We’re both six beers deep, the shark documentary long ended ..

We’re both six beers deep, the shark documentary long ended and given way to a special about arachnids, when I yawn enormously, sprawling back even further against the sofa cushions. The beers seem to have relaxed us a little; drained away some of the tension. “Wanna stay here tonight?” You ask, the words falling out of your mouth without any consideration at all. You immediately wish you could pull them back. I stare straight at the tv, as if I’ve never seen anything more engaging than the spider on the screen. “Depends. Do I have to sleep on the couch?” You swallow hard, thinking about your own bed now, how much of the full-size mattress you take up all on your own. How the bed sinks under your weight. How your tummy spreads out beside you on the mattress, undeniably and embarrassingly fat. “What, you’re too good for the couch?” You’re staring at the spider, too, watching an unsuspecting fly buzz into her web. Trapped. Stuck fast. I scoff, glancing over at you. “I’m not sleeping on the damn couch. I want to be close to you.” I stubbornly insist. You inhale and your heart flutters. You’re not so sure you and I will both fit in the bed, either. “Prima donna.” “I don’t snore,” I offer, draining the last of my beer. You watch my throat move with each swallow. “Fine, fine. Always so goddamned pushy,” You say, your delivery pleasantly blasé, as if your heart isn’t thundering in your chest. …… The magnitude of what it means to stay overnight, to sleep in your bed doesn’t hit me until it’s actually happening. I hadn’t really thought about it- about how frighteningly intimate it will be- until I’m sitting on the edge of your bed, waiting for you to emerge from behind the closed bathroom door, and I realize I have no fucking idea what to do with myself. It had seemed as easy as breathing, agreeing to sleep over. I’m half convinced I’ll break apart with nerves before you walk back into the room. Finally, I just swallow hard and tug my shirt over my head and kick out of my skirt. ‘Maybe he will strip down, too,’ I think, and immediately feel guilty for it; for the rush of instant, white-hot arousal and curiosity and aching, torturous desire that flits down my spine at the thought of you sliding out of your t-shirt, revealing your big, soft body, the outrageous rolls and curves of it. That big belly. Fuck. Every torturous masturbation session I’ve had in the last month, every moment I’ve spent in agonizing contemplation of every additional pound packed onto your strained frame, comes rushing back to me in shameful clarity. Before I can really work myself into a proper fit of arousal, you amble out of the bathroom in that weirdly seductive, rolling strut you have now. You walk like a cowboy, legs spread wide, gait sprawling and loose-limbed, your enormous belly and thick thighs dictating every step. You’re still fully clothed, to my perverse disappointment, but your hair is freshly brushed, and the minty-medicinal scent of toothpaste wafts in with you. “Make yourself at home.” You say sarcastically. You give me a pointed look up-and-down, your eyes lingering on my tits for just long enough to make me blush. “Can’t sleep in clothes,” I say, resisting the urge to cross my arms over my bare chest. “It’s a thought,” you say awkwardly. I cough. “You were never this shy before.” You blink, looking at me for a second and then looking away. The “I was never this fat before,” goes unspoken. “Move over, that’s my side,” you finally say. Obligingly, I shift back onto the bed and scoot to the opposite side, feeling painfully awkward and hating it, barely resisting the urge to pull the sheet up and over my face. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard. I’ve slept next to people I’ve been attracted to before, many times. So why should this be different? Because he’s different, I think, staring helplessly as you pad across the room, your fat belly leading the way. You stop at the edge of the bed, legs spread wide to support yourself, and you look so fucking big, so wide and fat and plush that I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at you. There’s just so goddamned much of you now. You stand still, almost frozen, for so long that I open my mouth to speak. Before any words can come out, though, you seem to come to some kind of internal decision. You turn off the bedside lamp, leaving the room in shadow, and then shrug the tiniest bit before reaching down to your waistband. Which means, of course, that you have to reach under your stomach. Which means that you have to lean forward and tilt just a bit sideways in order to get your hands beneath the dome of your enormous belly, where the roundness of your gut gives way to buttery softness. I realize, with something like awe, that it’s a chore, just maneuvering around your belly to get undressed. Fuck. That’s hot. From my vantage point on the bed, I can see the way your tummy spills over your waistband; hangs over your belt— and I can see the way you have to heft it out of the way with one hand and flick open your belt buckle with the other. The way your soft, wide gut gets pushed up by your hand, all that soft, tender flesh— fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I finally throw my arm over my eyes, leaning back against the headboard like I’m exhausted, just to keep from staring. Just to keep from doing something I regret. If you notice my avid interest, you don’t comment on it. You’re silent, and the only thing I can hear in the room is the jingle of your belt buckle as your jeans drop to the floor; the slight hitch of your breath as you lean forward. Over your tummy, probably? I squeeze my eyes shut tighter beneath my arm, willing my own breathing to stay even. The images of you I’m conjuring in my mind- you leaning over your enormous tummy, slowly resting a hand on your swollen belly, short of breath from four plates of fattening, rich, creamy pasta and half a dozen beers and a few bottles of Coke thrown in for good measure- are probably even worse for my composure than actually watching you in real life, when you’re just trying to get into bed like a normal fucking person. Before I can even peek out from under my arm and sneak a look at you, see if the reality of you undressing is anywhere close to the earth-shatteringly sexy sight I’m imagining, the bed dips dangerously to the left. You flop back against the headboard with a sigh, your soft side pressed against my bicep; your padded hip and fat thigh smashed into mine. You’re touching me everywhere, taking up all the available space and spilling over against me. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. This is more than I was bargaining for when I demanded to sleep in your bed. This is exactly what I was bargaining for when I demanded to sleep in your bed. (part 4)