AdiposeAdorer

When you and Allison first started seeing each other, I was only too thrilled. In all her years, I’d never known my daughter to look at anyone the way she looked at you–eyes bright, lips parted in the slightest yet most radiant of smiles. Sure, the two of you had moved in together a little too fast for my liking, but you always took such good care of her, tending to her every need and treating her like your precious, pampered princess. Once the two of you had gotten together, however, my beautiful Allie soon started piling on the pounds. At first, I tried my best to ignore the way her slim figure was starting to soften and swell. She was my daughter, after all and, though she was a few inches shorter than me and her hair was a few shades darker, the resemblance between us had always been plain to see. We shared the same lean physique, the same bright blue eyes, and the same driven, ambitious personality. Ever since her dad and I had gone our separate ways, many years ago, Allie had been the light of my life. I’d done everything in my power to raise her as a strong and self-sufficient young woman. In school, she was on the swim team, just like me. Unlike me, she never made captain or won many medals, but she always did her best. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that really matters in the end. Yes, like me, my daughter was a go-getter with a can-do spirit. Once she’d started to settle into your new life together, I was sure she’d soon pull herself together again. Over the next few months, however, Allie just kept getting bigger–her thin face growing fleshy and full, her podgy paunch peeking over the edge of her too-tight tops, her blubbery butt straining the tightly stretched fabric of her swiftly shrinking slim-fit jeans. After a while, it wasn’t hard to see that you were enabling her every step of the way–bringing her food, and keeping her off her feet, like some frail, fragile flower. Your efforts weren’t exactly subtle, but they worked like a charm. Even as I started to suspect what you were doing, I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. The very thought that you might, purposefully, be trying to fatten my precious Allie–to turn her into a huge, helpless whale of a woman–seemed too silly to contemplate. As you kept feeding her like a pig for slaughter, I kept telling myself that I was just being paranoid and letting my imagination run away with me. Once Allie had started to settle into her new life with you, I rarely saw much of her. The two of us would call from time to time, but whenever I’d ask about her weight, she’d quickly move the conversation along. So, imagine my surprise when the two of you came around for Christmas that year, and I could barely recognise my precious little girl. With her belly poking out past her chest and hanging down to cover her pelvis, she was no longer chubby, but outright fat—her trim thighs turned to rippling tree-trunks, her tight butt to a broad shelf of drooping blubber. Over the next few days, I got to see just how my Allie had eaten herself to such a sorry state. In all the time she was here, she hardly once got up off the couch. She’d just lie there, day in and day out, a lazy lump of a girl, stuffing a constant stream of fattening goodies in her fleshy, round moon of a face. Whenever I’d try to talk to her about her weight, she’d just roll her eyes and tell me to get off her case. No matter what I said, I couldn’t seem to get through. If I pushed too hard, she’d get mad and I’d be forced to apologize, while she kept on eating. Meanwhile, you took it on yourself to handle all the cooking and anything else that needed doing around the house, keeping my Allie parked on her burgeoning backside twenty-four-seven. As I watched the way you spoiled her, your fingers sinking a little too far into her soft flesh whenever the two of you would touch, all my old suspicions came bubbling right back up again. One day, towards the end of your stay, when the two of us were in the kitchen, cleaning up, I decided to give you a little prod about the whole thing. “Allie sure has been putting on weight, lately, don’t you think.” I said, putting away a couple of clean plates. “Yeah, I guess.” You shrugged. “Have you considered talking to her about it? I think it might be good for her to go on a bit of a diet.” “Oh, I don’t know about that,” your face spread in a slight smile. “I think the extra padding suits her. And anyway, I’d hate to deprive her of all that food she so dearly loves.” As soon as the two of you were out of the house, I grabbed my tablet and took to the internet. What I saw there shook me to my very core: entire websites dedicated to storing pictures of grotesquely obese women stuffing their fat faces and rubbing their bloated bellies. Not to mention, whole forums where strange men would boast of fattening their wives and girlfriends, often until they were so huge and helpless that they had to rely on these so-called ‘feeders’ to see to their every need. At first, I could barely stand to look at it all for more than a few seconds at a time. And yet, I found myself drifting back to those websites over and over again, browsing in horrified fascination for hours on end. The very thought that you might be trying to turn my precious Allie into one of those gluttonous monstrosities was enough to make my stomach turn. As I kept going over those ‘feederism’ sites, I stumbled on an advice blog run by a man who called himself The_Consulting_Feeder. He seemed to take a more relaxed attitude to this disturbing fetish of his. After hours of sifting through his archive and reading whatever bits of advice he had to offer, I decided to send him a message of my own. Dear ‘Consulting Feeder’, I think my daughter’s boyfriend might be fattening her up in secret. He’s always bringing her food and encouraging her to eat and stay off her feet. She’s already put on so much weight. If this goes on, I dare hardly imagine how huge she might get. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she won’t listen and gets angry whenever I try to so much as even touch on the subject. What can I do to stop this? Yours/ A concerned Mother A day later, he sent the following answer: Dear ‘Concerned Mother’, Much as I hate to say it, I’m afraid there might not be much you can do. Your daughter is a grown woman, perfectly capable of making her own decisions in life. If you try to intervene, you might just alienate her further. Perhaps, once she realizes what, if anything, is going on, she’ll break things off on her own. If not, that’s still her decision to make. My advice to you is to stay out of it and let things run their course, whatever that might be. Yours, The_Consulting_Feeder This was far from the advice I wanted to hear, but I decided to go along all the same. After all, there was precious little else I could do. That year, I saw even less of Allie. We rarely called, and when we did, she never had much to say. She’d just grunt and mumble something now and then, showing barely the slightest hint of interest as I regaled her with all that was going on in my life. A lot of the time, she seemed to be munching on something as she talked. Though I tried not to worry about what you were doing to her, I couldn’t stop visiting those websites, gawping in horror at those heavy young women, so eager to ruin their figures with food. From time to time, I’d wonder what it might be like to live like that–to give up on your body, your freedom, your dignity, and spend your days trapped in a prison of your own flesh. The very idea sent chills down my spine, and yet I couldn’t get it out of my head. There was something strangely fascinating about it—something twisted and forbidden, something… You might’ve thought all this would’ve been enough to put me off eating altogether. But, as my worries kept gnawing at me, I turned to food to still them. Whenever thinking about it all got to be too much, I’d sneak down to the fridge and quiet my mind by gorging on sausages and sandwiches. Obviously, this newfound binging habit didn’t do my figure much good. But, busy as I was worrying about Allie, I barely noticed as the number on my scale kept climbing. Once my jeans started getting snug, I switched to stretch pants and continued to stuff myself. As soon as this whole thing was over, I was sure we’d both get ourselves together again in no time at all. By the time the holidays rolled around again, I’d piled on a good thirty pounds. My thin face had grown puffy and round, and a spare tire of soft flab had settled around my once tapered waist. This gain of mine, however, was nothing compared to what you’d done to my precious Allie. As my daughter waddled through the door, one late December evening, her belly hanging to her thighs and oozing over the edge of her jeans, I could barely suppress my horror. I’d been prepared for her to have put on a pound or two, sure, but this was worse by far than I could ever have feared. Her pretty face was swollen with soft flab, her lean, graceful legs turned to pillars of jiggling jelly that rubbed with each and every step she took, transforming her once elegant gait into an awkward, lumbering waddle. No matter how hard I looked at that bloated butterball, I couldn’t see the slightest hint of my beautiful girl. It wasn’t just that Allie had put on weight, mind you. Her whole aura had changed, as if all her old energy had simply drained away. Somehow, over the space of a single year, you’d turned my quick-witted girl into a sluggish, slovenly couch potato—an overgorged pig who spent her days flicking through her phone and staring at the TV, waiting for you to bring her whatever she might need. At those rare times when she would get up to do something for herself, a short walk was all it took to have her short of breath, her face red and shiny with sweat. Over the next few days, as you continued to ply my obese blob of a daughter with a seemingly never-ending stream of fatty foods, I did my best to remind myself that I’d sworn to stay out of all this. Try as I might, however, I could no longer hold my tongue. I found myself becoming increasingly critical of Allie, making constant digs at her in hope of waking her up to what you were doing to her body. My efforts, however, only drove her further into your arms. After all, unlike me, you were only too happy to tell her whatever she wanted to hear, all while pushing her to have another tub of ice cream to ‘cheer herself up’. No matter what I said, Allie just kept eating. And so did I. From time to time, as I’d sneak off to the kitchen to shove another bar of chocolate in my face, I’d notice you looking at me, a hint of interest in your eyes. Once the two of you had headed home again, leaving me alone with my worries and a fridge full of fatty foods, I grabbed my tablet and wrote another message to The_Consulting_Feeder, letting him know what his advice had wrought. Dear ‘Consulting Feeder’, I hope you’re happy. Because of you, my daughter’s put on a good eighty pounds, just this past year. She’s so out of shape she can hardly go up a flight of stairs without stopping to catch her breath, and she still shows no sign of breaking up with that boyfriend of hers. In fact, the bigger she gets, the more she depends on him. She never seems to do anything for herself anymore. She just eats and eats and lets him run her whole life for her. If this goes on, I doubt she’ll be able to get off that couch on her own in another few years. /A Disappointed Mother He answered a day later: Dear ‘Disappointed Mother’, Though I’m sorry to hear that, I stand by my original advice. If she won’t break it off, I’m afraid there’s not much you can do. If she won’t stop eating, there’s no way for you to make her, unless you’re willing to slap the food out of her hand whenever she goes to grab a bite. Much as you might not want to hear this, your best option is still to let this run its course. Perhaps, if he really is fattening her up, he’ll stop once she’s big enough for his taste. Or if, as you have indicated, he’s a less than scrupulous feeder, he might get bored and drop her for someone else. Either way, you have my sympathy, but I’m afraid there’s precious little you can do. The_Consulting_Feeder Much as I hated to admit it, I knew he was right. Allie was firmly in your clutches, yours to fatten as you pleased. I could think of no way to save her. And, to make matters worse, I was swiftly spiralling out of control as well–eating like a hog, and spending every moment of every day staring at those disgustingly obese women on the internet, with their flabby faces and bodies covered in repulsive rolls. With the way I was growing, I might soon end up one of them–my slight figure, that I’d worked so hard to maintain, swollen beyond all recognition, until it was barely even human anymore. Hell, perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, even? It might feel good to just give up already. To let go of my worries, my body, my life, and lose myself in a never-ending avalanche of food. As that thought kept flowing through my head, I recalled a line from The_Consulting_Feeder’s last message. Someone else, huh? Having turned the idea over in my head for a few days, I gave you a call. “We need to talk,” I said, before you’d gotten so much as a word out, “Come over as soon as you can, and leave Allie at home.” “I know what you’re doing to my daughter.” I said as soon as I had you in my kitchen. “Is that so,” The corner of your mouth rose in a subtle smile. “And what would that be, exactly?” “You’re trying to fatten her up, aren’t you? Like all those women on the internet. You’re one of those ‘feeders’, isn’t that so?” “So what if I am?” “Look,” my shoulders slumped and I drew a deep breath, “Leave her be, and you can have me instead.” You paused, looking me over with suspicion. “I’ll eat whatever you want and get as big as you like, just leave my daughter in peace.” Slowly, a gleam came into your eyes and your face spread in a smile. “Alright then, let’s see just how much you can eat.” From that day on, you started to fatten me like a prize pig, making me film myself as I ate whatever you told me to, until my stomach felt like it might burst at any second. At first, I struggled to keep up with your instructions. I hated having to stuff myself sick with all that rich food. I hated the weight with which it would sit in my stomach, how tired and sluggish it’d make me feel. Soon, however, all those starches, sugars, and carbs started to work their magic. Before I knew it, I was constantly craving more, until food was all I could think of. As my appetite grew, all my old inhibitions seemed to fade. I’d spend my days stroking myself and stuffing my fat face, running my hands along the plush rolls that you, my daughter’s beloved boyfriend, had put on my once slight frame. From time to time, when you could get away, you’d stop by to feed me yourself, and enjoy what you were doing to me. Much as I hated myself for it, I soon found myself eagerly anticipating your next visit. Over the last few years, as I’d worried myself sick about Allie, I’d let my own life slip away from me. Now, you were my only source of human contact, your feedings my only source of physical affection. Sure, you might be cruel sometimes, forcing me to eat until tears would roll down my ripening cheeks, but as long as I devoured every last crumb you put before me, you could be so very sweet. That Christmas, it was Allie’s turn to gawp at what the last twelve months had done to my once fine figure. By then, I’d put on a good eighty pounds—my tapered waist subsumed by a ring of soft flab, my firm behind turned to a shapeless, cellulite-riddled mass of billowing blubber. As the two of us leaned in to hug over our bulging bellies, I played my rapid expansion off, saying that: “perhaps the apple hadn’t fallen so far from the tree after all.” Neither of us ever touched on the subject up again. To be honest, I think Allie was secretly thrilled to see me blow up, after all the grief I’d given her about her weight. I, on the other hand, was far from pleased to see that she was still piling on the pounds, even if not at the same rate as before. When I took the matter up with you, however, you just smiled and shrugged. “I’ve done everything you asked. It’s not my fault your little girl’s a hopeless hog. What do you want me to do, exactly, slap the food out of her hand whenever she goes to grab a bite?” “Just remember our deal, okay?” I grumbled, knowing I’d no argument to offer against you. “Oh, don’t you worry,” you grinned, “Trust me, you don’t want to know what that girl would look like if I was still fattening her up.” I drew a sharp breath, but said nothing. Sure, Allie was still putting on weight, but at least she wouldn’t end up like the women on those websites, as I was sure you’d have been only too happy for her to. The next couple of weeks, Allie and I spent our days on the couch, stuffing ourselves with gluttonous abandon. For all that I hated to see my daughter eat like the hopeless hog you’d made of her, I felt closer to her than ever. After the two of you had headed back home, we even started talking on the phone again, from time to time. But our conversations soon petered out. You were like an invisible wall between us. I hated myself for what I was doing with you. But, since I knew I had no choice, my guilt only drove me further towards food. Weeks turned to months, and I gradually lost track of time. To me, one day was much like another. I never set foot outside anymore and hardly bothered to heave myself off the couch unless I absolutely had to. Every day, another couple of pounds settled on my flowering frame. My backside growing ever bulkier and broader, my dangling belly wobbling wildly and weighing heavily on me with my each and every awkward and exhausting step. As my old physique was buried under layer upon layer of sagging flesh, the lean muscles I’d once worked so hard to maintain continued to fade. Soon, just getting on my feet was enough to make my hips hurt and my knees ache. As my weight climbed, my mobility declined. A fact that you were only too eager to exploit. You started pushing me to eat more and more, making me stuff my swollen stomach until I could barely breathe. At those rare times when I refused, you’d shove a funnel down my throat and pour me full of milkshakes and melted ice cream. Then, when you’d filled me up to within an inch of my life, you’d rub my bloated belly while I sat groaning and gasping for breath. Throughout all this, I never saw much of Allie. The two of you didn’t come around for Christmas that year, or the next, leaving me to spend the holidays on my own–lying unmoving on my couch, a naked, food-smeared blob of a woman. From time to time, you’d show me pictures of my daughter, to prove you weren’t fattening her further. But, as I kept growing, you stopped bothering. By then, my appetite had all but taken me over. My belly was too vast for me to reach around, and so eating was all I could do to even try to sate all of my urges and desires. Alone in that house, with all that weight bearing down on me, I was an accident waiting to happen. One day, as I waddled downstairs in the morning, my ankle gave out, my rolls and folds quivering and quaking as I hit the floor. You came over as fast as you could and helped pull me up on my couch. As you propped my swollen leg on a soft pillow and bandaged my twisted ankle, I sat in a daze, absently munching my way through the platter of cookies you’d placed beside me. Much as I didn’t want to admit it, we both knew I would likely never walk again. Since I wasn’t safe on my own anymore, you decided that you and Allie would move in with me, to help you better care for the both of us. I can’t say I was exactly thrilled for my daughter to see me like this, but I knew I had no choice. When you arrived with Allie a few days later, I was in for a rude awakening. Watching you help my no longer ‘little’ girl out of your car and up on her feet, a manoeuvre she’d clearly have struggled to manage on her own, my stomach tightened and my chest turned cold. While I’d spent the last few years stuffing myself senseless, you’d clearly kept yourself busy at home. Since I last saw her, two years ago, Allie had more than doubled in size—her face, turned to a swollen sphere of soft flab, resting on a doughy display-cushion of a double chin; her vast frame, draped in a tent-like dress that hugged her every roll and fold, dominated by a dangling lard-apron of a belly that reached almost to her knees, shifting and slapping against her tremendous thighs as she walked. By the time you’d led her through the door and planted her on the couch beside me, her forehead was shiny with sweat and she was clearly struggling to catch her breath. From the way her eyes grew wide at the sight of me, I could tell she was as shocked as I was. Neither of us, however, said so much as a word about it. Once you’d helped me to my room and laid me on my bed, I exploded at you. “I thought we had a deal? You were supposed to leave Allie alone, not turn her into a goddamn whale!” You smiled and gave my vast belly a pat. “Feeling cranky, are we? Sounds like someone needs a little snack to cheer her up?” Before I could get another word out, you’d left the room, only to return moments later, with a gallon of ice cream in hand. Glancing from you to my cold treat, I slumped, sinking into a sea of my own flesh. “That’s my girl,” you grinned as I started to eat. “You just enjoy your food like the good little porker you are, and I’ll make sure you and your daughter are taken care of for as long as you live.” I said nothing. At this point, it was no use arguing with you. I was too heavy to take care of myself, and too hungry to ever stop eating. All that was left for me was to play your game and do whatever you wanted me to. Ever since, I’ve been stuck in this bed, my body a shifting, shapeless mass of spreading flesh. Though the two of us are under the same roof now, I never see much of Allie. You’ve got her squirreled away downstairs somewhere, trapped in a bed of her own, with more food than she could ever need. Sometimes I wonder if she ever figured out what you were doing to her. If so, she must already have been too far gone by the time she did, too much the helpless hog you always wanted her to be. Either way, she’s clearly happy to play along with your sick fantasy, to spend her days as a docile, dependent blob. While you make sure my daughter’s happy and full, I’m kept constantly stuffed, force-fed and fattened without mercy. Between feedings, I try to tell myself that I’m still doing all this for Allie’s sake. That I’m letting you take your dark urges out on me, so that she can live on in blissful ignorance. But deep down, I know it isn’t true. Perhaps, if I’d done something sooner, things would never have come to this. But now, it’s too late. I’m too far gone. All I want is to eat and grow, to lose myself in food and continue to ruin my body beyond repair.

No worries. As far as having a style goes, it’s probably best not to think too much about it, really.

Just gonna drop in to add another endorsement here. This is a piece in classic Swahilimonkfish style. By which I mean to say: it's damn good!

It definitely does come off that way. Not to be obvious but, these stories read and are shaped like actual literature, if that makes sense, in a way that even very good WG fiction rarely tries for. Not that there's anything wrong in not trying for that, of course, but it's interesting to see you pull this stuff off. Personally, I'm from a country of about the same population-size as NYC, and while I've done a fair bit of traveling in my time, the only part of the US I've ever been to is Hawaii. So, as far as I'm concerned, you can keep faking it all you like. Though, I get that you might eventually run into a bit of a wall there, as far as material goes.

This is a hugely impressive, like all your Shiva stuff. There aren't many WG-stories around that feel complete and polished in the way yours do. As far as your use of stereotypes go, I'm not exactly qualified to comment on how well that works, but I see what you're doing there, in terms of sketching out Shiva's world. I've always thought of noir as, fundamentally, city stories, and the amount of detail you put into this version of Los Angeles is a lot of what makes all this sing.

Anne Connor stopped a moment at the top of the stairs to steady herself and gather her strength. This wasn’t going to go like last time, she told herself, or the time before that. This time, she wasn’t going to let sweet talk and sweet treats stand in her way. No, this time she was going to march straight up to Mr. Mackay’s room and demand that he pay her every last nickel and dime that she was owed. If he refused, she’d have him out on his ass, no matter how scrumptious those pastries of his were. She had a lodging house to run, and she could hardly do that if her lodgers refused to pay their rent, now could she?22 Abertwaith Rd. was an old Victorian house with a bright, yellow façade and rows of vast bay windows that let plenty of sunlight through. Anne had taken the place over a couple of years ago, when she was only nineteen. Running it all on her own had been no easy task, but she was determined to make it work. And, when Anne Connor set her mind on something, you’d better believe she’d get it done.With her slight, supple frame, delicate features, and wavy, strawberry hair – which she kept tied back in a tight braid – the willowy waif of a girl had caught quite a few eyes over the years. But, she wasn’t the kind to care much about things like that. Her work kept her far too busy to bother with empty pleasures of any sort. Or, at least, so she’d thought, until Mr. Mackay had moved in.Anne frowned and pulled at her dress – a sky blue garment with long sleeves and a straight skirt. She’d bought the thing only a few months ago, and it was already starting to feel snug on her, as were most of her old clothes. Putting a hand to her once flat stomach she felt her fingers sink into a layer of plush pudge.For as long as she could remember, Anne had never had to worry much about her weight. All her life, people had used to tell her that: if she wasn’t careful, she might well just waste away one of these days. Then, Mr. Mackay had come along. He was a pastry chef in training, apparently, and always working on some new recipe or other. Once he’d moved in, it hadn’t been long before Anne’s clothes had started to shrink and people had started to say that she was growing some ‘nice curves’ on her. Anne hadn’t known what to say to that, and before she’d had the chance to give it much thought, she’d already gone up another size or two. Her pert buttocks had grown ripe and round, and her sleek thighs had turned squishy and soft, to the point that her flab had started to spread across her seat whenever she sat. Her face had filled out, her tapered waist had vanished under a ring of soft flesh, and people had moved on to telling her that she might want to watch what she put in her mouth. Anne wasn’t sure what to say to that either. One thing she was sure about, though, was that if she wanted to get this whole thing under control, she would have to put Mr. Mackay in his place.Curling her fingers into fists, Anne strode the last couple of steps up to her spacious garret, where her troublesome lodger had made his home.“Excuse me?” she said, tapping her knuckles against the door.“It’s open,” came a casual reply from the other side.Anne turned the knob and was immediately overwhelmed by the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked goods. The whole flat was piled top to bottom with plates and platters covered in kitchen towels. Not a single chair, table, or countertop had been left clear. Mr Mackay himself was over by the oven at the other end of the room, pulling another batch of home-made cupcakes out of the heat. He was a stocky, powerfully built young man – only a year or two older than Anne herself – with broad shoulders, strong hands, and a bit of a belly on him. His face was boyishly handsome, with wide, almond eyes and a square, stubbled chin. A mop of dark hair sat in a spiky, unruly mess atop his head.“Hey there,” he turned to look at her over his shoulder, “care for a bite?”“Not right now, thanks, Mr. Mackay.” Anne crossed her arms and drew her lips tight. “I’m afraid we need to have a little talk, you and I.”“Oh, William, please,” he smiled, a gleam in his eye, “Mr. Mackay makes me sound like an old man. Are you sure I can’t tempt you? I’m working on this new recipe, you see, and I’d love to hear your thoughts.” He held his plate out towards her, and Anne felt her posture soften in spite of herself. It was all she could do to stop from sighing as the fumes of the freshly made things wafted into her nostrils.“Well, just the one, then,” she relented.“Right. Well, why don’t you go ahead and make yourself at home?” William gestured to his bed, the only unoccupied piece of furniture in the entire flat.Anne hesitated a moment, before planting her well-cushioned butt on his bedspread. Any hint of hesitation on her part, however, was washed away the moment she bit into her freshly made treat. The thing was so succulent and sweet, so rich, ripe and rare, that she had to struggle not to shiver at the sheer taste of it.Having swallowed the whole thing down, Anne felt her cheeks flush as she noticed the way William was studying her.“So, be honest, what do you think?”“Well,” Anne clasped her hands on her lap and tried to act casual, “it was pretty good, I guess…”"Pretty good?" William frowned. "You don't think it could've used more butter, do you?"“No…” Anne stopped to consider the question, before catching herself. “Or, yes, maybe. Look, I don’t know, but—”Before she could get another word out, William popped another pastry from another plate past her lips. Anne was about to object, but, somehow, all her thoughts seemed to fade as the sheer flavour of the thing suffused her very being.“So, better or worse?” asked William once she was done eating.“Better,” Anne blurted, unable to stop herself, “definitely better.”“I see, figured as much.” He thoughtfully scratched his chin. “How much better, would you say?”“Well,” Anne hesitated, “a bit sweeter, I guess, and more filling.”“Right,” William nodded. “So, it was good, then?”“Yeah, sure,” Anne agreed. “Now, if you don’t mind—” she continued, clearing her throat.“In a moment, please.” He raised a finger to silence her. “First, would you mind trying just one more?”Anne frowned, scrunching her snub nose as she looked first up at William – at his warm smile and amused almond eyes – and then down at the delicious cupcakes he was holding out towards her. She knew she probably shouldn’t, but…“Oh alright,” she sighed. “Just one more, though.”“Of course,” William agreed, a wry smile on his face as he handed her third and final cupcake over to her.The moment she bit into the scrumptious-looking thing, Anne felt her fleshy, freckled face flush a bright red. Her whole mind seemed, simply, to melt away as the pastry melted in her mouth, and she couldn’t stop a shivering sigh escaping from somewhere deep within her.“So, guessing that one was a success?” William grinned, cocking his head and crossing his arms.“Well, maybe…” Anne answered, not looking all the way up at him.“Maybe?”“I think I might have to try one more, just to be sure.”“Is that so?” William raised a single eyebrow. “You know, I think it might be time the two of us got back on topic.”“What?” Anne scrunched up her nose.“There was something you wanted to talk about, right?”“Oh, yes,” Anne blinked, recalling why she’d stormed up there in the first place. “Well, it’s about the rent, actually…”“Right, that,” said William, as though the matter had completely slipped his mind. “Sorry, I’m a bit short at the moment. Been spending a lot on ingredients lately, you see. You wouldn’t mind waiting another couple of weeks, would you? I promise I’ll have it all by then.”“That’s what you said a couple of weeks ago,” Anne scowled, “and a couple of weeks before that.”“Is it?”“Yes,” she narrowed her eyes, “it is?”“Right,” William stroked his chin, sucking in a breath between his teeth. “Well, sorry about that. I was just so close to getting these right, you know?” He gestured at the many plates and platters of fragrant treats spread across Anne’s attic. “I guess I got a bit carried away.”“That’s one way to put it,” Anne said, sharply“Still, they turned out pretty good, right?”“I guess,” Anne sighed, breathing in another lungful of the freshly baked things. “But I still need that money, or I’ll have to throw you out, no matter how good those cupcakes of yours are.”“Right,” William stopped to think, his eyes darting absently around the room. “Well, you can have these, if you like?” he grabbed a plate of the tasty things and held them out towards Anne.“Are you serious?” she tightened her lips.“Yeah, sure,” William shrugged, “why not? I mean, they’re good, right? And there should be enough here to cover the two of us for a few weeks, at least, don’t you think?”“I don’t know…” Anne said, her eyes locked on all those delicious, golden brown treats.“Come on,” William pushed the platter closer towards her. “I’ll throw in anything else I happen to make as well, of course. So, what do you say?”“Oh, alright,” Anne rolled her eyes, her face breaking into a greedy little grin. “But just this once, you hear me?”“Of course,” William agreed, smiling ever so slightly, “just this once.” * “So, that sure didn’t go as planned,” Anne mumbled to herself, her mouth hanging half open as she took in the mountain of sugary sweets piled on her kitchen table. Some part of her wanted to storm back upstairs and tell William what for. But, what was done was done, and she was nothing if not a woman of her word. Anyway, this was just a temporary thing. She’d have her money soon enough, she was sure. Until then, it could hardly hurt to have a little treat from time to time, so long as she didn’t let herself get carried away. Breathing in the scent of the still warm things, Anne sighed and licked her lips. Before long, she was munching away – her broadening backside sticking out behind her as she gobbled up one buttery goodie after another. The damn things were just too damn tasty! * Months later, Anne shifted her feet as she waited, once more, for William to open his door.“Hi,” she said, stroking her arm, once he’d made his appearance, “you wouldn’t happen to be working on another batch of those cupcakes, or anything like that, would you? I’ve kind of run out again, you see…”“Already?” he pursed his lips, raising a bushy eyebrow. “You sure did take a shine to those things.”“I guess,” Anne shrugged, glancing away. “So, got anymore?”William stopped a moment to study Anne, who felt her cheeks flush as his gaze drifted along all the bumps and bulges of her burgeoning body. Over the last few months, all those pastries of his had piled a good thirty pounds on her already rapidly swelling frame. Her freckled face had grown full and fat, her subtle chin resting on a chubby cushion of soft flab. The spare tire around her waist had continued to spread, until her doughy belly was peeking out past her boobs and her drooping love-handles had started to spill over her well-padded hips. Her once shapely and delicate figure had turned into a whopping collection of rippling rolls and folds. All of which, she knew, were only too visible through the strained fabric of the hopelessly tight dress she’d insisted on squeezing herself into that morning.“Sure thing,” he said, at last, smiling ever so slightly. “Why don’t you come on in? As it happens, I’ve got this new recipe I’m working on.”“Well," Anne licked her lips, "if you insist."

So, Reader, where were we? Oh yes! You’d just taught me all about how futile it is for me to even try to lose weight. And, now that I’ve given up on my diet, you tempt me to eat like never before. Every day, my portions seem to grow larger; every day, there seem to be more snacks around for me to munch on. With your help, I descend into a spiral of sloth and gluttony, constantly gorging myself as I sink ever further into my never-ending hibernation. You’ve got me so comfortable now. All those heavy dishes you keep making me, with all that butter and all those thick, creamy sauces, have me so sleepy and sluggish that I rarely stop to consider the sheer amount of food I’m putting away—or anything else, for that matter. I just don’t want to bother much with thinking, or any other difficult things like that. All I want is to be kept cozy and cared for, to eat and eat without ever having to consider what all this food is doing to me. And, needless to say, you make that only too easy. It’s almost scary how sweet you can be sometimes, how much effort you put in keeping me complacent, stuck in a pleasurable, mindless haze as my figure continues to expand around me, swelling into a mass of yielding, uncontrollable flesh. I don’t really think much about the way I look, these days. Our scale seems to have mysteriously vanished, again, and I rarely bother to study myself all that closely in our bathroom mirror. When I do, I hardly recognize the girl staring back at me. Every time I see her, she seems to have gotten fatter. Her face has gotten so round, her features far less striking now that they sit surrounded by such swollen cheeks, such flabby jowls, and such a terribly prominent second chin. Looking at her, at her fleshy moon-face and her dull, drowsy eyes, it’s hard to even see the girl I used to be buried under all this blubber. All those familiar shapes that I used to recognize myself by are gone, replaced by swollen, sagging, stretch-mark-riddled rolls that rest one atop another, packed tight with fat by your constant feedings. Sometimes, I almost feel like there is no me under here anymore, like I’m nothing but a hungry mass of soft flab. That thought scares me a little. I mean, all I seem to do these days is eat. I have no job, no friends, and no hobbies, no life outside of your apartment, outside of you. At those rare times when you do take me out into the world, to demolish some buffet or other, I can’t help but look with wonder at all those skinny girls striding effortlessly down the street, confidently showing their trim little bodies in all sorts of trendy, tight-fitting clothes. I can no longer even imagine what it must be like to be one of them. I don’t even seem to belong in the same world anymore. And, from the way they look at me as I gobble up fatty foods by the plateful, I can tell only too well that they can’t imagine how anybody could ever let themselves get like me. Meanwhile, Reader, you’re thrilled with the way my figure is changing. I mean, of course you are. You’re getting what you’ve wanted all along, to watch as I grow fatter, as my body is turned into a plaything for your pleasure. And, what a plaything it is. Just look at this bulging belly that fills up my sweatpants and hangs down to, almost completely, cover my nethers, and these heavy, sagging boobs that have no shape or hint of firmness outside of the huge bras I rarely bother to wear anymore. Not to mention these thighs, which are almost as wide around as my waist used to be when you first met me. Oh yes, you’re only too happy with my progress, with my ham hock arms and my square, pillow-like buttocks, and you make sure to remind me of it every day. You make no secret of how much you love my blubbery body. And, as long as you’re here to play with them, I feel strangely good about all these many, heavy rolls hanging off me and weighing me down. Lately, though, as I’ve gotten fatter, our relationship has changed. You still spoil me and make sure I never have to move a muscle, but you’re not as sweet about it as you used to be. Over the last year, you’ve, gradually, gotten more commanding, more unyielding in making me eat. It’s like you’re trying to push me, to see just how far I’ll let you go. And, being the weak-willed fatty that I am, I always give in and let you do as you please. After a few months, you start to feed me all sorts of shakes, and even some strange pills, which you say are vitamins, but which always seem to make me so terribly tired and hungry. As time goes on, I find myself feeling more like your pet than your partner. By the time you bring me home for the holidays again, I’ve put on so much weight that mom and sis hardly recognize me. They don’t say anything, of course, but they’re a bit awkward, a bit less cheerful than usual as they welcome me in, our arms failing to reach all the way around each other as we lean in over our bulging bellies for a hug. I still remember when I used to think mom was a huge ball of a woman. Back then, ending up like her was my greatest fear. Now, she doesn’t even look that big compared to me anymore. For the first few days we’re here, mom and sis are a little suspicious of you. After all, it isn’t exactly hard to guess what you’re doing to me. But, you know only too well how to win women like them over. And, after they’ve been enjoying your cooking and lapping up your compliments for a few days, they soon start to soften to you again. One evening, as three of us are rubbing our bellies after having munched our way through another of your delectable desserts, my sister even leans over to me and tells me—in a longing, almost jealous tone—that I’m “so lucky to have a man like you.” I can only nod sluggishly in agreement as a huge burp escapes from between my lips. For the next few weeks, my life goes on in much the same way as it does at home. That is to say, I do nothing but sit around and eat, my bare belly resting on my lap and my sofa-cushion butt spreading out beneath me. The only thing that’s really changed is that I’ve been moved from one couch to another. Mom and sis can hardly believe the sheer amount of food I’m putting away. They like to have themselves a little snack from time to time, sure. But, with me, it’s like I never stop eating. They don’t really comment on it, of course, but sometimes I’ll catch them staring at me in disbelief as I start on my second tub of ice cream or my third liter of soda for the day. Needless to say, I don’t help out with any of the work that needs doing around the house. I’m just too heavy and out of shape to move about much anymore. Fortunately for me, you and mom are happy make sure that all my needs are taken care of. The two of you are always putting snacks in my mouth and doing everything in your power to make sure that I never have to get up. After a while, I start to feel less like a member of the family, and more like a permanent fixture, an unmoving blob of a woman who exists only to stare blankly at her TV as more food is shoveled down her throat. I try my best not to think about any of this, though. I’ve got my shows and my snacks, what more could I possibly need? But, as I watch mom and sis move about in ways I struggle to manage, it’s hard not to notice how out of control I’ve let myself get. Especially as sis, still remembering how I used to treat her back in the day, never misses a chance to quietly rub it in my face. She’s always plying me with food and parading around in front of me, moving about in ways I no longer can and wearing the kind of clothes that I’ll never be able to squeeze my over-sized butt into again. A few days into the second week of my stay here, she even manages to convince me to step on mom’s old scale. I do my best to pretend like I don’t care about my weight one way or the other, but I still end up holding my breath as the digits on the display race up to an unbelievable 372, revealing that I’m already over a hundred pounds heavier than I was last year, when I first decided that I *had* to go on a diet. If this keeps up, I don’t even want to think about what this scale will say the next time I'm here. I’ve caught the glimpses of massively obese people on TV before, women who are so big that they can’t get out of bed on their own, who have been made so helpless by their immense size that they struggle to even reach far enough around their own bodies to wash themselves. Am I doomed to end up like them? Trapped by my own fat, unable to even take care of myself? The thought should scare me, I know. But, some part of me finds it strangely arousing. If I got that fat, I wouldn’t have any responsibilities. I’d be completely helpless, too helpless for anybody to ever expect me to do anything but lie around and eat. I shake my head. It’s wrong to think that way, I know. That’s no way for a person to live. And yet, it feels so right, like it’s what I was meant for, what my entire existence has been leading up to. My train of thought is broken as you call me down for dinner. By the time I’m making my way through my third plate of lasagna, my worries are all but forgotten. I mean, sure, I might have gained a bit of weight, but it’s not like there’s much I can do about it. There’s no point in me going on a diet, after all. And, as long as I’ve got you around to tempt me, I’m not about to cut down on my meals anytime soon. So, you see, even if I did want to lose all of these pounds I’ve piled on, there’s just no way I can. I’m too lazy and weak for there to be any point in even trying. I’m better off just letting myself indulge and not even worrying about it. You’re only too pleased to watch me absentmindedly fill my belly up with as much food as mom and sis put together. I’m so far gone now that you hardly have to put much effort into fattening me, too far gone to ever turn back. At this point, there isn’t much left for you to do here. The time has come to bring this story to its climax. Back home, you feed me more than ever. I’ve long since lost track of how much I eat every day. Lately, it feels like I never stop. I never seem to get full anymore. Or, rather, it doesn’t seem to matter how full I get. Even when my stomach is aching from all the food you’ve filled it with, I always want more. It’s like I eat just for the sake of it. If I ever stop to consider that, maybe, I should cut down a bit, the thought of going without all of my beloved snacks, of going without your constant coddling and attention, makes my heart freeze with dread. You’ve done your work well with me. Now, as I get lazier and fatter, you start to change too. You’re still as loving and sweet as you ever were, at least most of the time, but the way you treat me and talk to me now is different, somehow. I mean, you’ve always been kind of controlling, I guess—never one to take no for an answer, at least where food is concerned. And, you’ve always teased me about my weight when you knew you could get away with it. But, lately, you seem to be getting worse. Your teasing has turned harsher, and you’ve gotten a lot more commanding in feeding me. You’ve even started to call me by nicknames like “piggy” and “porker”. I know I should find that demeaning, but, at first, you make them sound so cute and affectionate that I just can’t bring myself to mind. And later, though I hate to admit it, they just seem to fit me so well. I mean, just look at how huge and lazy I’ve gotten, what a sloppy slob you’ve turned me into. If I’m going to look like this, to live like this, I can’t really object to being called a pig, now can I? After all, isn’t that what I am, an over-gorged, gluttonous creature, only good for being stuffed to the brim with food? And god, do you ever stuff me! Lately, you’ve started to feed me by hand, so that all I have to do is lie back and chew. And, you’re so forceful about it too, making me eat until my plate has been wiped clean, no matter how tightly my tummy is already packed with food. I suppose, sometimes, I really should say no to you. But, I don’t. I just sit here and placidly do everything you tell me to, letting you go further and further in feeding me. Soon, you start to change up my mealtimes. Letting me go hours without food one day, before stuffing me non-stop the next. Occasionally, you even wake me up and make me eat in the middle of the night. I know I’ve let you go too far, but it’s too late to turn back now. One day, when you’ve let me go for hours without food, to the point where I’m pleading with you to just give me something, anything, to eat, you tell me to get off the couch and follow you. With some effort, I manage to get on my feet and waddle over to the bathroom, where you’ve set up a brand new scale. You command me to get on, and I obey without thought. “446 pounds,” you say, letting out an impressed whistle. “Not bad.” I plead with you to give me something to eat already, but you brush me off. First, there’s something we need to talk about. You lead me back to the couch again, and I breathe a sigh of relief as you sit me down. Once I’ve had a chance to catch my breath, you grab my belly, your fingers digging harshly into my soft flesh as you tell me, in no uncertain terms, just how far I’ve let myself go, just what a helpless, dependent pig I’ve turned myself into. I can only sit here, desperately hungry, held down by my own fat, while you tower over me, passionately laying into me about just how lazy, useless, and greedy I've gotten, how hopelessly flabby and out of shape I’ve let myself become. I can’t believe how mean you’re being all of a sudden. I want to object, but I know every word you say is true. I’m a weak, pathetic pig, a fat-ass with no self-control or self-respect. I always have been, deep down, and it feels so good to finally be treated like it. When I object, weakly, between moans, that "I thought you liked me like this," you agree that you do. Which is why why you think I could stand to get *a lot* fatter. Then, finally, you tell me everything, revealing what you’ve been planning for me all along. From now on, you explain, our relationship is going to be very different. From now on, I’m going to be your feedee, your obedient, fat pig. I’ll never have to think or worry ever again. My body will be yours to do with as you please, my only purpose in life: to eat every last bite you feed me, until I’m every bit as fat as you want me to be. I know there’s no point in trying to object. You’ve got me too out of shape, too lazy and spoiled to ever manage without you. And anyway, I’m just so hungry. As long as I’ve got my food, I know I’ll be happy no matter what. And, the sooner I agree with you, the sooner I can have my next meal. That night, you give me a taste of what my life will be like from now on, feeding me like never before, until my belly is packed so tight that I can hardly breathe. For the first time since the start of this story, I can see, clearly, what it has in store for me. You’re going to keep fattening me, and I’m going to keep growing, until I’m too huge to even walk on my own. I can’t stop you. My future is already written. And, even if I could, there’s no way I would. I understand now, like you always have, that this is what I was meant for. This is what I’ve always wanted, deep down. To give up any illusion of control, to let this narrative take hold of me and turn me into whatever it wants, whatever you want, dear Reader. From now on, you keep feeding and fattening me, growing my body at a truly amazing rate. Under your tender, loving care, I blow up like I never would’ve believed I could, my belly expanding to overflow my lap, growing into a heavy rippling waterfall of soft flesh that flows over the edge of our couch, my backside spreading until two chairs can hardly hold it. I’m so heavy now that my legs struggle to lift me, I can only take a few labored, lumbering steps before I have to sit down, groaning at my aching ankles as I gasp for breath. Needless to say, I’m in no shape to visit my family much anymore. But, fortunately, they don’t mind coming to me. At this point, even they can’t believe the sheer size you’ve gotten me to. They still don’t really talk about my weight—preferring to treat me like the elephant in the room that I am—but, I can tell from the way they look at me as I sit here, breathing heavily just from the effort of living in this huge body, that they're disturbed at how fat and out of control I've let myself get. Not that they're exactly tiny themselves, though. Ever since they’ve started visiting here, they’ve been rapidly piling on the pounds. My mother always seems to be eating as she helps you care for me. And as for my sister, well … Lately, she’s been coming over just to hang out. She seems to like being around the two of us. Next to me, she doesn’t feel half as big as she really is. And, as for you … Having you for a brother in law hasn’t exactly been good for her figure. But then, it’s not like much else ever has either. She loves the way you spoil her and ply her with food, and she always starts to giggle as you jokingly flirt with her, telling her all about how pretty she looks and how lovely she is. She makes her crush on you only too obvious, and you’re only too happy to indulge her, to tease her and casually flirt with her. I know I should probably mind all this, but I don’t. You’re just being friendly, just playing around and making her feel special in that way you do. Sometimes, I wonder what might’ve happened if you’d found her before you found me. Then, she might be the one stuck on this couch and I might still be thin. Or, at least, less fat. Still, as I watch her gaze longingly at you while gobbling up the latest plateful of cookies you’ve handed her, I can’t help but be happy that you’re mine. She will never know the true you. How stern and unyielding you can be when force-feeding me, how tender and sweet when rubbing my painfully packed tummy. She will never know what it’s like to truly be at the center of your world. No, I don’t mind you flirting with her. But, when she’s around, I always make sure to be as affectionate with you as possible. Just to remind her that you’ll always be mine, that the only thing she’ll ever get out of her crush on you is a wobbly butt and a doughy, dangling belly. The poor girl has gotten herself stuck in a bit of a vicious cycle. The more time she spends around us, the fatter she gets. And, the fatter she gets, the more she comes to us for affirmation. From time to time, I wonder how many years it’ll be before she finds herself stuck on a couch of her own. She must’ve put on a good bit more than a hundred pounds already. You’ve only really gotten a brief glimpse of her gain here, but I bet you like thinking about it, about what must be going on with her as the text focuses on what you’re doing to me? You’ve got me so huge now. I must be well over 600 pounds. My face has gotten so round and flabby, my features made so small by the huge cheeks they’ve sunken between, a soft and squishy second chin resting where my neckline once used to be. My body is a bed of fat, a mass of shifting rolls and folds hanging off the once slight frame that they’ve long since buried. My boobs, huge, flat, pancaking sacks of flab, rest on my massive mound of a belly, which, in turn, rests between my broad, blubbery thighs. My arms have grown so vast and heavy that I can hardly lift them over my head. They’re wider around now than my hips used to be when I was thin. There isn’t a single inch of my body that hasn’t been twisted and reshaped with fat. My fingers are thick, stubby sausages, my back a collection of drooping rolls that rest on my huge backside, which spreads out so far behind me now, melting across any seat I plant it on. Does all of this turn you on, Reader? Even though you can’t see how deliciously fat and flabby you’ve made me? Are those words, and the images that they evoke in your mind enough to get you all hot and bothered? I sure hope so. I mean, why else have you been reading this? Now that you have me just the way you want, however, I'm afraid the time has come to bring this to a close. Now, you leave me, moving on to some other girl in some other story, happy in the knowledge that I will forever stay this way in your head. That I will keep growing, never quite reaching the point where all the many problems and complications that come with these many hundreds of pounds you’ve piled on my once slender figure start to catch up with me. As you leave me now, you know I’ll be forever stuck as the following, final line describes me: trapped by my own fat, too lazy to ever lose a single pound and too hungry to ever stop eating.

Thanks! I'm glad you enjoyed it. Now that I'm happy to hear. And, as it happens, you won't have to.

My name, Reader? Oh, let’s see here … how about Clarice? That’s a nice name, isn’t it? It’s from a movie, apparently, one that the writer of this story particularly likes. So yeah, let’s go with that, let's say that my name is Clarice. And, now that I’ve introduced myself, let’s move on to my appearance. I mean, you need to know what I look like, right? After all, there are so many choices we could make here. I could be tall–all elegant and statuesque, with long, lean legs and a graceful, gazelle-like body–or, I could be short–a cute, petite little thing with a lithe build and a bouncy personality. The options are, if not endless, then at least numerous. But, we need to get this story going, and you need to know what I look like right away, so that you can appreciate as my appearance changes over the course of it. For simplicity's sake, let’s say that I’m a fairly ordinary-looking young woman. I mean, I’m pretty, of course, but not in a supermodel kind of a way. My face is a little too round for that, and, while I’m not that short, I’m nowhere near tall enough. Still, I’m a good-looking girl, if I do say so myself. I have big, beautiful, brown eyes, soft, kissable lips, and a mane of tousled, raven hair that hangs past my pale, porcelain shoulders. And, needless to say, I’m thin. Well, mostly, anyway. I might be carrying a few extra pounds here and there—mainly on my hips and thighs—but my waist is still tapered and tight and my boobs are perky and firm, if, perhaps, a little smaller than I’d like. I’m a beautiful, carefree young woman with a physique that, I don’t mind saying, has turned quite a few heads in its time. But, we both know I won’t stay that way. I mean, that’s why you’re reading this, right? You want me to lose my looks. You want to watch as my once beautiful body turns into a wobbling mass of blubber, as my boobs swell and start to sag, as my flat stomach spreads into a dangling apron, as my tight, shapely buttocks loosen into square slabs of lard, huge, rippling things, covered in soft dents of cellulite. You want to rob me of my figure. And because you want it, that is what’s going to happen, whether I like it or not. Now, since you know what my name is and what I look like, let’s get on to the biggest question of them all: who am I? This is another one that could have an untold number of answers. I mean, where do you even start with this one? How do you go about encapsulating your entire identity in just a sentence or two? Oh Reader, there are so many things I could tell you. I could talk your head off for hours about my favorite book, or how I spend my evenings, but that’s not what you’re here for, that’s not what this story is about. So, let’s get on to the question that really matters here: Who am I to you? Oh yes, Reader, you’re a character in this story just as much as I am. I mean, obviously. Why wouldn’t you be? After all, everything that happens here, to me, will happen because you want it to. So, then, what kind of a relationship do we have? Well, since we need to get this story going, let’s keep things simple between us. Let's just say that I’m your girlfriend and leave it at that. Oh yes, Reader, aren’t you the lucky one. Of all the people in this world that I could’ve gone for, I chose you. I’m not sure I know why myself. There’s just something about you, something I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know what it is, but I think you do. You’ve been looking for a girl like me for a long time. And, now that you’ve finally found me, you understand me better than I understand myself. You’ve studied me, and you know that, no matter how I try to hide it, there’s a fat girl inside of me, just waiting to eat her way out. I mean, of course there is, you wouldn’t be spending your time on me otherwise, would you? You can tell from the shape of my body, and from the way my whole face lights up at those rare times when I allow myself a treat. That’s really why I’ve fallen for you, I think. Because, deep down, I’m exactly the sort of weak-willed fatty that you’ve always been looking for. And, because, you’re only too willing to treat me as such, to pamper me and spoil me, to ply me with all that food I won’t even let myself admit that I love, all while letting me be every bit as lazy and useless as I really am. We’ve been dating for a while now, you and I. How we met isn’t really that important, but I’ve been living with you for more than a year now. I’ve even taken you home to see my family once, over the holidays. They took to you right away. And, for your part, I’m sure you were only too happy with what you saw. My dad’s been out of the picture for a long time now. My mother and older sister are the only family I have, and, well, they aren’t exactly a slight and dainty pair of girls. With mom, there’s really no nice way to say it. She’s a huge ball of a woman, with a ripe, round moon of a face, a pair of doughy, drooping, oversized love handles, and a huge, hanging belly. I’ve spent most of my life watching her eat her way from one dress size to another. These days, she’s got to be at least 300 pounds. My sister isn’t quite that big, but she’s not far behind. Last I heard, she was somewhere around 230. But, in my family, we don’t talk about that stuff much. After all, what you refuse to know can’t hurt you. She’s a year older than me, and she’s never been thin—not for as long as I can remember, anyway. She’s spent her whole life as the fat girl, the one with the big belly and the chubby face that people either laugh at or ignore. That’s probably why she’s a bit shy most of the time. I’m ashamed to admit it, but when I was younger—back in middle school, mostly—I used to tease her a lot as well. Over the years, I’ve heard people call her and mom all sorts of things behind their backs and, sometimes, even to their faces. That’s why I’ve always tried so hard not to let myself go. No matter how much I love to eat, I don’t want to end up like them. I don’t want to be the sort of big, greedy pig that people laugh at and make fun of. But, with you around, it’s not like I have much of a choice anymore. You know only too well that, with a bit of effort, you can get me way bigger than either of them will ever be. I’ve already put on more than a few pounds since I met you. My face has started to soften, and I’ve grown just the tiniest hint of a gut. I don’t really think that much about all these new inches I’ve added to my body, though. I mean, it’s natural to put on a bit of weight once you’re in a steady relationship, right? You, on the other hand, rarely think about anything else. You love each and every new pound I’ve put on, but I’m not nearly big enough for you yet. You want me to gain faster, you want to see me struggle to squeeze into my clothes until, finally, I’m forced to go up first one size and then another. And, you know just how to get me there. You’ve been living with me long enough now to have learned of all my little weaknesses, all those foods I just can’t say no to. It’s only too easy for you to surround me with temptation 24/7, knowing full well that, no matter how I try to resist, I’ll always give in soon enough. Especially now that you’ve got me hanging around the house all day, with nothing to do but eat. The thing is, you see, Reader, that before I met you, I never really knew what I wanted to do with my life. I mean, I knew what I was supposed to do, get an education, a job, a man, all that boring normal stuff. But, somehow, that never seemed enough for me. This might make me sound kind of lazy and spoiled, but it always seemed so dull to spend your life just working and studying all the time. My friends usually roll their eyes at me and say that I have my head in the clouds when I talk about stuff like that. And, I guess maybe I do, but I’ve just always wanted something different, you know? Even if I’m not sure what. I think that’s another reason why I like you so much. You never laugh at me when I say stuff like that. You always listen to me, and you can be so sweet about it too. In fact, when I first told you about all this, about how I wasn’t enjoying school and how I felt like, maybe, I needed to find my own direction in life, you were the one to suggest that I take some time off. At first, I was hesitant, but you made it sound like it’d be no big deal. And, in the end, as you were only too aware, it was what I really wanted deep down. Even though I knew it might be a bad idea, and even though my friends tried to warn me off, it just felt so right. I figured if I took some time off, I’d be able to grow into myself, to find out what I really wanted out of life. But, that wasn’t what ended up happening. Yeah, I know. Shocking, right? These last many months, I’ve done nothing but waste my days away on endless Netflix binges. I’ve grown plenty, but more in body than in mind. My boobs, which used to be perky and firm, have started to rest on my belly, which has started to rest on my lap. So, yeah, I might have put on just a little bit of weight. I mean, of course I have. I just sit around in my PJs all day, with nothing to do but eat. If I didn’t have my TV, and all those snacks you keep buying me, I think I might just lose my mind. Luckily, you don’t seem to care that your once spirited and enthusiastic girlfriend has turned into a lazy couch-potato, a tubster who just sits around and eats all day. I mean, why would you? You’re not reading this to see me go on adventures, or struggle to build a life for myself. No, as far as you’re concerned, any time I don’t spend sat on my ass stuffing my face is time wasted. You want me just like this, and, though you’re not ready to be entirely honest about it yet, you don’t mind showing it. If it wasn’t for you, if you hadn’t been so loving and kind, I’d probably have realized what’s happening to me a long time ago. You’ve got such a way of putting me at ease. You love to play with all my little rolls, with the plush and luscious softness of my growing body. Whenever I ask you if you think I’m, maybe, getting a bit chunky, you’re only too quick to assure me that I look just fine the way I am. You make me feel like getting just a bit bigger might not be the end of the world after all. Still, from time to time I can’t help but wonder, you know? Sometimes, I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in a window, or something like that, and it’ll take me a while to realize who I’m even looking at. But, I guess, probably, I’m just catching myself from a bad angle, is all. By the time you’ve had me living with you for a couple of years, I’m nothing like the slim girl I was when I first moved in. I’ve gotten so blissfully lazy and fat, my mind and body both turned to mush by my constant grazing and never-ending TV binges. Oh, you just love to look at me, and to play with all my 200-plus-pounds of delicious fatness. You love every inch you’ve put on me, from my squishy second chin to my sagging gut, from my wide, flabby arms to my broad blubbery backside and my jiggly, cottage cheese thighs. You’re only too happy with how I’m growing, even if I’m less than thrilled myself. I mean, don’t get me wrong here. I love the way you spoil me, the way you keep me lazy, happy, and full. I wouldn’t want it to stop for anything in the world. But, well, I know I’ve gotten fat. I mean, of course I do. I’m the one who has to lug all this weight around. After a while, it gets kind of hard *not* to notice. And, to be honest, though I prefer not to think about it, I’m starting to get a bit worried. I just feel so heavy and tired all the time, you know? My thighs are starting to rub and chafe when I walk, and it takes so little to get me all sweaty and out of breath. It’s like I’m not even in control of my own body anymore. I just don’t feel good about myself in the way I used to. I mean, you know how much pride I’ve always taken in my appearance. Before I met you, I used to love posing in front of the mirror wearing all sort of cute clothes. But now, well, now I can hardly even stand the sight of my own reflection. My face has gotten so round and fleshy that I don’t even look like myself anymore. Sure, my features are the same, but all the familiar contours that they used to sit among are just gone, lost under a pair of ripe cheeks and a swollen second chin. My boobs still look good, though, so long as you squeeze them into a tight-enough bra. So, I guess that’s something. But, next to my huge, dangling belly, which sticks out so much further than my chest and fills out the front of my jeans in a way no stomach ever should, they don’t really stand out. Hell, it’s getting hard to find any cute clothes that fit me anymore. But then, I guess that’s fine by you. So long as I spend my days sitting on my ass and stuffing my face like I’m supposed to, I don’t really need anything all that special to wear. And anyway, it’s not like I really even go outside that much anymore. I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I last saw any of my old friends. I guess we’ve all kind of drifted apart, maybe we just don’t have that much in common, these days. While I’ve been sitting here, turning myself into a human dumpster, they’ve all moved on with their lives, getting jobs and doing all sorts of exciting things. Even if we ignore the fact that I don’t want them to see me like this, I don’t think I really have that much to talk about with them anymore. It’s not like anything exciting ever happens in my life. So yeah, at this point, I don’t really even have a social life. Which is just the way you like it. After all, I’ve got all the friends I need right here at home. I’ve got you, and all my lovely little treats. Anything else would just be a distraction. If I ever get lonely, I can just grab another tub of ice cream to cheer myself up. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have gone on a diet and lost all these pounds ages ago. Or, so I like to tell myself. The thing is, you make it so easy for me to just keep eating. You’re alway spoiling me, making me feel so comfy and safe, like my sloppy, slobbish lifestyle is really no big deal. Still, much as I might want them to, I know things can’t go on like this forever. I’ve already gained so much weight. Further or later, this is gonna have to stop. I’ve tried to talk to you about my weight, to ask if you think that, maybe, I’m starting to get a bit *too* fat. But, you’re always quick to reassure me that I’m just fine the way I am, to tell me, jokingly, that you’d love me even if I was a huge whale of a woman. A thought that I, if I’m honest, find less than reassuring. Still, it’s enough to keep me eating, and, for now, that’ll just have to do. It’s not yet time for you to tell me about your true intentions. If you tried to explain it all now, I just wouldn’t understand. I wouldn’t be able to see how all the things you’re doing to me are really for my own good. You know that, no matter what I may think, I’m better off like this, as a sloppy, hungry fatty with no life outside of food. I wasn’t born to be the kind of girl that all the guys want and all the other girls envy, nor was I born to spend my time accomplishing great things. No, I was always meant for this, for a mediocre and uneventful life of constant idleness and never-ending gluttony. The sooner I accept it and embrace my true nature, the happier I’ll be. So, though I might not understand it yet, you’re really doing me a favor by taking my figure away, by reducing me to the life of passive overconsumption that I was always meant for. Sadly, though, good deeds like yours rarely get the appreciation they deserve. And, much though you might try, you can’t keep me cooped up in here forever. Not yet, anyway. As the holidays roll around, and the two of us head off to visit my family, the time has finally come for me to set foot outside for the first time in many months. Needless to say, my mother and sister, who still remember me as a slight and tiny thing, are more than a little surprised to find that I’ve grown to almost twice my size. They don’t really say much about it, but you can tell just from the looks on their faces when I waddle through the door. The last time they saw me, I’d put on a couple of pounds, sure, but I was still, by far, the thinnest girl in the family. Now, not so much. They soon get over their initial shock, though, and give me a warm welcome, even if my sister can’t help but to tease me a bit about my weight. “Looks like you’re finally catching up with the rest of us,” she says, giving my belly a pat once the two of us have hugged and said our hellos. “Oh please,” I roll my eyes. “It’s not like I’m *that* big.” Though, deep down, I know I am. After that, neither mom nor sis really mention my weight much. You know, stones in glass houses, and all that. We spend our days sitting around eating, talking and watching TV, while you help out with the cooking and dote on all three of us. Mom and sis both seem to really enjoy having you around. It’s almost scary how easy it is for you to get them to like you. All it takes are a few lame jokes, a couple of nice meals, and some innocent flirting. I guess, in the end, they’re every bit the hungry, lazy fatties that I am. And, if there’s one thing you know, it’s how to make hungry, lazy fatties happy. Over the next few weeks, I eat as much as I ever have in my life. Just like at home, I spend my days on the couch, being plied with all sorts of fattening foods. Not just by you now, but by mom as well. How lucky for you that my family is so eager to, unwittingly, help out with all your little plans. By New Year’s, I’m struggling to squeeze into my pants, which were already getting tight by the time I came here. Even my largest, and comfiest pair, my old fat pants, are getting to the point where they can hardly hold me. One evening, as I sit down after having been filled with a particularly huge meal, the button on them goes flying off, leaving me wide-eyed and embarrassed as I sit there with my belly hanging out. That evening, my sister gently suggests that, if I want to, I can borrow a pair of her pants while I’m here. I eagerly agree, and that’s when the truth hits me. No matter how I wiggle, I can’t get her jeans all the way up over my butt. No matter how I pull and tug, I can’t even get the button to close. “Um,” I say, blushing as I turn towards her, “you wouldn’t happen to have something a little bigger lying around?” She looks just as surprised as I am. “No,” she shakes her head, “those are the biggest pair I have.” This can’t be happening. There’s no way I’m fatter than my sister. But then, why can’t I get these damn things on? Once I’ve managed to peel her pants off again, my sister drags me over to the bathroom to find out just how much heavier I’ve gotten. As I stand myself on it, the bathroom scale climbs to a hefty 253. My sister, by comparison, is a skinny 236. “Well, well,” she giggles, playfully pinching one of my love handles, “I guess you’re not the thinnest girl in the family anymore.” I stare down at the scale without a word. This can’t be right. It just can’t be. “We’ll just see about that,” I say, smiling and trying to play the whole thing off as though it’s no big deal. “By the time I see you again next year, I’ll have you eating those words.” “Oh, sure you will,” she smirks, clearly not believing me one bit. I can’t believe how blind I’ve been. How could I have let myself go like this? How could I not have realized that I’d gotten this fat? I’ve been sitting around, stuffing my face and not caring about the consequences for almost two years now, and look what it’s done to me! Well, enough is enough. From now on, I’m going to have to make some changes. From now on, things are going to be different around here. Once the holidays are over and the two of us are back home, I tell you, in no uncertain terms, that I’m going on a diet. That I’m going to lose all this weight and get back to my old, slim self. You don’t seem to take me all that seriously. Though you aren’t mean about it, you make it pretty clear that you don’t think I can do it, and that trying would just be a waste of time. The way you see it, all a diet would do is wear me out and make me miserable. And really, why would I want that when I can just sit around and eat and be happy? After all, you think I’m beautiful just the way I am, you’d love me even if I was a huge whale of a woman. And, since I’m lucky enough to have a man who doesn’t mind me being a hopeless, lazy pig, I might as well take advantage of it. It’s a tempting thought, I can’t deny, but my mind is made up. No matter how much I enjoy it, I can’t continue to live like this. I’ve put on so much weight already. If this goes on, I don’t even want to think about how fat I’ll get. I’m tired of not feeling good about myself, of never finding any cute clothes that fit, of the constant shame that comes with living in this blubbery body. I’m tired of all this weight bearing down on me, of my rolls shifting and brushing against each other with every move I make. And, more than anything, I’m tired of feeling like I’m not in control of my own life anymore. No matter how much I might want to spend my days filling up my old spot on your couch, I just can’t. If I don’t put a stop to this now, I know I never will. I keep on insisting and, finally, you agree to help me. You still think it’s a waste of time, but, if it’s what I really want then, of course, you’ll support me. In fact, I’m surprised at just how supportive you seem. You make so many helpful suggestions and come up with so many good ideas. Soon, we’ve put together a whole plan to help me burn off all this weight. It never occurs to me that you might be setting me up to fail. I love you too much to even consider that you’d do something like that. But you, of course, know that it’s really for my own good. You know what kind of a girl I am, after all. And, more importantly, you know what kind of a story this is. There’s no way any of my attempts to lose weight will ever work, and the sooner I realize that, the happier I’ll be. Much as you’ve predicted, it’s not long before my diet hits its first snag. Not even a day, in fact. The thing is, Reader, that when you’ve been lazy for as long as I have, it isn’t easy to start exercising all of a sudden. But then, I guess you know that already. That’s why you’ve really invited me to go running in the park with you, after all. You aren’t trying to help me lose weight, you just want to see how out of shape you’ve gotten me. And, once we’ve started running, I don’t disappoint. It isn’t long before I start to lose my breath, before the moderate pace you’ve set for us has me huffing and puffing. I can still remember, if only vaguely, that I used to enjoy running once, but, right now, I can’t for the life of me recall what that was like. Now, it just makes my body hurt. My feet are sore and my knees ache something fierce. My shirt keeps sliding up and my slightly too tight sweatpants keep slipping down, putting my jiggling belly on display for all to see. Each slow and awkward step I take sets a quake running through my blubbery body, sending all my rolls and folds bouncing up and down as rivers of sweat run along them. I feel terrible. And, to make everything worse, everybody else I see here is so slim and fit. They seem to run without even the slightest effort, while I lumber along, breathing heavily as I clutch my aching sides. We’ve hardly even been at it for twenty minutes by the time I’m forced to stop. I’m just not built for this sort of thing anymore. You smile surreptitiously as I stand here, hunched over, groaning and gasping for breath, my naked belly dangling in front of me, my worn slacks hugging every dent of my cellulite-riddled ass. After a few moments, you take mercy on me. Putting your hand gently on my back, your fingers sinking into my doughy, sweat-soaked rolls of flab, you guide me to the nearest bench, where I sit myself down, letting out a desperate sigh of relief as I take my weight off my poor, aching ankles. Though I dare not look up, I’m only too aware that we’re being stared at. I know only too well what a spectacle I’ve made of myself. Once you’ve got me off my feet, you give my pillowy shoulder a reassuring pat and tell me to sit tight. Then, you head off, leaving me here with my mouth hanging sluggishly open, my overly ample chest rising and falling as I draw one groaning breath after another. A few minutes later, you turn up again, carrying a cone filled with three scoops of ice cream—cookie dough, mint-chocolate-chip, and strawberry, you know me so well. “A little something to help restore your strength,” you say, “just this once.” I know I should turn it down. There are way more calories in those three scoops than all my running has managed to burn off. If I eat it, my diet will be a complete failure right out of the gate. But, it looks so good, and I feel so tired. I need something to cheer me up. As far as my diet goes, I can always start over again tomorrow. While I greedily fill my mouth with one bite of ice cream after another, the two of us have a talk, and I agree that it might be good for me to start a little slower with this whole exercise thing. For now, having a short walk now and then might be enough. Even if, as you know perfectly well, it won’t help one bit in burning off all this blubber. I’d like to say that my diet continues without a hitch from here on. But, we both know that wouldn’t be true. In fact, it’s just a few weeks before it all goes seriously wrong. I’m just so hungry all the time. You’ve been great about making me all sorts of light and healthy meals, but all that low-calorie, sugar-free stuff just doesn’t fill me up like my old favorites used to. Before I went on this diet, food was my greatest pleasure, the only exciting thing I had in my humdrum life. But, all these salads and carrot sticks you’ve got me eating just don’t give me the same rush that my cookies and chips used to. They just make me feel so empty, like everything is so dreary and dull. It’s not long before I start to crave all my old, guilty pleasures again. You’ve been expecting this, of course. And, you’re only too ready to take advantage of my unbearable appetite. Though you’re subtle about it, you go out of your way to tempt me, filling our home up with all those sugary treats you know I just can’t go without, and, sometimes, even eating stuff like pizza right in front of me, while I’m forced to sit here chewing on my rabbit food, as you call it. Is it any wonder that I start to sneak a little snack from time to time—that, within a few weeks, I’m secretly stuffing my face at every chance I can find? I feel terrible about it, of course. You’ve worked so hard to help me, and here I am, gorging like a greedy pig. I feel so hopeless, so weak and pathetic, but I just can’t seem to stop. When I eat, all my worries just fade away. Sure, by the time I’m done I might feel a little guilty, but that only drives me to glut myself more. A month into my diet, you make me step on our scale—which seems, mysteriously, to have turned up again, after having been missing since just after I moved in—to see how many pounds I’ve lost. I know I haven’t exactly been doing perfectly, but I’m still shocked to find that all my secret little snacks have put a whole four pounds on me over the past month. You try to cheer me up, telling me that, since I’ve been doing everything right so far, you’re sure it’s just a matter of time before all this weight starts melting off my figure. But, of course, that only makes me feel worse. As the second month of my diet wears on, you start to tempt me more and more, until you’ve got me taking one cheat day after another on top of all my secret binges. At the end of it, I’m crushed to find that I’ve put on another six pounds. I feel so out of control. I’ve worked so hard, and yet I just keep getting fatter. You waste no time using my despair against me, turning my little cheat days into week-long feasts. By the end of the third month, when you remind me that it’s time for me to step on the scale again, it takes me a while to remember what you’re even talking about. The display finally settles on a whopping 276 pounds, and I just can’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s no way I could have put on more than ten pounds just over the past month, is there? Have I really been eating that much? Am I really that much of a pig? Standing here, looking at those unbelievable numbers, I just can’t help myself. I start to cry, big fat tears rolling down my big fat cheeks. How could I have let things get this bad? You’re only too quick to comfort me, sitting me down in my old spot on the couch with at tub of ice cream in my lap. As I stuff my face, a stream of my melting dessert dribbles down my chin and mixes with my tears as I bare my heart to you, telling you all about how weak and hopeless I feel, about how I’ve been cheating on my diet and binging behind your back. You listen without judgment, and, for a long time, we just sit there and talk as I eat. By the end of the night, you’ve convinced me to give up on my diet for good. After all, food is what makes me happy. If I try to deny myself, I’ll only end up miserable. And anyway, you love me just the way I am. You love every doughy, drooping inch of my blubbery body. So, even if I had the willpower to lose all this weight, which I don’t, why would I ever want to when I’ve got a partner who’s only too happy to let me sit on my ballooning backside and eat to my heart’s content, a partner who would love me even if I was a huge whale of a woman. This time around, those words sound a lot better than they did before. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to just let myself go? To just sit back and eat as you coddle and care for me. I mean, dieting clearly isn’t for me, and since I can’t keep my figure under control, I might as well just give up on it altogether. That way, I’ll never have to worry about it ever again. Sure, it might not be the healthiest way to live, but it beats feeling bad whenever you happen to have a little too much to eat. It’s not like I was ever going to be a model, or anything like that, anyway, so why should I care if I get a little fat? Having a few extra curves on you is hardly the end of the world, is it now? Next morning, you wake me up with a huge breakfast, bigger than any meal I’ve ever seen. As I take in the sheer amount of food you’ve made me, a huge stack of pancakes drowning in syrup and cream, a plateful of scrambled eggs, and a whole package of bacon dripping with grease, you explain that, what with all that’s happened, I deserve to be spoiled a bit more than usual today. From then until nighttime, you hardly let me leave my bed. You do everything for me, keeping me constantly surrounded with all those irresistible foods that I’ve spent the last three months trying so hard to resist, while I just sit here and eat. Soon, I’ve lost myself completely to my appetite. I can’t believe I could ever even have considered giving all of this up. You watch, smiling fondly, as I gorge like I never have before, eating mindlessly like the greedy pig you always knew me to be. You’ve enjoyed seeing me struggle against my inevitable fate, but you’re glad that that part of our story is over now, especially since that means that we can finally get on to the really good bits.

“This is all your fault.” Luca pouted, grabbing her doughy belly as she glared at the man towering over her in bed. “If it wasn’t for you, I would never have ended up like this.”“Is that so?” Thomas, her tall, curly-haired feeder, paused. His stubbled face, with its high cheekbones and aquiline nose, spread into an infuriating smirk as his dark eyes drank in the many rolls and folds of soft flab that his attentions had put on her. “Strange, I don’t remember ever forcing you to eat anything. I mean, I’ll admit I might’ve given you a little push here and there, but if you’d really wanted, you could’ve stopped this anytime you liked.” He leaned in closer, his breath tickling Luca’s once swan-like neck – now hidden under a roll of plush flab – as he whispered in her ear. “But you didn’t, did you? You just kept stuffing your fat face, like the greedy pig I always knew you were. And look at you now …,” his fingers dug cruelly into Luca’s yielding, powerless flesh as he grabbed one of her overripe love handles. “Look what you’ve done to yourself.”Luca gasped as Thomas placed his mouth against the hollow space between her swollen neck and her pillowy shoulder. As his nimble lips suckled her soft flesh and his hands stroked and fondled all her doughy, drooping rolls and folds, she glanced down at her naked body. The tight, trim figure that she’d so enjoyed showing off was long gone. Her tapered waist had spread into an apron of loose, bouncing blubber. Three shapeless rolls, stacked one atop another, covered in a web of pale stretch marks. Her boobs, once round and firm, had turned to flat, sagging sacks of fat. Even her tight buttocks, which had used to look so good in all those figure-hugging jeans she could no longer squeeze herself into, had grown into a pair of wide, shapeless, cellulite-riddled cushions of soft flesh.She knew that he was right, that was the worst of it. Once upon a time, she really could’ve turned him down. She could’ve stopped all this from ever happening – but she hadn’t, and now it was too late. She’d let herself go too far, and now she could no longer turn back.Luca’s line of thought was broken as Thomas teased her full lips with another sugary bar of chocolate. “Open wide, my little pig. You still have a lot of food to get through today.”Luca frowned. “Please,” she looked apprehensively up at the man she’d allowed to ruin her figure, “I’ve already eaten so much today. Can’t we say I’ve had enough already, just this once?”Thomas shook his head, his lips pursed into a look of mock pity. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you know the rules. You’ve still got a few pounds to put on before this month is through. If you want this little thing we’ve got going to continue, you’d better eat every last crumb I tell you to eat. So, go on, open up!” he commanded, his voice still so deceptively kind and gentle as he pushed the sugary treat more forcefully up against her closed mouth.Luca sighed. “I hate you,” she stated, plainly and wearily, as she parted her lips.“Oh, trust me,” Thomas smiled, revealing his distressingly large and prominent canines, “I know. Now, eat!”Just as Luca was about to take a bite out of her scrumptious snack, she froze. From outside her bedroom window, she heard all too well the familiar sound of rubber against asphalt as a car pulled into her driveway. Wasting no time, Thomas shoved her treat in her mouth and vanished from view – hiding under her king-size bed as, downstairs, the front door slid open and a pair of feet, clad in shiny black business shoes, stepped across the threshold.Moving as quickly as her heavy, out of shape body would allow, Luca pulled her blanket up over her naked blubber and turned on the widescreen TV mounted on the wall at the foot of her bed.“Hi sweetie,” she said, feigning a sluggish, sleepy demeanour as her husband walked through the bedroom door.Craig stopped a moment to look at his 370-pound whale of a wife. With his coiffed hair and his smart, charcoal business suit – which emphasized his wide shoulders and his lean, swimmer’s physique – he looked every bit as handsome as ever. The only thing spoiling his appearance was the undisguised grimace of disgust on his clean-shaved, square-jawed face as he took in the sight of the once beautiful woman he’d married.“I thought you were going to be away for the weekend?” asked Luca, trying as best she could to hide the panic and embarrassment in her voice.“Yeah,” Craig shrugged, turning away from her as he opened his closet. “I just need to pick something up, is all.”As Craig rifled through his clothes, looking for whatever it was that he’d come back for, Luca couldn’t help but wonder what the man who had once sworn to love her until death did them part must think of her now. When he’d first fallen for her, she’d still been thin. She’d been a lithe, confident, 120-pound wildcat – a bold, outgoing party girl with a tight, firm body. The kind of woman that any man would be proud to have hanging on his arm.Since then, though, Craig had watched her eat herself to more than three times her old size. What must he think of her now, as she lay there spread out in bed, her immense, naked body surrounded by crumpled wrappers and empty containers, her sheets covered in crumbs and her lips stained with smears of chocolate? It was no wonder he never touched her anymore. Once upon a time, he might at least have scolded her about her out of control appetite, about all the weight she’d gained, but these days he didn’t even bother with that. He’d long since given up on her.From time to time, Luca would wonder if Craig might not have another woman out there, somewhere. Somebody thinner and prettier who wasn’t as weak and lazy as she was. Maybe that was the real reason why he was away all the time?She knew that it was hypocritical, but even after all this time, after all that’d happened, she still hated the thought of it. Enough so to grab another piece of chocolate to distract herself from it.“There,” Craig said, closing his bag, “I’ll be going now.”Luca watched Craig’s broad back as he headed for the door, not even bothering to look at her.“Have a safe trip,” she said, weakly, between bites.At that, Craig stopped a moment, glancing at her over his shoulder.“Thanks,” he said, before vanishing off downstairs. “I’ll leave you to your meal now. Try not to empty the fridge too many times while I’m gone.”As soon as he could be sure Craig had left, Thomas emerged once more from under Luca’s bed.“Now then, my little piglet,” he grinned, slapping her soft, heavy lard-slab of a belly as he grabbed her another piece of chocolate, “where were we?”

The woman on the other side of the drive through window – a dumpy girl with a round, freckled face and a bulging belly that strains against her slightly too tight uniform – smiles as she sees me.“Hi there, Lu,” she says, cheerfully, as she hands me one bag of grease-dripping burgers and fries after another, “here you go, just as you ordered.”“Thanks, Rach,” I smile back at her.“So, another feast for ‘her majesty’ then?” she grins. “How big is she these days?”“Trust me,” I roll my eyes, “you don’t want to know.”‘Her majesty’, as Rachel calls her, is my boss: Michaela Douglas. She’s Rachel’s boss too, actually, in so far as her father, Arthur Douglas, owns the restaurant that she manages. I’ve been in her service for many years now, and in that time, she’s changed quite a bit.On the way back to Michaela’s Manhattan apartment, the deliciously greasy aroma of the feast in the seat beside me permeates my car. My free hand drifts to my midriff, to the blubbery belly that rests in my lap. I know I shouldn’t, but I just can’t resist. I reach over and grab myself a cheeseburger. I cram the delicious thing between my lips and moan as it fills my mouth with grease and sauce. It’s not my fault that I’m like this, not really. This stuff wasn’t made to be resisted. The Douglas Food Conglomerate hasn’t cornered so many markets and left so many swollen waistlines in its wake by selling food that one can easily say no to – especially when one is paid partly in meal coupons.Back when she was thin, Michaela used to joke with me about my weight. She would pinch and poke my growing potbelly. “Looks like you’ve had yourself a few too many burgers, again,” she would tease, “you’d better be careful, or you’ll need another new uniform before long.” Somehow, the spoiled brat of a girl had gotten it in her head that the two of us were friends. Every day, she would make me sit down and listen as she complained about her parents, her friends, and anything else that she could think of. She never listened to anything I had to say, of course. But then, I guess that’s just the way it goes. Over time, she had taken to making up “affectionate” nicknames for me. She’d call me “tubby”, or “porkball”, or “lardy Lucia”. It was enough to drive anybody mad. Especially coming from a girl with a body like hers.Back then, Michaela was tall and thin – with sleek thighs, modest curves, and a curtain of silky, flaxen hair that hung to her midriff. She had the sort of tight, shapely figure that only an obscene amount of money can buy, and she didn’t mind dressing to show it off, usually favouring short skirts, high cut tops, and sandals with high heels. Compared to now, I wasn’t even that big back then. But next to her, with my huge, wide butt and my jiggling gut, I still felt like a sack of potatoes that somebody had tried to squeeze into a maid outfit.One evening, when, after a hard day’s work, Michaela had teased me one time too many, I could no longer hold my tongue. As improper as it was, I couldn’t help but to snap at her.“You know what, Miss, if you had to eat that garbage your dad sells every day, you wouldn’t be so thin either.”For a moment, Michaela’s watery blue eyes grew wide with shock, as though she’d just been slapped. Then, her usually pleasant expression turned suddenly stern.“What was that?” she said, in a flat, prying tone.“I’m sorry, Miss,” I blurted in response, my hand flying to my mouth as though, by covering my lips, I could make her unhear the unkind words that’d just escaped them, “that was out of line.”“Yes,” nodded Michaela, “yes it was. But I guess I can overlook it just this once. Still,” she added, her expression returning to normal, her soft, full lips spreading into an ever so slight smile, “I’m disappointed to hear you trot out that old nonsense. I had thought that you were better than that, but I guess you fatties are all the same – all so eager to blame somebody else for your own lack of self-control. If you can’t keep your appetite in check, then that’s hardly our fault. It’s not like anybody is making you eat three double bacon cheeseburgers a day.”“With respect Miss, it’s not that simple,” I objected, sullenly. “You don’t know what that food is like. Once you’ve started eating it just gets so hard to stop. If you’d spent ages eating that stuff, you wouldn’t be able to go without it either, you’d be addicted too.”Michaela rolled her eyes. “Oh sweetie,” she said, patting my chubby cheek, “are you even hearing yourself here? That’s the worst fat girl excuse I’ve ever heard. There’s nothing wrong with our food. Why, I bet I could eat at one of my dad’s restaurants every day for a year without even developing a hint of an addiction. Because, you see, unlike you I have a little something called ‘self-control’.”I frowned, when I’d started working for Michaela, a little over three years ago, I’d been thin and fit, confident and full of energy. Now, I was anything but. I was a plain pudgeball with a huge butt and no life outside of food. As the pounds had piled onto my once curvy frame, any hint of my old self-confidence had evaporated. No matter what she said, I knew it was Michaela’s fault that I’d ended up like this. If I’d never started working for the pampered little teen heiress, I’d still have been slim and pretty. I wouldn’t be spending my days watching TV and grazing on fries as my ass spread beneath me.“Is that so,” I said, a sharp note in my voice. “Then, if it’s alright with you, Miss, I think I’ll take you up on that bet.”“What?” Michaela looked at me, raising one uncomprehending eyebrow.“If you can quit cold turkey after eating at one of your dad’s restaurants every day for a year, I’ll admit that I’m just a hopeless fatty. If not, then I want you to apologise to me.”Michaela hesitated a moment. But, as competitive as she was, I knew there was no way she’d turn me down.“Fine,” she said, having collected herself, “you’re on. This should be easy as pie. But, I’m afraid the stakes here seem a little low to me. So, how about this? If you lose this little bet, I get to film you and livestream you eating off the floor, without even so much as using your hands, just like the little pig you are.”I paused, the idea didn’t exactly appeal to me, but I’d gone too far to back down now.“Fine,” I nodded, “but in that case, if you lose then you, um… then you’ll have to do the same.”“Yeah,” Michaela smirked, “there’s no way that’ll ever happen. Still,” she reached out her hand, “you’ve got yourself a deal.” *** For as long as I’d known her, Michaela’s parents had always kept her on a strict diet. They’d made sure that the only foods she had access to were ones that were light and healthy, ones that wouldn’t induce cravings or add unnecessary inches to her waist. As such, Michaela’s first taste of fast food proved to be quite an experience for her.When she first walked into her father’s restaurant, she made quite an impression. With her lean curves and her designer clothes, she stood out like a sore thumb among the broad, sweatpant-clad bottoms and flabby guts of the other guests.While Michaela took herself a seat in one of the restaurant’s booths, I headed off to place our order.“Is that who I think it is?” said Rachel, glancing surreptitiously towards Michaela as I approached the counter.“Yup,” I nodded and filled her in on our little wager.Back then, Rachel wasn’t yet the quivering ball of a woman that she is now. But, over the year that she’d worked there, the restaurant’s fattening food had already added more than a few pounds to her once slight frame. Her face had softened and her waist had spread into a protruding potbelly and a pair of hanging love handles that oozed over the edge of her pants. Like me, her days as a thin beauty were far behind her.Over the last few months, the two of us had gotten to know each other. We had bonded over burgers and fries as we bitched about our expanding waistlines. Once I’d filled her in on the situation, Rachel was every bit as eager as me to see skinny little Michaela chow down on the food that paid for her easy life.“Hey,” she grinned, “why don’t we add a milkshake to your order. You know, a little something on the house for ‘her highness’ over there.”I nodded eagerly. “Make sure to add some extra fries as well. And why don’t we change her coke from zero to regular?”Once I’d placed her tray before her, Michaela sceptically studied her order, a single cheeseburger and a small bag filled with as many fries as it could possibly hold. Next to mine, it was pathetically tiny. But, even so, it contained way more sugar and empty calories than the spoiled teen usually got in a day.“This looks disgusting, do you really eat this stuff every day?”“Yes Miss,” I nodded. “Now, please enjoy your meal.”After a moment’s hesitation, Michaela unwrapped her burger and took her first bite. As her teeth dug through all that bread, beef and cheese and her mouth filled with grease and sauce, her eyes widened. Swiftly, she took a second bite and then a third. In just a few minutes, she shoved the entire meal in between her full lips, leaving not so much as a single crumb on her tray.“That wasn’t so bad, right?” I asked.“It was alright, I guess,” she shrugged, trying to look as unaffected as she possibly could.As I continued with my own meal, I caught Michaela looking jealously at me as I devoured my far larger burger, dripping with sauce and melted cheese.“Would you like some more? I could get you another cheeseburger if you like?”Michaela hesitated a moment.“Well,” she said, “I guess one more couldn’t do much harm, right? Just this once, I mean.”“Of course not,” I nodded.“And while you’re at it, as long as I’m splurging, could you refill this for me as well?” she added, handing me the milkshake cup she’d just drained.“Of course, Miss,” I said, a smirk on my face as I headed off to fetch my mistress her second helping. *** Over the next few months, as we continued with our daily fast food trips, Michaela’s order gradually started to grow. At first, she would occasionally add another cheeseburger, some extra fries and a milkshake to her child-sized meal. Then, soon enough, she was chowing down on the biggest, most artery-clogging, triple bacon cheese burgers that the place had to offer. Her milkshakes went from an occasional indulgence to a daily treat, and, with some cajoling from me and Rachel, she even started to have herself a regular cup of soft-serve ice cream drenched in chocolate syrup for dessert.Somehow, Michaela hardly even seemed to notice as her daily meal grew into a huge feast. She would sit in her booth, mindlessly stuffing her face as her figure swelled. It’d taken a while for her new diet to catch up with her. But, a few months into out little wager, my once slim and sensuous mistress had gotten noticeably fatter. Her pretty face had turned soft and pudgy, her tight and shapely backside had been covered in a layer of loose, drooping flab, and her once taut tummy had started to poke out of her shirt, turning into a jiggly, bloated muffin-top. The gorgeous goddess of a woman had been transformed into a plain chunkster. An overweight girl who looked more than a little trashy as she walked around with all her fat oozing out of her hopelessly tight designer clothes.Though it was obvious to everybody who saw her, Michaela seemed deep in denial as to the severity of her gain. She knew that she’d gotten bigger, of course, but she seemed to think that it was no big deal. Perhaps she was just overwhelmed by the rapid pace at which she was growing, her body having been hopelessly unprepared for the sort of calorie-rich diet, mostly lacking in actual nutrition, that she was now subjecting it to. Or, perhaps, she assumed that she could lose the weight any time she wanted, without much effort. Either way, she continued to indulge as her body grew heavier and thicker.Four months into her challenge, Michaela had grown to look every bit like a regular customer at one of her father’s restaurants. Her figure had turned sloppy and soft, her once alert and intelligent eyes had grown dull and drowsy.Though I knew it wasn’t very nice of me, I couldn’t help but to be a bit excited at the way my mistress was changing. The haughty, beautiful girl who had made me feel so ugly and pathetic was well on her way to turning into a lazy, obese cow of a woman. Still, even so, I couldn’t help but to worry about her a little. When I’d started her on this challenge, I’d never expected Michaela to change as much or as quickly as she had. Perhaps I hadn’t realised just how vulnerable the sheltered little princess of a girl would be to all the many temptations that the real world had to offer.Michaela’s situation finally came to a head when, one very busy day, after having stuffed an unusually large feast into her bloated belly, she accidentally dropped her purse to the ground as she was about to get up and leave. Without thinking, she bent down to pick it up. The next thing she knew, a large rip sounded from the seat of her pants as the seams finally gave way to her excess flesh, leaving her cellulite-riddled butt bare for all to see.Michaela bolted upright, her belly bouncing as she moved her hands to cover the tear in the back of her favourite jeans. But it was already too late, she’d already embarrassed herself in front of a great number of the restaurant’s regulars and staff. As she hurriedly shuffled out the door, the other patrons did their best to avert their eyes from the unseemly sight.During the drive home, Michaela said very little. She just sat there in the backseat, staring out her window and shovelling down spoonful after spoonful of the extra-large cup of ice cream I’d bought to help cheer her up. *** From that day on, it was a long time before Michaela ever set foot in that restaurant again. Over the next few months, she mostly stopped going outside – preferring to stay home in her ever-shrinking jammies and sweats, busying herself with her huge home cinema system, and stuffing her face with all the take-out that she would have me bring her.Once she’d started to send me out to get her food, Michaela’s appetite soon went completely out of control. After a few months, she would make me head off on as many as four trips a day to her father’s restaurant.The junk food that she was consuming in such quantities was obviously having a huge effect on her. As her body ballooned at an alarming rate, her brain seemed to be rotting away. She could no longer seem to focus properly. She had no energy, no willpower. The once sharp-witted girl was now ruled entirely by her unbearable cravings. The quick rush she got from the calorie-laden goodies manufactured by her family business seemed to be the only thing that could make her happy.In a little less than a year, Michaela Douglas had grown to be all but unrecognisable. Her face was round and fleshy, with ripe cheeks and a wobbling second chin. Her belly stuck out past her boobs and hung down to cover her crotch. Her buttocks had turned to a pair of drooping, shapeless cushions. Her blob-like thighs would rub against each other and force her into an exaggerated waddle whenever she tried to walk.As her body blew up with fat, Michaela slowly stopped teasing me about my weight. She rarely talked much, preferring simply to lose herself in her appetite.With the way she’d isolated herself over the past year, it’d been a long time since Michaela had last seen her parents. The two of them were very busy people. They spent most of their time either working or travelling around the world. As such, they found themselves in for a nasty surprise when, one day, they decided to take their beloved, beautiful daughter out for a fancy dinner.All throughout the evening, the two of them couldn’t stop staring in horror at the soft, doughy belly resting in their daughter’s lap, at the flabby, cushion-like butt cheeks that filled up her seat. As she sat there, poking at the healthy and hideously expensive food that’d once used to make up the majority of her diet, my poor mistress found herself the target of a constant barrage of weight-related criticism, of little digs at her shape and size. By the time I drove her home, she looked as miserable as I’d ever seen her.“Hey, Miss?” I asked, carefully, “how about we go and get ourselves a little snack?”At that, Michaela’s round, flabby face lit up just a little.“Yeah,” she nodded, “that sounds good.”As we pulled into the drive through of her father’s restaurant, we found Rachel waiting on the other side of the window. It’d been a few months since the cheerful fast food worker had last seen Michaela. As such, she found herself more than a bit surprised at just how huge the girl had grown. Her eyes widened at the sight of her. All the while she couldn’t stop staring at the bloated heiress out of the corner of her eye.Michaela tried as best she could to avoid Rachel’s gaze while I ordered her as much food as I thought her stomach could possibly hold. Then, once we’d gotten our meals, I parked the car and watched Michaela devour every last crumb that I’d bought her, eating herself into an agonized food coma. *** Once, finally, a year had passed, Michaela seemed to have forgotten all about our wager. The sedentary ball of a girl started her day in the same way she always did. She called me into her room at eleven o’clock, after she’d just woken up, and ordered me to head off and buy her a huge breakfast.“I’m sorry miss,” I said, “but have you forgotten what day it is?”Michaela stared uncomprehendingly at me for a moment.“We had a bet, remember? If you could stop cold turkey after eating at one of your father’s restaurants for a year, you’d get to film me while I ate off the floor like a pig for you. If not... well, I’m sure you remember. Anyway, it’s been a year now? Are you sure you really want that food? I mean, I certainly wouldn’t mind if you did, but it’s up to you.”As she looked at me, Michaela’s eyes seemed to water at the thought of having to go without all those greasy goodies that had so taken over her life – that had, at this point, come to be her one and only pleasure.“Fine,” she said at length and rolled over in bed. “I guess you’ll just have to make me something then.”“Very well, Miss,” I said, turning to head off to the kitchenAs I started to make Michaela her breakfast, I couldn’t help but to feel a pang of sympathy for her. I’d never meant for this whole thing to go this far. Never, in a million years, had I thought that my mistress would ever let herself get this fat, that she would ever let herself go to this degree. These days, the poor, spoiled brat made for a sad sight.Still, if I was perfectly honest with myself, I didn’t exactly mind having a lazy, out of control butterball for a mistress. In fact, in her current form, Michaela was a lot more pleasant and a lot easier to deal with than she had been when she was haughty and thin. Now, that she spent her days in her room, lazing about and stuffing her face, I had a lot more free-time. And, since I’d become her one and only source of human contact, and of the fatty foods she craved, she’d long since stopped making fun of me. At this point, she was at least sixty pounds heavier than I’d ever been, so she couldn’t exactly get away with calling me fat anymore.In the end, I very much preferred Michaela as she was. In fact, I thought she could probably do to put on a few pounds more. Still, even so, I felt like I at least owed my mistress a fair chance. As such, I made her a healthy, low calorie meal that was as filling as it possibly could be.Once I’d served it to her, Michaela ate her food without much pleasure. Whether or not it filled her, it didn’t give her the rush that she’d come to depend on. The healthy food that’d once used to satisfy her now left her hopelessly miserable.A few hours after I’d served her breakfast, I could hear the floorboards creak under Michaela’s feet. I watched from the shadows as, with her fat bulging out of her hopelessly undersized sweats, she snuck out the front door of her apartment and headed off out into the city. About half an hour later, Rachel sent me a short video on her phone. It showed Michaela sitting in her old booth, her bare belly resting in her lap as she stuffed one handful of fries after another into her fat, food-smeared face. *** The next day, Michaela was awoken by the wonderful scent of all those fatty foods that she’d so come to love. Sitting herself up in bed with a big grin on her face, she opened her eyes. Her smile swiftly faded. On the floor before her, lay a huge feast. A trough filled with fast food, enough to fill even her oversized stomach. “I believe we had a deal,” I said.“But, but,” she protested, her lip wobbling, “I haven’t had a single bite of fast food since the day before yesterday.”“Is that so?” I said, turning on Michaela’s tv to show her the video Rachel had recorded yesterday.At that, Michaela deflated.“Do, I really have to do this?” she asked, pathetically.“Well,” I shrugged, “this whole thing was your idea. So, yeah, you kinda do. If you want your food, you’ll have to get it from the trough.”Michaela hesitated a moment. She just sat there, staring at all that food – her eyes filling with tears as her mouth watered. Finally, she pushed her covers aside and got down on all fours. As she did so, I pushed a button on her TV, switching the channel to a live feed from the camera that I’d set up to record her.At first, Michaela seemed to hesitate as she dug her face into all that junk. But soon, her appetite took over. Once she was a few minutes into her feast, the 260-pound porkball hardly seemed to be aware of what was going on around her. Her belly, which had slipped out of her pants, dangled to and fro as she gorged. With her face shoved into her feed and her pink flesh oozing out of her undersized jammies, she really did look every bit like an overfed pig.By the time she’d had every last crumb that she could take, she rolled over on her side. Her gaze was glassy and dull, her chin smeared in grease and sauce. She let out a loud groan as she rubbed her painfully stretched stomach.In the five years since, it’s gotten harder and harder to carry all this food from the garage up to Michaela’s penthouse, especially as I’ve put on a few pounds myself since this whole thing started. In all that time, very little has happened in the life of my young mistress. Her father, embarrassed by what she has turned herself into, has all but ordered me to hide her away from public view, to make sure that she never strays from her room and never shows her face outside. Michaela hardly minds, of course. At this point, she doesn’t really want to do anything but to sit around and eat. She’s happiest as she is, sealed off in her own little world, with a constant supply of food to munch on.Tired from the walk in through her massive and mostly abandoned penthouse, I enter her room. Or, rather, her pen, as I’ve come to think of it. Michaela looks drowsily up at me. Her chin rests on a swollen cushion of her own fat. Her features have sunken so far between her plush cheeks that her flab has come to entirely define her face. At this point, the pale, naked blob of loose dough spread out on the bed before me is hardly recognisable as the woman she once was. Her fat has robbed her of any shape she once had.These days, my mistress can only move with great effort. She can no longer get out of bed on her own, and she relies on my help to wash and take care of her. Most of the time, her fat keeps her trapped on her mattress. Her room could probably stand to be cleaned, but I have to admit that I enjoy seeing her like this – surrounded by the crumbs and empty wrappers from her latest feast.Sitting down on the side of her bed, I stroke her massive beanbag of a belly and feel as her soft flesh yields to my fingers.“Good morning, Miss,” I smile and give her flab a little slap, setting off ripples through the rolls of her body. “I’ve brought you your breakfast.”Michaela raises her eyes just a little, glancing with obvious longing towards the many bags of greasy fast food that I’ve placed by the side of her bed. Then, she leans back and opens her mouth.“Good girl,” I say and stuff her first burger of the day in between her lips. “You’ve got a lot of food to get through today, so you’d better start chewing.”Michaela doesn’t answer me. She just keeps on eating, adding even more calories to her obese body. A body built by the very food that has bought the hopeless blob of a girl her comfortable life.

Thanks! That's usually what I aim for. Thank you! And yeah, I figured it was past time, really.

I know I shouldn’t. All that ice cream will only end up as more padding on my already far too flabby thighs. I need to be strong, need to control myself. If I keep eating like this, I’ll never lose a single pound.“What’ll it be miss?” asks the man behind the counter. I can’t help but feel as though he’s judging me as I stand there with my doughy belly poking out from under my too tight t-shirt, my blubbery backside outlined only too well by the strained pair of pink slacks that used to be my fat pants only a few months ago.“Um, well, a chocolate sundae, please,” I say, quietly, my gaze locked on the logo on his apron rather than on his face.“Right,” he nods. “Go ahead and grab yourself a seat and I’ll be out with your order in a few minutes.”Well, so much for strength, I guess. As the clerk prepares my little treat, I pick out a small table at the back, one where hardly anyone can see me. Minutes later, he arrives to place a large beaker of ice cream, drowning in chocolate fudge, on my table before vanishing again without a word. This isn’t the first time he’s seen me. I’ve been coming here every day for almost a year now, giving him a front row seat to my transformation from fat to fatter.As soon as he’s vanished from view, I dig in. That cold ice cream, drowned in that warm, sugary chocolate sauce, is just too good. With every bite I take, all my worries seem to fade just a little further from my mind.Why do I have to be like this? What would she say if she could see me now? Fatter than ever, even after all I said to her.This isn’t how this was supposed to go. I’m supposed to be losing weight, to be getting my life back under control. It’s just not fair. Why does this damn ice cream have to be so damn tempting?“Alice, is that you?”Oh no! Not now, not here of all places.Slowly, like a deer caught in the headlights, I turn to look behind me. There she is: Yvonne, every bit as thin, pretty, and perfect as ever. With her lean figure, her wide, twinkling eyes, her sultry, sensuous lips, and her long, flowing, golden hair, she’s everything that I’m not.“Hi,” I say, desperately wishing I was somewhere else, “how have you been?”Yvonne smiles, a radiant smile that lights up her slim, shapely face, with its sloping cheeks and slight, subtle chin. I don’t have sloping cheeks, only a set of ripe, round ones. I do, however, have plenty of chins.“Oh, you know, pretty good,” she says. “How about you?” She leans in towards me, her slim, well-manicured fingers ever so slightly squeezing the soft roll of flab bulging out from under my too-tight shirt. “Looks like you’ve really been enjoying your food since I last saw you,” she giggles.“Yeah, I guess …,” I look down at my table; my ears are getting warm.“Strange, I thought you were supposed to be on a diet? I seem to remember you saying something about that the last time I saw you. Guess that hasn’t been going too well, huh?”“No,” I sigh, “not really.”Yvonne pulls out a chair and sits down across from me. For a moment she just looks at me, her teasing smile gradually turning into something warmer.“It’s nice to see you again,” she says, leaning closer towards me over the table. “How about we get some more ice cream and catch up?”“I don’t know,” I try to object. “I really shouldn’t …” But she’s already headed off to order me another sundae. *** Yvonne and I first met a couple of years ago. I’ve never been what you’d call thin, but that was when I really started to blow up.I fell for her pretty much the moment I saw her, though it took me a while to really figure it out. She was so stylish and elegant, so pretty and petite—everything I could never dream of being. When we were together, I just couldn’t stop looking at her. Soon, I found myself thinking about her every minute of every day, like I never had about anyone before.For a long time, I wouldn’t let myself believe that she could possibly feel the same way. I mean, with my flabby body and my messy, curly, dark hair, I was so chubby and plain, so average in every way. I knew perfectly well that someone like her could never be interested in someone like me. No matter how happy she was to spend time with me, or how eager she was to touch me, I just wouldn’t let myself believe it. In the end, I only caught on when, late one night, after she’d gotten tired of flirting and waiting for me to take the hint, Yvonne reached out to gently stroke my chubby cheek before, suddenly, planting a careful kiss on my lips. The conversation that followed was the most awkward and wonderful I’ve ever had.At the time, we were both students, her and I. We spent our days in lecture halls or in libraries with our noses stuck in various textbooks. Though she was perhaps a bit better at all that than me. While I worked on my English degree, Yvonne studied nutrition. She knew all there was to know about food, including how to make the most fattening and addictive meals you could ever imagine. She wasn’t slow to turn all that knowledge against me.I’ve never really been the kind to exercise much, or to watch what I eat. I’m a natural couch potato, basically. So, even before I met Yvonne, college hadn’t exactly been kind to my figure. Once the two of us had gotten together, though, I soon blew up like never before. Yvonne found it only too easy to use all my weaknesses against me. She knew what a spoiled slug I was, and she was only too happy to indulge and enable all my worst habits.Oh, how she spoiled me; oh, how I ate. Back when we were together, she did everything for me, to the point where I rarely had to move so much as a muscle. All I had to do, as far as she was concerned, was sit on my fat ass and eat all those delicious treats that her dark arts would conjure for me. As the months passed, it got harder and harder for me to say no, harder and harder for me to stop. Before long, I’d completely lost track of how much I was eating. My life had turned into one huge feast. By the time the year drew to an end, I’d put on nearly forty pounds. Putting me, for the first time in my life, at well over 220.Much as I loved every minute of my life with Yvonne, my ballooning body was starting to worry me. I knew I was putting on weight, but it wasn’t until I went back home for the holidays that I realised just how far I’d let myself go.Two weeks of my mom asking whether I really needed that second helping, two weeks of being called “tubby” by my skinny little sister, was all I needed to make me realise just how fat I’d gotten. And then, there was the last straw: having to squirm for nearly five minutes to get into the new jeans my mom had bought me, only to burst out of them a few hours later. As I stood there, in my old bedroom, with my pale flab oozing out between ripped seams, I knew that something had to be done. Then and there, I swore that I was going to get myself together. That, one day, no matter what, these jeans were going to fit me like a glove.Yvonne proved less than supportive of my new plans. She told me not to worry about it, that I’d be much happier if I just let myself eat. When that didn’t work, she told me there was no point pretending to be something I wasn’t.“Sweetie,” she said, fondly shaking her head, “we both know you’re too lazy and out of shape to exercise for very long, and there’s no way you’ll manage to stay off the food for more than a few days. If I were you, I’d save myself the trouble and just forget about this whole thing.”It took every ounce of strength I had not to give into her. In the end, I told her that we were on a break, that, when next she saw me, I'd be every bit as fit and thin as she was. She just smiled.And now here I am, even fatter than when I left her. *** I suck down another spoonful of ice cream. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m supposed to be on a diet, supposed to be working my ass off until I can finally fit into those old jeans again. I need to stop this, to get myself together. I need to put my spoon down and just not take another bite. But I don’t.Greedily, I shovel more and more of my delicious, runny treat into my fleshy face. It’s so good. I don’t stop eating until, finally, my spoon hits the bottom of the beaker.“You sure were hungry,” Yvonne grins, looking at me with her big, bedroom eyes.I lean back in my chair, a low groan escaping from the depths of my cold, stuffed stomach.“It’s no wonder you haven’t lost any of that weight.”“Gee, thanks,” I mumble, my face red and hot. “This is all your fault, you know.”“Is that so?” she giggles, her voice like a clear, tinkling, silver bell. “Looks to me like you’ve been doing pretty well without my help.”I glance at the bulging belly resting in my lap, at the soft, pale slope of fat sticking out from under my shirt, which still fit the last time I saw her. No matter how I try, I can find no words to explain away all the pounds and inches that’ve settled on my figure in her absence.Suddenly, Yvonne places her slender fingers on top of mine.“You know, I really miss you.”I blink and try to look away. But I just can’t help being drawn in by those big, glittering, green eyes.“Yeah, me too,” I mumble, unable to stop myself.Yvonne smiles and squeezes my chubby hand, before suddenly checking the watch on her wrist.“Sorry, got to go,” she says apologetically. “But if you want, you can stop by my place tomorrow evening. I’d love to catch up some more.”Then, all of a sudden, she’s gone. I watch without a word as, with a wave, she heads out the door. *** It’s the middle of the night; I can’t sleep. Instead, I just sit on my bed, staring at my closet, at all the cute clothes there that no longer fit me. The jeans mom gave me for Christmas nearly a year ago hang there in plain sight. I saved them, hoping that they’d help motivate me to lose weight. Now, I can’t even squeeze them up over my way too broad butt. They just keep getting smaller. Or, well, I just keep getting bigger.I know what’ll happen if I go to see Yvonne. I know I won’t be able to resist whatever temptations she has to throw my way. If I go, there’s no chance I’ll ever wear those jeans again.But then again, it’s not like I’ve been doing all that well on my own. If I’m going to keep getting fatter anyway, I might as well go. At least then I’ll have somebody to appreciate me for the lazy lardass I am. And anyway, it’s just a visit, nothing more. I’m probably just being overdramatic. Even if I do want to lose all this weight, it couldn’t hurt to visit her just this once. *** With a lump in my throat, I ring the doorbell to Yvonne’s apartment. As I wait for her to open, I tug at my clothes—straightening them just to keep my hands occupied. Instead of wearing my usual slacks—the only clothes I have that are really comfortable anymore—I’ve tried to put on something nice—a cute top that still sort of fits and a pair of sea-green pants that I can still squeeze into if I suck in my gut a bit. They aren’t comfortable, the pants are so tight that I struggle to bend my legs, they dig so hard into my fluttering stomach that I can barely breathe. I don’t look good in them, but at least I look like I tried.The door opens and Yvonne greets me with a beaming smile.“Hey there, you’re earlier than I thought,” she says, pursing her lips as she looks me over. “You look nice,” she adds, gesturing to the outfit that my rolls are poking out of like rising dough.“Thanks,” I say with a nervous giggle, trying my best to sound casual.She invites me in and sits me down in my old spot on the couch—the place where I gained most of this weight. On the coffee-table beside me stands a plate piled with delicious-looking donuts.“I thought you might like a little snack,” she says, gesturing for me to take one.Without so much as stopping to think, I do as she’s told me to. “Well, I guess just one won’t hurt,” I say, but I know it will.Yvonne sits down beside me, and for a while we just talk—about how we’ve been, what we’ve been doing. All that. One by one, the donuts disappear, vanishing into my greedy gut until there’s not even one left.“Oh dear,” Yvonne lets out a girlish giggle, “looks like we’re out of snacks already. I’ll go get you some more?”I open my mouth to object, but she’s already headed off. Soon, she returns with an even larger plate of fattening treats. Before I can get a word out, she’s pushed one gently past my lips. Once I’ve tasted it, I can’t help myself. It’s heavenly, so rich, creamy, and sweet—so deliciously bad for my figure. As soon as I’ve swallowed it, Yvonne pushes another on me.“I made these myself,” she says. “I hope you like them.”“I shouldn’t …” I object meekly, knowing perfectly well that, sooner or later, I will.“Oh, really?” Yvonne teases. “Why not?”“Because, well … because I’ll get fat.”“Honey,” she grabs herself a handful of my soft, squeezable love handles, “you already are.”My heart leaps in my chest; my ears are so terribly hot, my overstretched stomach feels like it’s fluttering with as many butterflies as it can possibly hold.“I know … I know. But …”“But …?”At this point, I’m all but drooling. The treat she’s pushing on me smells so good. I want it so bad. Desperately, I try to recall some reason, any reason, why I shouldn’t just let my appetite take me away. Why I shouldn’t just start eating and never stop. I know there are reasons—good ones, probably. But, somehow, I just can’t seem to remember them.Still, I try as hard as I can to resist. If I take that bite, I know, it’ll be like giving up, like admitting that I’m exactly the weak, gluttonous pig that she thinks I am.Yvonne leans in towards me. “Go on,” she whispers in my ear, pushing the donut more forcefully up against my lips.I can’t help myself. I take a bite, just a small one, and then another, and another, and another …“That’s my girl,” Yvonne smiles sultrily, patting my hanging, jellylike belly.As one donut vanishes, another is brought to my lips. I dig in without thought, savouring all that delicious sugar that I know will only further ruin my already hopelessly lost figure. God, I’ve missed all this! *** “Ugh,” I moan as I cradle my tightly packed tummy, “I’m so full.”“Oh sweetie,” Yvonne coos as she rubs my naked belly, “you’re such a greedy girl.”I answer her only with a loud burp. I’m too stuffed to talk, too stuffed to think. All I can do is sit here and stare dozily off into space, with my heavy belly resting atop my unbuttoned pants and hanging out of my hopelessly snug shirt.“Hey, come to think,” Yvonne grins mischievously, “weren’t you supposed to be on a diet, or something? I seem to remember you mentioning something like that …”I’m trapped, and I know it. I knew it before I ever set foot here. The last several months might as well never have happened. Yvonne’s still got me wrapped around her little finger, literally eating out of her hand.“This is all your fault,” I moan, trying to convince myself more than her. “It’s all because you keep tempting me.”“Of course, dear,” she says, her voice calm and soothing. “Of course …” *** The next morning, I open my eyes to find the sun shining through the spacious windows of Yvonne’s sparsely decorated studio apartment. I’m still spread out on her couch; she’s nowhere to be seen. As—slowly and sluggishly—I sit myself up, my naked boobs swaying to and fro before settling on my bulging belly as I yawn and stretch out my chubby arms, I notice a neatly folded piece of paper on the coffee-table beside me.Back in a few hours, it says, the letter looks to have been written in red lipstick. There’s breakfast in the kitchen and plenty of snacks in the fridge.The note is signed with a bright, red kiss. Having read it, I look nervously around the room before placing my own lips against the impression left behind by Yvonne’s.The breakfast that my thin, gorgeous girlfriend has left me turns out to be exactly what you’d expect. A huge mountain of pancakes drowning in syrup and cream—every bit as delicious as it is disastrous for my figure. I eat every last bite without a second thought. I’m tired of watching my weight, of trying to control myself and feeling like a failure when, inevitably, I give in. I can’t do it anymore. I never really could. If I’m going to be a fatty anyway, I might as well eat like one. *** And that was that. Once Yvonne and I had gotten back together, she wasted no time getting to work on me. To her, my surrender was a license to stuff me like she never had before, to keep me locked up in her apartment and turn my life into an endless feast.As I continue to eat and grow, Yvonne makes sure I never have to lift even a finger for myself. She takes care of everything for me while I sit on her couch, consuming a constant diet of TV dramas and fast food, to soften me in both body and mind.Over the last couple of years, I’ve piled on the pounds like never before. I’ve blown up with fat to the point that I hardly recognise my own reflection anymore. When I look at it, it’s hard to see anything other than the huge, helpless ball of a woman that she’s turned me into. I always knew Yvonne wanted to put some padding on me, but I never thought she’d go this far.Now, when I move, all my blubber jiggles and sways. I’m a mass of drooping rolls, with a belly that hangs like an apron over my thighs and a butt far too wide for any regular chair to hold. I haven’t stepped on the scale in a few months now, but last time it told me that I was creeping up on 400 pounds.Yvonne, meanwhile, is as slim as ever. Next to her, I feel like a huge, unwieldy hippo of a girl. She’s made me so much fatter than I’d ever dreamed, but at this point I’m too hungry and out of shape to care. I don’t even bother to keep track of how much I eat anymore. It feels like I never stop.It’s hard to imagine that I ever even considered going on a diet. These days, the very thought is enough to strike fear into my heart. I’m far too hungry, far too addicted to all that delicious food Yvonne always makes me. I can’t even go fifteen minutes without a snack anymore.One day, as I work my way through another plate of Yvonne’s cookies, I notice my thin feeder heading for the door with a huge, plastic bag full of clothes strung over her shoulder. Peeking over the top, I see the legs of my old jeans, the ones I used to be so desperate to fit into. These days, I doubt I could even pull them up over my calves.“Where are you going?” I ask between bites.Yvonne stops to look at me a moment. “Oh, you know, I figured I’d turn some of your old clothes over to charity. They’re a bit big for me, and it’s not like you’re ever going to wear them again.” She glances meaningfully at the heavy belly resting between my tremendous thighs. “That ok with you?”“Yeah, sure,” I shrug and grab another cookie.“Want me to get you anything while I’m out? Some ice cream, maybe?”“Yes please!” I nod eagerly, setting my chins quivering.“Alright then.” She smiles, her slim fingers grabbing my soft belly as she leans in to plant a kiss on my round and overly chubby cheek. “Now, you just stay right there, fatty. And remember, I want to see each and every one of these gone by the time I get back.” She gestures at the mountain of cookies I’m making my way through.Yvonne closes the door behind her; I grab another cookie. I still have a lot of food to get through today, a lot of pounds to add to my already immense body. All for her pleasure.

My stomach screams for food, but I can’t move -- not yet, not until he tells me to. My hand rests on my lower belly. My thick, sausage-like fingers sit there, sinking ever so slightly into my plush, yielding flesh. He stops a moment to look at them. Stroking his sharp, black beard as, through the lenses of his concave glasses, he studies the way the golden light of the morning sun plays upon the smooth skin of my swollen digits. Then he returns to his work, the veins and muscles of his forearm shifting as, subtly, with great care, he moves his brush across a tiny patch of his vast canvas.I haven’t eaten for nearly an hour, every cell in my body yearns for sugar and fat, for a rich feast to fill the yawning chasm within me. But I know it’ll be a while yet before I can, finally, dig my teeth into my first post-breakfast snack for the day. And so, as I lie here, reclined in bed, contained within vast, weighty cushions of my own flesh, I do my best to distract myself from my gnawing hunger, my unrelenting urge to eat.The wall before me is covered in sketches and paintings. His past depictions of me, displayed in chronological order. Furthest to the left, by the narrow door leading to the steep basement steps, hang a great number of his pieces from when the two of us had just met. As I look at them, those old creations still seem so very beautiful, so evocative and arresting. As I study them, I find I can hardly remember the girl that they depict.Was I ever that thin? Was my body ever as sleek and shapely as his sketches would suggest? Were my eyes ever so startling as those in his portraits? Was my gaze ever so confident, so playful and alluring? Could I really strike and hold all those graceful poses with such ease?Even back then -- when I was thin and pretty and only too aware of it -- I found it hard to believe that I could really be as beautiful as the girl in his drawings. From the moment we first met, from the moment I first learned how his eyes saw me, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the beautiful goddess I’d seen on the pages of his sketchbook. As silly as it may seem, I couldn’t help but to feel as though he’d seen right through me, as though his gaze had pierced through all my put-ons and pretensions to capture something buried deep beneath. Some hidden potential, perhaps, that even I, myself, could not see.Little did I know then how right I was.Back then, he seemed like such a kind man. He was so charming and sweet, a relaxed romantic with a sharp sense of humour. When he asked me out, only a few weeks after we’d first met, I was only too happy to say yes. Before long, I had fallen hopelessly in love with him.All these old drawings, these hauntingly beautiful depictions of my former self, are ordered around one, huge centrepiece. A vast painting that shows me, reclined in bed, my naked body on display in all its past glory. As I look at it, I can’t help but to marvel at its beauty, at the beauty of the woman depicted there.Her hair is dark and luscious, it flows like silk down her shoulders. Her eyes, framed by long lashes, are a sparkling green; her body is lean and limber, a collection of solid, subtle curves. As I look at her, at her tapered waist and her flat stomach, at her firm, round breasts and her tight, callipygous butt, at her sleek, slender thighs, and the negative space that divides them, I can’t help but to feel just a little wistful. Did I really use look like that?As the girl in the painting stares back at me with her coy, come hither smile, I can’t help but to wonder what she would think if she could see me now. If she could see what fate has in store for her. What the man she loves has made of her. These days, her smile, which once struck me as confident and knowing, seems so hopelessly innocent and naïve.A little further to the right on that wall, the changes start. Slowly, my perfect frame starts to soften, my boobs lose their former firmness and start, ever so slightly, to sag. I watch as my belly starts to bulge, as my wasp waist is lost under a pair of wobbling love-handles, as my buttocks turn juicy and soft, losing their solid shape, as the space separating my thighs is filled in with layers of loose dough.I turn my eye to his portraits and watch as my goddess-like face grows rounder, turning soft and cherubic, with a pair of chubby cheeks and a slight second chin. As they sit amidst my new layers of plush flab, my eyes no longer seem quite as large and startling as they once were. My smile has lost a smidge of its old, easy confidence.At first, my gain was slow. A couple of pounds here, a couple of inches there. It all happened so gradually that I hardly noticed. But, then again, perhaps I didn’t want to notice. He made it so easy for me to stay mired in denial, to ignore what he was doing to me.Once the two of us had moved in together, only a few months after we had first started dating, he started, swiftly, to spoil and pamper me like no one ever had before. He treated me like his precious little princess, and I was only too happy to go along with it, only too happy to sit on my well-padded posterior, browsing the internet and watching TV as he brought me one sugary snack after another, as he stuffed me with rich meals and creamy desserts.I knew that I was putting on weight, of course. I could feel only too well as my body turned heavier and softer, as my flesh started to jiggle and sag, as my chubby thighs started to rub. But it took me a long time to realise just how bad things had gotten. After all, he was always there to reassure me, to tell me how gorgeous I was. And on his canvas, I still looked so very pretty.Though his paintings showed perfectly well how my figure had swelled, he made all my excess flesh look so alluring, so tempting and luxurious. He still made me feel like the most special girl in all the world.Rather than as a wildcat, as a haughty, challenging sex goddess, his art gradually started to depict me as a sleepy little princess. A tame, contented housecat whose once perfect body had been softened by indolence and indulgence.Looking at all those old pieces now, I can see, clearly, in a way I couldn’t quite then, the pleasure he took in what he was doing to me, the passion with which he depicted my changing body. His fascination with the way my once firm flesh was starting to ripen, with the way in which my sleek and solid curves were starting to sag and lose their shape.Looking at the girl in those old paintings, at her plump frame and her drowsy, blissful gaze, I wonder what she would do if only she knew where her lazy lifestyle would lead her.As happy as I was in my cocoon of denial, I couldn’t ignore my growing body forever. But, by the time the true extent of my gain finally dawned on me, I was already too far gone, too huge and hungry to turn back.My gaze drifts further to the right. The girl depicted in the many drawings on that wall is no longer simply chubby, no longer pleasantly plump. Her love of food has turned her into an obese ball of a woman. Her belly is a shapeless, sagging mass that droops down to cover most of her pelvic area, her pert buttocks have turned into a pair of loose cushions that spread under her as she sits. Her face is full and flabby, her features framed by round cheeks, puffy jowls, and a wobbling second chin. Her once vivid eyes are drowsy and tired. Her gaze has turned timid and meek.As I look at those old sketches and paintings, at the self-conscious manatee of a woman that they depict, I remember only too well what it was like to be her. I remember my discomfort as my tree-trunk-thighs started to chafe, as my fat started to shift and shake with each step I took. I remember my embarrassment as my dangling belly started to brush against tables and countertops, as, from time to time, my wide, wobbly shelf-butt would knock things over when I turned. I remember as my once carefree life came to be filled with a cornucopia of tiny humiliations. I remember how dejected I was when all those people who had once admired me stopped paying attention, when they started to treat me like the unassuming fat girl I was rather than the beauty I’d once been. I remember what it felt like to no longer see myself in my own reflection, and, worse yet, to wish that I didn’t see myself in the shy, slovenly girl in his drawings.As my body continued to swell, his life studies, once dedicated to capturing the sleek lines of my sensuous figure, took great pleasure in exploring the sagging, shifting rolls that had buried them, in depicting every blubbery inch of my 230-pound body. His croquis’ no longer showed me as nimble and full of energy, but as clumsy and out of shape, weighed down by my flab and impeded by my vast layers of excess flesh. In his portraits, I would gaze shyly out at the viewer, as though wishing that they wouldn’t look at me, my eyes robbed of their former power by the fat that had gathered on my face.Though these drawings are still filled with a great deal of love and affection, the worshipful quality of his earlier work is long since gone. These pieces depict neither a goddess nor a gorgeous princess, but, simply, an unremarkable, obese glutton. A weak young woman whose appetite has buried her former beauty under a thick, formless coat of inert flesh, a mass of flab that has robbed her of her confidence and replaced it with a healthy heaping of self-consciousness and shame.Once, his art had used to make me feel like the most beautiful woman in all the world, now it just made me feel like a hopeless, fat failure. Looking at his creations, I could no longer see any hint there of the timeless beauty that I’d once so admired, of the gorgeous goddess that I’d so badly wanted to be.In the end, it all proved too much. In a rare moment of determination, I decided that, no matter what, I was going to get my old self back.When I told him that I wanted to lose weight, he simply smiled and shook his head. He told me that there was no need for me to trouble myself, that he liked me perfectly well the way I was.“You don’t have to do this, you know that, right?” he said, giving my bulging belly a patronizing pat. “I know how you like your little treats. There’s no need for you to deprive yourself or to wear yourself out if you don’t want to.”Even so, I persisted. At first, as my diet got off the ground, he seemed supportive. He even painted me in my exercise gear. That painting is one of the many pieces that hang on the wall before me. It shows me with my feet firmly on the ground, a determined look on my face as my belly oozes out over my waistband. At the time, I found it inspiring; as I look at it now, I can’t help but to feel as though it’s mocking me.Needless to say, my diet didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. Over the last few years, I’d grown far too sedentary to adhere to any exercise regimen and far too hungry to stick to any diet. The whole thing was doomed from the start. My failure is depicted only too well in a series of drawings that hang on the wall before me, right beside the painting of me in my workout gear.The first of these pieces shows me huffing and puffing, worn out after a short jog, my belly hangs out of my shirt and beads of sweat run down my brow as, desperately, I try to catch my breath. The second shows me gazing like a miserable puppy at a slice of cake that I know I can’t have. In the third, my blubbery bottom sticks out behind me as I lean into the fridge, my eyes are closed in a look of pure bliss as I stuff one slice of cake after another into my fat face. In the fourth, and final piece, I find myself struggling to squeeze my fat, cellulite-riddled ass into my hopelessly tight workout pants. Looking at it now, I can’t help but to admire the effort he has put into capturing the gooey softness of my lard-laden backside, not to mention the impotent frustration on my face as I’m forced to realise just how far I’ve let myself go.Together, these pieces paint an all too accurate picture of how helpless I was in the face of my own appetite.After all my failures, I soon got dejected with my diet. As my body continued to grow, what little willpower I had soon began to wane. Knowing that he had me just where he wanted, he started to feed me more than ever. He found it only too easy to tempt me with sweet treats and meals laden with calories and carbs. Then, when, inevitably, I gave in to my gluttonous urges, he would stroke my soft flesh and gently tease me -- reminding me, in a tone so soothing and hypnotic, of all my failures, of how far I’d let myself go. He made me feel so safe and cared for, so hopeless and weak. Soon, I’d given up any thought of losing weight.As my figure continued to expand, I started to avoid his old drawings. When I did look at them, I couldn’t shake the sense that the woman portrayed there was laughing at me, ridiculing me with her self-assured smile and her winsome eyes. Still, if I couldn’t look like her, then I could, at least, eat to my heart’s content.From now on, as my eyes travel further to the right, every piece on that wall seems to depict me as just a little fatter. As I look from one to another, my body balloons at an alarming rate. My once graceful neck has been lost under a roll of soft flesh. My shoulders have turned to plush pillows and my boobs to flat, sagging sacks of fat. My once taught tummy has grown ever wider and heavier -- it hangs ever lower until, soon enough, it has completely hidden my nethers from view. My once pleasantly rounded buttocks have turned to vast, square slabs, my thighs to pillars of rippling flesh. With every new sketch, the fat further infests and reshapes my body.These drawings portray a woman who has given up on herself, who has turned her life over to her appetite, who has given her body over to food. She is, quite simply, a hopeless pig.As I look at all these pieces of his, the pleasure he took in depicting my sorry state is only too clear to see. His portraits put an astonishing attention to detail into depicting as my features sink into my fat, as my once lean countenance grows wider and rounder. My eyes, now so small as they sit in the middle of my full, flushed moon of a face, have long since lost any hint of the gleam they once had. Now, they’re placid and dull, the eyes of a woman who cares for nothing but food.His figure drawings, meanwhile, capture with loving care the way in which all my drooping rolls and folds have come to impede my mobility, how they fill my hopelessly tight clothes and ooze out of them. At this point, his art has come to focus entirely on my fat, on capturing the way it sits on my body, the way it shifts and changes with every laboured move I make. Now, to him, my obesity is all that defines me.As I continue to grow, his art starts to focus, more than ever, on my eating. From here on, the wall is crowded with swift sketches of me as I stuff my face, a dozen studies that seek to capture every aspect of my overconsumption. All these small pieces soon lead up to a far larger one. A huge painting titled, simply: ‘Gluttony’.It is, I must admit, one of his most awe-inspiring creations. It shows me, completely naked, with all my flab hanging out for the world to see, right in the middle of a binge. My chin is smeared with food; my eyes are closed as I sit there, lost in a piggish haze. My expression demonstrates only too well the overwhelming extasy of overindulgence, while my body, covered in cellulite and stretchmarks, offers a sobering reminder of its consequences.The piece captures me exactly as I am. It shows, all too well, just what he has turned me into.My stomach lets out a rumble and I return to the present, to my unbearable hunger.“Please, sweetie,” I say, looking towards the canvas behind which my husband is hidden. “can’t this be enough for today? I’m so hungry.”He doesn’t look out from behind his painting, his arm continues to move, his brush continues to make its subtle strokes.“Just a little while longer,” he says. “I’ve almost got this down.”I frown but say nothing. I know there’s no point in arguing. I’ll get my food in good time. Until then, there’s nothing I can do.I direct my gaze back to the wall before me, to another of his paintings. In this one, I’m sat at a bench in a lush garden. A drowsy, beaming smile on my face as my belly rests in my lap, as my wide backside spreads across the seat beneath me. From a gleaming diadem on my head hangs a sheer, white shroud. All my loose, drooping flesh has been squeezed into a gorgeous, if slightly too tight, white dress, obviously tailored to lend some semblance of shape to my 340-pound body.The painting puts a great deal of emphasis on how my fat strains against the restricting fabric, as though yearning to break free. A choice that, I think, shows all too clearly what sort of a future my new husband had planned for me. As I look into the eyes of that bulging bride, I can tell that she knows, just as well as I, that she’s never going to be this thin again.By the time he proposed to me, I’d long since given myself over to a life of mindless gluttony. Bit by bit, I’d come to accept myself for the pampered pig that I was rather than the goddess of femininity I’d once wished to be. Still, when, one evening, after having taken me out for a huge dinner, followed by a sizeable ice cream sundae, he got down on his knees and presented me with a ring, I still found myself taken aback. As I stared at that glittering piece of jewellery, I knew only too well what sort of a life I’d be signing up for if I agreed.If I accepted his proposal, I would, I knew, spend the rest of my life being stuffed like a pig for market. I’d be his fat, pampered pet. A lazy, pathetic pillow princess with no life outside of food. The thought filled me in equal parts with longing and horror. In the end, I wasn’t slow to say yes.Once we had married, once I had, fully and truly, sworn myself to him, my beloved’s attitude towards me soon changed. Though still every bit as loving as he always had been, he seemed, all of a sudden, to have gotten harsher, more commanding. He started to feed me like never before. No longer taking no for an answer, he would force me to eat every last crumb he put before me, to stuff my face until my stomach felt just about ready to burst, until it hurt so bad that tears would run down my cheeks.Having moved me, without much warning, to our new home -- a remote place far from any friends and family -- and left me in this room, on this bed, he turned my life into one long, overwhelming feast. As my appetite grew, he fed me more and more, until, finally, my hunger never seemed to go away.I suppose, once upon a time, I could’ve tried to resist, or at least to object to what he was doing to me. But by then, I’d already grown so used to obeying his every word, to never bothering to think for myself. And so, as he forced me to eat more than I could ever have dreamed that my stomach could hold, as he poured shakes filled with cream and protein powder down my throat, I simply did as he said. I responded without question as he started to refer to me as his ‘precious pig’ and his ‘well-fed whale’. Since he brought me here, I have done little but to sit on my butt and eat as my body spreads uncontrollably around me.“So,” he says, smiling slightly as he looks out from behind his canvas, “that should do it for today, I think.”My eyes widen and my face lights up like the sun.“You mean…”“Time for fatty to have her reward,” he nods. “But first,” he grabs his canvas and turns it around, “let’s have a look.”I stare at the painting before me. It’s a masterpiece, of that there’s no doubt. The pose is the same as the one in the first painting he ever made of me, all those years ago. Or, at least, as close to it as I can get these days. The painting shows me, reclined in bed, staring at the viewer, my naked obesity displayed in all its glory. As I look at it, I can’t help but to marvel at the sheer, impossible size of the woman it depicts.Her dark, luscious hair flows, like silk down her blubbery shoulders, framing her ripe, spherical face. Her features are afloat in a sea of flab, her regular chin dwarfed by the huge, swollen second one that it rests atop. Her body is a shapeless collection of rolls, any hint of firmness having long since sunk to the bottom of the vast ocean of flesh that has overtaken her once lean frame.“So,” he asks me, “what do you think?”Looking into the eyes of that immense whale of a woman, I find myself, quite simply, astonished. Unable to believe that anybody could ever be that fat. At this point, she is simply a blob of unmoving blubber, her natural shape twisted beyond recognition by her own swollen flesh.Still, as the girl in the painting stares back at me, I find myself perfectly reflected in her docile passivity and her powerless, pleading hunger.“It’s brilliant,” I say, at last, before pausing a moment. “Now, could you please get me something to eat?”He smirks and heads off upstairs. Soon, he will return with my next ‘little’ feast.Once, back when the two of us had only just met, he told me that, to him, art was that which served no purpose other than pleasure, that which existed only to be admired and enjoyed. By that standard, I am his greatest piece. A woman whose body has long since turned to a barely mobile mass of dough, whose once lean limbs have been rendered useless by drooping rolls, so heavy that she can hardly lift them.This room, where I spend my days, is no ordinary bedroom. It is a private exhibit hall, a museum dedicated to what he has done to me, where my body is the centrepiece, the true artwork on display.