Chapter 4 - part 7 - exerting control

After a couple of months I had become used to the routine my wife had set for me. Getting stuffed all the time didn't seem like such a big deal anymore, mostly just because I fully expected it. And that's not to say I didn't get the occassional break, either - we were both busy, so I got to take the odd rest by default, when either (or both) of us were occupied with other things.

One Saturday morning I rose from bed late, and as usual my wife was already up. She typically got up early and would go for a run, or something, and then come back to make me a massive breakfast. I laid in bed for a few minutes and rubbed my stomach. She had stuffed me almost to the point on pain the night before, so I was happy to feel that dinner and dessert were largely digested, and there was lots of room for my next meal.

I love breakfast. It's probably my favorite meal. I love pancakes, waffles, syrup, bacon, eggs, all of those kinds of things. And my wife makes really great, really huge breakfasts! She usually only has oatmeal or fruit herself, but she completely spoils me. So you can imagine my surpise when I came down to see a plate which had only two eggs, one slice of toast, and some orange slices.

"This looks delicious," I said playing along, and consumed the tiny offering in a matter of seconds.
"What's next?" I asked.
"Sorry sweetheart, that's all for breakfast. I have to go grocery shopping," she replied.
I must have sat there with my mouth hanging open. She just smiled and went about her business.

Now, something I should disclose: My wife rules the kitchen. She does probably 80% of the food preparation and most of the grocery shopping, but I knew something was up. Even if the fresh ingredients were used up, there had to be boxes of cereal in the pantry. She was up to something. And this became even more obvious when lunch and dinner were similarly sparse.

Eventually I had to complain.

"I'm still hungry," I said.
We were sitting on the couch after dinner watching a show. My stomach rummbled in protest to its treatment that day.
"I know, dear," she cooed at me, and snuggled in a little closer. "Don't you worry about this little guy," she said, and started to rub my flabby stomach, "I'll take care of him later."
After a few minutes of rubbing and squeezing the fat of my gut, her hand started to move lower, under my belly, and then under the waistband of my sweatpants. I quickly came to attention!
"First, though," she whispered, "I am going to take care of THIS guy."

She smiled a wicked smile. A few minutes later we retired to the bedroom for the evening.

The next morning I was alone again when I woke, and naked. My stomach was really complaining now, and for the first time I could remember, probably in years, I felt a little faint with hunger! I feared what I would find in the kitchen, but decided to get up and trudge there anyway, without bothering to put on any clothes.
Walking naked, I loved the feel of my hanging belly swaying back and forth, jiggling with each step. Unencumbered by clothes, the sensation was augmented that much more. I also noticed a bit of jiggle in my buttocks, and I remember feeling very pleased about this. Up to this point in my weight gain I'd carried almost all of it up front, but I desperately wanted to have a big, wide bottom which would swallow up a chair, or better yet, maybe two chairs!

When I entered the kitchen I practically drooled at the slight of the feast before me. Stacks of pancakes, well over a pound of bacon, and perhaps a half-dozen little egg sandwhich-looking things.
"Good morning honey," my wife said pleasantly, " you'd better get started, there's more coming."

Almost two hours later I was firmly stuffed. She taunted me on, forcing me to finish small bites of a muffin, and the last piece of bacon, until she finally relented. I could hardly move, my bloated gut felt like it weighed a ton, as though it was pulling my torso forward to meet my lap.
"Was that better than yesterday?" she asked.
I nodded. She gave me a quick tummy rub and told me to go lie down.

The stuffing continued that day, it was relentless. I kept retreating to the bedroom to lie down and let my belly rest. I must have nodded off after a mid-afternoon snack stuffing, because the next thing I knew she was waking me up. I was still naked, and my stomach felt very distended.

"Get up baby and get dressed, I want to go out for dinner," she ordered.
I grunted my compliance and started the slow process of sitting up and getting out of bed.
She threw some clothes on the end of the bed. "I want you to wear these," she said, with a certain amount of authority.
I picked up the shirt she'd selected. "This one is getting too small," I said. "I'll have to find another one, maybe one of the new ones?"
"No, you're going to wear that. Put it on and let me see how it looks on you."
I grinned, but she didn't. She meant business. So I did as she asked.
The shirt was very tight. Buttons were visibly straining across my chest and belly. She didn't change her mind, however, and that was what I wore to the restaurant.

As had become our custom, my wife ordered for both of us (she is my feeder, after all). A meagre, tiny portion for herself (which she often she made me finish), and several courses for me. I could tell what she wanted to happen. It had been a fantasy for both of us at one time or another.
"You want me to pop a button, don't you?" I asked.
She smiled slyly.
Sadly, it was not to be. No matter how much I tried to puff out my belly, the shirt was too well made, and the buttons held, squeezing my belly into tightly-encased rolls of fat.
I was so stuffed after that meal that she had to drive us home. The shirt didn't stay on very long once we got there...




PART 8 - Two Ways of Bulking Up

My wife didn't let me weigh myself. She thought it would be more impressive if we waited for a period of time to see what I had gained, and she was probably right. I could tell that I was still gaining at an impressive rate, however, and the thought of reaching my goal of 300 lbs by the middle of the year was tantilizing! (On the other hand, it was sort of unlikely, because my initial fifty-pound gain started over the holidays, the stuffing-est time of year.)

The mere idea that I could add 50 lbs in three months was fascinating to me mostly because it suggested I could reach (mathematically, anyway) 400 lbs by the end of the year! I marvelled at the thought!

So, while I didn't know what I weighed, I knew I was getting fatter. I could feel it in my belly, when I cradled it in my hands. Now it rested on my lap when I sat, a nice flabby little sack. My pecs (I still called them this, while my wife called them "moobs") were getting bigger, too, which I wasn't as crazy about. My thighs and arms started to finally take on some pudge, looking more in proportion to my belly, though still dwarved by it. And finally some padding was going to my butt, which I was very pleased with. Up to this point it seemed that I had the belly of a 250 lbs man and the buttocks of a 150 lbs man. My wife said, "It looks like all that sitting around on your ass has finally paid off." Cheeky. :)

Carrying the load of my heavier belly started to take a toll on my lower back. My wife noticed me rubbing it more often, complaining about it.
"You need to strengthen your back muscles to deal with this little load," she said, and placed her hand under my belly, hefting it slightly, "especially since it's going to get a whole lot larger."

My wife had been really active for a long time, mostly in aerobic activities. In the last year had she started to do more strength training. I was a little worried initially, because I didn't want my sexy, still somewhat-curvy wife to become muscle bound, or have the physique of a lean twelve year old boy. My concerns were unfounded, of course. While she was getting stronger and you could see it in her leg muscles, and to a lesser extent in the roundness of he shoulders - it was clearly evident when she flexed her biceps which showed real muscle definition - but she was still sexy and curvy, with nice wide hips and DD breasts.

She had me get dressed in sweatpants and a too-tight T-shirt (her choice), and she led me into the room with the treadmill and other bits and pieces of exercise paraphanaleia.
"Ok, so let's start with some stretching," she said.
"Sure," I replied. How hard could this be? I was a former athlete, after all.
It was a lot tougher than I thought! When we sat on the ground and she reached and grabbed her foot, I found I could only reach as far as my knee. Then we laid on our backs and did leg raises, which she executed easily, and I quickly grew winded and worn out.
Our workout lasted maybe twenty minutes, and my wife was hardly even warmed up yet. I laid on the floor, breathing heavily, flushed and sweating. She gave my bare belly a rub and a jiggle, it was bare once the T-shirt had ridden up.
"Good work sweetheart," she told me. "Why don't you go reward yourself with some ice cream while I do thirty minutes on the treadmill?"
I nodded, and slowly managed to get to my feet.

About thirty minutes later she entered the kitchen. Her skin glistened with sweat, and her skin-tight tank top was partially dark with sweat. Her breathing was almost back to normal however, when she smiled at me from the kitchen doorway. I was three quarters of the way through a bucket of ice cream.
"How was your workout?" I asked between spoonfuls.
"Good," she said, still smiling, "yours?"
I grinned and nodded as I spooned more ice cream into my mouth.