chapter 2 - i dare you

The next evening followed our usual routine. Right up until I snuck another pie into the oven again, like the night before. This time as you followed your nose into the kitchen, you looked bemused.

“What is this?” you asked incredulously.

“I loved seeing you so happy last night, so I thought I’d do it again…”

“Oh, that’s so sweet, but…” you sighed, “we discussed this…I just can’t get fat.”

“No,” I replied, “we said you’d be the sexiest fatty ever, remember?”

“We did?” you breathed, and drew closer to me.

“Yep. So please just let me pamper you this week?” I pleaded, embracing you and swaying gently as we hugged, “one week of spoiling you is hardly going to make you fat. And anyway…I dare you!”

“You dare me, huh?” your face breaking into a wide grin, “well, I’m not one to pass up on a dare!”

* * *

By Friday, it was not like you had gained weight notably, but your body had softened a bit, and I was savouring it like you savoured that pie each night.

I was surprised on Friday when you asked if you still ‘had’ to have your pie each day of the weekend, too. I hadn’t planned on it, but insisted that of course that was the case. I watched you lean back and close your eyes in contentment while I quickly tidied up, then continued to pamper you in bed.

* * *

Come Monday morning, I was relieved that as you examined your appearance before heading to work that you hadn’t seemed to notice the little bulges above the waistband of your workpants, how your hips flared out ever so slightly more and strained the fabric discreetly, or how much more visible the band across your back from your bra had become. I felt a pang of sadness, because I knew those adorable new features that I had added to you would probably fade soon. But then I formulated a plan that might just work.

That evening, I put in a ready-to-bake raspberry, apple and rhubarb pie. This time as you walked into the kitchen, you were laughing.

“What the hell is this?” you cried out, losing your composure to a fit of giggles.

“I thought we should open a bakery, honey!”

I held you and span you around while we both collapsed in laughter.

“I said I would let you feed me up with pie for all of last week,” you giggled.

“Yes, but that was blueberry pie,” I explained, “this is a different kind, and I need you to consume it for research purposes so that I can become an expert in the field of indulging you! And it’s not like it’s affected your figure at all…so, indulge me, too?”

You kissed me and obediently sat before the heatproof board readied to receive the pie from the oven. I couldn’t have been more thrilled.

* * *

That week I presented you with a different kind of pie every night. I poured your wine to three quarters of a usual serve; you tended to finish early and ask for more. I happily obliged and it seemed to let you relax and happily eat it all.

On Saturday and Sunday, I ‘accidentally’ bought slightly larger pies, laden with chocolate as well.

By the end of the second week, I could tell that you were getting fatter…and I loved it. On Sunday night, I grabbed your hand and gently led it up to cup your bulging breasts. Before grabbing at me again, you obviously loved these new developments in yourself, too.

“You know…” you said as we panted side by side, “I didn’t mind those chocolate pies. They seem to be doing my assets some good.”