Young Betsy

Teen Belly: A Belly Tale By Paul Gazer
In the fall of 1996, computer program software was exploding, and, as a freelance code chopper, I was raking in the bucks. So I was hard at it when 13-year-old Betsy walked in and cheerfully announced. “I just had my period, Daddy.”
“Uh, aha, um, well… right. Did you use the stuff we bought?”
“Of course; I’m not mentally challenged.” She grinned all over her plump, pretty face. “You know what this means, Daddy? Now we can really do it!”
Oh boy. To be plain about it, my unofficial step daughter wanted me to sleep with her. This had been building for five years and that girl was wearing me down.
And it had begun so innocently….
Five years back, when Betsy was eight, her mother was 25 and I was 18. (What can I say? I was horny as only an asocial 18 year old nerd can be horny.) We weren’t legally married, just hooked up; but right away, Betsy started calling me “Daddy.”
And no wonder. Her mother resented and neglected her, fed her beans and mac and cheese — that is, if and when she happened to think of it — and otherwise ignored the little girl completely. When Betsy found out that I liked her and paid attention, she glommed onto me like a life preserver after a shipwreck. Naturally loving and affectionate, the kid was simply starved for love in return. She held my hand when we went shopping, sat in my lap whenever she could, and smiled a lot in my direction. Before I knew it I’d been handed the responsibility for a completely volunteer daughter.
My long slide downward started one night about two months after the pair moved into my condo with me. Betsy stood in front of me, blocking the TV, and said, “Come give me my bath, Daddy.” She was down to her little girl underpants, which rode under the shelf of her big bare belly. I looked at her mother (who was home for a change). “I’m not sure…”
“Oh, go ahead,” said her mother.
“But she’s a girl.”
The woman shrugged. “She’s eight, for Chrissake.”
“Pleeeeease, Daddy!” Betsy took my hand to drag me upright. I stood and let her pull me into the bathroom. The tub was already full, so Betsy slipped out of her panties, climbed in, and then stood there. “Okay,” she said expectantly.
“Okay what?”
“Wash me, silly.”
“Wash you; right.” I grabbed a washcloth, soaped it, and started on her arms.
“Ow! That’s too scratchy.”
“It’s the cleanest one we have, babe,” (which wasn’t very).
“Just use your hands.”
Right: rub my soapy hands all over her plump eight-year-old body. But Betsy gave me such a loving, pleading look that I picked up the soap and lathered my hands. Then I just stared at her helplessly.
She was a tall, sturdy girl with auburn hair (which I’d had cut for the first time in a year) and big puppy eyes. Betsy was decidedly plump: chubby legs, dimpled elbows, sweet bubble butt. The plumpest part by far was her belly. Sure, there was extra fat there too, but that couldn’t be all of it. Her bulging paunch arced outward from her sternum and swooped all the way down to her cunning, bare, little girl mound. If she hadn’t been nine, I’d have wondered who knocked her up.
Which was a problem. I’m crazy for pot-bellied girls. (I’d never seen a real one naked, but by 1992 the primitive internet at least had alt-sex groups with a couple of BBW and preggo sites.) But on an eight year old child? God help me, I was bothered by that smooth, thrusting belly. So I washed her arms, her legs, her neck and back, while she rotated in and out of the shower to rinse. Then it was time for her front. Betsy turned into profile view, grinning at me. I swear, she took a big deep breath and arched her back, swelling her convex stomach even bigger. Did she already know my weakness?
At eight years old? Impossible! So I took a deep breath, held her near-side butt cheek to steady her, and rubbed her belly with my soapy palm. It felt amazing: all cushy and soft on the surface, then muscles beneath, and then big resilient innards way inside her. Her skin was smooth and warm and slippery, and she wriggled happily as I ran my palm all over it. I was starting to get hard.
A final rinse and she got out. When I handed her a towel she looked at me enquiringly, but I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to continue.
Outside the bathroom, I took a deep breath and blew it out, ashamed of my reaction to her. It sure didn’t help when she showed up ten minutes later in jammies three years old, so the tops barely covered her tiny nipples and the pants rode below the swell of her convex gut. She hugged me and kissed me goodnight and skipped out again, ignored by her mother as usual.
I turned to the woman. “What’s with Betsy’s tummy? It’s pretty big, even for a fa- uh, chubby girl.” Her mother just shrugged and went back to her celebrity dirt magazine.
So I took the girl to a pediatrician. He poked and prodded and measured her belly, ran all his tests, then stared at her chart in that inscrutable way doctors have.
He looked up at us. “First the good news. Betsy has nothing wrong with her. No parasites, cysts, tumors – nothing. She’s perfectly normal. She’s overweight, of course, and she has the usual little girl bulging tummy. Even for her age, her abdominal muscles are somewhat under-developed. But the biggest cause of her belly distention is a condition called intestinal hypertrophy. In laymen’s terms, her bowels are too big for her size, so her belly’s twice as big as normal.”
I said, “That doesn’t sound good.”
He shrugged. “Perfectly harmless. We don’t see it often but it does happen. You know, when King Louis XIV was autopsied after his death, they found his stomach was twice normal size.”
I didn’t give a damn about King Louie. “So what’s the bad news?”
The pediatrician sighed. “It’s a congenital condition and she may never grow out of it. Betsy could have an oversize stomach all her life.”
I put my arm around her protectively and she hugged me back. “It’s all right, Sweetie,” I said, you’re just fine and you look just fine too.”
Betsy smiled happily, believing everything I told her.
And so the routine continued. I took Betsy to school, came home and did my freelance work, picked her up in the afternoon for play or shopping or just hanging out. Meanwhile, her mother was still going out at night – alone. Okay, she had a right; we weren’t married and my geeky absorption in work didn’t make me very entertaining. Still, I worried.
Every night we had Betsy’s bath. I did all right except on her sensuous belly, where her thrusting tautness never failed to, well, I guess I’d have to say it aroused me. I don’t think Betsy noticed but I would start to breathe deeply. Some nights I fell into almost a trance, stroking and rubbing the warm, swollen dome, slipping around her curvy sides, playing with her deep belly button. I didn’t really notice that when I did this, Betsy wriggled and cooed and purred like a fat kitten.
Time passed and Betsy was near ten years old, when one night she smelled like an outhouse as she pulled down her panties and they were badly stained. When I asked her, she said she’d had “runny yuckies,” so I threw the panties in the sink to wash as she got in the tub. When I’d smoothed the soap all over her belly and into her navel – I confess: taking longer than necessary — I and said, “Sweetie, You better wash extra between your legs to clean the runny yuckies.”
Betsy smiled a seductive girl-child smile. “You do it, Daddy,” and poked her pussy out.
Now what? “Well, you really ought to do it yourself.”
Biiiig brown eyes and little girl voice: “Why, Daddy?”
“Ah, well…”
“I don’t think I can reach.” She handed back the soap.
So I laundered her plump, bare cunny, rubbing the soap over her soft pink mound, sliding a finger into her immature lips, pushing in and backward. When my finger approached her anus Betsy said brightly, “Here!” Turning around, she leaned over and stuck her big round butt out at me. And there I was, staring at the asshole of a not quite 10 year-old girl. It was tan and puckered, only slightly smaller than a grownup’s. Without thinking, I rubbed two fingers all around it; then I shook my head as if waking up. “Better rinse,” I muttered.
Despite myself, this became routine. I’d refuse to wash between her thighs and she would pout and plead and I’d give in and torture myself stroking her labia and circling her anus. One night, when she had rinsed again, I swear I caught her bottom cheeks in two cupped palms and put my mouth on her belly button. I licked into it with my tongue while Betsy stood dead-still, and then French-kissed it slowly. When I looked up, Betsy was staring down at me with a sly, grownup smile. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered.
Aside from that, I kept things strictly up and up. I went to parent conferences, took the girl shopping, found a summer camp for her; and as the months went by, she adored me more and more. I confess, I felt good being wanted, needed, loved, and yes, I loved her too. Like a daughter only, I assured myself, a daughter only, honest!
Then one morning when Betsy was near 11 years old, I woke up to find the bed empty beside me, my wallet stripped, my Visa card gone, and a scribbled note: “Bored shitless; getting outta here. Seeya someday maybe.” Sure enough, her mother’s closet was bare and her crap was missing from the bathroom. My only suitcase had disappeared with her. Logical: she’d never really wanted more than free room and board; and now that I seemed to be caring for her daughter, there was nothing (as she saw it) to keep her here.
Okay, I was equally bored with the mother too, but by now I deeply loved the girl. Betsy and I were like father and daughter, but with a weird sexual undertone that I didn’t – no, couldn’t – quite acknowledge. One day, Betsy had smiled and told me, “You aren’t my real daddy, so it’s all right.” Bells should have rung and whistles blown, but I was in my air-tight binary world and didn’t pay attention. I knew I should report her mother’s flight and give Betsy up to Social Services, but that would deal the girl a rotten life, and, well, I plain didn’t want to. I owned my condo outright, my income was way beyond my needs, I worked at home, and the local school had already accepted me as Betsy’s step-dad. I decided to sit tight – well, maybe just for a while.
I told Betsy her mom had, um, gone away for, er, a bit; but that 10 year old girl knew me all too well. She took one look at my face and said, “She isn’t coming back, is she?”
“Ah, we don’t know.”
“She’s not,” said Betsy shrugging, and everything about her face and body language telegraphed indifference. After near-eleven years of no attention, she seemed to have detached herself in self-defense. Betsy had simply dismissed her mother. But she ran over and wrapped me in a fierce hug and mumbled into my sternum, “It’s just you and me now.”
Betsy kept up a good front throughout dinner, but near bedtime, as I soaped her bulging stomach (she often overate, though I’d shifted her to healthier food) I looked up to see tears rolling down her chubby cheeks. At first I was frozen, like most males faced with a weeping female; but then I stood up and gathered her to me, soapy pot belly and all, and held her while she cried it out. Later she climbed into my lap as I watched TV and sat a long time with her big bare gut hanging out above her jammy bottoms. I kept my palm on it, smoothing and stroking absently. It seemed to calm her.
It must have been two a.m. that night when a considerable weight woke me by dropping onto my bed. Betsy, of course. She lay down facing me and wiggled into my arms. I held her a while, and then she started kissing me – not little girl style but alarmingly grown up kissing. “I’m lonesome,” she whispered and kissed some more.
I could tell by feeling down her back that her jammies were even more provocatively low than usual and her naked, outsized belly pressed against my chest. The result was an instant hard-on. Afraid of being busted, I patted her back and gently disengaged her. She pleaded, “Can I sleep here – just tonight, I promise.”
Okay, I let her, rotating her so we were nested spoon-style. Absently, as usual, I rubbed and stroked her sweet pot belly, and she hummed with pleasure. In a while she dropped off, as children do, but I was a looong time staring at the darkness.
The next morning I awoke to find a naked girl in my bed. “Betsy! Where are your jammies?”
She batted innocent eyes at me. “They were too small and fell off.”
“The tops as well?”
She only grinned slyly and moved into my arms. Though still immature, Betsy was as soft and warm and round as any woman, and I confess that I embraced her and stroked her hair and back, while cocking my hips backward to keep my rigid cock away from her. We lay that way together for a long time – too long, I’m afraid.
I think she accelerated her campaign that morning – unconsciously, I’m sure. Betsy was no more introspective than the average near-eleven-year-old, and she’d never been the sneaky, scheming type of girl. But over the weeks that followed, she took my hand more often, leaned against me while I worked at my desk (the numbers on my screen meant nothing to her) and climbed into my lap when I watched TV. By now, she really too tall to fit, and I should have noticed that somehow, she was never dressed, but always spilling out of those damn pajamas. But if you know the intense, hypnotic spell of crash-project programming, you’ll understand why I was too deep in my own world to see the drift of things.
So the little intimacies went on – and then went on some more.