You Were Made for This

Chapter 1 - You always want more.

So you want me to get fat, huh?

But it's not just about making me fat, is it? It's about giving in to your every pleasure, every desire, to mold me into your personal butterball. It's as if you were created for this. This is what you were meant to do. You're gonna surrender to every single pleasurable moment of feeding and fattening me up. It's like a release for you.

And it's all about being your good lover for me. I don't mind. I mean, we both love each other, and we'd do anything for each other. Anything to make you happy. If fattening me up puts a smile on your face, then it's well worth packing on a few pounds. I can tell that this brings joy to your life as nothing else could. So, let the fattening begin. I'm ready.

You tell me how it's gonna happen. Whenever you want, you're gonna make me eat. And you'll feed me whatever you want with no consideration for whether it's good for me. I'm not saying you don't care for me. Of course, you do. But the notion of feeding me fast food and junk food -- muffins, donuts, tacos, pizza -- until my belly swells out, well, I know this really makes you tingle between those thick gym-sculpted thighs. You wouldn't ever do anything to hurt me. I know that in my soul. We are like pieces in a romantic puzzle called life. And I don't mind growing a little tummy for you or even getting a bit unhealthy, to make us fit together even better. Whatever you wish to feed me, I'll open my mouth wide.

Whatever foods and whatever quantities guaranteed to make me fatter and fatter, just as you desire. At first, you'll feel a little guilty. But the guilt will shrink as my belly grows and as you lose all inhibitions. You'll be amazed at how much you can persuade me to eat, how much my slender body can hold. You'll learn to use your shapely hourglass figure, your sensuality, your tempting words to make me overindulge. You'll realize how to take control of me, and how to turn me on so you can have your way with me.

( . ) ( . ) ( . ) ( . )

You will feed me an entire large pizza and still it's not enough for you. Fortunately, you also ordered a dozen garlic cheesesticks. You'll wonder, How is that even possible I can eat so much? You barely remember feeding me the first slice, and suddenly it's all gone. The empty pizza box and my full rounded belly. And then, you eye the cheesesticks and grin wickedly.

Maybe you're getting ahead of yourself, too carried away. You did say you just wanted to just experiment with feeding. Maybe I'd gain 10 or 12 pounds, you said. No more than that, you promised yourself.

But then you notice my appetite-- and my body -- start to grow. I can't help it. Who could imagine you'd get this carried away? You're stuffing me on a fairly regular schedule now. My belly has rounded out, and you can grab a small handful now. A delicious little lip of fat develops around my waist, begging you to fondle it, roll it between thumb and forefinger, to squeeze and tickle it until I laugh aloud. A laugh sounding more like a fat man's laugh, echoing the overfed joy deep in my belly.

How much have I gained? Definitely more than 12 pounds already. But, hey, who's counting? And besides, I can't find the bathroom scale any way. It's not in its usual place in the cabinet beneath the sink. You're not about to stop --or even slow down. Your desire to fatten me is out of control.

You don't care that you've made me finish a whole extra large pizza, just to try to please you. You're not satisfied yet. It feels so good to feed me and rub my distended belly. Why would you ever want to stop?

( . ) ( . ) ( . ) ( . )

At first, it's just the odd evening at my place. You treat me to a big home cooked meal after work. You turn a movie on to wind down as you feed me an entire apple pie with a quart of vanilla ice cream. You know just how to get me in the mood for eating. You know just what to say to get your way. And you always get your way. You learn what kind of touch makes me compliant. You practice and refine your feeding techniques.

Then, it's an entire weekend with me. And why not? It's our down time after all. You cook but also order in from fast food and pizzerias. You get to know all the delivery guys. Come Sunday night, you realize the kitchen and living room are full of dirty dishes, empty boxes and fast food containers.

You can't stop though. My growing capacity edges you on. Suddenly, feeding and fattening me occupies your thoughts all the time. You no longer are concerned about my health. You're feeding me everything you ever wanted, all kinds of fattening junk food, completely guilt free. It turns you on to think how big I'll get if you keep feeding me so much.

You've no longer any regard for how this affects my health. Ice cream, pies, cakes, cookies, burgers, fries, pizza. With a special glee, you're reading the calorie counts and fat grams on food packaging. Are those numbers turning you on? You're smiling with delight at how much you've increased my capacity.

The only consequence is that my clothes are starting to get a little snug. I'm still only a medium, you reassure me the first time I complain that my clothes are getting too tight. You get me some large size shirts. Soon, even that size rides up on my torso, exposing my thickening waistline and starter love handles.

You assure me there's lots of room for me to move up through larger sizes, the corner of your lips curling up a bit wickedly. It's no big deal, you insist. You just shrug it off and tell me you'll buy me some extra large tee shirts next time you're out grocery shopping. It's not like you're going to make me put on that much weight. You'll gather some self control once you've had your fun, you try to assure me.

Well, I'm not too assured. I'm well beyond a new 10 or 12 pounds now. I'm rapidly approaching obesity. How many Xs will soon join that L on my size tags? You talk like it's nothing to go from XL to XXL and so on. But there's no end, is there? How many Xs until I'm done? Done? You've not thought of that, have you?

You distract me from any worries about the future by kissing my neck, your face deep in my long hair. Teasing me with your body against mine. We fit so well now in bed, you say. Naked, skin to skin. Where I'm convex, you're concave. We come together and cum together, my flab jiggling wildly even after we stop moving. You arch against me and scream delights out loud, as I sob orgasms with happy tears on chubby cheeks.

You sink into softening pleasure over and over, pommeling my plump potbelly. You make me so full in love making, and you are in charge of it all. There is no done. I'll never be finished in your eyes. There is no limit in the number of Xs coming to reside next to the L. There is no planned endpoint, just an infinity of expanding appetite, capacity and then waistline. To be crass, I'm getting fatter every time we fuck. And you're still hungry for more of me.

( . ) ( . ) ( . ) ( . )

After a morning of getting too full, I can barely move. Be gentle. Care for me. Just don't lose all control. Already, I can barely breath from the pressure of our gluttony.

Our gluttony. It's not just my greed. It's yours, too.

I love how greedy you've become for my fat.

What neither of us realize is that you've passed the point of being able to stop. This is no mere fetish for you. It's an obsession. That small round belly has turned into a prominent gut that I can't hide anymore. And other people are starting to notice. My family has expressed concern, and my coworkers have joked about how out of shape I am at the company picnic. I get embarrassed and stressed out, I eat even more. The crazy thing is though you find yourself more turned on every time someone says something. Your blush with arousal, while I turn red-faced with shame.

After my family reunion, we stop at two different drive thrus on our way home. During work, I phone you about my colleagues teasing me about a shirt button popping off during the breakfast meeting. At my lunch break with you, you get me a half dozen donuts stuffing them in my face as you rub my belly, then you regret not getting a full dozen.

Now you're stuck in a cycle. Feeding me feels so good, it puts you in a euphoric daze that you never wish to emerge from. All those calories and fat grams pile on my body. I'm soft everywhere now. New stretch marks cross my expanded waist and hips. New fat rolls appear and grow. My newest shirts tighten again. The smell and feel of new fat arouses your senses. All this motivates you to keep feeding me. I'm outgrowing my extra large shirts -- wasn't I a medium just a few months ago? You've become addicted to me -- the new me and my increasing waistline.

You can't tell me you don't want that. Turning such a natural, instinctive act like feeding your lover into a gratifying, self-satisfying habit. And yet the gratification and satisfaction never seem to last long. You cook for me, you spoil me. You need more of me all the time.

( . ) ( . ) ( . ) ( . )

Every bite that you push past my lips puts you deeper and deeper into a hole you'll never get out of. Once I've put on the first 30 pounds, you'll try and tell yourself you can stop. But denying your pleasures of excess flesh is not in your future -- or mine. You cut calories and get me to exercise a little. Maybe I'll even drop a few pounds. But your craven yearning for a fatter version of me is too much. You've become so weak-willed, and you've made me so lazy and gluttonous. Neither of us can stop.

It's so much more natural for you to push me back onto the couch, sit on my lap, and stuff my chubby face. You love looking down and seeing the rest of my lap disappear beneath a roll of belly fat. You can't explain why. It's just the way you are. You're spoiling me right out of my new sized clothes. I'm overfed, and you're ecstatic. You're stimulated in a way you never have been before. Your arousal grows at the same rate as my belly. And neither you nor my appetites are ever satisfied for long.

You make me fatter. You were made for this This is exactly what you were meant to do. And I'm here for you.