The big bellied dancer

chapter 4

Within half an hour, I was under the hot lights of the main stage. I could feel a million eyes on me, people wondering what someone my size was doing in a place like Hedon. Yet I didn’t feel like I didn’t belong, or like I wasn’t welcome. No, I felt more like a diamond in the rough being sized up by a crowd of jewelers.

Thankfully, I wasn’t alone. Madame Carly had paired me with one of the Hedon veteran performers: Fat Irma. She was a massive woman with a low-hanging belly that stretched nearly to her knees. Even with the pounding club music, her gasping breaths seemed to echo through the room as she slowly waddled on fat-swollen feet to the stage. She could barely squeeze up the wide steps, turning sideways and gripping the railing to shuffle up the three short steps. It clearly took a lot of effort, but the crowd was lapping it up. More Hedon staff were following her in case she needed assistance, but she finally reached the main stage by herself. She took her seats next to a long table filled with cupcakes, and paused to catch her breath while watching the eager crowd.

“I’m getting too fat for all of this,” she finally joked, firmly cementing the crowd into the palm of her hand. “Who’s ready to see this fat girl eat some dessert tonight?”

At her question, the crowd erupted into applause, and bills started getting thrown onto the stage. I couldn’t help but be amazed. All she had to do was eat? That felt way too easy. If I’d known I could sit on a stage and stuff cheeseburgers or pizza into my tummy for an audience, I never would have taken the time to become a pole dancer.

I watched from the side as Fat Irma worked the crowd a little more, then invited me forward and introduced me. The audience cheered, once again cementing the idea that they viewed me as someone with potential. It was a good feeling, especially compared to my time at Emerald City.

Then, the real show began. The first thing I had to do was give Fat Irma a big insulin shot before she could eat. I’d been clued in on it beforehand, but it was one thing to be told this was part of the show, and another to dial up an insulin pen and jab it into the massive waves of flesh in Irma’s middle. I had a whisper of a thought wondering if this would be my fate, too, but I couldn’t focus on that right now. First, I needed to impress Hedon and get asked back.

Fat Irma guided the show, instructing me first to feed her dainty little bites that led into huge, messy ones. All the while she worked the audience, commenting on how fat she’d been getting, her struggles with being nearly immobile, how good the food was, and how she still wanted to grow bigger.

“I shouldn’t really be eating like this,” she finally said when she’d eaten through most of the cakes. Only a couple remained. She was breathing heavily, her massive belly bloated firm and quivering with every labored inhale. She went on to talk about her various medical history, while I made a show of smearing icing on her mouth like lipstick and making her eat more. She let out a massive belch, and the crowd cheered like crazy. Her breathing was growing more and more labored. Her mic was picking up every huff and puff.

“I just can’t help eating,” she continued between messy mouthfuls. “I want more, more, MORE!” Her entire body quivered as she bounced in her seats, making them creak. My general stage directions were to keep feeding her, but I decided to go off-script. This was my chance. I knew it was a major risk that could either make or break me, but I decided to take initiative and go for it.

Painfully slowly, I brought the next messy bite just out of Fat Irma’s reach. As she leaned forward to bite into it, I popped the sugary-sweet cake past my own lips instead. It was just an ordinary cake from the store, but it felt decadent all the same. I closed my eyes for the moment, putting on a show as I savored the bliss. I wasn’t mic'd, so I had to use my body language to convey my pleasure. When I opened them again, Fat Irma was grinning.

“Oh, it seems our newbie wants a taste, doesn’t she? Sit on my lap, sweetling.” She reached behind her to pull the remaining cake within reach. I did as she said. Rolls of warm, sticky fat enveloped me like I was sitting on an old, overstuffed couch. I could barely even balance on Fat Irma’s slip of a lap; her round, heavy belly kept trying to push me off. Fat Irma joked about it before putting a heavy arm around me to keep me in place.

She reached for the cake again, this time grabbing a messy handful.

“Open wide,” she purred to the delight of the crowd. My heart practically in my throat, I did as the gentle dom asked. She pressed the big blob of cake and icing past my lips, making my cheeks bulge to contain it all. Messily, I did my best to chew and swallow. My eyes watered. My heart was jack hammering in my chest. What was I doing? Part of me was shocked at my own behavior, but the other part, the part that was in the moment, was thrilled. Excited. Maybe even turned on.

Before I could fully clear my throat, Fat Irma put another huge bite into my mouth. I had to keep eating to keep up with her demands, even though my stomach was quickly bloating up inside my cheap corset. I regretted not wearing something more scandalous that would show my gut to the crowd. If I was going to get bloated up until I looked nine months pregnant with a food baby, I at least should have been able to show it.

More cake was pressed down my throat. I paused to burp, nearly choking on cake crumbs in the process since Fat Irma was barely giving me time to chew and swallow. I had no idea how we were doing on time.

“I’m so full,” I finally groaned, flopping a hand onto my stomach for the crowd. They were loving this. Fat Irma had been teasing them - teasing me - this entire time, joking about how tiny my stomach was and how she was going to be such a corrupt influence on me. She promised that one day I’d be as ‘flabulous’ as her.

Seeing my discomfort, she had me stand up and made a show out of getting me out of the corset. My pasty-taped chest was open to the crowd like at the end of a night of stripping, but not a single one of them was looking at my tits. No, it was my softly bloated cake belly that held their attention. I had to consciously relax my stomach muscles from sucking in. They didn’t want to see skinny here.

“What do you think?” Fat Irma purred for the crowd, rubbing her icing-crusted hands up and down my sides to flaunt my middle even more. “Should we make her a big, fat butterball?”

The crowd went wild. There was more money on the stage than I’d ever received in a night of dancing. My stage partner pulled me back, having me straddle a heavy knee and face the crowd while she systematically pushed the rest of the cake into my mouth. Crumbs trailed down my chest and belly, icing dabs quivered on my cheeks. I felt like I was going to explode, my breath as labored as Irma’s and my belly round and huge.

I swallowed the final bite, and the final dollars were thrown on the stage. A curtain came down to separate us from the audience, and stagehands swept up the money with push brooms. I got up, although I was reluctant to move. I felt sloshy and overly full, ready to just go home and take a nap. Fat Irma shut off her mic and pulled it from the strap of her enormous and bedazzled bra.

“You’re not mad, right? I know I should have checked first,” I said, wincing. A lot of performers were jealous of the limelight and didn’t like what could be seen as upstaging. Fat Irma just chuckled and grinned at me.

“Honey, do you see the piles of money we just made? That’s what talks here. No, I ain’t mad. But on the other hand…” Her tone switched from friendly to all business. “This better not have been a one-off. Especially when you have so much to gain here.”

My jaw dropped. “You want to do this again?”

Irma’s gaze returned to my belly. I only just noticed Madame Carly crossing the stage toward us as Irma said, “I meant what I said in the show. I want you getting fat.”

My heart skipped a beat as reality came crashing down. Getting fat? I felt like I was the rope in a game of tug of war. On one side, the “real” world - men like Mr. Sykes and, hell, even Jason - were trying to fit me in a toned and hourglassed box. On the other, there was Hedon. Did I want to commit?

“Iris, that was incredible! You’re a natural,” Carly interrupted, stepping between us and squeezing my arm. “How’s your stomach, dear? You don’t look like you eat an entire cake in one sitting very often.”

“No, can’t say I’ve ever done that before, but I can manage. What’s next?” I smiled, hoping my cheerfulness cloaked the internal debate I was still going through.

“For you? Paperwork, wages, and an early bedtime. We’ll have you back tomorrow, and get you a schedule. Welcome to the team at Hedon, darling.”

“Make sure she’s with me,” Irma added.

“I can still work more tonight,” I insisted, but Carly just raised her brows.

“Like this? No. I want you to join us slowly. We’re not trying to harm the entertainment here. Follow me back to the office.” Carly led me to the back while I mulled that over. I’d worked a couple clubs before Emerald City, and none of them had given a shit about the dancers’ well-being except for the other dancers, and even that was a hit or miss. I’d been thrown to the wolves immediately everywhere else I’d worked, and this was a completely different experience.

“Ok, so I want you here four nights a week– wait, no. You said you’re in college, right?” Carly looked up at me from across her paper-strewn desk. She barely fit in her sturdy office chair, which had the arm rests removed. I was beginning to think that was a trend at Hedon.

“Yeah. Full-time, but classes won’t be starting up again until January. I was dancing six nights a week at Emerald,” I explained. Carly ignored that.

“Three nights a week. School is important. You’ll work with Fat Irma until you’ve got the chops to handle a crowd on your own. You’ll get a 50/50 split of profits, a monthly stipend for new outfits, and in 90 days you can enroll in our benefits– health care, dental, vision, and 401K. Questions?”

I was at a loss. “Three nights a week isn’t enough for my bills,” I tried to protest. “What’s the house cut on my wages?”

Carly snorted. “Honey, Hedon doesn’t need your money. That’s what we sell drinks and food for.”

“What?” That was basically unheard of. While I was still staring, the stage hand came in and handed Carly two equally bloated envelopes of cash. She peeked inside, then handed it to me and watched as I opened and counted the bills. It was almost $1,000 in $20s. If I was making that much three times a week…

“Do you still want to work more than three nights a week?” Carly asked. I shook my head, stunned. I couldn’t believe this was real.

“Thank you,” I said, voice choked with tears. “Honestly, ‘thank you’ is an understatement.”

“Aw, don’t go getting mushy on me. Just don’t go blowing this off, ok? You want to impress me and stay here long-term, you’ll put some pounds on, get up to size, huh?”

“I– I will!” I agreed, hardly thinking about what, exactly, I was agreeing to. All I could focus on was the money in my hands and the potential in my future. If I had to eat some more cheeseburgers to do it, by god, I would eat them all.
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The Big Bellied Dancer is available to purchase in full here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09T8CTWWP