I tried everything to put weight on you. You wanted it, and I wanted it, but the university kept you so busy, always flitting from teaching a class to running a meeting to participating in a workshop to running an after-school club for your students, you were always in motion and the weight never stuck, no matter how high I heaped your plate at dinner or how much I pushed into you on the weekends, and after a while I started to let the dream of having more of you go. I abandoned the weekend feasts and settled for having a plain white box from Sandpiper's Sweets around the house, filled with lemon tarts and raspberry cookies and poppy kolackes and all your other little weaknesses, trying to focus on enjoying you as you are, the sweet caramel of your eyes, the intoxicating curve of your hips. Of course, I made sure you always had a few sweets in your bag before you left for your morning class, and kept cooking you heavy dinners, but that's the only way I cook, anyway.
It was a few months later, in bed, as I kissed you up and down in all your beauty, that I noticed you felt different.
A little more give around your waist, a little more weight in my hand when I held your breast, the slightest roundness in your cheeks. I didn't want to jinx it by saying it out loud, but I'm sure you noticed the little pinches while I took you into my mouth, fantasizing about having to fight your belly to eat you out. The next morning, I packed an extra treat in your bag, a crumbly chocolate scone.
"You know, I think people are starting to notice that my bag has more sweets in it than books," you said when you got home, and I wrapped my arms around your neck and kissed you, deeply, my hand going to your waist.
"They only think that it must be what keeps you so sweet," I said. "And it's not my fault that when I order a dozen she gives me fifteen."
"And it's my waistline that's going to pay that price?"
I kissed you again, and then it was time for dinner. We were tired and didn't talk much, but when I searched your face for extra softness it seemed like I found it, and I started scheming up more little indulgences I could push onto you. Double cream in your coffee. The little bag of pretzels becoming a sandwich thick with salami and soft cheese. Dessert every night, without exception, fed to you with one hand while the other wandered over your softness. It was undeniable now, but I doubt anyone less obsessed with you than me could've noticed it. But over time, it worked it. It wasn't much, but I had more of you.
"Baby?" you called from our bedroom. "I think you might actually be making fat." My face was hot when I got to the bedroom, and I knew it wasn't just from climbing the stairs.
You were standing in front of the mirror in your fancy dress, emerald green with a white belt that set off your dark skin perfectly and had used to drape over your hips elegantly, suggesting curves without revealing them, the perfect professional dinner dress for an upscale alumni dinner. The suggestion of curves was gone now, though, replaced with your hips booming out from your waist, your belly round and soft and outlined in the soft green fabric, your neckline full with more cleavage than was strictly appropriate.
"Might be?" I said, hypnotized by you. I wrapped my arms around you from behind, drinking you in, watching my hands curve and cup pinch while I whispered in your ear. "You look amazing, baby. You look hot. You look loved. You look like a fucking goddess. Look at those hips, baby, feel how much of a handful—a real handful—they are. Yours is the kind of body people pine after their whole lives, the kind people get surgery for. Every inch of you is fucking gorgeous and now there's even more inches for me to appreciate, to love, to worship. You know we're not going to stop, right? I need more of you. I need it, I need you." I dropped to my knees in front of you, taking your cock in my mouth, looking up at the perfect curves of your newly fatter breasts. "I need you," I mumbled, and you moaned, pushing deeper down my throat.
