by Pam Gordon
My name's Randy. I was nearing forty when I fell in love with Frank. We had known each other for a great many years but had never clicked romantically. Of course, for more than ten of those years he'd been married to Diane, one of my closest friends, but Frank and I didn't get together until more than a year after they had separated.
I was always aware that Frank preferred large women. Diane had been fairly large up until about six months before she and Frank split up. I had always regarded Diane as self-confident and secure about her size, but after she made the decision to leave Frank, several months before she told him, she began a strenuous diet and started working out at a gym in a highly obsessive manner.
I myself had worked hard at staying fairly slim for all of my life, but in the two years before Frank and Diane separated I had gained almost forty pounds. At the time, I thought the gain was the result of an unhappy love affair, but looking back now I realize that the endless series of diets and deprivation I went through in order to stay small must have altered my metabolism significantly, and that it was probably also my genetic destiny to be large. At the time Frank and I became lovers I was still adhering to a strict low-fat vegetarian regime.
Frank was an omnivore and not careful about avoiding fats and oils. He himself had given up dieting in his middle twenties. He was (and is) quite vocal about the importance of acceptance of one's own size, the harm done by diets, and the loveliness of fat bodies. My reaction was to consider him a bit strange, and even though I liked that he worshipped my body I still wasn't comfortable with my fatness and kept searching for the Holy Grail that would make me smaller. After a year with Frank, though, I had added more than twenty pounds, which drove me crazy. When I saw the numbers on the scale go above 200 pounds it made me frantic. I continually accused him of loving me only for my fat, despite his assurances that he'd love me at any weight. Then something happened.
One day Frank brought home a copy of Dimensions, a magazine for men who prefer large women. I looked through it and was mildly shocked by a few of the articles (one of which concerned "feeders", men who like to fatten up their women) and the photo spreads of an enormous woman. I told Frank that he should never bring another copy of it into the house. He told me that I was being a prude, and not to assume that each of the articles reflected his own opinion. We didn't speak of it again. In the weeks that followed I secretly dieted, eating no breakfast, only raw vegetables for lunch, and smaller dinners which had no oil or butter. I lost only a few pounds, felt irritable all the time, and took out my mood swings on Frank.
By the time the next issue came out Frank had formally moved in with me and it came to him with a forwarding label. When he got home he grabbed it from the pile of mail and started to put it away, out of my sight. I told him to go ahead and read it, and he reminded me of my earlier declaration. I rescinded my order, and even looked through it myself. This time the material didn't offend me so, and I was even drawn to a couple of the articles, including a narrative by one woman in a photo spread.
All of the models in Dimensions are pictured in lingerie or a bathing suit, and the shots used are rather tame. What caught my eye was this centerfold's story of having lost a hundred pounds over four months, and her actual delight at watching the weight come back. She even told of modifying Slim-Fast shakes with the addition of cream, ice cream, and chocolate syrup. In the photos she displayed an extremely round body with a big, sagging belly that dropped down over the tops of her thighs, which were themselves enormous. The text told of her self-acceptance and the joy she took in her largeness.
Elsewhere in the issue was a fantasy story about a woman who had stayed slim by constant self-starvation, and some magic by which she became, suddenly, very fat. Then, as I scanned the personal ads I became aware that many of these women were evidently quite secure in their very large bodies, bodies much larger than my own. Aware of my own hunger, I set the issue down and went into the kitchen for some lunch.
As I scanned the contents of the refrigerator I suddenly realized that of the things I would normally choose to eat, all of them were "acceptable" substitutions for what I really wanted. Disillusioned, I sat down to think about my own patterns of self-denial and obsession about what I ate. The more I thought, the more I realized that what I'd been denying myself was the full enjoyment of life. I had built myself a prison of "correct" foods and was missing out entirely on pleasure.
There had been several recent occasions when I had felt strongly drawn to the smell of turkey and chicken cooking, but I had suppressed the urge to violate my vegetarianism. Now, though, I had the urge for a cheeseburger, and before I knew it I was in my car and heading toward the local Wendy's. The people behind the counter must have thought I was crazy because I stood there, looking at the menu, for what seemed like ages. Finally I decided on a half-pound burger combo meal with a large order of fries and a medium drink. But as I placed the order I decided to change it to a half-pound burger with a giant order of fries and a chocolate shake. I ate it all, slowly, savoring the greasiness of the meat, the saltiness of the fries, and the rich, creamy shake. All of this represented as much fat as I would normally have eaten in an entire week. Afterward, I felt completely satisfied and full in a way I hadn't for years. It was dreamy.
On my way back home I bought a big wheel of triple-creme Brie, two quarts of Haagen Dasz ice cream, a quart of sour cream, a large roaster chicken, some fresh spinach, a bag of potatoes, a pound of butter, and a bottle of champagne.
When I got home I stood in front of the mirror to examine my body. The breasts which I had once regarded as humongous and flabby now looked full and ripe to me. I caressed my belly, then lifted it and let it bounce, jiggling softly. I massaged the soft fat of my love handles, remembering the way Frank would knead and stroke them when we made love. That was something that always made me self-conscious and I never liked it, but now I was beginning to see things Frank's way. Next I turned to examine my big dimpled buttocks, and marched in place to examine the rise and fall of them. Frank always called that "poetry in motion", which annoyed me, but I now had to admit that there was a fluidity and lusciousness to it. I looked at my thighs, lifting each one to inspect the hang of the fat and the movement that shaking produced. The inner thighs were chafed from the summer heat and moistness, and I recalled Frank suggesting that I get some cotton legged underwear to prevent it. I had rejected his suggestion because I preferred the bikini briefs that I had worn when I was skinnier, and I remembered his advice: "Why can't you learn to enjoy your body as it is, and get things that will allow you to be comfortable?" Now I was beginning to see the wisdom of what he had said. Finally I examined my broad, strong calves and noticed the way they met my ankles with the slightest suggestion of a bulge.
My body survey complete, I returned to the magazine and studied the photos of the model again. I looked carefully at the soft curves of her upper arms, the magnificent swell of her belly, which folded into two large rolls, the crease of fat on her upper thighs, and the way her bent knees created dimpled pockets at her lower thighs and upper calves. I re-read her story and got to wondering what weight I would become if I abandoned my semi-starvation regime and began to eat normally. Then I happened across a piece of fiction which concerned erotic feeding, which made me hot and wet. Sleepiness overtook me and I napped.
It was about five o'clock when I awoke, hungry! I went to the kitchen, pre-heated the oven, and began preparing dinner. I washed the chicken, potatoes, and spinach. I made herbed garlic olive oil and rubbed it into the chicken's skin, then wrapped the potatoes in foil and put everything in the oven. Then I went looking for my mom's old recipe for spinach with lemon and sour cream. It was stuck way at the back of my file. I washed the spinach, shredded it, and prepared it to be steamed.
I went back to the bedroom and took from the closet the spandex leotard and leggings which Frank had given me the previous Christmas. I had never worn them before because the shininess of the fabric tended to emphasize my bulges and made me feel fat. Then I showered, patted myself dry, and looked around for the previous issue of Dimensions. It was under a pile of Frank's old mail. I found an article about fantasies which had given me the willies the first time I saw it, but now it seemed fascinating to me. I re-read several of the other articles and the photo spread in which the model described having grown in both size and self-appreciation.
I had just put on my spandex outfit and was heading to the kitchen when Frank arrived. We kissed and hugged almost endlessly, his hands caressing my flesh and roving over the slippery fabric. Finally he raised his head and sniffed the air quizzically. I told him it was a roast chicken.
"What are you having, though?" he asked. When I told him I was having chicken too his eyes widened. When he started to speak I covered his mouth with my hand and playfully ordered him to go out and get a cheesecake for dessert. His eyes widened again, but he left without a word.
I quickly steamed the spinach while I heated the sour cream in the microwave, then whisked the lemon juice into it. I then mixed the mixture with the spinach and gave it another brief shot in the microwave. I quickly set the table, put out the chicken, potatoes, spinach, butter dish, and a small bowl with extra sour cream for the potatoes. I was just lighting the candles as Frank returned.
I motioned for him to sit down and asked him to carve and serve the chicken. "I'll take a leg and thigh, please," I said. Again his eyes widened.
"Okay," I said. "I've given up the vegetarian thing. And I've also decided not to be so obsessive about denying myself the things I enjoy. I'm tired of starving, and I'm beginning to appreciate what I am, just as I am!" In response he put down the knife, pushed my chair away from the table, and kneeled between my thighs, hugging me and kissing my lips, neck, and shoulders. After a while I playfully pushed him away, saying "Hey, I'm hungry now! There'll be time for that later."
During the meal I told Frank all about my day, the articles I'd read, the lunch I'd had, and the thinking I'd done. He said that he thought he'd died and gone to heaven, that he had always hoped I'd learn to love my body but that he didn't expect it. He added that the disparity in our eating styles had always made him a bit crazy. I, meanwhile, had double helpings of everything, savoring the chicken, the creamy spinach, and two large potatoes with lots of butter and sour cream. Having finished, I leaned back in my chair and lowered the waistband of my leggings so that my full belly sat out large and proud in my lap. I rubbed it contentedly.
Frank, rising, said "Didn't I see a bottle of champagne in the fridge? Don't we have something to celebrate here?" I nodded my assent and he took out the bottle and glasses, popped the cork, and poured the bubbly.
"I propose," said Frank, "a toast to your new self-appreciation, your complete enjoyment of life and love, and the freedom for your luscious body to be all it can be!" We each drank deeply, and Frank again kneeled before me for a long embrace and endless kissing, during which he thrilled me by caressing and kneading my shoulders, upper arms, belly, and thighs. Finally I rose, smiled at him, and walked toward the bedroom.
Over my shoulder I said, "Frank, would you bring in the cheesecake and one fork?"
"No plates?" he asked.
"No," I answered. "You're going to feed me."
Frank arrived in the bedroom and set the cheesecake on the night table as I spread a large beach towel across the bed. I pointed to a bottle of massage oil by the bedside and, without speaking, he peeled my leggings off me, pausing to kiss the soft flesh of my thighs. I pulled the top of the leotard off my shoulders and then Frank took over, very slowly easing it down past my breasts, which he nibbled, and then down further, even more slowly, allowing my belly and hips to escape, jiggling provocatively.
Freed of the leotard, I settled down on the bed as Frank warmed a palmful of oil in his hands and began to work on my face, neck, shoulders, and breasts. All of my nerve endings seemed alive as his warm hands worshipped all of my body's softness. He lingered at my cheeks and the fat under my chin, worked the oil into my shoulders and upper arms, and cupped his hands around my breasts, kissing the nipples, then continuing in widening circles to my midriff.
After re-oiling his palms he proceeded to massage my upper belly, caressing it and spreading the oil to the creases at either side of my waist, through which he ran his fingers in a way that verged on a tickle. Then more oil, which he spread across my lower belly, which quivered at his touch, his hands working outward from the middle, reaching around my love handles, then returning in a circular motion to gather the fat forward. He paused to kiss my belly button, then hooked his thumbs under my belly, gently moving it upward to create a fold against my midriff as his tongue found my clitoris and darted within.
The motion of Frank's tongue, slow and profound and loving, caused me to involuntarily shiver, and I could feel my belly and thighs shake against his head and chin. That was a feeling that would have normally caused me a moment of embarrassment and self-condemnation for being so fat, but now it made me feel sexy and alive. As he continued, his hands moved behind my buttocks, caressing and squeezing them, and I found myself appreciatively wrapping my arms around my belly and upper hips to better experience the source of Frank's excitement. And I gradually was transported into his brain, and felt like the owner of his tongue and hands.
As my sense of oneness with Frank increased I felt myself beginning to come, and I asked him to come inside me. He moved back up toward my breasts, pausing to nibble at my belly and midriff, cupping his hands around my shoulders as his penis slipped effortlessly inside. As he began to thrust and kiss my neck, my back arched and my belly and breasts rubbed against his torso and chest. Frank raised his shoulders up, placing his hands on either side of my waist and caressing the soft flesh there. The force of his thrusting increased and his body became more rigid, causing my belly to roll up and down and slap against him. The fat of my upper thighs joined in the harmonic motion, and I suddenly began to climax. Frank came at almost the same moment, collapsing on top of me, and then we rolled to the side, still clinging to each other, groaning softly.
We lay in each others' arms for a long time, enjoying the closeness. Finally I raised myself up on one elbow and said "Frank? I'm a little hungry again." Without speaking he reached for the cheesecake and the fork and began feeding me. I savored each forkful, tasting the rich creaminess and allowing it to slide slowly down my throat. Frank would take some every now and then, but most of it was finding its way into me. Before I knew it we had finished the entire cheesecake and we drifted into a deep, untroubled sleep.
Over the next year and a half I began to really enjoy my body. I found myself eating pleasurably, without the arbitrary restrictions and the self-condemnation. I took up regular swimming, which I found to be a most pleasant form of exercise, at the local YMCA. And gradually, naturally, I gained weight. For the first six months or so I put on about ten pounds each month, then gradually less until I stabilized at 325.
I went to the doctor only once, to be treated for a case of strep throat, and when he took my blood pressure the reading was abnormally high, but I remembered that Frank had told me that an inaccurate reading can result from the use of a too-small pressure cuff on a large upper arm, so I suggested to the doctor that he either try a thigh cuff or use the regular cuff on my lower arm instead. He did it both ways, and the resulting reading was quite normal. He also checked my cholesterol levels, which were perfect. And the anemia, fatigue, and peevishness which characterized my years of semi-starvation are now a thing of the past.
My body now resembles those of the Dimensions models which once horrified me. I have full, dimpled cheeks and a large double chin. My upper arms are now as big as my thighs once were. My breasts, which are the size of melons, drape gracefully to either side of my fat midriff, which forms a deep fold where it meets the massive swell of my lower belly. When I'm seated my belly spreads out nearly to my knees and when I'm standing it joins up with my love handles to form a thick apron that bounces against the tops of my thighs when I walk, which also makes my giant buttocks rise and fall deliciously. My thighs, which are now bigger around than my waist once was, are softer and fatter than I ever thought possible. When I lie down with my knees up they form a crease where the flesh of the inner knee meets the swell of my upper thigh. And when my knees are bent lovely pockets of softness squish out on either side. My calves have grown, too. They hang and sway, forming a crease at my ankles. Even my feet are fat. They always were, but now there's not even a suggestion of boniness about them, and there are even dimples. Finally I understand exactly why Frank is so passionate and unable to resist me. Every time I move my body and feel the shaking of my flesh it reminds me that I'm alive and free!
Being significantly larger does have some disadvantages. There are some movie theaters with inappropriate seating, and when we go to an unfamiliar restaurant Frank calls ahead to see if sturdy, armless chairs are available. I do have to be a bit creative in finding clothing that suits me. And many of the people who look at me must assume that I'm a weak-willed glutton. Well, say I, they can live in their bodies, and I'll live in mine. Some people were meant to be thin, some were meant to be average or merely plump, and some were meant to be very fat. I'd never trade the happiness, passion, and tranquillity I've found for a smaller body and the unpleasantness I once endured.