God, you’re so fucking huge.
Do you remember when this all started? You, little you, just ever-so-slightly pudgy. I’d been upfront with you about my tastes even before we started dating, but you assured me you didn’t mind. Wouldn’t even mind gaining a little weight for me, if it would make me happy. And honestly, I was content with that.
But you didn’t seem to be. The first time you let me stuff you was such a treat, one that I was sure would be rare. And it was, but clearly it had changed something in you. You started gaining. I saw you eating more, snacking between meals and ordering larger meal sizes. I commented on it, and you just teased me back about how happy I must be to have “corrupted” you. I had to resist the urge to throw you on the bed right there and then, but I didn’t want to seem too eager.
Each pound came and went, creeping up slowly at first. A too-tight pair of pants here, a jiggly step there, but you didn’t seem concerned. I was clearly happy, and the sex we were having was out of this world. After you had a button fly off your pants at dinner one night, I expected that to be the final straw that got you to stop, cut down and lose some weight. But instead you simply shrugged, eagerly letting me pull you into our room for a night of furious fucking before going back to eating the same exact way the next day.
It was becoming clear to me at this point that you were starting to like this. Did like this, if the breathy whimpers you let out when I caressed your overstuffed tummy were anything to go by. So I upped the ante. I started filling the house with junk food, cooking bigger and richer meals and watched how you reacted. I wasn’t forcing you to overindulge, but you took to it eagerly. You seemed so happy, sitting there with your stomach filled with junk, your new gut pushing firmly against the waistband as you just kept snacking. It was clear you were starting to lose control, and I couldn’t help but love it.
Then the final piece fell into place. One day you brought home a baggie of edibles- a gift from a friend- and we each took one before enjoying a fun night on the couch. And boy, did the weed make you eat. I had to get up and get you more food every hour it seemed, just to satisfy your munchies. It was just about the hottest thing I’d seen you do up to this point.
I wasn’t crazy on the weed, but you seemed to take to it. I knew I should be concerned when your monthly habit turned weekly, then semi daily, then daily, but I just couldn’t bring myself to be. Not when your weight was skyrocketing, and you looked so happy. So I enabled you. Bought you bigger clothes, more food, and of course, more weed.
Neither of us were surprised when you got laid off. Your attendance and performance had quickly plummeted with your new drug habit, but you didn’t seem too concerned. I made enough money to support the both of us, and besides, this gave you more time to do what you really wanted: sit at home and get high and eat until you couldn’t anymore.
At just under 300 pounds, I lightly suggested to you that, perhaps, since you hadn’t left the house in weeks anyway, that I should stop spending so much on new clothes for you as you continued to eat your way out of every pair of pants I could find. You just nodded, distracted, bloodshot eyes glued to the tv as you ate your 12th slice of pizza. You’d been just living in your overstretched boxers at this point, anyway.
We didn’t talk much anymore, but that was fine. You were busy shoveling empty calories in your mouth, brain fuzzy and as soft as your plush, wobbling body barreled towards 400 pounds. The most we spoke was during sex, when you’d beg me to reach to find your increasingly buried crotch to press a wand against you, so you could cum repeatedly while I fed you and humped your roles. Sometimes, when the effects of the weed would clear for a bit, I would check in and ask if this was all what you really wanted. You would just blink at me, as if I was an idiot for asking, then pop another 3 edibles in your mouth and go back to eating.
Now, just a scarce few years after we got together, you’ve hit a quarter ton. 500 pounds, and you seem to have no intention of stopping. You haven’t left the house in months, and all your family and (former) friends think it’s my fault you’re like this. And maybe it is, but you’re certainly not blameless. I had no idea how I would awaken this in you, but I’m definitely not complaining. Especially when I know just how horny you get from having your lazy, fat body teased and praised.
Now go on, I bought you another pizza.
