervisor I was ill, went home and self-destructed.

Poor Michael. He sat on the couch looking bewildered, a tourist who'd found himself in a foreign country without knowing the language, customs or currency.

I paced, distraught. "I can't see her. I'll make up some excuse. I'll go on a diet. She can't see me like this. Oh, Michael. How can I phone her back tonight?"

"We'll do whatever you want, Jane, but..."

"But what?"

"I thought you were happy."

His wounded hazel eyes caused me even more pain, yet I couldn't stop. "I was?I am. Except I feel so fat and ugly." I burst into tears.

He stood to comfort me, but there was something grave, even stern in his voice. "You can't talk that way about the woman I love."

I was so upset I kept babbling stupidly, that he couldn't possibly love this cow...

"Enough." Now he was angry. "I want you to see something."

He led me, still sniffling, into the studio. From a darkened corner, he lifted out a two-foot figure draped by a piece of dirty burlap, and set it on the table. When he gently peeled away the rag, I was speechless.

She was a little goddess in red clay, with generous, sloping curves, heavy breasts and round belly fully apparent under the Greek gown she wore. Her finger was in her rosebud mouth, and she sucked it with an ethereal, absent-minded bliss, as if she'd just finished a succulent meal. Or whipping cream. She was a Renaissance beauty, blatantly sensual?and she was me, or as I would be in thirty more pounds.

"It was meant to be for Christmas," Michael said.

I threw my arms around him, hugged and kissed him until he was laughing. "Oh, please, let's have a cry more often."

I had other plans. "Go make dinner," I whispered into his ear. "I'll tell you where I want it."

Michael raised his eyebrow, intrigued.

I dressed in the bedroom while he cooked. More than once Michael had begged me to put on some of my old outfits, saucy things from my club-tart years, but I'd never had the nerve, knowing how I'd pour out of them. Now I squeezed into a little black leather bustier that laced up the front?although it didn't anymore, the ties straining over the expanse of skin, my breasts bulging over the top like scoops of pink ice cream. Squirming into the matching skirt, I managed to get the zipper halfway up. A soft roll swelled over the waistband and my thighs were pressed tightly together, every leather seam tugged taut. With fresh lipstick and my hair pulled up into a tiny bun, I looked like Gretel, grown up and gone very, very bad.

I slipped past the kitchen and into the living room, quietly sliding open the fancy metal cage of the freight elevator. I locked it from the inside, my pussy already purring.

"In here, Michael," I called. He almost dropped the plates when he saw me.

I was clutching two elegant bars, my breasts touching the scrollwork. He managed to squeeze one of his large hands through an opening to stroke me, his eyes riveted.

"Do you think these britches are ready to burst?" I asked with a smile.

"Oh, ye beautiful minx," he gasped. "I'm mad for it."

"Dinner first. I don't think you'll get the plate through. You'll have to feed me."

And he did, one morsel at a time, his hands trembling, cock straining so hungrily he had to strip down to his shorts. I sucked his fingers and he moaned. I leaned forward and he dropped to his knees, licking the soft flesh of my belly between the bars. My sex was swimming, my erect clit pulsing with power and desire. I felt like a goddess, laughing at old demons.

"Michael, this skirt is a little tight. Would you unzip me?"

He thrust his hand eagerly into the enclosure. The zipper made a gorgeous sound, like fabric ripping. I sighed with relief as I wriggled the skirt off.

"And the top, too."

He plucked clumsily at the laces of my bustier, and my breasts surged forward into his waiting grasp. He fondled and squeezed their heavy softness with one hand, the other helplessly rubbing his rock-hard rod.

"Please, lass, I'm going to toss off... I can't stop myself."

I unlocked the door and strode out, into his arms. In the tumble of our silky bed I rode him like a Celtic horse, over and under, hard flesh and soft, sweet, violent fucking that made me cry out in joyful completeness.

Afterwards we held each other in the half-light, tucked in perfectly together, our skin still glowing with the warmth of a single creature. The night spread out around me like a calm pool.

"I think I can phone Brenda now," I said. "I may even invite her for dinner."

"Aye," Michael said dreamily, "but not for dessert."