The lady wot lunched a little too much - Chapter 10.75 preview (Patreon)

Hey all,

Still polishing up the full chapter, but promised something by today, so here is a preview.

The full addition will be just over twice as long as the below, and will form part of the definitive Chapter 10, in combination with the previous two previews. This will be posted on Tuesday (there's just one tiny bit I need to sort out at the end) so if you prefer to wait until then, please ignore this. However, this part is very unlikely to change at all in the "final" version.

I hope you enjoy it. Thank you so much for your patience, and as always please let me know what you think! 😊

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Chapter 10.75 Preview

Aimi probably wouldn't have believed it, but there was one person in England who had, that evening, eaten even more than Abby Prescott.

‘She's just such an -uurp!- fucking bitch!’

Gemma punctuated the statement by shoving an éclair into her mouth so violently that Peter half-expected it to burst out the the back of her head.

It didn't, of course, but the cream did burst through the pastry, covering Gemma's flushed cheeks and golden hair in a snowy froth. Somehow it made her look even more indignant.

And even more sexy.

In fact, Peter was finding that the more Gemma ate, the sexier she was getting. Every mouthful seemed to make her eyes that little bit bluer, her expression that little bit poutier.

And, of course, her tummy that little bit plumper.

Although by this point 'little' was hardly a word that could be used in relation to Gemma's waistline. Or any part of her, for that matter. Over the course of the evening, the tubby blonde had filled herself so full of pizza and pudding and Prosecco that her whole body seemed to have swollen up as if from some sort of allergic reaction. Her pyjama top was so stretched out of shape that it looked as if she'd crammed herself into a children's size, the fabric around her flanks pulled into tight bulging creases. Diamond-shaped globs of flesh bubbled out between straining buttons down the front, jiggling as Gemma munched on her éclair, and a good half of her paunch was thrusting out rudely beneath the bottom of her pyjama top, so that the little triangle of fabric under the last button was spread over her pudgy bellybutton like a collapsed tent.

'All that Inffagram fuff,' Gemma mumbled around a full mouth, waving her éclair like a floppy policeman's truncheon (if the policeman had gotten hungry and taken a large bite out of it). 'All that was -hiic!- my idea! I did all the work!' The blonde pointed indignantly at herself, and in the process managed to jab herself roughly in the chest. As Gemma's finger sank into her left boob, Peter was sure he saw her belly swell slightly larger, as if the flesh compressed in one area had been forced to bulge out in the other.

Taking his whimper of lust as an expression of sympathy, Gemma gave a single, emphatic nod, parted her pouting lips, and shoved the rest of her éclair between them. There was far too much left to fit into her mouth in one go, but in her rage she rammed it in anyway, making the éclair fold up like a concertina.

'But oh no,'' Gemma gurgled, the words words clawing their way out through a landslide of chocolate and cream, 'Miss Fat-Arse gets the trophy and the holiday... St Lucia!' She paused on the word, locking her fiery blue eyes on Peter's, as if this was the biggest and most obvious part of the insult. 'I've always wanted to go to St Lucia!'

In fact Gemma hadn't heard of St Lucia until a few weeks ago, when, one of her friends had come back with a golden tan and gushing report about the barbecue ribs.

The thought of Abby undeservedly guzzling delicious food on a beach triggered Gemma's appetite again. With a huff of indignance, she turned back to the table.

It was only then that Peter saw them. The tiny balls of dew, hanging from the blonde's curled lashes like baubles on a Christmas tree.

That's why her eyes look so big and blue, he realised. They're bulging with tears.

He also realised that he'd put a hand on her back.

Gemma sniffed, her bee-stung upper lip quivering. Suddenly all the rage seemed to have drained out of her. She hiccupped, and Peter patted her back.

It was the lightest of touches - a feathery triple tap just below the nape of the neck that made the flesh ripple faintly, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a raindrop. Yet as the final ripple faded, it was followed by a deep, long rumble from somewhere within Gemma's stomach - a low shuddering creak, like the hull of a ship turning in a heavy storm.  Her shoulders began to shake, the flesh beneath rippling and then quivering and then surging in great waves across as Gemma's whole body seemed to inflate even further, as if trying to hold in some immense, bubbling pressure. Her eyes and cheeks bulged.

Just as Peter was sure she would burst, Gemma's mouth exploded open in an enormous lip-rippling belch. The glass in the summerhouse windows quivered and the floorboards seemed to wobble beneath them.

Drunkenly, Gemma swung a hand up to cover the burp, and managed instead to smack herself squarely on the nose. She staggered backwards, eyes stretching like saucers.

Peter sprang into action. Jumping to the side, he grabbed the toppling blonde's outstretched hands. It was like fighting a tug of war with a boulder that had been dropped off a cliff-edge. The moment Peter seized Gemma's wrists, he was dragged forward with a jolt that snapped his neck back. With a dizzying sense of weightlessness, he tipped up onto his toenails.

Yet just as Peter was resigning himself to the not entirely terrible fate of being pulled down onto a bed of wobbling blonde plumpness, Gemma's retreating foot slipped on a beanbag.

With a swish like a tennis serve, Gemma's leg whipped up behind her, the heel slamming into the soft expanse of her bottom. All her momentum reversed direction. Propelled by her own kick, and the weight of her full belly, the wobbling blonde now began to stagger forwards, her eyes bulging wide and fearful.

But not nearly half as wide or fearful as Peter's.

Instinctively he released Gemma's wrists. His hands shot out, palms forward, fingers splaying just as Gemma toppled into them, boobs-first, so that Peter felt the poke of her nipples through her pyjama top. For a split second, the universe seemed to freeze. To the sound of his own heartbeat, thudding in slow motion, Peter felt his legs quiver, watched the pupils in Gemma's eyes swell in slow motion. Then the spell was broken. Peter's spindly knees knocked together twice, and collapsed.

The white-panelled ceiling of the summer house raced above him, and then vibrated like the strings of a guitar as the back of his skull bounced off the cold, hard floor.

It bounced off it again as Gemma landed on top of him.

The seams in the roof flared a hot, brilliant white, before turning to a shuddering kaleidoscope of purples and blues.

And then everything went black.

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