Make Me

Chapter 1 - Make Me

Make me, please?

I want you to make me huge. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you’ve said and the more I think about it, the more I want you to make me fat. More than fat, obese, even. It’s actually been kind of hot to think about.

I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t expect to come around like this. It was kind of a shock when you admitted you had a thing for big girls. But, then again, I guess I can’t say I’m all that shocked. You’re the one who’s always suggesting places to eat. You’re always offering to grab me something from McDonald’s or Sonic or wherever whenever you’re coming by. Subtly trying to fatten me up, eh?

But not only that, any time I’ve ever complained about putting on a few pounds you’ve always told me how much you love my body and how great I look. I always thought you were just being nice, little did I know you were hoping that I’d keep skipping the gym!

The more I’ve thought about our conversation about your…preferences, the more I’ve come around to the idea of me just letting go. Truth be told, I hate dieting. I hate exercising. And as I thought more and more about it, I hate being thin. Every partner I’ve ever had before you has always told me about how great my body was and how proud I should be of how fit and skinny I am. My friends and my family always gush about how great I look and how hard I must work to stay in shape. Thinking about it more and more and I now realize how much I hate it. Deep down, I think I’ve always been jealous of my curvier and bigger friends.

I had this roommate my freshman year named Clara. Clara was a bigger girl. The contrast between the two of us was quite apparent. I was the thin, skinny Sorority princess. I watched what I ate, constantly went to gym, and every other girl was jealous of me. Clara was the fat girl. She ate with gusto and always helped herself to seconds in the cafeteria. And she was so happy. Clara never deprived herself and lived life to fullest. I saw her waddling around a couple of years later, she had to be at least 50 pounds heavier, her fat gut jiggling with each step she took. And she still looked just as happy as always. And now I’ve come to realize that, deep down, I was always jealous of the way that Clara looked.

And now that I know that you would prefer if I got fat, there’s no reason for me not to let go. It’s really exciting to think about. No more gym. No more exercise. No more watching what I eat. No more discipline.

God, it’s exciting just thinking about how huge you’re going to make me. Imagine how big and fat you’re going to make me before all is said and done.

Make me huge, please? I want to, no, need to be so fucking fat. I want you to make me so unrecognizably obese. I want my face buried under layers and layers of chub. Wouldn’t I look so cute with some chubby cheeks and a thick, extra chin?

Imagine how much you’d love me hugging you with a pair of flabby, squishy bingo wings? Imagine how much they’d wobble as I’d help…service you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I used to spend so much time lifting weights trying to keep my arms nice and toned. The only heavy lifting I’m doing from now on is lifting food into my face.

Oh my God, I want you to make my belly huge. I bet you’ve probably fantasized about stuffing me to the brim and rubbing my stomach as I moan from just how full I am. Why not make do that every night from now on? Imagine me a few hundred pounds heavier, a fat, sagging gut filling my lap. Imagine just how soft and jiggly the adipose tissue would feel as you caressed every square inch of my paunch. Imagine grabbing each thick, drooping fold and giving them a playful squeeze.

And I know how much you’d love the thought of my ass getting bigger. You used to compliment me about how thicc I was getting after leg day at the gym. Imagine how much thicker you could make me. Imagine me with a wide, cellulite-covered, shapeless blob of butt. I bet you like thick thighs, don’t you? Imagine two flabby, fleshy pillars wobbling with each step I take. You’re thinking of me trying to fit into some of my leggings, aren’t you?

Make me absolutely dependent on you. I want you to make me barely mobile. I want to be so fat even the thought of going up stairs has me out of breath. I want you to make me so huge I’m wedged into my office chair. I want my ass spilling over the sides of my chair.

I want my friends and family horrified at how I let myself go. Could you imagine how disgusted my mom will be when she sees us at family holidays. Imagine how she’d glare at us as you made me a plate at Thanksgiving dinner, my fat gut spilling out onto my lap. Imagine the comments she’d make as you fed me cookie after cookie as we opened our Christmas presents. Wouldn’t seeing the looks on some of my old sorority sisters as they see me waddling out of breath at our next reunion be priceless?

I want you to make me huge, baby. I want to be your helpless, obese, hog of a partner. I think I’ve always wanted you to make me fat. I just didn’t know it until now. So, what do you say?

Of course, you do. I knew you couldn’t say no.

Now first things first. Go make me something to eat, please?