Chapter 3 - phil becomes my dream lover

Just then, the doorbell rang, and the first of our trick-or-treaters were greeted by a rumpled Phil dressed only in his tshirt and bathrobe, his hair disheveled, his bloated belly snug against the robe belt.

Maybe they thought he was a sort of slobby chubby zombie, I thought to myself. Throughout the evening, he got up each time the doorbell rang, and greeted the kids and parents enthusiastically, giving them lots of candy, often while talking fondly about the goodies.

"Oooh, I just love these peanut butter cups, but oh, so fattening!" he said to one of the cute mothers as he popped a few in his mouth. "You know what they say, a moment on the lips, forever on the hips." He was almost effeminate in his patter, and many of the moms seemed to enjoy his pleasantries. I even saw a few who were amazed, even delighted, at how much candy he was eating while handing out a few pieces to the kids. A few were peeking at that stuffed belly stretching the robe's belt. It made me recall the shopkeeper's saying that lots of women love watching men eat and grow fat.

Finally, the time for trick or treats was over, and we switched off the front porch light.

Phil sat on the couch, finishing off the remainder of the candy bowl. He turned to get the pastry box I handed to him. He smiled an ecstatic smile, all that sugar making him high and stupid as could be. "Would you like one?" he asked, pointing to the pastries. "They look so good, I just had to have some."

"Well, you know, I want you to eat them all, Phil," said I. "Besides, I am absolutely stuffed from your delicious dinner. I reached down to pat my midsection, noting that even I had a bit of a bloated bulge. I made a promise to myself to do some extra exercises tomorrow.

"I want to make you happy, and cooking for you is one way to do so," Phil said in an almost monotone mindless tone.

"Anyway, you can make me happy by eating more and more," I said. "I have always thought you were too thin."

"Really?" he said coyly. I picked up an eclair and fed it to him. He devoured it with obvious enjoyment. "These are so good," he commented. "I'd eaten four pastries before you got home, then supper, and all that candy, and I'm still famished. I thought giving up smoking was supposed to make you gain weight, not starting again." He giggled like a giddy schoolgirl. In fact, one change in him was that he seemed indeed to be getting stupider, and I figured that might be a side effect of my desires for him to become my fat f*ck.

We talked and he ate three more pastries, smoked, and gradually moved himself closer to me. All his body language said "F*ck me." While we talked, I reached out and untied his robe, then reached between his legs. He was very firm to the touch, and caressing his hard shaft made him melt into my embrace.

When I stood up, I helped him to his feet, slowly since he was so stuffed. I led him to the bedroom, quickly pulled his robe and tshirt off, and then pushed his naked body onto the bed. His stomach was tight as a drum. I laid him down and massaged his swollen gut. He moaned with pleasure. Then we made love as we hadn't ever made love before.

The next morning, he was asleep when I left, but I didn't want to disturb him, especially with all those fattening calories doing their work in his digestive system. That evening, Phil again greeted me warmly with a foot massage, a back rub, an immaculate house and a homecooked dinner. Again, I may have eaten too much, reminding myself that I had not even done my daily exercises and resolving to do so soon.

While he served dinner, I got us each a large bourbon and coke, about half bourbon and half coke. I noted with pleasure a new pastry box, new but empty. All those pastries he ate while I was gone didn't slow down his appetite at dinner. He ate thrice as much as I did -- and I ate more than I usually do -- including a pecan pie drowned in whipped cream. He fell asleep on the couch next to me while we watched TV. I refreshed his drink and I got out the laptop, surfing the internet for photos of fat men when he woke up.

"What are you looking at?" he asked sleepily, reaching for a cigarette.

"Photos of big beautiful handsome men," I replied, handing his drink to him. He took a big gulp of bourbon. He hadn't been much of a drinker lately, but he was obviously enjoying this drink. He smiled a half-drunken innocent smile.

"May I see, too?" he asked.

"Of course," I said. "That's why I have these on the laptop, so we can both look at them together." He positioned himself with drink and ashtray within easy reach and curled up next to me. I went from one photo to the next and made sure to linger on the fattest men with the biggest bellies and manboobs.

After a few minutes, Phil unbuttoned his shirt, then unfastened his pants - which were definitely tighter than they'd ever been. He held his small swollen belly in his hands. Pouting, he said, "My belly is so small, and I have no manboobs like they do. I am disgusting!"

"That's because you're so thin," I replied. He nodded in agreement. "As you get fatter, your belly will get much bigger. As big as his," I said, pointing to a man whose huge gut drooped down nearly to his knees. He had huge soft moobs which hung down upon his bloated belly.

"Do you really think so?" Phil asked excitedly, pointing to the photo. "I wish I had a handsome fat body like his."

"He is very attractive, but he's not perfect," I answered. We spent the next hour looking at the photos, critiquing each man's physique. As I expected, Phil agreed with everything I said. He really had no choice, now that the potion was kicking in more fully.

"Can I print some pictures from these websites?" he asked. "I want to look at them often to remind me what you like best. I want to please you."

"Sure!" I said, sending photo after photo to our wireless printer.

Phil got up to go into the kitchen. "While you're there, get me a coffee," I said, "and have another bourbon for yourself," I added, noting that his glass was empty. "And maybe some beer as well."

He returned with our drinks and a platter of little sandwiches, some brownies and a bowl of whipping cream.

"I got really hungry looking at those photos," he explained. We watched a movie, and he ate steadily through the whole thing. He got up once to get more beer and returned with a small cooler full of beer bottles and ice, so he wouldn't have to waste time or calories going back for more. At Phil's insistence, I even drank a few beers, and I was buzzed as I watched his gluttony unfold.

I especially liked how he dipped his brownies in the whipping cream. He'd occasionally make comments about the movie. For example, "That actor would be handsome if he weren't so slender and muscular." Once, he even leaned against me and whispered, "I wonder why that woman doesn't make her man mind her. It's obvious that is what he wants her to do, to be her servant in all ways."

After the movie, I helped him shuffle up the steps and into the bedroom and we made love for hours. He seemed insatiable, and I was on top of the world - especially when Phil was on top of me, his round tight full belly pushing against me so erotically. Just the feel of that belly gave me multiple orgasms - so many I lost count, and I almost lost consciousness. He was becoming a big-bellied ***ing machine!

By the time I got home the next day, he had put the photos of fat men with the most enormous bellies and manboobs on the refrigerator and on the mirror in our bathroom. He even put a few in his wallet, so he could look at them when he was out shopping for food.

Phil was agreeable now, nothing like how he had been. As the weeks behavior kept changing, always for the better. He seemed to exist only to please me.

Thanksgiving was a four-day feed-fest for Phil, and he cooked, served food, ate, did laundry, made the bed, and cleaned up the house. I didn't have to do anything, not move a finger at all. All I had to do was eat and get fu*ked repeatedly by his hot softening body. I noticed that as a result of all this focus on eating, I had even gained a few pounds. All that food and not having to do anything meant my metabolism was slowing down.

"Do you want to get fat like me?" Phil asked innocently as he patted my small beginner belly the Saturday after Thanksgiving as we continued to plow through the leftover pies.

"No," I insisted. "It's just that you are such a good cook, I can't hardly say no to your delicious meals, especially your pies." I resolved I had better get to the gym and make sure to avoid gaining any further holiday weight.

The next week, I came home to find Phil naked in bed in tears, sitting with a half eaten pumpkin pie in front of him and a half-eaten German chocolate cake on the nightstand next to the bed. He tried to stop crying, which only made him cry more. He was programmed to be happy by the potion, so whatever was going on was some pretty powerful stuff.

I sat next to him and held him tight, my arms stretching around his belly and love handles. He calmed down, and I asked him what was the matter.

"I've been such a horrible husband to you," he said. "I have been such a mean egotistical bastard, I don't know how you could have put up with me! I'm so frightened that you'll decide to leave me because I've been such a terrible son of a b*tch!"

"Yes, you were a terrible husband, and you wouldn't even f*ck me like a good slutty boy should," I said, with a bit of mean tone in my voice, scooping up a bit of pie and feeding him. He started sobbing again. He looked adorable, sitting there with pie crust and whipped cream on his newly-softening chest. I watched his flabby breasts jiggling as he sobbed, and his belly shake like jelly. I started to massage his nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. God, he looked gorgeous!

I pulled him close and held him, watching his soft belly bulge out as I fed him more and more.