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Encounter
| Doing my usual utmost to keep myself to myself, my morning commute on the London Underground was as tedious – mindless – as I needed. Stillness, solitude, keeping myself separate from the humdrum reality of a daily frenzied panic to get to nowhere in particular – my thoughts are telling me I need a new job. To decide to shut yourself off from any part of life is not a good lesson to learn but, right now, it is serving me well. Is he looking at me? A tall, lithe man, in his early forties, grey-brown hair and straight out of a shop display - I feel too young, too big, and too shy. I thought I had perfected the art of staring into space during these journeys, as looking past your belly to stare at the tips of your feet makes you look like you have even more to hide. My eyes were supposed to be focussing on a scratch mark in one of the windows, and I know they never wavered. Did he mistake that look, or was he looking at something else? Maybe he is doing what I thought I was doing... My eyes betray me, and look to check the situation. I get that look back. I know that look – I remember being told to avoid that look, but that was before I grew up, before I learned to know better about what I wanted in life, and what I wanted lay in those eyes. Work will have to stop for today, and I’ll incur the consequences later, but I’m pretty sure I don’t care. Where do I work again? The train jerked to a halt at what turned out to be our designated stop, in that he walked off first, and I followed him. Through the station, into the bustling street, and into a side avenue, I followed his every step. I did my best to look nonchalant, but my stomach had ample space to work out a variety of different knots into which it can tie itself. He arrived at a door, and turned around to face me once again. The curl of his lip calmed me – he wanted me to follow him, and I had done exactly that. He took a key out of his pocket, opening the door. A glance back at me beckoned me inside – I had nothing to lose, and he looked friendly enough for me to know I was safe. I was led up a series of stairs, and through a dead-bolted fire escape door. The corridor into which we entered was eerily familiar to me, although where I work must be very similar to most office buildings. It then hit me – my blind following led through the side entrance of my work building, past my office on the first floor, and to the ninth, top floor. Who is this man? His name was inscribed on a plaque by the door – "James Revell, Chief Financial Officer.” Does he know I’m an employee? Perhaps he does. I was a little concerned now, as my livelihood was now a little more at stake – even if I was not led here against my better judgement, my livelihood is now in jeopardy, and I’ll still be alive to see my descent. I was about to protest my innocence when Mr. Revell hushed my open lips with an index finger – the situation was in full control. With that, he moved even closer, our noses almost touching, his hard torso pushing against my comparative pillow. His eyes, his musk, his sensuousness overpowered me – our bodies simultaneously locked together, in a deep, controlled, consensual kiss. Neither one of us flailed, or appear unsure that what we were up to, right now, was anything other than what was absolutely right for us. James applied his hands in small, smooth, circular movements around my middle – yes, this was the reason I grew it, but I never thought it would be something that other people from myself would enjoy. "I’ve heard about you. You don’t belong here. Please, let me take you away.” What has he heard? What does he know? I cannot fathom, but that statement of intention sent my mind into cartwheels. James lowered me onto his leather settee. He took off my jacket, and I took off his, our lips still touching. Now with a better grasp on ourselves, the shirts came next – I only trailed the buttons down to his shoulders, still working out my parameters, but James kissed his way down to the lat button. I was becoming too inflamed for my judgement to matter anymore. James grabbed my belt, and manoeuvred me on top of him. We undid our belts, and I was beginning to gauge a level of urgency to the situation – my underwear was taken down in the same moment, which made me think I should do likewise. James turned himself over. He ran his hands down his sides, then upwards to catch me. I was given control. I was pointed towards a drawer in the coffee table next to me. All the equipment I needed was there. I rubbered up, slicked up, and chose to enter slowly. James moaned softly – I pleased him, giving me reason to begin increasing the pressure and speed of my rhythmic movement. My natural instinct appeared, calling loudly – it didn’t matter if anyone heard. The slaps of my stomach against the small of his back beat my personal metronome. My joints ached as I approached the inevitable, crashing into James’ back as I came with one final roar. James panted for around twenty seconds or so, before turning my inert, sweating, spent body over, and started frotting against my limp member, matching the force of my earlier noise. This carried on for longer than I was able to perceive, as if the friction was needed to start a fire. The time came when James fired himself into my soft underbelly, applying a hot poker to a most sensitive area, before falling across my belly – and straight back into a long, lingering kiss with me. What connection we had made was not about to be easily broken. I wasn’t to be turned out of the office in disgrace, or lose my job, because James would make sure that wouldn’t happen. Whatever was going to follow this moment would have to acknowledge the incontrovertible truth that both of us would have to be involved. Whether this was his day off, or if he had requested no calls today, James decided it was time to take me home, so we could get to know each other more. We put on our clothes, called a taxi, sent for a removal firm to clear out my flat, and my resignation letter was written and accepted. My life was about to change, and I’m secure enough to put myself into safe hands. I never had a reason to worry – Jamie was happy that I chose to follow him from that train, how he intrigued me, and how I felt I could trust him. We told our life stories to each other, until there was nothing we couldn’t know. When we realised, through and through, we had become one person, we sealed our partnership in the eyes of the law – I never had to worry about a thing again. If I have a job, it is to be there for Jamie, like he is there for me. I wave goodbye when he leaves for work, and I’m there to welcome him back. During the day, I write (I’m looking to publish soon), learn about the world, and keep myself, and the world, looking beautiful – Jamie calls me "his beacon” as an example of the sort of person he likes to meet. My happiness has been my major change, though my outward appearance is no less significant. My low metabolism has taken advantage of my newfound ability to luxuriate – I can overload my senses with the finest clothes, the most profound music, and the tastiest food. My hair is flowing, my skin is soft and supple, and my body is heavy with flesh. I have no need to know a numerical weight, but I feel the push of my belly when I lean forward, the sweet pressure on my lap when I sit, my upper arms bunching when I bring a fork of cake to my mouth, and the push-pull bounce of my ass when given due attention. Movement has become an effort, joints preserved as they are under a protective, squishy layer - this is the price you pay for the lifestyle you always secretly craved, but never had the nerve to step out of the daily grind to achieve. As my belly encroaches on my knees, as I stare out and over it from my chaise longue, I know I have always made the right choice. I hear my lover at the door. I will meet him there – he won’t be able to resist. Source: http://www.bellybuilders.com/messageboard/viewtopic.php?f=4&t=14122 | |
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