A Round Peg, Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Set aside in her grandmother’s garage were boxes of archived Donut Hole paraphernalia. Old discount fliers, posters, tax archives, and there they were: the uniforms.

Reminiscent of an old soda jerk uniform, they were white collared, button down, paired with white slacks for men and button down shirt-dresses for women, topped off with a bow tie or a scarf and a white cap. In her lazy teenage years Peg would turn her Donut Hole uniform into a half-assed 50’s sock-hop costume for Halloween.

They were immaculate for their age. The red aprons were in worse shape, but they’d caught the brunt of it, flour, eggs, oil. Maybe she could purchase some generic red aprons and have the old logo screen printed on them.

There were maybe a dozen uniforms in total. She flipped through them looking for the largest size. She had strong memories of the largest size, custom made for her after her freshman fifteen. She had already been wearing the previous largest uniform when her grandma had to custom order the new one. Like besting your own high score. All the uniforms had been made by Seamstress Sally downtown. She wondered how old Sally would be now. She wondered if Sally could make her a new uniform for her current body which she seriously doubted she could squeeze into the largest size, which she held in front of her now, it seemed rather small.

Peg’s parents were away visiting Peg’s sister and their grandkids. Peg was relieved to undertake the Donut Hole reopening while they were out of town. She didn’t want a Greek chorus chiming in on her every decision.

It was the lack of audience that also allowed her to try on her old Donut Hole uniform. She wouldn’t have done it if anyone had been home. She would have taken it straight to Seamstress Sally and told her to copy it in a size 20. But alone, staring at a size 14, and feeling nostalgic, she gave it a go. 

Stripped down to her bra and panties, Peg stood in front of the full length mirror in her mother’s bedroom and laid out the uniform on the bed. She unbuttoned the dress all the way down and pulled it on like a coat. The short sleeves pinched her arms there was still the fattest part of her upper arm to shove through. She hesitated, wondering if maybe she should cut this experiment short.

She’d planned to give this uniform to Seamstress Sally as the template for her new uniforms. It wouldn’t be much good as a template if she ripped it.

Peg inched one upper arm through, she could feel the fabric strain but thankfully the seams held. Seamstress Sally did quality work 15 years ago she thought.

Getting her second arm in was trickier, as there didn’t seem to be enough fabric to reach around her back to her other arm. She felt like she was going to end up doing a Fat Gal in a Little Coat routine.

The first seam POP came as she squeezed her second arm through. But she couldn’t tell which seam. She was committed now though, both arms through, uncertain she’d be able to get them back out again without popping more seams. 

She pulled both sides of the dress around her to button up but was suddenly halted when she ran out of fabric. Standing in front of the mirror, she tugged at various places, hoping maybe she’d find some spare fabric caught in a roll of back-fat perhaps. There was none. The gulf between the button side and the loop side was insurmountable. She focused on her waist, or where her waist was, theoretically. She felt like she could maybe make the button close, but she couldn’t tell if the gap just seemed reachable in comparison to the laughable gap across her hips and belly.

Peg held her breath and the two ends of fabric touched! But she couldn’t get the button through the loop fast enough before she had to breath again. This was such a silly game she thought, she obviously wasn’t going to be able to fit into the dress so why was she trying so hard? 

ONE. One button!

She was ecstatic, she swayed the dress in front of the mirror, she looked absurd, half naked with one button closed just beneath her boobs. She tried to see if she could ride the wave of one button into two or three, but the next button up met her boobs and the next button down met her belly and neither were cooperating. 

Peg took a selfie, pushing her belly out to accentuate the distance between the two sides of the open dress. She was laughing, but she wasn’t sure why. She was SO FAT. She had been worried that trying on her old uniform would trigger old insecurities around her body, but instead, she just had to laugh.

She looked at her picture on her phone, “I need a girlfriend to send this to.” She was half tempted to send it to her ex but thought better of it, “no point sending it to someone too far away to zip over in the car for sex.” She was a tease but not a torturer. When she thought about old flings from her hometown, she wasn’t sure a sexy selfie was the way to get back in touch.

Undoing the button across her waist brought instant relief, both in a freedom from constraint and in that she’d managed to undo it before it burst off.

Getting the dress back down off her pinched upper arms was a trickier. With her arms straight back and down behind her, she tried to pull one side and then the other. A moment of panic came over her when the progress stopped at the fattest point of her upper arms. She tried to keep her cool and not flail, but her arms were pinned behind her. She sat down on the bed. She was getting hot, and surprisingly, not simply overheated, but aroused. Like bondage play, but without the partner to free her. 

Deep breaths, getting hot and sweaty was only going to make it harder to get unstuck, she needed to keep her cool.

“I wonder if Houdini ever felt like this,” Peg said to herself. 

There was an easy way out of course, just bring her arms forward and rip the dress. But that felt like cheating.

Peg tugged on either side of the dress, to see if one arm was less stuck than the other. Her left? Her right? “I do need a girlfriend,” she lamented, thinking back to past clothing malfunctions that required assistance. Her steadily climbing weight meant there was always an article of clothing she was in the process of outgrowing. 

POP

“There goes another seam,” but this time she felt the slightest relief on her left arm, “now’s my chance!” Peg focused on tugging the left side down and slowly by slowly it let go of the fattest part of her upper arm.

Twisting and contorting, she got one arm free, and then tugged and tugged and tugged until the dress came off the other arm.

She flopped back on the bed, very aware of the motion of her fat, still moving in waves across her belly even though she was lying still. “Phew.”

It was a thrill, though she had trouble deciphering if it was a sexual thrill, or merely the adrenaline from the panic of being stuck.

She rebuttoned the dress and laid it flat on the bed. Something was drawing her to it still. It didn’t fit. It was never going to fit. So why did she feel the urge to try it on again?

“I can’t button it, but maybe if it’s already buttoned, I can slip it over my head.”

She could see all the ways this would go terribly, horribly wrong. She’d already popped two seams.

Peg poured herself a glass of wine.

But then, she’d already popped two seams. Maybe she would just give Seamstress Sally the second largest uniform for reference, and have fun with this one.

Is that what this was? Fun? She had another sip of wine. Maybe it was stubbornness. She’d lost one round with the dress, time for round two?

She finished her glass of wine and squinched up the dress. Peg was no stranger to tight dresses. There were methods of putting them on that were more successful than others. First the arms, since she knew they were troublesome. Then over her head. Then over chest and down her boobs, then around her belly, hips and butt and down her thighs. There were different dances and wiggles that she knew to help with every step. But first the arms. 

“The first thing -UNGH, that needs to happen -UNGH, is the uniforms need to be re…de…signed to open up -UNGH, these fucking -UNGH, arms!”

She felt handcuffed again, the dress bunched up in front of her with her arms flailed forward in front of her. Like when she was squeezed into the cramped confines of The Donut Hole kiosk, she thought “there’s no shame in giving up now.”

But that thought had the reverse effect, filling her with determination.

With one WHOOSH motion and some hard-to-place POPPING sounds, she yanked the dress over her head.

“This was a terrible decision.”

She couldn’t lower her arms from the tightness. The dress was bunched up just under her arms and above her boobs. 

But it was on.

Now she just had to get it down.

She’d studied the sunk cost fallacy in economics. She knew that whatever minuscule progress she’d just made was not worth continuing down this road that would certainly result in ripping or cutting the dress to free herself. She’d wished she’d brought the scissors with her from the kitchen as she wasn’t sure how to bend over and rifle through a drawer like this.

Peg got ahold of the bottom of the dress and tried to pull it down over her boobs. Except it wasn’t just her boobs that needed to be stuffed in, there were multiple fat rolls, one that poked out just under her arms and above her bra strap, and more across her back. As she squeezed in fat from her front, fat from her sides and back was escaping.

She took a break when she got the dress over her boobs. The bottom of the dress tightly tucked into the roll of fat between her bust and her belly. It looked like she was wearing a bunched up crop top. She took another selfie, fatshion! 

From here on out, it was only going to get tighter. This was the sausage packing stage of the dress squeeze. There would be no relief until she was past her thighs. If she could pass her thighs.

Slow and steady so as to not burst the buttons. 

The dress was so tight around her chest that she couldn’t really suck in her belly, she was already short on air. She tried to contract her abdominal muscles, as deeply buried as they were. She looked like she was doing a belly dance routine, wiggle worming the dress down across the expanse of her belly. 

The crease of fat between her upper belly and love handles proved especially bothersome in how the dress seemed to get lost inside it. 

Attempting to pull the dress over her lower belly brought the first RIP. The sound startled Peg out of her intense focus. 

She turned back and forth at the mirror to find the source of the sound. There on the side seam. She’d anticipated the buttons popping before the seams ripped. 

“Now what,” she said as she stared at herself, half packed into an impossibly small dress. She was almost over her belly. Her hips and butt obviously weren’t happening, there didn’t seem to be enough fabric left to cover her, but maybe she could finish what she’d started with her belly.

Emphasizing the not-ripped side of the dress, Peg inched the dress down over the rest of her belly, with only a few more threads unraveling from the hole on the side.

She turned around in the mirror, what used to be a dress that hung past mid-thigh now looked more like a too small blouse. In fact, if it wasn’t so uncomfortable, tighter than any bodice she’d ever worn, she was sure she could throw on some jeans and pull off a slick rockabilly look right now. 

Peg poured herself another glass of wine. She was exhausted and in no mood to battle with the dress to get it off. Besides, she was certain if she’d sat down or merely took a deep breath, every seam and button would burst simultaneously and she’d be free.