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guillemardsyndromeawarenessblog · 4 years

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Time to drop the mask for a bit and do some much-needed self-promotion.

Hi, friends. I’m Dormammu12 on DeviantArt, and I’ve started porting over my stuff (one of which is the above piece of writing) to 12dormammu.tumblr.com. I also have another blog - bellychats.tumblr.com - which hosts forged social media screenshots featuring our favourite big-bellied beauties.

Please follow, reblog and all that. Thanks!

The Apartment

Lawrence’s penthouse occupied almost half of the top floor of the building. Given that each floor of the condominium was intended to accommodate four units per floor, this meant that Lawrence’s penthouse was very large indeed.

His penthouse was lined with glass, all the better to allow him to look out over the city; in one corner, he had placed a sprawling bathroom. In the corner of that bathroom, there was a shower cubicle, large enough for him to stretch both arms out and still fail to touch the corners. The sink had been raised, and the mirror was not connected to the wall. By peeking between the slats, he could see the skyscrapers of the CBD, if he squinted. The bathroom had two doors: one leading to his study, the other leading into his walk-in closet.

His walk-in closet consisted of a window of sheer glass from about his waist-height; if he stood with his back to the window, he could see the entirety of his wardrobe laid out for him. Any curious eyes would only see his upper torso, thereby preventing any outrage of modesty. The walk-in closet was fairly large, being divided into two main corridors separated by an island of ties, socks and whatnot in the centre, plus a pair of unobtrusive doors which could cover up the inner corridor at the push of a button. Moving on…

Lawrence’s bedroom was around twice the size of the bathroom. His bed faced the CBD, though the view was ruined somewhat by the presence of a widescreen TV. There were two chairs and a small table; apart from that, nothing more. From there, it was a few steps into the living room.

The living room, again, faced the skyline. There was another TV and a number of paintings on the walls. There were two coffee tables, and a monstrous sofa which doubled up as an extra bed on the days that Lawrence didn’t feel like sleeping in his bedroom. There were no walls between the living room and the kitchen, which contained a few efficient little appliances and a rectangular table which could seat six. A portion of the kitchen was dedicated to laundry, and a portion of the floor was exposed to the elements, with a pair of chairs and a table fenced off from the drop by a set of iron banisters. There was a treadmill, a rack of dumbbells, and one or two machines. Past that, it had started to feel a bit cramped.

The entrance hall mostly contained footwear and a few other pieces of artwork. From there, Lawrence could go into the study, which connected into the bedroom. So, the penthouse had a roughly circular layout. His study was around the size of the bedroom, though the living room was the largest space in the apartment. It contained all his books, a long desk along the wall which overlooked the city, as well as a printer and a vast computing set-up lavishly equipped with no less than three separate screens.

The windows in the bathroom, the bedroom, the study and the living room could all be opened. In the living room, near the centre of the apartment - which was along the back of the living room - there was a circular alcove which led to the rooftop. The rooftop could be accessed by the lift, and maintenance did access it often enough. This meant that Lawrence kept his portal to the roof shut at all times. He wasn’t exactly certain, but it was likely that his neighbours kept it shut as well.

Of course, Lawrence wasn’t in at the moment.

—–

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Samantha looked up. She was a small girl, a little below average height, and had been watching the dance floor for the better part of an hour, gazing out over the bodies writhing beneath the strobe-lights. “Bored.” She examined her manicured fingernails and peered through her eyelashes at the taller man looming over her. “You?”

“Just… out.” He waggled his hand and tried to look disinterested, but Samantha could recognize the look in his eyes. She’d attracted the eyes of a gratifyingly decent number of men as she clicked in through the door, belly leading the way. Samantha was fat, that much was obvious. But it was a detail which one noticed in passing, without any judgement, and, besides, you couldn’t really tell.

“Good to know.” She nodded at the people on the dance floor, the throbbing music, the crystal glasses lined up behind the bar. “Does this… interest you?” She shifted on her seat, which groaned softly - just loud enough for her own ears. “All this. Nice guy like you, I’m sure you’ve got a lot of friends.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and folded her arms over the swell of her abdomen. “More than enough friends than to be spending time with a girl like me.”

“Now,” the man said, shifting his stance such that he loomed over here, “don’t you say that about yourself. You’re beautiful… and I could say the same for you. Surely you have plenty of friends as well! Where are they?”

“Oh,” Samantha shrugged. “They left.” She popped her compact open and gave her face a cursory once-over, even though it wasn’t necessary. “Er. I’m the loner in my circle, actually.”

“What a coincidence! So am I.” He stuck his hand out. Samantha took it and looked at him, really looked at him, absorbing his swarthy features, the way his front teeth protruded slightly, the air of general physical health and, over that, the impression that he thought very highly of himself. “Steven.”

“Samantha.”

The two of them leaned against the bar and watched the time tick away. It was half an hour to midnight when Samantha struck up conversation with him again. Steven was slightly more inebriated, but no less averse to her insinuations. He was making quite a few of said insinuations himself, as a matter of fact.

“Well,” Samantha continued, leaning closer to him and bending down such that her belly grazed the fabric of his pants and her cleavage dipped closer, “I think you’re here for just about the same reason as me… sex.”

Although Samantha was, technically, overweight (for her height, at least), it did not mean that she was unattractive. In fact, her fat had been distributed over her body in a manner immensely flattering to her. Her face wasn’t plump - on the contrary, it was V-shaped, and entirely bereft of any extra pouches of flesh under her chin. The makeup helped, though it certainly wasn’t the main contributing factor - many of her one-night-stands had moaned, in the midst of necking her, grinding into her ass, that she had the face of an angel. (Samantha still hadn’t decided whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.) Apart from Samantha’s face, her fat settled - vaguely - over her arms and her thighs. A larger proportion of it was concentrated in her hips, on her breasts, but the vast majority of it was concentrated in her belly.

Steven looked faintly excited. “Do you…” He caught his breath, cleared his throat. The strobe lights flickered over his face. “Do you wanna get out of here? I’ll get a taxi -”

“There’s no need,” Samantha interrupted, pressing her fleshy middle against his crotch as she rose to her feet, “I have a car.”

The two of them made their way out of the bar, out into the balmy night. Samantha led him by the hand to the car-park; she moved quickly, for such an overweight girl. Her creamy shoulders were exposed to the breeze; with a hint of the hypnotic, her belly swayed back and forth, back and forth, tight and pert like her bottom, the line of her panties visible through the fabric. She thumbed the buttons of the lift and waited, shooting Steven a furtive smile, hefting her clutch in her hand. She really was very short… but so very willing. Steven felt very lucky.

“Wow,” he breathed, as he beheld her car. It was a splendid model, to be sure - a sleek Continental brand, silver in colour, its lights flashing as Samantha reached into her handbag and fingered her key fob. He shot her a look. “Are you sure you’re sober enough to drive?”

Samantha gave him an unimpressed stare. “I could say the same for you.”

As Steven swung into the car, the fog had already begun fading from Samantha’s eyes as she ran her hands lovingly over the leather coverings of the steering wheel. The vehicle hummed into life; it was obviously very well-maintained. Steven watched as Samantha stretched out her legs to reach the pedals - as though she’d been doing it all her life - and rolled her shoulders back. Slowly, the car slid out of its lot and made its gentle way down to the exit. Her seatbelt ran down from the seat behind; it had been tucked, very carefully, underneath her belly.

“This,” Steven observed, “is a very nice car.” He cleared his throat and fiddled with his pants. “Must’ve cost a lot.”

“Yep,” Samantha replied, airily. “It’s mine. I’m rich.” She pulled the gearshift and tapped her fingers against its shaft as it slid smoothly into position. The streetlights passed by, faster and faster, as they turned onto the highway; the skyscrapers of the city rose above them, half-blotted out by the trees and the shrubbery and the honking of a thousand other cars on the road. “Don’t try and kiss me, now,” she warned. “That’ll get both of us in trouble.”

Steven was mildly offended. He wasn’t that out-of-control.

Samantha’s skin was, unsurprisingly, quite above average. It was pale, clear, and lacked blotches or stretch marks. She did use oil on her midsection, but more for her own enjoyment than for anything else. Her section of the bathroom storage space was stuffed with lip gloss, with nail polish, with every variety of beauty products - in comparison, her roommate (in a manner of speaking) kept things very spartan.

It took less time than expected to swerve into a glitzy, elegant property - a high-rise gated complex, with the scenery of the CBD within view. The carpark wasn’t particularly well-designed, but it fulfilled its purpose. As Samantha weaved deftly into her lot, checking the camera feed on the dashboard, her stomach gurgled slightly. She glanced at Steven to catch him gazing at her, a bit of that fog still lingering in his eyes. She now realized that she was less drunk than Steven had thought, and Steven was less drunk than she had thought.

“What?”

“You drive… really well.”

“That’s just the car.”

The doors swung outwards; Samantha leaned on Steven’s arm and guided him towards the lobby. The elevator music started once they were in the lobby; it was well-lit, to be sure, and very sophisticated, very civilized. Steven watched Samantha as she tapped her card on the panel; her nails were painted pink.

“I live on the top floor.” The interior of the lift was paved in black and gold; there was a mirror mounted on the back. There was the faintest smell of jasmine.

“So, the penthouse?”

“Yep.”

“C’mon, you can’t expect me to not be curious.” Steven smiled winningly; Samantha ducked her head in a way which she hoped was coquettish and rolled her eyes. She was starting to get tired of this. “Well, who’s your dad? Near East? Niptech? Heron Group?”

“I resent that you think I can’t have made all this money on my own.”

Steven wasn’t offended. “You did say you were rich.”

“Oh my god,” Samantha muttered. Then, louder, “Yeah, I guess. Um, I work as an accountant. You… probably don’t know my parents.”

“But they’re still rich, yeah?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Samantha gritted her teeth. “Look, didn’t I bring you to my house to fuck?”

Steven’s face shuttered. “Well, maybe I don’t want to fuck anymore.”

“Fine.”

They emerged out into the lobby on the twentieth floor; Samantha keyed in her passcode and inserted her keys. She bent down, ankles and back screaming, and pressed her thumb into the scanner. The door swung open; Samantha kicked off her heels and turned right into the kitchen. Steven headed for the couch as the lights clicked on. From where he was standing, he could almost see the whole city from here. There was even a small balcony, jutting out beside the television.

It was a nice apartment.

“Ice cream?”

Steven shook his head and fiddled with the remote control, turning it over in his hands. The couch shifted as she plopped down beside him, a tub of ice cream cradled in her small hands. He noticed, now, that her hand bore a small silver watch, and a few rings, here and there. She wore no earrings. Samantha took the remote control from him, switched to a quiet movie, and dimmed the lights. She made no effort to slide closer.

Steven sat there, mildly confused. He knew that it was almost midnight, and that he could return to his own, relatively shabbier apartment whenever he wished. But… he closed his eyes. Girls, seriously.

The windows had been closed. For a while, there was nothing but the soft drone of the television and a rhythmic, monotonous droning sound. Steven sat there, his head drooping to his chest, content to suffer the silent treatment. His head fell; a thin strand of saliva had begun to peek out of the corner of his mouth. His shoulders fell, then slumped sideways. This was when he woke up.

“Jesus!” he yelped. Samantha looked at him, placidly, and raised a delicate eyebrow. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m eating.”

She was indeed eating. Two tubs of ice cream sat on the coffee table, stacked on top of one another such that they occupied as little space as possible. On her other side, three more tubs sat; the third one was half empty. Samantha dug into the tub with a silver cup-like spoon, lifting the cold cream out. She regarded it, mildly, and then her black eyes flicked back up to regard the television. The spoon disappeared into her mouth.

“Don’t you get brain-freeze?” Steven managed.

Samantha shrugged. Her dress was a cute little black number which ended mid-thigh; it had been, unbeknownst to Steven, a two-piece. Or perhaps it had become a two-piece, for the piece of soft fabric had parted, and Samantha’s belly now peeked out from between the two halves, a crescent of pale, perfect flesh.

“Hey, my eyes are up here.”

Steven’s eyes flicked up. Samantha posed, the spoon tapping on her full, crimson lips. Her tongue traced the curve of her mouth in one luxurious swipe; “Mmm,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Strawberry.”

“Strawberry?” Steven wasn’t sure why he was aroused - he should have been repulsed - but he was faintly aroused. She was obviously enjoying herself.

“Yeah. My lip gloss. This ice cream is vanilla, y’know.” She set the tub down to her right and reached around, arms bouncing imperceptibly. It was the tightness of her sleeves (which came down to her elbow) that accentuated the thin layer of fat over her arms. There was a rubber band in those deft, slightly sugar-stained hands, and her messy curls were quickly wrestled into a ponytail.

Now Steven was definitely aroused. Girls with ponytails were His Thing.

“You know,” he croaked, for the sake of his own dignity, “ice cream is not good to overindulge in.”

Samantha shrugged indifferently and polished off another spoonful of ice cream. Her stomach gurgled; she took one deep breath, and the two segments of her dress finally separated. Her top rode all the way up, until it was a few inches from her breasts, and she arched her back, the aching fullness of her abdomen clear and present. Steven glanced at her belly, and then her neck, the pop of her spine as she stretched luxuriously. When she opened her eyes and looked at him, eyes dark with want, he did not stop to wonder if she was aroused by the eating or by him.

“You said you wanted to fuck,” she murmured, throatily.

“Yeah.”

“Well?” She shifted in her seat with a wince and reached into the depths of her skirt. A few tugs, and a scrap of cloth came free. Steven was removing his belt and discarding it on the floor, shifting on the couch until he was kneeling on the soft fabric. His pants pooled around his waist, and he had withdrawn his trusty pack of condoms. There was a soft thump as the ice cream tubs fell to the carpet, securely fastened. “C’mon, Stevie. Claim your prize.”

—–

Steven - that wasn’t his real name, by the way - woke up, tangled in the sheets. He felt the gentle kiss of the air-conditioning on his skin, and smelled a faint hint of perfume. Or was it cologne? Perhaps it was his. He raised his thick arm and took a short breath - no. He’d sweated his cologne away last night. And what a night it had been!

“Off you go,” Samantha said. He looked up; saw her, framed in the light from the doorway. The curtains of her massive bedroom had been drawn, and the dawn flickered in through the gauzy fabric. “Chop-chop, come on.” An almost perfectly round pale white sphere pushed against her dressing gown; he could see it through the cloth.

“Is that silk?”

“Never you mind.”

Steven wanted to get to know her better. His intentions weren’t entirely pure - how pure could they be, when he’d just had a night of mind-blowing sex with the vision before him? - but, entirely apart from that, he was genuinely curious as to how she’d been able to afford all this. She could be a very useful friend. Unfortunately, she was giving off a very strong “fuck off” vibe. In the cold light of day, it was quickly becoming apparent that her skin was not nearly as flawless as it had seemed to be last night; there was the hint of puffiness around her eyes, and her flowing locks were gnarled and tangled. As for wrinkles… there were none. Small comfort.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll… call an Uber.”

“Done.” Samantha stood aside, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. Her hair swept across her cheekbones such that, for a moment, the only part of her face that Steven could see was her eyes, which were black - dark, black, all-encompassing. “C’mon.”

Steven grabbed his belongings. He wanted to hang around - he’d only seen half of her apartment, and was wondering where that wooden door in her bedroom led to - but Samantha was following him around, her gown trailing over the floor, the fine bones of her neck rising and receding as she took deep breaths, as though on the verge of screaming at him to get out. He took his wallet, his belt, his phone; patted his pockets, did up his buttons. There was a pleasant chime; Samantha grabbed the house phone, thumbed a button and nodded, once.

“Down you go.”

She brought him to the door, opened it, and stabbed at the lift irritably. Steven watched. He felt a vague sense of bemusement. “Last night -” he began.

Samantha pushed him into the elevator and pivoted on her swollen ankle. Her gown was made of a soft satin, perhaps silk; Steven fingered the hem of it in his mind as the lift doors closed and he could see nothing but his reflection. He emerged into the morning; the Uber was waiting. Steven slid in, muttered his address, and craned his neck for the name of the apartment building.

—–

Samantha slid the door shut and leaned against it, panting.

Her stomach had begun to deflate. She kicked off her slippers and wiggled her toes into the soft carpet as her black hair began to tame itself. Slipping one shaking hand into her waistband, she pulled out the small plastic container and pressed her fingers together as her nail polish sloughed off into the cup. The process was repeated with her other hand.

The bones in her body were creaking as they rearranged themselves, stretched, realigned. Although the ice cream from the previous night had been a spot of personal pleasure, that was not to say that it did not serve a specific purpose.

In chemistry, it is known that for any reaction - any reaction at all - energy is involved. Energy is required to break intramolecular and intermolecular bonds; energy is absorbed when aforementioned bonds are formed.

Samantha hissed as the blubbery mass on her front - a combination of soft, supple fat and the half-digested remnants of last night’s large lunch and equally large supper - vibrated and split. Stripped down to their barest organic components, they set off in multiple directions, shunted towards her brain, her fingers, her knees, her groin, reforming into cells, tissue, organs. The sensation was neither pleasurable nor painful. It just… was. They could not imagine a time without it.

She had made it into her living room. With every step, her spine shifted and creaked, and their spine shifted accordingly. Slim fingers thickened, the heavy breasts sinking into vaguely defined pectorals. Lawrence had made it a point to keep in shape, but not in too good a shape. Aesthetically, he appreciated being strict, disciplined, slim, perfectly, sublimely optimized. It was his duty to take care of the accounts, to get things done. It was his name on the credit cards, on the title deeds, on the bank accounts, on the driving license.

Samantha’s stomach had gone completely; no one would mistake them for having anything other than a flat, slightly concave abdomen - barely a belly worth of the name. It was important to Lawrence that he not be too physically imposing. Eyelashes shrunk; Samantha’s mane of hair shortened to a simple cut.

Throughout this, they did not speak.

The dressing gown was discarded with a grunt of disgust; its hem no longer trailed over the floor. With rising, irrational anger, the panties were discarded, as was the bra. Samantha’s jaw had shortened, become squarish; her teeth had become yellowed, and slightly crooked. They limped over to the bedroom, back hunched, and pulled open one of the drawers. There was a small capsule of saline solution; Lawrence’s dentures went in. He wasn’t an old man, not by any means, but it was a medical condition. Two of his adult teeth had never grown in.

Muscle fibres finished their final round of thickening; Samantha’s frame had risen by twenty centimetres, lost their soft padding, grown tall and severe. Their eyes were still black, but they had changed. Something had gone from those black eyes, and something else had entered. Large, squarish feet slid over the floorboards and threw open the door to the walk-in wardrobe. A pair of cotton briefs was thrown on.

The last few droplets of organic matter finally reached their destination.

“Testing, testing, one, two, three,” they muttered. Samantha’s whisper deepened, thickened, became hoarser. Yellowed teeth snapped together as the cotton briefs swelled to accommodate something that should have been there all along.

Lawrence stretched. The warm light of day stretched over his bare torso, slipping into the jagged crevices of his back. He threw on a ragged Batman T-shirt, slid on his spectacles and wriggled into a pair of three-quarter pants. Then he went to splash water over his face; brush his teeth; wash his face.

Today, he intended to get some work done.

#writing #MY STUFF #erotica #belly #mtf #m2f #maletofemale #genderfuck #genderbending #mtf erotica #bbw #big belly #fat belly #round belly #large belly

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