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Footfalls circled around the cabin, the thin planks of wood did very little to absorb the sound, rather, conducting it through to the other side. You could tell where he was—fresh from the cold room likely with a cold beer in hand. The top step of the ladder creaked with his weight. The steps were grand, enough to shake the ground he walked on if you were near him, and the strides were long. He made it to the door in seconds.
A blob of muscle and fat ambled through the doorway, the movement of tan skin catching the corner of your eye. You could tell that he was shirtless from how much skin you could see—much of the attention going to his belly for being so round and protruding from the rest of him. His eyes flew to the stove—you stood over a pan that was about your height in diameter. A soft, airy swirl of steam arose from the dish simmering inside. The first thud came from him setting the beer bottle down, and the rest that followed became the heavy sound of his boots hitting the wooden panels, thudding in your ears until he was up close. His voice was deep like the noise of his steps.
“Hot damn. You made this?” He asked; you nodded.
Johnny started bringing random assortments of various foods down from Nancy’s every so often for you to cook and mess around with. He didn’t expect much to come from it, but it was fast and, for the most part, free to supply you with. He’d kick open the door to his shack, arms wrapped around himself as he brought in one of each vegetable and fruit and a saran-wrapped body part. As it turns out, it was a great way to kill time when he was out securing the meats to be the protein of each dish. The layout was perfect for you to cook in, the sink and stove being right next to each other made it easy to drain pasta in without having to get Johnny to do it for you. Sometimes you would make a mess—aka, the pasta would be slick and as it slid out of the tipped pot and into the colander in the sink, it would spread and fly down to the floor—which gave you a new project for the day to complete. He was surprised the first time he came home to find you offering him a warm meal, and he liked the feeling of coming home to that after a long day’s work.
His eyes wandered over the dish, trying to remember what exactly could be in it. He had a tomato in his hand yesterday… a type of glass jar filled with Nancy’s rigatoni… and damn it, he was already drawing a blank. The only way to find out what he brought would be to taste the end product. Johnny raised a finger to his mouth, biting at the end of his clothed glove and pulling it off with his teeth. He swung his head and loosened his jaw so that it fell to the floor, somewhere off to the side that you couldn’t see from the counter. Then, his hand came down, one finger sticking out from the rest that curled into his palm, and he swiped it across the hot surface of the sauce. The finger was reacquainted with his mouth as he sucked on it for a second, his eyes softening at the taste of it. He moaned as he went for another taste.
You turned away as you watched him go for another sample, a little too giddy that he liked it. He always liked it, and you always felt proud about it. Neither feeling ever got numb. “It’s all yours, make yourself a plate, big boy.”
A stack of plates were left out to dry next to the sink, Johnny reached for the one on top and you noticed that he took off his other glove as well. His hands were mostly clean so you didn’t berate him for touching clean dishes with hands that have been at work all day. There was a spoon handle sticking out from the pan that was buried by the dish itself. You had to put in a bit of work to really stir it, but it was fun to work up a sweat from cooking. No good dish comes without some heat in the kitchen.
“You’ve outdone yourself tonight!” Johnny said with excitement, taking spoonfuls from the pan and dropping them on his plate until he had a high pile of meat, vegetables, and pasta. A wicked smile cracked on his face, “Yeah, you’re feedin’ me good.”
As he did that, you walked around the sink’s edge to grab him a fork. He set the spoon back down in the pan, turning the burner off for you since it was below the stove and he had a free hand. That same free hand moved over to you, picking you and the fork up with ease just as you secured it.
The sudden movements were disorienting but it was clear that he was carrying you and his bounteous plate to the couch less than thirty feet away. Johnny set you down on his right and the plate down on his left, his beer was on the floor since the last coffee table he bothered to keep in his shack was smashed in half during an episode of his rage. You watched him bend forward to pick it up off the floor. His pudge folding over itself and turning into rolls of fat was evident, even from a side view of the scenic dream. His back looked gorgeous too, the muscles flexing as he moved his shoulder and arm to reach the beer bottle, all the way down to his ass crack peeking out of his jeans that hardly fit him anymore. Too bad it didn’t last longer, Johnny was back to sitting upright, leaning fully against the cowskin draped over the back of his couch. He rubbed his back against it slightly, embracing the fine-haired bristly comfort. He still looked good from the front, the way his thighs thickened out when pressed against a relatively hard surface, and how his belly still ballooned out in the middle.
He handed you the beer bottle, a thick sweat forming on it from going to the freezer to the heat, and finally, into Johnny’s hands. Johnny’s shack was always hot but you were used to it by now, but this pampered drink was not. It was crying tears of sweat around the outside of it, making it slick and cool to the touch for whoever held it. While he ate the food, you kept a loose grip on the bottle so that he could pull it from your arms to take a swig of it when needed. Johnny moaned into almost every bite, showering you with praises about the flavor.
“This is the best one yet,” he said with a mouthful; “how do you make ‘em like this,” he asked; “really goes down with the beer,” he appreciated. He said all of these to you but kept it directionless, his couch only facing one way. If only he had a sectional, or two couches like Nancy so that he could face you and spit this praise out while he swallowed down bite after bite.
Then there was the silence as he ate, downing each forkful with greed until it was all gone, felt like it didn’t last long. He started losing things to say, only left with the satisfactory taste of the food. When it was all gone, he thought about getting more but refrained. He wanted to lick the plate clean, but he felt satisfied enough to kick back and enjoy the rest of the night.
Since he was the bigger person, he decided to get up and at least carry his plate to the sink. He waved off the food that needed to be put away as a later problem. Johnny would probably never end up putting it away, but that would give him another excuse to enjoy it fresh when you remake it. Instead of returning back to the couch, he moves over to the fridge, grabbing another cold one. The one in your arms had gradually been growing emptier since he needed something cool to combat the hot meal searing his tastebuds.
Johnny then wobbled back to the couch. He pinched the neck of the bottle between his index finger and thumb, slipping it out of your grasp and bending down to set it on the floor next to his freshly opened bottle. You could see his belly and chest sagging a bit, all of their weight pulling him down before falling down back into their expected overhang when he stood upright. You almost missed the chilled bottle pressing against you, but he scooped you up with one hand, taking your spot on the couch by occupying all of it with his height spread out from one arm to the other. He laid belly-up, his upper chest curling up as he rested against the arm of the couch so his head had a good view over his body. You were placed right in the center of it, on the peak of his long figure.
Johnny laid longways on his couch. He was already barely wide enough to fit on it for a comfortable night’s sleep, but his middle section had the most girth and flab to make him even wider. But he wasn’t going to sleep yet, and neither were you if he didn’t want you to. After one drink, he was already feeling ambitious. His head laid back on the armrest, and like every morning, he would wake up tomorrow complaining about the crick in his neck. His chin was tucked in a bit, but he could still talk and his menacing frame never faltered. Johnny finagled with the button of his jeans, undoing them so his belly could have some relief instead of spilling over like it normally would. His powerful arms wrapped around either side of you, making this your entrapment until he was done. It didn’t take him long to move on to the last step: pressing the toe of his boot into the back of the other, slipping it off before doing the same with a socked foot on the one with a boot remaining.
Johnny’s belly was the softest, yet tallest part of his entire body. Even when lying down, it stuck up like a bump in the road. While he was using a couch as if it were a shrunken twin bed. To you, his belly was like a Texas king-sized bed—maybe even bigger. It was a lot for your tiny steps and strides to take in, and it didn’t help that Johnny laughed at the press of each one. You couldn’t tell if he was ticklish or laughing at the way that they sank into his belly, and your footslogged your way through his flab like snow. But his doughiness did have its benefits: it was warm and soft. That’s what made it such a good bed to rest on at any point of the day. He was a full-body heating pad!
It was like you were clocking into a nine-to-five the second that he did this, dropping you onto his belly. Not only was it good to lay on, but it was malleable, slippery in your fingers like buttered biscuits. All the ingredients were there—a hot, radiant heat, seasoned dough, and a sedulous worker. You circled his belly and watched the fat move with your tiny hands. Dashes of peppercorn-hued hair lined the dough in sprinklings, leading up to his chest, easy to follow like a recipe. Those straight paths of hair twisted as you kneaded over them. You appreciated the safety of being near him, seeing as he had the double negative of being a giant and a cannibal. It would be so easy to give up, but now you were in his good graces, well enough to do this almost any time you wanted to.
Johnny liked the feeling of it, the pressure applied to his stomach from being kneaded over, especially after a meal. It was mutually beneficial, he got to feel more comfortable after stuffing his face and you got more belly to play with as it bloated more and became a bit bigger. You got to feel good too, your hands doing work that they had never done before, over such a smooth and squishy area.
Johnny passed the time drinking, and you spent the time being addicted to his extra-lovable love handles. It didn’t take him long to finish his second bottle, and when he tipped it back, feeling the empty contents when nothing came at all to the tip of his tongue, he pulled it off his lips. He held it up to his eye, and sure enough, it was empty. But it made for the perfect looking glass.
He looked down the sight of the bottle with one eye and saw your warped figure with a green tint, too. It distorted your image, making you look bigger and your movements more noticeable. “What’re you doin’ down there?”
There was one thing that always fascinated you about his belly—his bellybutton. In between your kneading and rubbing his belly, you tried to sneak in some dips into his navel. It was just so warm, so unfamiliar to you. You were tiny, your whole M.O. was knowing about every crack and crevice, and Johnny had already given you a good sighting of his crack, so now it was just the crevices left. He must have caught you going in for a slip, though you never went far enough to elicit a response from him. How did he catch you this time?
“I didn’t tell ya to stop!” He said, the breath expelled from talking sank his belly a bit before he drew in another breath and spoke again. “Go on, kiss it. I know you want to.”
He was still looking down the sight of the bottle, watching you bow your head down to kiss it. Now was your time to be bold if there was any better moment to do so, so you added a bit of tongue to make it feel better. Your tongue was big enough to reach the back, and you found yourself frenching his belly button. He didn’t taste great—a hint of sweat and musk lingered in this crevice that his belly didn’t have. It seemed to be working this time, though, he could feel you kissing the open cavern.
The feeling for Johnny was both tickling and indescribable, he had never bothered to mess around with this hole on his—or anyone else’s—body. It was a bit more impactful since he was full. Johnny laughed, sending you a bit off the side as his belly shook. He didn’t apologize, instead, he was enjoying your fight to stay locked onto his belly button. You kissed and tongued the hole like you had seen Johnny do before. He bucked his hips, moaning, almost in disbelief at the feeling.
“Wait. Wait a damn minute.” He says, using his hand to pull you off with ease. The beer bottle he was holding clattered on the floor, he must’ve dropped it. You pouted but he quickly added, sounding like he was a genius, “I have an idea for the both of us.”
Instead of setting you down, he carried you with him to the fridge, grabbing a third beer and quickly returning back to the couch in the same position so as to not kill the mood. He wasn’t a total knucklehead since cracked the beer on the side of the counter before getting comfortable again.
“Now, I’ve never done this before. I might splash ya,” he said with a faux concern in his voice. Johnny pounded back some of the bottle’s contents to make what he was about to do easier. With a bit of shaky precision, the buzz starting to hit him, hovering the ring of the bottle over his belly button whilst holding it at the neck. He spoke up, asking for your help, “Open it up for me.”
You used both hands to stretch it open, and he titled the bottle so that the beer dripped out until his navel was full. A drop ran down over his round belly, letting him know that it was at its maximum occupancy. A smirk formed on his face as he looked at you, placing you back down near the middle of his belly, “Drink up.”
Your lips molded to his soft, doughy belly once again. The liquid threatened to spill out because his pudge would never be a good enough seal to take a body shot out of, not at your size. But you did it, you managed to down each drop, enjoying how the taste of his tangy beer mixed with the flavor of him.
He moaned, feeling your sucking as you tried to prevent every drop from spilling. “That’s good. Take it.”
When Johnny was sure that you cleaned out his navel, he scooted you up to laying on his belly. It was a sign that you did more than you were expected to as a tiny and deserved some rest. His breathing was like a distant mountain chime, the promise of new lands, a clearer sound of his heartbeat, and a nicer view. But you didn’t want to climb up any higher, you were happy on the skin as soft as sand, basking in the warmth.