It's been six months. To the day.
Lisa slips the tape measure from her nightstand, runs the smooth plastic ribbon through her fingers.
Dean's in the shower, singing something by Bruno Mars, of all people. He never cares that he's a little off-key, and it charms Lisa to bits. She smiles to herself and slaps the tape measure in her palm.
Six months.
She wistfully ponders the dumb luck of Dean falling into something she'd once held deeply secret: her absolute, inexplicable adoration of big men. And making them bigger. Okay, it wasn't exactly inexplicable; Lisa loves all the soft flesh and supple rolls, the breathlessness and indulgence … the control, the care-taking. She always knew Dean was a bit of a hedonist, but she had no idea the extent to which he was game. Five years into their relationship, and Dean has doubled in size, at the very least. It's been six months since they've chronicled her handiwork, though. By design.
Lisa loves the numbers. She loves not only the visual evidence of her tender loving care, but the mathematical proof as well. There's a small journal, purple and covered in cartoony cupcakes, wherein she keeps her statistics. And it's sitting out on the bed now.
The last time she'd measured his delicious belly, the tape-measure had just barely overlapped, and that was after a solid Thanksgiving's Day stuffing. They've been casually hard at work ever since: Dean was seldom without a snack in hand, and Lisa has been sneaking an extra pat or three of butter into his every meal. Heck, she's even put on a few pounds, but teaching power yoga staves off most of her gain. She doesn't mind it, in truth; small price to pay for her big boy. More curves for everyone! Nothing bad about that.
The water shuts off and the swoosh of the shower curtain being drawn back zips into the bedroom. Dean's still humming, and from the odd groan and huff, he's probably drying off. The floor creaks with his footfalls as he lumbers out of the bath.
He's flushed and freshly scrubbed, miles of freckled skin draped across a middle that defies bounds. A large bathtowel is just barely snugged around his wider hips, tucked under the swaying hang of his belly. He's a touch winded and Lisa notes new stretchmarks on his undulating flanks. His breasts are rounder, perkier. It's a sight.
She gives him a wolf whistle, and Dean grins, popping a hip. The gesture chubs up his cheeks and sends ripples through his whole body. He still works out, so there's plenty of muscle underneath all that bulk, but everything is more plush, and there isn't a single part of him that doesn't wobble just a little (or a lot) when he struts across the room to her. The bed dips in a huge crater when he kneels on the edge, his gut very nearly grazing the mattress.
“You—” Dean begins, “—look like the cat that ate the canary.” What began as a cute little double chin has become a swag of fat, dusted with gingery stubble.
Lisa cups his soft face in her hands and whispers, “Weigh-in time.”
Dean bites his lip, waggles his brows. “Before breakfast?”
“Yessiree. I wanna know what Ground Zero looks like these days.”
“And then?”
Lisa gives a coy little shrug. “Whatever you want to do...”
“Oh, mamma.”
Leaning forward, Lisa hushes in his ear, “Stand up.”
“Yes, ma'am!”
With a grunt, Dean forces himself off the bed. It's no mean feat, what with that much weight to motivate. He's become a belly-heavy giant of a man, upper arms as meaty as hams and a navel so deep, Lisa can almost stick her whole fist in. Just thinking about it warms her in all the right places.
He takes a few thudding steps backwards and centers himself, raising his arms so that Lisa can get all the access she needs. She flips open her journal to a fresh page and slips a pen behind her ear.
Starting with his biceps, Lisa loosely circles the tape-measure around and observes (with no small amount of satisfaction) that the circumference is roughly the size of her waist. Up three inches from last time. She jots it down in her notebook.
His doughy, smooth chest has grown an additional five inches, and she gives one nipple a delicate little tweak in reward. Dean sucks in a quick breath and chuckles. It jiggles his adorable chin. Chins.
But her favorite part—his glorious gut—is where Lisa really sees a pay-off. All her hard work … the encouragement, the tender words of coaxing, the worship over every expansive inch of him, not to mention making sure he has access to his favorite foods 24/7 … shows in the numbers.
“Here, hold this,” she instructs, setting the end of the tape-measure at the apex of his paunch. Dutifully, Dean obeys, watching as she winds her way around his bulk. Lisa snugs the ruler over the swell of his upper back, loops across to the other side and when she reappears, it becomes obvious that the tape-measure won't connect. Even when she tugs tightly, there's simply no way.
She has to guesstimate. Sixty-six inches. Maybe sixty-seven. Up an easy ten inches from last time. There's a new roll, new 'give', an underbelly that plummets to the middle of his meaty thighs. And Lisa can't wait to get it all stuffed full to the point Dean can barely breath. She feels a flash of guilt, but it quickly dissolves the second Dean asks, “Did I do good?”
His voice sounds so hopeful, so willing to please. Husky and hot as hell.
“Let's get you on the scale,” Lisa teases. Dean rolls his eyes good-naturedly.
She slides the tape-measure off his middle with a flourish and tosses it onto the bed, logging the numbers into the journal.
“Can I sit down yet?” There's a bit of a whine in his voice.
“Nope. Patience.” Lisa pats one of his swollen love-handles, gives it a little bobble, then bends to slip the scale from beneath the bed. She makes sure he gets a good view of her ass below the hem of her babydoll negligee, as a treat.
The device is big and sleek and square, high-capacity, special-ordered from Amazon when the old scale became useless. This one goes up to 550 lbs. Lisa has a funny feeling they'll be needing a replacement sooner rather than later, as well as a reinforced bedframe. Dean is such a willing sinner.
“Hop on,” she says cheerfully.
“I don't think I've hopped anywhere in recent memory, smart ass.” Dean snorts a laugh and cracks his knuckles, stepping on the scale. He stares at the ceiling, because Lisa knows there's no way he'll ever see the digital readout over the mass of his middle.
The numbers flicker and soar. 200. 300. 330. 370.
Even Dean's feet have gotten pudgy, Lisa mavels, as she waits for the numbers to settle.
398. 399. 403. Four-hundred and three glows red and steady. A blush of wicked pride blooms in Lisa's belly.
She slithers her way up his side, hands caught around as much of his ponderous stomach as she can grab. It's like clutching sexiness in a gigantic, overstuffed velvet bag. Plush and pliable, luxuriously heavy.
“Congrats, champ,” she purrs against his soft cheek. “You just broke the big four-oh-oh.”
“Holy shit, seriously?”
“No lie.”
“I just … ”
Quickly, Lisa nips that whiff of hesitation in his voice. “You deserve something really special.”
“Yeah?”
“So much.”
“Hmm.”
Lisa takes her teeth and nibbles at his earlobe, presses kisses into the puffy swell where he used to have cheekbones. “Anything ...”
She feels the fat bunch as he grins back. “How 'bout brunch?”
Music to Lisa's ears.