Chapter 1 - what we lost when you grew me

I remember how I used to be able to fuck you. I loved climbing on top of you and earning your love. I loved learning your every want, I loved exploring the intricacies of your body and your orgasm, and most of all I loved feeling useful to you. We weren’t far into our relationship when I was no longer able to do that. I couldn’t hold myself up for long, and later, it was difficult to climb on top of you at all. I was so scared that my growing arms, wobbling in exertion, would fail me and I would fall, crushing you — or at least smothering you. Your eye gleamed when I shared that concern, and you told me to do it. You told me you wanted it; you wanted to feel my whole body boring down on you. But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t dare.

I remember how you used to be able to fuck me. When I could no longer get on top of you, you would get on top of me. I felt pathetic and weak, more like a thing than a person, knowing that I didn’t even have the option to switch places if I wanted to. You reassured me, telling me that this way of doing things was more than normal, even for vanilla couples; and you told me that so long as you could fuck me, I’d still be useful to you. But I don’t think those couples faced the same issues we did. First all you needed to do to get to me was push aside the fat on my thighs. Later, you’d have to also lift up my ever-lowering belly fat. Later still, you also had to dig around in the fat that swathed my crotch to find me. That didn’t give you much trouble, at first, and you’d crack jokes about my buried treasure. But, given time, you had to rummage for longer and when you found it you had trouble mounting yourself. You had me hold apart my legs or lift up my belly as best I could, to open myself to you as much as possible, but it wasn’t enough, and later, I struggled even with that.

I remember how you used to be able to fuck me with your mouth. My growing belly meant there simply was not enough space for your body for traditional sex — perhaps we could have tried other positions, but it was so hard for me to shift myself around that you couldn’t bear to see me do it. But while you could no longer fuck me properly, there was still space for your head between my thighs, and if I strained you could reach me with your face. It was never particularly comfortable for either of us — I had to contort myself into a position where I could pull towards me as much fat as possible, which quickly exhausted me; my lower body had to be raised with pillows and such to make me accessible to you, which forced more fat backwards by gravity and made it difficult for me to breathe; you still had to hold apart the fat covering my crotch, which tired even you out; and even then there wasn’t quite enough space — you had to really push yourself into me, which can’t have been comfortable, and take breaks to breathe yourself. Our one-sided sex made me feel awful, leaving me no method with which to prove to you my love. It wasn’t workable for long.

I remember how you used to be able to fuck me with toys. Once we’d exhausted all other methods, props were required. At first, these worked wonders. Where you could no longer reach, or could only reach with your hands and even that with difficulty, our new toys seemed to have no trouble accessing. Once it had made contact, it didn’t need to be moved much, and that meant we could both relax. My fat was pliable enough that there was still some wiggle room for the toys that needed motion — it was a workout for you, but you somehow managed it. But, given time, it became ever more difficult to find the right spot and more tiring to keep it there — especially after I’d reached the point where any attempt of mine to help you didn’t achieve anything. I couldn’t bear watching you put yourself through all this when I could never do the same for you, so I tearfully asked you to slow down. It pained you, but you agreed.

I remember how you used to be able to fuck me. Now, we rarely fuck at all. It’s simply too difficult; too taxing on both of us, both physically and mentally. Sometimes, I grow so desperate. I forget my guilt; I crave your touch. There’s no hope of me touching myself, so I beg you. You laugh, and tell me “honey, you know that you’re too big for that.” You grew me a body that you can’t get off, and I grew a body that wants nothing else. I’m forced to find release myself, often through feeding, and often amplified by the knowledge that there’s simply no other way.

I remember everything we had, and I see how much of it is lost.









…which, to tell you the truth, isn’t much at all.

We’ve discovered a love for wordplay. Sometimes we’ll talk about how we used to fuck, describing it in vivid detail, and the memories seem as real as if they were happening now. Other times we’ll talk about the future, how as I grow we’ll discover new difficulties and navigate them together — or perhaps how we’ve already reached our limit, and there’s no more room for any more difficulties, and the new kind of excitement that those thoughts bring.

And, while you might not be able to touch me where it counts, you can still touch me everywhere else. You’ve not let me go unwanted. I may be weak, and helpless, and not even good for fucking anymore, but I still belong to you and you make sure I still know it.

I still feel so guilty knowing that I’m so terribly useless to you. You don’t like that. You tell me that knowing my difficulties are caused by what you’ve done to me is enough; that knowing I can’t fuck you if I tried is better than any sex we’d ever had. I see the lust in your eyes when you look at me, I feel your excitement when you touch my body, I hear your subtle craving for me in every word and know that you are telling the truth. You love me despite and because of what I became — or you wouldn’t have made me this way in the first place.

Sure, we lost a lot — but we gained so much more. A lot of people would say you took everything from me, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.