prompt: someone discovering they're a feeder as their feedee partner gets bigger
Sometimes you’re both in bed, distracted and ignoring each other on your phones or laptops, when you notice. Your eyes lift from your phone and notice your partner’s relaxed belly, rising and lowering with calm breath, stretching the fabric of their shirt. Really stretching it now, not just with every inhale, but by default. Not just pushing the seams a little with chubbier hips, but forcing the cotton to bow out close to its limit, forcing the stitching to cave into a belly button deeper and softer-looking than you remember. And your eyes inevitably take in the rest: thicker thighs, more shapely chest, less defined arms, softer jawline.
You’re aware that your partner’s gained a little weight. More than a little, but it’s fine. Probably thirty or so pounds, not a big deal, and you absolutely don’t judge them for it. Have they mentioned it at all? No, they just keep tugging at their shirts and pants. And underwear. Their underwear is getting too small for them, with weight gain making them a bit of a pear and all, but you don’t say anything. You don’t say they need bigger underwear. You don’t tell them how much you appreciate the fact that they need it. As long as they stay mum on the subject of their weight and the fit of their clothes, so will you; that’s your rule.
Sometimes you’re both in bed, watching TV, and they’re eating their way to the bottom of a quart of appallingly flavored ice cream (super-caramel-quadruple chocolate-chunk type stuff), and you keep sneaking glances. Because you’re amazed they’re comfortable enough around you to eat freely like this—or so you tell yourself. Their eyes are so glazed with distracted pleasure that maybe it didn’t even occur to them not to gorge themselves tonight, right in front of you.
Not gorging themselves like some kind of pig—no, it’s just, you both ordered a lot of takeout just a couple hours ago, and then they snacked on chips for a while, and then there was that candy bar they ate on a whim while you took out the trash, and now it’s a whole quart of ice cream. A whole quart. The more glances you sneak at them, the more you notice how their budding second chin peeks out when they chew. The more you notice that their bites seem hasty, as if tinged by some kind of distant, unconscious desperation.
You lean against them as if too tired to stay upright, reaching over them casually, letting one arm rest against their belly. It’s soft. It’s bigger. Not a big deal at all, you tell yourself for the millionth time.
And yet, you ponder their weight more. You’ve been pondering it incessantly. You can’t stop thinking about how they went to the mall two weeks ago without telling you, bought clothes a size up, and already were uncomfortably tugging and pulling on on every tight band and seam again. You can’t stop your thoughts from wandering to the idea of them sizing up again any more than your partner can stop their hands from opening another package of cookies.
“Ugh, this stuff is so good,” they mutter, swallowing the last bite, then closing the lid on the carton and setting it aside.
“Mm. I’ll buy more then,” you say without thinking. It’s fine if they size up again, after all. You’ll love them no matter their body type. Their happiness comes first. “I’m going to the grocery store anyway.”
A couple months later, going to the grocery store is not a chore to you, but a fun outing. You never used to even go down the junk food isles if you were by yourself, but now you scour them carefully. You place things in the cart you know your partner will like, and consider new brands and products they might like to try. It’s all so colorful and thrilling to actually buy. You tell yourself you might even try some of it and ignore the intrusive thought of your partner sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night again to binge on half the goodies themselves.
What niggles at you isn’t that you’re buying way too much junk food for your partner, who’s a little overweight now. It’s not as if they’ve told you to stop, or have implied they want to lose weight, or have said anything about any of it at all. That’s the thing: you’re in uncharted waters, and they haven’t told you a word about whether they fine with the way the tide was turning or whether they were actually really concerned that they were getting heavy and a little jiggly and they didn’t know what to do about it, let alone have the wherewithal to say, Honey, stop buying junk food. I’m getting fat.
Just the thought of the word makes you blush at the box of Fudge Covered Twinkies you’re holding. You quickly set them back on the shelf. Twinkies were practically the poster food for getting fat, right? Surely, your partner would suspect something, even though there wasn’t anything to suspect. You just know that they like food, particularly food that’s soft and sugary and addictive, and what better, cheaper food to comfort them with than Twinkies? No, it wouldn’t be good for their waistline, but you can already see their eyes fluttering closed at the taste—which was probably not even good, but that was hardly the point, was it?
Compromising, you buy a limited edition blue-stuffed brand of Twinkies instead, preparing an excuse that you thought the novelty of it was amusing and wondered if it was good.
But later that night, your partner eats six of them while you play video games and doesn’t mention the novelty of it at all. Your character dies stupidly and your partner laughs at you, belly jiggling as they do. You swallow, eyes fixating on their fat thighs. There’s no other word for them—they’re fat. Their thighs have gotten fat, just like their belly got fat, just like their hips and chest and arms and even their neck and face has been rounding out with so much chub. They were fat and they did eat like a pig, and all signs pointed to more weight gain. They were going to keep gaining weight, and when was it going to stop? When you finally decided enough was enough? When their doctor told them to take control? Yeah, so, you could imagine them awkwardly saying, coming home from the doctor, I guess I gotta lose weight. Maybe they would be holding a pamphlet on obesity or something, looking ashamed.
And maybe they would try at first. You would help. They’d exercise a little here and there, maybe only eat one Twinkie instead of six, maybe not ask for takeout so often. But it wouldn’t last. The second their will broke, yours would too. And you’d both be in bed, distracted by nothing but endless waves of pleasure that your sex life hadn’t known in a while, them leaning back against the headboard, eating every fattening thing you had to offer, which would be many, many, as many fattening things as they’d agree to swallow down like they glutton they were becoming.
“Babe?”
You blink.
“You okay?” they say with that chubby face of theirs, a face that said, I’ve been gaining so much weight, and you’re really aroused.
“I’m glad you like those,” you stutter. You look at the Twinkies box, and so do they. Your mouth keeps moving without forethought. “I’ll buy you more next time. Any other flavors you like?” You set down your controller and push your hand into their hair affectionately. Since they’re slouched, they look up at you, and you lower your hand to the back of their neck, touching the bulge of the fat there. “Want me to get you your favorite ice cream? I know you had a long day at work.” You stand and head for the kitchen, ignoring your partner’s confused ums and wells.
You open the freezer and get one of many ice cream quarts. Thanks to you, the fridge and freezer have been stuffed to the gills with crap, but you can’t regret it, not when it makes your partner look perpetually stuffed to the gills too. You get a spoon and sit down next to them again, brain fuzzy with want. “You’ll feel better when you finish this. By the time you do, I’ll finally finish this damn level.”
“I’m—I’m not…” But the look in their eyes is conflicted. “I’m not that hungry, really.”
You laugh. Your body is buzzing. “Please. With you, when you eat and when you’re hungry are completely unrelated. Let’s make it a competition! Finish before I do. Go!”
“What?”
You’re already starting the level over, thinking to yourself What the hell? Don’t make them eat if they don’t want to. Even if they do want to, even when they’re full, because they’re greedy and addicted, gonna get obese soon—
A minute passes, and they’re sitting up, belly folded in rolls on their lap, looking poised to either stand up and put the ice cream away or rip the lid off and devour it all.
“Eat it,” you say innocently, or try to. It mostly comes out like a pathetic attempt at sounding not-horny.
You glance over, and they still look conflicted, so you lean over and kiss them on their tubby cheek. “Go ahead,” you say, quieter. You meet their eyes. “Don’t you want to?”
They look taken aback now, flushed. All at once, they seem aware of their blubbery, overweight body, and they shift on the couch. You forget the game and lean in again, kissing them on the lips, then deeper as they lean into you. “I know you want to,” you whisper. You cup their fattened hip, squeeze it gently. “I bet you really want to.”
They’re blushing really hard now, gone shy and speechless. So you move closer to them, and since their head is lowered to avoid your eyes, you land a sweet peck on their bulging second chin. Then you peel off the lid of the carton, tear the plastic off, and push the spoon satisfyingly into the over-processed sugar that has been fattening your partner out of their clothes so well.
Despite their air of reluctance, they eat the spoonful you offer as if on instinct. They squirm with pleasure, and your breath hitches when their plump hand twitches out to take the spoon away from you when you don’t use it quick enough. You scoop them another bite. Then another. The room is quiet except for the game in the background and your rapidly beating heart. Their eyelids lower, and you murmur encouraging words to them. That’s it. It’s good, huh? Big bite... The experience seems no less momentous to them than to you, and so you keep going. Their eyes drift shut and so you guide their mouth to open at the right times. Eventually, your cooing gets bolder.
“I know how much you like this. Like eating. Eating a little too much.”
Their mouth pauses around the spoon, but their eyes don’t open. They swallow and wait for the next bite.
“And I know you get up in the middle of the night sometimes, just to eat,” you say. “Eat and eat until your clothes feel tight and your stomach’s queasy, right? You always come back to bed so uncomfortable, tossing and turning, panting a little. Holding back little burps. I wake up and all the junk food I bought is gone.”
Your partner leans into to your next spoonful, then takes it from you. Without meeting your eyes, they start eating from the tub themselves, at twice your pace. You smooth your fingers through their hair. Then rub a hand down their arm, which was now sausage-like with so much fat clinging to it. But it’s squishy, when you pinch it. No firmness anywhere you can see.
“I’m sure you know you’re getting big, baby. You’re getting big. But that’s okay.” You rub your hands over their belly, their hips, their rolls of back fat. “You just keep eating as much as you like.”
prompt: as you practice baking for a competition, your wife gains weight as a taste tester
Abby jumps into your arms, telling you over and over Congratulations! You laugh and twirl her around in the kitchen; it’s easy when she’s so small and light.
You’re in. In the baking competition. The baking competition. “You’ll be on TV!” Abby says as if meaning, You’ll be knighted by the Queen!
All you can think about is this chance: to show off your skills, get your name out there, who knows what else; it’s your big break. Your chance to bake for an audience, a panel of judges no less - you like some competition.
You only have a few months before the flight out, but that’s more than enough time to polish your abilities and master your recipes.
“To be honest,” you say, “I’m most excited to have an excuse to bake things for you.”
“Oh!” Abby slams her hands down on your shoulders. It doesn’t hurt too much. “Oh please do those macaroons. And those chocolate eclairs again. It’s been ages. They were so good…” Abby dramatically closes her eyes, reminiscing.
“Of course.” You cup her kind face in both your hands. “You’ll be my taste tester, right? You have to be picky. My desserts can’t just be amazing to win. They have to be professionally incredible!”
Abby nodded once. “I’ll hold you to my highest standard.”
~
Her highest standard is pretty much just: sugary. She enthusiastically declares to love everything you make, great or just okay, but you don’t mind. She takes her job of taste tester seriously, and within a couple weeks, she’s practically bothering on the hour to make those cookies again, more of this spongy cake, that one thing, but make it pink? Pretty please?
Despite the show’s demand for variety, you can’t help but prioritize Abby’s preferences and whims. She likes soft and chewy things, and caloric, decadent things, and so you keep making them in a frenzy of productivity. Cakes and more cakes, and - really, it impresses you how much of it she eats. Not just bites. Finishing whole dishes off.
You keep waiting for her to get sick of it, sick of the sugar, but if anything, she starts to eat a bit…compulsively. She starts eating late into the night. Starts eating sweets early in the morning.
She starts to get softer.
Plumper. Chubby.
Her hips round and thicken, her thighs swell, her jaw loses its edge. You find yourself enraptured by these changes. Her breasts get bigger. Her chin gently doubles when she looks down.
Sometimes you forget who and what you’re supposed to be baking for.
You add too much cream and custard as pastry fillings because you want to hear her moan a little longer into those gushing bites. You add a little too much sugar because her belly is cute and pudgy and peeking out of her clothes and you’re hopelessly in love with it. With her. Why shouldn’t that belly get just a little bigger?
Weeks pass of your increasingly hard work and her increasingly hearty eating (now at regular meals too, not just with your desserts). Her weight gain picks up, gaining momentum, making her heavier. Wider. A tad bit slower. Your attention feels split in half between one-minded focus on making winning dishes and all-consuming infatuation with Abby’s oblivious yet unhesitating march toward…fat.
~
Instead of falling asleep to fantasies of winning the competition, starting your own bakery, and living in an idyllic future, you fall asleep to the comfort of holding your overweight wife.
~
A week before you’re off on the flight to the show’s set, you host a tasting party, making all your best pastries and cakes and baked dishes. It starts off excellently: No one invited flakes (and neither do your dishes), your house is bustling with energy and cheer and congratulations and good lucks, and Abby is being more endearing than usual, not so much tasting the different offerings as she was mechanically eating full meals-worth of food every moment she wasn’t talking with friends.
You try to be discreet about sneaking looks at her fairly enormous bubble butt, currently hugged very tightly in jeans that didn’t fit her anymore.
She keeps eating and eating, clearly oblivious to how much more she was consuming compared to everyone else.
A couple hours into the party, Abby lets out a jolly laugh at something someone says, and you look over as her pink-nailed plump hands cover her mouth to hide how full it was of macaroons.
You witness it happen: the gust of her laugh finally straining her waistband past it’s limit; her jeans button popping off, landing with a tap on the tile floor a few feet away. At the same moment, ample lower belly surging through waistband flaps, its weight enough to force open the zipper to its base.
For a very long half second, you, Anna, and your mutual friends all stare at the hefty, fat belly cradled in her opened jeans. Then Anna sucks it in and flees, all high-pitched apologies and self-depreciations.
You follow, of course, opening your bedroom door to find Abby frantically changing into different jeans - presumably the first pair she got her hands on, because they aren’t well chosen. She struggles to get them up past her bulky thighs.
You let out a small sigh (trying not to get distracted by her artful cellulite). “Abby…”
“Nothing fits anymore.”
“Abby,” you try again.
She flings the jeans away and stomps to the closet, making many parts of her body wobble and jiggle on the way. She comes back out in a pair of leggings. Whether she was shamefaced because resorting to stretchy leggings would make it crystal clear to everyone at the party what her wardrobe situation was, or because the leggings weren’t actually stretchy enough, giving her a four inches or so of pure, fatty muffin top overhang on both her sides...you don’t know. You’re more concerned that Abby’s eyes are glassy.
“I’ve gained a lot of weight,” she breathes out, rubbing one temple. It’s the first time she’s acknowledged it.
You want to hold her pudgy hands and tell her: Honey, you’ve ballooned. Forty or fifty pounds at least. Instead, you say, “You look amazing. You just need properly sized clothes that fit you.”
She looks up at you, too innocent. You realize with a flash of insight that her body is finally as soft as her heart. “You don’t hate it?” she asks.
“The opposite. I love how I can see how much I love you, and how much you’re being loved.”
You mean every word, and it’s clear Abby knows you do. She’s not so self-conscious that she doesn’t pull you into one of her classic, crushing hugs. “You’re a good baker,” she mumbles.
You laugh.
~
(You get third place at the baking competition, and couldn’t be more proud. But even that is nothing compared to coming home to your excited wife, who, while she was gone, learned to bake a little herself, gaining another thirteen pounds all on her own.)
---
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You go on vacation with her the following summer, and inevitably take a few pictures. When she looks at them later, she whines to you that her severe obesity is all your fault.
You say that never forced her to eat anything. As you press your hand along the left side of her gut, she smacks it away and keeps blaming you. She keeps looking back at the unflattering photos and begins to raise her voice, begins waving her arms and pointing at you and the kitchen and even stomps her foot, making her whole body jiggle. You just stand, your eyebrows lifting as two of her bottom shirt buttons fly off, causing a big mass of fat to surge out from her shirt instantly.
The room goes quiet.
“Look at you,” you say, shaking your head. “You’ve done this to yourself.” But you know that’s not completely true.
“You let it happen!”
She heaves another breath, and another button pops off. Her blush becomes a deeper red as she looks down on herself, gut hanging out. “This isn’t what I want.”
“No?” You grin. “You’ve always taken exactly what you wanted. Now it just shows.” Shows all over you, you think.
Your grin widens at her familiar dorky pout. It was the same dorky pout you’d always loved...just on a much, much fatter face.
You love buying her everything she wants. You like spending money and seeing her face light up with happiness. You don’t care how materialistic it all is. You care even less how materialistic she gets. She inevitably begins to derive a little too much pleasure from obtaining things, but you don’t mind, as long as you’re the one making the purchase. If she becomes spoiled rotten, all the better.
She does turn into a bit of a brat, if you’re honest. You buy her things and buy her things but the pleasure doesn’t last. One day you take her to a serve-yourself bakery and tell her to fill up her tray as high as she liked. And since she thinks nothing of exploiting you now, she doesn’t hold back. Before you pay, though, you say that she has to eat all of it. She scoffs, but agrees.
It takes some time, but she does it. She eats all the sugary pastries and breads she piled up. When you finally leave, she looks a little ill and a bloated, but there’s something in her eyes: a sparkle of mischievous joy that can only come from overindulgence. For someone who always gets what she wants, it must take a lot to feel that way. You keep that in mind.
After her feast, she stands, and her new size makes her sway. She’s still not used to the weight of herself. You can tell she feels heavy, weak from the gravity pushing down on her. You can even tell she’s still a little hungry, as she eyes the shelves on her way out the door.
When she takes off her clothes for the night, her belly flops out, and her hips and thighs swell out of the confining fabric of clothing a size or two too small. She’s so big now, the meaty love handles on her create a deep crease where her spine is—save for the plump deposit of fat at the small of her back. Since her ass is no muscle and all fat, it jiggles with every movement she makes without underwear to control it. (Since she sits on it all day, it’s obscenely wide.)
She notices you staring at it and flushes. She knows she’s obese now; her doctor’s told her. But you also knew she can’t hold back from temptation—she never could, and you never encouraged her to try. You’re all but certain she’ll continue to stuff her face against doctor’s orders.
More time passes, and though she doesn’t get quite as huge as you were expecting, her double chin does become very conspicuous, permanent fixture on her face—which has become entirely round now and constantly flushed with some degree of exertion. Because she sneaks snacks all the time even though she’s “on a diet,” her buttons are straining over the lower half of her belly more than ever.
It doesn’t surprise you that even though she’s been on a diet for a while now, she’s only managed to gain more weight and add more inches to her waistline.
Months continue like this, and you buy her larger clothes. She can’t so much as zip up her pants anymore, let along button them, and her shirts show off far more of her curves than she would like. Despite her clothing problems, however, she seems confused by the soft pudge thickening nearly every part her body. Despite her rapidly declining energy, her eating patterns don’t change. Her appetite grows.
Her sides get more bulky and layered than ever, forcing her arms to rest farther and farther from her body’s center. When she sits down for yet another feast out or at home, her belly sits, too, far out into her lap. Her shirt stretches over her heavy rolls, ultimately riding up a few inches - not that she notices with her focus zeroed in on food. She doesn’t notice you staring at her thighs, either, which are now impressively fat and so, so wide. She’s wearing plus-sized short-shorts, and the sheer amount of cellulite covering her skin now is staggering.
Her feet are apart, but her inner thighs still smooch together. Her hips, which had been only plump before, bowed out well over her waistband.
As she eats, her face becomes flushed. Her breathing slows. She’s obviously filling herself up as much as she can, whether it’s her conscious goal or not. You exhale unsteadily as her flabby cheeks and double chin bulge with every bite.
You aren’t even subtle as you rake your eyes over her body, because you can’t help but revel in how much she’s fattened up. She’s become a spoiled rotten pig, partly of your making, and it’s so attractive you want to bring her home and worship her, even though she’d whine all night: for this and that, for more or less, for you to help her with something because she’s “too tired” to do it herself. Being fat has changed her demeanor, making her more lazy and more sensitive and more helpless because of her reduced mobility.
You bring her to the bakery again and again, and soon it becomes a regular routine. You can tell that she can’t help but take far more than she should. You can tell she’s aching to relive the pleasure of overindulgence yet again. Her expensive pants are getting tight, but you don’t say anything.
You watch fondly as she digs into her small mountain of calories, closing her eyes from the pleasure. She doesn’t have to tell you that overeating is more satisfying to her than getting new clothes or jewelry; you can see it in the speed that she inhales the muffins and cakes and sandwiches and doughnuts.
Day after day, it’s becoming clear to you that food is her true desire, her true weakness. Day by day, you watch her struggle more in the morning to hike her pants up her thighs and her dresses over her body. She stops going to the gym in favor of taking you up on your offers to get something special to eat. She spends more time on the couch next to you.
When her sides become fat enough to resemble of the edge of a stack of pancakes, you put an arm around her on the couch and nudge your fingers between the folds of fat. She doesn’t even notice. She’s too busy stuffing herself as she watches television.
