Sandra's just dessert

chapter 4

Spending twelve months eating as much as a college frat boy will do things to a body. Every limb, each angle a torso can show, the familiar features of a face all become swaddled in doughy fat. Constantly guzzling beer and fried food only increases the cravings, and with them the capacity to eat more. A dazed state of body and mind reduces any planned exercise program or self-starting change to impotent, flaky intentions. Everything gets bigger.


Spending twelve months being pampered without expense will do things to a personality. Steadily getting heavier and fatter, and somehow more complacent--taking more and more for granted as you fill more and more space. The feeling of already soft fat becoming delicate and gelatinous from weeks of indolence and so much dessert. Sweet things always at hands reach. Comfort is a constant and patience is at a minimum. You just can’t help yourself.


Spending twelve months being enabled to the point of fantasy will do things to a mind. Confusion and doubt are nearly impossible where constant certainty abides. Implicit bonds of trust that lie at the base of relationships become insulated and almost forgotten as normality warps and shifts imperceptibly. When things start to fall apart, where do you go? Believing what we want to is a dangerous game.

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Sandra was sitting across from Devyn; between the two of them the entire table was covered with food-dappled plates. The reach of a fat arm, or a series of gulping swallows punctuate the clattering sound of chopsticks scraping against plates and loud slurping. As she opened wide for the sauce-drenched eggroll in her hand, Sandra’s tongue was already leaving her mouth to receive the fried parcel of seasoned pork and vegetables. A deep moan met the whole eggroll at the top of Sandra’s throat. She chewed and sighed cheerfully, satisfied with a mouthful of food, as she sat back in the confined space of the bench seat. Her ass took up much of the booth, fading the black of her leggings to a soft tan-and-grey color wherever it still covered her. As she looked across the spread at her feasting friend, and then back to the table to find her next morsel, Sandra furtively tugged her graphic t-shirt down her back in a vain attempt to cover the top of her ass shelf. This inevitably resulted in the shirt riding up her tummy, but she didn’t mind as much for that.


Fatty bulges and folds of Sandra oozed and jiggled through every available gap or hole in her outfit. Even the fit-bit Mike had bought her mostly did its job in showing how chunky her wrists had become. She swallowed, and her eyes landed on the pile of deep mahogany barbecue chicken. She licked the gloss of soy-sauce and grease from her lips as she reached for her glass. A long and noisy slurp at the end of her cup preceded Sandra’s leaning forward to reach at the chicken platter on the far side of the table. As she squished back against her seat with the small tray of smoked and glazed meat in hand, the flabby extent of her body took a moment to settle. Sandra loved days out like this; spending hours gliding through the burgeoning downtown’s bougie restaurants, bars, and cafe’s on Mike’s credit with a gluttonous friend really helped Sandra to feel like she was breaking-up the monotony of her endless confinement in the lap of luxury at Mike’s apartment. The only problem was the matter of her wardrobe. Sandra’s body had swollen to exceed the limit of all the clothes she brought to Mike’s, and her beau was not as generous with clothing as he was with food. The flittering embarrassment of having to constantly mind the coverage of her clothes to avoid exposing her excessively jiggling body rarely stopped Sandra from these sorts of routine indulgences, but more and more she found she couldn’t avoid spilling out of everything in her closet. Every once in a while, Sandra would buy clothes from her mother’s “emergency and necessities” fund, but there was only so much she could do; these days she was just growing so fast that she had trouble keeping a wardrobe to match the necessity of her appetite.


Devyn had started to slow, but each member of the pair knew they had at least an hour of eating left on the plates that scattered across the table. Slowly but surely, the camaraderie turned from codependent gluttony to pleasant conversation.


“Ufhh. Could you finish this for me, San? I don’t know if I--hic--got anything left.” Devyn had scooted a plate full of gyoza toward Sandra, the savory brown and red sauce coming to a rest in the bowl next to the fried dough parcels. She then continued through her massive half-bowl of pan fried beef and onion noodles. Sandra accepted the dish and scooted them onto the exposed half of her plate of barbecue chicken.


“Thanks hon--” Sandra said somewhat patronizingly as she stuffed her face with more fried rice from the bowl on her side. *I can’t believe she’s getting full already.* “--we’re still planning to go to Fryer Tuck’s after this right? You know what a sweet-tooth I have.” Sandra laid a hand on her meaty pile of belly and absentmindedly gave it a gentle wobbly pat. Devyn’s eyes widened and rolled in an exacerbated sigh. The competitive retort stuck in her mouth as she stared agape at Sandra using both hands to bring food to her mouth. She would no sooner begin chewing one thing when the other hand was on its way to bring some new handful of calories to her mouth--sending the newly empty hand on and on to a partly full mouth and a rapidly emptying table.


Devyn shook herself from the spectacle. Before she could remember what she was going to say, she blurted out “Okay, what the hell is going on with you?” she leaned in conspiratorially “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me or if you even realize how many people are staring at you right now. Are you even listening to me!?” At that point, Sandra locked eyes with Devyn and shot a self-satisfied smirk across the table. “Mike can’t get enough of me.” Sandra’s soft cheek rounded as her smile opened to let more food in. “*GULP* So why should they?” Sandra said as she popped the last gyoza into her mouth; carefree and haughty. “Besides, why can’t it be both?”


A series of light groaning pops were nearly drowned out by Sandra’s loud call for a nearby server’s attention. She had ordered a pint of the dumpling soup to go and another family order of crab rangoon to finish out the meal before they left. She let out a languid “yoo-hoo” and waved a chubby hand. She never waited long. Sandra turned to Devyn and said, “You don’t mind driving, do you? I *really* want one of those Irish Cream Car-bombs.” She had already turned to the server and all but assumed the answer was affirmative. This kind of behavior had been the intended goal of their friendship--at least as Mike had arranged it--but there was something about it that had begun to rub Devyn the wrong way. Devyn smiled and murmured to herself that it was fine, that Sandra shouldn’t worry about it; but the subtle eye-contact she had made with the server gave Devyn the moment she needed to draw her attention. “Make sure there’s plenty of bomb in that drink--hear me?” The server silently confirmed and went-off to deliver the order.


“Oh, San, don’t forget to take your meds before you get your drink. You need a hand getting up?” Devyn said with an air of sympathy. Sandra loved being a little high when she drank alcohol, and Devyn knew she’d be able to coax Sandra into moving her lard bloated body out of the bench for something like this. After Devyn had helped Sandra dislodge herself from the booth seat--a process Devyn had taken an increasingly sadistic pleasure in watching--the cause and result of the popping sound was on full display. Sandra’s leggings had nearly split down the middle seam, and Devyn knew they wouldn’t last. She had a choice to make. She could tell Sandra. That would be the friendly and professional thing to do. On the other hand, some clever resituating could cause a real scene for Sandra. *Would that shake her out of this?* Her authentic care for this woman who was irreverently destroying her body with fat and sugar was only a whisper at this point. Devyn didn’t want Sandra to stop getting fatter, but Devin knew that something about Sandra had changed on the inside. *If she were embarrassed…would she see it?* These thoughts, too, were dampened by Sandra’s raven locs swaying to and fro above a wildly undulating muffin top, fighting against the thin tight line of waistband holding the tide of ass inside, bouncing in a pugnacious lock-step jiggle. Sandra’s trip to the bathroom to do drugs was quick and painless--she took a moment to appreciate herself in the mirror, and her eyes fell to the sun-kissed roll of belly fat that hung between her leggings and the hem of her shirt. She threw a pose, and gave the flab a pinch while smiling to herself in the mirror. *A girl needs a little weight on her these days. Boys like softness.* She opened her purse, pulled out her vintage cigarette case and grabbed a few small pale tablets and swallowed them down. She turned one final time in the mirror, and gave her expansive ass a pat with her fat hand, and left.


Before Sandra was back at the table, the food sat steaming. Her cold drink, adjacent. Devyn had caught the server again, and had finished whispering something to her just as Sandra returned to her confining seat. She sucked down the drink and made short work of the twelve fried pockets of cream cheese mixture. Sandra paid, and the two made their way to Fryer Tuck’s.