Weight Room Title Bar

By MaxOut


It's funny sometimes how the smallest of things can bring about a cascade of effects; like a single raindrop causing a landslide that effects thousands. It was all innocent enough, just a crazy article in a rag newspaper, but its repercussions - well, that's the story now, isn't it?

I'd spent the first twenty-five years of my life wanting to be included. As a little girl, if two friends were playing hopscotch, I would be crushed if they didn't immediately ask me to join in. I had to be invited to all the sleepovers and parties, had to get the most valentines; I starved for attention, don't know why. It's not like my parents didn't love me or anything; I guess they just didn't notice me enough. I'd spend hours making a bow and putting it in my hair just so and then have to wait forever for either of them to acknowledge it - if they ever did. Or if I pointed out what I wanted them to see, all I ever got in way of response was a resounding, "Gee, that's nice, dear,” and then it was back to paying attention to whatever it was that their daughter was interrupting.

So I starved for attention. Began to crave that good feeling of being a part of the clique, belonging and noticed in the RIGHT way; the distinction being that my folks only seemed to focus on the negative. Don't do this, or you shouldn't wear that. All negative connotations, especially about my weight. Not that I was a fat child, just a little chubby.

All the way through elementary school and junior high, even into high school, all I ever heard from my mother, my relatives, and even my mother's friends was, "You're so pretty dear, and such a pretty face. If only you'd lose those ten pounds, I'm sure you'd be as gorgeous as your mother."

Dear mom, always so fashionably thin - probably bulimic. I suppose the main reason she harped on me was because when she was pregnant with me was the only time she was even close to a normal weight. Mom's pure Welsh, eight hundred generations to hear her tell it, which she does frequently, and aside from her lineage, her single triumph in life was the landing of my father, a handsome banker from a long line of handsome, rich bankers.

He works, she shops, they travel. He talks of discipline and the old school and the prime objective: i.e. to have a well ordered life. A subject that was his favorite whenever conversing with his oft times wayward daughter. So there they are, Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, who, out of "love" for their daughter were always trying to fit me into their mold and their ideas, rather than just loving me for me.

Suffice to say that their constant harping on me had the exact opposite effect than they'd hoped. I'm sure that if they would have just left me alone my baby fat would have melted way before high school, but their incessant browbeating just made me depressed and eat more. I suppose I could lay most of the blame on them that I ended my freshman year fourteen years old, five foot five (almost my full height) and weighing 140 pounds. Like I said, not really fat, just chubby enough to drive mom nuts.

But sophomore year things changed - and not because of mom either. First, I discovered boys in a big way and for a time couldn't have eaten even if I'd wanted to. This, coupled with a growing spurt up to my present five seven, caused me to look very appealing as if overnight. My breasts had arrived, and I was starting to get attention from boys. It was heaven! I loved the attention and had to have more, so I started aerobic exercises, tried out and made the cheerleading squad and, in a word, became popular. I was now included and noticed - in the RIGHT way. I loved it, and the recognition became my religion, something I was not going to let slip away. I was determined to become the chicest of the chic as I dieted and exercised with a holy zeal that was downright scary.

And that's how I stayed. Thin, chic, and included. A party girl whose name was on everyone's "A" list. Mom approved of the "new" me, and for a time we became more like sisters than mother and daughter. I spent almost ten years living in this illusion of bliss, for illusion was really all it was. I eventually found out that the life of a party girl wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It was shallow meets shallow, and though I wasn't conscious of it, I was beginning to look for something meaningful even before I went to Europe and had an ill fated fling with Mr. Arian Supremacy. He was so superficial, and he did it in such a revolting, arrogant fashion that it made me step back and examine myself and how likewise superficial I had become. It was all appearance and no substance with me. No wonder I couldn't keep a man. I mean it was just series after series of initial attraction, a frolic, wham, bam, thank you ma'am and a short goodbye. It had served me for a time, but now I found myself needing something more - as if my soul cried out for meaning.

As I flew home, trying to put Mr. Arian safely behind me, I pondered just who and what I really was. I hadn't a clue. I was in a state of flux, like a dandelion in bloom, just waiting for the wind to blow and carry me in a new direction - with any luck towards my true self and away from this cheap store window mannequin without a heart or soul.

I arrived home fit, tanned and ready for something, I knew not what. My hair blond and razor cut asymmetrically and at the same thin, shapely 118 pounds that I'd weighed since sophomore year, ten years ago. Then the wind blew.

It all started on the day before my friend Amy's party. Being a good Sam, I was over helping her prepare, and as we finished early, we had the rest of the day to kill. We smoked a few joints of Colombian Red and in no time were feeling quite fine. Amy started giggling and then brought out one of those pulp newspapers, the National Star or some such; you know the type, the ones with the headlines "Girl Suspended in Animation for Forty Years Gives Birth to Twins."

"Oh boy," I exclaimed, "some hard news. "

We began flipping through, getting a few giggles, when we came to a particularly gruesome tale of a model who "ate herself to death." The story claimed that the twenty three year old model, in a depressed state and tired of dieting, sat down to a meal in which she consumed enough food to increase her body weight by nineteen pounds. The story detailed all the food she consumed, and how, after a time, her poor bloated stomach couldn't take any more and hemorrhaged. She passed out and later died en route to the hospital.

We were abashed over this outrageous story, wondering at the pathology report that cataloged all she had eaten, and pondering whether the physical process described was at all possible.

"Why don't we find out?" Amy suggested. "We've got the day to kill and enough food to feed a small army."

Well, there I was, giggling, high on grass and getting the munchies. Still, I can't for the life of me figure out why, but I just smiled at her, blew out my cheeks and said, "Oink, oink."

"Well, doctor," she giggled in a mock German accent, "let the experiment begin."

To start with there were all the hors d' oeuvres for the upcoming party. Pounds of foix gras with cream crackers, breadsticks and vegetables with a bernaise dip, petite fours, tortilla chips with salsa, potato chips with clam dip and BBQ chicken wings.

We tore through it all like there was no tomorrow, washing it all down with Perrier and orange juice, giggling all the way. We were just having a grand old time when finally, after what must have been at least two hours of gorging, talking and feeding each other; we had to take a breather. I looked at the serving table and saw that there was nothing left but crumbs. Amy looked over at me, bernaise sauce smeared on her cheek, and asked me how I was doing.

"Stuffed, but OK," I replied. "Thank god for spandex."

Amy snorted, "Well, there's always room for Jell-O. How about some dessert?"

"Are you crazy?" I gulped, "We must have put away ten pounds of food between us. How can you even think about dessert?"

"Because it's the best part, silly. Besides, we haven't really done the experiment justice now, have we? In the name of science and all that tastes good, I say it's time to raid the freezer!"

My excuse was that I was stoned, but I don't know if that's really the reason why I followed her like a zombie into the kitchen. As I struggled to my feet I felt like I was dragging a bowling ball around in my stomach. I lightly ran my fingers across my middle and felt how hard and distended it was. Oof. But still I followed Amy's lead and marched into the kitchen. Amy opened the freezer door, and I gasped as box after box of ice cream, Ho-Hos, Ding Dongs, and the like stared back at me.

Jeez, Amy must be some kind of closet junk food addict. Just look at all this stuff. I looked at Amy, and she laughed at what must have been quite a confused look on my face, for she, while not being exactly skin and bones at a buxom five six and around 130 pounds, was hardly fat either.

She continued to chortle as she began to methodically empty the boxes of Twinkies, candy bars, ice cream and Sara Lee cakes onto the kitchen floor. I was wondering what I was getting myself into and why, but Amy somehow managed to manufacture a just lit roach and after a few puffs I really didn't care about much of anything. Everything was wonderfully fuzzy, and it all looked so inviting that I suddenly couldn't wait to taste it all. There, in one sitting, were all the forbidden foods, and just this once I could partake of them all - guilt and my past life be damned. So I joyfully sampled all of it, sugar and more sugar, calories and more calories, until between us all the cookies and do-nuts had disappeared.

I don't remember eating half of all I ate, but the evidence was there: all the empty boxes strewn around the kitchen and then the uncomfortable feeling in my swollen belly. I didn't feel sick or anything, which was amazing considering all the sugar I'd consumed, just a kind of weird, relaxed, yet strung out kind of feeling and a heaviness in the pit of my stomach. I was so stuffed I could only breath in short gasps, like a panting dog as I leaned back with legs spread apart against the refrigerator.

Amy crawled over to me and said in a husky voice, "There's one Twinkie left, dear; I saved it for you. So open wide."

I weakly obliged as she shoved the Twinkie like a phallus into my mouth and then moved it back and forth a couple of times before I bit into it and swallowed, tasting the sugary sweet cream as it slid down my throat. I gasped, and as I opened my mouth, Amy crammed the rest of the Twinkie into my mouth and with her free hand, reached down and stroked my crotch.

I exploded, creaming my pants immediately as wave after wave came over me. I'd never felt anything that intense and as I laid back on the kitchen floor moaning, Amy pulled down my cut offs and ate me out better than any man had ever done. I couldn't believe the well of feeling going through me. So deeply into myself that I wasn't conscious of extremities, only the sense and sensations and the artful darting of Amy's tongue.

After what seemed like hours of this euphoria I managed to sit up and brought Amy's head up and kissed her full on the lips. She tasted moist, salty, hot and passionate. We moved apart after a time, and she smiled at me, patted my protruding tummy and said, "Well, my little Buddha, you seem to enjoy the sins of the flesh. Do you think our little experiment a success?"

I purred, and as I looked over at her she began unbuttoning her shirt, exposing her heavy breasts, crowned by large aureoles, her nipples long and hard, and then I gazed at her bulging tummy. She looked like a pregnant Madonna as I knelt before her and sucked on a breast, feeling the hardness of her over stretched stomach as I moved my hand down to remove her gym shorts and finger her pussy.

For hours we made love to each other, finding new and exciting ways to express ourselves, using fingers, tongues, and dildos until we fell asleep in each other's arms in the early morning hours.


I awoke to an empty bed shortly after noon, feeling drained and slightly nauseous. I took a few moments to orient myself and then slowly pulled myself to my feet. I felt like I was dragging a ball and chain as I waddled towards the bathroom and stood in the doorway gazing back at the reflection of myself in the vanity mirror. Outside of the usual "morning after" wear and tear I wasn't that bad off. My tummy was a bit swollen, but not as badly as I feared it would be after such gluttony.

I washed up and then noticed Amy's scale in the corner. I shook my head and then gingerly stepped on and watched it shoot up to 129 pounds! Wow, even taking into consideration that Amy's scale might be set different from mine, I had still gained a good ten pounds yesterday. Not a record, but I'm sure I had a lot more fun than the model in the newspaper - and lived to tell about it.

I sighed, patted my puffy tummy and walked back into the bedroom to retrieve my clothes, wondering where Amy had gotten to. I dressed slowly, having to leave the bottom button of my shirt unbuttoned, and walked out into the kitchen where I found a note propped up on the kitchen table.

"My not so little sexual deviate," I read. "Hope you dreamed of me last night. I had to go and restock for the party as your piggish display has cleaned me out. I assume that you'll want to return home for a change of clothes, etc., so you'll probably be gone before I return. A word of warning: if you decide to come back tonight, please restrain yourself, because Bill is going to be there, and I don't want you getting in the way of me getting into his pants."

Wow, talk about a wakeup call. This was sure a rude thing to be reading after all Amy and I had shared the night before. It was just like Mr. Arian all over again. A fling and then cast aside as if the feelings we shared were just an illusion; maybe they were all in my head, and nothing but fun and games to Amy. I was feeling hurt - and then mad as hell. How could she? This was actually worse than Mr. Arian, for I kind of expected it from him. No way did I expect this kind of mind game from someone who I considered a friend. She could take her lesbian trips and her haughty attitude and stuff it. I left her house quickly and decided that no way was I going to return anytime soon.

So I stayed home that night, alone, for everyone I knew was at the party. Big deal.

I was reading a book when, at about nine, I started getting hungry, so I went down to the all night grocery and got myself a deli sandwich and, on impulse, a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. I was going to treat myself to a little dessert after all that had happened in the last day and a half, but the first couple of spoonfuls led to several more, and before I realized, I was scraping the bottom of the container trying to get that last spoonful.

I felt disgusted as I gazed at the empty carton, but then shrugged and figured who the hell cared. I enjoyed it, it tasted yummy, and it was what I wanted - so screw the guilt.

I looked down at my re-enlarged tummy, gave it a pat, felt its hardness and rubbed it gently. I knew I would have to exercise like hell to compensate for the last two days, but feeling tired and lethargic decided that I would work out when I felt like it and not get tied into a regimen again. If it cost me a few pounds in the long run, so what! I was getting so tired of everything: the keeping up appearances and being judged by who you knew and what you looked like instead of who you really were. Maybe it was time to go about life a bit differently and step out of the fast lane for a while.

I didn't realize it at the time, but this was the beginning of my rebellion against the social prison I was being held in. It seemed that the first 26 years of my life were spent doing what was expected of me, for my parents' sake, for appearance sake, for my peers' approval. I had to dress for success; I had to be thin, blond and made up. And for who? Not for myself, that's for sure. It was all part of the game: being chic and together so you could look down your nose at all the yokels who weren't blessed with your connections and fashion sense. For so long I thought that this was the only way to live in New York City - but now I was not so sure. So stop the presses! This girl had just subconsciously figured out that there might be a different merry go round to ride. A way to be who and what I really wanted to be, which had little to nothing to do with what everyone else thought was right or chic. All I had to do was turn away from my self-image and reorient my thinking and bingo, new person.

This concept didn't become conscious until months later, but there were several hints along the way as the chic caterpillar shed her outer shell to emerge with a view of her own true self: a butterfly with a beauty all her own.


Several weeks went by with me working at home and just kind of lazing about in a kind of relaxed state of mind. I had received only a couple of phone calls during that time from my so-called friends, wondering where I was. Not much concern over someone who never missed a party, let alone the two or three that had come and gone while I was housebound. I told the curious few that I hadn't been feeling well, and that seemed to get rid of them in a hurry, as they were all not really inclined to listen to someone else's woes.

One day I was feeling restless and tired of my four walls, so I decided to go down to the club for some stretching and aerobics. I walked back to the dressing rooms, opened my locker, stripped and weighed in: 128 pounds on the nose. Just ten pounds, no big deal, I decided as I pulled on my leotard, guiding it over my torso and placing the straps over my shoulders. I sighed, half amused as it clung a bit too lovingly to my puffy belly. Oh well, time to exercise.

I moved onto the mat and started stretching. I was really stiff, which I expected, but what shocked me was how quickly I tired once the workout began. I was sweating like a pig in no time and finally had to stop and sit down after only about fifteen minutes.

As I sat against the wall gasping for breath, Veronica, an old "friend" and one who was always trying to best me, eyed me from across the room and decided to grace me with her presence. I groaned as she sauntered over and in her whining, demeaning voice oozed, "Darling, we haven't seen you here for awhile. Excuse me for asking, but is it that time of the month, or have you put on a little weight?"

She eyed me up and down "You know, I have to admit a little tummy bulge looks good on you. Makes you a little bit Rubenesque."

I gave her a wry grin, unable to get my breathing under control enough to utter a comeback.

"I had heard that you weren't feeling well," she mocked concern, "but don't worry. Now that you're feeling better I'm sure you can work your thighs back into shape, if you put your mind to it. I mean, they're not all that unruly now, are they? Know what I mean?

"Well, gotta run, I've a massage with that luscious Mr. Kim in ten minutes, but I just had to come over and say hello. So, I hope to be seeing more of you, ciao darling."

It struck me, as I watched Veronica disappear around the corner, that her smart-ass remakes hadn't gotten to me. Oddly, I couldn't have cared less. I looked at my little puffy belly and whispered, "Well, as long as you're here, there's no reason why we can't be friends."

Yep, let the bitches like Veronica talk - who were they to sit judge and jury over people, anyway? The little neurotic bitch had more hang-ups than an art gallery, and I had just decided to say goodbye to caring about anything her type had to say. So let her have her fun, because I was bound and determined to have mine. If the Veronicas of the world wanted to wag their tongues, then I'd give them something to wag about. I had just hatched an idea, and the more I thought on it, the more I enjoyed every aspect of it. Oh yes, the doctor of psychology was warming to the task and was certainly going to enjoy watching them sweat.

My plan was simple. Systematically pick out a friend a week and invite them to an innocent lunch. My motive was to watch their reactions and see who would be embarrassed and start to squirm as I exhibited in excess my non-conforming behavior.

The method was simple. Pour myself into a revealing outfit and while my weight conscious friends were ordering salads, I was going to enjoy wonderful meat dishes with rich sauces, soaking up the gravy with bread smothered with butter two inches high. All the while watching them watch me savor every bite with a reverence almost sinful. I had an objective, during the course of the meal, to completely empty the butter dish and then make sure that my victim/guest noticed the ceremonial replacing of the dish by stabbing two of the new squares and slathering them on yet another piece of sourdough.

Of course, I wasn't finished yet. When the waiter asks if we want dessert, I'd glance at my lunch guest with a conspiratorial wink as if to say 'I will if you will.' After they invariably turn down the offer, I'd go ahead and order cheesecake anyway. Then, as I slowly savor every bite, I'd scan the room to see what other people are having. On the waiter's return I'd ask, "What is that delicious looking pastry that man is having?" and then place an order while turning to my guest and asking, "You don't mind, do you? I've just got to try it; it looks so divine."

This drives them crazy, for what can they say? I'd already ordered the second dessert and to say anything would bring my piggish display out into the open - and, god forbid, that would be a serious breach of coolness. So all they can do is sit and watch my enjoyment, as I watch them and see the wheels turning: how can she eat like this, isn't she worried about her figure? I notice she's put on a few pounds, and the way she's packing it away, I can see why. I wonder if she's having boy trouble; that would explain it. Well, not my concern, though I wish I could have a taste; it looks so delicious.

Watching this kind of reaction, plus the wonderful food, always creates an incredible high for me, so after departing company with a usually bewildered or disgusted lunch guest, I hurry home to where I can pleasure myself while gently rubbing my full tummy. I'd fantasize about past and future exhibitions and then envision my favorite dessert: a solid chocolate dildo. I'd imagine pushing it in and out of my mouth, feeling its huge hardness, until my hot breath and saliva make it start to melt, the creamy, rich chocolate flowing down my throat and over my lips and cheeks and down my chest, which I then begin to fondle with my free hand, the sticky concoction sending shivers through my body and making my nipples hard as a rock. The vision drives me crazy and I end up in blissful intense spasms of joy as I cum again and again.


I was well in to the second month of this game when I got a call out of the blue from Amy. It was the first I'd heard from her since her party over four months ago. She was very glib and went on as if nothing had happened that day, and that it wasn't unusual in the slightest for me to drop out of circulation for so long. She acted as if she had just talked to me yesterday. Fine, if that's the way you want to play it; have I got a surprise for you, dear. It's your turn in the chair; let's see how you deal with the masquerade.

I had a special plan in store for Amy and wanted to look my best, so I purchased a body corset that minimized the old midriff bulge and made me look five pounds thinner. I wore a short "A" line tan skirt that clung to my hips and showed off my slightly beefy legs. Along with the skirt came a matching tan blouse, sleeveless and boat-necked, and a wide silver belt that matched my silver pumps.

We met at one of those trendy Nuevo cuisine restaurants that specialized in fresh pastas and veal dishes, but was also a place where a good girl could get a healthy chef's salad. We talked and gossiped over a glass of Pinot Gris like old friends as we perused the menu. She asked what I was having, and I told her I was leaning towards the veal crθme d' champignon. She sighed and said she was probably going to have the chef's salad, even though the veal sounded heavenly. So fucking predictable of you, dear.

I just smiled and offhandedly said that I'd heard that the tortellini pesto with sun-dried tomatoes was to die for. Amy shook her head: "But not worth going off a diet for."

"Diet, you?" I feigned surprise. "Whatever for? You look yummy to me."

She thanked me and told me that it was the diet that kept her that way.

"Diet, such a dirty word," I said as I harpooned three tabs of butter and slathered them on a piece of warm bread.

Amy laughed and said that I was probably right - but she was fighting to stay between 125 and 130 and wouldn't be caught dead in public if she ever crossed over.

"That's paranoia for you, dear,” I got off between mouthfuls. "Who gives a fuck what some other neurotic princess has to say about anything?"

"Listen,” I continued, "here we are, two friends out for a good time, and you're so worried about what other people have to say that you can't cut loose and just enjoy yourself. I mean, like you really have your heart set on that salad. Shit, if you're so worried about your damn diet, then why not just skip dinner tonight and make this your meal of the day; that's what I do," I lied.

"OK, OK, you win. I didn't really want rabbit food, anyway,” Amy confessed. "Let's enjoy!"

"That's the ticket," I smiled, inwardly thinking of how easy it was to sway her. Poor thing, it must really be a struggle for her to have such a sweet tooth and yet keep herself thin. It was obvious to me that her natural body type was a much more robust figure than the magic 125 pounds that she kept herself at. Hell, I'd seen that number come and go before, and it sure didn't seem all that special.

We ordered and ate with relish, each dipping our bread into the other's sauces and then feeding each other off our forks. It was wonderful! Once I'd talked Amy into letting go, it was full speed ahead: from the mischievous grin she gave me as we ordered dessert, to her actually suggesting that a second helping of cheesecake couldn't hurt. Right on, girl! Not the reaction I'd anticipated, but fully acceptable for us both to be making pigs out of ourselves.

I was getting off on it. This was just so cool, and it was so good to see Amy and watch her pack it away. Still, I couldn't forget her slight, so I had to turn the screw another turn, so I excused myself from the table, waltzed to the boudoir and with a great deal of relief removed my corset and let my plump, full little belly hang out in all its glory. I also removed the silver belt and shoved it and the corset into my purse - didn't want for there to be anything getting in the way of showing off my newly developed belly. I took a quick look at my profile in the mirror, my tummy straining the confines of my skirt and straining at the buttons of my blouse, and smiled: eat your heart out, Amy.

I walked slowly from the restroom, making sure that Amy had a good look at me and then sat down smiling. Amy seemed suddenly disinterested in the rest of the second cheesecake, so I pushed the plate in front of me and dove in, making small talk all the while. Amy just silently watched as piece after piece disappeared into my mouth until the last crumbs vanished. I leaned back in my chair, intentionally pushed out my stomach, gave it a jiggle and a pat, and sighed, "Delicious! Really heavenly. God, I wish I had room for that canolli I saw on my way back to the table. Do you think we could share?"

I watched Amy's eyes get wide, and I knew that as she peered at my swollen belly she was thinking about how she was looking after such a feast. But I wasn't done rubbing it in quite yet.

"Listen," I purred, "I'm free again this Friday. Want to try that new French restaurant out on 47th?"

As if the thought terrified her, Amy quickly said that she was busy and would be out of town the following week.

"Oh well, I suppose it can wait until you get back. You call me, alright?"

Yeah, sure she would.

We paid the bill, and just outside the door I just had to give the game a final gesture, so I gave her a little hug goodbye, making sure my belly came into solid contact with her own puffy one.

"Good to see you, dear, really,” I said when we broke apart. As she climbed into her cab, I waved, adjusted my skirt, smoothed my blouse down from my torso, rubbed my belly once or twice and walked off, my widening hips in pursuit.

Ah, what a glorious day! I raced home and masturbated like crazy, the feeling of rubbing my chubby gut against Amy still on my mind.


This routine - my lunch pork out followed by masturbation - went on for a good three or four months and, oddly, had become my social and sexual outlet. For some reason my fantasies had become so much more satisfying than the reality of a love affair with a man. I'd been hurt too often and, besides, just wasn't in the right frame of mind to be social. Still, all good things must come to an end, and I soon began to realize that it was becoming time to change my routine.

I was running out of friends to embarrass, first of all. Though the gossipmongers were calling me for a second show to see if maybe the first was an aberration. Secondly, even though I was working out once or twice a week and not eating excessively at home - except for the occasional ice cream binge or box of Godiva chocolates to help intensify my fantasy - my weight had crept up close to 145 pounds. All of my clothes were to the point where they either didn't fit or were so tight I was having problems squeezing into them. My body shaper girdle had become standard apparel, not out of vanity, but just to allow me to not burst the seams of all my nice clothes.

I was contemplating biting the bullet and purchasing some larger sized clothes - wavering on the fence whether I would take that final, fateful step to admitting that this chubby body was mine and that I was OK with it - when one night after being a bad girl and putting away a pint of rocky road, I had a dream that decided things for me. In it, I was perched atop a large canopied bed in a room filled with white lace curtains. There were attendants in the room, all in skimpy middle eastern garb that were, for the most part, revealingly topless. Some were blond, and some had dark hair, but I soon realized that all the girls were me! This was odd in and of itself, but what was really scary was that they ranged anywhere from 115 to over 200 pounds - and yet were all visions of me.

Then, the one that looked like me at 140 - kind of sexy in a soft, plump, sex-kitten way - opened up a five pound box of Godiva's and, sitting on the side of the bed, offered it to the other me who was lying there. As the curtains drew back I saw myself propped up on the pillows, only this me must have easily weighed over 400 pounds. My face was obscured behind pounds of fat and my body had become a huge deposit of blubber, yet I knew that this great puddle of fat was also me. Lard spilled out everywhere in bulges and rolls, and my whole body of jelly shook obscenely as I raised a massive, flabby arm to accept the chocolates.

I awoke with a jolt having witnessed the final scene. After shoving a massive handful into my mouth, I, with chocolate juice streaming down my jowlly cheeks, beckoned the other apparitions of me towards the bed where they all commenced to stuff themselves, all the while wearing faces that could only be described as enraptured.

I shuddered at my recollection of the vision and, looking down at my little puffy jelly belly, vowed that I was not going to gain another inch. If it meant exercising three or four days a week, then so be it. But then I calmed down somewhat and also vowed that I was not going to diet myself to death over a dream, no matter how scary.

The caterpillar was struggling out of the cocoon of the past, but still needed a final push to realize her full self. She'd made a large step by vowing not to be pushed into some murderous 800 calorie a day diet, and although she didn't quite yet realize it, she was already at peace with herself and the extra pounds. She just needed to get over a few more hurdles: just a little push and she'd finally become one with her true self.

The butterfly within was waiting to spread her wings and take flight.


That final push that the butterfly needed came on a beautiful, bizarre evening just two nights after the dream. It began with a serious look in the mirror. I hadn't really looked in that direction in earnest in quite a while. Now that in itself is of some note, for while the mirrors were all around me, I hadn't more than glanced at the swelling reflection they were presenting me. It was as if subconsciously I was telling myself that whatever shape was looking back at me, it was really quite all right for it to be so. Score one for my subconscious.

Anyway, for some reason, this particular evening I was drawn to take a full and hard look at this reflection that stared back at me. Oh, oh. Well, it had been fun, my little lunch escapade, but the game was going to have to come to an end. My spreading hips and rear melting into what were becoming saddlebag thighs convinced me. Almost sadly I decided that it was au revoir to Porky Pig, but since I'd had such a wonderful time, Porky deserved one last good dinner before it was back to carrots and celery forever. I stood at the mirror awhile longer, taking in my added cleavage and admitting that maybe it wasn't all that bad. Maybe just lose ten pounds and firm up a bit, and everything would be just fine.

Still, diet tomorrow didn't mean that I had to abandon my plan to cook up one last great meal, so I moved to the kitchen and prepared veal carbonara and Fettuccine Alfredo with extra cream. The recipe was enough for three people, but I didn't feel up to doing long division, so I decided that a couple of nights' worth of leftovers would be just fine, especially considering that this was my final fling into fattening food land.

I spooned a generous helping onto my plate and sat down to dine by candlelight. As I ate, sipping a Chardonnay and savoring every bite, I started thinking over the last five months. How odd it all was. It seemed I was so much happier just sitting at home and reading instead of being caught up in the hustle and bustle. That whole lifestyle suddenly seemed foreign to me, as were all the baggage that went with it.

I wondered about that night with Amy. What had really gone on there? Was I just projecting my needs into the situation, or did we really share a kinship that she later chose to ignore? I couldn't really forgive her for being a bitch just like all the rest, but since my memory was fond of that night and since it was pushing me to become more self aware, I suppose I owed her for that. Still, what a pretentious little whore she was: just another player in the game all my snooty friends wanted to play. It seemed like they were only happy when they could point out someone else's shortcomings. I guess that by pointing the finger elsewhere the spotlight would stay away from them. Just look at how they feigned caring. How many had called to express any concern at all when I had disappeared from the scene? Not many. In fact, to take it further, how many of them ever called me at all, unless it was to get something from me? It seemed that I was always the instigator; the only one who had the nerve to call up just to say hello. Well, fine, I sure didn't need their kind of friendship, anyway.

As I got up for a small second helping, I thought of the looks of contempt on their faces as I subjected them to watching me gorge myself at lunch. Those who didn't show open contempt were in the least embarrassed over my apparent lack of self-control. You'd think that maybe my seemingly abnormal behavior might have caused some concern, but why the heck should they care? It didn't really concern them. It's not like it touched their precious little lives now, did it? I suppose they thought that my shrink would take care of any depression or mental illness; after all, that's what they all did. Validation at one fifty an hour. Yippee. We're all OK now, aren't we?

I was so sick and tired of them. Of their "being there" attitudes when underneath they were below shallow. I figured it was high time to get out of the city and away from all these fake people. My design business wouldn't really suffer now, would it? I could still submit my drawing over the web, and, in fact, maybe the change of scenery would do my creative muses some good.

I was daydreaming of a quiet country life, hearing the birds singing and watching the pillowy white clouds amble by, when I came to realize that I was no longer sitting at the dining room table, but was sitting on the kitchen floor, fettuccine pot between my legs, cleaning out the last of the noodles and cream from the bottom of the pot with my fingers. Beside me was the port that had held the carbonara, empty except for a few breadcrumbs and a grease slick of olive oil. An ample meal for three had just been wiped out, and I didn't even remember doing it! I couldn't deny the evidence, though: both pans virtually licked clean, the cream and olive oil stains on my sweatshirt and, hiding behind it, my bulging belly, gurgling its satisfaction.

I felt disgusted and slightly nauseous. How could I? How piggy of me! I considered sticking my finger down my throat, but that was even more disgusting. Slowly, I struggled to my feet and, once erect, was suddenly overcome by waves or horniness. The incredible amount of food sitting in my belly must have been hitting a "g" spot, and as I began to finger my pussy I was overcome by wave after wave of ecstasy until I sank, first to my knees and then spread eagle on the floor, flapping like a beached whale. The pressure against my stuffed tummy only increased my joyful spasms.

I moaned and screamed until, finally exhausted, I rolled onto my back and drifted into blissful sleep, dully amused as I watched my convex belly rise and fall like seaweed in the surf. I was full and fulfilled; my belly and I were one.

Hours passed, and I eventually awoke, feeling full and yet empty. Full of lust and still full of way too much fettuccine, yet empty in a way that only a man could fill. For some crazy reason, now, after being without a man for over five months, and now, after an incredible bout of self eroticism, I had the overwhelming desire to not only feel a man inside me, but to feel his weight on top of me as he slammed down into me, hard and deep until we melted into one.

I was breathing deeply, in a state of extreme heat as I dressed hurriedly in a low cut white tee shirt dress. The choice was simple, as it was one of the few outfits in my closet that was forgiving of my bloated belly. I applied some night makeup, ran a brush through my hair and called a taxi.

In a matter of minutes I was inside a crowded club, feeling hugged by humanity and very, very nervy. My dress, which fit loosely when I had purchased it a good twenty-five pounds ago, was now revealingly tight all over. My ample breasts were like horns of plenty wobbling on display in my pushup bra, all large, sensuous and fleshy. The overstretched material clung lovingly around my midsection, defining the indentation of my belly button and the tummy roll over my panty line, giving me a small inner tube look around my midriff. I was voluptuous with a capital V and was feeling all the more naughty and sexy because of it. I felt like a bitch in heat, and it must have been obvious for in no time I was being offered drinks and dances in spite of resembling the Michelin Man's sister.

I was just diving into my second Mudslide, compliments of the gangly, jock type who was becoming increasingly friendlier, when, as luck would have it, Veronica entered the club. She was dressed to the nines and obviously on the make and, of course, noticed me right away. As she sauntered towards me, a big smile on her face, I vowed that tonight was my night and there was no way she was going to best me.

"Darling,” the sickening saccharine voice oozed. "I knew I'd be seeing more of you, but I hardly expected to see so much so soon. Tell me, is it a glandular problem?"

My, my, aren't we the witty bitch? "No dear, it's ecstasy, something you'd know nothing about. . ."

"Oh, ecstasy,” she butted in. "Then is there a baby cooking in that potbelly stove?" She accented her point by patting my poor swollen tummy, and I just had to laugh.

"The only thing that's due tonight,” I chortled, "is that I'm due to get propositioned by the best looking guy in the bar within the next ten minutes." Boy, I was feeling nervy, but what the hell.

"Oh sure, darling." Now it was Veronica's turn to laugh. "In your present condition - or should I say lack of it - you'd probably have problems catching fish in a fish bowl."

"Don't think so, dear. Just step aside and watch my moves; maybe you'll learn something."

With that, I got up from my stool, quickly downed my drink, smoothed out my dress, patted my belly and moved out towards the dance floor, Mudslide sloshing around in my tummy. Right then I felt primed and ready, oversexed even. My recently enlarged 36C's bouncing in my push up bra gave me confidence in proportion to my cleavage. My desire was hot, flamed by the creamy Kailua Mudslides in my already overstuffed belly, trying to break the confines of the tight dress that imprisoned it.

I came up next to a tall, blond, well-muscled yuppie in a business suit and, while his back was turned, motioned for Veronica's approval. She laughingly waved me on, so I turned and asked my prey to dance. Once on the dance floor I knew I had him. He kept staring at my inviting cleavage while I erotically danced in front of him. Then there was a slow number. I pushed myself close to him and told him how good he felt, which was the absolute truth, for any pressure against my protruding belly almost drove me over the edge.

He drank up my softness, sensed my profound horniness and asked me if I wanted to leave. When I purred agreement and licked my lips, he gave my ass a good squeeze, put his arms around my padded waist, and walked me through the crowd. I waved a fond farewell to Veronica as we traipsed by and jiggled my rump at her just for good measure. She just stared, slack jawed as she watched Mr. Hunk and my fat ass disappear out the door. I suppose she was amazed that this chubby seductress could charm such a good looker, but she should have known better. Men are led by their groin, and no guy in his right mind was going to turn down a roll in the sheets when offered by a still pretty face, even though that face was now attached to a body that had become a tad too bountiful.

I poured my prey into a cab, immediately found out that he wasn't the greatest kisser in the world, but adequate would do just fine, and necked passionately until we arrived home. I got him upstairs, immediately tore his clothes off and ravaged him. For his part he put up a good struggle, ramming himself against my engorged stomach long and hard. I screeched with delight, but after we climaxed I found I still wanted more. Something had turned on my "on" switch, and I was living in the hedonistic moment - wanting to feel more, more, more.

I deftly worked him back to hardness with hand and mouth and then crawled over him and lowered myself gently onto his hardness. His enlarged penis filled me, and with the additional pressure from my still bloated tummy I started to tremble almost immediately. He reached for me, hands grabbing my love handles, and started slowly pushing me up and down on his shaft. Reality vanished, and I was riding him like a bucking bronco, legs flailing and belly slapping against his middle. I worked him for what seemed like hours, through wave after wave until I finally collapsed beside him, panting for breath.

I must have looked like a beached whale, my belly folding like an accordion as I tried to catch my breath, but as he reached over to move a stray strand of damp hair from my face he looked at me with affection and told me how beautiful I was. Sure I was. In this kind of afterglow I'm sure Mother Teresa would have looked good to him.

I kissed him lightly on the forehead, physically spent for the moment, but psychologically my motor was still running. A little demon in my head wondered just what my enamored lover would think of me if I played the lunch gambit on him. The more I thought on it the more compelled I became to find out. I was instantly revitalized but wondered if I could pull this off, for it had only been a matter of hours since I had stuffed myself with a hefty dinner for three and then washed it down with two Mudslides. Could I even begin to fit any more food into my poor tummy? I had to find out. Just thinking about it made me horny all over again.

I asked him if he had eaten dinner yet. When he replied in the affirmative, I told him that I had just had a light snack - yeah, right - and was famished now and getting a craving for something sweet. I bounced up and waddled into the kitchen, returning with a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream and a spoon. Pausing only to give him a few token bites, I proceeded to wolf down the whole container, scooping the last bit of syrupy, melted cream with a scraping sound against the bottom of the container.

My lover said nothing at this juncture, but when the oven timer dinged and I returned with a large pizza, he gave me a quizzical look.

"Want some?" I asked. "I know it's only the frozen kind, but I've done a thorough study on the matter and I've found this brand to be quite acceptable."

He shook his head, "No thanks, I . . ."

"Suit yourself,” I got off between mouthfuls. "Umm, this is great. I don't know why, but good sex always makes me hungry."

He looked at me, and I know he was thinking, 'then you must get good sex a lot.'

"I know it probably isn't good for me to eat so late at night,” I rambled as I lowered another slice into my waiting maw, "but sometimes you just have to cater to your little vices. Sure you don't want a slice?"

Again he just shook his head, in a kind of fascinated daze as he watched my gluttonous display. I was on a roll now, gobbling down piece after piece, washing it down with a quart of milk.

As I munched I made small talk: asked him about himself, his job, his interests, his outlook on life. All the while watching his interest in my piggish display. He seemed initially somewhat taken back by my voracious appetites, but I sensed he was also somehow drawn to it. Whether by some sense of the unusual or some sensual awareness of my overall lust I don't know, but I felt another wave of tension between us and found myself wanting to climb back into the saddle again. As I licked the grease off my fingers I turned our conversation towards things carnal and began drawing circles on his thighs and then lightly on his hairless, surfer boy chest.

I crammed the last bit of pizza into my maw, momentarily amazed that I had just successfully stuffed a pint of ice cream and a large pizza into a stomach already full to near exploding. I swallowed and went down on him, the taste of pepperoni still in my mouth. His body stiffened, but he complained that he was exhausted, although his "ego" was showing considerable interest as I continued to stroke him. I wanted dessert and I wanted it now!

I continued to stroke and suck, and he soon became fully aroused and tried to mount me. Jesus, no way with all the junk in my belly - so I turned on my side and beckoned him to enter me from behind. He entered me, grabbing my ample hips as he started slow gyrations. All the while I was massaging my swollen tummy with my free hand. God, it was heaven! I was stuffed in every sense of the word, and it felt better than anything I had ever felt before.

I purred, and he grabbed me around my thick middle and turned me up doggie style. My ass in the air, breasts heavy and swaying back and forth like jelly seaweed and slapping against my padded rib cage. I reveled, but soon the gravity pressure on my poor bloated stomach was unbearable, so I made him stop until I could get a couple of pillows beneath me to prop my lard butt up. I offered him my flabby ass and wide hips thusly, and it must have excited him for in no time he was banging away, fingers firmly buried in my soft, fleshy hips.

As he banged, he crushed me deeper and deeper into the pillows until it seemed as if they were all a part of my fat belly. I moved my arms down underneath the pillows and brought them up into my midsection as if it were all a part of me, and I was cradling my hugeness lovingly while my lover continued to pile drive into me. My belly was fat, fat, fat as I imagined the pillows' girth added to my own. This feeling of hugeness amplified my sensations until my body started convulsing like a violin string being plucked.

I screamed; I shuddered, my muscles spasming crazily until I thought it would never stop and I would go mad. Oh yes, lover, fuck my fat body. Ram yourself into my soft, doughy ass until you break me in two. I screamed and screamed until finally the flame began to flicker and I could almost breathe again.

In the afterglow, still so sensitive that a mere touch sent shivers all over me, he stared at me and told me that I was the most amazing woman he'd ever met. I smiled - yeah, that's me: Wonder Woman. I told him that he was a true stud, all the while realizing that my incredible high came more from making love in my overstuffed condition than any magic between us. Ultimately, he was just a fuck, and as much as I hated to admit it, anybody with a cock could have stuffed me the same way. It was the other stuffed - the gobs of food that I'd consumed - that was my real lover. It was food that had led me to this incredible sexual peak. His cock was just a tool.

I was too tired to feel guilty about using him so. Besides, he had gotten quite a ride himself now, hadn't he? Poor boy, just an instrument for my pleasure. Ah, but I wasn't through with him just yet. As I watched him nod off to sleep, I reached over to my nightstand and procured a Baby Ruth from the drawer. Then, making sure he was still semi awake enough to notice, I opened the wrapper and took a big bite, sighing, ”God, I love these. I could eat boxes and boxes of 'em. Bet I've eaten 'bout a million of them in my lifetime. Yumm. Too bad they're so fattening. Oh well, what's life without indulging in a few vices?"

I accented the somewhat rhetorical question with another big bite from the Baby Ruth and a contented sigh. Good night, sweet prince, dream a little haunted dream of me, will you?


I awoke the next morning while my lover was still asleep, feeling refreshed and oddly full of energy. I waddled off to the bathroom and took a quick shower, the hot water invigorating me even further. As I toweled off I glanced in the mirror. Oh, oh, I'd really gone and done it this time. My stomach bulged ominously as if to say 'soon all this will be distributed all over your plump little body'. My breasts seemed to have given up the fight with gravity overnight as they were sagging pendulously against the top of my protruding jelly belly that sported a nice little belly roll hanging over my navel. There it was - my belly. All poofed out and pudgy where only six months ago it had been hard and flat. Where was my muscle tone? I grabbed a good three inches of jelly between my thumb and forefinger and asked myself whether I could have possibly gotten this soft and flabby this fast. I looked five months pregnant and had to force myself onto the scale I'd all but abandoned five months before.

Dreading to look, I forced my head down, looked past my protruding, saggy gut and gazed in awe as the digital readout blazed into my skull: 159 pounds! Oh my god, that had to be at least ten pounds more than yesterday.

I'd done it again, just like that first night so long ago. Since that time I'd managed to just about ignore the fact that I was carrying an extra forty pounds of baggage. But now, looking at my reflection I couldn't ignore it, for it sure showed. Forty pounds, most of which located between my now beefy thighs and my tummy. The only saving grace was that enough of the fat had made its way to my hips and breasts to at least make me look like an earth mother. Well, maybe I could move to Morocco and become a belly dancer; I sure had the belly for it.

As I stared at my corpulent image my memory rewound to Amy's words, "I wouldn't be caught dead in public over 130."

And here I was, almost thirty pounds past her magic number and only an inch taller than she was. Of course the public had seen me last night, and that visage was good enough to snag Mr. Sleepyhead still snoring in my bed, but that had been before my late night pizza and ice cream.

I absently flipped a belly roll as I asked myself how I could have done such a thing to my body. My dark side answered that it was easy, it was fun, and it was worth it. Think about last night: wasn't that the ultimate?

I had to agree with my dark side on that one, for I must confess that the best times I'd ever had, sexual and fantasized, had come about since I'd indulged my food infatuation. Hmm, infatuation - yes that's what it was. The last five months were all just a masquerade built around my burgeoning food infatuation!

And now look at the results. I was happier than I could ever remember being. I was more at peace and more creative, and certainly more in tune with myself. And really, I didn't look all that awful. Nice tits, I must admit. Good enough to finagle the hunk in the other room into my bed. So he must have been attracted to either my personality or this new jumbo sized me. Either way was fine with me. It was quite a revelation and a notion that I surely approved of.

I decided then and there, standing on the scale at 159 pounds, looking at the decidedly plump body in the mirror, that I had better like myself this way, for it was a reflection of who I was and the way I am. If the Veronicas of the world didn't approve, so what? Yes, I had better like this round mound for I had a feeling that my sexual nature was going to lead to more bouts of overindulgence, resulting in a few more added inches. Fine, just don't go overboard. Moderation, yes, that's the key.

Feeling at peace with all 159 pounds of me, I decided to treat the man in my bed to a fresh breakfast. I certainly wasn't hungry myself, but figured that I'd whip him up blueberry pancakes, sausage, bagels and cream cheese with some fresh squeezed o.j.

I bopped down to the deli, happy with the first morning of the new me: not the trendy, fashion conscious, crowd pleasing daughter of socialite parents, but me, the real flesh and blood person. Plump, for the time being, anyway, and if the pounds weren't too willing to leave the premises, I certainly wasn't going to lose any sleep over it. Self-contained and at one with myself.

I came back to find an empty apartment, which after the initial shock didn't really surprise me. I chuckled. Poor boy. And what did I expect after the games I'd played on his head. That coup de gras Baby Ruth sure must have made a lovely last image.

I shrugged him off. There were plenty more where he came from. Too bad, my sweet, you're going to miss one hell of a breakfast. I cooked and ate, even though I wasn't hungry. Fresh blueberries on thin crepe like pancakes. Lean sausage and fresh bagels smothered with cream cheese and lots of butter. Yumm, every bite a joy almost sensual.

I cleaned the dishes, made myself a third bagel and laid at the reading couch overlooking the city; soaking up the sun and soon falling into a sound sleep. At one with myself at last.


So I had come to terms with my swelling self. I suppose my tale could have ended there, with me riding happily and plumply off into the sunset, but fate had many more twists and turns set in store for me.

I began actively seeking a place upstate in the country, but for the time being was still residing in New York City. I believe that I had fully come to grips with all 155 pounds of me, realizing that - while it was forty pounds more than the skin and bones that was the chic me that my mother and friends accepted - it was just about normal for the rest of America. I believe that Cheryl Tiegs was modeling at five foot nine and 150; not too much difference between she and I - except perhaps the tummy rolls that I had - but even so, it's not like I was obese or anything.

Still, I wish that the belly rolls weren't there. That, plus the woeful shape my thighs and rear were in after seven months of virtual non-exercising, led me to instigate my "Maintainence Plan." I was pleased to see that my renewed exercising had not only stabilized my weight, but after three weeks had even managed to drop it by two pounds. I had figured that this was to be my level. I was happy with that and even becoming pleased with the way my body looked. Sure, there was too much of me, especially in the hips and tummy, but I shrugged it off as just being a buxom bombshell.

The only part of me that I disliked was my spare tire. The blubbery sunken rear I had built offended my sensibilities, so I had to admit to myself that a bit more effort in the gym was necessary and was not going to kill me. I was almost wrong, as forty pounds and close to a year of easy street had made even a light workout seem like torture. Still, I persevered.

There I was in all those mirrors, huffing and puffing in my size twelve leotard, the cellulite on my thighs pink and glistening with sweat. Ah, but masochist that I am, I forced myself to continue the torture, twice a week like clockwork. Then magic happened.

At just about the one-month mark of my maintenance plan, I completed my half hour workout and managed to haul my exhausted carcass over to the juice bar, in dire need of refreshment. Still puffing, my belly folds moving like an accordion, I sat down and without even looking, gasped for an apple juice. When it was delivered I looked up to thank the barkeep and came face to face with Adonis! His blond curly hair atop an angelic face, and oh, that body! I felt like I was going to faint.

He said his name was Bear, and he asked me what a nice girl like me was doing in a place like this.

"Torturing myself,” I replied and smiled.

He excused himself for being so forward, but as life only goes around once he might never get another chance - and then asked me to dinner.

I told him I'd love to, but I'd just started this diet . . . but please, don't get the wrong impression. How about a movie?

He eyed me seriously and told me that I certainly didn't need to be worrying about dieting, especially when he knew of this great Italian restaurant that had the secret of perfect gnocchi.

I smiled and as my hand passed absently across my belly, I thanked him for being very flattering, but he either needed glasses or was a beautiful liar.

Coyly, he picked up his glass, informed me that it was carrot juice and said that a romantic evening could only be spent over hearty Chianti and gnocchi.

Oh well, so much for the maintenance plan. How could I resist this bronze god's advances? We feasted on a fabulous dinner and then later on each other. He told me in a thousand ways just how beautiful I was as his big hands slowly caressed my absorbent flesh. He was so convincing that I even believed him. He made me feel beautiful just being near him. His glow, his aura. He was so fucking gorgeous, and yet here he was in my bed, whispering sweet nothings and seemingly smitten by my rotund butterball of a body. I felt infinitely sexy and that I was somehow the answer to his dreams.

Still, I was embarrassed to be lying near such a buff body when my own was so pudgy. This was the first man to see me "au natural" since my drunken "affair de gluttony" two months earlier, and since I was drunk and role-playing that night, anyway, that one didn't count. So discounting that bizarre evening, the last time a man had seen me in toto I was a good forty pounds lighter.

I first tried apologizing to Bear, patting my jelly belly and complaining about how soft and flabby I'd become. I grabbed the three loose inches of flab around my middle and wailed that I had had a hard, flat stomach just one year ago. I stammered that I had really let myself go and told Bear that he should have seen how pretty I was back then. I told him that I wanted to look perfect for him and that I would diet and exercise like a mad fool to get back to my old svelte self again. It didn't really matter to me, but I would do just about anything to make this man happy. The chemistry between us was electrifying, and I just knew that I had already fallen in love with him.

Bear was laughing heartily at my self effacing tirade and then grabbed one of my ample breasts and asked me how I could possibly want to diet away such beauty. "Jesus,” he exclaimed, "Why is it that all women think that their men want them to look like pencils?"

He lovingly caressed my breast and said, "This is beauty: abundance, plenty. This is what is sexy and what a man really wants. A curve here, some extra bulk there. It's what makes us different. It's what makes a woman a woman."

"Give me a woman with substance,” he continued. "If I wanted some waif, I'd probably turn gay and be into young boys. I want a bigger woman with something to hold onto. That's when I'm happy."

Oh yes, Bear, something to hold onto.

I soon found out that Bear was quite wealthy and was only working the juice bar in the gym to scope out the right woman. He quit shortly after meeting me, so he could devote more time to wining and dining me.

Sigh, I'd met my match. By the end of October we had moved to the country and become engaged, planning a June wedding. The move worked out extremely well, for several of his clients were close by and we could both commute to the city together the couple of times a month it was necessary.

I spent the winter designing dresses in between picking out color patterns, wallpaper and the like. Just acclimating myself to being a country wife: baking cookies, fresh bread, biscuits, more cookies. Most times I made a double batch, one for me in the afternoon and the other for Bear and I (mostly me) as we soaked in the hot tub upon his return from work.

Bear said he loves a woman of substance, so who am I to disappoint? The maintenance plan was history, as was 150, 160 and 170. By the time spring sprang I was beginning to resemble the Guernseys that the area was famous for. Not that I minded all that much - or Bear for that matter. He enjoys watching me eat, and when I gorge myself it makes our lovemaking all the better. Bear just eats it up. He loves to rub my belly when it's all hard and swollen with food and says that there is nothing better than watching my breasts bouncing and swaying when I'm on top of him. Suffice to say there's a lot to bounce. With my added weight I barely fit into a D cup, and it seems that every couple of weeks I have to loosen my bra straps a little more.

As for the rest of me - well, I've grown rather pear shaped. Very curvy and especially heavy in the hips and upper thighs. My rear has sunken, and I've become 48 inches across in the beam. I guess that shouldn't surprise me though, as my five foot seven frame is now carrying darned close to 200 pounds.

Bear loves it all and I love him for it. He plays with my love handles, flexes my jellyrolls between his large fingers, and all the while continues to buy me treats while telling me that I am so sexy. Funny thing is that I believe him. I've accepted my fullness and see that some men still give me the eye, even though outwardly they'd be embarrassed to be seen with me on their arm. I don't know where western culture got its strange ideals about what is and isn't attractive, but I'm sure happy that I'm no longer constrained by them.

I've started designing clothes for the larger woman, trying to show that a large body can be sexy and that the right clothes can flatter a fuller figure. Of course, I've also made some trashy clothes for myself that show off my new figure - and I mean all of it. Every roll and bulge, from flabby jelly rolled tummy, to my wide saddlebag hips and thighs, to the spare tire that's about three inches thick starting at mid tummy and working all the way around my backside, are all there on display. And I bare all lovingly, for my fat is a reflection of finding myself and being happy with it, and with Bear, who seems to love every inch of me.

My own fashion sense does not preclude the plunging, backless look, nor the bare midriff, tube top look that shows off my so soft flesh. I love to wear a tube top stretched to the max to cover my 44D's. A pair of low cut "lard ass" jeans at least a size too small so they cut into my ample hips. I accessorize with a thin silver belt around my bulging belly so I can watch it play hide and seek amidst my belly rolls.

I designed my own wedding gown, which I've already had to enlarge once. It's backless (though gauze veiled) and fishnet laced over my tummy. I can just hear the people talking as I walk down the aisle in all my abundance, my sexy gown showing off just enough flesh as it lovingly clings to my hourglass perfect 44-36-46 figure. What a hoot!

And speaking of hoots, Mother hasn't seen me in over a year. I wonder what she'll think. Probably that I need a smaller hourglass, but I can really care less right now, for I've had more happiness in the past year than she's had in a lifetime. I can hardly wait to see her face.

And perhaps just as interesting, I've invited good old Amy to the wedding. I can't wait to see her reaction to my added girth, for, after all, she started it. I'd love to set her down and offer her a big box of Twinkies.

I guess you might say I'm obsessing, but so what? If I've become obsessed with food and the notion of food while being guilt free I don't care: the road I've followed has brought me more happiness than I had ever dreamed possible. I've grown above caring about what other people's psychosis, and I can safely say that nothing is better than gorging myself on pasta and beer until I can scarcely move and then making love with Bear.

If this keeps me fat and outcast in other's eyes, then so be it. I'm happy and as long as Bear doesn't complain about my size I'm gonna keep on doing what I'm doing. As I write this, it's the second of June and the wedding is two weeks away. Out of pure curiosity I decided to weigh myself this morning. I brought the scale out of mothballs where it had been hiding ever since I moved to the country, dusted it off, and was only slightly taken back as the needle climbed up to settle at 193. Hmm. Maybe I ought to lose five or six pounds before the wedding; I probably need to just to fit into the gown I already altered just three weeks ago. I should have planned ahead and made it a little large to begin with.

So much for planning ahead.

Speaking of which, last night as Bear and I went over our honeymoon itinerary - a two week cruise of the Mediterranean followed by a two month tour of Europe - I exclaimed that I'd probably come back stuffed like a pig at over two hundred pounds. Bear just smiled and said, "Why limit your fun, two twenty would look good on you."

We both laughed, myself a little harder, for I don't think Bear was aware that I was already over 190 and in danger of being over two hundred before the honeymoon even started. Oops, just a little white lie on my part, I guess, but who's counting? Certainly not Bear as he grabbed me around my ample middle, kissed me hard and made passionate love to me on the dining room table as it groaned under my weight.


Looking back at those times seems a little funny now, as well as the title of this piece. I had certainly found myself by the time of my wedding to Bear, and, as I recollect, those were some of the happiest times of my life. There I was, innocently eating my way to two hundred pounds with not a care in the world, yet there is far more to life than just self-discovery. The devil is in the details as they say, and it's how you deal with what life throws at you that makes all the difference.

Ah, but the wedding. Oh yes, I recall those days: not a care, even though I knew with a certainty that my scale was not lying and I was in fact an overly plump blushing 193 pound bride. Still, in my mind's eye I still held on to the image of myself that was a good fifty pounds lighter. That was an image I could deal with. It was a "hey, I know I'm a little heavy, but I can lose this thirty pounds in no time if I put my mind to it" kind of lie. Hell, thirty pounds, and I'd still have to lose another fifty - not that I was even contemplating it. Far from it. I was having the time of my life and enjoying every caloric moment of it. It was ironic that when I was a little chubbette calling myself "the Michelin Man." I had no idea that I'd shoot way past that stage to the "Pillsbury Dough Boy" and on into realms untouched by modern TV advertising. If I thought I was fat at 135, I wonder what she would think of me now?

As I ponder, I flip back through the wedding pictures: Bear so handsome and in love with me and me, glowing and radiant and beautiful in spite of a size 18 gown and over seventy pounds of excess baggage. Everything was bliss, and not even my parents' scorn could burst my balloon.

I remember the look on their faces when I answered the door wearing a two-month-old pair of lard ass jeans that were already a full size too small for me and cut severely into my ample hips and jelly belly. My ponderous gut, seeking the path of least resistance, had migrated and now bulged like a sack of flour over the top of my jeans. My only other item of apparel was a beige v-necked shirt that advertised, in more ways than one, that I was addicted to Ben & Jerry's Ice cream. As I had bought the shirt when I first moved to the country forty pounds ago, it was stretched to the max just to keep my expanding melons under wraps. The material was stretched so tightly that it cut into my hammy upper arms and beefy back, causing the flesh to almost roll out from under the cloth. The too small shirt now barely covered the top of my ribs and proudly displayed the aforementioned sack of flour jelly belly that stretched like a half deflated cottage cheese inner tube as it lapped over my jeans.

Mother's jaw fell open in horror and Dad looked at his address book and again at the house number to make sure he was in the right place.

"Hi, daddy,” I purred, giving him a big hug that almost knocked him over. "It's so good to see you. It's been too long,” and with that I backed away, took him by the hand and said, "Let me show you round the place."

As I skipped off into the living room, every inch of me jiggling, they remained silent and slowly moved inside like two zombies on remote control - still too dazed at the visage of their suddenly far too amply endowed daughter. 'Serves them right for being away so long,' I muttered to myself.

They never did bring up my weight directly, which I, of course, expected - for it would be far too uncouth of them to broach such an embarrassing subject. But I'm sure I don't have to tell you how parents always seem to have indirect ways of making their feelings known. Oh yes, there were some real beauts at the rehearsal dinner.

As dad and I practiced walking down the aisle, he whispered that he would think nothing of it if I changed my mind and didn't go through with the wedding, even at this late date. I eyed him caustically and asked him what made him think that I didn't want to get married; to which he replied a stammering, "Well, you just don't look happy."

I laughed, understanding his meaning perfectly, and reassured him that I was indeed extremely happy and very much in love, thank you very much. He gave me a quizzical look and then changed the subject. Good old dad, when the going gets rough, the rough figures that it's none of their damn business. I'm sure he thought that people only overeat and get fat when they're unhappy, but, no dad, that comes much later. Right now, I was eating because I was happy and didn't have a care in the world.

Mother, however, was a little more direct, though no less easy to parry. During the dinner she watched in disgust as I slathered four cubes of butter on my fourth or fifth dinner roll. Finally, she could stand no more and chastised me with her saccharine, "You know, dear, doctors say too much cholesterol just isn't good for you."

I pointed at her cigarette and replied, “Yeah, mom, and they say the same thing about those, so either put the butt out or but out." Touchι, score one for the fatty.

Lord, I remember those times; I was so in control and so confident. This was me, the true me, and though I lost her there for awhile, I realize now that this girl was the precursor of who I am now. Thinking back, I just have to laugh, "You go girl."

I remember my first Christmas in the country with Bear. I wanted to give him a real spread, so I cooked a four-pound prime rib roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole and honeyed yams. I was really proud of the effort and had the table looking just perfect when Bear came home from work early, complaining of not feeling well. I was concerned, so I ushered him to bed and told him not to worry about our meal together, even though everything was already cooked and just about ready to serve. I finished my preparations and sat down to dine alone, feeling melancholy.

Hours later, I dipped the last slice of beef into the last of the gravy, sighed and downed the last of the bottle of Pinot Noir. Half drunk and feeling sleepy, I noticed a small dollop of mashed potatoes left in the bowl, which I then fingered out and shoved down my gullet. "All gone,” I whispered as I leaned back in my chair. But then I looked down at my corpulent belly and giggled, "No, it's all still right here."

At some juncture I had undone my pants, and as I continued to stare blankly, I mused absently whether I had undone them myself or had popped the zipper. I gazed at my puffy white middle as it bulged over my panties. I moved the sides of my jeans apart, and more flesh poured out. Holding the loose flesh in my hands, I slid my jeans lower down my thighs until my ample ass was sitting on the belt loop. I began making circular motions up and down my belly, feeling the familiar hard, drum like tightness underneath my flab. More than half drunk, I sighed, for here I was - primed and ready, stomach gorged to bursting - and Bear was sick and asleep in bed. I lazily began to finger myself, but as I was too dazed to really care and too stuffed to move, I slowly slipped from my chair and dozed off on the floor under the dining room table.

I must have gained at least five pounds that night. Probably put me over 170 at the time. Merry Christmas, Bear, a few new belly folds to explore, not that there weren't many more to come in the times that followed.

Funny, the only time that I can recall NOT being hungry was for two or three days during our honeymoon, of all places. I think it was due more to motion sickness and odd bottled water than any of the countless, extravagant, extra rich meals I had stuffed myself with in the ship's dining cabin. However, after those rough couple of days, I was able to resume my excessive ways and was emphatically happy sunning myself on deck in a too small and getting smaller bikini, eating finger sandwiches with a continual flow of Pina Coladas to keep me cool until the evenings when we dined heartily, danced and then made our way to the cafι for a midnight snack of cappuccino and several choices from the dessert tray. I'm sure I wasn't the first customer that the cruise line had lost money on, but I am probably still mentioned with horror at their stockholders' meetings.

The cruise was followed by four weeks of Europe's best restaurants sandwiched around several romantic picnics of vino, bread, cheese and rich pate as we made our way through Italy and France and into Germany for a rendezvous with a fellow clothes designer, the Baron, at his castle near Frankfurt.

We arrived at the Baron's castle with Bear looking fit and tan, and myself tan and bursting the seams of every stitch of clothing I'd brought with me, as I'm sure at this point I was already several pounds in excess of two hundred. The Baron welcomed us warmly, complimenting Bear on his physique and calling me a Rubenesque delight, comparing me to Rembrandt's "Basheba."

We had planned to stay a week - but ended up staying a month as we found the Baron to be the perfect host - and a good friendship developed as he obviously reveled in our company. We spent long afternoons walking the gardens or riding the grounds, and our evenings were spent in front of the fire pit drinking old port, eating chocolates and discussing everything under the sun.

Baron kept calling me a vision of loveliness and treated me like a queen. His kitchen staff, excelling in extravagant and hearty fare with several tasty desserts each night for me to sample, also met my mornings with hot coffee, fresh juices and several choices of Danish for me to sip and munch as I gazed out the bay window, watching the fog dance through the moors. This, of course, was before I dressed and made my way down to the dining room for breakfasts of fresh omelets, muffins and sausages while we decided on the day's activities.

During the first week I made myself some larger clothes, as my previous size and I had seen a parting of the ways. The Baron informed me that he would be honored to design a gown for me to wear to the ball he was having the following weekend. I told him that the honor was mine, and while measuring my zaftig and ever swelling body, he confessed that he thought I was a goddess come to life and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The funny thing was, I believed him, for Bear and I were exchanging extremely blissful conjugal visits nightly, and with all the attention the Baron was giving me I felt like I was the only woman in the world. The two of them had both crowned me the icon of true femininity - and who was I to argue?

But, even as Adam and Eve were thrown from the garden, Bear and I knew we must eventually leave paradise and return to the real world. I stepped off the plane and onto my scale, watching it climb steadily and then settle on 226 pounds! My god, in the two and a half months of honeymooning I had gained over thirty pounds. Or, in an even larger perspective, I had gained 75 pounds in the less than twelve months I had been a "country girl," and in the last eighteen months I had almost doubled my previous weight by gaining over 100 pounds!

Mostly, these were just statistics and had no bearing on the world I had created for myself. I just didn't care, for I was fat and happy and felt beautiful, even though it was a struggle to squeeze into clothes sized twenty and above, and "one size fits all" had not had my body in mind.

Still, upon returning home I gazed into a mirror for the first time since I'd taken off my wedding dress. I stood there naked, face to face with the magic mirror. I called the magic mirror, for it had taken a mental snapshot of myself at 150 pounds, when I first became content with myself and the weight I was carrying; first came to terms with the Rubenesque curvature of my body and decided that the added curves made me more sexy than my skin and bones 118. The magic mirror had taken that 150-pound snapshot and managed to superimpose that image over what was actually there.

You see, subconsciously it knew that I wasn't that buxom little bombshell anymore. It knew that my size sixteen jeans would not even fit over my lard ass anymore. It knew that the wedding dress I made for myself was like a size 18 and was well aware that I had to diet the week before the wedding to fit into it, even after making a little alteration. The magic mirror had watched the scale groan and the needle jump into the 70's, 80's and 90's. My subconscious knew all this but was doing a bang up job of keeping it a secret, so that, although I knew that I was getting fatter, the reflection I saw in the magic mirror was still the relatively skinny - thirty five pound overweight - snapshot that I held in my mind.

Funny thing: I knew there were mirrors aboard ship, and I'm sure that they were there in our European hotel rooms but I just never bothered to look. After all, why spoil my honeymoon by looking at mirrors?

Maybe I should have, for while the magic mirror was doing a perfectly reasonable job of hiding my gradual forty-pound increase, it was totally unprepared to hide the next forty pounds that had accumulated seemingly overnight. I guess that there was just too much lard to try to jam in behind that small mental picture. I gazed at my true reflection, and all my mental games blew away in an instant. The terminology changed in a flash; no longer could I lie to myself and say I was pleasingly plump, built for comfort, or had gotten chubby, or a little heavy - like it was all ok and no big crime. I could no longer live in half-truths saying, "Well, I admit I've gotten a little heavy from the country living,” like I was admitting to gaining five pounds or so. A drop in the bucket I could lose anytime I had a mind to.

Well, that sweet little lie went AWOL, for as the magic mirror cracked and my true reflection looked back I realized that I'd skipped the next stage, "fat,” and proceeded right into "obese" and "huge." Congratulations! Pass go; collect $200.00. And look at the prizes you've won: a trip for two on the cellulite special, with legs thick, beefy and dimpled with even my knees looking heavy like sagging Corinthian pillars of sandstone, pockmarked by the elements of time. A belly that looks like a state of late maternity, lapping over your overly abundant hips and sagging over your mons, covering your pubic hair and genitalia, making you look androgynous. But the grand prize is a matching set of beautiful, full, proud, round breasts. Not saggy and flabby, but huge, firm and round. Yes, all this and more are yours - you've earned every inch of it. Just our way of saying thanks for playing "The Weighting Game."

I looked deeply into the mirror. All 226 pounds of me staring back in rolls and bulges, the sheer bulk of what I had become overwhelmed me. "My god, I'm huge,” I whispered in disbelief, consciously knowing that I was putting on weight but not really realizing that it was leading to the round ball of blubber I'd become.

I had to slowly touch myself, watching my reflected hand sink into the softness of my bulging belly to make sure that the reflection in the mirror was indeed I. I lifted one of my great breasts from its resting place over the top of my flesh-ridden rib cage and felt its heaviness. Yes, it was real, and, yes, it was all me!

I cupped a breast and the cup runneth over. It was all me! These beautiful, beautiful breasts were a part of me. All mine. If only the rest weren't mine as well.

Still fondling my wondrous breasts, my eyes traveled down the rest of my reflection, amazed at the bulk of my belly and shocked at its saggy condition. Not a muscle to be found as it lapped over and covered my pubic area. I reached down with my free hand and lifted my soft, flabby gut upwards, finally exposing the dark triangle of my sex. Holding the jelly-like softness, so smooth and loose, it felt like it was an entity all its own and not really even a part of me. I flexed it, and it sent ripples like waves crashing over my belly button and then back down again.

I was standing like this, one hand cupping a breast, the other holding the great expanse of belly above my pubic area, mesmerized, when Bear came into the room and said, "Looks like you're planning to start without me."

He then put his large hands around my voluminous middle and pulled me onto the bed to give me a good and proper fucking - vanquishing all my anxieties under his words of love and his sweet caress.

The tub of lard that was me in the mirror smiled at our lovemaking and gave a hearty laugh, sending ripples of blubber from by breasts to my crotch. Keep loving me, Bear, because I've come to love me too, every inch of me.

My mental mirror was adjusting itself to a new snapshot. Not 150 anymore, but a more reasonable 180 to 190 picture. Still a lie, but one that I could live with. I was fat, not "obese." Just fat, like in "fat and sassy" or "Yes, mother, I know I've gotten fat - it's all those home cooked country meals, and I don't care if I'm wearing size sixteen jeans."

Just another lie, for those suckers were put away for good, the two sides of the zipper were split wider apart than the English Channel as there was just too much of me to squeeze into too little jeans.

So once again, I had adjusted my sights. I was larger than I had ever dreamed, and yet, although I was still telling little white lies to myself, I had found a new definition of myself, and was very happy living my life as a "fat broad."


Having settled in to life as a "fat broad,” my life in the county was routine and wonderful. Bear showering me with love and affection while I continued to indulge my sweet tooth as the weeks melted into months of mindless bliss. Then, from out of the blue, came a call from Amy.

It seemed that she was in Europe with Ben (whoever he was) and, gee, was really sorry for missing my wedding - she heard it was beautiful. Yeah, right. I wonder who she heard it from and what she heard? I wonder how much stir rumors of my now flab-ridden body had caused and how much Amy was just calling to be sociable or how much it was that she just had to see for herself?

All right, since she started it, I could at least be civil, and besides, she would probably eat her heart out knowing that I'd snared a big stud like Bear and she couldn't have him. Not to mention the implications my hefty body would have on her. Food and sex, forever joined and the result of too much of one showing how much you were getting and enjoying the other. Well, her loss.

So I made arrangements to meet Amy at the train station, decked out in a black leather mini skirt that showed that I still had great legs (just more of them), a wide silk silver belt that was more of a girdle to reign in my middle and a blue satin camisole top, laced tight at the top with a revealing slit that showed off my mammoth cleavage.

My hair up in tight curls and my face a little too made up, lying under a large sun hat, I looked like a fat tart, which was exactly the effect I desired.

Amy disembarked, looked left and right, and right past me, only to return her gaze as I called her name. She did a good job of pretending not to be shocked, but I could tell that she was amazed and maybe even a little intrigued at my heft. Bingo!

We hugged and talked, too much and all at once, and then giggled at each other. 'It's been too long, let's make up for lost time,' she seemed to be saying. Sure, sister, all in due time.

For her part, the year and a half hadn't treated her too badly. She was still pretty in that sultry kind of way, and I was delighted to see - and I don't think it was my imagination - that she had put on about ten pounds. Hmmm. Maybe a hint of something deeper going on here. We'll see.

I remembered her quote as if it were just yesterday that we were sitting down to lunch. So she wouldn't be caught dead in public at over 130. Well, here she was, alive and well and decidedly over 130. Ah well, with age comes wisdom, or at least the ability to tell yourself little white lies. I wondered what kind of mental hoops she was jumping through to ignore those extra pounds. Maybe her priorities had changed, and she had come to terms with her extra weight the same way that I'd come to terms with mine. What a delicious concept!

She was wearing a sleeveless short, blue shift. Belted with a narrow black belt, and you could see the beginnings of what could become quite a nice potbelly. I wondered if this thought would please or displease her?

Her upper arms had gotten a little heavy, too. Tsk, tsk, short sleeved is the fashion for heavy arms like that, and one shouldn't disregard fashion just because it was warm out.

Oh, it was good to see her, and, oh, how I hated her, still feeling some echoes of hurt from the way she had treated me. A plan was hatching in the back of my mind. Ah yes, the play's the thing, and I had myself a little scene to act out.

We talked away the afternoon as I prepared a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread and hearty vino. She was suitably impressed with Bear when he arrived - so much so that she almost drooled. He rolled us a joint to get things loosened up and soon we were all famished. I dished out heaping servings for everyone, and we fell to talking about old times and gossiping all the while. Amy managed to get through her first helping and a couple pieces of bread, and it looked like that was all she had in mind. I pestered her into having just a little more and then filled her plate again, as I loaded a huge second helping for myself as well. I finished this about the time she was halfway through her plate. She then announced that she couldn't eat another bite.

"Gee, that's too bad," I said as I spooned out a third heaping plateful for myself. "Here, have some more wine and tell me about Veronica."

This continued on through a fourth and fifth helping, me eating and Amy talking and drinking, finally picking at her second helping until it was gone. I was feeling great, a little high and a little drunk, but completely stuffed. I got up and went over and sat on Bear's lap, and we kissed hard, right in front of Amy. Bear fondled a breast and told me that it was time for bed. I smiled, told Amy to make herself at home in the guestroom, and trotted off to our bedroom with Bear in tow, giving me a love tap on my wide ass.

We made love, long and loud, and it was fabulous as usual. I'm sure Amy was just stewing. But I hadn't forgotten about her. After an hour of frolicking with Bear, I put on a low cut slinky nightie and ventured out into the kitchen. I grabbed a box of Twinkies that I'd bought for just such an occasion and padded to the guest room door, knocking quietly and whispering, "Amy, are you awake?"

"Yeah, just reading,” came the muffled reply.

"Oh good, mind if I come in?"


So I opened the door and walked in, bearing my gifts. "I had a craving, and I thought maybe you'd like a little dessert, too."

I sat on the edge of the bed as it creaked under my weight and Amy just looked at me - all 230 pounds of me. I was perilously close to the fifty-fifty line, with a belly the size of perfect hips. I could see she was a bit tipsy from the vino and was trying to assimilate all the input. 'God, she's coming on to me, and she's gotten so huge. I'm so full, but yet it might me fun. Shit, if I keep eating like tonight, I'll end up looking like her. Why did I have to pig out tonight?'

Yeah, think girl. Think hard, but I'm gonna persuade you, because deep down you want it all, don't you?

"God, I'm stuffed. I don't . . ." she stammered

"What!" I interrupted. "Where's your sense of adventure? Remember that it's for science. Now, open wide,” as I unwrapped a Twinkie and performed the act that she'd done on me two years ago. We passed Twinkies back and forth until the box was gone and then exchanged wet sugary kisses, mouths smelling like the inside of a bakery.

I peeled off her dressing gown - yes, she was a tad heavier - and sucked on her beautiful breasts as my fingers slowly made their way down her engorged stomach, flexed a belly roll above her hips that I know hadn't been there two years ago and finally fingered her pussy. She leaned back and moaned and then sat forward and hugged me closely as I continued to finger her. She began to shudder as I quickened my pace.

I dropped a strap off my nightgown and lifted one of my double D cups, offering it to her. She murmured, "God, it's so big, so beautiful. I'd die for breasts like yours,” and then cupping it with both hands, began sucking lovingly as I stroked her hair with one hand and fingered her with the other.

As she continued to suck, I reached over and took one of her hands and guided it gently towards my rippling rotund belly. She moaned slightly, mouth still on my nipple, as she began kneading my pillowy belly rolls. I sighed. Yes, this is what I wanted! Come on, girl, get into it, adore all the abundance here for you.

But then she abruptly pulled her hand away as if suddenly conscious of getting into my hugeness. I gazed hard into her dark brown eyes, kissed the offending hand gently and said, "Don't worry little one; it's not contagious. Feel my softness and revel in the abundance. The sins of the flesh are all here, parading for your inspection, so let your conditioning go and give in to your real desires."

I put her hand back onto my round tummy. "C'mon, baby, not everyone can give you all that I can give you."

With that I kissed her gently and drew her towards me again, enveloping her in my hugeness. Yes, let her feel me. My softness and my curves and rolls. Lose yourself in this great expanse of body. I know you really want to.

Slowly, so slowly, she warmed to me again. Her arms came around me and hugged me tightly, and then one arm dropped and she explored the folds of my backside. We kissed more passionately, and then I broke away and began nibbling on her neck. She took this opportunity to once again gaze upon my beautiful breasts, obviously enchanted by the sheer beauty of their plump firmness.

As she sucked, I let my other strap fall and then, lying on one side, managed to extricate myself from my nightgown. I gazed down at her as we lay side by side, her slightly rounded middle moving back and forth with her excited breathing, lying within inches of the convex curve of my own plump belly, sagging under its own weight upon the bed sheets; just touching her belly when expanded and inches away when exhaling.

God, what a lovely sight! I took her hand and again pushed it downward, first touching her own baby belly, all puffy from too much spaghetti, and then guiding it across my own, letting her fingers drink in the softness. This time, there was no turning away. I kissed her forehead gently, as I watched her finger my bulges - losing her hand between the flabby rolls and then reappearing as the flesh obligingly jiggled away for her.

She kept alternating between touching me and touching her own tummy, as her breathing got deeper and deeper. Finally, she broke free of my breast and began tracing lines across my belly with her mouth and tongue, as her hand moved to my wet pussy. I rolled onto my back, my great thighs opening for her, and soon after she began fingering I gave a great shudder, arched my back, thighs jiggling like Jell-O with spasms. She moved her head down and began eating me out, tongue darting in and out, up and down, all the while her left hand on my beefy thigh and her right on my belly, kneading it in and out. Grasping handfuls of the loose flesh and pulling it out and then back.

I began moaning, and my pulse quickened. I started gulping for air, my huge belly bouncing against the rapid rise and falls. Unable to stand it any more as wave after wave came over me, I wrapped my thick thighs tightly around Amy's body and started thrashing from side to side, my huge breasts slapping against my torso. It went on for hours and I kept cumming and cumming.

Somehow, Amy managed to free herself from my thighs' life grip and slid on top of me. Our hands on each other's crotches, we bounced hard against each other and rode together like man and woman, each getting off totally as the joy of us slapping our flesh together consumed us.

Finally, we lay quiet, and I struggled up to a sitting position against the headboard, Amy resting comfortably between my downy soft thighs, her head against my belly. The silence spoke volumes as we lay, our bodies melting into one another.

After a time she turned her face up to me and as I stroked her hair, spoke to me. "Promise you won't be mad if I ask you a question?"

"Ask away, dear one,” I replied, reflecting on how now the roles were reversed. I was the real deviate teaching her a few things. I wondered absently if she would be happier if she could embrace my philosophy. I remembered her sweet tooth and tried to reflect on her more natural appearance. I knew that inside that still thin frame was a full-blown woman like me, just waiting for the right moment.

Amy hesitated, started to speak, stopped, sighed, took a deep breath and asked, "Why?"

"Why what, dear?"

"Well, not why, but how. I mean, how long has it been, two years?"

"About that, give or take, why?" I replied with a question.

"It's just that you're so, so huge now . . . I'm sorry, but, you know,” she trailed off.

"Oh this,” I patted my round belly. "Does it offend you?"

"No, it's not like that . . . I mean, I . . . I really enjoyed touching you; you're so soft and squishy but, . . . it's, well, not normal, you know. And it's so sudden. Two years ago, you were so thin."

"And unhappy, if you'll recall. Look, I know there's twice as much of me as there was then, but there's more of a person, too. I just threw down all the barriers and started enjoying things. You showed me how to, you know. I realized that I really loved to eat, and when I have sex with a really full belly it just does something special to me." I looked down at my rolls and bulges. "I guess you could say that every pound I've gained is a pound of joy."

"My Bear loves me this way,” I continued, "and I find that I am not ashamed any more, but am starting to rather enjoy my girth. I love how big and firm my tits are, and I'm even starting to enjoy the feeling of my thighs rubbing together. It's kind of a turn-on in itself. Look, I'm just so happy now. There's no one who can tell me what I should or shouldn't look like or what I should wear. It's a freedom to be who I am: a hedonist who is able to give in to my every whim and enjoy every minute. I wish you could see that, Amy, and follow the path, 'cause it really does lead to freedom."

I looked down only to find her sleeping soundly. I chuckled, ceased my oration and tucked her into bed. On my way back to my own room, I made a pit stop and downed a quart of milk and then dragged my sated carcass to bed.

I awoke well past noon, feeling hungry. I dressed and made my way into the kitchen where Bear and Amy were eating cereal. I kissed Bear fondly and then attempted to do the same to Amy, but she shied away. OK, no problem. She never could deal with the morning after; especially when her paramour was as much of an eyeful as I was. Oh well, I sighed, lost cause. Too bad, for I realized that I still had feelings towards her, and that a lot of my pent-up aggression two years ago came from being hurt by someone I cared for.

We were civil that day, and then the next she hopped back on a train and out of my life - or so I thought.


My blissful life continued, when in late October my gynecologist confirmed that I was indeed pregnant. After examining me, my gyn, the gray haired, kindly Dr. Watson sat on his stool, sighed, and peered at me over his bifocals. I felt a slight chill on my backside, as I sat upright on the examining table, my gown a good deal too small and exposing way too much of my lily-white, fleshy backside.

The good doctor cleared his throat, clasped his hands together and ventured, "I don't know a real diplomatic way of putting this.” He gazed at his hands and then looked up to meet me eye to eye, "But, wel,l you're just carrying too much weight. I don't any other way of saying it. You're a small boned girl and 243 pounds; well, it's just plain too much weight to go into a pregnancy with."

He raised his hand and shook his head, "Now I know you're probably thinking that your weight problem is none of my business, but you've entrusted your childbirth to me, and that makes it my business. I don't want a difficult pregnancy, and I'm sure you don't either, and while I'm not qualified to judge the strain your bulk is putting on your heart, I do know that there is considerable strain even in a healthy childbirth and,” he looked at me, scowling over his glasses, "from the look of you, I daresay you're not in the best of shape."

"You'd be surprised, doctor,” I replied, thinking of some of my recent sexual escapades with Bear. "I mean, I've never been a marathon runner or anything, but I feel incredibly healthy. Now I know I've gotten a bit heavy and am probably carrying too much excess baggage," I patted my bay window, "but I feel so good." I paused and then looked down at my swelling waistline, thinking of the little one that would be growing there shortly. 'Jeez, if I'm this big now' I thought, and then shook my head. "Point taken Doc. I want a perfect pregnancy, a perfect childbirth and a perfect child, so I'll do whatever you ask of me."

His program involved eating better and eating less. Not a lot less, for the growing child within needed nourishment. But I was being "good" and with some marginal help from morning sickness got into the second trimester actually three pounds lighter than the day Dr. Watson chastised me.

I was ecstatic. The doctor was pleased and I went into my ninth month carrying 270 pounds. On July the first, I then delivered a seven pounds four ounce baby boy with a severe blood cell deficiency problem that the doctors assured me was quite rare.

Three weeks later, on July 23rd, he was dead, in spite of all medical efforts. The shock of it floored me, and even now this is difficult to write. My baby - that I had held in my arms, my perfect expression of love - was taken from me. What had I done to deserve this? Hadn't I been a good girl, gaining less than thirty pounds with the pregnancy? That's normal, and I had done everything else perfectly. No drinking, no smoking, no risks, no chances; and still . . .

The doctors all said it was just a fluke and that I should try again, hinting that it would be to my advantage to do so as soon as I was able; their not-so-subtle way of getting me to put this tragedy behind me. But these were the dark days, and I just couldn't go through that kind of sorrow again. I was devastated.

Although I outwardly appeared reasonably normal for someone going through an emotional trauma, inside I was just numb and empty. I felt nothing other than a constant gloom that made me feel like I was one of the waking dead. Bear's touch repulsed me, for it only reminded me of the cause of my grief. Poor Bear. I know this was hard on him as well, but I didn't have room for him in my thoughts; the despair took over every neuron. Bear, amazingly, understood and gave me room and time to recover, and as it turned out, maybe he gave me a bit too much room.

As October was nearing an end and it was clear that I wasn't making any headway towards rejoining the human race, Bear started hinting that I should seek therapy. I told him I was fine and made an attempt to appear more interested in the world around me by getting up in the morning and sitting at my drawing table. Fortunately for me, I had already completed my winter and spring collection back in June, so I just sat around and looked busy while eating constantly. My only motivation during the period was to try and fill the emptiness I had inside me via an almost constant intake of food. I tasted nothing and craved only the physical act of eating, so eat I did. Anything and everything in the house. You name it: raw cookie dough, uncooked muffin mix, cartons of sour cream and half-and-half, even dog biscuits. Anything to assuage the empty feeling. Not caring or tasting any of it, just eating for the sake of eating.

Finally in mid January, Bear realized that I was still off the deep end and demanded that I see a doctor, both physically and mentally, for he must have known that my physical health was deteriorating as well. What can I say? I had spent August, September and October just lying in bed eating in the dark, and November and December sitting at a desk with the only exercise being getting up to empty the contents of the kitchen into my corpulent belly.

I had become an eating machine, constantly munching and crunching and keeping the system lubricated with gallons of beer and buttermilk. It was as if eating was all I was capable of, as sometimes walking to the kitchen was too much of an effort for me and I had to stop in the hall to catch my breath. Other times just hoisting my blubbery body out of bed was all I could manage, the effort leaving me gasping for air, great chest heaving and belly swaying with every movement.

I stood facing the doctor with thighs bigger around than my hips were three years ago, and these were barely able to support my seventy-two inch hips and a belly that sagged to my fat entombed knees. My breasts lay heavily on the upper curve of my protruding gut, not lovely anymore, just flabby appendages that resembled just another in a series of jellyrolls starting with my jowly triple chin.

I tipped the doctor's scale at 323 pounds, having gained almost sixty pounds of dead weight lard since August and over 130 pounds since my honeymoon just sixteen months ago - and I was already some 75 pounds overweight then. In less than a year and a half, I had more than doubled the weight I carried for most of my 26 years.

I was having lower back pains due to my inactivity and the immense bulk I was carrying. My breath was coming in short, shallow puffs, and I failed the doctor's physical miserably, being unable to even lift my legs and hold them at ninety degrees. I barely got my feet off the floor; the effort felt like I was trying to raise up an entire side of beef.

Stand, bend over and touch your toes. Ha. I hadn't even seen my toes since Christmas, and now there was just too much middle to bend. I had to spread my legs far apart like a sumo wrestler, so my belly could fall between them just to touch my knees. Attempting a pushup was ludicrous, for even with my arms extended, my belly still sagged in a limp puddle against the ground.

I was encased in two hundred pounds of lard, six inches thick all around a thin substructure with muscles virtually unused for the last two years. Everything sagged and succumbed to gravity, swaying and jiggling with a mind of its own, my atrophied muscles unable to control any of it. I looked and felt well older than my years and seriously began to wonder if I had much time left, secretly hoping that my time would come soon. Dark, dark days - and darker thoughts.

I began therapy, and somehow my doctor managed to get through to me and give me a reason to re-enter the world. My doctor gave me a strict diet and some minimal strengthening exercises as well as a walking program to get my muscles functioning again. Once I had regained my will to live, I attacked my exercise program with vigor. I made myself a terry cloth exercise suit and really concentrated on stretching and getting my cardio vascular system going. I ate sparingly, even though I was famished all the time and my unruly tummy growled in protest.

Once the weather started clearing I started walking, going a little farther each day. First to the mailbox, then to the end of the fence, then a mile, two, three, until by September I was walking all the way to town, almost five miles away.

The pounds were melting off, and by my October doctor's visit I was down to a "svelte" 270. Bear was very encouraging and said I looked great. I felt great! I had a renewed sense of energy and after a few nights of tentative cuddling, I was able to let Bear enter me without any psychological repercussions. The bliss of feeling him in me once again only increased my feeling of well being and added to my determination to keep exercising and getting healthy again. I was on my way, but then Mother Nature paid a visit, and my true nature got involved once again.

I remember the day so well. It was clear and cool, a brisk morning as I set off for town in my workout suit. A couple of miles out it started to cloud up, and just as I hit town it started pouring. Looking for shelter, I ducked into the first doorway only to have my nose assailed by the wonderfully sweet smell of donuts. Ah, providence! I was stuck inside a Winchell's. It was either stay and try to resist the temptation or go back outside and get drenched and probably catch pneumonia. I decided to stay; after all, wasn't I an adult and perfectly capable of handling my cravings?

I ordered a cup of coffee and sat by the window watching the rainfall, while continuing to smell the aroma of glazed sugar. For a good twenty minutes the rain continued to fall, and I resisted the temptation, until finally a little voice convinced me that one donut couldn't hurt. After all, I'd walked all this way and deserved a treat every now and then. I decided on a glazed cinnamon twist that I ate slowly, savoring every morsel.

When the rain finally let up I decided to give Bear a treat for dessert, so I ordered a mixed dozen to go and began my trek home. As I walked, I unconsciously slipped donut after donut into my mouth until, just as our fence came into view, the box was empty. Realizing what I had done and feeling way guilty, I jettisoned the incriminating box into the neighbor's garbage can and returned home.

The event in and of itself was not so major, except that getting that sugar fix was like the first bite of the apple. The floodgates were opened, and I could no longer control my cravings. My exercise routine was intact, although slowed by the inclement weather, but every day possible I managed to walk to town. Of course, what I did when I got there negated the purpose as I would walk past the Winchell's to the Macdonald's for fries and a shake, then down two blocks to the Baskin Robbins for a sundae; returning by way of the Winchell's, stopping long enough to pick up my "twelve pack" for the road. Somehow I rationalized at each stop that I was exercising and therefore deserved of a treat.

All this treating - plus the seven or eight bags of miniature Hershey's that disappeared in one sitting the day before Halloween - caused my weight loss rate to slow, stabilize and then reverse itself until on the Monday after Thanksgiving, after I had absolutely gorged myself finishing off all the leftovers, I was over 290 again. Though I was still exercising and was far stronger and healthier than before, my weight continued to creep upwards, even though I wasn't eating excessively at meals, just bingeing and snacking.

By mid February, it had become quite noticeable that I was over 300 again. But I felt good, which to me was all that mattered. Bear suddenly felt otherwise. He started ranting and raving that I had no self-respect. He asked me how I could possibly eat two boxes of Twinkies in five minutes while he had his back turned and even begin to consider myself normal.

I told him normal was a state of mind and that as long as I was feeling good and doing my roadwork without straining, I didn't care what I weighed.

"Well, I care,” Bear snarled, shaking his head with disgust.

"Whoa, hold on there fella! You never complained before. In fact you're the one responsible for a lot of this,” I patted my immense belly. "You're the one who said you liked your woman big and then got me hooked on sweets. You even encouraged me to make a pig of myself on our honeymoon - or have you forgotten?"

"No, I haven't forgotten, but that was over one hundred pounds ago, and you've changed since then."

"Listen, Bear,” I interrupted, "I'm sorry that I couldn't handle things for awhile there, but I'm fine now. I know I'm over a hundred pounds heavier now, but how does that change things? Christ, 200-300, they're both fat, so what's the difference? You seemed to enjoy playing with all my fat rolls, so what's a few more?"

"I still do,” he confessed, "however, that's not the problem. You've changed. At 200, you were still supple and active, but now for some reason you just lie there like a beached whale with your legs apart. Hell, I don't mind having to move your gut out of the way to enter you, but then you just lie there and moan, like it's your god given right for me to be serving you. What ever happened to give and take, dear? What ever happened to the way you used to ride me - taking it to the barn? Remember how we used to frolic?"

I just stood there shocked - like I was a marionette and Bear's words had just cut my strings. Oh my god! I hadn't realized! "Oh, Bear, I'm so sorry,” I gushed. "I had no idea. Look, I'm in a lot better shape now than you realize. Come, let me show you."

And with that, I grabbed his hand and led him to the bed where, if I may say so, I really put out. I was all over him and gave back in equal measure all that he gave me. We writhed like snakes, fucked like rabbits and howled like wolves.

After hours of play, we both finally lay in each other's arms, sated and exhausted. As I watched, a bead of sweat trickled down between my mammoth breasts to nestle into the crevice of a belly roll and then disappear. Bear chuckled then purred, "Forget what I said earlier darling; you're still terrific."

I smiled and dreamed of happily ever after, but, of course, fate dictated otherwise.


On April 12th, while driving back from New York City, a seventy-year-old drunk broadsided Bear. He was pinned between tons of metal and died of internal bleeding before they could even get him to the hospital.

I was numb and greatly depressed, but somehow, having already gone through another major loss, I was more emotionally prepared, even though the accident came as a great shock. I was extremely fortunate that the Baron had just arrived in New York at the time of the accident, for I needed his strength and comfort badly.

When the Baron called, cheerily asking if we might join him for dinner in the city, I gulped and told him the bad news. He was shocked, then angry that such a terrible thing should happen. He then ordered me to give him directions to the ranch house, so he could care for me in my time of woe.

He arrived and nurtured me back to emotional health with his charm and bon homie. He was so up and positive that I had no choice but to laugh with him and through him find renewed courage to live. He took care of all the funeral arrangements in his efficient Prussian way and then stayed the next month, helping me put my house and my life back in order.

It was a cool night in late May, sitting by a roaring fire, when the Baron turned towards me and asked if he might speak freely on a personal matter. I consented, and he took my hands in his and told me that business dictated that he return home. Sensing the crestfallen look on my face, he shook his head, brushed a curl from my face and told me that the time he had spent with me this last month and years ago in Germany were among his happiest moments. I blushed and turned away, but his strong hands cupped my chin and brought me back face to face. He gazed deeply into my eyes and told me that he would be honored if I would return to Germany with him in any capacity I saw fit.

I was amazed. I understood him to mean that he wanted to marry me, but was concerned because Bear was a close friend and so recently departed. I told him that I loved him like a brother and that I was eternally grateful to him for restoring my will to live. I had to confess that I didn't feel that I was emotionally ready to re-marry, and wasn't sure if that wound would ever heal. He shook his head sadly and told me that he understood completely. He took my hands again and then told me that he would accept my company on any terms and that I would be doing his household a great service by taking up residence there.

What reason did I really have for remaining in the states? Everything I cherished was gone, and this lovely countryside held nothing but sadness for me now. I shook my head, decision made. Yes, Baron, I would be honored to become his permanent houseguest. He beamed with delight and then informed me that our relationship would remain platonic unless I desired otherwise. I did a double take and then looked dumfounded into his steel gray eyes asking, "Would you want to sleep with me?"

"I would be honored, sweet lady; it would be for me a heartfelt joy."

"But Baron,” I blurted. "I'm no longer beautiful. How can you want me? I've become an obese tub of blubber." Putting my hands at the corners of my immense gut, I gazed down at the protruding medicine ball and cried out, "Just look at me!"

"I am looking,” the Baron soothed. "Don't you remember that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I adore every inch of you, my dear. I could spend years exploring every crevice of such a voluptuous body."

I stared back at him, not quite believing what I was hearing. My heart was beating like it was going to burst right out of my chest. Slowly, I unbuttoned my shirt and lifted out one of my humongus breasts. I caught the lustful look in the Baron's eye as I offered it to him saying, "Then start here, my lord."

Never had I been touched in such an artful and adoring way. He caressed and massaged and made love to every inch of me, reveling in my fat. He lifted, kneaded, flexed my belly rolls and sunk his fingers into my spongy absorbing flesh.

He called me a goddess that night and has treated me as such ever since - though I've been his consort for almost two years now. We while away the hours talking, walking through the gardens arm in arm or riding the grounds on an Arabian the Baron presented me upon my arrival. The Baron is an excellent singer and pianist and often entertains me with his artistry while entertaining me in the evenings with an art of another sort.

My existence is easy and luxurious. Most mornings I sleep late, rise to a morning bath, Danish and coffee. Then I am dressed by my handmaidens and receive the day's schedule while sitting down to a healthy breakfast. We often picnic in the gardens or sup on the terrace together and without fail dine together in the evenings, sampling the exquisite culinary fare of his marvelous kitchen.

I find time to exercise on a regular basis, usually swimming laps in the indoor pool and doing stretching and toning exercises in the weight room. I find that this keeps me healthy and away from back pain despite my bulk. I no longer care much about my size, and as long as I can move freely I do and eat as I please. This usually constitutes an almost continual flow of foodstuffs: from wakeup Danish, through breakfasts of sausage, bacon and five egg omelets, to afternoon luncheons of finger sandwiches, cheeses and pates, to Swiss chocolates consumed while sunning in the afternoons or listening to Baron sing. I've become something of a Godiva addict, and, as my handmaidens keep them in constant reach, a five pound box only lasts me three or four days.

On warmer days I enjoy fresh fruit sorbets and pina coladas on the terrace or frosty mugs of the best German pilsner, followed by afternoon naps or cool swims in the pool. Dinner usually comprises six or seven courses, small portions for the Baron and double or triple helpings of each course for me. Truly queen-sized meals finished off by magical and caloric pastries.

Of course, there are always exceptions.

One afternoon about two months ago I was laying by the pool, and I wandered back to those times two hundred or two hundred fifty pounds ago when I used to gorge myself till I thought I'd burst. I remember the feeling, my stomach so hard and full, putting pressure on sensitive areas until I succumbed to wave after wave of joy. I looked down at the mounds of soft blubber and wondered if it was possible to overfill this great expanse of belly, and, if I could, would it still have the same effect on me?

As the Baron was away on business and I had the whole evening to myself, I decided to experiment. I had already consumed my standard large breakfast and had recently polished off a deep-dish pizza and a gallon of beer for luncheon and was working on my tan, eating chocolate cherries when the thought came to me. I rang for a handmaiden to bring me another beer and a table, as I would be making additional requests for the evening's meal. Already on menu was carpaccio, shrimp salad, cream of potato soup, champagne sorbet, veal cannoloni in a bιchamel sauce, beef wellington, scallop potatoes and a Bavarian chocolate cream torte.

I informed the kitchen that I would be entertaining two guests for supper and to please add game hens stuffed with wild rice served with hunter's gravy. There, that ought to do it. With that, I rolled onto my back, gave my belly a friendly pat, whispered 'well, my friend, a special treat for us tonight,' yawned hugely and dozed off.

I awakened at just past five and called for my handmaidens to dress me in a loosely fitting multi-layered silk gown that I surmised would give me room to grow. I then relieved the girls for the evening and headed downstairs to check on the preparations. The chef informed me that everything was in order, and, if Madam so pleased, everything could be in place in the warmers in fifteen minutes. I told him that that would be wonderful, as my guests would be arriving shortly and then gave him and the rest of the wait staff the evening off. Little did he know that my "guests" were already waiting impatiently: just my belly and me.

I moved the portable keg from the smoking room into the dining area and arrived just as the headwaiter placed the chocolate torte on the buffet table. He then bowed, thanked me for the evening off and retired from the room. I smiled, pouring a beer from the keg and surveying the spread before me.

An odd sense of adrenaline rush hit the pit of my stomach as I looked at the three place settings of gorgeous lush shrimp salad beside paper-thin carpaccio with mustard and capers. I started slowly, seating myself at my own sturdy, extra wide chair and commenced picking at the carpaccio between mouthfuls of shrimp and slugs of cold beer. Upon completion, I moved my chair around to my guests' settings, finding their fare as delicious as my own.

Feeling excited now, I began to seriously whet my appetite. Rolling my chair between the tureen of soup and the pasta hotplate, I poured another beer and dug in. Umm, exquisite! Delicious. My, the staff had outdone itself tonight! Soon I was biting into the last of the three cannelloni and tilting the tureen to spoon the last of the soup into my bowl, the creamy stock complementing yet another glass of beer.

I paused for a moment, feeling content and slightly evil, like I had my hand in the cookie jar. I eyed the three covered warmers, opening them to find the beautiful beef Wellington, the three split game hens and a casserole of scalloped potatoes.

I spent the next two hours in a feeding frenzy, stopping only long enough to reach across and refill my glass. I felt only a feeling of contentment, joy and anticipation of further carnal pleasure through a rather detached fuzziness until, halfway through the chocolate torte I reached for my beer and managed only to knock the empty glass to the floor.

As I reached down to recover my glass I felt a sudden lightheadedness and dizziness. I leaned back in my chair and breathed deeply until stability returned. I was feeling slightly tipsy and somewhat detached from myself, as if I was standing in a corner watching myself lean over, pick up the remainder of the torte and shovel it into my mouth. I looked across the buffet table to see the ruins of the full six-course dinner for three that I had emptied into my belly.

I lifted my dress to get a better look at my huge protuberance. While riding somewhat higher then normal and looking somewhat puffy, I could see no other evidence that I had just absolutely gorged myself. I reached down and gave the huge mass of blubbery lard a gentle pat, then watched with amusement as the flab ripples spread like shock waves across the great expanse of my fat stomach.

As I massaged my belly, I began to press down harder. Yes, underneath the seven or eight inches of loose jelly, my stomach was indeed hard and swollen. My heart rate sped up considerably, as I recalled the intense feelings I used to get under these conditions. I dabbed at the last crumbs of torte, took my spoon and scraped the crust of au gratin from the side of the warmer and poured myself another beer.

Reveling in the moment of anticipation, I sat back in my chair and began kneading on of my twenty-pound breasts, pinching my nipple. I was getting more and more aroused, but realized dully that my bladder was beginning to protest. No wonder, as I'd consumed probably a half keg of Spaten.

I sighed, deciding that I'd have to continue my playing after a visit to the lady's and chugged down my beer, feeling its full-bodied coolness travel down my throat and land with an almost audible thud into my overstuffed belly. I swung my chair around to face the downstairs bath and struggled to my feet.

I was immediately hit with a feeling of almost vertigo as what must have been over twenty pounds of food I had consumed succumbed to gravity and hit the pit of my stomach. Pangs of pain followed as my gut spilled downwards, my weak muscles trying valiantly to keep all the extra weight from defying Newton's laws. Mixed with the feeling of pain was a spreading sense of euphoria as the pressure hit my pleasure centers and my bloated bladder.

The warm glow was growing rapidly, as I staggered towards the bath. The intense feeling finally overcame me, as my knees buckled and I collapsed to the floor, riding out wave after wave of ecstasy. Out of control, I flopped around the dining room floor like a huge flounder, flabby thighs slapping together as each wave seemed to increase in intensity.

Gasping for breath and shrieking with joy, I slammed my belly into the hardwood until my body couldn't stand the pleasure and I passed out - the final release being to lose my bladder, which produced a long, sustained orgasm, carrying me into oblivion.

I awoke who knows how much later, feeling drained and totally sated, having lived through the most intense sexual tryst of my life. After mopping the floor, I managed to haul my bulk up the stair, belly slapping against my thighs, and poured myself into a hot bath. Luxuriating in the bath, I gently stroked my belly, my love, as each touch sent sweet warm jolts through my system time after time after time.


This is all the infinite happiness. I'm content, fat and lazy. I want for nothing. The Baron treats me like royalty, loves me like a goddess and seems to revel in every added inch and bulge. He is constantly presenting me with new dresses and jewels. I feel quite beautiful in the flattering gowns he designs for my ultra-curvaceous body and me. How amusing it all seems, this journey and where I've ended up. I remember myself at 150, when I first became okay with the body that I then considered fat. Oh hardly, dear. You were so very curvy and luscious, almost viciously sexy.

As I grew over two hundred, the curves softened, and as I swelled over 250, I thickened notably, becoming almost square as my curves were covered in blubber and bulges. But now my fat has developed a curvature all its own, and my hips have become redefined from my belly, giving me an hourglass figure - no make that more of a 12 hourglass figure.

Though I don't really care about the numbers, I weighed myself on the stable scale yesterday, and I currently weigh 394 pounds. As I sit here writing this, I can see my mirrored reflection across the room. Looking back at me is the huge tub of lard that I've become. I wonder sometimes how I've gotten to where I am. I had no epiphany, just a gradual acceptance of myself and this human blimp I've become. I actually like the way I look, and, moreover, love the way I feel. I can send a shiver running all over my body just by letting my fingers soak in my downy softness and flex all the folds, rolls, and bulges.

Still, sometimes I gaze at my reflection and am astounded that this ultimate vision of porky pulchritude is I! Certainly, ten years ago I wouldn't have dreamed of my current situation, but here I am. I do recall the odd dream I had so long ago of the kaleidoscope of me with the queen lying on the bed in her four hundred pounds of glory. Perhaps that was a prophecy, for here I am at very nearly that four hundred pounds.

I look back in the mirror, and reflected within this blob of flesh are all my sins. In one frame, I'm being eaten out by Amy on that first pork out, the concave curve from my ribs to my pelvis flattened out almost to convex, as my stomach stretched to hold the almost ten pounds of junk food I'd just consumed.

The reflection fades as now I'm sitting cross-legged on the bed, quart of milk in one hand, slice of pizza, mozzarella dripping, in the other, talking to my conquest. Oh, was I so soft and cuddly then. Cute round belly bloated by food once again, looking so puffy and soft atop my spreading hips and sturdy thighs. This was the me I was going to be content with: a curvaceous bombshell with wide hips, padded thighs and full breasts. What a knockout!

But that reflection fades, too, as Bear came into my life and in my joy I abandoned all the constraints I'd sworn by in the real world and lived the Bear-and-I dream. I did what I wanted when I wanted, mostly eat, as in the next frame I'm the country housewife, wearing a pair of stretch pants and a man's shirt, knotted between my admirable cleavage and exposing quite a bit of my full fledged lily white belly, as I bake a double batch of cookies and then, while half of the first batch is in the oven, empty the balance of the uncooked dough into my salivating maw, spilling it on my cheeks and then licking my chops in greedy exaltation.

Then there I am, just after returning home from our honeymoon, sitting at a candlelit dinner, drinking red wine and eating gnocchi. Bear finished his helping, and I was already halfway into my second heaping plateful, savoring every bite. Bear announced that it's time for dessert, and between mouthfuls I chide him for being rude and not waiting until I was finished. Then, sighing, I point to the counter behind me and tell him that he's welcome to the cheesecake if he just can't wait.

I turned to see him spooning another helping onto my plate while telling me that I should take my time and enjoy, for he was perfectly capable of getting his own dessert. He then slipped under the table, and, as I shoveled in another mouthful of gnocchi, I felt his hand on my knee. He gathered my skirt up around my belly and started to caress my thick padded thighs. I continued to eat, pretending to ignore him as he pushed the two coasts apart and began to rhythmically lick the shore like the tide. I pushed my pelvis forward and widened my legs, inviting the tide towards my cave, and, as it began licking faster and faster, my fork picked up the rhythm and shoveled faster and faster, the gnocchi sliding down my throat in an almost constant flow.

The pace continued like a bizarre ritual until I let go in spasms of quavering joy, thighs slapping around Bear's shoulders, as I took the remainder of the plate of gnocchi and crammed it against my face, trying to throw it all down my throat at once as I smeared it all over my face and down the front of my halter. Bear managed to push me away from the table, entered me with his long hard throbbing cock, and gave me a royal fucking, all the while licking the spilled gnocchi and red sauce from my bountiful breasts.

But that brief, cheery day fades, and in from the gray a grim reflection looks back. The only time when I was eating out of sorrow, not joy. It was just after the baby died, and, there I stood before the altar, the refrigerator light casting a pale, surreal gleam upon me in the dim afternoon as I stood before it. My hair dirty and disheveled, my eyes dark and sunken. I was wearing a filthy cloth bathrobe that was hopelessly too small. The belt barely made it around my voluminous middle, and the two sides of the robe were a good six inches apart, providing me with a lard racing stripe running vertically down my body. Still, the bathrobe was ripped and split under each arm, as layers of flab spilled out like beef hanging in a slaughterhouse.

There I stood with sagging tits and huge belly hanging out all over, methodically emptying the alter of its contents, shelf by shelf. The Tupperware tub of leftover macaroni salad was the first to go as I ate in the Japanese style, bringing the bowl up to my chin and then shoveling the food in with my fingers.

Jars of jam followed and then, in no particular order, a squeeze bottle of catsup, a jar of pickles, quarts of milk, cream, half and half, cubes of butter, a tub of sour cream, raw hot dogs, a block of jack cheese, some leftover pork gravy, some sliced ham and roast beef, and the remains of a meatloaf. All poured into my belly with reckless abandon, not noticing or caring that I was getting food in my hair and smearing it across my pudgy cheeks as I vainly tried to fill the hole in me caused by my child's absence.

Only after there was nothing more that could be eaten did I give up my quest and waddle slowly back to bed and tortured sleep, feet shuffling almost painfully. So sad, so sad.

Ah, but those time are but a distant memory to me now. The pain healed, as I see myself as I am now. Dressed in the finest of gowns, mammoth cleavage flowing over my bodice as I sit at the grand table, crystal chandelier reflecting the prisms of light off the beads of my sequined gown. Arranged before me on the finest china and on sterling silver servers: a large baked chicken, rack of lamb, veal champignon with Dijon mustard sauce, a baked lasagna, caramel parfait, a raspberry torte with bittersweet chocolate, brandied cherries in fine crystal and a peach cobbler, glistening with crystallized sugar. A meal fit for a queen - and me with a queen-sized appetite and a queen sized body capable of consuming all of it.

This is me! This is who I am. I accept it and, in fact, love it. I don't think I would trade this expanse of flesh for the old thin me even if I had the chance. I'm amazed by the amount of body mass I've become, and I've become accustomed to it. Though my cheeks and bone structure are camouflaged by pounds of flesh, I don't think that my face is any less pretty than seven years ago.

My hair is cascading in waves halfway down my back while two curled strands frame my titanic breasts, of which I'm obviously quite proud. To think that I was once an "adequate" 34 B. Now, there is not a bra cup made that I can't overfill with my abundance. From there protrudes my immense belly, which sags past mid thigh and often acts as a platform for me to rest my arms as well as provide me with a built-in inner tube, keeping me exceptionally buoyant while floating in the pool.

To be honest, I'm quite proud of my belly and feel satisfaction at its hugeness, for it is a constant reminder of my freedom and the incredible journey and sexual episodes I've enjoyed since I gave in to my appetites and lost my hang-up over weight.

I am happy with myself and with my life. I do what I like, have every creature comfort and a man who adores me. I wonder how many skinny girls can say that, let alone feel totally free to give in to the decadent side of themselves?

My decadent side wants one night every two weeks to myself and my passion, and I can have it and live it with reckless abandon. My two favorite loves, food and sex, side by side. I can spend the entire two weeks between just dreaming about my next extravaganza. What appetizers, main courses and desserts I'm going to stuff myself with in order to get that same wonderful orgasmic high.

Two weeks ago, it was stuffed salmon with crabmeat in a dill sauce, caviar on milk crackers, pesto with sun dried tomatoes, a barley and cream soup, veal picata, pigeon pie, and chataubriand. Complemented with cheesecake covered with a hazelnut sauce, a bottle of Rhine wine, and a bottle of cabernet and a rare sauterne to accompany the dessert.

Tomorrow, in memory of a glorious night past, a totally off the wall combo of two pan pizzas, veal carbonara and fettuccine Alfredo, a dozen Baby Ruths, a gallon of rocky road ice cream and pitchers of mudslides. All for my beautiful pillowy jiggly belly and me. A testament to my love and my decadence. Proof of my willingness to give to myself without measure.

I can hardly wait to begin stuffing myself full of the same food that I consumed that night six years ago when I finally gave in to my love of food. Just waiting for the feeling of hardness to grow in my belly and feel the familiar lovely discomfort that precedes the intense pleasure, as my buttons get pushed and I pass out once again in total bliss.

Where this will ultimately lead I can only speculate. In my two years with Baron, I've gained close to one hundred pounds. Perhaps not all that noticeable when I started at over three hundred, but, nonetheless, I suppose it could become cause for concern if the trend continues. Not that I'm planning to curtail my voracious appetite, mind you. I feel that I'm reaching a plateau, and my consumption will only maintain my weight, not increase it. Or if nothing else, my weight gain should slow.

Still, I suppose I could be over 400 soon and have to seriously consider that 500 could be a possibility by my 40th birthday. This may be too much girth for one of middle age but I'll worry over that when and if it becomes apparent that my weight is endangering me. In the meantime, I'm going to continue to ride this gluttonous merry-go-round and keep reaching for that brass ring - in this case a jelly do-nut.