chapter 1

He's been promising to lose the weight ever since he couldn't fit into not just his work trousers ("a little bit of Christmas bloat" with an overhang of at least six inches, and trousers falling half way down his arse when he stands) but also his soft jogging pants. Well, not so much couldn't fit as he broke the elastic in a flood of pudge spilling onto his lap.

He's been piling on the pounds for months, and I have no idea if it is because he's oblivious to the rolling gut he's grown, his red rosy cheeks and softly shaped moobs, the way his arse cheeks flop over the side of a chair, or because he secretly likes it.

It all began about this time last year. To be honest, I was relieved when he said he was going to put a pause on the gym. We used to work out together, and there was something unhealthy about his competitive edge. Always had to be the fittest, the fastest, the one with the lowest body fat and the biggest chest and biceps. I just go to enjoy the endorphin rush from working out.

At least the snide remarks about my figure have stopped; while I never intended to be as ripped as he was, the last year has brought me more stress and with it more of a need to get out of the house. But he stopped coming with me, and now when I get home he's got this half glazed look in his eyes like he'd been pigging out already, breathing heavily like he's been stuffing his face. But he still has room for dinner, so, surely not?

I mean, as far as I am aware, we are eating the same as we always did. Did the gym make that much difference to his ability to metabolise food?

Oh bugger. He's back in his gym gear. When did he get such a gut? I mean, I've seen it in jumpers but now the hem of his shirt barely touches the base of his belly, and there is still a sliver of podgy white flesh poking out. The shorts cut into his love handles so much and... Are those stretch marks? I reach forward involuntarily to touch them, and he drops his eyes and blushes. Surely, he couldn't have got this fat? And surely, I shouldn't like it?

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We pile into the car, and I can see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow as he struggles with the seatbelt. His gut pushes up the top and I'm torn between pulling it down and grabbing that jiggling flab and touching it. We've not said a word, and to be honest I don't know what I'd say... I want to point out the literal elephant in the room, but he must realise he's become, I mean, there is no other word for it... Fat.

Fat. So unexpected when you move in with an athlete. I thought he'd be good for my health, and he was. The habits he taught me in the first six months have stuck. But eighteen months in and those abs and pecs are nowhere to be seen. Oh lord. I'm going to the gym with a fatty, and not just any fatty but their previous poster boy. And they're going to know I lied, lied about him joining another gym, lied about him tightening up. Though they are not going to disagree with the bit where I said he is no longer working out with me. No, no that is obvious.

We are here. How can it be that difficult to undo a seat belt? Or get out of a car. I walk behind him and notice his love handles and slight waddle. His shorts are being eaten by his arse checks. I was to take him home and try figure out why on earth this turns me on, but he squares his shoulders (t-shirt rides up again) and I catch the suggestion of a smirk on his face. He can't be enjoying this?

I enter just in time to see Tiffi and Brandi, the two decorative gym bunnies on reception do a double take. I turn red with shame and arousal on his behalf as they begin to poke and prod him, and throw sympathetic glances at me. One asks if he needs a personalised workout program, while grabbing his gut. From the shift in his stance I can tell he's getting aroused, but thankfully those tight shorts hold everything down. Oh goodness. He likes being told he’s got fat.

Suddenly the nights I woke up alone after I'd suggested that maybe he's porking up begin to make a lot of sense. Come to think of it, our protein powder was going down at the same rate as when he was in the gym every day. And there were a few cheesecakes and cartons of ice cream that had gone missing, but I just thought I'd miscounted.

I start my workout , thankful it's a routine now so I don't need to think on it too much. He opens his kit bag, pulls out a protein bar and a shake and gets on the treadmill. All I can see from the weight bench is his jiggling underbelly. I want to grab it. I want to bite it. I want there to be more of it and for it to be mine.

The gym goes quiet as he starts to walk, then ups the speed until his crashing steps cause the building to shake. He's panting like a steam train and wobbling like a blancmange and barely hitting a jog. I drop a kettlebell on my foot.

My yelp at least drags some attention away from my jiggly behemoth. I sit down on the bench, startled from the pain. To give him his due, he does get off the treadmill as quickly as possible and helps me up. I can't put much weight on my foot, so I lean into him and wrap my arm around his waist. I grab his love handle and use it to hold myself upright.

"Home?" he asks.

I nod. "maybe we can stop on the way. Wouldn't want you getting peckish after your workout." I squeeze his fat and smile.

**** This may or may not continue. I had bunnies but sort of lost them when my phone suffered terminal existence failure ***