chapter 2

She comes out of the changing room, hair still damp, skin glowing from the shower,. She's wearing a tight white button-up. The material strains around her breasts. There are rolls under her shoulder blades. The buttons look as though they're about to pop. Her belly and love handles spill over the top of her tight jeans. She licks her lips.

'Let's eat.'

They go to Rocco's, a tiny Italian joint in the neighbourhood. Rocco is owner, chef and waiter. As they enter, she notices that his eyes acknowledge her, but linger over her friend, looking her up, and down, and up, and down again.

'You're looking healthy', he says.

'I'm hungry'. she says.

He gives her menus. She says 'you order for me'.

'Are you sure?'

'Order for me'.

She looks her in the eye, and waits.

'One green salad'...

She's deflated for a moment..

'That's for me. And one large plate of linguine Alfredo'.

She relaxes..

"And a bottle of Sicilian red wine."

The food comes. She pours two large glasses of wine. She watches her friend as she twirls her fork in the heaped plate of creamy pasta, lifts it to her soft lips, follows the forkful with a swig of wine. Remembers just two months ago when she'd toy with a salad for an hour, and refuse any alcohol at all. Wonders what changed and why. But she looks happy. Happy and relaxed.

She's a little drunk and she doesn't mind it at all. She scoops up the last of the savoury, creamy, extravangant sauce and wonders why she's denied herself this for so long. Her jeans start to feel constraining and she snaps open the button. She feels relief as her belly pushes out into her lap. Absent-mindedly, she runs her fingers under her soft, sensitive underbelly. She thinks to herself, maybe I could even come, just like this..

Rocco appears, silently. She doesn't notice him for a moment. Did he spot what she was doing, under the table? If so, he doesn't give anything away.

'Any dessert, ladies?'

'She'll have tiramisu.'

'It's family-size made to share.'

'I might try some.'

She's full already, but the wine has gone to her head, and she's game.

The dessert arrives, a huge thick wedge of mascarpone, cake and liqueur.

'All yours.'. Her friend grins.

She takes spoonful after spoonful. As each sweet mouthful passed her lips, she imagines it settling on her thighs, on her belly, on her breasts, on her arms, right then, in that moment.

She scrapes the last of the dessert off the plate. She licks the plate.

'So good. You should've tried it'

Rocco reappears.

"Anything else? Coffee? Liqueurs?'

'Another tiramisu, please.'

'Another?'

R occo does a double take.

'She's still hungry'

She sees Rocco taking in her cream-stained lips, her hot cheeks, her empty wine-glass, the empty plate - and the way the buttons on her shirt are straining over the belly spilling into her lap.

She looks at her friend. Her friend looks at her. She decides -

'Yes. Another. I'm still hungry.'

Rocco brings another massive wedge of creamy dessert. As he retreats to the other side of the room she realises he can't take his eyes off her.

She takes the first spoonful. Honestly, she's really full. Her stomach already tight, distended, like a drum, under the soft layer of new fat. But she looks her friend in the eye. She can do this. All of it.

She watches her, looking her straight in the eye, as the takes spoonful after spoonful. She'd noticed her casually unbutton her jeans, when she thought she wasn't looking. Now there's white skin showing through the gaps between the buttons in her shirt where it strains over her belly. She licks the cream off her lips. She looks decadent, defiant, as she takes the last spoonful.

'Now you're going to have to roll me out of here..'.

She staggers to her feel, pulls on her jacket. She looks down, and she can't see her feet. She feels heavy, woozy, compliant. Her belly seems to stick out several inches in front of her. She tries to suck it in, but no joy. She makes an attempt to buckle her jeans, but nothing doing. She'll just have to walk home like this.

Outside the restaurant, it's clear she's quite drunk. She giggles.

'Two family-size tiramisu. You'll never match that. Never.'.

For a moment, she imagines herself, matching that. She imagines what it might feel like to be fifty pounds heavier, with a soft belly, and breasts, and thick thighs. Then her friend trips on a paving stone, grasps at her hand.

'I'm so drunk.' she giggles. 'And so fucking fat I can't stand up'

She puts her arm round her to steady her. She feels the soft love handles, she smells her friend's sweet scent, and she can't hold herself back any longer. She pushes her into a doorway. Before she can speak, she clamps her mouth over hers. She tastes the cream and wine on her lips. She runs her hands over her plump, doughy ass, she feels that soft, protruding stomach pressing against her hard abs...

She stumbles, her friend steadies her with a hand to her side - and then suddenly, she finds herself up against a wall, her friends tongue searching for hers, hands all over enquiring, exploring, manipulating, owning. This is what she wanted. She feels her soft belly up against her hard stomach, she imagines enveloping her with her thickening thighs. And suddenly, at last, at least for a moment, she isn't hungry any more...