My name is Daniel M.
When I was very young, I sometimes had dreams of animals getting fat, like a cartoon elephant or piggy stuck to a hose and filling with water. Those dreams were quite sexual, though as a kid, that was not how I understood them. To me at that age, they just felt good.
Twice, when I was alone in the house as a skinny teen, I stuffed pillows under my shirt and drank cup after cup of water. Though it was very arousing, my immediate thought was, I wanna get fat, not I wanna get off. There was no partying with the “boys downstairs.”
I could go on. For me, fat, getting fat, getting fatter, was hot. It still is.
As an adult, at five-foot-eight, I had always been athletic and slender; it wasn’t in my nature to be fat. Still, the yearning called for expression, so for most of my life, I had always liked plump women. However, in my forties I gained a few pounds naturally (a lot for me), and this brought back the old feelings. More than ever, I wanted to be fat.
I figured that now I would succeed. Yet many times I tried to pork up and failed. Wanting it fast, I wasn’t used to so much eating. I made myself sick and had to be hospitalized.
Most of the weight I had gained, I lost. I went back to push-ups and crunches, settling for a toned, middle-aged frame, the envy of every plumper. Enter my Companion of the Imagination: Mrs. Chin.
Mrs. Chin (she refuses to tell me her first name; she’s cute that way) is my neighbor, a delightful, attractive woman whom I believe to be about fifty. After my divorce, I moved into an apartment right across the hall from where she happened to be living. Her husband had passed away three years earlier. She’s a little shorter than me, is finely boned with medium-length hair, and she dresses in a fashion somewhat between hip and traditional. She has an accent, and though she comes off demure, you can tell there is an intense intellectual being behind those pretty Asian eyes.
Mrs. Chin had seen me buying a Superman comic. We started talking and quickly realized we both liked a lot of the same things, things involving the imagination. Understand, we didn’t start dating or anything--she wasn’t my type, being way too thin--but we liked spending time together, and soon we got into a kind of routine watching scifi movies in the evening. During the day, I worked at home through the Internet. Mrs. Chin ran a neighborhood bakery.
I discovered that tidbit when one night she brought out a bunch of unusual-looking pastries for our snack. I commented on how good they were; she said thank you. I looked at her, and she said in her quiet voice, “I made these.”
“Really?” I replied with complete lack of wit.
“Yes.” Her eyes shined. “You know Double Chin Bakery on 39th?”
“I’ve heard of it.” I was lying.
“That’s my shop. Please come and visit.”
I pulled hard on the reins of the Fantasy Stallion. Whoa! I told myself. I had long accepted I would never be fat, but this was too much. It inspired one hell of a feeder fantasy.
I sealed shut that part of my mind as I ate the last of the pastries.
* * *
Two days later, I found myself on 39th Street.
I couldn’t help it, I was curious, and the Human Piggy deep inside me just wouldn’t let me rest. My heart hammered as I entered her store.
It was filled with goodies and customers. A young Asian girl wearing a smile and candystripe uniform came over and offered assistance; a few of them were acting as waitresses for the small eating area up front. Not seeing Mrs. Chin, I said, “I’m a friend of the owner.”
Then I heard my name: Mrs. Chin had emerged from the back room.
She was beaming. She was wearing glasses. “I’m so glad you here,” she said. Dressed in a white blouse, black slacks and heels, she offered me a table. “Please, sit.” Then she spoke in Chinese to an employee, who took off for the back room. “I bring you something special,” Mrs. Chin said to me as I fought to stay cognizant of my surroundings, for Piggy was yelling in my mind’s ear, She’s gonna feed you! She’s gonna feed you! I had a hard-on pounding like a charging rhino.
“No work today?” Mrs. Chin asked as she made a setting for me.
“I’m taking a break.”
“I’m so glad.”
The waitress returned with a pastry on a plate and what looked like a vanilla shake. Her boss said, “Try this. I made it for you.”
I focused. I took a bite. Man, was it good.
It must’ve showed on my face. Mrs. Chin did not take her eyes off me. “Like it?” she asked.
“Here. Try this.” She pushed the shake closer.
I took a sip, and it too was good, though I could not place the taste. I said, “This is great. What’s in it?”
“Ancient Chinese secret,” Boss Lady replied with a wink.
My mind was racing.
Lucky for me Mrs. Chin soon got back to work. She spoke sharply to several waitresses (no demureness here--she was definitely The Boss), then she cheerfully said to me, “I see you later.” A waitress stood attentively as I finished my sips and bites.
Standing to leave, I asked the girl how much I owed. The waitress smiled and said, “It’s on the house.”
Man, I needed to get home as quickly as possible.
* * *
I hammered the ol’ sausage as soon as I could. My mind was aflame with whole erotic scenarios starring me and Mrs. Chin. Staying rational, I assumed that, in fact, I had imagined an ulterior motive, thanks to Piggy. Thus, I affirmed that my delightful neighbor was no feeder, and that I had projected my deepest fantasies onto an innocent situation. God help me if she ever suspected. Scifi or no, she’d surely think me freaky. Piggy kept whispering, But what if it was real?
* * *
That evening I checked the scifi channel. A movie was on at eight; I’m sure Mrs. Chin would come knocking by seven-thirty. I couldn’t calm down. I wanted to be with her, I really, truly enjoyed our moments together, but this Feeder thing was fucking up my perception. In my pants, Mr. Bojangles tried to dance. Thank God I had already popped that buttinsky. Just be cool, I told myself.
At seven-fifteen, I heard Mrs. Chin’s soft, familiar knocking. I opened the door to see her in a blue tunic and jeans, looking very casual, very thin, and of all things I started to raise a second boner. At this point I knew that all my systems had gone loco.
“My place or yours?” she asked as if this were our secret password.
I tried not to stare. “Yours. Better snacks.” God, I couldn’t believe I said that.
Mrs. Chin laughed, softly, like wind chimes. “Wise decision.”
* * *
That evening Mrs. Chin brought out her usual array of fine cakes and cookies, and we watched the movie, made comments or jokes and basically had quiet fun. We even flirted, as friends of course. I felt that finally I had gotten a grip.
Two nights later she called and asked if we should have dinner together. A Twilight Zone Marathon was starting in an hour.
“Sure,” I said. We had never really had a meal togther. “You want to order in?”
“No, no. I’ll cook. You see, I make a lot of things yummy.”
Goddamn. I stayed cool.
It wasn’t easy. Traditional Chinese or American quickie, it didn’t matter: Mrs. Chin was a sorceress in the kitchen. We were soon dining together at least three times a week; and it took me about a week to convince myself, once again, that nothing more was happening, that she was no secret feeder. Yes, I was disappointed. I would’ve loved it; I groaned at every thought of getting so huge and round I couldn’t reach my boys. But alas, that was never going to be.
If only reality would leave me alone.
* * *
A late October morning, sitting in bed, was when I felt something touching my stomach. I looked down: my stomach had made contact with my thighs. It wasn’t much, but I had never had this before, even with my earlier weight gains. I bent forward a little and folds of flesh creased beneath my pecs. Energized I stood, feeling my belly, with Mr. Bo-jay coming to life. I went to the bathroom and got on the scale. Holy Cannoli: I was up seven pounds. Now remember, I’m five-eight. In my youth, my fighting weight was one-thirty with a twenty-eight-inch waist. Add what I gained over the decades, plus this weight gain, and you have me approaching one-sixty and thirty-six inches around. I was now officially paunchy. Piggy was gunning my engine.
“I can’t believe it,” I said, checking my gut in the mirror, looking pregnant if I slouched. Thank God I wore sweats a lot. I wondered if my summer shorts would still fit.
It was like foreplay barely being able to close them.
Okay: so my fantasy had gotten a toehold on reality. But I had perspective, I was gaining carefully and Mrs. Chin suspected nothing. We were just friends hanging out, while I pigged out on all that she graciously offered.
* * *
I got to the Double Chin a little later than usual. As a regular, I was greeted by all the waitresses and was seated up front by the bakery shop window. The girls were buzzing like bees around customers. Their stir was causing hanging Halloween decorations to spin softly.
An older girl, Hannah, had become like my personal waitress. She waited while I removed my jacket. I caught her noticing my newly rounded belly; she smiled as she met my eyes.
“Where’s Mrs. Chin?” I asked as I sat, adjusting my pants to be comfortable.
“Out. She’ll be back soon. You want your usual?”
“Sounds good.” Hannah spoke in Chinese to another waitress then smiled at me and turned away. Watching me, two more girls giggled before getting back to their own customers. Had they also noticed my belly? I was embarrassed yet turned on. Boss’ friend getting bigger, soon too big for little tables, I could imagine them saying. My pants were tight; I wished I could loosen my belt another notch. But Mrs. Chin’s girls had me under surveillance...or did they, I wasn’t sure. I only knew that I liked the idea.
The younger waitress returned with my pastry and drink. “Thanks,” I said before digging in. I never ordered more than this because Mrs. Chin still refused to let me pay.
As I ate, I noticed Hannah studying me before getting busy elsewhere. I let it go. My imagination was revving up again just a notch too high, because I started thinking that even people passing by outside were watching me down my sweet treats. Piggy on Parade, I mused, making me want to eat more. Lord I was excited.
I thought to order a second pastry when The Boss entered her domain. She had make-up on and auburn highlights in her hair; she looked good. She greeted me with a smile as Hannah took her jacket. Mrs. Chin said, “You late today. I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”
“I had a lot to do, errands as well as work.” I wasn’t about to tell her I had gone shopping for pants.
Mrs. Chin sat to catch her breath. “Yeah, errands. Always errands, me too. Business no fun sometimes.” She looked at me and sighed. “Sometimes big pain in the der-lierre.”
I chuckled. “What’s so funny?” she asked.
“‘Derierre’,” I repeated.
“You making fun of me?” Mrs. Chin said, feigning annoyance with a slap to my arm. Waitresses were watching. She barked orders and they scurried.
“You have them well-trained,” I said.
“Hey, no work, no pay. Mustn’t keep customers waiting.”
Mrs. Chin’s eye-contact floated off a bit. She’s noticing, I thought. In a fraction of a second, she had scanned me, especially by my neck. Returning, she said, “I have new recipes in mind. I’ll try them on you sometime, okay?”
“You know I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.”
Gripping my arm, she laughed. “I have you well-trained.” Then she stood to get back to work. “Dress nice for dinner tonight. Don’t be late.”
I told her it would never happen again.
I took another moment to try and calm down my body. Mrs. Chin was quite a presence. Hannah came over and asked if I wanted anything else; I said no. Standing, I noticed my face in a display mirror. Beneath it was a puff of neck fat, especially when I tilted my head down.
Wow, I thought. But it was all okay. I was getting fat, my friend was helping me, and now she didn’t seem to mind.
I was getting fat. Mmm. Time for more celebrating with the boys.
* * *
Wearing a tee shirt and sweat pants, I was about to change for dinner when Mrs. Chin came a-knockin’ at my door.
“Hi,” she said when I opened it. “You have string beans? I forgot to buy fresh.” She seemed genuinely annoyed.
“Yes, I believe I do.” Off to the rescue, I went to the kitchen and returned with a can.
Mrs. Chin’s eyes were not meeting mine as I approached her. She reached out, and for the first time, out of the clear blue, she softly sank her fingers into my protruding belly. I was frozen in place. “You getting fat,” she said in her Boss voice, taking the can.
I was barely holding on. I said, “It’s, it’s your fault.”
She laughed, like wind chimes, transporting me.
I kept fumbling. “You’re too good--you’re too good a cook.” Words were tumbling from my mouth.
“I have big surprise for you.”
Get a grip, get a grip. “Really? What?” Could she see how fast I was breathing?
“You see. You like it. Just bring your appetite.”
A glint in her eye fired off a nerve to my belly and groin, its intent unmistakable. I knew, I knew that Mrs. Chin had just said to me:
I am going to make you very fat.
I audibly groaned. Mrs. Chin smiled and went back across the hall to her apartment.
* * *
An eternity passed. Her door had long since closed. I was still standing in mine.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, I kept thinking. Summoning the will, I finally managed to step back and seal myself inside my little world.
That world was spinning. I was shaking. I needed to sit.
Just bring your appetite.
Her tone, that look in her eyes, had been profound. Whatever I might have imagined before--or thought I imagined--now there was no denying it. She was one. I had found that rarest of jewels in the lipophile’s universe. I had found a female feeder.
Or maybe she found me. She had approached me that day when Superman beckoned, had come over to me and said hello. Then came the sweets, then the whole dinner thing.
But how could she have known? I was helpless. Mr. Bo-jay had pitched a tent in my sweats, was bobbing with unbridled glee, and Piggy was stretching his wide, stupid grin across my face.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay. Think. I have to get dressed.” Dress nice. “I’ll wear my new elastic-waistband khakis.” Shirt, what shirt? My denim button-down. I didn’t need shoes. I just needed to make sure my socks were clean.
My heart was pounding like a war drum, not letting up for a second.
When finally I was ready, I took a minute to try and quiet all systems. Just be cool, I told myself. She’s a friend, there’s no pressure; she has a nice surprise for you, just enjoy it.
Nothing can go wrong.
That’s what I was suddenly most afraid of.
* * *“Come ihh-inn,” I heard Mrs. Chin say in sing-song after I knocked. Slowly I entered into darkness. I saw candles burning, and wonderful aromas were wafting up my nose, basting my brain. From out of the shadows, a slender figure shuffled forward.
“Happy Halloween,” said Mrs. Chin as her face came into the light.
I was hypnotized. She was wearing a traditional Chinese dress, black with dragon and phoenix brocade. Her hair was up, her lips were red, and all I could do was stare.
“Come in,” she said, pulling me gently forward so she could close her door.
“You...you look spectacular,” I managed to say.
“But Halloween’s not til Tuesday.”
“Would you have been as surprised?”
Yes. Yes I would’ve. I said, “You should’ve told me. I’d’ve worn a costume.”
“You not in sweats, that’s costume enough for me.” She guided me over to the sofa where we usually watched our movies.
“Would you like a drink?” asked Mrs. Chin.
“Please. A big one.”
She laughed, wind chimes.
I could hardly move. That dress cleaved to her delicate curves; I couldn’t catch my breath. She returned with a glass of wine.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. I wanted to guzzle it.
Mrs. Chin sat next to me. “New clothes?” she asked, looking me over.
“Just the pants.” Her finger found the elastic waistband and snapped it.
“Hey,” I said.
“Clever.” She poked between spanning shirt buttons. “Splurge. Buy a new shirt.” Her hand rested on my paunch. “You’re shaking. Are you okay?” I was in heaven, but I wasn’t used to this. “I’ll be fine.”
I blinked. Mrs. Chin laughed, stealing a feel of my neck puff before saying something in Chinese. “What was that?” I asked.
“Let’s play a game.” Then she spoke some more in her native tongue.
“Mrs. Chin...damn, you ever gonna tell me your first name?” She continued to avoid English. It took me a moment to figure out what she was up to. “I’m supposed to guess, right? See how well we can transcend the language barrier.” Her smile told me I was now on her wavelength. I downed the rest of my wine to keep from flipping out.
God I wanted to bang her, almost as much as I wanted to stuff myself for her. Had she read my face? She got up and returned with a tray of exotic appetizers as well as a pair of chop sticks.
Speaking in Chinese, she plucked up a piece of honeyed chicken. Heart thumping, I opened my mouth, and with infinite finesse she placed the treat inside.
My hips wanted to buck as I chewed and swallowed. My mouth opened again automatically. At long last, we were playing our game.
Mrs. Chin beamed, singing, as she continued to feed me.
Why sex and getting fat? What’s the deal?
Sex and getting fat are related because both involve body parts getting bigger, especially the belly. Why did I feel this way as a child? Well, like adult teeth, sexual feelings are dormant in children. In my dreams, where the unconscious was tapped, I related sex to the only thing familiar to me: getting fatter.
Why don’t more people feel this way? I’m not sure. Perhaps, in always being able to remember my dreams, I escaped society’s brainwashing.
So much for the psychology of lipophilia.
* * *
Halloween dinner brought our relationship into new territory. For the first time, watching a movie was not the centerpiece of our evening. Mrs. Chin spoke no further English; nonetheless, she was able to get quite a bit of food into me. It was the most erotic night of my life; I’m sure that if I hadn’t diddled earlier, I would’ve erupted into my khakis before dessert. There was no sexual contact. We hadn’t even kissed or hugged. In that vein,
I’m not sure where we stood. I only knew that it didn’t matter.
Nights that followed were not quite as intense. For one thing, I was allowed to feed myself. Still, Mrs. Chin took great delight in trying new recipes on me, poking me in my stomach, then watching me struggle by evening’s end to get back to my apartment.
More significantly, we started having lunch together. If it was at the Double Chin, I no longer limited myself to just a pastry and a shake.
God, the pounds came.
In just weeks, my weight climbed to one-eighty. My waist grew to forty inches; buying pants became an exercise in foresight. And it wasn’t just my paunch getting bigger. My neck and face were filling out. I finally started buying new shirts.
It also became harder for me to do things. Though I walked around town for exercise, I was becoming tired more quickly. Even bending over and putting on my sneakers was starting to feel like a workout. Each new experience, every sensation or change I valued as I gave in to the transformation of my body. That it was happening quickly now, and that I wasn’t getting sick, was proof, in my mind, of Mrs. Chin’s culinary wizardry.
Thanksgiving was coming. I was looking forward to the King of Food Holidays like a youth anticipating his finest lay. Thanksgiving also introduced the element of family.
“Will your son be visiting?” Mrs. Chin asked one chilly afternoon. She herself had two daughters, whom, like my son, were grown and on their own. Like my son, they also lived out of state (one was in Taiwan).
I said, “No, not this year.” Just as well. Though we talked about once a week, the last time I had seen him was just before I bought that fateful issue of the Man of Steel. I don’t know how happy he would have been with my weight gain. I do suspect, with that in mind, he would have cramped my style with Mrs. Chin.
“My youngest is coming,” she said. “You’ll like her. She a very smart girl.” I do not talk about my ex-wife, unless Mrs. Chin asks questions. For her own reasons, she rarely talks about her husband.
“He started Double Chin,” she said once. “Worked very hard, all the time. Business was everything, even more than family.”
“How did he die?”
Heart attack. A huge thorn in the fantasy of fat. Fortunately it didn’t run in my family.
I concentrated on Mrs. Chin’s 25-year-old daughter. That she was having Thanksgiving dinner with us introduced a whole new dimension into Piggy’s universe. How much would Mrs. Chin and I have to tone things down? How much more food would she have to make? As the holiday neared and she talked about food, Mrs. Chin’s eyes sparkled like umber gems.
I found myself wanting to touch her, to hold her, to feel her against me. How odd, I thought. All my life I had always liked fat women. Now I got hard imagining her slender frame pressed tight against my bulk. Maybe, all this time, it hadn’t been fat women, per se, that I liked, but the contrast between a fat and skinny body.
Cool. I reflected on how Mrs. Chin always ate like a bird, while I gobbled down everything in sight. Suddenly, how little she ate was very sexy. But how did she feel about me, other than someone to load calories into? Other than the playful, teasing touching she did, she showed no desire for intimacy. I couldn’t believe I was feeling this way. I didn’t know what to make of this situation or whether to broach the subject.
Luckily, I had my eager, bouncy boys. Mr. Bojangles, for sure, loved that soft, pillowy mass growing ever closer to his dancing, one-eyed head.
* * *
The morning before Thanksgiving, restless, I stopped by the Double Chin. The place was hopping. “I’ll come back later,” I mouthed to the Boss Lady from across the counter. She shook her head and raised her finger: she wanted me to wait. She said something to Hannah, who went to the back room. The girl emerged two seconds later with a cake box and headed my way.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Mrs. Chin cheerfully mouthed back.
Hannah held out the box for me to take. She was grinning, faintly, like she knew some dirty secret. I swallowed before being able to speak.
“Thanks,” I said simply, suddenly very aroused. Other girls smiled at me and waved. With package in hand, I left immediately, flashing on all of them imagining what I was gonna do with this cake and how it would affect me.
* * *
Funny thing about getting fatter. The more you eat, the more you can eat. I thought scarfing down most of that cake would knock me out for lunch. It didn’t even put me in a stupor. I tried to work (I do an online Mr. Science-type column), but words were not coming to me. All I could think about was eating.
I got into bed, planning to sleep until it was time to leave for my next meal.
* * *
Mrs. Chin’s youngest daughter, Susan, impressed me immediately as a very bright woman. Not quite as delicate or as pretty as her mother, she was articulate, had not a trace of accent, and she seemed very focused on her education. She was working on her PhD in nutritional life enhancement. I reflected on that as we ate our sumptuous Thanksgiving dinner. I, of course, had more than the two women combined, but I don’t think it was a lot, considering Susan ate not much more than her mom. However, in lieu of her research, I wondered what the younger Chin thought when she first laid eyes on me. Unlike the waitresses at the Double Chin, for all Susan knew I was always about this weight. I’m sure she had no idea of what her mom and I were up to. She probably figured there would just be tons of leftovers.
At least, she might have thought that, until her mom slapped me with a second helping. Glancing at Susan, who smiled sweetly and properly, I couldn’t read her at all, which naturally incited my imagination to fill in the blanks. Mr. Bo-jay swelled mightily as I commenced emptying my plate a second time. Later, Susan and I cleaned up a bit before dessert, both of us insisting that our hostess go sit. For a moment we were alone in the kitchen.
“I’m glad you and Mom are friends,” Susan started saying as she prepped dishes for the dishwasher. “She’s very fond of you.”
Were the Chin women psychic or what, for I very much had needed to hear that. I said, “I’m fond of her too. She’s great to be around, and she’s an ace cook.” Damn. Why did I say that? Was I testing the waters for a reaction? The younger Chin glanced at my full, protuberant stomach before getting back to the dishes.
“She ever tell you about my Dad?” Susan asked.
“A little. He was a workaholic and died from heart disease. I’m sorry you lost him young.” It was probably a reason why Susan had gone into her field.
“Thanks.” She met my eyes, briefly. “He wasn’t a very nice man.”
That surprised me. “Why do you say that? I’m sure he loved you very much.”
“Did my Mom tell you she used to be a model?” More surprise. Susan continued, “In the seventies, she modeled for a Japanese clothing line. She could’ve made a career of it. My Dad...was not very supportive.”
“Yet she married him.”
Susan finished the last of the dishes. “She was young.” Another proper smile slipped across her face.
“You guys talking about me?” Mrs. Chin asked, entering our area.
“Of course,” I replied. “Apparently, you are a woman of many talents.” It occurred to me, right then, that I had blown a golden opportunity to ask Susan her mother’s first name.
Mrs. Chin pinched me on a love handle then got busy bringing out the desserts.
* * *
By the time I got back to my apartment, it was late and I was ready to burst. I felt like a beachball filled with lead. There would be no playing with the boys. All I wanted was to sleep, digest and grow fat.
Thirty minutes later, when I was in bed and letting my gut hang out, there was a soft knocking at the door. Having a very excited feeling who it was, I said, “Just a minute,” and threw on a tee and sweats.
I opened the door to see Mrs. Chin. She was holding a cellophaned plate with what looked like fresh leftovers. “Breakfast,” she said, trying to look innocent.
The boys downstairs were stirring; I relaxed my belly to make it look even bigger. I knew Mrs. Chin was itchin’ to feel how full and round I was.
“Come in,” I said. “I wanna ask you something.”
“Yes?” she peeped, still feigning innocence.
“Put that down, have a seat.”
“Oh. This sounds serious.”
“No. No, I don’t think it is. Well, maybe...I don’t know.” This was no time for fumbling. Since words were failing me, I went with my feelings. I bent forward and quickly, very lightly, kissed her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just had--”
She kissed me the same way.
Stepping forward to hug and hold her, she stopped me. I was flumoxed.
“But I thought...”
“It’s too soon.”
“Why? I just wanna hold you, not boink you. I mean, I do, but--”
She put her fingers to my mouth and said, “You not ready.” That fiery glint, the one that had sent me reeling once before, flashed across her eyes.
Again I knew. My whole body knew, and the swelling part went into overdrive.
Mrs. Chin cupped my full paunch with both hands, feeling its weight, admiring her handiwork. “Definitely not ready,” she said, then meeting my eyes with that fire. It was fleeting; the mood lifted as she said, with innocence,
* * *
I felt obsessed. All I wanted to do was eat. At three in the morning, I got up and jammed those leftovers into the little bit of belly room that had opened up. If I had more, I would’ve eaten more..though I don’t known how. I spent the rest of the night stretched out on the floor, too gorged to move. God I wanted to get huge.
* * *
Like fattening a goose for a holiday dinner, Mrs. Chin was getting me ready. She had found me, tested me and worked on me. She was gonna make sure I was way, way past plump before we fucked. In addition to our usual meals, she left breakfast for me in her apartment, snacks between meals, all with the unspoken expectation that I was to finish everything she prepared. The more I ate, the more she made, and it still wasn’t enough as my hunger grew and my body adapted.
By the time Spring rolled around, I weighed two-hundred-forty. My ass was big, my arms and legs were smoothing over with fat, and when I sat my fifty-inch belly puffed out onto my thighs. I loved my belly. I loved kneading it, hoisting it, jiggling it. I loved pressing Mr. Bojangles into it; it didn’t take him long to spew forth his appreciation. Yet it was only a baby. As big as I thought I was, Mrs. Chin still would just cup it, lift it or poke it, shaking her head. She was more forceful as I got bigger; sometimes she would punch it. I let her. I let her do whatever she wanted, because eating, growing fatter and pleasing her was the only thing that mattered.
Even my fear--that nothing would ever go wrong--was taking a back seat.
“Soon...” I whispered to my fat gut as I was rubbing it one night. It was becoming my main erogenous zone, though Mr. Bo-jay had no complaints. The two were like one. In fact, it occurred to me that a big belly sticking out, with its button up front, could look a lot like the head of a giant penis. I was losing it; I didn’t care. Only satisfying Mrs. Chin mattered.
* * *
The phone rang. It was Mrs. Chin calling from work.
“Let’s go out tonight,” she said. It was a rarity, but every once in a while she preferred having dinner in a restaurant rather than home. That was cool. A change of venue was always a fresh and potent way to bolster my appetite.
“Dress nice,” she said. “Wear a jacket. We’re going to a nice place.”
“You see. You like it. We’ll have fun. Eight o’clock.”
She gave me an address to a Chinese restaurant in a part of town I was not that familiar with. The neighborhood was mixed; the restaurant had most of its writings in Chinese. I felt lost, hoping someone inside spoke English. I gave my name to the host. He didn’t say anything, but he seemed to be expecting me as he gestured that I follow him to a table.
The place was elegant, and full, serving a mostly ethnic patronage. I didn’t hear any English being spoken. Also, so far as I could tell, I was the fattest guy here.
Make way for Piggy, I thought, my belly leading the way.
As I waited for Mrs. Chin to show, I ate three bowls of noodles. I was at a table in the middle of the main dining area. I had already glanced at the all-Chinese menu. A surreal feeling came over me. I felt disconnected from my surroundings.
Then I saw her being escorted over.
Mrs. Chin had on a purple silk blouse and black skirt If she was coming from work, she must’ve brought a change. I stood to greet her; she smiled, but it felt weird not reaching out to touch her. I did notice though, that in the heels she was wearing, she was taller than me.
She said something in Chinese to the host as she was seated. She asked me,
“Were you waiting long?”
“No.” I wanted to drink her in. I liked her with her hair down straight and with nighttime make-up. I hungered for her glossy lips.
“Did you look at the menu?” she asked, breaking the spell.
“Are you trying to be funny?”
She opened the one in front of her and perused. I felt like a child who didn’t know how to read. I said, “Um, how am I going to know what to order?” Without taking her eyes from the menu, Mrs. Chin said, “Leave everything to me. I know what you like.” She resumed her silent evaluation of what was being offered.
So much for conversation. I felt like I was in a dream.
After a few minutes, a waiter came over. Mrs. Chin started placing our order as the young man wrote everything down. She kept going and going; it sounded like she was ordering the whole damn menu (was she?) The waiter asked questions; Mrs. Chin responded in length. She seemed very certain of what she wanted.
When finally the waiter left, I had to ask, “What the heck did you order?” Mrs. Chin responded in Chinese.
Uh-oh, I thought. She hadn’t done this in a while, certainly never in public. I found myself feeling aroused, vulnerable and annoyed. “Uh, maybe this isn’t the right time,” I said.
I might as well have been speaking Greek to her because she continued in Chinese. She wasn’t even making out like it was a game, but like I knew everything she was saying. Something was different. I had a vibe that things were taking a new turn.
At last the food came. Thank God.
We started with soup; that is, I did. Mrs. Chin passed. Then came sizzling platters of sesame prawns, orange beef, thin noodles and string beans in garlic sauce, along with a big bowl of rice. Mrs. Chin spoke and gestured to me with her chopsticks; she wanted me to take a portion of everything. There was a lot of food.
She herself took small portions, a few bites worth. As I shoveled forkfuls into my face, she ate elegantly, barely parting her lips. She also made little eye-contact with me, instead preferring to look around the room. Something was definitely going on.
I was beginning to see the bottoms of the serving platters when more food arrived: dumplings, some kind of chicken dish, more rice and noodles. I was starting to get full, but I was up to the challenge. I dared not disappoint Mrs. Chin, who was hardly saying a word to me. When she did it was in Chinese.
After making a noticeable dent in Round Two, I paused. I needed to let all the food I’d taken in settle. Also, I wanted to make sure there would be room for dessert. I closed my eyes for a moment. Mrs. Chin startled me.
She was speaking sharply at me, gesturing with her chopsticks, tapping them on the serving platters. I noticed other diners glancing our way. Mrs. Chin kept repeating something, til I said, “I’m full. I need a minute.” My plea fell on deaf ears. Mrs. Chin was insistent.
I was definitely annoyed but turned on as hell. Shaking, I piled more food onto my plate.
That seemed to calm her, though she kept talking. As I ate, a woman at a nearby table kept watching us. I felt like a fish out of water, at the mercy of a fisherwoman holding all the cards. My higher brain functions, those involving ego and independent will, began to shut down as I finally acknowledged the part I was to play.
I could even imagine what Mrs. Chin was saying. You fat pig. Look at you, you’re so fat. Keep eating. Keep eating as everybody watches, watches you getting bigger and fatter. Eat! Eat! Finish everything! You so fat!! I groaned. At long last, that put a smile on Mrs. Chin’s beautiful slender face.
* * *
I had taken the bus; Mrs. Chin had driven. We would take her Highlander home. I followed her to where she had parked, trying to keep up, as she stepped lively with her lovely, high-heeled legs. The first thing I did, after I got in, was try to catch my breath.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
Ah. English. I said, “I can hardly walk. My stomach hurts.”
She reached over and started rubbing it, feeling how huge and full it was. “Here,” she said. “This help?” The ol’ Mrs. Chin was coming back. No more Mean Boss.
“Yeah, it does.” I closed my eyes as she continued her gentle massage. It was like her touch was making more room inside. I felt at any moment I could fall asleep.
Maybe I was dreaming when I heard her whispering, Mmm, you getting so nice and fat...
* * *
The weather was getting warmer, and I was getting bigger. At two hundred and eighty, I sported a belly circumference closing on five feet. It was where most of my weight seemed to go. I was no longer fat. I was now obese, a certified butterball, with a gut so big that when I sat, with my legs spread, I could smother a turgid Mr. Bo-jay with it. If I ground down, I could fuck my own stomach. I was happy, Piggy and the boys were happy. Only Mrs. Chin wasn’t. She still would not let me touch her. I was determined to eat more and grow more huge.
In the back of my mind, that fear I had--that nothing would ever go wrong--began to tap anew on the window pane of my consciousness. How big you gonna get? it asked. Piggy replied, As big as I have to. As big as Mrs. Chin wants me to.
Three hundred? Four hundred pounds? At only five-eight? Hell, why not five hundred? I groaned, my fat hips bucking at the thought.
As big as Mrs. Chin wants me to.
That’s what the Realistic Me was afraid of: that nothing was going to stop this.
I had to talk to Mrs. Chin.
* * *
We were sitting in my apartment, getting ready to watch a movie. Mrs. Chin got up to get the food she prepared when I stopped her. I said, in my forthright way, “Uh, I wanna ask you something.”
“Aren’t I ready yet?”
I heard it in my own voice: a puppy’s whimper. Mrs. Chin sure picked up on it, placing her hands akimbo. “Get up,” she said. She got behind me and reached around the fattest part of me. Patting and hefting my swollen girth, she could still get her fingertips to touch. She pulled away and said, “No.” Short and sweet, with no explanation or understanding. Just No.
“How big do I have to get?” I pressed. Actually, now I had some idea. But I had no idea what that meant in terms of poundage, or daily living. I figured she was shooting for three-twenty or three-thirty, over twice my starting weight. She went to get the food.
“Mrs. Chin...” I started to say. Again she stopped, waiting for me to speak. Her expression was icy. I continued, “Maybe, maybe we should take a break.” I couldn’t believe I said that. Thoughts were chaotic; Piggy was throwing a tantrum in my brain.
He was not the only one taken aback. Mrs. Chin approached me with a look I had never seen before, harder, worse than that night in the Chinese restaurant. I started to speak again--I wanted to explain myself--when she slapped me across the face.
It didn’t hurt, but it stung, setting off a surprising chain reaction: the emotional and physical reverberations bolted right down to my groin. I was on fire, my eyes unfocused. Damn if I wasn’t about to cum.
She could see that. With her finger in my face, she said, “Don’t. Don’t you dare. If you do, you will get your precious break. I will never cook for you again.”
I dropped to the sofa. The boys downstairs were on precarious standby. I couldn’t believe what was happening.
“You listen,” she continued, hovering over me. She punched me in my fat stomach. “This is mine...” Then she pointed to below it. “...and that is mine. Understand?”
If I spoke, I would’ve went ka-boom. I was barely able to nod.
Mrs. Chin studied me then pulled back. A smile appeared, like a sunrise. She said, “Good. Stay put.”
I wasn’t going anywhere. As I concentrated, forcing Mr. Bojangles to stand down, I could hear her padding back to me, snapping her chop sticks together like a tiny pair of jaws.
I was a prisoner.
The weather was hot, and for the first time I was not comfortable being fat. I stayed indoors as much as I could, soaking up the air conditioning.
I was a prisoner on many counts. My old life, the one I was living nearly a year ago all fit and slender, seemed distant, hazy, a memory fading out of reach. Only because bills had to be paid did I force myself to work. Plus, it had been a long time since I last dropped by the central office. When at last I paid my overdue visit, as anticipated everyone’s eyes bugged.
“What the hell happened to you?” was their collective inquisition.
I told them the truth, sort of. “I met someone. She’s a great cook.”
Family. My son, Jeff, flew in one weekend. He was beside himself when he saw me. “Dad! My God...!”
“Easy, Jeffey. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re as big as a house!”
H’m, there’s a thought. I said, “It’s okay. I like being this way. And you’ll like Mrs. Chin.”
“How can I possibly like someone who--you don’t even know her first name!” I could see his point. How do I explain that? Answer: don’t bother. Jeff and Mrs. Chin got along coolly. She was trying harder than he was; his disapproval stemmed from how she could let me get this way, if she really cared about me. “He’s happy,” she replied. “Happier than he’s ever been.”
“But it’s not healthy.”
Mrs. Chin said, “Special herbs protect him. He doesn’t even get a cold. You see. He’ll go to the doctor and everything will be okay.”
Jeff wasn’t buying it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. I met Mrs. Chin’s oldest daughter, Helena, a live-wire personality with attributes rare among Asian women: a double-D bra size. She looked like she must’ve been fat once herself; that would also explain her calculating wit. She said, “Looks like you’re gonna be Mom’s chef-d’oeuvre.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but who cared. She had big tits.
At least, that once was important to me. Now, I felt detached from everything. All I wanted to do was eat. I was Piggy’s prisoner, a cartoon animal floating away in an erotic dream. I was Mrs. Chin’s prisoner, chained to her because only she had the power to make that dream come true. Was it her dream to make me a prisoner of my ballooning body?
It was tough for me to rise from lying down (I couldn’t bend!), tough to get dressed, to walk for any length (forget about hurrying). If we went to the movies or a show, I had to wedge myself into the seats (yet Mrs. Chin always made sure I had plenty to eat). Diners were the worst: I would barely fit in a booth before the meal. Afterwards, fully stuffed, she had to pull, to help me out, while spouting disapproval.
She would scold me in Chinese whenever my bulk was a hassle. Every effort, every humiliation, even her native tongue was rendering poor Mr. Bojangles so stiff he hurt. At times, I felt like a nameless core embedded in a massive, heaving sack of fat, the pleasure center of my brain shining. All I wanted to do was eat, eat until my eyes crossed and coherent thought dimmed into nonexistence.
Our “anniversary”--the day Mrs. Chin saw me buy Superman--was coming up. I was hoping to reach three hundred pounds by then. I wanted very much to please her. Speaking of pleasing, since her edict regarding my boys downstairs, I was afraid to touch ‘em (probably why my erections now hurt). It was already work lifting my gut to reach them. Easier it was to sit, plop my belly on top of Mr. Bo-jay and pump my hips, even if just for a minute, just to relieve some pressure. I was afraid to cum. I was afraid that somehow Mrs. Chin would know and get mad, and she’d stop feeding me.
I wondered, many an evening, how often she pleasured herself thinking about all the fat she was gonna fuck. I had no idea what a woman would even do with all this blubber.
At every opportunity I gorged mindlessly, hoping I’d soon find out.
* * *
Some vacation time was owed me. I decided to take three weeks.
I planned it so our anniversary fell right in the middle. This meant ten days of uninterrupted calorie-dumping beforehand, and if I succeeded (I imagined Mrs. Chin squeezing around my fat gut, fingertips failing to touch), then eleven days of feasting and “celebrating” would surely follow. I was psyched. I told her I planned to take some time off. Fire flashed across her eyes.
* * *
Two days before our anniversary, after a huge breakfast, I got on my scale. With the aid of a mirror, I saw around my voluminous belly and spied that most wonderful of numbers: 300 pounds. Yes!
Then I thought, Wait a sec. That’s the scale’s limit. I could be heavier; I wouldn’t know unless I bought a new scale, heavy duty. I could order one over the Internet. But then, there was something gloriously perverse about being beyond measure, about not even having numbers to warn me of the direction I was going in.
Whatever. I had my anniversary gift for Mrs. Chin.
I called her at work to say good morning. Hannah said she was out. When I called later to inquire about lunch, she still wasn’t there (or was she?) I would have to fend for myself. This scared me, but I figured Mrs. Chin was counting on me to improvise. After some fast food, I called the Double Chin a third time. Again Hannah answered, and this time she said the Boss had left dinner for me in her fridge.
“Oh, and she wants you here tonight at eight o’clock,” Hannah said.
That was after hours. I got excited, wondering what was up.
“Why?” I asked.
“You have to help with something.”
I could only imagine what Mrs. Chin must’ve prepared.
* * *
At eight sharp I knocked on the bakery door, and Hannah let me in. All the girls were there, smiling, stealing glances, whispering. With no other customers, for the first time I was all theirs. Nervous, yet strangely resolved, I asked where Mrs. Chin was.
“She’s been in and out all day,” Hannah said. “Here, Mr. M. Why don’t you sit over here.” A table and chair stood alone in a corner of the shop.
I waddled over and sat, overflowing my space. Hannah had that faint, dirty-secret grin on her face. The girls seemed excited.
“What’s going on?” I asked. A few passers-by peaked at all of us through the window.
Hannah said, “Well, you know, Mrs. Chin’s been teaching us how to bake, how to try new things. She said you could help us, tell us what tastes best.” The girls nodded in unison.
I fixated on their eager smiling faces. Both my heart and my penis threatened to burst as I realized, They’re in on it. They’re all fucking in on it! My face was flushed, I could feel myself sweating. Hannah said, “So you’ll help us?”
“O-okay.” I could barely speak.
The girls squealed as Hannah gave an order in Chinese. They all went back to the back room and quickly returned with trays of little cakes, cookies and other fine carbs.
The first girl stepped up to me. “These are mine,” she said, eyes bright.
“Try this one.” I couldn’t stop my fat fingers from quivering as they closed on the little morsel. It was moist and creamy in my mouth. She said, “Now try this one...now this...”
And so began the human conveyor belt.
They brought me tray after tray; my eyes glazed over. “Try this, Mr. M;” “Now this one;” “I made these, try these...” They seemed so happy as I gorged for them, young cuties curious as to the limits of human endurance.
After an hour I had to rest. Hannah protested. “Mr. M! Mrs. Chin says you’re an expert at this.” She shook the globe of my stomach. “Come on. Only a few more trays.” The girls echoed that, adding Pretty please with sugar on top. They laughed.
I groaned. I almost came. I didn’t say no. Hannah snapped her fingers for the girls to bring more food.
With cream on my lips and shirt, I was soon teetering in my chair, about to pass out. Girls were propping me up; on each side, their lithe thighs pressed against my taut, bloated abdomen. I heard Hannah make a phone call. I believe she said something about Mrs. Chin coming to take me home.
In my stupor, with visions of young ones stuffing treats into me, I’d’ve sworn a waitress said, “Too bad. He’s much more fun than Mr. Chin.”
* * *
I woke up groggy. I woke up in bed. What the...? I was in my tee and sweats.
As memory climbed back into my head, I heard someone in my kitchen and smelled tea.
Supreme effort got me to my feet to investigate.
It was Mrs. Chin. “What’s going on?” I asked, already getting hungry.
Sitting, sipping her tea while looking through the morning paper, Mrs. Chin said, “We brought you home.”
Mrs. Chin looked at me and smiled. She looked at my giant belly, and I flashed on five pairs of pretty little hands copping feels of all my fat as they heaved me into my apartment. Who the hell undressed me? I didn’t want to know; I was already pitching a tent.
“Hungry?” asked Mrs. Chin. I nodded. “Good. First things first.”
My systems went into high gear. I knew what she was gonna do.
She got behind and wrapped her arms around me. She did her best to bring her fingers together, her taut arms sinking into my overflowing love handles. I grinned like a drunken monkey. She wasn’t even close. It could only have been better if she reached down and under.
“Well, aren’t you the big boy,” Mrs. Chin said, patting my gut. She wasn’t letting go.
More than ready, I said, “I’m very well done.”
She laughed, like wind chimes. “Stay put. I have something for you, something very special.” She went to her apartment.
I sat to get a grip on the reality about to unfold.
When she returned, she was carrying a pitcher’s worth of, well, it looked like grapefruit juice. “Stand up,” she said. “Drink all of this.”
“What is it?” I asked, rising (with her help) to take it from her.
“It will help you digest better.”
“Oh.” I felt hesitant.
“What are you waiting for? Drink.”
“When you say, digest better, what does that mean exactly?” Mrs. Chin said, “Better, faster. Now drink. Drink!”
A wave was coming, something big. “You mean...I’m gonna get fatter faster?
I needed a second to think. I couldn’t get my precious grip; this was not what I was expecting. I asked, “How-how much faster?”
“Faster than this, I hope. Depends. Now drink! I haven’t got all day.”
I didn’t know what to do. I lifted the pitcher to my mouth. Because I was shaking so, Mrs. Chin helped.
As the concoction poured in, and I felt my stomach fill, I took on a kind of rhythmic groaning with nearly every swallow. “Yeess, drink,” said Mrs. Chin, her hand resting on my belly, feeling it swell. Patting it, she slipped into Chinese, but I knew what she was saying.
Drink. Drink every drop. This make you superhuge. Big like a house. Drink. Drink...
Spasms took control of my lower body. Oh God... It felt like quarts were shooting outta me; I fell to the sofa as my knees gave way. It wouldn’t stop. Then as the shockwave subsided, and I could focus, I considered that Mr. Bo-jay had just bought me a world of trouble.
Looking up, I saw Mrs. Chin standing over me, holding the empty pitcher. She didn’t seem angry at all. She was smiling, as if I’d just done something cute.
She said, “We’ll have to do something about that so it doesn’t happen again.”
* * *
The following day, Mrs. Chin took off from work. To maximize the effects of that drink, she had me eating nearly every waking moment. When I wasn’t eating, I napped. Sometimes she stayed close to me; her hands explored the deep folds and robust curves of my body while taking care not to “oversample.” In that vein, it helped that I still couldn’t touch her.
“Soon,” she kept saying, rubbing my huge gut. “Very, very soon.”
On the day of our anniversary, Mrs. Chin again took time off. She said she had two surprises. I followed her into her bedroom--I’d never been here until now--figuring happy-time was just around the bend. Again, I was wrong.
In a corner was a heavy-duty scale.
“Happy Anniversary,” said Mrs. Chin, smiling. She looked so thin, so fuckable in her tank and skirt. In my stretched-to-ripping tee and Big Man shorts, I lumbered over to the machine, stopping short of getting on.
“You said you needed one, right?” she asked. She studied me. “Why you always nervous? Get on.”
I couldn’t stop how I was suddenly feeling.
Since drinking that gainer-juice, and especially after yesterday, I felt bigger. More than ever, body parts were rubbing together: my thighs, my arms, my sides; looking down I could see my neck puffing up into my field of view. My swollen belly was starting to make doorways look narrow. But more than this, I felt different inside. Heavy. I felt so heavy. I felt so fat. I didn’t want to go anywhere; I hardly wanted to move. Eating and napping all day seemed fine by me, as long as Mrs. Chin was by my side. I knew then that reality had long, long since slipped from my grasp. Being afraid now was wasted effort. I got on the scale. A remote monitor, mounted at eye-level on the wall in
front of me, showed me numbers that emptied my mind. I now weighed 352 pounds.
I sensed Mrs. Chin wrapping her arms around me as best she could, beaming.
“You delicious,” I heard her say.
I was gone. She grasped my fat chin to get my attention, felt how fat I was, then kissed me.
That was the sweetest taste of all, the thing that brought me back.
I was now so fat I couldn’t really hold her, at least not with both arms. But I didn’t need to. I felt her slenderness sinking into me, her knee rising and nudging my belly. The latter was a killer: once more, I exploded into my shorts.
“H’m,” she said. “You gush like a boy. Maybe I should’ve given you second surprise first. Go clean yourself, then put this on.” Into my chubby palm she placed a small rubber ring.
The electrochemical pulses in my brain struggled to get through all the fat. My jaw dropped. I asked, “Is this what I think it is?” Mrs. Chin looked at me, smiling. I wondered if I’d even be able to get this thing on.
Since passing two-fifty, I’d been adapting my approach to bathroom care. For showering I used a hand-held showerhead with a long, flexible handle. At three-fifty, however, even this left something to be desired; and forget about taking a bath. No way I’d fit into the tub and get out again, not without a crane to uncork me. I did the best I could.
Getting that cock ring on was a whole other matter. I’d been humping my underbelly for so long that I presently discovered I could no longer reach Mr. Bo-jay. Once a fantasy, it was now disconcerting, if still something to get off on later. I tried propping my stomach on the sink; I still couldn’t reach around because my arms were also fat. I was drawing the embarrassing yet titillating conclusion that, if Mrs. Chin wanted this on me, to keep me from “gushing,” she’d have to slip it on me herself.
I dressed and waddled back, wondering what she was gonna do. I didn’t figure she’d bust out laughing.
“Me?” she said between fits. I stood there, a speechless idiot. Calming down, she approached me. “Poor, poor Danny,” she said, stroking my cheek then kissing it. “Now I know how fat you really are. You can’t play with your favorite toys.”
God what a tease she could be; I felt my spent boys stirring. Somewhat defensively, I said, “If you keep this up, it ain’t gonna fit.”
“Ohh.” Fire gleamed in her eyes. “Maybe this time you won’t need it.”
Holy Krakatoa. She was gettin’ me up and runnin’ a second time.
* * *
So that’s what skinny women do with fat men.
While Mrs. Chin prepared a meal for me in her kitchen, in her bed I reviewed the most surreal sex I’d ever had, my first fat sex. First, with me on my back, she had to heave my giant belly aside to fondle and stroke me. Either she knew her way around town, or I’d forgotten how great hands felt. In seconds I was ready for launch.
Mounting me, she rode me, my huge gut rolling with our motions. She couldn’t get enough of my belly, hugging it, holding it, clutching it to her light, narrow body as if it were her own. And that’s when it hit me. That’s when I understood.
Making me fat was her way of making herself fat. Like me, she was naturally thin but loved fat (I wonder what her dreams were like as a kid). Unlike myself, Mrs. Chin never found a feeder...or more likely...more likely...holy crap: she always found the right guy to feed.
“He’s much more fun than Mr. Chin.”
I hoisted myself up. Looking around, I saw pictures of her daughters but none of her husband. And wait: how the hell was this bed able to stand up to our over-four-hundred-pound ruckus? Reinforcement?
The scale! She could’ve always had it.
Huge pieces of a mammoth puzzle were starting to come together. I got up--God I’m so fat--to check the scale out. It was modern, but was it new? Pushing my belly out of the way, I studied the platform. It looked slightly worn in two places, as if accostumed to a pair of feet.
Well I’ll be a hippo’s uncle.
Now so much was making sense, with Mrs. Chin, her daughters, with the Double Chin waitresses. I’d stumbled into a whole nest of female feeders! And I was not their first victim.
Poor choice of words. The realizations kept coming. My vision narrowed, I broke into a sweat.
How’d he die? Heart attack. He wasn’t a very nice man. I put on my shorts and waddled excitedly into the kitchen.
“Ah. Almost ready,” said a Mrs. Chin in a silken robe. Oddly, she was also wearing her glasses. “Please sit,” she said, pointing to the dining area. My mouth watered, but I resisted. This would be my Last Stand with Reality, before I shut the door completely. I asked, “Do you have a picture of your husband?”
She stopped in mid-motion. I’d hit a nerve. “Why?” she asked.
“We just got it on in your bed--in his bed. You have no pictures of him. I’m curious.”
“Later I show you.”
“No, now...please. I need to see something.”
I wasn’t used to Mrs Chin being uncomfortable, not in control. Without another word, she put down the giant omelet, went over to a closet and pulled out a box of pictures. Rustling through, she handed me a photo in a fancy frame.
“My wedding picture,” said Mrs. Chin.
Taken in Taiwan in the seventies, it held a very young, very beautiful Mrs. Chin in a traditional Chinese wedding dress. Next to her, dressed appropriately, was a portly young man. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I asked,
“Do you have a recent picture?”
I heard Mrs. Chin rustling again before she handed me a small, plain photo. In it was the same man but much older, and much, much bigger, at least as huge as I was. I thought I would swallow my heart.
In her quiet voice, Mrs. Chin said, “He wanted to be fat. Just like you.” I wasn’t meeting her eyes. “But it killed him.”
“If I refused to feed him, he would have killed me.” Now I looked at her. Mrs. Chin said, “He was abusive, physically, to me, our daughters. He was mean to girls at the shop. He wanted what he wanted. Nothing else mattered.”
“Why did you marry him?”
“It was arranged.”
A wave of sadness came over me, then indignation. Then fear. I said,
“You...you could’ve prevented it, protected him, like you’re protecting me.” “I didn’t know how, then.” She saw what I was feeling and came closer, took my head in her hands and looked me directly in the eye. She said, “He was a bad man. You are good and important to me. I would never let anything happen to you.”
I was confused. Was this murder? Was this self-defense? Was it self-indulgence on the part of an arrogant and violent man? I wasn’t there, I couldn’t judge. I only knew that Mrs. Chin was protecting me, and I certainly did not want to lose her.
“Please,” she said. “Please understand.” She started to cry.
Without thinking, I put my arm around her.
* * *
A shameful past had been revealed. But for Mrs. Chin, talking about it was finally exorcising the demon. I was glad I could be her confidant, her pillar of strength and renewal. In truth, we were boons for each other, especially as it got harder and harder for me to care for myself.
The past was gone. The future was ours, and I was getting monstrously huge. Mrs. Chin insisted that I live in her apartment. Not that I was giving up mine. It was just easier for me to stay put as I got bigger and fatter. In a mere few months I had ballooned to four-eighty. I was expanding, unstoppable, like human Jiffy Pop. Forget the boys downstairs; I could no longer reach the front of my belly. Thank God for that cock ring.
Because I was requiring more and more care, Mrs. Chin enlisted the Double Chin waitresses to help, especially Hannah. Ah, my sweet Hannah, with her wicked little grin. Being stuffed by her was almost as hot as being fed by the Queen herself.
Thank God, thank God for that cock ring.
* * *
By the time snow was blanketing the ground, I had reached seven-zero-zero. I could hardly move. I could barely lift my head or my arms. I was a mountain, a Himalayan blob, existing for the sole purpose of getting blobbier. Mrs. Chin had set-up a laptop with voice-recognition so I could still work. Even then, I worked solely during moments of lucidity, when my brain’s pleasure center wasn’t under assault from being fed, having sex or both. According to Mrs. Chin, since my systems were being bolstered by her ancient Chinese secrets, I could keep on gaining. Well, maybe my body could handle that, but I wasn’t sure now about my mind. Would it stay in one piece? Or would it fragment into swirling bits as I sank ever deeper into an ocean of fat and orgasm?
Eight hundred? Nine hundred? A thousand pounds?! Oh God...
One day, while fairly aware of my surroundings, Mrs. Chin said she had two very special surprises for me. “It took me a long time to find this,” she said, “but I know, you love this.” She slipped a disc into her DVR.
What played reached deep, all the way back into my childhood. It had been that long since I last saw it. A smile creased into my obese face.
“Pigs is Pigs” was on, an old Merrie Melodies cartoon. I couldn’t believe it. As a child I’d been mesmerized by it: the greedy little pig being strapped into a mad scientist’s feeding machine and made so round and fat he could hardly walk. I was now rounder and fatter than that pig.
“Like it?” Mrs. Chin asked when it was over. I nodded. Beaming, she wheeled in a big metal box with a long, transparent tube.
My eyes went wide.
Mrs. Chin said, “The girls and I have been working on this for long time.” She opened the box to show me networked food processors, all full and ready to go. Mr. Bo-jay bulged, throbbed, oozed. Praise the Lord Almighty for Mrs. Chin’s ring.
“First things first,” she said and with ribbons began tying my hands and feet to the bed posts. My hips bucked, or tried to; Mrs. Chin could tell from the way my mountainous belly rolled back and forth. I moaned as she stuck the feeding-tube mouthpiece in and secured it with headstraps. My eyes were rolling up in their sockets.
“This should feed you for a few hours,” said Mrs. Chin, “until one of the girls or I check up on you.” Softly stroking my obese cheek, she reached for the on-switch of the machine. She slapped me gently to get my attention. Hardly conscious, I watched her flip the toggle.
The food processors kicked into gear. Within seconds, a creamy, malted-like fluid was worming through the transparent tube toward my mouth. I couldn’t stop watching it, moaning, bucking as it got closer. Cool and fruity, when it entered the mouthpiece I yelped, well, as well as I could as my oral cavity filled and I was forced to swallow. I was soon in a machine-enforced rhythm. It was powerfully sedating. Mrs. Chin said, “That’s a good piggy. You’ll be as big and round as the moon when I get back.” I was barely hearing her. Seeing how out of it I was, she bent close and said, “Here is my second surprise.”
As my entire being filled with fat, Mrs. Chin whispered in my ear her first name.