Chapter 6

I slept lightly the next night, setting my alarm for 3:15, in hopes I might find my girlfriend again in the kitchen. It only woke us both up, for which I hastily explained a half-hearted explanation, and Rylee just pinched me lightly on my butt before falling back asleep.

Two weeks passed, and I never found another instance or clue or anything that might say she was gaining. Not a single thing. The longer I got away from that night, the more it felt like it was a dream, like everything I’d seen that night was a lie. It felt too real to be a dream, but too dreamy to be real.

Didn’t stop me from pleasuring myself as often as I could to the thought of her, donut in hand, belly stuffed to the max.

So when I thought I saw her getting bigger day by day, I chalked it off to the imagination of a horny 20 year-old, wishful thinking propelling me to see changes that weren’t happening.

Then I found them, late one afternoon in the midst of a homework-avoiding laundry day. Those jeans, those perfect jeans she loved so much, the one’s she discarded in the morning, I found them in the bottom of our closet, but not where the rest of her jeans were. No, this was…different.

They were crisply folded, pressed to remove any wrinkles, and placed in the bottom of her shoe bag. As if they were going to be there for a while. As if she wanted to keep them, but wasn’t able to wear them. As if…they didn’t fit anymore. As if she’d grown out of them.

Then her sexy, lacy red bra joined it a few days later. Both times I almost immediately locked our bedroom door and brought myself to climax embarrassingly quickly.

It was a game, at least it felt like one. I baked cookies one day on “an impulse,” to which she turned down both the cookie dough, though she did eat half a cookie in the process. I brought home other sweets, a sleeve of Oreos, a pint or two of ice cream, just to see if they’d be touched.

They weren’t, at least not by her. I found myself eating most of these decadent mixes of sugar and fat as I plotted how to catch her in the act again.

I never did. Weeks more passed, and still I swore I saw her getting bigger, a small tightness to her clothes. This wasn’t a weight fluctuation, I was certain of it.

Then, out of nowhere one night, she lay across me on the couch as we watched a movie, really just an excuse to be close to one another and be present. She jumped up in the middle of the movie, insisting I keep it playing while she disappeared around the corner. I thought she was in the bathroom, but I heard the freezer door open and shut, then the microwave start a few moments later.

I’d forgotten already what the entire movie had been about as a million things flew through my mind. She never, ever used the microwave for anything, saying her family never had one and it felt “unnatural.”

She returned with an unopened pint of ice cream I’d forgotten I’d purchased, half melted, a big spoon in her hand. She smiled at me as if nothing was different, my mouth agape. “What?” she asked, scooping a mess of Half-Baked into her mouth.

“Nothing, nothing, just…you know,” I replied, words failing.

She laughed, lightly, innocently. “It’s just ice cream, like you’ve never seen me eat ice cream before,” she said, laying in front of me. I hadn’t, like only ever small bits of cake at friends birthdays. She avoided added sugar like it was the plague.

She lay across me, her small top riding up, and I almost climaxed then and there, looking down as I saw a little paunch hang over her waistband, a small bit of flab. Laying like she was, it was the only way it was noticeable. I couldn’t watch the movie, my brain only capable of lightly tracing her back with my nail and watching her eat the ice cream, watching as her tiny little belly pressed against the couch, sticking out from her waistband. I was so transfixed, I missed the final scene of the movie, not that it mattered even in the slightest.

Then she tapped lightly on my thigh, letting me know she wanted to get up. She sat up on the couch, pressing the spoon to the side of the pint. Her left finger absentmindedly traced the bottom of her belly, something I yearned to do with every fiber of my soul.

And then she drank it.

Not like sipping or slurping, no, this was peak party Rylee, the girl who shotgunned Trulys like they were water, chugged anything and everything to get people excited. The pint was mostly liquid, too, with how long she’d left it in the microwave.

Oh, and she moaned as it went down, over and over again with each gulp, sultry and sensual and lascivious, unashamed and unafraid, each breath labored with hedonistic glee.

I couldn’t think. It worsened still when she shifted, leaning back, her hand lightly pressing against my inner leg for support as she moaned and chugged. Perfectly placed, just inches from my center. It hurt so fucking good, the way her nails dug in as if she herself were urging me to orgasm already, her tongue between my lips.

I felt my body instinctually press into her teasing touch, arching into it. Soaked, so fucking wet I grabbed her wrist, pressing herself into my wetness. The pleasure quickly multiplied for us both, and soon we were in a cuddling state of respite, breathing heavy. It felt the same as the other night, the donut night, the way the hedonistic, venereal pleasure has stolen my soul and ran through my veins long after she was between my legs. It still hadn’t left my system when we went to sleep, laying in each other’s arms.

So the next morning, I got up when she did, and joined her in the shower, which we both enjoyed. She kicked me out, but I didn’t leave our bathroom, instead pretending to prepare myself for the day, when instead I was preparing myself to say what I’d wanted to for over a month now.

“You don’t have to hide it, you know,” I said, as lightly as I could, as playfully as I could, like I always did when we were talking about spicy things. It was sultry, it was sexy, it was taunting, and as soon as I said it, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.

Her only response was an innocent, “Oh?” Like she’d completely missed what I was putting down.

“You know, Ry,” I said, a smile in my voice. “Last night?”

“Last night was fun,” she said, innocence still light in her voice.

Then clarity ripped through me. She wanted to play games.

If she wanted to play games, well, we could play. I don’t like to lose.