Dreams

Chapter 1

I dream of beautiful vistas and comfortable shoes. I dream of a lover's tight little ass bouncing happily down a trail through a sun-dappled wood. I dream of the tiny arc that gently swells from her little flat tum as we sit to eat and she hungrily restores what has been spent, and in her zest indulges more. I dream of the look of sleepy contentment that softens her sharp features as she leans back and tells me how good it feels to be so full after a hard day's hike. I dream of the look that passes across her face when I tell her that the rest of our meal won't keep until morning, and how with bashful delight she dives in for more.

But most of all, I dream of what happens when this strong, proud athlete begins to relax, to slowly release all preconceived notions of satisfaction and beauty; of the dawning awareness that obsessive fitness is a burden she need no longer bear when fullness is a pleasure beyond compare. I dream of the day that reassurance and encouragement reap their rewards, when she asks me for help exploring the strange new sensations that her budding softness provides.

She has no idea how well I'll oblige.

-

I dream of tying my eager new piggy to a sturdy new chair, sticking a tube between her quivering lips, and using a funnel to pump outrageous amounts of sinful decadence into her aching gut, until her fluttering eyes bulge in alarm, until her muffled cries beg me to stop, until I unshackle her thrashing limbs and she collapses into a sobbing heap, cradling the unbearable mass that that's been forced into her, whimpering for the blessed relief of my soothing touch between primal wails of ecstasy as waves of tingling pleasure ripple and race across every inch of her taut skin. When the feeling of impossible fullness within her becomes too much to bear, I'll watch as she convulses sharply and writhes around the immovable weight of the boulder in her belly that pins her helplessly to the ground on one side, as the searing warmth between her thighs crescendos again and again and again.

She may have chosen to be reduced to this pitiful state, but the balm that I slowly work into the taut skin of her distended abdomen is the least I can do. She's growing so wonderfully round for me, after all; she deserves to be treated like royalty. Soon this pain will turn to softness, as her aching body surrenders its firmness to yielding pliancy, like the cushions on which she's now sprawled, moaning wordlessly between ragged gasps for breath. I hold her in my arms and gently stroke her hair as I whisper that thinness is now a fading memory and she drifts away to sleep.

-

I dream about taking my feedee to a new buffet each month, dressed in a cute little outfit that's already become a bit too small. I fantasize about packing her into a booth that's far too tight for a woman of her stature, drawing furtive glances from the snickering patrons around us as I brace my legs and gently apply my strength to the soft flank of her unyielding mass, until at last her bulk shifts and with a wobbling lurch she slides into place.

I tell her that she'll need to eat everything I put in front of her if she hopes to earn my assistance in getting out of the booth and back into the car when we're done, assistance she knows will be sorely needed if she wants to avoid turning the appalling demonstration of gluttony that she's about to undertake into an even bigger spectacle than it already will be. She begins to clear plate after heaping plate, eagerly shoveling mounds of richly prepared sustenance into the aching cavern within her, gorging herself with total abandon until her arms grow too heavy to lift and I'm compelled to pick up the fork and patiently pitch the rest of it into her. Between quiet reassurances and sweet murmurs of encouragement, I scold her lightly for giving up so easily and gently rub the thick roll of fat that rests heavily on the table above where it cuts painfully into her overloaded gut. She mumbles something that's almost intelligible about trying harder next time, but I already know that she will. She's such a good piggy.

She will, of course, take her evening feeding from the trough when we get home, but she knew the penalty for failure when she agreed to my terms.

When I haul her to her feet and begin to guide her slowly to the exit, every face in the room turns to gawk at her ponderous passage, drinking in the salacious exhibitionism on display: the fat lady who barely fit into her booth, now a panting glutton, drenched in sweat; her fly blown open; her shorts straining at the seams; her shirt which had begun the day as a makeshift crop top now covered in stains, desperately clinging to life as an overloaded bra; her breath, shallow as her lungs vie for space between her ribs and the enormous mass of food packed into her gut, ragged under the weight of the burning shame she feels bearing down upon her from a hundred directions.

I briefly step back to the booth to pick up the sunglasses she's left on the table and when I turn again to look at her I'm treated to the sight of two enormous globes heaving up and down with each tremulous step. The crash of each heavy footfall sends shockwaves running up the thick trunks of her wobbling thighs and into the ample expanse of ass flesh that I can see pouring out from the bottom of her absurdly tight shorts. Thick rolls of back fat rest uneasily on this wide quaking shelf, jiggling in time with her lurching stride.

As I return to her side I notice that above all else, every eye in the room is drawn to the great mound of her titanic belly, swaying before her with each labored step, a vast expanse of flesh tracing an arc that emerges from beneath her pendulous breasts and charges proudly outward before curving down to press heavily onto her lap and slap unceremoniously against her thick pillowy thighs as they shuffle and slide indignantly past each other; a glistening dome packed tight as a drum, shamefully exposed for all the world to see.

The disorientation in the faces of the onlookers only grows more pronounced when they finally tear their eyes away from the heaving mound of undulating rolls and take note of her unlikely companion: a thin, athletic man dwarfed by her scale, carefully steering this mindless machine of mass consumption through the haze of her food coma along a path that affords the widest berth through the room as she clings tightly to the reassurance of his firm arms. The hungry gleam in his eyes as he follows her halting progress betrays the secret delight with which he relishes the attention that her mounting corpulence now commands.

We turn a corner between two tables and I begin to let my waddling pig stray blearily from the center of the path. I point out to her how the plates and cutlery jump and clatter with each of her heavy steps. The swaying curve of one of her wide hips brushes against a water glass and tips it over, spilling its contents across the tabletop where a small family has halted their meal to stare. The man springs to his feet and I quickly apologize, telling him that my piggy just isn't used to her new size. Somewhere deep in there she still thinks she's an athlete, I share with a chuckle. I turn back and see that her shoulders and thick upper neck are flushed crimson, her legs pumping resolutely for the exit. The man waves us along impatiently as his wife moves to shield their daughter from the sight of the dangerously destructive ass slowly sauntering away in all of its overexposed glory, doing her best to mop up the spill in front of her.

When we finally reach the door, I tell my piggy to stop and wait. She shuffles to a halt and whimpers a little, her body taking another second or two to settle into stillness. I move behind her and slip my arms around her waist, placing my open palms gently against the taut skin of her belly and wobbling it slightly. Her breath quickens and she whimpers some more. I tell her to look back at the table we left, to realize just how close it really is and to reflect on how long it took us to get from there to here. Most of the onlookers have turned back to their meals in embarrassment or disgust, but a few continue to watch incredulously. I bring my mouth close to her ear and whisper that when she entered this restaurant, she was already the fattest person in the room, maybe even the fattest person some of these people had ever seen. I softly remind her that after what she's done to herself today, she'll never be that small again. Her cheeks flush an even deeper red somehow, a sharp little gasp slips from her mouth, and her whole body wobbles as her knees buckle slightly before she steadies herself and turns to leave.

Those of the restaurant's staff who had worked here a year ago might vaguely recall a similarly obscene display and wonder idly if there might be a connection, but they'll dismiss the notion almost as quickly as it arises; after all, the curvy bombshell in that incident had been less than half the size of this lumbering sow.

-

I dream about sheepishly explaining to a contractor that I need him to widen a few doorways because my feedee, my beloved pillowy princess, whose waves of cascading blubber mesmerize and enthrall me as she waddles clumsily throughout the house, whose sighs of contentment fill my heart with joy when she sits back to survey the aftermath of yet another inhuman binge and to rub only those portions of the massive, drooping gut in her lap that her plump little hands can reach before lifting her eyes to meet my gaze and glancing down towards her turgid treasure expectantly; this woman whose ponderous bulk has grown to fill the sofa we can no longer share, who sets off a symphony of metallic squeals when she flops blissfully into our reinforced bed and her wobbling rolls jiggle themselves into place; the woman who has become my greatest and greediest love, has quite simply grown so enormously fat that she can't fit through the doors of our home without a struggle anymore.

I think about how nice it'll be when the two of us can stroll up the lovely front path together and just walk right through our new extra wide front door. She's been getting so winded lately whenever we come home from a day of flaunting her astonishing appetite out in the wider world and we have to walk around to the back of the house so she can carefully squeeze through the sliding door over the sound of its angry protests. Mounting the three stairs to the deck is the most intensive exercise she's gotten in ages.

I secretly relish the sympathetic look of misplaced pity the contractor gives me when I ask about reinforcing the floors. We both turn when we hear the leaden footfalls of a lumbering giant trundling down the hall, and through the doorway into the kitchen I see a sumptuous hammock of sagging flesh reach out to tug the fridge door open.

I am so very proud of what she's become.