Chapter 1

She woke up to bright morning sunlight streaming into the back porch, the smell of bacon, fresh bread and coffee, and the sound of Tony singing softly under his breath. Stretching like a vast fat cat, slow and lazy, she contemplated her luck. Last night had been a dream—but what would Tony want? What was he hoping?

‘Buongiorno, cara, come stai? How are you feeling this morning?’ As she began to sit up, he sat next to her and stroked her arm. ‘Don’t get up yet, because I want to bring you breakfast in bed—may I?’

She purred. There was simply no other word for it. Breakfast in bed was her favourite thing; when mornings are not your friend, she always thought, but you wake up hungry, breakfast in bed meant starting your day in heaven. She lay back down and closed her eyes, wallowing in the pleasure of being looked after so tenderly…

She woke up disoriented, still on the couch, and searched for the clock. Noon? Really? The light certainly looked like midday; strangely, the house felt empty and the kitchen was spotless, save for a piece of paper on the countertop. Lying down again, she thought about the past 24 hours as a haze of pleasures and tastes, and then she thought of Tony with a bemused smile.

Breakfast had been so perfect—a plate of three eggs, with perfectly runny yolks, basted in browned butter, freshly baked steaming hot bread to soak up the butter and egg yolk, and piles of crispy streaky bacon. He had propped her up with piles of pillows and stretched out next to her, feeding her every bite by hand, putting bits of bread or egg or bacon into her mouth. Her coffee cup stayed filled with sweet, creamy coffee, but it never seemed like she had moved. She ran her hand over her belly, remembering how full she’d felt, and how wonderful the experience of it all had been…

A bath beckoned, and she trudged up the stairs and into the bathroom. The enormous tub took quite some time to fill, so she started the water, added some scented oil, and went into her room. Pensively, she stood in front of the mirror and examined her reflection. She looked dishevelled—no surprise, since she hadn’t changed since yesterday morning—but seductive, somehow, and she admitted to herself that she could imagine someone might want to make love to her. This was not a new feeling, but certainly one that hadn’t stayed with her long in the past. She had been on bbw dating sites, and she could see now that she’d been trying to get and hold onto that feeling. Now, she wondered what it would be like to feel it all the time…

She undressed, watching her own movements, imagining what a lover would see and feel, touching her soft rolls, lifting her breasts and belly in turn, changing angles, thinking what she might look like to someone else. Today, she felt like an invitation—warm, welcoming, soft, enticing, round—and she again wondered: Could I feel this way all the time? What would it be like? Is it possible someone could love this journey the way I do? She stared into the mirror, contemplating a world of possibilities she’d rarely seen before…

She slipped into the tub, giggling at how much water she displaced, thinking—as she often did in the bath—how much easier a time Archimedes would have had thinking about volume if he had been bathing her. Quietly, slowly pouring the oil and water over her soft skin, she began to think about Tony. How had she missed his desire until now? Was she routinely missing the glances of the FA men around her? And what about women? She smiled, realising that while she’d thought of herself as bisexual always, she had never really thought that some women might want fat women the way FA men do.

The next thought was simple. How could she set about seeing herself this way? The online stuff she’d done had helped, of course, but not enough…

She kept thinking.

Finally, she decided to make dinner for Tony tonight and discuss it with him. What would please him? Hmmmm… After dismissing a range of possibilities as either too ordinary or too labour-intensive, she decided on a first course of yoghurt and spinach soup, then lamb and eggplant stew over rice pilaf, and knafa for dessert. She mused for a minute over the dessert—her favourite from childhood—sticky, gooey, melted sweetened cheese between crispy layers of finely shredded pastry that looked sort of like shredded wheat and tasted like a mouthful of heaven. Thinking back over the whole menu, she realised she had somehow chosen a whole set of childhood favourites, and that seemed somehow right for this evening.

She picked up the phone and rang the deli, hoping against hope that Anthony would answer. When she heard him say ‘Vitello’s Deli, Anthony speaking, may I help you?’, she grinned. ‘Hi, Anthony, come stai?’ she said, and she could hear the warm laughter in her own voice. ‘Carissima, what a fantastic surprise! I’ve been thinking about you all morning, of course… all day. How are you?’ ‘Fine, my dear, and I don’t want to keep you from work. I’m calling with an invitation: would you like to come here for dinner after the shop closes?’ She could hear his intake of breath, and she worried for a minute that perhaps she’d done something wrong. ‘I’d love to, but I’m here until closing, so I couldn’t be there before 9. Is that too late?’ She could feel the relief wash through her. ‘Not at all. It’ll give me plenty of time to get ready. See you then.’