While you did have some guilt that you had let your bride go from blushing to bulging, as in massively obese, the sight of your feminine in-laws did seem to indicate a familial propensity for... excess. A delicate way to say that they were incredibly fat.
"Dahlin! It's been an age," Braxtynne said, making a token effort to stand from her couch; that little bit of toil was too much for the queen of the estate, and she settled back down hard enough to make the damn thing creak.
"Mama, it's so good to see you!" Tara squealed in unfeigned joy, and after a bit of maneuvering rolled up alongside the arm of the couch so she awkwardly lean forward and 'hug' her mother, who did her best to reciprocate.
It was charitable to call it a hug, but then you realize that it would have been just as awkward if Braxtynne had actually managed to peel herself up from her lavish couch. What would she have done then? Lean down, smush her vast tum into the handlebars of your wife's scooter and still just barely touch hands? It was much easier for the two blond butterballs to just stay seated, realistically.
"Mama, I'm so glad you finally get to meet-" Tara beams up at me, her double chin mirroring her smile.
"Yes," my mother-in-law interjects, "absolutely lovely. Come here, hon, and give us a hug."
You're used to the challenges of physical intimacy with your nearly half-ton wife; this is a less erotic but similar challenge. Like Tara, Braxtynne was blonde, blue-eyed, busty, and absurdly belly heavy. With her, again, making at best an apologetically feeble effort to stand on her own, you have to sort of bend at the waist and let her wrap her flapping arms around your shoulders.
"Don't be shy, sweetie, we're family now."
It was easy to say, but with your body leaning heavily on her billowing blubbergut with your crotch just above her navel and your chin hovering just above her poundcake tits, you're using every trick you know to avoid an awkward 'physcial reaction.' Braxtynne, like her daughter, is lovely; you could easily lose yourself in her big blue eyes, her wrinkles well-disguised by expertly applied makeup and by the excess blubber in her cheeks and triple chin.
"Ahem. Am I chopped liver here?"
Braxtynne chuckles, and you when you glance at Tara you can see her roll her eyes like a teenager.
"Ugh. Yeah, this is Nancy."
"Hmmph. Gee, thanks sis, what an introduction."
"Girls, be nice," Mama Braxtynne says, her plump red lips curled in a weary smile.
Thankfully, the family matriarch lets you stand up and collect yourself so you can give the proper attention to your sister-in-law. Like her mother, Nancy is all but filling her own couch, her hips oozing across the cushions to touch the armrests. Like Braxtynne and your wife, she's wearing an enormous dress of light fabric. Like her mother and sister Nancy is belly-heavy and big-breasted, blonde and blue-eyed. She is, unfortunately with all that in mind, kind of a bitch.
"Nice to meet you, I guess," Nancy yawns, holding up one fat hand, her wrist encircled with a jeweled bangle, right in front of your face; you have to think fast and realize she actually wants you to kiss her pudgy paw like some sort of peon.
You don't want things to get even icier between Tara and her younger sister, so you quickly press your dry lips to her pudgy, perfectly manicured greedy grabber of a hand. She smirks, her chins crinkling, and then pops a bon-bon into her mouth from a tray within easy reach on a cushion.
"I guess you've kept Tara out of my hair for a while, so that's something. Though I note that being poor didn't keep her from turning into a fat cow."
"Nancy!" Braxtynne warns her daughter, "be nice!"
Tara, meanwhile, is building up enough steam to start squabbling with her sister and fortunately you're spared from any further unpleasantness when Roberta walks into the room.
"The luncheon is set, Madam."
"Of course, we'll be right along... if you don't mind giving us a hand, Roberta?"
Even with her big butt for a counterbalance, it takes a bit of effort for the tubby maid to help the couch-bound cuties to their feet... just to help them sit back down on their own mobility scooters. You wonder what the family's ancestors, looking down from their painted portraits in the hallway going all the way back to the times of King James I, would say if they could actually see the parade of puffed up princesses puttering towards the dining room. You managed to find yourself in the back of the line, and you don't think its worth the risk of getting pinched between the white-paneled wall and a hefty seat-spilling hip to catch up with Tara. So you gawk at the wealth of the furnishings and, most of all, at the fat backs of the trio of women ahead of you. Back-boobs press into the softness of their swaying upper arm fat and sit upon rolls of blubber bunched up on bottoms that stretch the patterns of their dresses.
"It's a pleasure, a hell of a pleasure," the family patriarch, Charles Senior, says to you, pumping your arm up and down with vigorous handshake.
He's not quite Colonel Sanders, but he is dressed in a linen suit that you suspect costs more than your car, a solidly built man only a bit heavy in the middle.
"It's a shame, but Junior's gonna miss our first little meal together as a family."
"That boy," Braxtynne sighs. "Well, he'll be here by-and-by when he feels the urge. Now, help yourself, hon, there's plenty to go around."
Plenty. Ha. The word feels inadequate when the long table must be bowing under weight of the feast laid out upon the clean white tablecloth. You sit down next to Tara; like her mother and sister she doesn't bother to shift into another chair, instead eagerly digging into their plates. You have to remind yourself that Tara used to be much lighter, that her mother and her sister in all likelihoods were too; the ease of which they accept this extravagance makes it seem like they've been this heavy forever.
"Mama, the chef is, ooh, is so good," Tara mumbles gleefully, pausing to dab a bit of sauce from her rapidly chewing cheek with her napkin.
"Cook's been might good to this family," Charles Sr. says with a chuckle, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder, and Braxtynne, normally the peak of etiquette, only manages to nod before digging into her dish again.
You're still trying to figure out which fork is for what, but since three members of the family are feasting like starving hogs in a trough, you doubt you can embarrass yourself too much.
"That's the seafood fork," Nancy scoffs, her cheeks stuffed with filet mignon. "The dinner..ERP! The dinner fork is on the left, just so's you know."
"Don't worry about her, she's always been a DUMB BIMBO," Tara says helpfully as she pats your hand, then digs back into her lobster.
There's a lot of food, as you noticed, and its the kind of stuff you've always imagined rich people eat... but a lot more. Like, banquet quantities. There's the aforementioned steaks and lobsters, fried chicken, salmon, a ham, a soup, a salad. But there are also some of the fixin's you'd expect in a proud Southern household; a golden cornbread, gallons of sweet tea, and for dessert a whole slew of pies from pecan to peach cobbler. The ladies of the house do their very best to do more than sample everything; you begin to worry they might clear off the whole spread!
"Well, I hope you're enjoying our company so far," Charles Sr. grins at you as he sips a glass of bourbon.
"Yes, I'm, ah, it's a beautiful home."
"Yep. Glad to have you in it, and in our family. Ain't that right, Tinny?"
Braxtynne, muffling a belch with her napkin, nods in agreement.
"And heck, it may not be good manners til' we're all finished, but seeing as that may take a while," your father-in-law goes on with a chuckle as the women go on eating, "I do have somethin' to bring up..."
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