chapter 6

At our one year anniversary, you weigh around 380 lbs. “So what if I’ve put on a little love weight? At least I’m not as fat as I was in high school,” you defend yourself as you step off the scale. “I’ve lost weight before. I can lose this whenever I want to.” You huff and waddle back over to the couch, collapsing on it as it creaks dangerously under you.

Knowing how you like a snack when you’re out of breath, I rush over with a pint of ice cream to help you cool off. “Mmmph thanks baby,” you huff and smack the ice cream greedily. “What are we doing for our anniversary? Are you taking me out to eat?” you casually slide a finger into your belly button as you ask.

“Actually, your parents have invited us over for an anniversary dinner. Can you believe we haven’t seen them since the wedding?”

“What?” you grunt drooling ice cream down your chins, “My parents? No. We have to cancel. They have no idea how much weight I’ve put on.” You whine and whimper shoving more ice cream into your pathetic mouth. “They can’t see me like this,” you pout.

“What are you talking about?” I ask and rest a loving hand on your worried belly. “You were fatter than this when you lived with them. Face it - you’re a fatgirl. They know that. Everyone knows that,” I jiggle your gut and you turn bright red. “How about we finish this ice cream, and then get ready for dinner with your parents? It’ll be nice to see them, and your mom is a great cook.” I give you little kisses and rub your bloated gut while spooning the rest of the ice cream into your fat, pig mouth.

You have to wear leggings and a t-shirt to dinner because none of your dresses fit. “I’m sorry,” you whimper, “I don’t know what happened. I just bought these. This one still has the tag! I must be a little bloated from the ice cream.”

“It’s ok baby,” I assure you. I love seeing your fat ass struggle into the car and watch you stretch the seatbelt over your huge gut. You barely ever move this much anymore, and I can see just how out of shape you’ve gotten. You sputter and gasp for air, beads of sweat forming on your upper lip and forehead. You seem to be swallowed in your fat neck and chins as you cram your gut against the dashboard. “Poor baby,” I say as I hand you a box of Little Debbie snack cakes.

You tear into them, “Mmmph I-ppfft-needed these mmmph.” Your chubby fingers struggle to open the wrappers making you even more desperate to cram the cakes into your face. Smacking and grunting, you don’t even notice that you’re getting frosting all over your fat cheeks and wiping your sticky fingers on your shirt.