Female Fat Admirer

Chapter 1

Crazy? Who, me? Well, some think so, others don't. It's just that I'm only attracted to men who weigh well over a hundred.

Moreover: I like it when men actively gobble up more and more, and as a result, get fat. I met my future husband when he weighed only about seventy kilos. At a height of one meter fifty nine, this is already considered a lot. But for me, it's almost a reed. I would not have looked at him a second time, if not for his determination. And also—his open, alluring nature...

In general, even I was touched, right away. From the very beginning, we honestly and in detail discussed my preferences, and I clearly said: I will make sure that you eat properly, but from this you will inevitably gain weight. And I can't help but admit: today I am devilishly glad that he gave in to my desires so selflessly.

Of course, I kept my promise. At my insistence, my treasure had to switch to four, or better yet, five meals a day. No less than three thousand calories daily. According to my calculations, his usual regime required slightly less than two and a half thousand calories, so the additional food consumption was bound to turn into extra pounds. In fact, his appetite soon grew enough so that he didn't have to sit with a calculator over each plate, he was already continuing to gain weight in the most wonderful way.

At first, things moved slowly, half a kilo a week at most, but with my efforts and moral support, the further, the better. In the first three months, my baby gained fifteen kilos, and looked better every day. Pink cheeks, heavy round buttocks, and a noticeable layer of fat all over his figure. I kept telling him that all these changes were only for the better, surrounded him with attention, gave him small presents, so I managed to convince him that another ten to fifteen kilos would make him even more attractive. And I didn’t lie a word.

Two months later, my chubby little thing had exceeded a hundredweight, and we were proud of this fact, as if we had won first prize at a festival. Almost every evening I accompanied him to the bathroom and watched how much he was now showing on the scales. Joyful and funny. He loved sweets, and I fed him chocolates and buns every day; he accidentally discovered pudding, and now regularly gobbled it up for dessert even after a very hearty meal, and of course, before going to bed. Just at that time, I had to leave on a business trip for two weeks. We called each other every day, but sitting alone in my hotel room, I imagined his luxurious body and suffered because he was not there. He will probably lose weight from the upset, I thought, well, never mind, I’ll come and redouble my efforts to return her to her former tone.

When I returned and my prince opened the door for me, and he was all beaming. He immediately dragged me into the bathroom and, grinning, climbed onto the scales. In two weeks, he had gained almost six kilos! His moobs grew, previously resembling halves of a large grapefruit, had grown to juicy melons, and his belly, a living temptation, abundantly protruded forward and wide, round and swaying. That weekend became a love holiday for us, held in a closed triangle of “refrigerator-stove-bed”. I tirelessly brought new delicacies to my little glutton, and he devoured them just as tirelessly. He was just as insatiable in bed, exuding power and desire. He also admitted that while I was gone, he started stuffing her stomach himself out of boredom... and he liked it, of course, better when I fed him, but the abundant food and the feeling of his belly swollen to the point of no return were a revelation to him.

So he made plans for the near future: “I decided to give you a birthday present—to gain weight to one hundred and forty kilos, to become twice as heavy as the day we met! Believe me, I can do it,” my prince told me the next morning, looking at himself in the mirror in the bathroom, “look,” he stepped on the scale, “now exactly one hundred and eleven, only twenty-nine kilos left.”

I smiled. Whether he would succeed or not, my beloved’s desire to indulge in such gluttony was absolutely delightful. There are three months until my birthday, and he will have to maintain a stable regime of “two and a half kilos a week”, with his weight this is no longer so easy, in fact, he needs to be in a permanently overfed state. I confessed that no one had ever given me such a nice gift, and of course, I would help him in any way I could.

First of all, we decided that on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and weekends, we would arrange an extra meal at a restaurant for my chubby little girl. So, there was an Italian cafe, where he gorged himself on variations of pasta, not forgetting a full plate of tiramisu for dessert. Then there were fast food chains, where we ordered burgers, fried potatoes, and whole liters of cola.

A Greek restaurant, where he devoured a roast with cheese and grilled vegetables “for two” in one go. And of course, the hearty country cuisine of the German establishment, from which the bodily abundance of my beloved became ever rounder and more lush. And every day I brought ice cream, cakes and chocolates, which my treasure devoured in countless quantities. We both enjoyed this process, every hour, every day, every week, and so on until the very day—in my opinion, he was even more delighted than me with how he was getting fatter, heavier and more voluminous. And in bed it was getting better every day, although it would seem, where else...

True, he firmly stated, that he planned to overeat so purposefully only until my birthday, as a present. Oh well. However, the day before the day itself, when I came home from work, I found my growing angel lying on the couch frustrated.
"What happened?" I asked, putting the bag on the table (and in it, by the way, was a whole Black Forest cake, a bottle of cola and a carton of whole milk). I didn't get an answer, only desperate grunts, he couldn't even speak while being electrocuted. I decided that kindness and patience would help better, sat down next to him and hugged his belly, touching his magnificent thighs with one hand and stroking his rosy cheeks with the other...

The reason for the emotional turmoil became clear only an hour later. It turned out that during the day the scales in the bathroom showed one hundred thirty-eight kilograms, and it was completely impossible to achieve the set goal in the remaining day. My treasure fell into depression: how could he, after he promised so much—and left me without a birthday present. And I suddenly realized what a bastard I was.

Seeing my enthusiasm in the process of "creating a present", my beloved simply went crazy about these one hundred forty kilograms, and now he believed that it was all his fault. If only I had known earlier how my prince would suffer from my stupidity... and now what to do? And then I realized. To begin with, I convinced him that crying with such abundant tear flow was a waste of energy and calories, which certainly did not contribute to the set goal. The streams of tears dried up almost instantly. Then I added that nothing was lost yet, after all, there was a whole day ahead, I was not born at one in the morning, but even closer to seven in the evening. Little time, but not so little either. And while my prince was restoring his mood with the help of cake and milk, I got online and found the website of that restaurant with a buffet that was a few blocks away from us. I called and reserved a table for the next day from noon until "as it turns out", at the same time discussing one important matter with the chef. Then I called a couple more places and was glad that everything would be as it should be.

Exactly at noon, my beloved and I, arm in arm, entered the restaurant, a waiter as nimble as a weasel led us to the reserved table. My Rubenesque angel sank into the seat, I ordered a glass of dry wine for myself and a sherry for her to whet her appetite, and then began a four-hour marathon of gluttony. Figs with bacon and avocado salad as a starter, then cured salmon with a baguette of garlic bread… I put only small pieces on my plate to try, everything else was for my prince, who did not suffer from a lack of appetite at all. They were followed by dumplings in a creamy sauce, crispy-fried duck with braised cabbage, fried bacon and a few more smaller dishes, and finally my darling, sighing deeply, spread out on the seat: even his stomach physically could not fit more. The clock said half past four, I nodded to the waiter: it was time.

Soon a small procession floated out from the kitchen area towards us. The chef walking ahead was solemnly carrying a chocolate cake on a tray, then four restaurant employees were holding sparkling Bengal lights. I stood up and fell to my knees in front of my beloved, taking a box from my trouser pocket, for which I had run to the jewelry store early in the morning.

“Will you marry me?” I asked, handing his a ring. You would say that woman should not propose, but I was more then his future wife, I was his mistress. So, The rest is history. I am the happiest mortal on this earth.

Three months later, my one hundred and fifty-three-kilogram treasure and I were standing at the altar, and today his weight fluctuates around one hundred and eighty. We always celebrate birthdays and wedding anniversaries in that same restaurant with a full-size meal with several courses, and she does not deny me and himself the pleasure of overeating “to the point of no return”, but soon again ends up in about the same weight and dimensions as before.

But for me and my gluttonous husband it was enough.