The Clean Plate ClubbySteatopygist©
It starts with a text.
[ MEET ME FOR LUNCH - NINA ]
You're alarmed. It's been a month since she agreed to let you break things off. You changed your cellphone number right away, and never gave her this one.
[ CANT, TOO BUSY ]
[ I COULD INVITE YOUR WIFE INSTEAD ]
[ WHERE? ]
[ BUBBA'S, NOON, DON'T BE LATE ]
She includes a link to some rib house off the north tollway. You'll have to sneak out early, but at least you won't run into anyone you know.
Thanks to meetings and traffic, you don't get there until 12:10. She's already waiting, crimson lips pursed in mock disapproval. God, this is a bad idea! But God, she looks hot! Knee-high boots, tight skirt, gloves, silk blouse, designer sunglasses: cruel creamy skin wrapped in expensive black glossiness.
"Sit down. I've already ordered for us."
"I ... I'm really not very hungry," you protest. Barbecue is the absolute last thing you need. Your belt is on its outermost notch, these pants are so tight you can barely sit down, and they're the only pair you can still get into - you split your gray slacks trying to squeeze your fat butt into them this morning, and you're afraid these will be next.
"I didn't ask if you were hungry. I'm buying lunch, and I expect you to finish every bite on your plate."
"That's ... I'm ... kind of trying to diet."
She smirks, and squeezes the thick roll of flab hanging over your belt. "It doesn't seem to be working. Don't worry; you look sexy with extra meat on your bones."
"My wife doesn't think so," you reply glumly. Her Highness is very, very annoyed at how much weight you've been gaining. Thank God she doesn't know it's from all those drinks and secret dinners out with Nina.
"That's a shame." She looks you directly in the eye. "I hope she doesn't decide to leave you, if you keep filling out."
Is that Nina's game? "But her brother would fire me!"
She shugs. "He's already planning to lay you off next week. The company is on the verge of bankruptcy."
"Your employer really needs a better password policy. Don't worry. I'm going to make a fortune shorting their stock. You won't starve, my pet."
Now you are alarmed. "Isn't that illegal?"
"Why yes, it is," she smiles dangerously. "But you're not going to tell the S.E.C. about it, are you? Never mind - here's our food. Dig in, like a good little piggy!"
This is utterly fucked. This woman has tied you up, spanked you, and forced you to submit to countless other humiliations and indignities, but you've never felt so helpless in her hands until just now. Or so turned-on. Or so mouth-wateringly hungry...
You unfasten your belt.
You've cleaned the first two plates Nina ordered you; the ribs and the fried chicken were oh-so-good; but the third plate is just too much. Now you stare hopelessly at the remaining 10% of your pork chops, scalloped potatoes and creamed corn.
"Yes, you really have to eat every bite of it, and anything else I ask you to do," she says in a firm voice. "Is that so bad?"
No, but: "... can't ... breathe ..." you gasp.
She giggles. "I need to take you clothes shopping. Here, let me help."
Before you can stop her, she unbuttons your pants. You feel your belly surge free, forcing the zipper sharply downward. You shiver as sharp crimson nails glide across your bulging flesh.
"What if I can't button them again?" you protest. You know you can't; you barely got them done this morning, laying on the bed and sucking your stomach as flat as you could.
She reaches up and removes the rubber band from her pony-tail. Her auburn hair billows free, expanding and expanding like your unconfined gut. She reaches beneath the table. Is she going to put that on your junk? Here in public? "No, don't ..."
"Shhh," she commands. "Watch and learn." She threads the rubber band through the button-hole, stretches the two halves back across the uncloseable gap, and loops them around the button. "It's a trick pregnant ladies use, when they get too fat for their pants. Pull your shirt down, and nobody will see what a greedy piggy you've been."
You are embarrassed, but at least you can breathe now. Slowly, you finish off the remainder of your plate, while she caresses your drum-tight belly and alternately encourages and mocks you. Just when you think you are going to burst, you swallow the last bite.
She smiles in triumph, and looks at her watch.
"You are such a slow eater. I hear their peach cobbler is excellent, but we don't have time for dessert. Perhaps next week."
"Yes. You don't want to disappoint me, do you?"
You feel light-headed, both from gluttony and lust.
"No, Mistress ... but ..."
She is already standing up to go, and looks down sternly at you. "Yes?"
"Next week, could we have Italian?"