chapter 3 - apprehension

Over the next two months, we ate in more and the meals - they became more like feedings - kept me full most of the time and required more processing and storage space in me than ever before. My appetite also grew and my shape transformed from an athletic, swimmers build into a more chubby, regular guy without much of a waist and more than a few extra pounds.

As this happened, I started to freak out - I was getting fat and I was losing my looks. My pants and jackets were getting really tight on me and my belly with its growing layers of fat was pushing out below and above my belt. When I complained to her, she'd tell me how much more masculine I was looking and that I felt more like a "real man" to her. She'd start touching me, rubbing my belly, chest and sides and get very worked up until she was undoing my belt and constricting pants and fishing my cock out start sucking me. Half the time I would cum within what felt like seconds and need to sit down. She'd then coo while she lovingly stroked my now round gut and convince me to eat an outrageously fattening treat.

As time went on, her earlier suggestion that I move in so she 'can take care' of me became more insistent, to the point she told me that if I didn't, she couldn't see the relationship continuing. Not wanting to give her up, I caved and moved all I could into her one-bedroom condo. Her ample closet space was mostly taken up by her wardrobe, which left me with less room for clothes than I had before. She convinced me to donate those clothes that were too small to close around me or those she considered "out of style," consoling me that with her part-time job at an upscale department store she could clothe me in better stuff.

Then the eating got really serious. It became increasingly clear that my job was to eat. If I ate less than what she felt I should in a given period of time, she would feed me until I had met her unspoken quota. If I hesitated or started resisting, she would softly rub my now plump chest and work her way over and down out of site of my pronounced, now-blubbery stomach. There she would stroke and squeeze me until I was hard. As full as I might be, I would allow her to stuff my face with her free hand, her sweetly saying, "Good baby. You know this is good for you, and when you finish I'll make you cum nice and hard. Does that sound nice?" I'd moan affirmatively between swallows and lay back feeling uncomfortably full and heavier.

As my belly started to really bloom, she enjoyed having me on top more. I say, "my belly" but she has started calling it "her Belly" that she was growing. She'd grab my puffy sides or growing love handles and thrust hard against me saying, "c'mon belly boy, fuck me! We've got to grow you till I can't even move under my big fat Belly!" That would usually set us both off and we cum together until we collapsed bathed in sweat and the ruttish smell of sex.

She often insisted I come to the shop for lunch where like before, I would be fed in the back room until she was satisfied, and I would go back to work careful to not jar my bloated, overfull gut.

I was becoming painfully self-conscious about my expanding body. I would arrive and leave a bit early or later to avoid being seen by my co-workers, even waiting for groups of people to break up before I would go to the bathroom. People I hadn't seen in a while tried not to look shocked when they saw me, trying hard to avoid looking at my growingly fat body when we talked.

Weekly weigh-ins followed where I never could see the scale number and never seemed to gain quite enough. This resulted in punishing force-feedings that I didn't find sexy at all, but drove her into sexual frenzies that left me overstuffed and blissfully empty at the same time.

After several weeks, she decided that I must be depressed or something and took me to see a psychiatrist friend of hers. We walked into his office, they hugged each other and she and I sat down. He asked me some questions about my mood, sleep and appetite, which I said were okay, only to have her sweetly contradict me. He said that based on that and on his discussions with her, he was prescribing me with a mood stabilizer and an anti-depressant. He handed her the prescriptions and told her how to gradually increase the dosage until I was doing better. Turning to me, he informed me that both had side effects that I might find uncomfortable, but that I should stay on them and see him in about three months. I opened my mouth to ask more about these side effects, when she stood up thanking him and briskly move us out of the office and to her car.

On the ride home, I asked her what all that was about. She replied that it was her job to take care of me, that I hadn't been doing well lately and that her psychiatrist friend did us both a favor by seeing me and setting me up with some prescriptions. I started to protest and her mood got very dark and she pulled the car over. She grabbed me by the chin and looking at me straight in the eye, she said with dead seriousness,

"Listen, if you're not happy with the situation, you can leave any time."

"Well," I said, "I don't want to leave, but I think I should have a say..."

She smacked me stingingly on the cheek and cut me off with, "Do you know how much I love you immensely and that I am doing the very best for you and want you to be comfortable and happy? You are mine now and all you need to do is grow into my love. Understood?"

"Well," I said, blushing and enraged and not sure what to say, "I understand."

"Well good," she said, smiling and stroking my face. "Then let's go get you something to eat - I need to put some real weight on you. For your own good, of course!"

I was stunned, confused and had a raging erection at the same time and sat there in silence staring straight ahead, my fat jiggling with every motion of the car.

Looking back I realize that was the point I realized I was simply an extension and object of her and all I had to do was be carried along by my most basic needs.