Chapter 1

# Scene 1

Connor hovered in the kitchen doorway, holding himself perfectly still, as if sudden movement might startle the vision before him and end the private show. He could smell butter and frying onions, the heady perfume of Joy’s labor, but the real feast was her, back turned, all six feet and—Christ—every glorious pound of her.

He counted the ways she should have been clumsy, or at least slowed by her sheer mass. Instead, she seemed to float, hips swaying in a soft undulation as she tended the bubbling pots. It was the jeans first: acid-washed, a little distressed at the knees, and so tight he imagined the zipper hissed in protest every morning. The fabric bit into her hips and thighs, pulled so taut across her ass it was a wonder the seams didn’t fly apart. Below, her calves poured over the cuffs, bare ankles straining the little white socks.

He tracked the way her pink shirt—really, more of a crop top now, the hem rising higher every month—clung to her upper body. It lifted and shifted with each movement, exposing a swath of belly as pale as cream, soft and undulant, wobbling with the motion of stirring and leaning. When she reached to the top shelf, he saw the shadow between her breasts, how the neckline threatened decency, how the fabric ran horizontal stress lines across the shelf of her chest. The skin of her arms and shoulders was smooth, with the faintest track of red marks where elastic had failed to contain her at some point in the day.

He almost missed when she stopped. The shift was subtle, but Connor knew the difference: she’d sensed him. Maybe it was the way the air in the kitchen changed, or the fact he hadn’t breathed in a full thirty seconds. Joy didn’t turn, not yet. She planted her left foot, cocked her hip, and bent slightly forward, the movement sending an avalanche of belly over the waistband and deepening every curve. The spoon dipped, clattered. She smiled—he knew she was smiling—and let the silence linger.

“Are you planning on just standing there?” she asked, voice honey-slow. “Or did you come in here for something?” She gave her ass an extra bounce on the last syllable, as if to underline the obvious.

He found his breath and his voice all at once. “Just admiring the view.”

She made a show of placing the spoon down, deliberate in every gesture. She turned with care, aware of her size, pivoting so he could see the full parade of her. The belly rolled in front, immense, apron-like. Her breasts, impossibly heavy and only partially contained by the tired bra beneath, jostled with the turn. When she faced him fully, she put both hands on the lip of the counter and let her arms hang, flattening her chest outwards, daring him not to look.

“You say that like I’m some kind of scenery,” Joy said, but her eyes were all tease, not a hint of hurt.

“More like the main attraction,” he said. He was proud of the steadiness in his voice, considering his pulse was a stampede in his neck.

She closed the gap with a single step, hips leading, belly following a half-beat behind. “You know,” she said, “this is your fault.” Her hands glided down her flanks, over the hard line of the jeans, around the girth of her thighs. She squeezed at the sides, pressing in, making the flesh bulge even further above and below the tight denim. “Ten years ago, you promised you’d never let me go hungry.” She leaned forward, resting her weight into the countertop. “Look at me now. I get winded walking up the stairs. I haven’t seen my feet in three years. The last time I tried to squeeze into a restaurant booth, we both knew it wasn’t happening.”

Connor felt heat crawl up his cheeks. “You always look incredible.”

“And you always say that.” She let go of her hips, straightened, and let her arms hang at her sides. She shook out her dirty blonde hair, still vibrant from last week’s touch-up. “What if one day I just keep growing? What if there’s more of me than there is of this apartment?”

He pictured it—her, overfilling rooms, pressing against walls, swallowing the space with warmth and flesh and laughter. “I’d get a bigger apartment,” he said.

She laughed, loud and sudden, shoulders quaking. “You say that now.” She let her gaze drop, then lingered just below his waistline, a wicked smirk twisting her lips. “Looks like you’re not just here for the view after all.”

He shifted, self-conscious, but she didn’t give him the chance to retreat. She approached, slow and rolling, her steps measured for effect, until her belly nudged the edge of the kitchen table and stopped him cold. “Go ahead,” she said. “You can touch, you know. I don’t bite.”

Connor closed the last inch of distance. He cupped her waist—what was left of it—letting his fingers sink into the pillow-soft love handles that overflowed his grasp. Joy sighed, head tilting back, a cat basking in affection. He pressed in closer, feeling the heat radiating from her, the way she yielded and enveloped him, as if absorbing his smaller form into her own.

“You like this,” she said, softer now. “You like seeing me grow. You like feeding me.”

He didn’t trust himself to answer. Instead, he traced his hands along her back, up to her shoulders, kneading where the flesh was thickest, down again to the rise of her ass, marveling at how the jeans molded themselves into every roll and curve. The denim felt ready to surrender at any moment, and he wondered if Joy ever secretly hoped it would.

“You want to know a secret?” she whispered. She pulled him tight, trapping his arms, her belly pressing hard into his abs and chest. “I like it too. I like when you watch me eat, and I like the look on your face when I put away more than you.” She kissed his neck, the softness of her chin nuzzling his skin. “I like how hungry you get. I can see it. Right now.”

Her lips brushed his ear. “After dinner, I’ll let you have dessert first.”

He exhaled, body shuddering. “You’re going to kill me one day.”

“Not if I eat you first,” she said, and giggled, the sound big and full and shaking the both of them.

He stepped back, if only for self-preservation. Joy resumed her place at the stove, humming now, swaying side to side as she lifted the lid off a pot and released another wave of steam and aroma. Connor leaned against the doorframe, heart thumping, watching her with the same animal awe. He wondered, as always, how much was enough, and if there even was such a thing.

He had the uneasy sense that for Joy, enough was always just a little bit more.

# Scene 2

Dinner could have waited. In the humid haze of the kitchen, Connor watched as Joy shut off the burner and set aside the spoon with unnecessary care, her every gesture telegraphing intent. She turned to face him with the slow, rolling inertia of a glacier, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, squeezing them upward, over the horizon of her belly.

“Still hungry?” she asked, though her tone left no doubt about the answer.

He didn’t trust himself to speak, only nodded, too aware of the pulse in his neck, his face already flushed with anticipation. The silence stretched—Joy’s favorite tactic. She let it ride for a full five seconds, then walked toward him, each step unhurried, deliberate, a performance she had perfected. Her thighs met and parted with a soft, insistent swish, denim on denim, the flesh underneath rippling in gentle counterpoint.

The kitchen was a shoebox; it took only three steps for her to reach him, and she used every inch. By the time she closed the distance, Connor’s back was pressed to the wall and there was nowhere to retreat. Joy stood over him, belly leading, hips canted, both hands resting on the granite like the arms of a throne. She smiled down, lips pursed, eyes narrowing in delight at his helplessness.

“You know what I like about you?” she said, bringing her face so close he could feel the warmth of her breath. “You never pretend.” She pressed forward, so the swell of her belly made contact first, a plush, insistent wall of flesh that yielded but did not give way. The pressure forced a little grunt out of him; she grinned.

Connor’s hands, once at his sides, drifted up as if drawn by gravity. He grasped her hips—not the sharp, bony points of anatomy, but the deep, pillowy sides, the overflow at the top of the jeans, his fingers vanishing into the softness. She leaned in more, crowding him, and it took all his strength to hold the weight, to keep from collapsing backward into drywall. Her stomach flattened against his, then rolled up over his belt line, then higher, until it pressed into his chest. He felt pinned, immobilized, the most willing captive in the world.

Joy shifted closer, invading his personal space, her ample breasts now at eye level, the fabric of her t-shirt stretched taut against her curves. She uncrossed her arms and cradled his face in her hands, the warmth of her skin still carrying the lingering heat from the kitchen. With a gentle pressure, she used her thumbs to tilt his chin upward, compelling his gaze to meet hers.

“Can you breathe?” she whispered, voice thick with promise.

He tried to nod. She let him go and instead gathered his head to her chest, pulling it into the valley of her cleavage. He inhaled, and the scent of her skin and cheap body wash and leftover shampoo overwhelmed the last of his resistance. His hands, acting on some animal instinct, found purchase behind her—an impossible handful of ass, a surface area so large he could never hope to explore it all. The denim was hot from her body and damp where her thighs pressed together.

She smothered him, holding his nose and mouth tight against the softness, then eased the grip only when he twitched for air. “Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all. “Sometimes I forget how much there is.” She drew back, just enough so he could see her face again.

"You like being trapped?” she asked.

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Good.” She pressed in even harder, until his spine met the corner of the counter. “Because there’s only going to be more of me.” She ground her hips, so that her belly sloshed side to side between them, then bent her head to his ear. “Next time, I want to see if you can lift me.” A giggle, seismic in its effect, rattled through his whole body. “Or maybe just try.”

Connor swallowed hard, lost in the sensation of being completely enveloped. He squeezed, and Joy moaned—actually moaned, low in her throat—then bent her knees so her belly dropped further onto him, almost to his waist.

“You can’t get away,” she said, half-challenge, half-threat.

He tested the theory, trying to shift to the side. Joy blocked him with a shoulder and pressed her belly in harder, so the skin of her midsection mushroomed out between them and rode up his chest. She bent him backward, then caught him with both hands before he could tip.

“I used to worry you’d get bored,” she confessed, voice barely above a whisper. “That you’d wake up and wish you had someone easier to handle.” She smoothed his hair back with one hand, the other never leaving his hip. “But you keep coming back.” She smiled, and in it was a challenge, a dare: I can get even bigger, can you keep up?

He steadied himself, hands roaming again over her sides, her lower back, the rise and fall of every curve. “Don’t ever stop,” he said, surprised at how ragged his voice sounded.

Joy laughed, then licked her lips, slow and obscene. “I don’t plan to.” She pressed her forehead to his, both of them sweating, locked in place, and for a moment the world narrowed to the Venn diagram of their bodies, the overlap of flesh and heat and need.

Then, with a final, strategic pivot, Joy released him, stepping back a full foot but leaving the warmth of her body as a ghostly pressure. “You hungry?” she said, as if none of this had just happened.

“Starving,” he managed.

“Good. I made extra.” She winked, then waddled back to the stove, swaying as if to fan the flames that were now running wild through his veins. Connor sagged against the wall, dizzy and grateful for the reprieve, but already plotting how he could possibly survive what came next.

Joy, plates in hand, glanced back over her shoulder. “Coming?” she asked, knowing full well he’d follow her anywhere.

He did.

# Scene 3

The dining room table was technically a repurposed card table, each leg uneven by a different degree, but Joy and Connor had long since turned it into their altar of domesticity. It creaked ominously under Joy’s weight as she maneuvered into her seat, but the sound was familiar, almost comforting. Connor watched her carefully: the way she gripped the edges and sank down, the slight grunt as her belly pressed into the surface and her thighs spilled wide, eclipsing most of the seat beneath her.

She caught his stare and smirked. “Did you want to take a picture, or…?”

He flushed, looking away, but she kept her gaze fixed on him as she heaped her plate with food—creamy casserole, golden and bubbling at the edges, a pile of garlic bread, two helpings of some gooey, cheese-laden vegetable side. She served him as well, a token scoop, but the bulk of it remained in front of her.

“Dig in,” Joy said, and attacked her plate with gusto.

Connor picked at his food, but his attention never strayed far from her. Joy ate with the single-minded devotion of a woman who had long since stopped caring about anyone’s opinion but his. Each forkful was a little spectacle: the way her lips parted, how her jaw worked the bite, the reverent pause as she closed her eyes and let out a slow, throaty moan. She exaggerated, he was sure of it, but that only made the effect stronger.

“Oh my God,” she said after the third bite, “this is so good.” She paused to roll her head back, neck exposed, cheeks flushed. “Try the bread, babe, I put extra butter.” She handed him a slice, her fingers leaving faint prints in the oil.

He did as he was told, but Joy’s show had him at a disadvantage. She worked her fork with purpose, alternating bites with slow sips of soda, the can almost vanishing in her grip. Her arms were thick, the skin dimpling as she lifted each forkful; her chest pressed into the table edge, forming a ledge where the food sometimes landed and required a quick sweep of the fingers to recover.

Connor realized, with a mix of embarrassment and pride, that he was as hard as he’d ever been in his life. The memory of her smothering him, not ten minutes earlier, was still sharp-edged in his mind, and now watching Joy devour her meal with such abandon—he felt dizzy.

She caught his expression and grinned, a smear of cheese on her lower lip. “I see you’re enjoying dinner.”

“Best meal I’ve ever had,” he managed.

“You haven’t even tasted half of it,” she teased, and picked up her soda. She drained it in a single, practiced swallow, then set it down with a thud. “You know, when we first started dating, I used to be embarrassed about eating in front of you.” Joy leaned forward, elbows on the table, narrowing the gap between them. “Now, I like knowing you’re watching. I like when you see how much I can eat. Makes me feel… powerful.”

She took another forkful, exaggeratedly large, and let some of the sauce escape the corner of her mouth. It ran down her chin, threatened to stain her shirt. Instead of wiping it away, she met his eyes and sucked it clean with her tongue, slow and deliberate.

“You really don’t mind?” she asked, as if there were any doubt left. “That I’m… this?”

He could only stare, hypnotized by the movement of her mouth, the endless grace of her confidence. “I love you,” he said. “All of you.”

She smiled, genuine this time, softening at the edges. “Good. Because I’m not slowing down.” She patted her stomach, making it ripple. “Not for anyone.”

They ate in silence after that, Connor managing a few more bites but mostly watching as Joy finished not only her own plate, but seconds and thirds as well. She ate with an efficiency that was almost athletic, demolishing everything before her with practiced skill. When finally sated, she leaned back, belly taut and visibly distended, and let out a contented sigh.

“That’s better,” she said, stretching her arms overhead. The hem of her shirt rode up another inch, exposing even more of her soft, pale belly. “So. Dessert?”

He laughed, though he knew she was half-serious. “Maybe later,” he said. “I think I’m full.”

“Liar,” Joy said, standing up. She reached across the table, took his hand, and pulled him to his feet. Her grip was iron, no negotiation. “Come with me.” She led him through the hallway, his smaller hand swallowed in hers, her steps ponderous but purposeful.

The bedroom was as Joy had left it—bed unmade, blankets in a heap, a pair of her discarded leggings on the floor. She tugged him close and pressed him onto the mattress, then lowered herself with careful, practiced grace. The weight of her was a promise, a presence, an entire cosmos settling into place above him. She straddled his lap, thighs spreading wide, her belly pinning him to the sheets.

“I need you,” she whispered, her face inches from his. “Need to feel your hands all over this fat body that you love so much.”

She took his wrists and guided them, first to her sides, then to the underside of her belly, then up, over the smooth expanse of her chest. “There’s more of me every day. You keep feeding me, I keep getting softer, bigger, heavier. You like that?”

He nodded, barely breathing. “Yes.”

She rocked, a subtle grinding motion that sent electric shocks through him. “Good,” Joy said. “Because I don’t want to stop. Not ever. I want you to keep making me bigger. I want you to see how much I can take.”

She bent down and kissed him, deep and fierce, her weight flattening him into the mattress. There was no space for hesitation, no room for second thoughts. She devoured him as thoroughly as she had devoured dinner—hungry, relentless, unstoppable.

And Connor, for the first time in his life, felt completely and utterly consumed.

Afterward, they lay together, Joy’s head pillowed on his chest, her arms and legs tangled around him. She traced idle patterns on his skin, her touch both heavy and delicate, as if she feared she might break him or let him slip away.

“You okay?” she asked, voice muffled.

“Never better,” he said. And it was true.

She shifted, settling her entire weight across him, pressing him deeper into the bed. “Good. Because I’m going to need your help getting up in a minute.”

He laughed, the sound muffled by the curtain of her hair. “Deal.”

Joy let out a happy grunt and closed her eyes, content to be worshipped, to be held, to be exactly as she was: too much, and somehow never enough.

Connor wrapped his arms around her, anchoring her to him, and wondered—not for the first time—how much more they could handle together.

He hoped, selfishly, it was a lot.