Chapter 2 - admiring your new fat

It doesn't need to be said. I can almost hear the gears in that little human brain of yours. It's always amazing what a fine denial system people like you have built to stay in control.

How pained your expression now that you are figuring things out.

You are thinking about the times we have eaten out, how I ordered for both of us, usually the two largest, most fattening items on the menu.

How I picked at my food and then asked you to finish it, often prompting you in whispers, "Come on, you need to eat more for me, stud, more calories for more energy in bed later."

All those paper bags and pizza boxes we carried into motel rooms for lunchtime rendezvous. All the fast-food wrappers we left behind on rumpled beds.

How I always order you an extra-large chocolate shake when you insist a large would do.

How your pants and shirts have grown tighter and tighter. Ever since you met me.

You seem deep in reverie. I let you linger there for just the right amount of time before speaking again.

"So what about it? Want to bet on how much you've gained?"

"Well, what's the bet?"

"First, tell me something. What was your weight before this recent addition?" I reach out and again grab the little love handle beginning to form on your side. You pull away and give me a mean, angry look.

"Stop it!" you order. I love to see you out of control. You try to smile at me again before speaking. "Well, I was 160, not bad for a man nearly six feet tall."

How vain you are! I want to pop your vanity like a balloon. I want to say something about you not being six feet. It's a sore point with you, so many guys taller than you. You are one and a half inches shy of six feet, and it kills you.

But I decide to pump up your vanity instead. At least for a few seconds.

"Yeah, you have kept in pretty good shape," I say and you smile a big smile - before I add, "At least until you met me." I watch your confidence deflating before me.

"Well, I'm sure I can still outrun most of those younger guys at the office," you argue. "Should have seen me at the office picnic back in July."

"Yes, I'm sure you can still outrun most of those obese lawyers you work with." I try not to sound too condescending, but it's difficult for me to hold my tongue now that I've got you where I want you.

I take a bite of salad, chew it slowly, waiting for my betting idea to hook you.

"So?" you ask. I keep chewing, acting oblivious to you, then look at you and shrug my shoulders. "What's the bet, Natasha?"

"Oh yeah, the bet. About how much you have gained. Okay, so you say you've only gained 10 pounds or so, putting you around 170 pounds."

"Well, maybe 12 or 15, but no more than that," you say, your eyes drifting downward to your soft midsection.

"Okay, so you say you've gained up to no more than 175?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." You sound uncertain. Stupid man, you are playing right into my trap.

"Before I bet, I need to get a good look at what I'm wagering on," I say, smiling at you and winking. "Stand up and turn around."

"What?" You chuckle nervously, nearly choking on a swallow of wine. "You see me in bed nearly every weekday, Natasha. What more do you need to see?"

"Well, in bed, uhm, I'm usually distracted by other pleasures, so I don't get all that good a look at you. Besides, you're a growing boy. You might be bigger than I remember you being. Stand up."

Reluctantly, you stand. I survey your expansive waistline like a cattleman checking out a bull for breeding. You have definitely packed on more than a few. Your shirt buttons are being tested a bit with the strain of your belly, and some of your fine pale flesh peeks through the gaps created between buttons.

(continued)