As Mrs. Henner clanged through the kitchen, Mr. Henner recounted their meeting.
“I was working as a busboy in a diner on a dusty stretch of highway two exits off the middle of nowhere. We served breakfast, lunch, and dinner to every drifter, cop, and cowboy who passed through those parts. It was simple enough work—clear the tables, fill the coffee, keep the rabble from arguing over the local high school football rivalry. One day, the glasses started shaking and the windows rattled as a motorcycle gang pulled up outside. Wasn't an uncommon site. When their leader kicked the door open and growled 'Give me all of the bacon and eggs you have,' the cook laughed for a moment before he started cooking.
“'Wait!' The gang leader took off their helmet, and it turned out to be the most beautiful, most irritated woman I had ever seen.
“She set her helmet on the bar, unzipped her jacket revealing a trim waist and ample cleavage, and continued, 'I'm afraid that what you just heard was, “Bring me a lot of bacon and eggs.” What I said was, “Bring me all of the bacon and eggs you have.”'
“Our cook stopped laughing and instead nodded gravely. Adding to the seriousness of her words, the biker's gang began to enter the diner. Her head start made more sense as they waddled in. I was impressed that Harley Davidson could make seats wide enough and bikes sturdy enough to transport the waddling, sweating, gasping behemoths that soon filled every booth, stool, and chair in the joint. Aside from their svelte leader, the smallest member weighed about 250 pounds. The biggest filled an entire booth seat by himself, and had to scoot the table away from his swelling belly to make room. I couldn't guess his weight.
“The feasting began as soon as the first plate of breakfast came out. The gang leader went to each table and made sure her members were getting enough to eat, calling out new orders to the cook on occasion. When everyone was stuffed and patting their bellies, she came up to me and smiled. 'You're cute; I'm bored. What time do you get off?'
“We start dating, yadda yadda yadda, we usually go out for food, yadda yadda yadda. And over time, that biker chick from the diner starts to become emotionally software while I become... literally softer. You wouldn't know it looking at her now in her apron, but my wife was a real firecracker back in the day!”
It seemed to take a lot out of Mr. Henner to tell that story because of how full he was. He was panting a bit, and definitely seemed to rush the ending because of several burps making their way up his throat. Still, we had defeated most of the Thanksgiving dinner.
“Got room for dessert?” Mrs. Henner flowed from the kitchen hefting a pumpkin pie in one hand and propping a cauldron of homemade whipped cream against her opposite hip.
If I didn’t imagine this, it only lasted a moment. But I swear what crossed Mr. Henner’s face was not admiration, contentment, or domestic bliss. He blanched in outright fear. He didn’t just look worried that he might belch too loudly in front of a guest, or spill more food onto the beaches of Hawaii, or even make himself sick across the table. He looked like this was the end—this pie would be featured in his obituary. This woman was an assassin: perhaps slow but certainly unstoppable.
I glanced at Mrs. Henner, who passed under a shadow cast by the chandelier. It couldn’t have been the rational part of my brain—it happened too fast. This was instinct: the frozen tension of prey before a predator. I saw exactly what forced Mr. Henner’s fear. In this light, her toothy smile became bared fangs. Her pretty eyes were wide but focused—all the better to see every twitch of her victims. She stalked the table, weapons of obesity at the ready. I knew the fattest pig was the most likely target, but I worried her feedlust would rip past her husband and tear my bloated guts open as well. I was fresh meat. She would pump me up full of pie and lard until I was as big as her previous victim, and never stop until I doubled, tripled, quadrupled his size.
And just as quickly, fear and malice vanished from the room. Mr. Henner regained lustful hunger—licking his lips and rubbing what he could reach of his exposed belly. Mrs. Henner stepped past the shadow and returned to her normal, bubbly self. She hummed as she presented the pie and whipped cream on the table like the demure, loving housewife she was.
Or was this the mask?
I blinked twice and shook the need to flee from my head. Adjusting in my seat, I noticed my rock hard cock snaking down my left pant leg. Safely hidden by the messy table, my dick was certain while my mind was confused. I tried not to pant.
Mrs. Henner placed a hand on my shoulder. I jumped in my seat, hands moving to cover my erection. Luckily, the movement jostled my overburdened stomach and my hands detoured to sooth the pain. I cradled the bottom of my stuffed belly with one hand and circled the top with the other.
“What do you say Conrad? Want a piece of my pie?”
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