chapter 1

Cute and naughty.

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Like much of my work, this is one of an ongoing series; however, this series is related by theme, not characters 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 1.

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Comments and critiques are greatly appreciated!

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



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Brief Encounters - Midnight Nosh, Burden of a Husband and Feeder



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She was tugging at my pinky with hers when I awoke: All five feet of her, standing there in the half-light, pouting slightly but perhaps just a little naughtily and playfully, hungrily.

I closed my eyes, groggy, but she nibbled my finger tip lightly, a bit of arousingly demure demand, anxiousness, playfulness, even as I twisted to sit up. It was 2:30 in the morning, a Saturday, but it had been a long Friday. Not for her though, I knew: my sweet young bride had taken at least one 4-hour snooze the previous afternoon, sleeping off a meal of decadent leftovers I'd planned for her.

She led me down the short flight to the kitchen, and I watched her new body jiggle and move awkwardly, like a teenager not used to her new dimensions. She'd woken hungry after my heavy stuffing of her just a few hours before. She was gaining so fast, her new fat was hanging almost oddly, naughtily, as if the muscle beneath had almost no play on its shape. It was so attractive I couldn't describe it. It hung on her, yet somehow it was intensely sexy, like her little body just didn't know what to do in the face of the onslaught of this new calorie-engorged fetish, this new, throbbing need she had, this thing which was indeed being quite forced on her at the same time, assuming it's possible to force the willing, which I do.

She was going to let herself become so fat she couldn't move soon, I knew. Then, I told her, I would feed her constantly, and make her pregnant. Fertility, mating, those were the most arousing things to both of us. For now though, she was still learning, and she had a real distaste for eating alone. It made her sad, scared, uncomfortable, "and," she'd said shyly, it was "much less fun." Waking me up during my four day work week was a no-no, but Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights were open, and she almost always woke up starving around this time of night.

The weight was developing beautifully, better than I could have hoped, and was looking similar to that of her heavyset sisters and cousins. Most of it settled low, but I was absolutely enamored of her belly. It didn't dome like most new stuffer bellies, but was really still quite slim up top, just below her breasts, and then hung down into her hips quite like the sack of soft fresh fat that it was, yet not close to folding over quite yet. But what was best about it was that it was a smooth transition from it around her hips, keeping to her almost hourglass shape: soft breasts lay above her fat tum, which merged through beautiful thick new love handles around her sides and tops of her hips, to her backside and its round squishy glory, and then down and back around her hips and imminent saddlebags and in front and between her thighs, encasing them in her super tight drawstring PJs like plump fat sausages. Unlike her belly, her bottom had already begun to deform and fold over under its own weight, but, like her belly, it had that same half-filled-sack look. Though the top of her derriere had a nice thick coating of fat, leading from her love handles, the bottom of her bottom was a testament, by itself, to why women should be fat. Like a thick roll, the new flesh piled most on the bottom half of her cheeks, and then under them, forming a fleshy sweet crease with her softer thicker thighs, rolling into extra fat between her cheeks or around the outside into that barest start of saddlebags, widening those hips delicately yet ruthlessly, and straining her pants to the point of thread-bareness.

She loved those PJs, but she was being very hard on them; she'd been wearing them almost every day, as if knowing the imminence of them finally wearing out, yet ironically accelerating it. Oh how they'd looked on our first night home from the honeymoon. So different, form complementing perhaps, but not at all tight, just loose sleepy comfies.

She pulled her shirt down absently and unsuccessfully over her thick and creamy lower tummy fat as we entered the kitchen, not from shame--not now anymore in front of me, except when I was really teasing her--just instinctively to the bright kitchen, still hiding from the light.