imagining it as a confession, too.
Knowing I’ve been reluctant to gain because of society, knowing that we haven’t really talked about it since I opened up about fatphobia and you took care with boundaries. Knowing I already feel uncomfortable in my chubby skin and how difficult it is to reconcile that with my feedee kinks. Knowing you’ve supported me however I feel most comfortable. Knowing that, although you said you could support me on your wage, I’d like to be independent still, buy straight sized clothes, participate in society.
But you’re a feeder at heart and we still indulge every now and then, even if I’m careful the rest of the time. We fantasise enough in the bedroom, sure, but you also take any opportunity for a celebration meal or dessert. You always offer it as a choice. You cook delicious, balanced meals on average portions to satiate your own desires, just enjoying how well nourished I am. You’ve accepted that I won’t gain weight, so making me well fed regardless is your new focus. If I offer indulgent takeout or ‘Happy Anniversary for when we got our TV’ cake, you’ll accept, but otherwise we eat like a normal, non kinky couple.
However, you’re still you, and old habits die hard. You forget the boundary you’d made for yourself and offer to order pizza because it’s payday. You don’t expect me to agree, but it appears that just as you’re winding down, I’m starting to get a little curious. I’m casual about it, but tell you what I want. I even add that I’m pretty hungry, could we get sides?
It works again a few days later. This time you didn’t mean to cross your own boundaries, but you did actually have expiring vouchers for free Chinese takeout and you wanted to offer me some. Once again, I agree, and ask how much food we could get with the voucher. You watch as I devour my (huge) portion in front of the TV. I’m so stuffed, but you take the chance and ask if I’d like some ice cream. I don’t object when you come back with the tub.
We don’t talk about it, but I go to bed fuller than ever before that night.
The next few weeks you take more and more chances, but really you’re just following my lead — or rather, my appetite. I’m still not initiating eating so much, but even when you’re making us a ‘normal’ dinner, I’m asking for bigger and bigger portions.
It comes to ahead about a month later while you walk in on me struggling to button my jeans. I’m blushing and embarrassed, and you come forward to reassure me.
“Hey, you know what we’ve talked about? I like people a little chubby anyway.” An understatement. “You look lovely and we can get new clothes and I promise this isn’t a ‘trying to get you fat’ thing.”
I blush again and look away, sucking in one final time to button the jeans. I’m in, but it’s tight, and my muffin top is already fighting to spill out the top.
“What if it was?” I ask all at once, shy.
“What do you mean?” You ask, resisting putting your hands on my bulging flesh, tearing your eyes from my new fat.
“I’ve been thinking … I’m never going to be skinny like society wants, losing weight is hard. And … I just love how happy you are when I eat, when you get to … feed me. You’re the best thing in my life, I’m so glad we moved in together, you make me so happy.” I finally look at you, chubby cheeks pink. “I want to make you happy.”
You watch me as you slowly bring your hand to the bulge of fat fighting to escape my jeans. You rub it gently and I take a deep breath.
“Are you sure?” You ask, touching my cheek.
“Why do you want me to … get fat?” I ask, avoiding your eyes again. It’s your time to be shy. We’ve shared this before, but you indulge me anyway.
“I’ve just always liked it. Food is how I show love, pampering and giving is how I give love. Seeing you soft and cared for, being that carer … and I love you. I love fat, so I want you fat because I love you.”
Right on cue, the button finally gives out and flies across the room, my jeans parting and softened, rounded belly filling the space. You groan and your hands immediately find my flesh. I close my eyes and breathe out while your lips find mine. I kiss back, then murmur against you.
“I think I’ve learned that my love language is — submission. And that submitting to someone I love is ultimately what makes me happy. So …” I take a deep breath and kiss you again, my belly rounding into your eager, stroking hands. “I’m getting fat for you, because I love you.”
