Chapter Text
6 Feb
Cigarettes: 0
Units of alcohol: 2 (wine with dinner, fancy)
Weight: 145 pounds.
God, how did I even let that happen!!
It is only just after Christmas. Well, a month and a bit. Perhaps resolution to “spend more evenings with Mark instead of torturing self at Tom's spin class” was misguided. Worried results are suggesting that receiving cunnilingus does not qualify as cardio.
“I think I've got to take up cycling again,” I sighed, flopping into bed next to my lovely and skinny boyfriend.
Mark stared a moment. Almost redundant, saying that—he’s always staring and taking a moment.
“You've got to?” he replied. “Says who?”
“The scale,” I said with disgust.
“I seriously doubt it capable of that.”
“Well, it says one-forty-six today, which is basically the same as, ‘get off your fat ass and do something or I'm going to break the next time you try to step on me, and splinter into loads of springs and sprockets and things, and then you'll never be able to tell how massively fat you're getting.’”
Mark set down his book and gathered me up instead, caressing up and down my arms as we lay together.
“Listen, darling,” he began, very sympathetically. “What you're saying is absolute bollocks.”
“Bollocks!” I cried. “Try telling that to the girl you met twenty pounds ago!”
“I would if I could. And I would say it if you were twenty pounds heavier. You don't actually like cycling, is that correct?”
“It's alright,” I said defensively.
“I seem to remember you feeling much differently when you were going thrice a week. Soreness, sweatiness, waste of time, exhaustion–”
“No no, that must have been someone else.”
“Oh,” he wore the ghost of a laughing smile. “Of course. Must have been one of the hundreds of other women who I spend my evenings with.”
“That's very mean,” I laughed.
“You're being mean too. To yourself, I mean. Why are you so hard on yourself about weight?”
“Because if I'm not I’ll turn into a fat cow, that's why!”
Mark swallowed and glanced away.
“Ah, right. Which goes against your dreams, ambitions, and/or values because…?”
“Because no one finds that attractive.”
“Silly me. I forgot that you're trying to lure in a mate,” he said, tightening his hold on me and creeping a hand up the back of my shirt.
“Stop it, you know what I mean.”
“I really, really don't.”
“Well, I guess it's not something you've ever had to think about. Men are allowed to get fat, anyway.”
“You're right, I've never thought about it. And, quite frankly, I believe I'm the better off for it.”
I rolled my eyes in disbelief.
“Better off, my ass. That's great for you and all, but not all of us get to think like that.”
“What's stopping you?” he asked, without a trace of irony.
Honestly, the nerve!
Anyway, then his groping under my shirt really did get distracting, and we quickly moved onto other, more engaging topics.
13 Feb
Cigarettes: 0
Units of alcohol: 0
Weight: still 146??
Despite several salads this week, new pounds haven't budged. Valentine's will be obvious disaster. If he gets me chocolates, they must go directly in bin. Only mini-dress that still fits well is form-hugging and will show everything. Public will cringe, even if I wear embarrassing tummy panties. Mark will likely not complain, but will cringe internally for all time. Considering buying something new tmrw after work—maybe baggy pantsuit with appropriate cleavage.
Despite all efforts at punctuality, I ended up getting home with only 20 minutes to spare before the big date. Bloody brainstorming meetings.
The stretchy red dress would have to do. Hair and makeup were a much more pressing concern, given that the lashes alone sometimes take me about 15.
Seeing the dress in the mirror, telegraphing every chubby bit to the world in incredible 3-D, I made a very brave decision. Since I was obviously going to look like a fatass either way, I changed out of the shapewear. This way, at least I'd have a sexy matching lingerie set to offer for afters, as a way of asking forgiveness. If, that is, there would be anything between Mark and I after this disaster.
I finally came rushing out the door only a few minutes late, to the sight of Mark sitting idly in his car at the curb. For once, he wasn't looking through any legal documents in the spare time. Just waiting for me. Just looking directly at me as I hurriedly exited my doorway, probably with several parts of me wobbling everywhere.
“So,” I said after I climbed in, still winded from running down the stairs. “Dinner?”
Even after all this time, I am not an expert at Mark's subtle expressions. He certainly seemed to be glaring as I got in—but when he's pissed off, he's usually looking off in the distance. Here, he hadn't yet torn his eyes away from me.
“Yes,” he said, suddenly blinking and turning to look at the road, mouth working briefly side to side. “Quite right. And, may I say,” he added slowly, “you look quite nice this evening.”
“Oh, come off it, my hair's an absolute mess.”
He glanced up at the bun in question.
“I didn't notice,” he said lightly, before pulling into the street.
Our Valentine's dinner was at a posh French restaurant, which I'm sure I only agreed to because when we made the reservation my weight began with one three. (Barely.)
I asked the intimidatingly French waiter to explain the menu, since the actual printed thing was sparse and unhelpful, and assumed I knew what a bourgnignon was. Everything he listed seemed horrifying. Each dish was either cooked in a pot of butter or served with a pound of cheese and cheesy fatty sauce on top.
I made a joke to this effect once he'd gone, but Mark just looked at me in a strange way and abruptly changed the subject to wine.
We ordered eventually. I got some kind of veal thing, and Mark's was chicken, which immediately humbled me without him even trying. Healthy prick.
I could feel viscerally the way my belly folded over the top of my lacey panties, just a bit, as I sat. And of course I couldn't adjust it without looking like a total perv. Wrong decision, Jones!
The meal came and went. Delicious, romantic, et cetera. Mark was very generous with his laughter—and only when I made jokes on purpose!—so that gave my confidence a boost. By the dessert course, I felt practically like a normal woman.
That is, until Mark pushed the full plate of cake, clearly meant to be split by lovers, to my side of the table.
“You have it, I'm full,” he explained quietly.
Excuse me?
“And I'm probably not, is that what you're saying?” Well, I wasn't, but that wasn't the point.
He blinked.
“I thought you'd want to eat it, that's all. And I'm not sure they do doggy bags here.” He gave a little apologetic smile.
The smell of warm ganache gradually tempted me to see his perspective on things.
“Oh, fuck, this is good,” I said after my first bite, and partway through spearing my second.
Mark licked his lips.
“Are you sure you don't want some?” I asked in response.
“Positive,” he replied.
Weird.
On the way to the car, he couldn't keep his hands off me. By that, I mean that he walked me out of the restaurant with an arm around my waist, hand absolutely splayed and grabbing at me through my dress. Kneading with his fingers, almost. I'm surprised he didn't explore any lower. Or higher, for that matter. But no, decidedly middle.
His breaths were coming funny, too, quick and sharp. I couldn't quite make it out through his sensible suit trousers, but if I knew Mark, he was at least half-hard, and trying to get out of the public eye pronto.
At the car park, he opened the door for me, then didn't close it once I sat down, opting to stand there looming and staring at me.
“Bridget,” he said mournfully, “I'm afraid I can't make it home.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, worry and surprise filling my voice. “Is it work?”
“Oh, no. No, no, you misunderstand.” He grabbed my face in both soft hands, big eyes boring into mine. “I want you very badly, and I can't stand waiting another moment.”
“Oh,” I said, and then he snogged me pretty thoroughly.
He licked around every inch of my mouth, claiming it as his own, and, I’m sure, tasting a lot of ganache in the process. I had to lean up, and he was practically crouching to meet me, but we made it work. As I grabbed his ass, his arms first gripped my own, then skimmed down to settle on my legs.
“Bridget, god, your thighs…” he said in an unreadable tone.
“Are as big around as hula hoops, I know.”
“What? No. No, that's not true at all.” He leaned down and kissed one of the thighs in question, gradually hiking my skirt up as he mouthed along, and I squeaked. “They're so gorgeous and soft, and the way they peeked out from under your dress, I couldn't stand it.” He looked almost painfully sincere. “I need them wrapped around me this instant.”
It reminded me for a moment of another man, who always drooled over me in short skirts. Then I remembered I didn’t want to be thinking about him, and would much rather refocus on the sexy boyfriend with his head in my lap.
“This instant, you say?”
“Absolutely. It’s urgent.”
I guided him up for more fantastic kissing, which he really did in he with a terrible sense of urgency. As we pulled away for air, I had to stop him from biting his way down my exposed neck and shoulders.
“Woah, Mark, Mark, I know you’re excited, but I'm sorry, I really don't want to have car sex. I'd just hit my head on the roof. Trust me on this.”
“I trust you,” he responded instantly, only a bit disappointed.
“Tell you what, I'll drive us to my flat as fast as I can, and you can wank a bit as we go.”
“Deal,” he nodded.
The world’s horniest car ride turned out surprisingly uneventful. He pressed a heel to his cock for most of the duration, subtly circling his hips into it. Aside from that, he seemed lost in thought. The only thing he said was a helpless, “You’re so gorgeous,” at a particularly long traffic light stop. I grinned coyly at that, and patted him on the arm.
In the bedroom, I happily sank onto his lap and wrapped my thighs around his waist while we kissed, as requested. Though it would be even better later, when there was a lot less cloth in the way. And, by the violence of his tongue, that would be rather soon.
“Is this filling your urgent need,” I whispered, playful as he ducked down to bite at my ear.
“Very much so,” he answered, reverently stroking the skin of my legs, which I’d thankfully shaven a couple of days prior.
“I can’t believe just a short dress gets you this desperate. I’d never noticed.”
“Well,” he stopped moving all of a sudden. "There's… something else. That drove me wild tonight.”
“What was it? I've got to know what trick to pull to get this response.”
His face tightened, and his eyes closed. They twitched, like what he was doing was a great effort—trying to weigh something in his mind. Finally, they opened again, and he shook his head regretfully.
“I'll tell you another time, darling.”
“Oh, tease!” I protested. “Come on, out with it!”
“You– It's not that simple. Can we please just–”
“No, sir.” I wriggled off his lap and stood facing him, insatiably curious. “And I'm not giving up one inch of my gorgeous body until you explain.”
“Not even if I…” he reached for my hand, leaning down to kiss it.
“Ah, ah, ah!” I snatched it away. “Explain your mysterious turn-on!”
“But–” he tried. I gave him nothing but silence in response. We had a staring contest in which he couldn’t look me in the eyes. After several long moments, he realized I.
“It's the whole gaining weight thing,” he said all at once. “I can't put it out of my mind.”
“... In a good way?”
“Yes, damn it. Alright?”
“You are a strange man, Mr. Darcy.”
“So I've been told,” he said with a weary smile. “Is that alright?”
I shook myself for a second, to clear my head.
“It had better be, seeing as I've already let you into my bed,” I ultimately teased.
“Thank God,” he said, and jumped on me, and the talking was over. To be clear, we then had very passionate sex instead—and he did an excellent job distracting me from ruminating on the appeal, or lack thereof, of my wobbly bits.