drblackjack - Room-mate (with a view) - One Shot

I noticed the changes long before she ever said a word.

It started with that black t-shirt she used to wear around the apartment. The first time I saw the soft little dome of her stomach pressing against the fabric when she sat down, I told myself it was nothing. People put on a few pounds. It happens. But the dome kept growing. Within weeks the same shirt no longer covered the warm lower curve of her belly when she reached up for something. The hem would ride up and stay there, showing a pale, soft strip of skin that looked heavier than before. She never tugged it down right away. She left it. And every time she did, heat pooled low in my gut.

Her jeans were next. I watched the button start to need real effort. Then the waistband began carving into her. When she finally peeled them off at night, faint red lines stayed pressed into the soft new flesh above her hips. One evening she walked past my open door in just a long shirt. The bottom of it barely covered the tops of her thighs, and those red marks were still visible. Soft lower belly spilled over the edge of her underwear in a warm, heavy curve. I looked too long. She caught me.

After that she stopped pretending the clothes still fit.

She started wearing the tightest tops on purpose. Fabric clung to the growing weight of her breasts until the neckline sat lower. When she leaned over the sink the shirt rode up her back and the soft sides of her belly bulged outward, warm and thick. I could see the way the fat had softened and spread, how it moved when she breathed. She never fixed the shirt quickly. She gave me time to stare, then glanced over her shoulder like she had only just remembered I was there.

I tried to stay composed. I kept my eyes on my phone, on the television, on anything that wasn’t the soft, expanding shape of my roommate. But my body didn’t care. Every time the material stretched tight across a new soft place, my loins twitched. Every time a fold of her stomach appeared or disappeared under the fabric, my hands ached to test how much give was there.

She knew.

One evening she came out of her room in a pale blue top that had once been loose on her. Now it was a second skin. The material stretched tight across the full, heavy curves of her breasts, then pulled even tighter over the soft, rounded swell of her belly. The hem barely reached the top of her thighs. When she walked, the soft underside of her stomach swayed just enough to make the fabric shift. The waistband of her shorts was already buried under soft flesh, digging in so deep that thick little rolls had formed above and below it. I could see the way her hips had widened, how her thighs now rubbed softly together with every step.

She moved around the living room slowly, collecting a glass, checking her phone, giving me every angle. The shirt kept riding up. Soft pale skin kept appearing. My throat felt tight. My jeans felt tighter.

Finally she stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell the faint sweetness of her lotion and feel the heat coming off her body.

“This one is really stuck,” she said, voice light. “I think I overdid it today.”

She turned slightly, presenting her side. The fabric was stretched so tight across her ribs and the soft outer curve of her breast that I could see the faint outline of her bra digging deep into soft fat. Lower down, her belly pressed firmly against the material, the soft lower curve already escaping beneath the hem in a warm, heavy overhang.

“Can you help me get it off?” she asked. “I’m worried I’ll rip it if I try by myself.”

I stood up too fast.

She lifted her arms slowly. The motion made her soft underarms and the heavy sides of her breasts shift and settle. The shirt rode higher. A wide band of soft, warm stomach came into view, the skin smooth and slightly flushed, the fat thick enough that it trembled when she breathed. I stepped closer. The heat of her reached me before my hands did.

My fingers found the hem.

The second I touched the fabric I felt the give of the soft flesh beneath it. She was warmer than I expected, and so much softer. When I began to peel the shirt upward, the material dragged slowly across her skin, catching on the soft lower curve of her belly before sliding higher. Soft fat spilled outward the instant it was freed, warm and heavy against the backs of my hands. I felt the way it yielded, the way it poured into my palms like it had been waiting.

I kept going.

The shirt stretched tight across the full underside of her breasts. I had to work it carefully, fingers brushing the soft, yielding weight of them as I eased the fabric up. They were heavier than the last time I had accidentally touched her, fuller, the soft fat spilling over the edges of her bra. She made a small sound—half breath, half something lower—and shifted her weight. The movement made her belly sway gently against my wrists, the soft mass of it warm and substantial.

When the shirt finally cleared her breasts, they settled heavily, soft and full, the bra doing almost nothing to contain them. Soft side fat spilled over the band. I pulled the fabric the rest of the way over her head. For a moment her arms were still raised, soft underarms and the full, heavy shape of her on complete display. Then she lowered them, and the soft weight of her body settled with a slow, liquid heaviness.

She didn’t step back.

She stood there in only the too-tight bra and the shorts that were losing the fight against her hips and thighs, breathing a little faster. Her belly rose and fell between us, soft and round and closer than it had any right to be. A faint red line from the shirt’s hem was still pressed into the widest part of it, the soft fat on either side slightly swollen from the constriction. I could see how much softer she had gotten, how the weight had settled low and heavy, how her once-flat stomach had become a thick, warm cushion of flesh that moved when she breathed.

I was still holding the bunched-up shirt. My hands felt useless. It was painfully hard.

She looked down at the soft expanse of her own stomach, then back up at my face. A slow, knowing smile curved her mouth.

“You’ve been watching,” she said quietly. Not a question. “For a while now.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The air between us felt too thick.

She took a small step closer. The soft lower curve of her belly brushed the front of my shirt. The contact was light, almost accidental, except nothing about the way she held my gaze felt accidental at all. I felt the warm give of her, the way the soft fat yielded against me, and my breath caught.

“I noticed what you look at,” she continued, voice soft. “What makes you go quiet. What makes you shift in your seat when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Her hand came up and rested lightly against the side of her own soft stomach, fingers sinking just a little into the warm give of it. The fat dimpled around her fingertips.

“I’ve been doing this on purpose,” she said. “Getting softer. Getting heavier. Letting the clothes get tighter. I wanted to see how long you’d last before you stopped pretending you didn’t like it.”

She let the silence stretch, watching my face, watching the way my eyes kept dropping to the soft, heavy shape of her even while I tried to keep them on hers.

“You can touch,” she added, almost gently. “If you want. I didn’t get this soft just to keep it to myself.”

The shirt was still in my hands. Her body was still close enough that every breath made her soft belly brush against me. The red marks from the tight fabric were still fading on her skin. And the smile she gave me said she already knew exactly what I was going to do next.

She had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

And she had made sure her body was ready for it.