Chapter 2

You stand above the oven, thinking back to that first time. The very first day, the moment the door was opened, the key thrown away, never to be rediscovered. Beneath you, the large pot of chilli bubbled on the stove. You could feel the hairs standing on the back of your neck as you thought back to that fateful Friday.

For the last three years, the last day of the workweek had become Feed Friday. Your now wife allowed you one day to feed her as you wished, with the hopes that this would hold off your desire for the other six days of the week. But soon enough, she became dependent on this end of the week ritual. She began to look forward to it, and soon enough, her appetite expanded beyond that weekend agreement and became contagious across the workweek.

You could hear her changing down the hall, humming a tune to herself as she did. You were rushing to finish the first course - a tray of chilli cheese dogs - so that you could get the lasagna in the oven. But today, on the third year anniversary of that first weight gain shake and Chinese buffet, you had something special planned.

She lumbered down the hall in her matching pyjama set. Her blonde hair had been tucked into a messy bun and her bra was gone. When your wife smiled at you, it was a soft remembrance of who you had first met, now buried underneath nearly 170lbs of added adipose.

The truth is that she thought it would never take. She later admitted to you that she thought she’d appease you for a few weeks, add some curves to her lean physique, and that’d be the end of it. She hadn’t anticipated her increase in appetite, or her dependency on her sweet tooth every weekend. Your wife didn’t plan on growing addicted to food. You had, though - you had all along.

When she passes you in the kitchen, you feel her bulbous belly brush against the small of your back. She smacks your ass as she does, and rightfully so. In these past few years, you weren’t exactly immune to the rituals you had created. A few extra pounds may have dropped onto you, as well. But thankful for your mothers genetics, they all landed on your bottom half, leaving thick thighs and a plump bubble butt.

Your wife reaches over you and pulls down a bottle of wine from the rack. She steals a hot dog while she does, eating it in nearly two bites.

“I’m fucking starving, let’s go.” You laugh and tell her to wait. Onto the silver baking tray goes eight hot dog buns, seven hot dogs - since she couldn’t wait - and a layer of chilli and two packs of shredded cheese. You broil them until melted, and place them on the counter for your blimped up bride.

She watches TikTok and houses the appetizer mindlessly. You haven’t even had to feed her in the last two years, she does it herself, her fat fingers a digit of her own demise. Her massive ass now needs two of the kitchen island stools to support her. You’re currently shopping for better support.

When she’s finished the nearly 6,000 calorie warm-up, she heads to the couch, where her 280lb frame has created a sunken groove on the couch. You think about how little of that space she first occupied when you moved in together. Now, the sheer girth and heft of your fat girl has left a lasting impression on the furniture. You could have sworn you heard the sound of rustling plastic when she was mulling around in the living room.

She polishes off a bottle of wine while the lasagna bakes. You grab the edibles, both of you now consuming at least a pack each. When you finally arrive at the coffee table with the bubbling layer of meat, cheese, and sauce, she stands and removes her top and bottoms. You stare at her.

Massive breasts rest on her domed gut. Her belly is the heaviest part, a deep navel that wobbles with every movement. Her thighs are dimpled and ever-touching. When she sits back down, she opens her legs so that her belly can rest between her legs - and yes, it does touch the sofa.

She houses half the lasagna, only leaving the rest for you to pick at too. You manage to polish it off, unaware of how cooking so much all afternoon has made you ravenous. She burps and peruses the delivery options on her phone while you eat.

Finally, for dessert: this is where you two usually fuck. But tonight, you want something else.

Running into the kitchen, you grab the frozen ice cream cake from the fridge and arrive back in front of your hefty lady.

“Ugh, another cake?” She smiles wryly.

With that, you laugh and place it in front of her. On it, written in dainty frosting, reads, “I win.”

You return with the blender and a carton of cream. You make your wife watch, salivating, as you cut portions of the ice cream cake and drop it into the blender, adding cream when needed to turn it into a thick slurry of fattening goodness. Her eyes are once again red and lustful for the food.

“Happy anniversary, you ***.” You say as you once again grip her chin with your hand and open her mouth - the fat in her cheeks and jowls bunch up underneath your fingers.

To celebrate your accomplishment, you feed your wife an entire sheet ice cream cake milkshake. When you checked, it was 11,974 calories.

She moans with pleasure as you fill her up. It takes nearly four blenderfulls to get through it.

“Stop, stop, clementines!” She cries out. It’s your safe word.

You stop and look at her. Your once svelte and dainty girlfriend sits before you, three years passed, and deep into the depths of obesity.

“I’m hungry for something else.” She rips open your fly, and pulls out your member.

Your obliging wife takes you in her mouth and sucks softly, slowly, the cool of the ice cream soothing your throbbing cock.

Your eyes roll back and you drop the last portion of the ice cream cake milkshake onto the coffee table.

Suddenly, with great force, your wife pulls you out of her mouth and presses you down onto the couch. She sits on your lap, pinning you to the middle of the sectional. She easily has 100lbs on you.

“Are you stuck?” She whispers. “Am I too heavy for you?”

You playfully push at her, trying to get her to budge. She’s not going anywhere. With a toothy smile and a fat double chin, she flicks her hair to one side.

“Three years…can you believe it?” She places both hands on her gut and let’s it drop onto you. You nearly finish at that sensation alone. “I feel like a completely different person…I cannot believe that I’ve let you do this to me.”

She continues to play with her belly, you continue to squirm under her heft.

“I think it’s about time we switched things up.”

You stop squirming and you stare at her. “What?”

“Y’know…I just feel like…it’s not fair,” She leans back towards the coffee table, producing the near full blender.

“Honey…I don’t…” you begin to stutter.

She shushes you with a fat finger and slurps at the edge of the blender. With a lot burp and a soft giggle, she stares at you, her eyes puncturing your very soul.

“I think it’s my turn to try a hand at this whole feeder thing.”

And with that, she grabs your chin and opens your mouth and begins pouring the contents of the blender down your throat. You try to move, but her weight pins you down, and so you simple swallow, and swallow, and swallow until…

“Good boy. All done, and so quickly too!”

From between the pillows she produces an entire plastic bag full of mini-chocolate bars.

“Ugh…I can’t wait to watch you catch up.”

She spent the rest of the night unwrapping each bite size bar and plopping them into your mouth. You had never been so full in your entire life.

She kneads your stuffed tummy until you drift off to sleep, the wine and the weed and your fattened wife dulling your brain into the fateful reality you had built yourself.

You remember a phrase from your early upbringing…what was it?

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

It only seems fair.