Tyutya and Busya
For several years now, I've felt uncomfortable hugging my brother if I'm not wearing a bra. When my nipples rub against his chest... well, I like it more than I should. That's the source of all the awkwardness, and even though he's my adopted brother—to put it briefly, my parents adopted a two-year-old boy from an orphanage, and three years later I was born—still...
It all started, actually, when I began to consciously feel the difference between boys and girls. Around age twelve. It's only gotten worse since then, especially after I went to college and really packed on the pounds.
"You look good,"
sis," Brad laughs, hugging me longer than usual. I breathe in his scent—the same cologne, thick and subtle—and pat his back."Yeah, sure," I laugh, taking a step back. Did he feel me trembling, how my nipples stiffened? He couldn't possibly miss my boobs; in two years they've grown three cup sizes and about ten centimeters in circumference.
Here we are, under the family roof for the traditional holiday gathering—minus Mom and Dad.
Stupid story. Our parents begged us for months to come home, saying Thanksgiving, family dinner under one roof and all that; we wouldn't have minded, but neither Brad nor I could make it work. And they were like woodpeckers, pecking and pecking, and we finally moved heaven and earth to shift our schedules. I even decided to hit the gym and lose some fat so I wouldn't get teased too much, gained another five kilos, gave up—fine, I'll be the fattest cow in the family, nothing new—and practically as I was boarding the plane and called our parents, I heard: "What do you mean you're coming for Thanksgiving? You said you wouldn't be here, so we bought tickets for a cruise to Acapulco!"
It turned out silly, I say. Anyway, the house key is under the mat, I arrived, called Brad, and he said he was coming anyway.
"No, really, you look good," he smirks, looking me over from head to toe, making me blush. It's ten in the morning, he arrived earlier than I expected, and I'm standing in my old, worn-out, too-tight pajamas that make me feel even fatter than I am. My belly spills over the waistband of the pants, the top barely covers my navel, and my boobs look like two melted jellyfish on an overinflated tire of a gut.
Alas, I've gotten fat. And not just a couple of kilos; you can't hide this.
Brad, of course, hasn't gained a gram in the last couple of years. Still the same tanned, firm muscles. His hobbies are biking and ten- to twenty-mile runs, and he also knows his wine. And I devour whole boxes of pizza and, while polishing off a couple liters of beer in an evening, lazily poke at my growing rolls of fat.
We're different, yeah.
"Alright, you've convinced me, I'll take it as a compliment," I reply. "You're early. Let me at least get dressed, huh. What should we do?"
"I don't even know. I didn't plan anything special." Brad scratches the back of his head. I turn around—and literally feel his gaze sliding over my ample haunches with my skin. "A traditional family Thanksgiving dinner, personally I don't want anything else. If you don't mind."
"That works," I nod, "only the whole family here is just you and me..."
Though, with my appetite, I count for three. I was never thin. You know those sturdy, stocky girls in school sports teams, who always have a few centimeters of fat over their muscles that won't go away no matter how hard they train? That was me. Key word 'was'—now there's less muscle and significantly more fat.
"It's fine, a good feast won't hurt you," he laughs and pinches my very, very plump side, making me squeak and jump aside. No need to remind me how much I've ballooned.
"Hey, if you keep teasing, I'll tell Mom and Dad!" I pout and stomp into the house. He rolls his eyes. Kindergarten, second quarter. Well, that's older brothers for you.
"Oh, come on. So, let me run to the store and stock up, and you can, like, make yourself presentable, at least for me?" He winks and, quickly extending his hand, pokes my finger into the exposed strip of belly. I swat his hand away.
"Get lost, dummy."
"Whatever you say, sweetie,"—these are our childhood nicknames. I snort, he turns toward the parking lot. "See you soon, sis."
"See you soon."
Brad leaves, and I, after waiting for his car to disappear around the corner, pull off my pajamas—I slept without them anyway, they're too tight—and waddle to the shower. Making the water colder.
Cold water is very, very necessary for me right now. It sounds awful, but... I've been hopelessly, desperately in love with my older brother for a long time. Not by blood, adopted—it's not allowed, I know. And why it happened—I don't know either. Maybe because we're complete opposites: he can survive on cabbage and salad, while I can't imagine myself without a good portion of sweet pastries. Or because he's so tall, slim, and attractive—square jaw, broad shoulders, narrow waist... Or because when we hug, my soft stomach presses against his abs... and my hardened nipples try to wedge themselves between his ribs. "Sibling love" with such fantasies risks going too far.
I sigh, water and soap suds roll off my skin. No, even ice-cold water won't help here.
Shower, towel. I go back to my bedroom. Oh yes, the memories are vivid. It's, of course, a bit different now than it used to be. The bed creaks louder than before, and I don't quite fit entirely in the mirror anymore. The school certificates for swimming and softball also seem to belong to a completely different person. And all my clothes are in a trunk, not in the closet.
I put on pants and a cute stretchy blouse—specially bought before coming home. Well, actually, first I put on panties and a new bra, the right size and matching color. A proper set. And why am I so happy, since the only guy today is Brad, who knows me, as they say, in all my forms? I don't know myself, but the feeling of joyful anticipation is stronger than reason.
Maybe because in new clothes I at least look like a decent young lady of average plumpness, not a fat cow. Yeah, probably.
Finishing with clothes and perfume, I move on to hair and makeup. Brad looks—ready for a reception at Versailles, well, I can also put myself in formal attire. Certainly won't hurt.
Of course, I can never compare to him. Not because I'm some ugly duckling (unless you think fat can't be anything but ugly, then yes, nothing shines for me here), but Brad is really handsome, and I'm not saying that just because he's my brother. He's really great. So great that for years I've been quietly banging my head against the wall—why the hell is he my brother?..
I come out of the bedroom into the living room, and just then Brad walks in, laden with supermarket bags.
"Didn't overdo it, did you?" I laugh, trying to take at least some from him, but I'm immediately pushed aside.
"Not at all, this is barely a third. The rest is in the Prius," my brother replies; my jaw drops. Even here, in the bags, there's enough for seven people, and we only planned to stay at our parents' for three days max!
Anyway, I stomp to the parking lot and in four trips haul everything bought from the Prius. Brad has already taken over the kitchen; knowing his talents, I just settle into a chair, the best help I can offer now is not to interfere.
"I hope you're hungry," he winks, not without difficulty tearing his eyes away from my cleavage. Oops, I didn't quite realize how low the neckline would be with my proportions... Oh well.
"You know me, I'm always hungry," I snort.
"Well, we'll see..."
Is that a challenge? I raise an eyebrow:
"What, you think you can fill this bottomless pit?" I lift my round, soft belly, resting on my lap, with both hands.
Brad laughs, but he looks kind of strange.
"I bet I can."
"No way."
"Deal."
He returns to the stove, and curious me pokes my nose into the bags in the meantime. Brother didn't just buy half the supermarket, he chose real food. Even some delicacies. Scallops and steaks, arugula and dried figs, pomegranates... yeah, it's been a while since I've had anything like that. In college, I live on two-dollar frozen pizzas and egg noodle soup, quality so-so, but for the same money you can eat more.
And chorizo sausages? And asparagus and fresh, crispy French baguettes? That's it, decided, this Thanksgiving I'll go all out and surpass myself. And then you, my little belly, will even thank me.
"First course," Brad laughs, slicing the baguette and arranging it beautifully on a plate with circles of brie and some other delicate soft cheese with blueberry bits. I take a bite and let out a joyful moan.
"My pre-e-e-ecious," I announce with my mouth full. And I don't care how it looks from the outside—who am I supposed to be polite for here, my own brother?
"Yeah, but you eat, this is all for you."
"Aren't you having any?" I ask, surprised, and he shakes his head.
"We have a bet, remember, sweetie? And you're going to lose it."
"Dream on," I stuff my mouth with bread and cheese while he sautés the scallops. The flame under the pan is terrifyingly high, but I trust Brad—he won't burn down our parents' house, unlike me. He's a white-collar worker who not only appreciates good cuisine but also knows how to cook himself.
My little belly, you're in good hands today.
"Dig in, sis."
"Let me guess, you're not having any again?"
"Of course not," he pokes my stomach with his finger, I let out a displeased squeak. A delicacy recipe, divine aroma...
I try a piece. Tastes even better.
"Your loss," I inform him. "So delicious."
"Thanks."
He returns to cooking, and I start eating with pleasure. Scallops with noodles... mmm. Well, that's done with.
Then a medium-rare steak—filet mignon. No problem.
Prosciutto ham sliced into elegant circles with cream cheese. I take care of that too.
Brad takes an apple pie out of the oven, which follows all the previous dishes.
My stomach presses against the table, noticeably rounder than before. Oh, I've really stuffed myself. And if I say I don't like it—I'd be lying through my teeth, but Brad is ready to continue, so I'll continue too.
He placed a lobster in front of me, and I ate it. Refuse lobster? Not in this lifetime.
Fried gouda cheese sticks with pear slices. We'll handle that too.
And then—oh, then we have dessert, and Brad made pomegranate and chocolate soufflé, and the question is, when have I ever refused soufflé? No, I'd rather burst, but I'll eat every crumb.
Then dark chocolate mousse, so thick it seems like solid chocolate.
The stomach is weak, but the spirit desires to continue.
Brad serves crème brûlée, even with a sparkling candle on top of the ramekin. And we'll find room for that too.
Both of us are barely breathing; to say I'm stuffed is an understatement, and brother is just tired. No wonder: the "holiday dinner" has been going on for several hours, and Brad isn't used to standing at the stove for so long. He looks at me, I look at him.
"Giving up, dummy?" I ask.
"No way, sweetie."
Crackers with jam. Tuna sushi and lots and lots of wasabi. Paella pies, Australian recipe, funny.
That's it, brother has run out of options, unless he raids the pantry with our parents' supplies. I'm so full there's no pleasure left, just pain in my stretched stomach. A little more and I'll throw up, and brother knows it. We look at each other, he sighs. Brad always gives in to his beloved little sister.
"How are you, Jamie?" he comes over to me. I nod tiredly.
"Okay. Thanks for dinner, it was really delicious..." I whisper, and he can't take his eyes off my stomach. My pants were unbuttoned ages ago, my blouse has ridden up a bit above my navel. Considering I didn't look like a reed before, now I look like I'm pregnant with triplets at about the twelfth month, at least.
He carefully reaches out, touches the pale-as-the-moon exposed skin of my belly.
"Well, had enough?" he asks almost admiringly.
I smile.
"Definitely ate more than I should have," I struggle to slide off the chair and almost fall. Brad thoughtfully strokes my belly, making me feel the same thing I do when my boobs press against his chest.
As if everything around me is on fire.
"Where are you going?" he frowns. "It's still early."
"It's early, but this belly isn't," I announce, stroking my stomach. "I need to lie down for a nap to let all this settle. Everything else—later."
"Did I overfeed you?"
"No, I just stuffed myself beyond all measure. Ughhh..." I crawl to my bed, everything is swimming before my eyes. I washed all this down not with water, but with sangria, the wine chosen, of course, by Brad, and even though it's not that strong, two liters of alcohol even with a VERY substantial snack...
Anyway, I'm at least slightly not quite sober.
Yeah, at least.
Brother follows me, making sure I get to bed safely. At least I think so. I plop onto the mattress, lie on my back, my arms lying helplessly on either side of my belly, swollen like a mountain.
To my surprise, Brad lies down next to me.
"What are you doing?" I ask, and he starts stroking my colossal belly, gently and tenderly. He rolls up my blouse all the way to my bra. My stomach resembles a huge pale drum, if there are drums of spherical shape.
"Just, nothing," he replies quietly.
"Ah. Okay." I've drunk and eaten too much to worry about the little things.
He continues stroking my stomach, his palms as if exploring by touch the entire considerable circumference of my overfed belly, I'm so stuffed, and he's so warm and tender... I let out a quiet moan.__P_