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Lisa has a devilish look in her eye. She waits until she hears Ben drive off to watch the game with his friend Justin, then turns that wicked gaze on Dean. On Dean's belly. On the great heave of middle that's already packed full of turkey and mashed potatoes and peas and a bottle of wine. Full of home-made rolls and cranberry sauce and not one, but two slabs of pumpkin pie. With whipped cream. He's already in half a food coma, sprawled on the couch with his t-shirt pulled snug across what hasn't been a waistline in a good two years, and he knows he's not hungry. But when Lisa wears that grin and slides across the couch, puts her hands all over his gut and eases his shirt up, he starts to get hard. He's groggy and so full, he's already had to unbelt his jeans, but Dean knows what she's thinking.
There was a damned good reason she insisted they not clean up dinner. Yet.
Lisa licks her lips and gives him a flat-palmed shove, rocking his ponderous gut to and fro. It aches and he grunts, and it just makes him harder. She knows it, too. She hoists up his gut, just an inch, enough to slip her hand under and tug his dick a few times. Enough to make sure he's hopelessly interested.
She can't sit on his lap—he doesn't have one anymore—so she drapes herself across his swollen middle and licks at one of his big, soft, exposed breasts. Sucks at his nipple until it piques. Dean used to be bothered by the gradual appearance of his moobs, almost stunned by them, but it didn't take long for Lisa to convince him that they were a delicious part of the package. The moment Lisa confessed to having this, heh, fantasy and Dean agreed to give it a whirl, he had to get his brain wrapped around the fact that his body wasn't altogether his own, anymore. It was as much Lisa's. He surrendered control, and it was the happiest he'd ever been.
“You stay here,” she whispers, and kisses her way up his chest to nibble at his double chin, at his pudgy cheek. So much for that infamous Winchester jawline.
“God, like I could move if I wanted,” Dean chuckles. He lets her hair drift through his fingers as she gets up, pads sock-footed to the remains of their Thanksgiving feast. As he hears silverware clattering against plates, he massages his over-full middle. Tries to make room. There's a thick blanket of fat over the hard ball of his stomach, but he eases out a belch and feels marginally better. He wiggles back and forth to get his jeans to loosen more, tries to sit up just a little taller. It's work, that's for damned sure. He can barely bend at the middle. He struggles out of his shirt and wheezes, bare-chested, runs his hands around his girth to reach beneath.
“Oh no you don't!” Lisa suddenly appears and slaps at his arm, so he puts his hands on the couch, obediently.
He doesn't think he can do it. He doesn't think he can eat another mouthful. But she settles in beside him, smiling darkly, lashes heavy, and brandishes a spoonful of that weird marshmallow yam casserole that everyone seems to insist upon for the holidays. It's smooth and sweet and rich (okay, so maybe it's not so weird, after all), and he lets her feed him. She's got another spoonful readied before the first is swallowed, her timing insistent. She doesn't let him pause to think, to consider how full he is. Doesn't let him think about the swelling ache in his gut and how he's starting to sweat, just a little.
Dean stares at her mouth as she stuffs his, relishes how her pretty pink tongue teases at her teeth, and she murmurs soft words, like “good boy” and “precious” and “more”. She offers him a big glass of milk to wash it all down, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “Beautiful,” she demures, showing him what used to be a full dish of casserole. Empty.
Dean lets himself groan, shifts and rocks, the couch creaking. His gut rubs against his stiff cock, and he spreads his thighs. He needs the room.
Their home scale has long since ceased to be of any use, but it feels like he's ballooning again; he just knows it. His 2XL shirts are tight, stretchmarks have exploded across his flanks, and he can sense it when he walks, the way everything sways and weighs him down. Lisa strolls with him patiently, proudly, her hand sitting on one of his bouncing ass cheeks. Sometimes she even makes little comments where people can hear, like at the grocery store: “Are you sure we should get five pounds of bacon? Never mind, silly question.” And she'll smile knowingly as his face heats and the cashier stares. Then Lisa will reward Dean with a handjob in the back of their Town and Country before they even leave the parking lot. (Yes, they broke down and bought a minivan. Was only practical.) Sometimes, he can't even remember his old life.
Lisa's smiling that way again, reaching back for another plate. “You know, you're getting really … big,” she seems to chide, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth, then another. “And if you keep it up –” a third tomato “– I may just let you come.”
Dean chews with some effort and swallows, brows hoisted. “Oh, really now?” he parries, but Jesus God, he's so hard right now, he might do anything she asks.
She plops a plate piled with dinner leftovers – turkey and buttered rolls and celery filled with cream cheese – on the apex of his stomach and proceeds to roam her fingers in gentle prods all across his paunch and spreading thighs. “Stuff yourself,” she commands.
It's a lot of food. A. Lot. Of. Food. And he's already so full, he hurts. But when Lisa's head disappears behind the mountain of his own flesh, he starts shoveling. She's kissing his bulging love handles, pulling his unfastened jeans inch by painful inch down his legs, and he tries to hoist his ass up to help her but it's futile. She manages, though. Lisa is nothing if not tenacious. She peels his jeans down his legs and he lifts one foot at a time, mouth full, fingers greasy. The jeans get flung across the room, with a vicious laugh.
“Done?” she asks.
Struggling to find just an ounce more room to finish, Dean squirms. He rubs at his gut, but Lisa catches his hand.
“You can do it …” she purrs against the underside of his ponderous belly, her breath warm. “You can.”
The ache in his dick is worse than the ache in his bloated middle. He stuffs his cheeks with bread and chews, squeezes in the last of the turkey, swallows as Lisa shoves up at his weight and gets her head underneath. He forces down the last piece of celery as her mouth wraps around his cock and he whines, throws the plate to the floor with a clatter and by some jag of luck, it doesn't break. He lifts his gut with both hands, giving her room, and wheezes as the weight presses against his lungs, as his heart-rate amps up with every suck and lick and pull on his shaft. Her head bobs into his girth, the fat bouncing in waves, and he feels like he might explode. Twice.
He drops his head back, and because Lisa knows him so, so well, she slaps a palm against his thigh and that's it. That's all it takes. That sting. Her hot wet mouth. The swelling ache in his belly.
Dean shoots off like a rocket, his pulse thundering in his ears.
Lisa snaps the tape measure. This is her reward. Dean's still catching his breath, and it takes him three tries to level himself off the couch. Bare-ass naked, he rocks to his feet and feels sweat roll down his back, collecting under new rolls he swears weren't there a few weeks ago. Not that he's surprised, not really.
Getting the cool plastic ruler around his middle, Dean even goes so far as to inhale as deeply as he can, which isn't much, but for her? He tries. Because she likes the numbers. She likes concrete evidence that he's making, well, progress. And it's all her handiwork.
The tape measure barely overlaps.
Her hair is mussed, and she looks up at him with beautiful, glittering eyes. Just mouths, “Holy shit...”