Cupcake bride, cheesecake wife

Chapter 1 - demonstrating approval in no uncertain terms

Sweetheart, you used to be so modest -- in the beginning, do you remember?

When we were newlywed, and you intended to be the perfect housewife, you were always up and dressed sharp when I came home from work. The house was tidy, and there would be something wonderful in the oven for dinner. We were both on our very best behavior then, weren't we?

I might have peeked into the pantry to see whether any of the rich sweets I'd bought to tempt you were disappearing, but I wouldn't dare mention it. I wouldn't want to discourage my pretty young bride from indulging her sweet tooth. The chocolate bars and pastries and cupcakes did disappear, and I simply made sure they were always replenished.

You reminded me of a cupcake yourself in those days. Sweet and light and cute as a bug's ear, my own darling girl. Staying home seemed to suit you very well, and I was happy that you were happy.

As time passed, it became obvious just how you enjoyed those quiet days at home alone. You started putting on weight, sweetheart. The stash of chocolates and treats which I lovingly maintained for you, which we never discussed, seemed to disappear faster every week. And you were getting pudgy, weren't you?

Oh, you still kept the house tidy, and made dinner for us -- in fact, you were eating more at dinnertime than ever before. You were still up and dressed every evening when I came home... but your clothes were getting snug. Your tops fitted tight against your chunky belly and swelling breasts.

I fell deeper in love with you each day. Sometimes I'd come in the door and take you right there on the living room couch. You were always ready for loving too. And you usually tasted of chocolate. We would make love, eat dinner, and make love again.

You were my chocolate-chip muffin then, darling. Your muffin-top was rolling out over your waistband, and you didn't care. I thought you were perfect. I bought more éclairs and fudge for my beautiful wife. I kept our secret pantry filled to the top with tempting sweets.

It was six months into our marriage before you let me come home to find you eating sweets -- well, not actually eating them, because they were all gone. I leaned down to kiss you, and saw an empty tray of brownies on the end-table beside you as you sprawled on the couch. I nibbled on your ear and kissed your neck and dared to whisper, "What happened to all those brownies, gorgeous?"

You answered simply, "I put them away."

Actions speak louder than words, I've always thought. So I demonstrated my approval in no uncertain terms. Do you remember that night, darling, how I peeled off your tight clothes and made love to every inch of your body?

I think you do. Because the next day, you bagged up all your old clothes for charity, and bought several new sets of sweatsuits -- enormous and stretchy and cozy. You needed a winter wardrobe, you told me, something you could wear when cleaning house. I nodded and smiled and kissed your cheek.

Apparently the tight clothes had been keeping your eating somewhat in check. Because once you started wearing those sweats, my darling, your obesity spiraled out of control.

During the day, the house didn't get tidied. We'd eat dinner of course, but you weren't making it anymore. When I walked in the door evenings with takeaway pizza, you'd be right where I left you: on the couch eating chocolate.

By this time, you'd put on well over a hundred pounds, and it was all in your breasts and belly. Your belly was so big that you couldn't reach yourself anymore. So you'd stuff yourself with sweets for hours, in frustration, until I came home to f**k you properly.

“I put away all the chocolate, honey,” you confessed as I walked in the door.

“Good girl, that’s what it’s there for,” I answered.

“No, honey -- I mean all of it. All of it,” you moaned, caressing your swollen belly.

No need for tender foreplay -- you were certainly no longer a blushing bride -- so I'd just lay down the pizzas, tug down your sweats, and have at you.

That was when I started making you milkshakes.

You must have been over 400 pounds, sweetheart, and becoming quite expensive to feed, when it occurred to me that what you really needed was something filling, fattening, and easy. I found that if I bought the ice cream and heavy cream at the wholesale market, I could make gallons at a time, and keep you satisfied all through the night. Adding cake mix to thicken it just doubled the calories.

Once you started drinking the milkshakes, there was no going back. Your sexuality became irrevocably enmeshed with food. You had to have your stomach stuffed full to get wet, and you had to be cramming chocolate in your mouth to cum. Your obesity began to strain at the seams of even the largest sweat suits we had found.

One summer afternoon, I found you sprawled across the couch covered with a blanket. I knelt down to give you a kiss, and my hand slid under the blanket to discover you weren’t wearing a top at all. “It’s too hot to wear a sweatshirt today,” you explain disingenuously.

“No need, in the privacy of our home,” I agree. I know that you’ve gotten too fat for your sweatshirts, and I certainly don’t mind it.

And thus you discarded the last shred of your modesty -- didn’t you? You went topless about the house, wearing only sweatpants, your lovely sagging breasts on display, resting on top of your enormous gut. You gorged on chocolate and cheesecake and gallons of chocolate milkshake, and grew slower and lazier by the day.

For a long time, nothing seemed to change. Your belly was huge and round and pale as the moon; your lovehandles and fat rolls were growing so, so heavy. You had blossomed into something like a cheesecake then, sweetheart; just like I knew you would.

Another year passed. Finally, at 685 pounds, your massive belly is hanging down to your knees. Watching you struggle to waddle from the bedroom to the kitchen is quite a spectacle. You have simply grown too fat to wear those sweatpants.

One evening in the living room, glugging your milkshake and getting stoned, with the rolls of your belly spilling into your lap and pushing your thighs wide apart, you finally confess to me, “Honey, I can’t wear these sweats anymore either.”

“Too fat, are you? Too belly-heavy?” I ask, a bit sharply.

You nod sadly, blushing.

“Why didn’t you just stop eating before you got this big?” I demand. I very seldom tease you, but tonight I will.

You give me big puppy-dog eyes and a pout. “You buy all this good food, honey, and I -- I just can’t say no--”

“I buy all this good food, and you put it all away, don’t you? Right here?” I ask, gently squeezing a handful of your soft belly fat. “Just can’t say no? Just an obese, lazy slut who can’t say no to anything? Who gains hundreds of pounds and can't dress herself anymore and still doesn't stop eating?”

You close your eyes and take a deep, deep toke, and nod again. I know what my words are doing to you, of course.

“These sweats just aren’t working for you anymore, big girl. What you need is something roomy and flowing,” I tell you, stroking your sensitive underbelly. “Something that will never constrain your belly no matter how much you eat. No matter how fat you get. Don’t you think?”

I retrieve a gift box wrapped with christmas paper from the hall closet. “Something that gives me easy access to my fat girl... I was saving this for Christmas, or 700 pounds, whichever came first--”

You snatch the package from my hands and ripped it open, breaking into a beautiful smile. It’s a delicate cocoa-brown nightie, with pretty lace straps and cherry-red piping... and no waistband. I show you how much fabric there is; it’s practically infinitely expandable.

I pull off your sweatpants for the last time, discarding them into the kitchen rubbish. When I return, you have already slipped into your new nightie, and the silky material flows over your rolls and curves like a fountain of molten milk chocolate.

You take my breath away; you always have. You could never be too fat for me, darling -- you’re getting sexier by the pound.