When Dreams Come True

Chapter 1

“Oh boy, I’m so full.” I let my tongue come hanging out of my mouth as I caressed my full belly. “Of course, that won’t stop me from wanting more.”

The look in Benoit’s eyes was priceless. I could see how excited he was to not only see how stuffed I was, but imagining how much more I could stuff myself.

“Anything you’d like, Isabelle,” he said calmly as he flagged the attention of the waitress.

Benoit and I watched as the sun set slowly over the harbor, the city lights coming to life one by one as darkness settled in. I had been here countless times before, sitting at this little café by the water’s edge with a plate of food in front of me, savoring the simple pleasure of eating as the world quieted into evening.

Tonight was different, though. Tonight, an adorable younger man was sitting across from me. Not just lingering nearby with his coffee, sneaking glances when he thought I wouldn’t notice, but actually here, invited.


Boston had been my home for ten years now, though sometimes I still felt like the girl from France who’d come here at eighteen, wide-eyed and curious, tasting a new life along with a new country. At twenty-eight, I was no longer that girl—I was a woman, and a very big one at that. Five-foot-six and over four hundred pounds, every inch of me was soft and heavy and mine, from the swell of my belly pressing into the edge of the café table to the curve of my thick arms resting lazily on either side of my plate.

Tonight, I was very aware of the way Benoit was looking at me.

He thought he was subtle, the way his eyes flickered down my neckline, or lingered on my belly when I shifted in my seat, but I saw it all. I’d known from the start that the shy, sweet twenty-six-year-old had a crush, though it was more than that. There was hunger in him, one I recognized instantly. A secret thrill passed through me each time I caught him staring, because I knew exactly what kind of admirer he was, even if he hadn’t yet said it aloud.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the lamplight catch in my reddish-brown hair, and slowly twirled my fork through the mound of pasta before me. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” I asked, flashing him a smile that I knew was just a touch too sly. “You look like you could use another plate.”

He shook his head quickly, laughing nervously. “No, I think I’m full.”

“Mmm,” I hummed, savoring the bite I lifted to my lips. My dark eyes stayed locked on his as I chewed slowly, letting him watch the movement of my mouth, the pleasure in my expression. “That’s the difference between us, Benoit. I never think I’m full. There is always room for another taste… another bite. Sometimes I eat until I can hardly move, and still I want more.”

His breath hitched, and I saw the tips of his ears turn pink. Oh yes, I was getting under his skin.

I patted the swell of my belly deliberately, my hand sinking into its heavy softness. “I should have stopped a plate ago,” I sighed, letting my lips curl into something between playful and wicked, “but where is the fun in stopping? I like the feeling of being overstuffed. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Not me, personally,” he said as he swallowed hard, his throat working as though words were trapped there. Finally, he managed, “but it makes me happy that you do.”

His words sent a ripple of satisfaction through me, warming me in a way the evening air could not. He hadn’t confessed outright, not yet, but there it was—the tiniest crack in the door, the first hint of the truth I knew he was keeping tucked away. My lips curved into a slow smile as I studied him, watching the faint flush rise in his cheeks, the way he couldn’t quite hold my gaze for long. He was trying so hard to be careful, to stay composed, but I could feel it—he was teetering. With every ounce of softness and appetite I possessed, meant to coax him further, to draw him out of that chilly shell he hid inside and make him admit what I already knew: that my body and my hunger didn’t scare him at all—they excited him.

We’d known each other in passing for months, ever since I first noticed him in the corridors at the university. He worked in the history department—young, eager, a little bookish. I handled administrative work in the office just across the way. Sometimes we’d end up in the staff lounge at the same time, sharing nothing more than polite greetings, but even then I could feel his eyes on me.

It was subtle, always subtle. He thought himself careful, glancing up from his coffee or his papers when he thought I was too distracted by my lunch to notice, but I did notice. I noticed the way his cheeks would flush a faint pink when I bit into a croissant, the way his eyes seemed to darken when I reached for a second slice of pie during staff events. And I noticed how his hands fidgeted, restless, whenever I sighed contentedly after polishing off a meal.

The more I indulged, the more intently he seemed to watch, as though every bite I took tugged at some secret string inside him. He never said a word, of course—just a shy smile, a mumbled compliment, his gaze darting away when I caught him staring, but I knew exactly what he was looking at—I’d seen that kind of hunger before.

People like to say men don’t want women like me, that fat is a curse to be hidden away. What a farce. I’ve never lacked for attention, not once. Men notice me everywhere I go—at cafés, on the subway, in lecture halls—and more often than not, they stare a little too long, their eyes betraying what their lips won’t dare admit.

In time, I learned to read them. The shy ones who blush when I reach for another pastry, the bold ones who make clumsy jokes about my appetite, the ones who don’t know they’ve given themselves away when their gaze lingers at my belly.

Of course, I’ve met feeders. I dated one for years, in fact. It didn’t last—love rarely does—but he left his mark on me in more ways than one. It was with him that I discovered just how far my appetite could go, how intoxicating it felt to surrender to indulgence, to eat until I was too heavy to move, and to be adored all the more for it.

If not for him, I doubt I would weigh what I do today—over four hundred pounds and counting. He pushed me to embrace every bite, every pound, and I did. I have no regrets.


The chance for this evening with Benoit came almost by accident. There had been a faculty reception at one of the hotels down by the harbor, a dull little affair with cheap wine and trays of hors d’oeuvres that vanished the moment they appeared. I’d spotted Benoit lingering by the wall, looking like he wished himself anywhere else, and for once I decided to take the initiative.

I crossed the room and struck up a conversation, something light and harmless. At first he was stiff, nervous as always, but little by little I saw him loosen. His shoulders eased, his smile became less guarded, and before long he was talking to me like we were old friends.

When the speeches ended and people began to drift away, he surprised me by asking if I’d like to step next door to the tavern for a drink. I didn’t let him see how much the invitation delighted me—I only raised a brow and pretended to consider, before leaning closer and saying, “I’ll come… but only if we order food, too. You should know by now, Benoit, I can never seem to get enough to eat.”

To drive the point home, I patted the heavy swell of my belly through my dress, giving it a little bounce against my palm. His reaction was instant—the quick flush that crept up his neck, the way his lips parted as though he meant to say something but thought better of it. I almost laughed aloud at how transparent he was. He didn’t need to say a word; I knew I was driving him wild.


By the time the waiter set down my third entrée, Benoit’s eyes had gone wide. He tried to hide it, of course, but I caught the flicker of surprise before he masked it with a sip of his drink. I smiled to myself and dug in, twirling a forkful and savoring it slowly while he watched.

“You’re sure you won’t have some more?” I asked after a moment, gesturing toward the menu with the tip of my fork. “One plate can’t possibly be enough.”

He chuckled nervously. “I think I’m fine, really.”

“Mm, I don’t believe you.” I speared a piece from my dish and lifted it toward him across the table, my wrist poised, my dark eyes fixed on his. “Here. Taste. For me.”

For a moment he hesitated, lips parting as though he meant to protest, but I held the fork steady, waiting. Finally, he leaned forward and took the bite. His expression shifted at once—pleasure softening his features as he chewed.

“It’s really good,” he admitted, licking his lips. “Maybe I will order another entrée after all.”

“Good,” I said, my smile blooming wide and wicked as I set my fork back to work. “Then I’ll go ahead and have another as well.”

I ended up scarfing down six plates full of food that night before we finally ordered dessert. I could see on Benoit’s face that he was getting full, but he couldn’t resist getting a dessert as well. He got a brownie with vanilla ice cream, and I got the tiramisu.

“Ooh, that looks so good,” I said, glaring down at his brownie. “Can I try a bite?” Before he could even say a word, I leaned forward and opened my mouth up wide, waiting for him to shovel a big spoonful in. It took him a few seconds to work up the nerve, but eventually he did it. I clamped my lips around the spoon, and in that moment, I could feel a special connection between the two of us. There was a look of enchantment in his eyes, one that I had seen only once before, with my previous feeder boyfriend.

“Mmm, so good,” I said as I closed my eyes and licked my lips. “Feed me more,” I commanded, and he complied. Before long, the two of us were spoonfeeding one another with our respective desserts.

“This is really fun,” I said to him innocently as I looked into his eyes.

“Yeah—fun.” His voice was monotone and static, as if he were in a trance. The act of hand feeding someone can have that kind of effect on you. I had to admit, I was feeling something too. Something other than just the overwhelming feeling of fullness inside my gut.

There was a strange sort of thrill that I got from watching Benoit eat from my spoon. The connection I felt when he first fed me now seemed to be doubled as the two of us sat there at our little table on the water, stuffing sweets into one another’s mouths.

Could it be that I was a feeder as well?