poolside snack

When you asked what the special occasion was I told you because it was a Friday and I got to spend it with you. You made a gagging noise and threw a cushion at me.

As you complete your fifth lap of the hotel’s heated pool, you admit to yourself that maybe Friday is worth celebrating.

Fat is lighter than water so swimming is effortless. With each slow, luxurious breaststroke you feel water break over shoulders and swirl along each curve, tumbling away in eddies wherever your body tucks back in. Under your boobs, for instance, or the lower curve of your belly. The water cups and teases and fondles like a natural lover.

You turn underwater, your hair streaming after you like oil through the water. You’re naked, of course. No one else is in the pool. A friend of mine let us in after hours.

They also arranged for room service to deliver poolside. Half way through your sixth lap you see me look away from you and at the door. Rocking myself off the lounger I swiftly meet someone by the changing rooms. You complete your lap as a tip is given and the bellboy dismissed. Maybe I will fabricate a reason to have him back later and he can take a swim underneath you in the pool: I’d rather avoid the risk but if you want to swim with your stomach squirming below the water line I’ll throw him personally into the middle of the pool and let nature take its course.

I roll a trolley into the room. Wheel-rumble echoes back from the low, vaulted ceiling. Low lighting and an abstract tile mosaic grant the basement pool a warm, cosy atmosphere. There are cloches on the trolley so you abandon lap seven and swim over to the poolside nearest.

“Dinnertime?”

You see me peek under a silver cloche. Stream escapes. I glance up at you and the glance becomes an admiring stare. You know your pale face is framed by a slick of black hair and that your upper body, you’d of breasts to neck, are glistening with water.

Maybe I can’t muster the l wherewithal to answer. Instead I give a physical proof: a plate is retrieved and brought over to you. Your tummy rumbles below the waterline when you clock the scent of fried potato.

I sit cross-legged poolside and offer you a hand containing three crisp fries at once.. You open your mouth and make a little lunge. Your teeth graze my fingers as you withdraw, chewing. “You’re going to give me cramp.”

“If you get into trouble I’ll save you, sweetheart.”

“Okay. Who’s going to save you?”

I stuff that self-satisfied smile with a bigger cluster of fries. Your eyes open wide as you realise there’s cheese melted on some of them.

“Cheesy chips!” you say through a mouthful.

“Plates of them. And burgers. And buttermilk chicken strips. And club sandwiches. They don’t have a massive range, but they do good food.”

You decide you want to make it as easy as possible to stuff you full of food. With a lively look to your eyes you kick your legs and push yourself up onto your extended arms. The heft of your gut kicks water out onto the poolside as you do: I have to lift the plate of chips to keep them from being inundated.

It can’t really be that you move in slow motion as you pull yourself out of the pool, but I could sweat that you do. Water cascades from your body in sheets of diamond. Some of your hair curls in ink-strokes about your right breast. The light catches every curve and dimple, every fold and hidden crevasse. Your substantial thighs glide past one another as you casually make your way to a lounger by the food.

At first I hand you plates and we talk, about plans and things that have happened over the last week we haven’t seen one another. Two burgers in, you lick your fingers clean and lie back on your lounger.

“You can feed me now,” you announce, archly.

“I lead a charmed life,” I reply, pretending to be sarcastic.

While the cheese is still melty I feed you handfuls of cheesy chips. Strings of melted cheese make you have to swipe up stranglers with flicks off your tongue, and I’m not going to miss that for the world. This isn’t proper fat takeaway chips smothered in greasy, near-flavourless cheese, but it’s crisp, piping hot and tasty.

Chicken strips seem to cause a seismic gurgle from deep with the silken mound of your belly flesh. Maybe there’s something Pavlovian about chicken for you: your teeth close on a strip then your stomach releases pints of stomach acid.

Perched on the side of the increasingly creaking lounger I’m in the perfect place to put my hands on your tummy and start a tender, attentive belly rub.. As you nibble on breaded chicken and send it down I firmly help food arriving in its final resting place to churn up. The satisfied sigh you make after gentle ministration produces a soft, ten-second belch is music to my ears.

Four groaning platters disappear into you. The club sandwiches, triple-decker confections of bacon and more chicken, put up no struggle. Diligently chewed they pack in to the hot, cramped darkness and leave you feeling the pleasant buzz of fullness.

You’re so fat I can barely feel the cannonball of your stuffed stomach through it. Similarly submerged: Intestines so efficient at extracting the goodness from what you break down that they are swaddled in more fat.

The final burger stretches you uncomfortably, I can tell. You chew with dogged determination and sigh heavily after sending it down your throat. When you have consigned it, too, into your belly I take your hand.

“Come, I’ve got an idea.”

You rock upright and feel your gut sag onto your lap. Then, with a hand from me, you get slowly, achingly to your feet. You continue to hold my hand. I squeeze back affectionately as I take us both to the Jacuzzi.

You lower yourself with my hand into bubbling water. Instantly your tummy ache dissipates as it is supported and buoyant.

I slip in next to you and wrap one around your hip, placing a kiss on your cheek. “Feel nice?”

You nod, leaning against me with a sigh. “Mmhmm. I could eat another tray now. Do you think we could let that server join us in the tub after he’s brought the food?”

I laugh and kiss you on the mouth. You don’t laugh. That’s when I realise you weren’t joking.

You get another kiss for that.