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eleanorcooks · 1 year

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The Early Dinner - Part 1

"This is early," he says, frowning a little as he enters the kitchen. I watch him briefly touch his stomach, perhaps feeling the after-work snacks it so recently checked in - two large fresh brownies I baked today. Ooh, he enjoyed those, with plenty of cream. Oh, and the bowl of crisps he snacked on while he was waiting for his er.. other snack to cool.

And it is early. It's barely half past five.

Why do this? What, you ask, is my logic?

All, dear feeder... oh, sorry, I mean, dear reader, in good time.

"I know honey - sorry," I coo, all apologies. "I really messed up the timings." I pull out his chair, coaxing. He sits, looking a little irritated, but... it's still dinner. He can't not have dinner.

I begin to spoon rice into his bowl. "I'll just give you a little, you can always come back for more." I conceal my smirk. I call it a little, but in fact it's a good sized portion. I make a bed in the middle of his rice and ladel in curry. One, two, three ladels of rich creamy biryani, his favourite. By now he can smell the flavours, and I can sense his appetite kicking in. He might not be hungry, but mmm.. it looks so good.

---

"A little more," I offer, as he scrapes his fork around the plate, gathering every last scrap of rice. He nods, using the time while I reload his plate to reach for another samosa. Always efficient, my husband. Hates wasting time, which explains how he put his food away so quickly.

Too late I realise I've given him a bigger helping than I meant to, but he doesn't. "Pass the naan," he says through a full mouth. I do as I'm bid, and top up his beer too. I stand to do this, moving round the table. Though not strictly necessary for the pouring of beer, it gives him more room to keep eating and, far more importantly, offers me an excellent overhead angle to assess the current status of The Belly.

Current status: Full. The jiggly pot my husband accumulated over two years of marriage (sedentary job, no significant exercise, boozy weekends with his buds and a feast of a home-cooked dinner every evening) has swelled up a few levels from its emtpy jiggly state and is now pressing taut against his t-shirt. I bite my lip. It looks lovely. Deliciously swollen with a rich, sumptuous and above all calorific Indian dinner on top of his brownies and cri-

"Hey, watch it!"

Husband leans back, hands out in surprise, familiarising me with the half-chewed contents of his mouth. Oops! In my distracted state I overfilled his beer and it's spilled. "Argh, sorry honey," I say, lifting his napkin to dab the table, and -very gently- the wet patch on the top of his stomach (yes, when full it protrudes enough to have a "top"). "It's fine. Just leave it," he grumbles, impatient to resume his meal.

I mentioned that he's a fast eater, and within a few minutes, he's cleared his plate for the second time, and is wiping curry from his chin. I remove his plate and saunter over to the fridge. "A little dessert?" I ask, emerging with the tray of brownies.

I can see him thinking about it. He knows he shouldn't. He's clearly replete, probably starting to feel a little stuffed, with all that bread and rice. But he's also four beers deep. The alcohol is kicking in, lowering his inhibitions, and his tastebuds are craving something sweet.

"Yeah, just one," he says. I smile and let him pour on his own cream, which he does liberally. One might even say greedily.

This time he's not so quick to finish, but finish he does, even scraping up some of the cream. He puffs. He sighs. He drains his beer.

"It's still early," I suggest, packing the dishwasher while he sits for a moment and takes stock. "Fancy a little walk."

He doesn't, of course. "Too tired" is the spoken answer, but "Too full" is the one beneath it. I nod, ever the understanding wife. "Of course. You've had a long day. Why don't you go through and watch TV. I'll finish up here."

He grunts gratefully, and I spy a peek of pudge beneath his t-shirt as he rises. The belly has transitioned to: Stuffed. More than full. Protruding at the naval in an exaggerated fashion, almost like a pregnant woman's. A subtle bounce as he departs, that makes him wince and press a hand to his flank.

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Dear reader, it appears I may have undergagued the Belly's fullnesss. I think it must've been those samosas. I hadn't bargained on him having three (greedily leaving just one for me). Whatever the reason, as I enter the living room, with a fresh beer, I hesitate. The Belly is quite clearly overstuffed. The t-shirt is inching up with each breath, and a pale expanse of stomach on show looks tightly swollen. The situation is delicate. Overstuffed can mean indigestion, bad moods, grumpiness. The Belly, having glutted itself beyond its needs, must be dealt with tenderly.

It does not need more beer.

Fortunately, even my husband can't drink beer while he's asleep. And asleep he is. Long, lazy snores. Belly inflating with each one. Deciding that the nap will do him good, I place his beer down by his table, and take the chair across the room, picking up my book. I glance at the clock.

It's barely half six. Plenty of time...

To be continued.

#ffa #bhm #weight gain #gluttony #feedinghimfatter #overeating #female fat admirer

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