Typical Lunch

I get preparing the previous day - setting aside our outfits. A simple skirt and a tank top for me. Something that shows off my cleavage. And for you, I take out a button up vest you wore at our last official date. Three months ago. Life gets busy. And as a homebody, I haven't minded not going out for a while. More money for food, after all. It's expensive, in this economy. It's a brunch date, on a saturday. I don't let you eat breakfast. I know, you're used to eating every three hours by now. You're needy and hungry and a little bit cranky by the time we start to get ready. I understand. No, for once you're not allowed snacks. I don't want you ruining your appetite. Not that you could. Not any more. You're always hungry. It's a struggle, getting the button up vest on. I even make you wear the suspenders. You never thought you'd need to - but your belly is getting pretty big. And... besides, I think they look good on you. Frame your belly so prettily. So for me, you wear the suspenders. Just for the date. Even though you're feeling grumpy about it. It's the hunger. It's always there now, unless you constantly graze. You rub your belly, feeling how tight the buttons are. You've grown since the last time your wore it. It's so tight. The soft chub of your belly bulges from under it a little. But as I smile seeing you in your outfit and show you mine, doing a little twirl, you can't help but smile back.

We hold hands. I've decided we're taking the bus. We could drive. But I like holding your hand. Sitting with you in public. And I have plans, for the ride back. I don't think either of us could focus on traffic on our way back.

It feels too small. Smaller than last time. But it isn't. You're just bigger. You keep doing that. Getting bigger. You don't have much time to think about it, though - as I keep up conversation about your hobbies. I get you explaining to me about something that matters to you. I try to find an angle to latch on, to find something about it to be interested too because I love you. And the things you care about matter to me. We get to the lunch buffet. It's not fancy. We're not fancy people. But we're dressed nice. It's neat. It's sushi, probably. I don't really care. I'll eat anything. I let you choose the place, since you're the one that's going to do most of the eating. I want you to have things you like. It starts normal enough. One, two plates. It's then that the game is on. The vest is too much. Too tight. I know it. I can see it in the way you sit. In the way you breathe. "It's my favorite vest, baby. You can unbutton. You don't have to break the buttons, it's okay." I don't want to embarrass you. Not really. I want you to have a good time. And as you unbutton bashfully, I blush. You blush. Your fat, filled up gut takes more space. "You can fit in more, baby." I get up, giving you a soft kiss on the cheek. It's not a question. I know you'll eat if I bring you more food. And you do. Every time. Until we've hit your limit.

Your breathing is shallow. You're all red. I coax the last few bites into you. People are watching. People are always watching nowadays. You're just so big. It's not normal to be your size. You pant. You whimper a little. I give you mercy, for now, and don't fill your plate again. Then I eat. Like a normal person. A little bit more than a normal person, but in comparison to you it's normal. All you can really do is rub your belly and try to discreetly burp a few pathetic puffs to get yourself more comfortable. It works, but only a little.

When we walk out, it's slow. You can barely manage a waddle. We have to sit down a few times on the way back to the bus stop. I keep talking to you as if nothing is wrong. As if nothing is odd. And it's true. This is normal, for us. So domestic. Lovely.