Grown

Author ChubbaDubDub

I’ll have to start from the beginning, back when Harper and I were just children.

Her family lived next-door to my grandparents, which is very fortunate in hindsight. Had she not lived exactly where she lived, I likely never would have met her, which is a scary thought considering how important a part she’s played in my life just recently. Back then, though, she was only a minor character in the narrative of my existence. My grandmother, a socialite despite her old age, would often have Harper’s mother over for coffee in the mornings while they were both out working in their respective gardens, or over for lunch on some of the more quiet holidays. If that happened while my grandmother was babysitting me, I’d get to play with little Harper. Sometimes, my grandma would even get to babysit both of us at the same time, which always resulted in hours of uninterrupted play.

We’d often sneak off into the “woods” behind Harper’s house—hardly more than a little cluster of trees in her backyard, but more than enough to form a forest in our young imaginations—and pretend to be all sorts of different things. If we were acting something out, Harper was always the one controlling the story. Whether we were outlaws, explorers or royalty on any given playdate depended on Harper’s mood. I remember her taking a liking to Star Wars once she got a bit older, around early elementary school. Suddenly, that was a part of the pretending, and for the first time we were specific characters with specific genders, which threw me off at the beginning. We couldn’t both be Princess Leia, so one of us always had to be a boy.

A ball of energy, she was. Always running around, giggling and screaming. My memories of those days are fond, albeit very hazy. Being the same age, the two of us grew up together for the earliest years of our lives. We only saw eachother a few times a year, but we’d been friends long enough that neither of us could remember a time at which we hadn’t been friends. In that sense, there was something mystical about Harper in my young mind; it felt as though I had known her perpetually, but I would never fully get to know her. I was in a perpetual state of getting to know more about Harper.

Perhaps that’s why she ended up sticking out in my mind as a landmark of my development in the way that she did. I remember one day in grade school, having not seen her in many months, when I looked at Harper and realized for the first time just how pretty she was. I remember wanting to roughhouse again, even though we’d stopped doing that sometime last year. These observations were thrilling in my young mind. Throughout puberty, I’d continue to run these feelings through my mind at night like water through my fingers, building and elaborating on them, coming slowly to realize new things about myself as I realized new things about Harper. I liked her in the way I was supposed to like a boy. That was the first major realization.

Sexual tension increased as we developed. Harper, the more forward of the two of us, soon revealed herself to be curious in many of the same ways I was. Entering our preteen years, Harper and I were becoming more conversational, and she was comfortable asking questions and discussing things which were far more personal than anything I myself would’ve been willing to talk about had she not brought them up first. During these conversations, I’d catch her staring at me in the places I was starting to develop, silently praying that she wouldn’t catch me doing the same.

The next most surprising development in my sexual identity would be spurred by Harper several months later, after a particularly long time not having seen her. I remember that day more clearly than any I’ve described thus far. Harper showed up at my grandmother’s that morning looking different than before; she’d gained a bit of weight, and for the first time, she was looking rounder as well as taller than the last time I’d seen her. Her breasts had grown, but I was surprised not to care all that much; for some reason, I was preoccupied with her newfound chubbiness. Her tummy pressed her shirt in a totally new way, one which I found myself unable to look away from. I was beyond enamored, beyond intrigued. For the first time, I became aware of my fetish.

Harper was clearly noticing my development as well. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of my breasts, which had grown dramatically in her absence—much bigger than hers, despite her growth elsewhere. We both knew that she was now too old to get away with any aura of innocence if she probed the sexual tension conversationally the way she used to, so she kept quiet about it for now. Instead, we faked conversation for the first time, communicating bodily interest only with our eyes. I sincerely doubt she was aware that it was her chubbiness rather than her own breasts that had me so intrigued, but it didn’t matter; we both knew there was a mutual, unspoken and unspeakable attraction between us. We would each go home to probe and unpack these feelings later.

Harper’s energetic disposition failed to translate into an active lifestyle as she became an adolescent. She remained thoughtful, bubbly, forward and imaginative but there was no more running around. She became fatter as time went on, and I always found myself rooting for it. I wanted to take pictures or write about how she looked so that I’d never lose the image. I’d seen so many before and after pictures of people who’d shed hundreds of pounds of body fat, and I was genuinely scared that if Harper lost her extra weight, I’d never get to see her the way she currently was ever again. When I made my birthday wish that year, I wished she’d get fatter.

The very last time I saw Harper while we were still children was the climax of this sexual tension. We were watching TV at her house while her mother and my grandma spoke and had their morning coffee across the fence. Nobody else was home. I told Harper I was cold. “Come here,” she said. She patted the cushion. I joined her on the sofa. Pangs of ecstasy and surprise ran through me as she put an arm around me. I did the same for her, huddled against her soft body beneath a warm blanket. I remember touching the side of her belly gently and gauging its softness, delighted to finally have some way to assure myself that it was tangible and real. Of course, at the time, it was impossible for me to articulate all of that. I just knew that she was lovely and this was wonderful.

“Is this okay?” I whispered, somewhat stupidly. She said it was, so we stayed like that for about fifteen minutes. The TV spat cartoons, but we weren’t watching. I was very happy.

For a while afterwards, I felt guilty about that night. Now though, with the hindsight of an adult, I think it was very sweet. We were two girls feeling our way blindly through our first crush, not sure whether or not it was okay to express what we felt. I think that gesture was nothing more than innocent assurance that the answer to that uncertainty was yes, that it was okay for a girl to like a girl and that neither of us were alone. We were telling eachother it wasn’t really all that uncommon to be different before either of us had the language to actually say that.

Eventually, Harper and I were old enough to stay home without being watched by an adult. As a result, high school passed without so much as glance at my longtime crush. I thought of her less and less as her absence wore on, but when I did, the thoughts that swirled through my head were always the same. Had she slimmed down? Was she even fatter now? Did she still like girls? Would she still like me, or had she ever? I felt like I’d never know.

I wouldn’t see her again until just before we each began college. Because of that, when I did finally see her again, it was almost a surreal experience. I’d hardly thought of her in years, so seeing her again brought back a flood of welcome memories and a warm wash of nostalgia. She’d finally decided to visit my grandmother again by her own volition, and it just so happened to be the same day that I’d made a visit of my own.

Vividly, I can recall looking her over that day. She’d grown so much. She was a young woman now. Her cute, childish features had blossomed into more chiseled, decisive and defined versions of their former selves. She was recognizable, but so very different. She was still absolutely beautiful, but the things that made her beautiful had shifted.

That afternoon was very bittersweet. Her and I talked that day, but we didn’t get to actually converse all that much. Our relatives were doing most of the chatting for us, and there wasn’t much to do but sit there and listen to them ramble while we pretended not to be all that interested in one another. But I was very interested in her. She was sitting there for the first time in many years and I was thinking about all of these old things and it was lovely, but nothing was happening that was supposed to be happening. Neither of us was whisking the other off into another room to be alone and catch up. Neither of us was talking about how much we’d changed or how much we hadn’t changed. We just talked about how school was and what school we were going to and where we were working, and it was trash. On one hand, that was a drag. But on the other hand, simply seeing her and having some of those dizzying questions answered was such a weight off of my shoulders that I couldn’t possibly be upset.

She’d gotten fat. Not just chubby; actually fat. It boggled my mind that the girl before me was the same scrawny little Harper I’d played pretend with as a child. She was wearing a sweatshirt that left both girth and features up to the imagination to a certain extent, but it was obvious that she’d become rounder as time had worn on. I could see that her belly was the defining force outward on her sweats, rather than her chest, and I could make out where her muffin top bulged out against the sides of the garment. Despite her sweatshirt obscuring her body’s exact size, however, Harper’s face told me everything I needed to know about the effect these years had had on her physique. She hadn’t lost the cherubic cheeks of her youth; rather, she’d encouraged them. They’d grown around her face and down onto her neck, joining to form a pocket of flab that became visible whenever her chin dipped below its resting state. She was lovely.

In that moment, seeing her this way wasn’t really viscerally sexual so much as it was whimsical. It was a dream to see her like this. She was fantastic and adorable and I’d missed her very much. I’d pictured her in many ways over the years, including ways which were much larger than this, but this was still the most satisfying way I’d ever thought of her because it was real and it was right in front of me. She really was this lovely, and she really was in front of me and I was seeing her with my own two eyes. I wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, but the social atmosphere was too claustrophobic. It would be awkward.

She was staring at me too. At least there was that. Wether it was for good or bad reason, at least I was significant.

Before she left, we exchanged phone numbers—an exchange made, oddly enough, at the behest of Harper’s mother. “It could do Harper some good to get out of the house and hang out with friends. You know, get active and stuff,” she’d said, coaxing a deep, embarrassed blush out of her daughter. The remark was benign, but everybody in the room knew it was only made because Harper was fat and I was a skinny girl her age. She was hoping I’d teach her daughter some good habits. This was ironic, considering there was likely nobody in the world more invested in Harper getting fatter than I was. We plugged the numbers into one another’s phones, but I think both of us knew we’d never be actually contacting eachother with them. It was a formality. After the exchange, she left without a trace, and I was back to square one. I wouldn’t see her again for another whole two years.

Only when I went home that night did the visceral sensuality of the what I’d just experienced hit me. For me, seeing anyone get fat is thrilling. It’s the most arousing thing there is. So to see someone like Harper become so overweight—someone whose weight gain I’d been dreaming of and had been in suspense of knowing whether or not it’d actually happened for such a long time—was intensely sexually powerful. It was satisfying at first, but only made me more lustful once that visceral sensation wore off. With zero social media presence and no excuse to actually reach out to Harper with a text or phone call, I spent the next few weeks trying to forget about her. Once college started, it became very easy.

Two summers and four semesters later, grandma and grandpa were on a seniors-only cruise and I’d been entrusted with a house key so that I could water their plants, feed their cats, check on things, so on and so forth. It didn’t take long to remember Harper. I swear, for the first week of their three week cruise, I spent an hour of every housesitting visit just sitting in their guest room, looking out across the two lawns at Harper’s house and thinking about how incredibly close she was. There was nobody here to hear us talk. We could say anything. I didn’t know what I wanted to say, but there was so much urgency in my body to say something to her, to reach out and just pour something out that I didn’t even know was in me. I dressed as cutely as I could every day just in case she stopped over for some impossible reason. Shamefully, I fantasized about how much weight she might have put on in college.

Harper certainly made me feel better about my lesbianism, but a grating self-consciousness still lingered when it came to my perception of my own fetish, especially in regards to my perception of her. That was where her and I stopped connecting. Maybe Harper liked girls too, but there was a one in a million chance that she was both a lesbian and a feedist. If by some slim chance she was one of those things, she probably wouldn’t have any interest in me anyway; sure, I’d gained a few pounds from dorm life, but I was still a very thin girl. As I came to understand my fetish more, I came to realize that perhaps the unspoken connection between myself and Harper wasn’t as simple as I’d previously considered. Nevertheless, I wanted her, and I longed for the security he provided in at least the one aspect of ourselves the two of us shared.

I don’t know if it was desire, ballsiness or an inability to wait any longer—more than likely it was some of each—but I eventually found myself combing through my contacts, finding her number and typing a message. I told her I was housesitting at my grandma’s and I was bored and I wanted to catch up. She didn’t reply for a few terribly long, agonizing minutes. Finally, she told me she’d be over in ten.

Simultaneous waves of excitement and anxiety washed violently over me as I realized what was about to happen. Harper would be in front of me again within moments. I tried to make myself look presentable, but there was only so much around that house to make do with. I could tie back my frizzy hair and make sure I didn’t smell, but I didn’t exactly have much to work with. Eventually, once I felt I couldn’t gussy myself up anymore within the bounds of those limited resources, I resorted to pathetically sitting and waiting. I turned on the TV so that I wouldn’t look like a loser when I got here. Eventually, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door and felt myself melt. She was so beautiful, everything I’d been dreaming of and more.

Much more.

Harper had become downright obese. Upon first grazing her body with my eyes, I could tell right away that college had decimated any scrap of thinness Harper had left in her body. She was round and everything on her was round too; her thighs, her face, her belly, her neck; all of it. She wore a deep red-violet sweater that did her figure no favors. The thickness of the fabric prevented it from wedging into any of the folds or valleys that must’ve been present on her body, but its form-fittingness meant her fatness was anything but well-concealed. At that moment, I couldn’t help thinking that Harper was the perfect picture of a person who’d been forced to hastily come up with an outfit that was a happy medium between flattering and unrevealing—trying to somehow flaunt her best features without revealing how fat she’d become—and coming up with something that succeeded at neither. However, due to my obvious bias, I found this unbelievably alluring. The prospect that she’d tried to dress even somewhat attractively just to come over and see me was also promising.

When we hugged, it was bliss. It was too good to be true. I thought about how small of a space I took up on her body and bit my lip behind her back. God, she was perfect.

I brought Harper inside and the two of us sat down in my grandmother’s living room. The sound of sitcom reruns churning out of the TV set provided some much needed background noise, making conversation a little bit easier for both of us. We may have been close as young kids, but now that we were both adults it was like starting the friendship over from scratch. I started by telling her the situation.

“So you’re home alone here?” she asked. I told her yes. “And your grandparents won’t be back until when?”

Her insistence on making sure she knew these things for certain only fed further into my rampant overthinking. Certainly, she must’ve been on the same page as me. Why else would she be asking things like this right off the bat, especially when I’ve already pretty much answered them? I tried to put those thoughts away and just focus on not being a creep, but it became harder every time she tried to ascertain our privacy or steal a glance at my chest. We talked about a lot of the usual things after that—school, work, friends, family—but nothing too personal. Eventually, fearing that I’d bore her if I didn’t introduce some new element to the situation, I asked her if she was interested in me ordering pizza for the two of us.

She thought about it, then declined rather unenthusiastically.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I’m pretty hungry.”

She caved quickly. I got the impression she was still trying to call as little attention to her obesity as possible, but it was a laughably futile goal considering just how big she’d become. I ordered a large pepperoni and some mozzarella sticks for delivery.

“So much for cutting back while I’m home,” Harper muttered. She put a hand on her tummy and chuckled. I felt myself blush and tried not to stutter into the phone.

We put on a movie and watched lazily while we waited. When the pizza did come, I ate three pieces and Harper ate four. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a turn-on that she ate more than myself, even if just by a little.

As the night went on, I couldn’t help noticing that Harper was showering me more and more with compliments. She kept telling me how pretty I was and how I’d grown up to be so beautiful. I kept trying to argue, but she shut me down every time. She hardly even let me return the compliments, as hard as I was trying.

She really was so beautiful. Her features were so unbelievably pretty to me. They were classic. Every time I saw them, though, there was more of her to compliment them; more of her soft, unblemished cheeks and more of the jolly little second chin that brought out the happiness in her face like a second smile. It was blissful to see her transition to womanhood and to this new body type all at once. I tried to convey this without being creepy—omitting the parts about her weight of course—but it only resulted in my compliments being weak and easily deflected.

When it was time to return to living room for the rest of the movie, Harper walked ahead of me this time. This gave me a perfect view of just how much her movement had changed with her body. The way she shimmied heavily across the hardwood floor of my grandmother’s house stood in stark contrast to my memories of her sprinting gaily down these same hallways just over ten years earlier. She was incapable of that effortless movement now. Somehow, I almost found this new waddle more graceful.

Harper sat down on the couch. I sat beside her, then flicked the TV back on and unpaused the movie we’d started earlier. Neither of us cared about it anymore. I grabbed the blanket that my grandma kept tucked under the end table and curled up beneath it. It was instinctive; I could feel such an intense want for her that I felt like I had to curl up in a ball and to keep myself from reaching for her and making things irreparably awkward. Also, it was cold.

To my surprise, a few minutes further into the film, Harper moved. She scooted inelegantly towards me on the couch until she was right next to me. “Can I have some blanket?” she asked. “It’s a little chilly in here.” Of course, I obliged. She crawled underneath and moseyed even closer to me. Suddenly, I could feel the softness of her sweater, the warmth of her body pressing gently against my side. It was too much. I couldn’t resist.

I sprawled out against her under the blankets, practically on top of her, cuddling into her big body like a giant bean bag and resting my head gently on her shoulder. It was blatantly out of character for me to be so forward, but I didn’t care at all. I’m almost certain I let out an audible squeak as my arms curled around her torso.

After a silent moment or so, I became nervous. I looked up at her face to see an expression of pure surprise; no smile, no obvious sign that this was okay. I felt my face go red. After a few agonizing seconds, the most reassuringly adorable grin I’d ever seen crept out across Harper’s face. I felt her wrap her arms around me too. I smiled back up at her, then closed my eyes.

It was everything. It was all the satisfaction in the world. It was bliss and loveliness. Up until this point, the only intimacy in my adult life had come from two different boys I’d tried in vain to convince myself to be interested in during college. Needless to say, I’d never gleaned anything from those experiences. This was unlike anything else I’d ever tried. It was a wonderful feeling. For once, it felt earnest. Harper ran her hand up and down my back, sending chills through me with each motion. Little Harper was so much bigger than me now; it made me feel so safe.

“You’re adorable,” Harper said. I didn’t say anything back. Instead, I pecked her on the cheek, then returned my head giddily to her shoulder. Before I’d even opened my eyes again, I felt her pull me gently up into a kiss.

She was a novice kisser, but I managed to apply some of what I’d learned from those college faux-relationships. Nevertheless, she quickly became more confident, taking charge of the action within a minute or two. I felt her hand slide up my shirt and rest on my waist. The stimulus was almost too much for me to take—Harper’s lips dancing giddily on mine, my slender body pressing gently into her generous form, and now this—my brain hardly had time to process where the pleasure was coming from; it just kept coming, over and over in these wonderful, sporadic waves of ecstasy. I shuddered as her fingers continued further up my torso. Meanwhile, I discovered that her sweater had ridden up across the surface of her belly as we became more passionate. I placed my hands upon the soft, naked crescent of her flesh and nearly moaned. I’d waited so long to touch this.

Harper leaned further into the kiss, inadvertently shifting my center of gravity so that I nearly fell off of the sofa. She caught me and prevented the fall, but realized there wasn’t really enough room on this sofa for the two of us to be much more dynamic with our lovemaking than we already were. This was clearly an issue, as things were quickly becoming very electric between the two of us. I suggested that the two of us head to the guest room upstairs, and she agreed.

Once the guest room door was shut, Harper called her mother to let her know she was spending the night with me. I didn’t do much to avoid distracting her from the conversation, however. She stared, wide-eyed at me as I took my shirt off and walked towards her, placing my hands on her bulbous hips and pressing my belly against hers. She told her mother goodnight was fast as she could, set her phone on the dresser behind her and joined me in disrobing. I helped her undress, enamored as her form was revealed to me for the first time. Then, we got in bed and took turns pleasuring eachother.

We cuddled up against eachother after that, each of us just enjoying the warmth of the other. I kissed the little fold on the back of Harper’s neck, prompting a tired giggle from my sleepy partner. Although I was the smaller of the two by far, it was clear that I had to be the big spoon when we snuggled; she had too much belly to wrap her arms around me in that position. I fell asleep with my hand on her hot, blubbered core.

As I write this, I’ve just woken up in bed beside her. She is still asleep. She’s breathing heavily, her dome rising and falling beneath the covers. She must’ve rolled onto her back in her sleep—something I’m sure her body facilitated so that she could breathe more easily, considering her impressive apple shape—and I must’ve rolled over to accommodate her, as I woke up with my back resting gently against her cushioned side. After grabbing my laptop from downstairs, I’ve returned to that spot, allowing her love handles to rise and fall against me as I type. She must be a heavy sleeper; the corpulent cutie still hasn’t woken up.

I just can’t believe this is real. It’s so dreamlike to have all of these wishes come true and to be able to sit here now and tell you about them. But they are true. She’s right in front of me, beautiful as ever, and it’s impossible to deny.

Despite finally reaching this point, I can’t help but feel myself pondering new questions. Will Harper and I date? If we do, will we let anybody know? As far as I know, neither of us is out of the closet, so it would be a big deal if that happened. What will happen when she returns to college? Will she move on? After all these years, I’m confident I won’t.

I briefly ponder if she knows about my quirkier taste in girls by now. But as I look at Harper—her big body heaving beneath the covers, double chin on full blast as her lips hang open to prevent herself from snoring, strands of her long hair caught in her underarm folds and trapped underneath her breasts—I recall how openly and confidently I’d touched those things, her most obviously fat features, last night. I’d straddled and squeezed every inch of that bulk with entirely indiscrete lust. If she still doesn’t know what I think of her size, I’ll be very impressed. Besides, she’s still here, isn’t she? So she must be comfortable. I bet she’ll bring it up today, and I’ll be able to confess. For once, I feel like I’m on the same page with somebody about my sexuality.

Whatever the future holds, I’m very confident that Harper and I will remain in eachother’s lives. I’m nearly certain of that. At the very least, we have the rest of my housesitting period to repeat tonight’s events and become more reacquainted with one another. I’m so excited. In a few moments, I’ll start small; I’m sure she won’t mind me cooking breakfast.