Sweet

Chapter 1

How sweet and stupid he is, for thinking I’m sweet and stupid. I curl my hair for him, wear something cute and frilly, something that he’ll like me in, because he likes sweet women. I wake up before he does, to make sure breakfast is served, coffee is hot. But the breakfast has extra butter, and the coffee extra cream. Extra sugar, because he likes it extra sweet.

I hum as I prepare everything, patient as he stumbles into the kitchen with that sleepy look on his face, his hair a mess, eyes still half-closed. He’s so cute like that, adorable in his obliviousness. I’m so sweet, giving him everything he loves and more. It’s a routine now, I don’t even need to think about it anymore. I just do.

“Aren’t you sweet,” he says, as he kisses me on my cheek sweetly, and takes in his morning feast. He sits his sweet fat ass in the chair, in front of the spread, laden with sweets. Pancakes doused in sweet syrup, bacon fried with a sprinkle of brown sugar, and some fruit, naturally sweet, but still topped with homemade sweetened whipped cream. A sweet breakfast for a sweet man, made by his sweet wife.

I watch him eat with a smile, that familiar hunger in his eyes. He’s always been hungry, always eaten more than he should, and I’ve always been right there, feeding him. He doesn’t realize that hunger is more than just for food. It’s something else, something deeper. I see it in the way he eagerly accepts everything I give him, never questioning it, never thinking twice.

I enable it.

I’ll be sure to pack some sweets with his lunch, like I always do. One sugary drink, two pastries, three candy bars. Because I’m sweet. And you can tell, by his form. The poor, sweet, dumb, ***. Adorable.

I watch as he devours his food, sweet eyes glazed with contentment, his body moving slowly, lazily, like everything he eats just sinks right into him. Every bite adds to him. Adds to me, too. The more he eats, the more I give him. The sweeter I am, the more I see him change. The way his belly grows. The way his thighs spread when he sits. How his arms rest over his stomach, like he can’t help but rest on his own indulgence.

"Hey, sweetie," he’ll ask from time to time, with those big innocent eyes, "You think I’m getting fat?"

“Of course not, sweet thing,” I’d coo back, every time. Then whisper sweet nothings in his ear until he forgets. Maybe fuck his brains out if he needs a bit more convincing. Because I’m sweet like that. To him anyway. Wouldn’t want the pig to worry, to fret. No, not my baby.

My sweet, fat man. Too sweet for his own good. How else would someone like me get a hold of someone like him? Because he’s too stupid and too sweet. The extra softness suits him anyway, makes him mine. And that’s just how I like it.

"Here, eat this baby," I say sweetly, putting another muffin in front of him. He doesn’t hesitate. His hands reach out greedily.

Pathetic. Pathetically sweet.

“Honey, how about you have a little more syrup?” I bend over and pour more, too much, all over his plate, just for fun. I bat my lashes, flash my boobs in his face, and I know what he’ll do. He nods, just like he always does.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. Too fucking sweet (weak) to say no. Even says thank you. Always with the thanks yous. I could tie him up and feed him ‘til it hurts and he’d still say thank you.

‘Thank you, sweetie,’ he says when I hand him 3000 calories on a plate.

‘Thank you, sweetie,’ he says when I tie his shoes because he’s too damn fat to reach.

‘Thank you, sweetie,’ he says when I tell him his mother is crazy. Don’t listen to her, you’re not fat (he very much is), you’re just going through a phase (which this is very much not).

No, I’ve got some sweet plans for him. I can already see it in my mind. How he’ll look in the future, so much bigger than now. A perfect little fat man, molded by me. Every indulgence, every treat, every moment of sweetness adding another layer to his body, to his existence.

Plans that will have his belly swelling outward in heavy folds, slick and flushed, doughy in a way that takes up space like furniture. His thighs will part wide to make room when he sits. His stomach spreading across his lap and spilling over the sides. His arms resting on top of it, like they’re perched on a mound of warm milk brea—

"Sweetie?" He speaks, a sweet little look on his face, chewing his breakfast.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes wide, waiting for my answer.

I snap out of it, smile. “Mmhmm,” I say, leaning down to kiss him slowly, sweetly, tasting the sweet maple syrup on his lips. “I was just daydreaming.”

“About what, hun?” He asks, his voice full of innocence, that clueless, unaware smile on his face.

I grin. “About how great our future’s going to be.”

His sweet, dumb smile widens. “Aww, that’s sweet.”