Chapter 1 - Happy Weight

She’d always worn the cat ears for fun. A little cosplay at first—one too many anime nights on the couch turned into her purring in his lap, headband snug over her hair, tail clipped to her shorts. But after a while, it wasn’t a costume anymore. Just part of her. His kitten.

At first, she’d play into it. A lazy stretch here, a meow there. Then he started cooking more. Bigger breakfasts. Late-night treats. Second dinners. It felt like every time she turned around, there was another plate in front of her. And he always said it the same way:

“C’mon, pretty kitten. Eat it up for me.”

How could she say no? No to French Dips with Strip steak and homemade French Bread that filled the apartment with amazing smells. No to Korean Bao buns that dripped with enticing sauces.

Sometimes she thought that being a chef was his calling over psychiatry—but he was good at everything.

He loved watching her curl up on the couch after a meal, rubbing her stomach through her oversized tee like a cat basking in a sunbeam. Her belly had grown soft, plush from months of indulgence. He’d trail his fingers along the curve of it while she nuzzled into his chest with a sleepy purr, full and content.

There came a point where she didn’t even pretend to resist anymore. If he brought her something—pasta, pastries, some sweet buttery thing still warm from the oven—she’d just blink slowly, let out a tiny pleased sound, and eat. No questions. No hesitation. Just open-mouthed obedience.

He started calling her that more often—“pretty kitten”—whenever she finished a plate so clean it didn’t need washing.

“Good girl,” he’d murmur, palming her full middle, “that’s my pretty kitten. All plumped up and purring.”
She’d mewl softly, sleepy eyes half-lidded, letting his hands roam across her round belly. She liked it best when he fed her by hand, bite after bite until her thighs spread further over his lap, and she could do nothing but chew and swallow and sigh.

Thoughts felt unnecessary. She liked it that way. Working all day on computers isn’t for the weak—even if she thought it would be. It’s a different kind of pain. The ache in the back of the brain, the desire to turn all thoughts off the minute the laptop closes.

Why bother thinking when she could just lie around, lounging on the couch with a warm plate on her belly, waiting for the next treat? He made sure she didn’t need to lift a finger. The house stayed warm, the fridge stayed full, and her place was always ready—his lap, his side, his bed. All she had to do was be his kitten. And eat.

Sometimes, when her belly was tight and round from another big dinner, he’d lay her down and just rub. Long, slow circles with his palms while she whimpered, too stuffed to move. She’d whine if he stopped.
“There, there,” he’d coo. “You did so well, kitten. Such a good girl, getting so big for me.”

And she’d smile. No thoughts. No worries. Just warmth and fullness and him.

They’d been together for a year and half now, and it was really starting to show.