Shaped like a heart

Chapter 1 - Hearts Know What They Want

You are stuffed. You’ve been eating all day. He takes your old leather book from your tired hands. Now, your round belly demands attention. You don’t need to say a thing.

Your belly so full, as your mind goes empty under the spell of his skilled and loving touch.

You moan a bit as his wide strong hands massage away the pain of your stuffed tummy, replacing that pain with comfort and love. His fingers ply the thick soft layer you’ve acquired recently and probe the hard food-packed belly beneath that supple coat of adipose.

“There, there,” he whispers in your ear, his breath warm against you. “Let Daddy take good care of you.”

He sings a sweet song to you and recites poetry, sonnets from Plutarch and Shakespeare, romance from ancient times fills your ears.

You are in heaven. You need not think or worry any more.

******

The next thing you know, the room is full of bright late-morning sunlight and a delicious aroma. And there he is, that delicious man. He is wearing nothing at all but your apron. He looks all the more sexy with the feminine flower print frills upon his wide chest and the apron tight around his waist, his bottom bare and pale beneath the tied strings.

“Daddy made you breakfast,” he says in that deep flirtatious voice.

He is carrying a tray piled heavy with foods. The smell permeates the room, and you feel your nostrils expanding to take it all in.

He sets the food-heavy tray aside and helps you sit up, plumping pillows and cushions behind you to make you nice and comfortable. You feel your belly, still swollen from last night’s excesses but no longer pained. Your fingers touch it, surprised at its size and roundness.

You’re getting fat, you realize. All his baking and cooking, all his attentions, his serving you delicious foods, his taking you out to eat, his bringing you bagfuls of fast food, his spoiling you with so much love and devotion. It’s had an effect, you realize as beneath the comforter, your fingers pinch the pudge forming beneath your deepening belly button. You wonder if he thinks you’re getting too fat.

You’re a little worried about this, as the aroma of breakfast fills your brain with good chemicals. You start to say something, but he places his finger to your lips. “Shhhhush,” he says softly. “This is no time to speak or worry.” As if he can read your mind.

He sets the tray of food beside you. You see just how much food there is. All your favorites. Bacon, biscuits, fresh-baked pastries, well-creamed coffee, fried apples, gravy, sausages, fried eggs and pancakes. All worries about getting fat melt like butter on hot biscuits.

He climbs in beside you, and you feel the warmth of his body. It all feels so sensual — and sensuous. Your senses take it all in, it’s almost too much, you’re feeling warm and comforted with the sunlight, the beauty of the red flowers in the vase beside your plate which is piled high with steaming aromatic food, his body next to yours. You feel the luckiest woman ever, flooded with sensations of love.

He butters the pancakes and pours syrup on the stack. You reach for the fork, and he gently smacks your hand.

You see now that the pancakes are heart-shaped.

He leans into your hair, nuzzling his nose and lips against your neck. You feel the heat of his breath and his lips upon your skin, as he says, “Happy Valentine’s Day, love.”

He cuts a large bite of pancakes and brings it to your lips. “Open up,” he says in a gentle tone.

And you do as told.