Chapter 1 - We've got a thing going on

I sit patiently at my table; cigarette in one hand, glass of whisky in the other. The band plays some of the smoothest jazz you'll hear in the city. People move around in dark corners and speak in hushed tones. I love this skeevy little joint. But not as much as I love the woman I'm waiting for. She's the real reason I come every night. A waitress once asked me why my wife and I always meet here at the same time day after day. I told her that we just have a soft spot for this place, but that's only half of the truth. The full truth is that I never meet my wife here. She spends her evenings at home with the kids. I've only ever met one woman in this jazz bar and that woman is the lovely Mrs. Jones.

And here she comes. Good lord is she gorgeous. Long black hair rolling down her shoulders. Full, soft, pouty lips. A stunning pair of piercing brown eyes, like pools of molten caramel. Supple sweet skin, smooth as the day is long. Elegant jewelry making her shimmer in the candlelight. And a figure that would make the Pope denounce his vow of celibacy. The tight black dress she's wearing leaves little to the imagination. Her heaving breasts are practically spilling out the top of it, with cleavage deep enough for me to lose my hand in. Wide hips that sway hypnotically like a rolling thunder, bouncing from side to side with each seductive stride she took. Thick, creamy thighs; gently grazing against each other as the glorious hints of cellulite dust across them, as the shortness of her outfit leaves their vast expanse on display for all to see and for me to admire. Her stomach, bulging out roundly, testing the limits of her seams. The growing indent of her belly button visible through the fabric, the rest of her softness being pinched ever so slightly.

The outfit was clearly designed for a woman of a smaller size, perhaps it was an outfit she owned before she gained the weight. I knew it was actually. She loved showing me how big she was getting. It also drove her husband crazy, seeing his homecoming queen wife filling out with softening curves and doughy flesh. Her desire to thicken up her figure is what brought us together. She wanted to get fatter and I wanted her to get fatter. We were a match made in heaven, despite the fact that the nature of our affair was sinful. But even though neither of us were satisfied in our current marriages, we both stayed, so that had to count for something.

She was such a bitty thing when I met her here the first time. Every attribute I mentioned was practically nonexistent. She was a living stick figure, which is why it surprised me to see her stuffing her face with pasta and chugging down wine. Her flat little tummy bloating out an inch or two while her lips and chin were splattered in tomato sauce, tearing flowing down her cheeks. I approached her at her booth and asked if everything was alright. In her drunken state, she confided in me; telling me about the fight she had with her husband that night. I listened to her vent for over an hour, tears and sauce smudging my jacket as I gave her a shoulder to cry on. He said she was getting fat and ugly, despite the fact that she was still petite by anyone's standard. He thought she ate too much at meals and didn't leave enough for him. She loved to eat and wanted to spend her days stuffing herself with a man who would appreciate her, no matter how big she got as a result. I told her that I could be that man.

From that night on, we've met here everyday for dinner. She knew I was married, but she was married too, so there wasn't much room for her to judge. We would order increasingly large portions for her to indulge on. All types of heavy Italian dishes: pastas, meatballs, chicken parmesan, etc. And each night she would gorge herself until she couldn't leave her seat, trapped on her ever-expanding rear end with a belly that always covered more of her thighs than when she first sat down. Then after she had glutted herself on entrees, I'd be ready to feed her dessert. She didn't have the money to pay for these lavish meals, so I bought everything. It was no trouble. Whatever she wanted, I wanted to give her.

She finally makes her way to the side booth I occupied and sits down across from me. I take a sip of my whiskey and take in the look of her increasingly round face. The sunken-in cheeks that I once wiped tears off of were now flawlessly full, giving her the ample appearance of a well fed woman, which she definitely was now. Her sharp jawline and chin had fallen victim to the mountains of calories she has consumed over the months, being swallowed up by flab and a newly grown double chin. Her red-painted lips even seemed slightly thicker, though I really couldn't tell for sure. None of this took away from how naturally beautiful she was. If anything, the added weight only emphasized her beauty; but of course, my opinion is biased. I've always had a thing for bigger women.

"Hello beautiful", I say in my low baritone as I lean across the table.

"Hello my darling", she coos in an equally seductive tone. Her voice has the same raspy smoothness as Lauren Bacall. The same sultriness in her speaking and demeanor. I've told her about this similarly before and she laughed it off, saying that if she was Lauren Bacall, then I was Humphrey Bogart. I took the comparison to Bogie as a great compliment, unable to tell if she was being sincere or not. "Order something good for me tonight?"

"You know it babe", I responded. From there we engaged in small talk while waiting for the food to come out. She asked about my day. I asked about hers. Things normal couples would talk about. And as far as the world knows, that's what are; just a normal couple.