chapter 2

Little did she know how long her husband had been waiting for this, or how much she herself now needed it.

The honeymoon was only three weeks at first, hardly enough time for anything she thought. The first week was mostly exploring the Italian coast, though the nightly passion and food more than made up for any calories burned, and the first couple 12-hour days of exercise, planned by him, became unappealing and gradually faded to shorter and shorter sojourns, longer and longer spent inside, or eating, or relaxingly traveling by car or boat, and always with food. He made sure to give her more exercise than she could want at first, after promising her relaxation, but he wanted to see her break after the previous months of ostensible determination, held firm on his part with these very moments in mind, but fraying more and more on hers as she became ever more ready to step off the edge.

He wanted her to choose for herself that she like relaxing, letharging, gluttonizing more, and he made sure to make it as appealing as humanly possible. As soon as she was tired for the day, over-tired, he would carry her back to their hotel, bathe her by hand with a sponge in a warm room in a warm bath of flowing water in hours of foreplay, followed by hours of love. These times became earlier and earlier, and the mornings started later and later. And she almost lost track of the days, until she finally saw a paper one afternoon and asked him, and he had extended their honeymoon another week. She could start her job hunt then if she wanted, or take a few more weeks off at home as they’d planned.

But home did not come, and their honeymoon only grew more engrossing, more passionate, and longer and longer. So distracting was her love, that it was six weeks on before she first noticed his fingers sinking into her skin as they hadn’t done in months. He was washing her with one hand and massaging her clitoris with the other, even as she ate bites of jam-covered dense cakes from a platter beside her, even as she made a heedless mess of herself as she did so, so engrossed in these beautiful moments, and as she knew he loved. It was him too that had started this, slowly at first, mixing love and bathing, love and food, bathing and food, feeding her himself, and then eventually encouraging and then emboldening and then finally distracting her to eat on her own, stuff herself even, as he’d edge her closer and closer to climax, finally allowing her to come only to immediately bring her up the rise once again.

For what seemed like the first time she poked her own stomach, only to feel and see it recoil against her, and to hear him moan passionately. He lifted her gently out of the water, kissing her warm wet body, the jam at her cheeks, her waiting red lips, and carrying her back to their bed to make passionate love to her, to train her well that noticing such softnesses on her body would only bring her even greater pleasure.

Her softnesses of engagement had returned swiftly, but now it seemed that she was putting on new ones even faster. The honeymoon extended again, but she didn’t care now, she was laden, swollen with love and desire, totally enraptured. There was nothing else but her body and her male and the pleasure he heaped onto her and into her in love and food, constantly filling her, just right, everywhere, never relenting, firm and hot and maddening and all-consuming.

Their second month finished, then their third, and she hardly left the coastal loft they’d moved to. She was becoming fat, she knew, he was making her fat, and there was nothing she wanted more, except for him. Her thighs began to rub together when she walked, so he encouraged her not to. Their bathtub was now a small hottub, and it could flow back or forth into a small cool swimming pool. Their bed was now vast, piles of pillows and blankets, lying on the ground and filled the rest of the room, so that she could lean on the inflated edge of her hottub if she liked and literally roll into bed. And she did. She found, all of a sudden, or slowly growing over time, that she didn’t particularly like walking. And when her mate discovered this, it only made him harder.

And now her weight really began to climb. Her skin filled up with the new fat she was making, with no movement or exertion to hold it back save constant arousal, and small red lines moved and migrated and bloomed across her, and she only wanted to make them larger. She began eating more than she could at every meal, stuffing herself, or more often letting him stuff her, propped up on her pillows, never telling him she was full, just letting him feed her and feed her and bring her to the ever-greater orgasm she found now in his love for her body and her love for his intentions, and his food, and growing for him… growing fat for him.

It was in their sixth month he told her they had moved here, that he was working from his new home office on the other side of the glass wall beside their bedroom and pools so that he could tend to her needs constantly. They could travel home any time they liked, but she preferred to socialize through her waterproof iPad or their massive computer entertainment system that now spanned the back wall.

It had been almost a year since she’d chosen to no longer stand outside her pool, more than a year and a half since she had decided she wanted to live here, more than two years since her thighs had begun just barely touching again, more than two since they’d been married, arrived in Italy, begun making her… change… when he asked her if she’d like to try standing. He’d brought a mirror for her, a scale, set them beside the mountain of pillows and blankets amongst which she lay, warm and safe from thought or guilt or knowledge. She assented, for him… and for herself. She was already wet as he helped her shift to a higher and higher seat in preparation, but her arousal only continued to climb and climb. His hands dug deeply into her soft pillowy upper arms, spilling over and around and through his large hand, even as he tried to be as gentle as possible on her delicate skin. There was so much weight. That morning he’d had her on top of him, already riding to her third climax of the day, and she’d noted that her stomach, once slim, and flat, and firm, had softened in its place, then softened outward, and gradually begun to gather weight, weigh down in front, taking space and more space, filling with the fat she’d give it, filling with the fat he’d give it, filling with the fat he’d stuff her with and she’d greedily devour from his hands into herself, and covering her waist, her mons, and finally her sex, and then later her thighs… her knees… and now her lover’s body-builder core and chest, her soft expanses draping over and wrapping round his waist, even his chest, as she shook and moaned in ecstasy atop him. And now as he helped her try to stand, it rolled down and in front of her, spreading across and slapping her legs, almost her knees even now standing. But even her tummy, her enormous sagging mass of adored stuffed belly fat, was absolutely dwarfed by her hips, her flaring bottom that reached down her thighs just as far behind her, and up her back almost to her waist, in two great globes of the softest sagging lard, girdled in folds and rolls that only served to accentuate her indolent mass. And even as it was this shapely bottom that had allowed her, boosting her up, to get anywhere close standing, so too it was this that prevented her, pulling her back off her feet over and over even as she fought to rise, one last time. Finally her husband stood beside her, holding her up himself. Her legs wobbled violently and she panted furiously, staring in the mirror at what she’d done to herself, at what her mate had done to her. But only the lesser part of the shaking and the panting was due to her new lifestyle. Most of it was from the constantly building tension below the soft and beautiful apron of flesh that now protected her sex from the world. She was so wet that it could even be seen beneath that protection, covering the inside of her thighs so that for the first time they didn’t chafe against each other. And even as she laughed lightly, her husband held her tight, and the quaking and shuddering of her own weakness and weight and joy in her lovers strong embrace brought her over the edge and she climaxed in his arms as he held her.

The scale read 504.


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)*: End. ;-}



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

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Comments and critiques
I greatly appreciate.
Thank you for reading.


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Notes, Comments, and Interesting but Incomplete Ideas, Additions, and Continuations

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Previous version of an early paragraph of the original story idea, with her just gaining a few pounds on their honeymoon and focusing on a realistic gaining escapade a couple might actually do. I may rewrite this idea as a companion to the one above, an alternate reality perhaps. Could be an interesting contrast.:
“Haha, well, yes and no, of course. Everything in life has trade-offs, sure. Having your partner become so fat as to become even immobile, unable to fully enjoy or participate in a normal life,” she tingled at those words, “or at risk for other real health issues… is crazy…”

Other alternate versions would like focus on breeding or naturalism.