Body and soul - love and marriage

Chapter 2 - ... body and soul

He keeps me, keeps me slim and toned, keeps me exercising every day with him. He controls what is in the house, has me wear a calorie counter so he always knows if I've been cheating. He is very firm when I cheat. At first, I regularly cheat just to see how sexy he becomes when he's angry--fierce and dominant and determined. He'll stuff me then, whispering sweet nothings of how fat I want to make myself, how the greedy fat piggy that I am inside is hidden in and undeserving of the slim, 'hot' body 'they' all adore; how he'll let me ruin myself when he decides, and not before; how even when he does, I will not be the one ruining; I will have no choice; it will be him, in my ear and pussy and mind; he will destroy my body, remake it to his will for me; he will be responsible; my fat, my body, my soul are his.

Then he holds me, makes sweet love to me when I want it, or fucks my brains out as my face is buried in chocolate frosted cake when I need it. But always the workout the next day is three times as hard and grueling. He's making me hate exercise. It's intentional. I know it. I know he knows it. And it's not that I don't care. It's that I love it. I cheat less and less intentionally, but still I slowly come to hate exercise of all kinds but sex. And even there, he is strong and attentive, and dangerously supportive, conducive to me just relaxing against him as he moves instinctively how I want and like and love, even holding me in midair effortlessly... for now.

It is at this point that he finally begins preparing me for my future. He starts lightly and playfully, yo-yoing my weight. At first he just lets me gain a few pounds on my own, to my surprise and delight when I discover them, and then all the more so every time his passion for them overtakes him. As soon as I make mention of them though, as soon as he has loved them and satisfied and rewarded me for a few days, back up go the workouts, and he sheds my pretty fat from me as if it'd been nothing more than water. This is his intent though, I know.

Barely a year later, little vacations start for us, ones where he now scolds me and forces pounds on me intensely, pleasuring me almost continuously as I eat everything he puts to my lips and become all the more his. He does not have me eat normally during these sojourns, but I am stuffed with fat and pleasured until I pass out, only to be nearly starved the next day with only fiber-water and cabbage and celery. I love these vacations, and they become the most erotic experiences of my entire life.

My gains back home become progressively more quick and dramatic, and my losses ever more slow and grueling. The last time this happens, I have gained almost 25 pounds, by far my largest, and it has taken only a month. A summer vacation to hidden islands, where, my belly now permanently stretched and metabolism as low as it's ever been in my life, he forces food inside me almost continuously, morning and night, waking and sleeping, though most of all I remember it during sleeping, when he wakes me multiple times a night, to gently feed me and then tend to me until I fall back asleep after the pleasure has again drained what little energy I have. I do not open my eyes after the first couple times of this, but instead only my mouth, my body, and accept what he chooses to put inside me, sweet or salty, rich or wet, fruit or chocolate or cream or himself or his naughty, twisting intentions, until the time when I am finished, or when he brings me again to another deep and loving climax before again letting me fall to sleep in his arms.

When we return it is still summer, and he makes me wear old bikinis and meet our friends for poolside drinks or other play. He touches me everywhere, lathers me before their judging disdainful eyes in sunscreen or oil, my new fat flowing between his fingers as he squeezes seemingly innocuously but it couldn't be more blatant. I am incredibly embarrassed, and my loins now positively soaking in public. When he realizes, he wraps a towel around me and pulls me towards him, into his lap, and holds me close. "I think I like you like this," he says as he nuzzles my ear, my cheeks still burning even as I involuntarily purr against him. "I think it's almost time to start keeping you like this." His knowing fingers run along the incredible softness of my girly paunch he's created on me, and I feel myself tighten.

A month later, at the close of summer, I lose weight for the last time.

Our third anniversary. I am 24. I am 102 pounds, though by now there is just the slightest sag and give to my skin all over--"ready," he calls it, "glorious and perfect and ripe and fertile". He pinches it, rolling it between his strong yet gentle fingers. I am ready, he says. He tells me it is time to prepare me for making me a mother to our children. He tells me he is going to breed me. But first, he says, he will fulfill his promise to me from our wedding day, the one he'd made alone to me in the dark as he held me close before making me truly his: that he will now make me, let me become, very, very fat.

Over the next four years, he is just as forceful and dominant and loving, if not more so, than he has been the last three, and he is even more efficient at it, only now it is to the opposite. Instead of alternating between spans of veggies and lettuce or gnocchi and cream and pastries and steak, they are all omnipresent together. Instead of exercise daily, grinding miles, toning my muscles just so that he can coat them back in fat the next month, now it is permanent, and takes to what becomes my favorite path: rewarding me with pleasure for staying absolutely sedentary. Instead of a step counter that must reach 15000 every day, he punishes me mercilessly and wonderfully if I go over 1500, and 150 on the weekends, while my calorie counter is quite the opposite. Still, he controls my gain. He wants it to start slow, to savor my losses, both physically and socially, and my gains.

That first year is barely 30 pounds, but this time it is permanent, and without his periodic forced exercise I am radically different by the end of it. 12 months of, instead, forced sedentarianism [coined it], without even a shred of regular exertion outside the bedroom, with special rewards of pleasure for being extra lazy for as long as possible, has turned the hard firm nubile muscles of his young wife into permanently-useless goo between her thighs. I have only gained so very modestly as of yet, but I have been made totally out of shape, so that every line and curve is now composed primarily from my, nay, HIS soft layer of fat, which he has gently and lovingly, but firmly, wrapped me in. "Now you are getting what you want, what you deserve. Are you happy?" he asks as he pleasures me in his arms. "Mmm-hmm," I respond, and gasp at his nimble fingers.

On our anniversary, again, he lays out his plans for me for my next year, even as he feeds me and brings me to crashing climax after crashing climax. I am just 134, but my friends are finally starting to talk. The looks from his coworkers and the males at our usual clubs have begun to become confused, though sometimes even more ravenous; soon my fat body will shock, inspire whispers and ridicule and shame that only makes me hot with blinding desire to think about, as I pull him along after me into what happens to be first club bathroom we ever made love in when we moved here. My body moves and undulates and squeezes around him as he loves me in the stall. I don't fit as well, and he comments on it, and I cum. My husband is making me obese.

Over the next year I reach 175. The one after that I am more than double the size I was on our wedding, 230. I don't like moving much anymore, but instead being carried as I eat ice cream becoming even, ever, heavier. I now am so sedentary that one day realize my weight has suddenly begun to skyrocket.

I am 357 pounds, just 27 years old, when my husband, my love, my lover, my feeder, finally puts his seed inside of me. I haven't stood on my own for almost two weeks. He carries me where I want to go, though even at 6'5 and 260 of muscle, he has begun having difficulty now, and continues to turn us on more every day.

He has hired physical therapists and masseuses to come in every day and stretch and work my muscles. He tells them I am invalid, that I am unable to move much on my own, that I have been that way for my whole life, lazy and greedy and fat, but never the truth, that he does not even allow me to move much, that he has incentivized me with ruthless effectiveness against it, and that he loves to pleasure me best when I am extra lazy and extra greedy. The therapists are women, but they're strong, and he allows them to pleasure me when he's not home. It is good for the babies, they say. The therapists move me and even make me walk during my pregnancy, though I need one of them on either side holding me up as I waddle. This too is for the babies; it is twins. I feel his love growing inside me every day. I can't stop think about it, love it, them, him.

Is it wrong to be turned on by being pregnant? Is it wrong to be turned on by being fattened and impregnated by your own husband, or by feeling humiliated by the looks people that once thought you were hot now give you, or the ones that occasional FA or closet feeder or feedee now gives you instead? If so, I have no interest in ever being right again. And, anyways, he would punish me deliciously if I were.


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)*: To Be Continued... ;-}



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By this deviant tale, I hope you're pleased.

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Thank you for reading.


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