Deedee’s Holiday
VI
I tried to keep a look of bored disinterest on my face as Delia squinted at her phone, but inside, I was losing the plot. She was going to see—if she hadn’t already. She was going to know I’d been following her for years. It was a miracle she put the pieces together by now. Did Instagram prioritize notifications based on location? We’d been in the same cities, in the same fucking hotel room, for months!
It was over, all over. Why the fuck was I still following her? Why had I never made secret accounts instead of following hot girls under my real name? And how could I be so stupid as to keep liking and faving her content after we became friends? Friends. We weren’t just friends. I’d had my face buried between her thighs earlier that day. We were lovers. We were living together. Traveling the world together. And now it would all end because I was too stupid to tell her I was one of her many followers. She was going to think I was little more than some creepy stalker. A creepy stalker who’d wormed her way into her life and sent her down the road to Chubsville. An especially top-heavy neighborhood of Chubsville, but still.
It was Kyley all over again. Okay, not the “stalking a celebrity and orchestrating a meet-cute” part; I’d met Kyley through a dating app. But the enabling, the subtle manipulation… Kyley had been better than I deserved, and Delia was way better than I deserved. What I did deserve—was to be alone. To go back to my empty apartment and live out my days as a sad, lonely spinster with a creepy boob fetish.
I braced myself for the storm. Maybe the hotel had a second room available. How soon could I book a flight back to Indiana?
Delia thrust her phone in my face, her expression more stern than I’d ever seen. Her phone screen showed a list of her followers, with my profile in the middle of the scroll. The join date was right there. “When were you gonna tell me you’ve been following for almost three years?”
I gulped, scrambling frantically for some kind of excuse, any kind of deflection. “I… um… I guess I didn’t recognize…”
The corner of her mouth twitched, and she broke out laughing. “Oh, man, you should see your face!”
She pulled her phone back, tapping on my profile and scrolling even more. “It’s no wonder you didn’t recognize me when we met—you follow a ton of influencers.”
The world turned upside down on me again. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t upset. She wasn’t going to yell at me, call me a stalker, and kick me out of our room. I mean, really, how overdramatic could I be? I bent the truth a tiny bit to give myself an excuse to talk to her. Did that count as stalking? It wasn’t like I’d followed her to Ibiza or found her home address.
Frantically, I cobbled together what felt like a “normal” response. “Heh, yeah… I get really into fashion… sometimes. You probably wouldn’t guess it to look at me.”
She gave me a frown, soft lines forming between her brows. “Don’t give me that humble brag, bitch. You have great fashion sense. Half my shoots last week were tops you picked. It’s just weird you didn’t say something sooner.”
“I couldn’t figure out how to bring it up.” That, at least, was true.
“Makes sense. Honestly, I’m surprised I even noticed. This account just hit 1.2 mil last week.”
“Now who’s bragging?”
Delia laughed again. “Fuckin’ got me.” She scrolled a little more, facing her phone at me again. “Look, here’s a fit you picked out. It has a hundred thousand likes so far.”
The video was Deedee in a lavender top cut low enough to show plenty of cleavage, tits bouncing as she walked. I’d framed the video from her waist up, cropping out her widened hips and thighs. The top was loose below her bust, ruffled layers hanging free and hiding her softened tummy.
“That was a pretty cute top, I guess.”
“I’m obsessed with it. You showed off how big the girls have got while covering up… all the rest of this.” She waved a hand vaguely over the rolling hills and mounds of her bikini-clad body draped across the chaise.
So, she did know she was putting on weight. I mean, of course, she knew. She wasn’t stupid—her appearance was her living. I’d somehow thought that because she’d never brought it up or complained about diets, she must somehow be oblivious to the effect our lifestyle was having on her body. If anything, I was the stupid one.
As if on cue, I heard Delia’s stomach gurgle. “When do you want to get food?” She asked.
I grabbed my own phone to check the time. It was just after three. “If we go at four-thirty, we should beat the dinner rush.”
Delia glanced at her phone again. Her brow crinkled, and her eyes darted down to her pampered body and back to the screen. She obviously didn’t want to wait that long, so what I said next wasn’t manipulative at all.
“We could also get an app when the server comes back around. Sorry, the garçon.”
Delia snorted a laugh.
“We could get those salmon canapés again,” I added. “Or try something else… maybe do dinner a little later?”
“I’ve been wanting to try that charcuterie plate,” She said. “But those canapés were amazing…”
We got both appetizers and still went to dinner before five.
***
Delia spent the rest of our week in the South of France holding the Instagram thing over my head. Ordinarily, we split all our expenses fifty-fifty, but when we landed in Munich, she smugly declared that I had to cover our meals for the week. She said it was my punishment for “lying” to her, and since she’d had her wand pressed to that perfect spot at the time, I both knew she was teasing me and agreed to her demand with nothing more than a breathless nod.
Whether she was caught up in the revelry of Oktoberfest or freed from the consideration of what it all cost, Delia turned into a literal eating machine that week. There were so many different kinds of sausage and fried meats that I stopped trying to learn all their names. The beer flowed like wine, and the only time I saw her without a big, warm, steaming soft pretzel was when she had a plate of some other food. With me taking the photos and shooting videos, along with writing captions and queuing up posts, all Deedee had to do was smile and pose—and stop stuffing her face for five to fifteen seconds.
She seemed to be growing bigger by the day, if not the hour. We bought a traditional dirndl dress on our first day, a dusty rose skirt with a pale pink apron in a paisley pattern, paired with a lacy white blouse and a deep pink bodice buttoned up the front. The blouse was cut low enough to show off a full third of her overfed breasts—more tanned cleavage than any woman under three hundred pounds at the festival. The bodice cinched her middle tightly, emphasizing her hourglass shape, but by the afternoon of our last night in Munich, she needed my help getting it buttoned.
Later that night, Delia lay like a starfish on our hotel bed, making noises like a dying sea creature.
“Oh, goooood. Why’d you let me -hic- eat so much?”
“You’re the one who wanted to ’make the most of our last night here,’” I shot back.
“I thought if I made you -hic- pay, you’d, like, discour*-hic-*age me or something…”
Why would I ever want to discourage you? I thought, watching her tits sloshing toward her chin like water balloons full of beer.
“Quit whining, you big baby.”
“Just get this thing o*-hic-*off me, I can’t breathe!”
I leaned over the bed, resting a hand on Delia’s middle. Her bodice felt tighter than a carry-on bag stuffed with six months’ worth of clothes. I pried at the uppermost button, but it had zero give. “I can’t undo these buttons…”
“Just rip the damn thing! Not like I’m gonna wear it a*-hic-*gain!”
I’d never been in great shape—a decade-plus sitting at a desk isn’t a great way to build forearm strength—but I squeezed the fingers of one hand between the bodice and Delia’s breast, then grabbed as much material as I could between the top two buttons with the other. Threads snapped, and the first button popped loose, flying in a short arc before sliding down her torso to the bed. As if triggering an avalanche, the remaining buttons followed, breaking free as Delia’s overstuffed stomach rose almost as high as her tits.
Delia gasped, heaving gulps of air that made her whole torso rise and fall like a waterbed being used as a trampoline. “Oh, thank god… so much better…”
With both sides of her bodice flapped out onto the bedspread, I hesitantly touched her stomach, feeling it rise and fall under my hands. It was warm and taut, and I swore I could feel churning and bubbling as it worked to digest the mountain of food within. I traced soft patterns across her skin, separated from hers by one thin layer of cotton, curling my fingers to let the edges of my blunt nails graze her surface.
Delia’s moans of pain rose slightly in pitch, and her gasps turned shallow. “Oh, Nikki, not tonight—I’m too full…”
I gradually drifted my fingers lower, past the indent of her navel and down the underside of her belly. Her moans were punctuated with soft inhales. With an effort, I took my hands off her middle and undid the clasp on her skirt. It wasn’t nearly as tight as the bodice had been, but there was a definite release of pressure down there as well.
Delia’s hand gripped my wrist, pulling my hand back to her middle. I went back to stroking soft paths up and down and around, meeting her heavy-lidded gaze. “I thought you were too full?”
“I changed my mind. Don’t stop.”
I worked my hands over every inch, using the heels of my palms to urge the mass of food in her upper belly downward. “Does this mean you forgive me for that Instagram thing?” I tried to sound teasing, but it came out more desperate than I would have liked.
She smirked up at me, then winced as my palms pressed down. “I suppose you’ve been punished enough. I’m afraid to ask how much you spent on food this week.”
“And beer…”
She let out another moan of pain. “Don’t remind me—just get those magic fingers lower.”
Pulling her skirt open, I slid one hand under to cup her through her panties. “As you wish, Deedee.”
Watching for her reaction, I saw Delia’s eyes widen. “Too soon?”
She snorted a laugh that made her stomach rock, then winced, moaned, and shook her head. “You’re such a nerd…”
Continuing my stomach massage with one hand, I slid two fingers inside her. Delia pressed her head down into the bedding, scrunching her eyes closed as she clutched the bedspread into her fists. I didn’t know whether coming would help her stomachache, but I was going to do my best to find out.