The Perfect Routine

Chapter 1

I wake up heavy with sleep and heavier everywhere else, and the first thing I feel is the drag of my own body. Two years ago I could move through mornings without thinking about it. Now every step to the bathroom reminds me how much you have changed me, how steadily and lovingly you have pushed me up to 350. In the shower, I work around myself more than through myself, my breath fogging the glass, my arms aching from the reach of it. I tell myself the same thing I always do. I can still control this. I could slow down whenever I want. I could prove I am not as far gone as you think. The lie sounds thinner every morning.

When I step out, I find the custom robe you ordered for me hanging where you left it, soft and oversized in a way that makes me feel spoiled. I wrap it around myself and catch my reflection for half a second too long. Full cheeks. Thick middle. The lazy slope of comfort settling over me before the day has even begun. I know exactly what kind of morning this is going to be, and even as I tell myself I will hold back a little, I can already feel how badly I do not want to.

I roll a joint before I come out to see you. It has become part of the ritual, almost as important as breakfast itself. I mumble good morning, and you answer in that warm, amused tone that always makes me feel completely seen through. Then I head outside, my robe loose around me, and sit with the joint between my fingers while the morning air wakes me up and the smoke softens me right back down. Inside, I hear you moving around the kitchen, and every sound makes me more impatient. Pans. Cabinet doors. The low hum of you doing exactly what you love.

By the time I am halfway through the joint, I am already thinking about breakfast like it is the center of the day. The two sandwiches you insist on as the bare minimum now. My coffee. My soda. The donuts I tell myself I will resist. I always build these little bargains in my head, fragile plans that make me feel disciplined even when I know how they end. Maybe I will just have one donut today. Maybe I will stop after the sandwiches. Maybe I will prove I can say no. But then I think about the way you smile when I give in, the quiet pride in how carefully you look after me, and all my rules start sounding petty and performative.

When I come back inside, the routine is already waiting for me. You have set the little tables up by the couch exactly the way you like them, everything arranged with almost ceremonial precision. I know what comes next, and even now it makes heat climb up my neck. I loosen the robe and let it slide away, then lower myself onto you carefully, feeling huge and clumsy and hyperaware of every inch of contact. I mutter that I am too big for this now, too heavy, that it feels embarrassing. You just laugh softly and tell me to sit still, your hands guiding my hips until I am exactly where you want me.

That is the part that undoes me before I have even taken my first bite, the way you position me like I belong there, like this is the most natural place in the world for me to be. It makes me feel vulnerable in a way I have stopped pretending not to love. My body settles over yours, and I cannot help noticing how dependent the whole position makes me. Then I start eating, and the room narrows to your hands, your voice, the weight of breakfast in my lap, and the soft certainty that you have built this routine to make surrender easy.

The sandwiches are huge, and you know I love them that way, double patties, six strips of bacon, two eggs, three slices of cheese, and bread slick with butter you never bother to measure. I eat the first one fast because I am hungry. I eat the second one because you hand it to me and stroke my stomach while I do. Lately you have gotten meaner in the way that makes me melt fastest, all teasing disbelief and low amusement. You tell me maybe you should have made me four sandwiches. You ask if I am really still acting shy after all this. You look at me like you already know I am not done. Every word lands exactly where you want it to, and every word makes it harder to remember the version of me who thought she had limits.

By the time I have drained my coffee, taken long pulls from my soda, and polished off more than I swore I would, I am deep in that soft, dazed place you like best. Full enough that movement feels optional. Full enough that thought comes slower. You always seem most pleased then, when I am warm and hazy and pliant, when I stop trying to negotiate and just let the moment carry me. That is when the last donut appears at my mouth, when your praise gets sweeter and more relentless, when the whole thing turns from breakfast into something deeper than hunger. Not chaos. Not force. Just routine sharpened into instinct.

I do not worry much in those moments because you are careful with me, always careful, even when you are getting exactly what you want. You know how far to push, how to read the line between overwhelmed and comfortable, how to keep me full enough to feel claimed without tipping me into panic. Maybe that is part of why I keep letting myself drift further. You make it feel managed. Intentional. Even kind. Which is dangerous, really, because it lets me pretend this is still something I am merely indulging instead of something that is steadily rewriting me.

When breakfast is finally over, you help me roll onto the couch and settle me into the position you know I like best. You arrange the pillows and blankets around me with practiced care, smoothing everything down until I feel spoiled, heavy, and completely looked after. Your hands linger over me like you are admiring your work, like I am something precious, overfed, and entirely yours for the morning. I lie there feeling the full weight of everything I have eaten, the deep stretch of it, and the warm, satisfied ache of being so thoroughly indulged that I can barely do anything but melt into the cushions and let you handle me.

You never rush through this part. That is what makes it feel so overwhelming. You take your time adjusting me exactly how you want me, touching my stomach, tugging gently at the softness of it, letting your hands rest there with a kind of pride that makes my face burn. The way you look at me is almost worse than the teasing because it says so much without you even needing to explain it. Still, you always do. You always want me to hear it. You tell me I am your prized breeding feedee in that low, satisfied voice, and even though the words make me squirm, even though I go shy and awkward every single time, I never really want you to stop.

I try to act embarrassed when you say things like that. I tell myself I should push back more, that I should sound more resistant, more in control, more like the version of me who still thinks this has limits. But I am so full, so comfortable, and so hopelessly wrapped up in the routine of you taking care of me that the denial feels thin even in my own head. You know it too. You laugh when I get flustered, like my awkwardness is just another part of the show, another proof that I love this more than I can admit. And the worst part is that you are right. By then I am already warm and dazed, too deeply settled into the couch and into you to pretend I do not understand exactly what you are doing. You keep one hand on my belly, rubbing slow circles and squeezing softly now and then, reminding me with every touch how much I have eaten and how impossible it would be to hide it from either of us.

When the moment crests, your voice always changes. You get breathless and amused and a little reckless, like the thought excites you so much you cannot keep it to yourself anymore. You hold onto me, laugh softly at how shy I get, and start talking again about 500 pounds as if it is not some outrageous fantasy but an inevitable next step, as if one day I really will be even softer, even fuller, even more dependent on the routine you have built around me. I avert my eyes and act like the number is too much, like I am still shocked to hear it out loud, but my body gives me away long before my words do.

Afterward, you settle me back down and make sure I am comfortable before you leave for work, never careless, never unkind, always maddeningly attentive. You talk me through the snacks you have left for me, remind me what is in the fridge, and tell me you expect me to manage a decent lunch even without your hands directing every bite. I nod like I am not already thinking about it, like I am not already planning how I will be good and measured and sensible once you are gone. But lying there full and flushed and wrapped up in everything you said to me, I can already feel how fragile those promises are.

Even alone with my thoughts, I cannot quite make myself believe my own promises anymore. I tell myself I will never let this get to 450. I tell myself 500 is just something you say to watch me react, to make me blush, to keep me uncertain. Still, the number lingers after you leave, heavy as a prophecy. Because the truth is that every morning like this makes the next one easier. Every indulgence becomes precedent. Every denial gets softer. And somewhere under all my flimsy claims of control is the terrifying, thrilling suspicion that you already know me better than I know myself, that when you talk about 500, you are not fantasizing at all. You are planning.