A Second Helping

Chapter 1

Carly never used to eat much at all. A shy librarian in her late twenties, she was always watching her waistline and passing up dessert. She’d grown used to saying no—to cake at office parties, to donuts left in the break room, to the occasional invite for lunch out with coworkers. It wasn’t that she didn’t like food. She loved it, actually, but somewhere along the way, she’d learned that it was easier to blend in when she took up less space, and easier still to avoid attention altogether when she kept her appetite in check.

So she ate her little salads, sipped her herbal tea, and pretended she wasn’t dreaming about cinnamon rolls and lasagna by mid-afternoon. No one ever asked questions, and Carly liked it that way.

Late at night, however, when Carly was home alone in her bed, her imagination couldn’t help but shift into overdrive, as she wondered just what it would be like to let go, and allow herself to eat whatever she wanted, as much as she wanted. She imagined herself scarfing down plates full of cookies and pastries, of reaching into a giant angel food cake with her bare hands, cramming fistfuls of sweet and gooey goodness into her mouth and down her throat. She couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like if she were to give in to temptation and gorge on sweet, savory and deliciously fattening foods. She would fantasize about what she might look like with a bigger belly, with wider hips and a plump rear end.

Things started to shift the day a handsome new patron named Mason began stopping into the library—always with a fresh treat from the bakery next door.

Mason was an attorney in his early thirties, sharp-dressed and soft-spoken, with a small law office just a couple doors down. Every morning on his way to work, and every evening on his way home, he passed by the tall windows at the front of the library—and that’s where he first noticed Carly. Always behind the front desk, quietly shelving books or assisting patrons, her dark hair tucked behind her ears, her cardigan sleeves pushed up just so. There was a quiet beauty to her, something thoughtful and kind in the way she moved. She had a softness about her, a warmth that made him pause. More than once, he found himself slowing his stride, pretending to check his phone or adjust his briefcase, just for the chance to catch a glimpse of her through the glass.

He’d always known that he was a feeder. Not in a casual or restrained sense, but in the deeply devoted, almost extreme way that some people didn’t quite seem to understand. While he never set out to make anyone gain weight, he saw the inevitable weight gain that came with his actions as a delightful consequence, and not at all something to be avoided. For Mason, it was never about control or numbers on a scale. It was about giving and experiencing pleasure, loving someone through nourishment and joy.

He loved to pamper a woman, to spoil her to death, to see a woman’s face light up at the first bite of something warm and rich and lovingly made. Yes, he appreciated the curves that came with it, the fullness, the change—but more than anything, he cherished the connection that food could create. The joy of giving someone something that made them feel good.

Unfortunately, not everyone had seen it that way. His past relationships had been complicated by that very instinct. Some women had been confused by it. Others, uncomfortable. He’d learned to tread carefully, to keep that part of himself quiet.

Something about Carly felt different. There was a sweetness to her, a gentleness that made him hope she might understand—that she might not judge him if he tried. So one afternoon, he stopped into the bakery on the corner, picked out two perfect croissants—flaky, buttery, warm—and walked into the library with his heart pounding.

If she turned him down, he’d let it go, but if she said yes—if she took a bite and allowed herself to enjoy it—then maybe he’d finally found someone he had a real shot with. He decided to go for broke and give it a shot. After all, what did he have to lose? 

At first, Carly thought it was sweet of this stranger to come into the library and offer her sweets, albeit a bit odd. Maybe he was just very enthusiastic about French pastries, or maybe he just didn’t like to eat alone. The first time he strolled in with a paper bag in hand and a stack of books under his arm, offering her a flaky croissant with a casual smile, Carly was caught a bit off guard.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t,” Carly said, eyeing the pastry with a mix of longing and restraint.

“It’s the best in town,” Mason said, holding it out. “Just give it a try—you’ll love it.”

She hesitated only a second longer before taking it. One bite was all it took—a buttery, golden flake melting on her tongue—and a soft, involuntary sound of delight escaped her lips. A look of pure elation crossed her face.

“See?” Mason grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “I knew you’d love it.”

After that, he came in more often. Always around the same time, always with something new. A gooey brownie one day. A custard-filled doughnut the next. Carly tried to play coy, insisting she wasn’t expecting anything—“You really don’t have to”—but her eyes always drifted to the bag the moment he walked in.

Carly started dressing just a little bit nicer on the days when she knew that Mason would be coming in. She would brush her hair and put on a touch of lipgloss, and Mason always noticed.

“That color suits you,” he said one afternoon, handing her a still-warm slice of almond cake wrapped in wax paper. “I mean, maybe not quite as much as this piece of cake does—but it does suit you.”

She laughed, flustered, but she still took the cake—she always took the cake.

There was something undeniably seductive about the whole thing—the quiet anticipation, the intimacy of sharing something sweet. His offerings became a love language all their own. She looked forward to each one, not just for the taste, but for the little moment it created between them—a stolen glance, a playful tease, followed by a second helping.

Over time, Carly began to notice some changes in  her body—little things at first. The way her skirt pinched at the waist when she sat down, the faint tug at the buttons of her cardigan, the softness that was beginning to spread across her hips and belly. She knew she was gaining weight. It concerned her at first, but oddly enough, she didn’t panic or worry about it too much at all. In a strange way, the added weight seemed to give her a bit more confidence, especially where a certain handsome young man was concerned.

As for Mason, Carly noticed that his gaze seemed to linger a bit longer, his eyes following her figure as she moved from the shelves back to her desk. He seemed to be blatantly ogling her body whenever he was near, not in a way that made her feel self-conscious or violated, but in a way that made her feel desired.

“If I didn’t know better, Mason,” she said one afternoon with a playful glint, taking a slow bite of the red velvet cupcake he’d brought in for her, “I’d think that you were trying to fatten me up on purpose.” Her tummy, soft and full, pressed gently against the edge of her desk, evidence of every sweet indulgence he’d offered over the past few weeks.

Mason laughed, raising both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I just like to see you happy, Carly, and I love bringing you treats that you enjoy.”

She licked a bit of frosting off her thumb, eyes playful. “Okay, if you really want to bring me something I enjoy, then why don’t you bring in some lasagna for me tomorrow?”

Mason’s eyebrows lifted with delight. “Lasagna? Say no more. I’m on it.”

After Mason left the library that afternoon, whistling softly to himself as he pushed open the heavy front door, Carly sat at her desk a little longer than usual, the taste of red velvet still lingering on her tongue. She stared at the screen in front of her, pretending to update catalog records, but her thoughts drifted. 

She thought back to the not-so-distant past, thinking about her ex-husband Domenic.

Domenic had always been ambitious, outgoing and endlessly restless. He always seemed to be looking forward to something, always planning the next big adventure, never quite satisfied with wherever he was in life. He wanted the two of them to go out with friends every weekend, to sign them up for travel excursions, take dance classes, climb mountains, jump out of airplanes.

He once brought home a brochure for a timeshare in Costa Rica, waving it in her face like it was the key to some glittering future. “We could go anytime we want,” he spouted enthusiastically. “We could just hop on a plane for a quick getaway—wouldn’t that be great?”

Carly had wanted none of it.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. She did, in her own quiet way. But Carly had always dreamed of a simpler life. She liked books and quiet corners. Helping people discover something meaningful between the pages. Coming home to her cozy apartment at the end of the day, lighting a candle, curling up with a novel and a warm cup of tea. She never wanted much more than that.

The real fracture came when Domenic said he wanted to have a baby. That, she knew, she couldn’t do—not at that time, at least. She just wasn't ready to change everything about herself for someone else. Not like that.

Her refusal to bend in her convictions had cost Carly her marriage, and in the years since Domenic had left her, it just ate her up inside. She had spent the last few years trying to tell herself that she was better off, that she’d made the right choice, but sitting there now, cupcake crumbs on her desk and the echo of Mason’s laugh still warming her chest, she wondered if maybe she’d been too afraid—too stubborn, too safe.

It wasn’t a mistake that she was willing to repeat. Carly had given up on romance once before, but now—with this handsome young attorney in her sights—she was hoping for a second helping of love.

She sighed and rubbed her tummy, feeling how soft and round it had become beneath her blouse. Then a smile crept onto her lips, sly and determined.

“Well,” she said to herself, “if Mason wants to feed me and make me  get fat, then I’ll get fat for him.”

She chuckled, half amused by the thought, half aroused by the defiance in it.

“I’ll get as fat as a cow if he wants me to.”