Growing Together

Chapter 1

It was the height of the lunch break, and at Tripolitan Best Dishes, only one table remained unoccupied. A little alcove in the corner of the restaurant, not the most conveniently located—close to the exit, yet requiring a detour around half the dining area. That’s where I was seated. I had just settled into the booth when a woman entered—very red-haired and even more plump. She asked if there were any available seats.

The waitr regretfully replied that unfortunately, nothing would be free for at least forty minutes. At that, I turned around and joined the conversation.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but I'm dining alone and took the last available alcove. If you don’t mind sharing a meal with a stranger, I’d be happy to invite you to my table."

The red-haired beauty smiled. "We’ll only be strangers until we introduce ourselves. My name is Gili."
"And I'm Ben. Nice to meet you, Gili. So, will you join me for lunch?"
"Absolutely, Ben, thank you. I’d be delighted. And let’s skip the formalities, no need to act like we’re at a royal reception."

And so, she was led to my alcove, and the moment she sat down, she declared, "The moment I walked in and saw you being seated here, I had my eye on you. You know, I’ve always liked solid men, and you fit the bill perfectly. I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable, Ben?"
I snorted. "Not at all. I’m well aware that no one would call me small or skinny. I’m perfectly comfortable with my size, and to be honest, I adore it when a woman has a full, curvaceous figure. Especially in that black dress of yours—your curves are on full display, and they are absolutely stunning."
"Oh, you’re showering me with compliments. I always wear this stretchy dress when I’m unsure just how much I’ll be eating. You see, I REALLY love food—and I especially enjoy being fed. Though, I also love feeding my partner. What about you, Ben? Would you like to feed me? Or maybe you’d prefer if I fed you?"
"Why not both? I have no urgent plans today. What about your evening schedule, Gili?"
"Completely free—and I’m ready to devour everything you put into my open mouth. Where do we start?"
"With appetizers, I suppose, as tradition dictates. What do you prefer?"
"It’s my first time here, so you decide. I’ll eat whatever you order. Or rather, we’ll both eat everything you order—just at a leisurely pace, so we don’t get full too quickly."
"Agreed, wholeheartedly."

The waitr comeback, and so it began. I ordered baked potatoes (with cheddar, sour cream, and shallots), deep-fried wonton rolls stuffed with crab meat and seafood, onion rings, and two glasses of martini. We continued chatting, slowly getting to know each other.

The appetizers arrived. We raised a toast "to our lucky meeting." The martini, served with tiny ice cubes, was simply perfect. Gili picked up a potato with her fork, fed half to me, and immediately took the other half for herself—so we could meet in the middle with a kiss. Then I fed her two wontons, one after the other. A drop of sticky sweet-and-sour sauce dripped onto her chin; she scooped it up with her finger and silently offered it to me, pressing it against my lips. I had never tasted sauce so delicious before.

Taking another potato, Gili brought it to my lips and commanded, "Say ‘ahhhh’." Then she stuffed the whole thing into my mouth, smearing sour cream all over in the process. She laughed and, quite literally, licked it all off with her pink tongue.

Had I died and gone to heaven? Because here she was—the woman I never dared to hope I’d meet.
We kept feeding each other until our plates were empty. It was time for a refill. The waitr took away the dirty dishes, brought two fresh martinis, and asked if we were ready to order our main courses.

Exchanging glances with Gili, I announced, "Bring us everything on the menu—one dish at a time. Keep an eye on us, and the moment we finish a plate, bring the next one. And keep our glasses full. Don’t worry, your tip will be generous."
And so, we ate—relentlessly, as if it were our last day on earth.
Hot pastrami, Reuben sandwiches, barbecue steak with spicy sauce, burgers, sausages, turkey, chicken, and heaps of pasta in various styles—Cajun, Italian, French, you name it. Plus fried potatoes, potato salad, coleslaw, onion rings...

As we ate, I noticed Gili’s belly beginning to swell. At first, just slightly. Then more. Soon, it touched the edge of the table, then pushed against it, hanging over the surface and dipping beneath it. My shirt, too, was growing tighter—what had been loose before lunch now strained at the seams, the gaps between buttons widening as we continued feeding each other bite after bite.
For hours, we didn’t care about anything but food. Between us, we must have devoured twenty portions of various dishes. I had never been so stuffed—or so aroused.

And yet, I was amazed that Gili’s dress remained as tight as ever but showed no signs of tearing. It seemed to stretch with her, perfectly hugging her ever-expanding curves without restricting her breath or movement. I couldn’t resist asking where she had found such a miraculous outfit.

"Oh, I have a seamstress friend who works magic. Auntie Edna—no relation, but that’s what everyone calls her—made this dress for me when I was about twenty kilos lighter. I asked her, ‘What if one day it gets too tight?’ and she just laughed and said, ‘That will never happen.’ Some special fabric, her own invention. I later sent all my plus-sized friends to her, and none regretted it. It’s a dream—you can eat as much as you want, go anywhere, do anything, and never worry about your clothes ripping. And by the way, Ben, thank you for this meal. I had no idea I could eat this much today—it’s all because of you."
"Gili, I went all out because of you, too. Do you think I’d be moving too fast if I invited you to dinner sometime soon?"
"If you hadn’t, I would’ve invited you myself. And I’d love to see that shirt of yours stretch even more. Maybe even burst open!"
"It’s not far from that point, trust me. But we’re in public, and I don’t have anything else to wear."
"Hold on a second—I’ll be right back."

Gili rose from the table with some difficulty and left. I watched her go, marveling at how she navigated the crowded restaurant so gracefully despite her ample size and distended belly. Poetry in motion. A few minutes later, she returned, carrying a flat clothing box. She sat down and handed it to me.
"Open it."
Inside was a blue blazer and gray trousers similar to mine. No size tags, no brand labels—but they looked high quality.
"Go to the men’s room and try them on," Gili ordered. "They should fit."
Getting up wasn’t easy, but I made my way there. I shut myself in a stall, peeled off my strained shirt and pants, and tried on the new outfit. It fit like a glove. And it felt as if I had worn it for years—comfortable, broken-in. Best of all, I could already tell that if I grew even larger, it would stretch along with me. Just like Gili’s dress.
When I returned to the table, I had only one question for her: "Where did you get these?"

"From my trunk," she smiled. "I kept them there in case I met a man with tastes like mine…"

And that night, we continued our feast—with no end in sight.