Chapter 4 - June: Weigh in

Will wasn’t kind to me. At all. He’d sent me thousands of calories throughout the day, and I’d had thousands on my own. But it was weigh in day, and we wanted me as big as I could get.

And I wanted to get BIG. I was supposed to look four months pregnant, or five. But I wanted to be astonishing. I wanted to look huge — nine months with twins or triplets as soon as humanly possible. I wanted to stuff myself with calories; to become an eating machine; to do nothing but work and fuck and eat.

It was time for the monthly weigh in — something I’d been eagerly looking forward to. I’d wanted to check so many times, but I knew it would cheapen things, this had to be ours together. I wanted my weight to be his as much as it was mine.

Will didn’t disappoint. I knew it wouldn’t be as simple as me stepping on a scale, especially as swollen as my belly was. I wouldn’t be able to see the number no matter what. But we didn’t do anything simple. I didn’t suck him off like last time. He wanted me to pop, to get so fat I wouldn’t ever be able to see a scale again; to get so fat we’d need a new one. And I wanted nothing more than to get even fatter than that. The scale maxed out at 350 lbs. That was a great new goal.

He set a chair on the scale, and he tared it, so the scale said zero again. Then he set me on the chair, belly pooling into my lap, fat thighs spreading across the wood. He pulled my hands behind me, and he tied them. I felt my wrists, fatter. My hands, fatter, and my arms thickening against the edges of the chair. I was helpless, because of the binding. I got wet thinking about months from now, when I would be helpless just because of the fat.

I knew I was getting big already, bigger than I should be, that our plan was failing, because how was I supposed to look four months pregnant if my belly was this huge? People at four, or even five, months might be barely showing. Still wearing their normal clothes, just rounded out. How far along did the woman at the diner think I was to start with? Did we underestimate?

And I had gotten…for lack of a better word… at least a little bit fat. Thicc. Maybe normal still. I hadn’t gained that much, had I? I couldn’t deny it anymore, tied to a chair balanced on a scale, unable to see my own weight, completely out of control of my own diet. I wanted no control. I wanted order after order of food to come to me, day after day, swelling my belly, and my chest, and my thighs and arms and face and fingers. I couldn’t fucking wait until the scale broke… but for now, it wouldn’t. For now, I was small. I didn’t know how much I weighed, but whatever it was, it was the lightest I would ever be in my life.

However much I weighed, it wasn’t enough. We’d been doing everything. I’d been stuffing constantly, meal after meal after meal. Never empty; always full. Always snacking. Shoving chips, candy bars, fast food into my mouth. I was painfully full breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And absolutely never hungry in between. But when Will looked at the scale, he looked almost disappointed. He walked out, and went to the kitchen.

“I know you’re only supposed to look five months pregnant, and you’re doing a great job, baby,” he said, “But you must’ve noticed, some of the weight is going to other places, and we really need to grow that belly if we’re going to convince people.”

He slapped my thighs and they jiggled. I was quite proud of them, actually. Then he pinched my arms. I hadn’t even realized they’d gotten that fat. Finally, he stroked just under my chin, and I felt the softness there— barely noticeable — but if you’re looking at your wife — your wife who you want to be enormous — any double chin is noticeable. But those weren’t the things he was looking for. Those were side benefits.

What we wanted was my belly: swollen, massive, pregnant-looking, and if I was getting fatter all over that just meant it needed to be bigger. Big enough to detract from my arms, and my chin, and my cheeks. It needed to swell and project and fatten and fatten and fatten more.

I’m tied to the chair, and I feel huge, but I’m not big enough for Will. I can’t see the number, but he’s displeased. I’ve been stuffing, but not enough. Two snickers every time I have one? Three Starbucks shakes? 5,000 calories by lunch?

He tells me I’m beautiful, so beautiful, and it’s his fault I haven’t grown enough. He tells me he’s going to fix it. He leaves me there, naked aside from my too small bra and barely visible panties, and he doesn’t come back for a while. When he does, it’s with a pitcher full of thick, creamy liquid.

“Open up, baby. All of this is going inside of you. You’re so, so close to our first goal. You’re so cute and chubby. You’re not the skinny little girl I married, you’re a full-figured woman,” he said. “But we both know full-figured is just the start, right? Chubby is just the beginning. You still fit in normal sized clothes, and I accept that will be the case for the next month or so. But I want you in maternity clothes within the next 30 days. I don’t want anything you own to come close to fitting you. I want buttons to pop, seams to rip, your perfect, sexy belly to make it impossible to wear even your T-shirts.”

I was so, so turned on, and I hadn’t even been weighed. All I knew was I was too small, and I wanted to be bigger and bigger. Will had a goal for me, but he hadn’t told me what it was, and I was helpless. Tied to a chair, cold, belly spreading when I was fed blender after blender of whatever was in the weight gain shake. I drank and drank and drank, past the point of it hurting, past the point when I wanted to stop. I kept drinking until he stopped feeding me.

“170, baby. You’re doing so good.”

I was so proud, and I just wanted to keep going. 215 was my goal for nine months in, but if I wanted to keep my belly this big it would have to be stuffed all the time, and stuffing all the time would mean surpassing that number by a lot.

I didn’t want a goal number. I wanted to burst out of all of my clothes. I wanted to double — or triple — the weight of that thin woman in my wedding photographs I barely recognized. Within the next four months, I would go from a small/medium to a woman with a belly straining the seams of XL maternity clothes.

That was Will’s goal. But why go for one X if you could go for three?