“Scoot over,” you say, tugging at the hem of your shirt, whi..

“Scoot over,” you say, tugging at the hem of your shirt, which I am disappointed to see that you’re still wearing. Your belly, freed from the tyranny of your tightly-belted pants, cascades over your boxers and out from under the cotton of your t-shirt, and no matter how you pull it down, several inches of soft flab are visible. I look to my right, where there is approximately one inch of available mattress space. “Scoot where?” I ask drily. You glance over at me and sigh. “This bed is small.” I blink. You’re big, more like. I smile a little, elbowing you and then holding back a gasp at the way your side squishes and yields, your ribs buried under all those thick inches of pudge. I can feel you start relax, your plush, padded back pressed into me. Even through the thin cotton of your t-shirt, I can see- and feel- the way your love handles wrap around your body, the way another thick, soft roll forms under your arm and stacks on top of it, so much extra fat that it’s literally piling up. It’s all I can do to resist the urge to sit up and look you up and down; see what your tummy looks like when you’re on your side. Big. It probably looks really big, all spread out and— “Maybe you’d be more comfortable on the couch. You can-“ I immediately hold up my hand. “I hate sleeping alone.” I admit. “And you’re nice and warm.” “That why you’re here now, Nico?” I ponder the question. “I’m here because I’m sleepy,” I lie. “Then go to sleep,” you say, your voice a little tough, a little sweet, like you can’t quite decide which you want to be. … I am quiet for five minutes. Ten. I’m frozen, completely aware of the heat of your body; how warm and close you are; the way my shoulder is pressed gently against the aching softness of your back. Twenty. “Turn over,” I finally say. You clear your throat. “Why?” “Because I know you’re awake.” There’s a beat of silence that goes on so long that I’m not sure you’re going to do it, but then you start to move. I hold my breath, watching in the dim glow of the streetlight through the window as you heave yourself over, using your hands to push yourself first onto your back, then rolling slowly onto your side so that you’re facing me. It’s not particularly graceful- a little like a turtle on its back- and when you flop over to face me, your belly fills all the available space between us, squishing up against my arm and ribs and hip like a warm, heavy pillow. “Not enough room this way,” you mumble, and I can see the blush stain your cheeks even in the dim light. “Yes there is,” I say immediately, making absolutely no move to scoot over at all. There’s nowhere for me to go, anyway. “It’s fine.” I shift, turning so that I’m facing you— so that your fat, fat stomach is pushed up against me, from my chest all the way down to my pussy, which I seriously hope you can’t feel due to how wet I am. Your body takes up so much room— spills into my space so much— that it almost doesn’t even feel like a big deal, when I place my hand very, very gently onto the side swell of your enormous belly, where it’s spilling out from under your inadequate t-shirt. It feels so soft, like butter beneath my hand, malleable and thick and warm, that I can barely breathe—and you quit breathing altogether. “So how did all this happen?” I ask, keeping my voice even through sheer force of will. We might as well be talking about the weather. You inhale harshly, and your tummy rises like dough under my hand. My grip tightens around a side-roll automatically. Suddenly I’m not just touching your belly, but pinching a generous handful of it. If your dick wasn’t hard before, it is now. (part 5)