Chapter 6: Tight Squeeze
The memory of the broken scale was a ghost in the room, a silent third party to their morning ritual. Evelyn stood before the full-length mirror attached to the cabin door, the aftermath of the previous day—and night—settled upon her like a second skin. The black bikini she’d worn to the pool, now dry and salty, was a relic from a smaller past. It lay in a crumpled heap on the floor where she’d dropped it after painstakingly peeling it off. The process had been a quiet, humiliating struggle.
First, the top. The spandex, strained from yesterday’s expansion, had fought the softer, fuller swell of her breasts. She’d had to contort, hooking her thumbs under the front band and pulling upward, a motion that made the soft bulk of her upper arms tremble. It had sprung free with an audible snap, leaving a deep, angry red line beneath her bust.
The bottoms had been worse. They had cut into the newly soft expanse of her lower belly, the waistband burying itself in a crease that hadn’t existed a week ago. She’d had to wiggle and push, rolling the fabric down over hips that seemed wider, less angular. The material stuck on the crest of her pubic bone, held fast by the pressure of the flesh above and below. She’d gotten stuck there, panting, a flush of frustrated tears pricking her eyes.
“Need a hand?” Liam’s voice had been soft from the bed.
“No,” she’d gasped, lying. But then she’d nodded, her pride dissolving. He’d come up behind her, his sleep-warm body aligning with hers. His hands, so much stronger, had taken over. He’d hooked his fingers into the stubborn fabric on either side of her hips.
“Deep breath,” he’d instructed.
She’d sucked in a shaky breath, her stomach pushing out further. With a firm, steady pull, he’d worked the suit down, his knuckles brushing the sensitive, indented skin. It had slid past the obstacle, then down her thighs, which were now thick enough that the fabric had to be coaxed over them. When it finally pooled at her ankles, the relief was immediate, followed by a wave of self-consciousness at the deep, cross-hatched marks left behind. They looked like bondage lines, a map of restraint etched into her pale, soft flesh.
Now, naked, she assessed the damage. The marks would fade. The body they encircled, however, felt permanent. The soft, jiggling mass of her belly hung differently. It was no longer just a taut pouch from a big meal; it had a lazy, pendulous weight. When she turned slightly, she could see the beginnings of a soft roll pinching at the side of her torso, just above her hip. Her reflection was wider, fuller, the sharp edges of her collarbones softened under a new layer of warmth.
“Come on,” Liam said, already in the doorway to the small bathroom. Steam was beginning to billow out, scenting the air with the ship’s generic lemon-verbena soap. “A shower will help.”
The bathroom felt impossibly small. The shower was a glass-walled stall, and as she stepped in behind him, she was acutely aware of how much space she now occupied. Her body, still warm from sleep, pressed against the cool, wet tile, and then against Liam’s back as he adjusted the water. He turned, drawing her under the spray.
The water was a benediction. It sluiced over her shoulders, flowed in rivulets down the slopes of her breasts, cascaded over the great, pale mound of her stomach. Liam took the bar of soap, working up a thick lather in his hands. He started at her shoulders, his hands firm and soothing on muscles that ached from the simple effort of carrying her new weight.
“It’s not just in my head, is it?” she said, her voice barely audible over the drumming water. “I feel… wider. When I walk.”
“You are,” he said simply, his soapy hands sliding down
When I walk.”
“You are,” he said simply, his soapy hands sliding down her back. They moved over the new, full curve of her hips, fingers tracing the indentations left by the suit. His touch was clinical and worshipful all at once. He soaped her there, working the lather into the tender grooves until the sting subsided into a gentle heat.
He turned her slowly under the spray to rinse her back. Then he faced her, his gaze dropping to her stomach, which the water glossed into a pale, rounded monument. The soap bar disappeared into his palms again. He began to lather her there, his hands spreading the slick suds over the vast expanse.
His palms made broad, slow circles, mapping the terrain. They slid over the lower hang of her belly, a softer, cooler region that hadn’t seen the sun. His thumbs pressed gently into the doughy flesh beside her navel. A low, aching moan escaped her lips. It wasn't pain. It was a release of deep, cellular tension.
“Sore?” he asked, his voice a warm rumble in the steamy enclosure.
“Just… full,” she whispered. “It all feels so settled. Heavy.”
“Good.” His hands curled beneath the overhang, lifting the weight slightly, kneading the intrinsic softness there. The sensation was unbelievable. It was a relief so profound it felt indecent. Her knees went weak. She braced her hands against his slick shoulders, her fingers digging in.
The water beat down on them, a cocoon of sound and heat. He washed every newly softened part of her with a thorough, possessive tenderness. He soaped the thick curve of her inner thighs, the swell of her breasts that now spilled over his moving hands. He took his time. There was no hurry. The world outside the fogged glass did not exist.
Finally, he rinsed her, his hands guiding the streams of water. She was pliant, boneless. The mirror was a clouded gray slab, hiding her. For a moment, she was just a feeling—a collection of warm, heavy, well-tended flesh.
He turned off the water. The sudden silence was loud, filled only with the drip from the showerhead and their breathing. The cool air hit the open door, raising goosebumps on her skin. He reached for a large, white towel, unfolding it like a ceremony.
He wrapped her in it, the terrycloth swallowing her. He rubbed her back, her arms, with a brisk, absorbing friction. Then he knelt. He patted the towel gently over her stomach, soaking up the beads of water that clung in the folds and creases. He was tender, almost reverent.
“I can’t get the towel around me,” she said, a faint, shocked laugh in her voice. The towel’s ends, which once easily met around her, now gaped open by several inches over her stomach. He held it closed with one hand, smiling up at her.
“We’ll get a bigger towel,” he said, as if it were the most natural solution in the world. He got to his feet, keeping the towel clutched around her. “Ready to get out?”
The step out of the shower stall seemed higher than she remembered. The tile floor was cold and slick. Her body felt like a thousand pounds of warm pudding, uncoordinated and sluggish. She took a cautious step, and her foot slid slightly.
A small gasp of surprise left her. Instantly, his arms were around her, one solidly behind her back, the other hooking under her knees.
HE LIFTS HER.
He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, a smooth heave of muscle that stole her breath. Her damp skin squeaked against his forearms, the towel falling away. The cabin air, cool compared to the shower’s steam, washed over her naked body. She was completely exposed, cradled like some oversized, fleshy offering.
“Liam!” she squealed, more shock than protest.
“Got you,” he grunted, a playful strain in his voice that wasn’t entirely pretend. She was heavier. Substantially. He took two broad steps and deposited her onto the edge of the unmade bed. The mattress groaned and sank deeply beneath her. She landed with a soft, jostling impact, her body shimmering for a moment in a wave of surplus flesh.
He stood over her, breathing slightly harder, his hazel eyes drinking her in. This was different from the erotic charge of the night before. This was raw, practical evidence. “See?” he panted, a wild grin spreading across his face. “You’re a proper handful now. A real armful.”
She looked down at herself, sprawled on the rumpled sheets. The reality was inescapable. The fat on her inner thighs spread outward, flattening against the comforter. Her stomach settled into a wide, low dome, its undercurve resting on her thighs. She felt monumental. “I didn’t realize…” she began, but the sentence died.
“Realize what? How good you look?” He knelt, his hands finding her knees. “How soft you are?” His palms slid up her thighs, pushing them apart gently, his thumbs rubbing the sensitive, dimpled skin. “This is what happens when you let go, Ev. This is what happiness looks like.”
He reached for the bottle of lotion on the nightstand, pumping a generous white coil into his palm. He warmed it between his hands, the clinical coconut scent filling the space between them. He started at her feet, massaging the arch, working up over her ankles. His touch was methodical, total.
He spent an inordinate amount of time on her calves, kneading the new fullness there. His hands moved higher, smoothing lotion over her knees, then up the expansive landscape of her thighs. He worked the thick, yielding flesh in earnest, his fingers pressing deeply into the cellulite that now textured her skin. It wasn’t gentle. It was proprietary.
“The marks are almost gone,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the faint, lingering lines from the bikini. He coated the skin there anyway, sealing it. His hands moved over her hips, gripping the new rolls of softness that spilled over the waistband of nothing.
She could only watch, a passive recipient. A flush spread from her chest up her neck. His silence was more intense than any dirty talk. He was maintaining her. He was anointing her.
Then his large, lotion-slick hands found her belly. They encompassed it. He began to rub in slow, firm circles, working the cream into the stretched, pale canvas. He coated every inch, from the underhang that dipped between her thighs to the soft shelf just below her breasts. The sound was a wet, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick.
Her breath hitched. The intimacy was absolute, a thousand times more profound than sex. This was post-sex. This was the care and keeping of the consequences. A tear, hot and sudden, tracked down her cheek.
He saw it. He didn’t comment. He just leaned forward and kissed the very center of her stomach, his lips leaving a faint, glossy imprint on the lotioned skin. “My beautiful girl,” he whispered into her flesh. “All mine.”
The moment stretched, taut and fragile.
Later, dressed in the only clothes that felt tolerable—a stretchy black jersey dress that clung to every new contour—Evelyn moved through the ship with a new awareness. The dress’s hem rode up her thicker thighs. The fabric stretched taut across her back, where a new band of fat now met her bra strap. She was aware of the space she occupied, the way her body cut a wider path through the crowded corridors.
Dinner was a quiet affair in a corner of the main dining room. She ordered a salad, a silent, reflexive bid for the ghost of her old discipline. Liam didn’t object. He just added a starter of baked brie with fig jam and a side of truffle fries to the table “for us to share.”
The salad was a pathetic, lonely heap of greens. She watched Liam spread the molten cheese onto a bread slice, the stringy warmth making her mouth water. He held it out to her. “Just a taste.”
She took it. The rich, salty creaminess exploded on her tongue. Her stomach, still digesting the monumental meals of the previous day, gave a low, eager gurgle. It wasn’t hunger. It was conditioning.
She ate the brie. She ate the fries, dragging them through the jam. She finished her salad, but only because it was there, a crunchy, virtuous afterthought. The real meal had been the sharing, the surrender.
“Full?” Liam asked, scraping the last of the cheese from the ceramic dish.
She nodded, her hand resting on the subtle swell beneath her dress. It was a constant now, a baseline fullness that never truly receded. “But not… stuffed.”
He grinned, signalling the waiter. “Excellent. There’s a crepe station on the Lido deck. Nutella and bananas. Whipped cream.” He said it like a doctor prescribing a necessary cure. He paid the bill, his hand finding the small of her back as they stood. His palm spanned the new, soft width of her.
She didn’t argue. The walk to the Lido deck felt like a procession. The night air was sweet with the smell of sugar and frying batter. The line for crepes was short. Liam ordered two.
The man behind the counter poured the batter, spreading it thin. He asked for their toppings. “Everything on both,” Liam said, his voice casual, final.
They watched as the crepes were slathered in Nutella, piled high with sliced bananas, dusted with powdered sugar, then crowned with a towering swirl of whipped cream. They were handed over on flimsy paper plates, threatening to buckle.
They found a small table overlooking the dark, churning sea. Evelyn picked up her plastic fork. The first bite was a shuddering wave of sweetness, so potent it made her teeth ache. She ate. The soft crepe, the gooey chocolate, the slick fruit—it was child’s pleasure, simple and overwhelming.
She got halfway through before her body screamed in protest. The richness coated her throat, cloying and thick. She pushed the plate away, a thin sheen of sweat on her upper lip.
“Can’t,” she whispered.
Liam finished his own, then pulled her abandoned plate toward him. He ate methodically, not with lust, but with a kind of duticious completion. He wiped up the last smear of Nutella with a final piece of crepe and ate it.
“We can’t let it go to waste,” he said simply, wiping his mouth.
Back in the cabin, the food sat in her like a lead weight, a sugary cement setting in her core. She lay on the bed, the jersey dress rolled up to her ribs. Her belly distended, a rounded, firm hill in the low light. Liam lay beside her, his hand resting on the curve, feeling the dense, still warmth.
“My portfolio review is Thursday,” she said suddenly, her voice slicing through the drugged silence. The real world, the one of deadlines and video calls, intruded like a shard of ice.
He stilled. “The one with the agency in San Francisco?”
“Yeah. The big one. It’s… it’s on Zoom.”
His hand began to move again, a slow, possessive circle. “So?”
“So, I have to be on camera, Liam. For an hour.” She heard the panicky edge in her own voice. She’d been avoiding full-length mirrors, but a webcam was a merciless, unflinching eye. It would show the softened jawline, the fuller face, the way her professional blouses must now be straining.
“And?” His tone was flat, a challenge.
“And I look… different.” The word was a pathetic understatement.
He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. His gaze was unwavering. “Evelyn. You’re a brilliant designer. They’re hiring your mind, not your body mass index.”
“It’s not about that. It’s about… presentation. Confidence.”
“You think you look less confident?” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You look like a woman who’s deeply satisfied. A woman who isn’t wasting her life on kale and anxiety. You look real. Let them see that.”
His words were a seductive poison, lacing her professional fear with a darker, more enticing narrative. What if he was right? What if her softness was a power, not a flaw?
He saw the conflict in her eyes. He kissed her shoulder, then her neck, his hand drifting lower on her stomach, past the waistband of her panties. “Forget Thursday. That’s days away.” His fingers found her, already slick with something that had nothing to do with lotion. “Think about right now.”
She arched against his touch, the anxiety blurring into a familiar, hungry ache. Her hands fumbled for him, pulling him closer. As he moved over her, she tried to push the image of the webcam away. She tried to drown it in the immediate, grinding reality of his body, the creak of the ship’s frame, the sweet, cloying taste of Nutella still on her tongue.
But in a quiet, shrinking corner of her mind, the thought remained, blinking like a cursor on a blank screen.
Thursday. The camera. Her face, full and soft, filling the screen for strangers to judge. The chapter ended not with a climax, but with that quiet, digital dread, a cold point of light in the warm, darkened room.
The chapter ended not with a climax, but with that quiet, digital dread, a cold point of light in the warm, darkened room. Thursday morning arrived with the harsh, pixelated glare of her laptop screen booting up. Evelyn sat at the cabin’s small desk, wearing a loose black blouse she’d specifically packed for this call. It gaped between the buttons over her bust. She’d safety-pinned it closed from the inside, the metal tip cold against her skin.
Her reflection in the black monitor was a ghostly oval. Her face was undeniably fuller, her cheeks rounding into the line of her jaw, softening the architecture of her bones. She looked well-fed. Rested. Plump. She took a slow, shaky breath, and the pin over her stomach strained.
“You look professional,” Liam said from the bed. He hadn’t gone to the ship’s gym. He’d stayed, a silent guardian. “You look smart.”
“I look like I ate the professional,” she muttered, adjusting the angle of the webcam. It was a high shot, mercifully cutting her off mid-chest. She could see the curated slice of bland wall behind her, the elegant curve of her own shoulder. This was the image she would present: a head, a shoulder, a smile. A lie by omission.
The call connected. Two faces appeared in rectangles on her screen: Martin and Sarah from the agency. They were sharp, stylish, their backgrounds minimalist shelves of design awards. “Evelyn! So great to finally see you,” Martin said, his smile bright and digital.
The review began. Her portfolio was strong. She spoke about her process, her influences, her voice. Her words were clear, intelligent. She was good at this. But her awareness was split, a terrifying duplex of consciousness. One part of her mind discussed color theory and user experience. The other part monitored her own on-screen face, the way her expressions now caused a slight rippling movement in her cheeks, the way her neck seemed to merge more seamlessly with her shoulders.
“This campaign for the local bakery is really charming,” Sarah said, clicking through. “The warmth really comes through. It feels… indulgent.”
Evelyn’s smile froze. Indulgent. The word hung in the air, a bead of condensation on a cold glass. She saw Liam, out of frame, shift on the bed. He was listening. “Thank you,” she managed. “I wanted to capture the comfort of it.”
The call lasted fifty-seven minutes. It was successful. They were enthusiastic, promising next steps. “We’ll be in touch early next week,” Martin said, waving.
The moment the screen went black, Evelyn slumped forward, her forehead touching the cool laptop lid. A wave of nauseating relief washed through her. It was over. She had done it. The pin dug sharply into her sternum as she exhaled.
Liam’s hands were on her shoulders, kneading the tension. “You killed it,” he said. His thumbs pressed into the knotty muscle. “I told you. They loved you.”
“They loved my work,” she corrected, her voice muffled by the computer.
“It’s the same thing.” He unclipped the safety pin through the fabric with a deft twist, the relief instant. “That’s done. Now we celebrate.”
Celebration had a specific meaning now. It wasn’t champagne. It wasn’t a show. It was a refueling. A ratification. He took her hand and led her out of the cabin, into the bright, humming artery of the ship. It was late morning, the time between meals where the corridors were quiet. Her stomach, still processing the massive breakfast of eggs, sausages, and pastry she’d eaten two hours prior, felt like a dormant, contented beast.
They wandered past the shopping promenade, a glittering tunnel of jewelry stores and perfume shops. Evelyn slowed near a window displaying silk kimonos. They were beautiful, all flowing lines and vibrant patterns.
“Try it on,” Liam said, already guiding her inside.
The sales attendant, a woman with a perfectly pinned smile, fetched a size large. The dressing room mirror was brutal and full-length. Evelyn shucked off her dress and stood in her underwear, the marks from yesterday’s bikini finally faded into a faint, pinkish memory. Her body in the stark light was a series of gentle slopes and heavy curves. She looked like a painting from a different century.
She slid the kimono on. The silk was cool and slippery. It closed over her chest, but the sash, when she tied it, strained across the broadest part of her hips and the shelf of her lower stomach. It pulled tight across her back, the fabric taut. She couldn’t get it to lie flat. It gaped slightly below the tied obi, revealing a slice of her pale belly.
She opened the curtain. Liam’s eyes darkened. “Gorgeous,” he breathed.
The attendant’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “The cut is perhaps a bit… narrow through the hips for you. We don’t have an extra-large in this pattern. Perhaps a shawl?”
The words were politely lethal. Narrow through the hips. Evelyn felt her face grow hot. She was being politely told she was too wide for the beautiful thing. Liam’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look at the attendant. He kept his eyes on Evelyn.
“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice low and definitive. “We’ll take it.”
“Liam, no, it doesn’t fit,” Evelyn whispered, tugging at the straining fabric.
“It fits you perfectly,” he insisted, pulling out his wallet. He paid without another word, his movements sharp. The attendant folded the kimono into a bag, her expression unreadable. The air in the shop felt thin and charged.
Outside, the bag swung from Liam’s hand. He was quiet for a long moment, steering them with a new purpose. The hum of the ship’s engines seemed louder. “Forget her,” he finally said, his voice rough. “She sells trinkets. She doesn’t know anything.”
“She knows a size large doesn’t fit,” Evelyn said, the humiliation crystallizing into a sharp, cold point in her chest. The successful portfolio review evaporated. This was the tangible truth: her body, refusing to conform.
“Then her sizes are wrong.” He stopped walking. They were at the entrance to the ship’s vast, central atrium. A triple-decker space of gleaming brass and glass, it was filled with the murmur of a hundred conversations, the clink of glasses from surrounding bars. His hazel eyes searched hers. That quiet, digital dread from the morning was back, but now it had a shape, a texture—a silk kimono that wouldn’t close.
HE BUYS HER FOOD.
He turned, his gaze scanning the atrium’s offerings. There was a gelato stand, its glass bins full of vibrant colors. A patisserie with shelves of glossy pastries. A caramel popcorn cart, the sweet, buttery scent cutting through the air. He didn't ask. He just squeezed her hand and led her to all of them.
First, the gelato. “Two large waffle cones,” he told the server. “Double scoop. Pistachio and salted caramel for her. Chocolate fudge and cookies and cream for me.” He paid, handing Evelyn the overflowing cone. The cold weight was immediate. The sweet, nutty scent was irresistible. She licked it, the flavor rich and perfect. The sugar hit her system like a bolt of sympathy.
They stood there, eating in silence as people flowed around them. She watched a slender woman in a linen jumpsuit glide past, sipping sparkling water. Evelyn took a huge, crunching bite of her waffle cone, shattering it. Liam finished his and took hers when she was done, devouring the last of it.
Next, the patisserie. He pointed through the glass. “The mille-feuille. And the passionfruit tart. And two of the chocolate- dipped madeleines.” A small box was tied with string. He carried it.
Then the popcorn. A large, warm bag, glistening. The smell was intoxicatingly artificial and wonderful.
He found a plush velvet bench in a quieter alcove, overlooking the atrium’s endless swirl. He placed the booty between them: the pastry box, the bag of popcorn. He opened the box, broke the perfect mille-feuille in half with his fingers, and handed her the larger piece. Flaky pastry and vanilla cream collapsed onto her fingers. She ate it. It was sublime. She ate the passionfruit tart, its sharp curd cutting through the gelato’s richness. She ate buttery, sweet popcorn by the handful.
She ate without speaking, her eyes on the crowds. She ate past the point of taste, into a numb, mechanical ingestion. Each bite was a rebellion against the woman in the shop, against the webcam’s narrow frame, against the feeling of the pin straining on her blouse. Each sugary, fatty mouthful was a brick in a wall, thickening her, solidifying her, making the kimono’s failure an irreversible fact.
Liam watched, his hand resting on her lower back, feeling the subtle shifts as she swallowed, as her body accepted the offering. He didn’t eat much. This wasn’t for him. This was a transaction, a correction, a sacrament. When the pastries were gone and the popcorn bag was greasy and empty, he brushed a flake of pastry from the soft swell of her belly, visible between the buttons of her now-tight dress.
“There,” he said softly, his thumb stroking the place where the sugar and fat were already settling, merging with her. “Now we’ve celebrated.”