Body and Soul - Love and Marriage

Chapter 1 - To love and control...

Short story I wrote some time ago after being inspired while reading FF's Kinkiest Fantasy forum.
Unfinished, unpolished... and delicious.

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Like much of my work, this is one of an ongoing series; however, this series is related by theme or style, not necessarily by characters, setting, or plot.

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Until I can think of something better, I've decided to add a BDSM scale to all my stuff. It ranges from 1 to 10, where a 1 is mildly kinky and a 5 is solidly BDSM. A rating of higher than 5 is probably extremely naughty. If you aren't sure you like this stuff, I encourage you to find something with a rating of 3 or below.
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This story's BDSM rating is 5.

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Comments and critiques are greatly appreciated!

Enjoy at your own risk! 0.o ;p XD lol



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Body and Soul - Love and Marriage



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When we meet I am only 18, yet already very fat from living my weight gain fantasies off and on since I was in my teens if not younger.

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My weight swung wildly as a child, and all my life since. My parents and I lived in a city when I was very little. I was an overweight, roly-poly little girl until I was almost 5 years old and about to start school. Then something happened, and we left our home and moved to my grandparents' farm in the country. Now, many people's weight gain stories happen in the country, but I can tell you for a fact that they are bologna. Though the food is hearty, the country does not make you fat, especially if you are a little city girl who has spent almost all her time inside. I ran and played, helped with chores, and ran some more.

By the time I started school I was thin for the first time in my life, and remained so until I broke my leg when I was 6. As much as I loved playing outside, I remember missing being chubby and lazy sometimes, and the cast gave me a great excuse to sit around and watch cartoons and be a lazy little princess again. Plus, grandma loaded me up with comfort food and sweets constantly while I just spent my summer afternoons listening to her talk about stories from when she was a girl herself.

Though the cast came off quickly, the habits stuck, and I was a chubby little girl once more by the time I was 8. I was very social nonetheless, with many friends, but some of the other girls were getting into the clique phase already in such a small school, and around this time was the first time I was ever teased for being chubby, as I stood beside my best friend and she stood up for me. Nevertheless, the teasing quickly became a frequent thing, and I can't say it didn't stick with me long after. Not just shame or guilt though, as you might think, but a bit of a naughty little thrill. You see, somewhere inside, I had so many good memories already associated with myself when I was chubby that I think maybe I didn't feel the way I was "supposed to". Though I hated being teased on the outside, I didn't always completely hate it on the inside.

Fast forward a couple years, and my parents thinned me out as a preteen on the advice of a counselor and a dietician. And it worked, and my popularity rose greatly. In fact, I remember this being the first time I ever did something I really regretted. I had become friends with that same girl that had once teased me, and as she now teased my former best friend, the same one that had once stood up for me, I was cajoled into agreeing and even joining in.

"Fatty," "Piggy..." "Oink".

Deep down inside, I would never live it down.

Not long after that, we moved away again, this time back to a city. Missing my friends and once again surrounded by fast food, I had a hard time. Starting puberty, I gained a massive amount of weight back, almost doubling my size by the time I was twelve. After my first year of middle school, a year in which I went from new girl and country bumpkin to ridiculously fat, my parents used some of their new money to send me to fat camp. This occurred more than once over the next couple years, and by the time I reached high school I was a cheerleader. The damage was done though, and though I was thin and very popular once more, I was now acutely aware how I desperately I liked fat, the look of it, the feel, and especially being covered in it. I found that I had begun missing it. Mixed into the many new emotions and desires of womanhood, were the complicating and unique needs of a budding feedee and, as I'd only realize much later, sub.

At 16 my parents divorced, and I changed schools once again, and in the dark side of the internet I discovered what it meant to be a feedee. With my mom now running a single parent household and working 80 hours a week, I found the time and privacy to begin stuffing myself once more. Over the course of the rest of high school, I spent at least several nights every week gorging myself and stretching my belly and massage the new fat I was creating and masturbating into the early morning. By the time I was 18, I had once again more than doubled my weight to 240 pounds. I had long ago left the physical and social joy of cheerleading and dancing behind for the raw carnal hungers that threatened to take over my life, my time, and even my mind.

It was around this time that my fantasies really expanded and broadened as well, not just about fat, but about all these naughty and pleasant feelings I associated with it, from as seemingly wildly disparate things as comfort and safety and confidence, to guilt and shame and desperately burning arousal. All these experiences I'd had and relationships I'd seen and stories I'd read now combined in my mind to shape what I wanted. I spent almost all my time when I was alone thinking about not just boys and fat, but falling in love and getting married and knocked up, and being pregnant, and finally now about being controlled and taken care of as well, my husband's chubby pregnant kept housewife, his love and trophy and wife and pet and slave and shame--all the things that are most kinky and counterculture to the leanings of my generation. All the things good girls no longer do.

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My greatest fantasy, and his, is not so dissimilar I find. He towers over me as we share our first kiss. I am on my toes but I still wouldn't reach were it not for his bulky muscled arms lifting me. They sink into me as we make love for the first time, and as we learn all there is about each other.

It is not long after we are totally in love that he steps in to take responsibility for--and control over--me, even my body. Ironic though it may seem to outsiders, he begins by having me, making me, lose all my precious, beautiful fatty weight. He consoles me, tells me, and deep down I know: the fat I am laden with, for the rest of my life, will be, must be, his--his doing inside me, his love for me, his will over me and for me. We marry quickly and move away together, to a small city on the edge of a big one. My family is mixed in approval. He is responsible, charming, and has been a terrific influence on both my physical health and my behavior (domineering as he is), but to give up so much for someone is dangerous, to give control over, to move so far away, opens you all kinds of power games. (Though they are right, I can't help but pity their hypocrisy, their own lives and decisions when I was young now shaping my comfort zones for such radical change.)

And... what they will never understand... that that is, in fact, the Why, the Why of all my changes.

We live the night life in our new home city; we make our new city our home. He works as a midlevel executive during the day, while I socialize with new contacts and friends and neighbors, or keep our home--but always, in the background, almost below even my notice, I am fantasizing, fantasizing about his promises to me, about being made soft and fat by him, being made fat again, him inside me all the time loving me, wrapping around my body with his love, and then finally, when the time finally comes, breeding with me, making me eternally his, making new life from both our flesh, his firm and virile resolve, my soft and fertile resilience.

We party every night together. I see everyone's desire for my new body, now petite at barely more than 5 feet tall and a mere 105 pounds. Even my breasts have tightened up, down below even a C cup, and the only physical signs I had once greedily and hornily made myself obese are the faintest tiny stretch marks, the finest white lines on hips and tummy and and inner thighs and everywhere else that no one ever sees but him, though he traces them gently and longingly with his fingers as he whispers of them to me in the dark of the dance clubs. No one knows of my desires, my wonderfully shameful passions, except him--only my husband knows me there, in the depths of my mind and soul and yoni. He watches the watchers watching me, and he watches me, whispers more in my ear of the most naughty things, mostly secret and loving, but sometimes humiliating and frightening and utterly stimulating; he never fails to make a trickle of wetness run a little against my slim toned thighs, "gracing" me, he says. We make love in nightclub bathrooms, in parking garages and on rooftops, even a booth in an all-you-can-eat restaurant once or twice. We own our new city, and christen it in our love and passion.