The lady wot lunched a little too much - Chapter 9 (Patreon)

The below follows on directly from Chapter 8.

Hope you enjoy it, and sorry again for the wait! There'll be a cheeky little competition related to this chapter, which I'll announce tomorrow at 6pm UK time. It's not much - just a bit of fun and a chance to win a free commission pic! 🥳

In the meantime, any feedback on the below is very welcome!

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Ryan turned back to Abby - just in time to see her plugging the pink cavern between her jaws with a huge mound of lava cake. Catching his eye, she managed to smooth out the motion, drawing her spoon from her mouth with an almost erotic moan.

The effect was undermined somewhat by her cheeks, which bulged obscenely, like a cartoon squirrel's.

'Good?' Ryan asked, fighting the impulse to cringe.

Abby nodded, barely more than a slow up and down of her smoky eyelids, her stuffed cheeks rolling in fat, lazy circles. After a few more rotations, she swallowed. 'Delicious,' she said, setting her spoon down on her empty plate and reaching for a napkin. She patted her lips daintily, looking up at Ryan from beneath thick curling lashes. 'But I think I'm ready for a different kind of dessert now.'

Purring like a cream-glutted kitten and creaking like an overloaded cargo freighter, Abby lifted her vast rump from her seat. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward slowly, a dark shadow spreading over the mountain range of ice cream as her bosoms passed over it like low-flying zeppelins. A whimper of pain as her full belly met the edge of the table became a low moan of pleasure as she she felt her puckered lips press into Ryan's.

They were cooler than she'd expected. Cooler and... sticky?

Abby opened her eyes.

A spoonful of ice cream with a syrup-glazed summit hovered before her nose, the imprint of her lips visible on its nearest slope.

Surprise turned into sullen irritation. A different kind of dessert... Was Ryan really so drunk, so dumb that—

Suddenly everything clicked into place. Abby's scowl twisted into a smug, lopsided pout. Of course. Ryan always had enjoyed foreplay. All that spoon-licking and eyelash batting she'd done while eating her lava cake must have gotten him all hot and bothered. He couldn't help but want more. Abby chuckled to herself. Men were so easy. One little wobble of her tits, a dash of sensual moaning and a timely reminder of a steamy encounter abroad a few years ago, and Ryan was eating out of her hand.

Or more accurately, and far better, she was eating out of his. Stroking back her hair, the egotistical diva tugged her chair close to the the table and plonked her backside down again with a thud that shuddered the champagne flutes and sent ripples of pain coursing through her overloaded stomach. Numbing the ache with a swig of whisky, Abby pushed her tits forward and closed her eyes, parting her plump, shiny lips expectantly.

This time her moan of pleasure was entirely genuine, as she felt the syrup-coated tip of the ice cream brush against the roof of her mouth. Abby closed her jaws slowly around the spoon, her whole body quivering as an explosion of cool soft ice cream spread across her tongue and tastebuds. Oh god, it was absolutely delicious! So creamy and smooth. The perfect, palate-soother after the intense richness of that lava cake. And it slid down so easily, melting in her throat and trickling into the nooks and crevices of the dense mound of food that was sitting in her stomach like landfill.

'Imagine doing this in a bar in St Lucia,' Abby purred, licking her lips and ignoring the growing pressure around her midriff. She couldn't stop now - the power was too intoxicating. She circled her fingertip on the back of Ryan's hand, hoping to rekindle more memories.

He responded by lifting an even bigger scoop of ice cream to her lips.

'You really don't think Gemma or Holly—'

Abby shook her head slowly, cheeks sloshing gently, side to side. 'Honesty? I don't think either of them deserves any sort of bonus at all this year.' she paused to gulp down the enormous mouthful. 'And no pay rises either. They've become so lazy -mmph- and complacent. Chocolate this time.'

Obediently, Ryan redirected his spoon towards the relevant peak. 'Well... I guess you're right,' he said, figuring that at this point appeasing Abby was the best way to keep her eating. He scooped up more ice cream. It wobbled as he lifted the spoon, so much so that Ryan had to briefly rest his elbow on the table. Christ, that tequila was hitting him like a freight train. He could feel dizziness kicking in, as if he'd been lifting heavy dumbbells all evening rather than scoops of ice cream. He needed to splash some water on his face, maybe even take a cold shower to sober up a bit.

Abby, meanwhile, was growing smugger with every spoonful. 'I'm always right,' she mumbled, speaking with her mouth full. And you, Ryan Hughes, are right where I want you, she thought. Swallowing another landslide of ice cream, she dropped her jaw for more, which Ryan dutifully scooped up and fed in. Abby squirmed a little as she sucked it down, and not just from the clench of her girdle. Her ego had always been inseparable from her libido, and being served like this, having a man—her boss, no less—so bewitched by her beauty that he'd feed her dessert and agree to whatever she wanted... It was just so intensely arousing. Deep down, Abby knew she was eating too much, that the taut, throbbing sensation around her middle went deeper than just her girdle, as if the very walls of her stomach were bowing outwards, straining to hold in every spoonful of ice cream she gulped down. But she couldn't help it. The sense of power was just too intoxicating, too delicious. She wanted more.

She needed more.

Sliding her lips off the spoon with a slight popping sound, the engorged diva licked a splotch of chocolate sauce from the underside of her nose.

'Strawberry next,' she said thickly.

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With a growing ache developing in his forearm, Ryan dug out what felt like the ten-millionth scoop of ice cream.

Jesus Christ, how much would it take to put this wobbling pig to sleep? The sundae had been enormous, its peaks almost reaching his chin. Enough ice cream to knock out a family of elephants. Yet between them Abby and Fatima were rapidly guzzling it flat. Forget food comas, Ryan thought. Forget indigestion. If they get through all this they'll explode. He could only imagine how disgustingly puffed out and engorged and  stretched out of shape their poor stomachs must look beneath the table.

One person who didn't have to imagine this was James. Ignored as usual by those around and— now in a quite literal sense—above him, the young waiter had, in his quest for the perfect upskirt, delved deeper and deeper under the table. And in the process, he had gotten himself into what his grandma would have described, had she been there, as 'a bit of a pickle'.

Enraptured by the juicy thighs and plump squirming bottoms of the two glamorous beauties feasting at the table, James had delved too deep and lingered too long. And just when he'd taken a few (dozen) choice photos and decided that he'd better be getting out, disaster had struck...

Suddenly, without warning, the chair facing him had begun to creak forwards. James had shuffled away from it... only to hear the ominous creak the chair behind him moving in as well.

Then the other two chairs followed suit.

It was like a scene in an adventure movie, where the hero picks up the relic from a plinth at the centre of some inner sanctum and the temple walls around him suddenly start to groan and creak inwards. Shins and knees closing in from all angles, James desperately shifted and shuffled one way then the other, until he was curled up in a ball beneath the dead centre of the table.

And so here he was. Sitting on his knobbly backside, hugging his knees into his chin, hemmed in on all sides by four sets of shoes, shins and chair legs. All of them inches from touching him. Completely trapped.

Cold sweat began to trickle down James's chest. If he was found in this position... well, he'd certainly lose his job, and possibly face a lawsuit as well. Probably his name would end up on some sort of pervert's charter. To make matters worse, he'd forgotten to drag his bucket in with him. He could see it, just beyond the worryingly short veil of the tablecloth, quite out of reach. Which left him with absolutely no excuse for being where he was. He didn't even have enough wiggle room to fish his phone out of his pocket and delete the incriminating photos.

In fact, under the circumstances, there was only one thing James could do, and that was wait. Wait and pray that no knee or foot jerked at the wrong moment. The only saving grace was that the tables in the hall were packed quite tightly together (almost as tightly as Abby's plump thighs in that first photo he'd taken) making it fairly unlikely that he'd be detected.

Unless someone dropped a fork or spoon and bent down to retrieve it.

James prayed silently to every god he'd ever heard of that this wouldn't happen, repenting of all his sins and promising to delete not just the pictures on his phone but the entire emporium of porn on his computer, if only he could somehow get out of this mess. His only hope was to stay still long enough, then sneak out from beneath the table unseen once the hall had cleared.

When that would be, he had no idea. He didn't dare make any movement at all, not even to twist his arm and look at his watch, and time was hard to gauge beneath the table. The heat and strange acoustics conspired to created a kind of surreal, almost dreamlike haze, wherein the general clink and chatter of the banquet was a muffled hum, while the noises just above and beneath the table were greatly amplified.

And the loudest by far were coming from the two women's stomachs.

Perhaps the fear and heat were making him crazy, but it seemed to James that the bulging paunches either side of his head were carrying on some sort of conversation—and a pretty bad-tempered one at that. As if objecting to every muffled gulp and slurp above the table, the bellies beneath were whining and grumbling in strained discomfort, creaking against the overpriced, overstretched gowns that struggled to contain them. From time to time well-manicured fingers would descend to administer a soothing stroke or to pinch and tug at the tight fabric. But it didn't seem to be doing much good. If anything the digestive dialogue was only getting louder.

With a jolt of horror, James realised why. The bellies were getting louder because they were getting closer—bulging towards his ears on either side as they swelled up with all the food the two women were gorging themselves on above the table. In a bizarre, light-headed moment James imagined them continuing to grow bigger and bigger, until his head was squashed between them like a paid of great overstuffed pillows.

He supposed there were worse ways to go.

Although judging by the noises, it sounded more likely that one or both bellies would burst before they reached him. In addition to getting louder, their raucous rumblings were becoming increasingly pained and distressed. It was clear that both were full way beyond capacity with rich food. James twisted his head slightly to the right, so that he could see the gold-clad paunch out of the corner of his eye. It looked horribly swollen—a podgy bulbous balloon of fat jammed between its owner's thick thighs and the underside of the table. It had lifted the short tablecloth up entire, and James was half-surprised it hadn't lifted the actual table along with it. The fabric was stretched to bursting point, sequins flaring out at all angles, taut as a drum except for a squidgy, sucked-in crease around her bellybutton.

For all his fear, James was mesmerized. The size and shape of it... The dangerous bubbling and grumbling.... Perhaps she really would explode. Had that happened? Had a woman ever literally burst overeating?

And if so, how much more could it take?

This same question - with several swearwords mixed in - was running through Ryan's alcohol-sozzled brain as he scraped his spoon around the bottom of the vast glass trough of ice cream.

Or more accurately, the vast glass trough that had previously contained ice cream. Now almost all of that ice cream was—somehow—contained within Abby and Fatima.

As the gluttonous pair had continued to slurp down scoop after scoop, Ryan's disgust had given way first to disbelief and then to a kind of weird, almost scientific fascination. Just how much could their bodies actually hold?

The answer, at least for Fatima, was no more. As Seth hovered a syrup-drenched heap of ice cream before her nose, the bloated Bengali blinked at it twice, then swung up a hand and pushed it aside, turning her head away with a groan. This act seemed to sap the last of her strength, and with a great, gurgling wheeze her shoulders slumped and her arms fell to her sides, dangling limply.

Seth looked over the engorged Indian beauty, sprawled out in her chair, plump bosom huffing and puffing up and down atop the slouching lump of her paunch. She was so food-drunk and exhausted that she was almost sliding off her chair.

Yet even half-hidden beneath those dark hooded lids, there was no mistaking the look in her deep snakelike eyes.

Seth grinned and took a swig of champagne. Primary target acquired.

Slipping a hand into the breast pocket of his Armani jacket, he fished around until his fingers located a thin foil packet. He pressed down with a neatly trimmed nail, popping a pill free and rolling it over in his fingers a few times to make sure it was the diamond shape of a Viagra, not one of the round soluble pills from the other pack in his pocket.

The ones he'd been slipping into Ryan's drinks.

Contrary to what that waitress might have suspected, Seth would never stoop to drugging a woman. For one thing, it would spoil the fun, take all the challenge out of the chase. But Hughes... well, he was a buddy, for sure. But this evening, in the game of seduction, he was also an enemy combatant. And Seth needed to neutralize all enemy combatants.

Especially if he was going to succeed in taking his secondary objective.

He turned back to Ryan, watching him struggle to hoist another quivering mound of ice cream to Abby's plump glistening lips. Seth couldn't decide what he found more impressive: Ryan's tolerance of sleeping pills, or Abby's tolerance of ice cream. She must have guzzled half a metric tonne of the stuff, on top of everything else... and she was still going! Albeit rather slowly now. Seth couldn't help but stare. He made no secret of the fact that he had a thing for the larger lady, even played up to it. But his fetish ran deeper than that.

Perhaps it was some sort of reflection of his own personality. Perhaps it was some sort of Freudian hangover from a past life. Whatever. All Seth knew was that there was something irresistibly erotic about greed itself, and its effects on a woman's body. He'd spent most of the evening fantasising about Fatima's wealthily overindulged curves. Now he wondered about Abby's—how she would feel in bed. Soft and plush, surely, yet taut around the stomach that she'd greedily packed with delicious food until it had become a straining pillow of flesh, quivering and grumbling with every thrust he'd put into her. Seth looked from Abby to Fatima and then back to Abby again, visualising the pair of them on their backs in bed, flushed and panting in the aftermath.

He imagined himself lying face down between them, simultaneously stroking their grossly swollen bellies as they groaned and burped, helping their huge feasts to settle.

Just for once, Seth wondered if he'd really needed the Viagra.

But before all that could happen, he had to neutralize the enemy combatant. And  check that his bribed waitress had competed the final task he'd given her.

'Service here is shocking,' Seth announced loudly, shunting back his chair. 'I'll go get us some more espresso martinis.'

Heading towards the bar, he glanced back, and was pleased to see Ryan's head lolling vaguely, his spoon, again loaded with ice cream, winding and swaying towards Abby's open mouth, like a drunk driver trying to direct his swerving car into a tunnel. Seth wasn't going to risk another pill. He didn't want to hurt the man. But a shot of absinthe in his martini would surely be enough to send him off to the land of Nod.

'No hard feelings, Hughes,' Seth muttered to himself. 'But one dessert just wasn't enough for these big ladies, and one big lady just isn't enough for this big man.'