elroycohen
Steampunk Psycho
~BBW, Feeding, ~XWG - a camopus minx marries an FA heir whose specialty is pasta with expansive results
Author’s note: This story was inspired by another story within the Dimensions library called My Kind of Wife (found here - ed.). Those not familiar with it should be forewarned that while mine may not be as harsh as the work that inspired it, it will definitely not be to everyone’s tastes. In fact the first line alone should probably help clue you in as to whether you want to read any further.
Barefoot, braless and barraged with food. That’s the secret to a long marriage. Soft and spoiled, the softer the better, I say. I should know. That mantra allowed me to tame the sluttiest woman I ever met. The woman that every man could have for an evening, but no man could tame became a woman who got more enjoyment out of a dozen doughnuts then having some random guy ogling her cleavage under my philosophy.
Back in the day Monica Peterson’s petite but well proportioned body, toned from hours doing high kicks in front the stands at football and basketball games had been fondled by every guy on both teams by her senior year. Plus she was drop dead gorgeous on top of that. Other girls hated her for either stealing their boyfriend or easily getting the attention of a guy that wouldn’t give them the time of day.
Yet because she was envied so by the girls and lusted after by the guys she was easily the most popular girl in school, on the surface. With her abs and belly button ring on display with almost every shirt she owned she openly flaunted her looks. Monica knew every guy she passed in the hall was thinking about her even if they were holding the hand of some other girl. She used her wealth of beauty to her advantage.
So much so that even I, as the captain of the football team and the son of a millionaire entrepreneur, could get no more of her attention then the rest of the guys she made out with at parties.
Not that I cared to at first. She had a good sized rack for her frame, but it was firm and perky to the point it barely even bounced when she cheered on the sidelines. Her waist was tiny and her legs marked with muscle definition. She was kind of hourglass shaped at 28C-22-24, but not exactly my cup of tea.
Yet when we graduated and my trust fund and access to a successful empire of vaguely Italian themed pizza restaurants kicked in, the girl who had no desire to go on to school or work started to look at me in a whole new light. It was obvious she was looking to have her looks and growing sex appeal land her a man who could support her not only not working but shopping until her credit cards started smoking.
Now in this sense we were looking for very similar things, although while I had a very definite goal in mind, young Monica was content to live in the moment. In this day and age a woman with that kind of stay-at-home-while-the-man-supports-her ideal is harder to find then it was say twenty years ago. So I looked past her taut physique and courted and eventually moved the tawdry little vixen into the home my dad bought for me.
Now while I did not openly say going from picking at salads and guzzling bottled water after cheerleading workouts to being pampered to by a guy who made his living in a business who's flagship product was a thick greasy pizza pie would be a jolt to even her hyperactive metabolism, I figured if Monica had any common sense she would come to that conclusion on her own.
Thank goodness for girls with no common sense.
I would have been fine starting slow, but my new live-in reveled in being lazy and pampered. Not that I was a beginner mind you. More then a few of Monica’s fellow cheerleaders had dated me for a while only to need a larger size cheer sweater afterward.
Monica did not spend entire days barefoot and braless, but she put away the pizza I would have the kitchen stocked with like a champ and it was not unusual for me to find her still in her robe if I stopped by at lunch. She would say on occasion, if I brought an especially large batch of pizza or breadsticks home, “It’s going to be your fault if I get fat, you...”
As much I would want to say, I know, I would answer, “Well as an executive in a franchise that specializes in pizza, it wouldn’t hurt my image to have a woman by my side that looks like she enjoys a slice or two here and there.”
The change was not drastic or anything (although I’m sure more then a few former classmates would have paid money to see the former envy of the school gobbling pizza three slices at a time with a slightly oily complexion), but after a year and a half the once toned little cheerleader with gravity defying grapefruits was a curvy stay at home girlfriend with soft heavy-looking boobs who was developing a set of what my grandma would call childbearing hips.
It was about then I saw the potential and proposed. She was equally as happy with my potential apparently because she accepted immediately. No one would call her fat at our extravagant wedding. In fact people fawned over how beautiful she looked. She was like a princess in her size ten gown that she had to pick because or her larger chest and have taken in at the waist. Of course she loved the attention on her day and being fawned over as a living Barbie doll made-up in make-up and hair treatments that cost a fortune. Just like high school the spotlight was on her. She bragged about her lifestyle and about the extended honeymoon we were about to go on.
I was happy too not just with the realization my petite little minx had become an overdeveloped hourglass with none of the muscle definition she had in school, but also because I knew with six weeks of honeymooning in Hawaii that size ten would never fit again after it the floor in our newlywed suite.
The honeymoon was amazing. A little taste of what was to come, or at least I hoped would come. Monica lounged around our suite in her sleep shirt eating rich high calorie foods while I asked her where she wanted to go for supper. She made a couple offhand comments about how she felt about to pop out of her bikini (which she was), but other then that she indulged and ordered people around.
Along with a suitcase full of shells and trinkets I would guess my Monica brought a good twenty pounds back with her from Hawaii. Borderline plump if you ask me.
Things were right on track when we got to back to normal at home. Monica was used to being waited on and pampered after six weeks of having it be an everyday occurrence. I gladly obliged her with a maid and chef. It stretched me a little thin since dad was a few years from retirement and I was only assistant vice president of operations, but totally worth it. Of course the first order I gave the maid was to weed out all the tennis shoes and flats from her expansive shoe collection and switch all of her 32D bras for 28C ones.
It was almost unnecessary given that she continued the theme of lounging around the house in her sleep shirt for weeks after we got back. She noticed only after wanting to go shopping to replace some of her shrinking pants.
The chef had a menu that would put weight on a long distance runner and given the habit Monica picked up of supplementing her high calorie meals with pizza and breadsticks that I left in the fridge needless to say plump came and went pretty quickly.
I was overjoyed. Not just because of her progress but because I noticed her examining her rounding figure in the mirror on a number of occasions, but yet she never said a thing. She would pull the start of a double chin tight with her hand and give her growing rear a poke as if she was unsure just what it was made of, but mentioned nothing to me. She cherished the lifestyle to the point she was willing to overlook a few bulges and jiggles. I wondered for how long.
We threw a big party at our place for our one year anniversary. I was overjoyed when I saw Monica kick off her four inch heels after all the guests arrived and walk around the party barefoot. The round face and exaggerated hourglass of my wife would have raised the eyebrows of anyone that knew her from high school regardless of what she wore, but I made sure to special order a form fitting dress that outlined the small rolls that formed when she sat down and exposed the slight dimpling on the backs of her thighs. 34D-30-34 was on display for all to see. The once top heavy cheerleader was starting to even out. Again no one called her fat, but I overheard a few say things like, “She better watch that waistline or it’ll get away from her.” And “Well maybe she’s pregnant.”
I had to smile when after a full day of eating finger foods and mingling my little porker who had not done anything more active then walk the mall in a year collapsed in exhaustion on the couch with her third piece of cheesecake that day.
Things continued better then I could have expected until the holidays. I got a little over exuberant and stuffed Monica like she was a turkey I was preparing for Thanksgiving dinner all November and December. I tried to reason it with separate parties and celebrations for work, my family, her family, and friends at Thanksgiving and then turn around and do it all again for Christmas and then New Years. She walked around all winter with her jeans unbuttoned rubbing a belly stuffed with decadent holiday treats.
“Are you trying to turn me into a whale, honey?” was her first comment about my feeding her since we got married. “I swear if I have to taste test one more of your pies I may have to have you to roll me to dinner tonight.”
“Oh baby, you look as gorgeous as the day I married you. More so even,” I started. “But as the wife of the vice president of a multimillion dollar pizza chain it probably was inevitable you were going to put on a little weight.”
“But, honey, sometimes I can almost feel my ass getting bigger just watching what chef Andy spoons onto my plate.” Both statements were true. The personal chef seemed to really get into overfeeding the willpower deprived Monica, and while her cup size had remained stagnant for a while her backside was thickening nicely.
“Now, Mon, what would people think if I had a stick figure wife?” I reasoned. “It would reflect poorly on the company.”
Probably true. I could get one of my marketing guys to create statistics saying as much. “And if I didn’t have the restaurants you would probably have to work, plus you would not even have the option to have a chef cook for and serve you. It’s almost a little rude to complain about such things.”
And with the mention of work and lack of a cushy lifestyle all worry of her expanding backside was pushed out of her mind and a fistful of the snack mix that was sitting on the coffee table was pushed into her mouth.
Even if her concern was not pushed out of her mind completely she did not say anything again the following year and she certainly did not act like it. She lay around all day snacking and watching daytime television and ordering around the maid (Whom I believe she resented for her size 2 frame) until I came home with more pizza. She was not completely stay at home, but she was shopping and socializing online more then she was going out.
When she did put on the impossibly high heels I let be in her closet her soft feet blistered even if she was only in them a few hours. The one bra I let her buy just to see what her size was getting up to stayed in the drawer most days. By the end of that year she was down to just one pair of stilettos she wore for New Years and the one bra that needed to be replaced some twenty pounds ago took more effort for her to do the clasp then she felt was worth it most days.
There was no question she was fat by then. Still the only thing she said during that third year was an offhanded comment when she pulled up a pair of panties that dug into her thick thighs like bread dough. “I know you said the vice president of a pizza chain doesn’t want a thin wife, but I just hope I’m not getting too fat.”
She said it in a joking matter, but with a pair of XL panties about to pop off her I knew she was getting concerned again.
It was too easy just to say, “Oh, Mon baby, I’d let you know,” and then change the subject.
That was it for a few months until she looked at the spread of pizza I brought home for her from work one night and said. “My sister came to visit today and told my I look very overweight and pale. She’s usually not one to say things like that. Maybe I should cut back a little?”
Then because she knew very well she did not have the dedication to do it on her own she added. “You could hire me a trainer.”
“Babe, I told you my wife has to look like she enjoys a lot of the food we sell to our customers. If that’s not something you want to do, maybe you should have married some insurance salesman or something,” I said, sounding as offended as I could.
She ate more of the pizza that night then she usually did. I knew that with no schooling and no real talent Monica would have a hard time finding a job and unless she found another millionaire that loved pasty overeaters as much as I did she’d have a hard time finding another sugar daddy. I knew she was too used to this lifestyle to do anything about it. So I pressed things.
By our five year anniversary chef Andy was feeding her enough for a family of five each day. And that was not including the snacking she did in between. There was no way to keep track of that. She was on a streak of six months of not leaving the house. She had a ghostly pale glow to her 42-48-52 figure. Her breasts, sagging and heavy looking from years of no support were most likely a DD.
The once 120 pound cheerleader was now a few good meals from the 300 pound mark. Her feet were so soft just going out on the concrete porch was uncomfortable. She hardly did that, so used to the air conditioned house just a taste of the humid air outside usually had her sweating up a storm. Monica had a sleep shirt she wore around. She had had it for so long it fit her like a glove, but if I was home I usually took it off her to admire the jiggles as she ate whatever I had brought home for her. She was addicted to food by that point. So bored sitting around shouting orders to the help she ate just to pass time.
She was certainly ready for me to show off. And at the party I threw to celebrate our fifth year of marriage I made sure to do just that. The sundress I bought for her to wear was custom made to fit her like a second skin, and after less then an hour of her waddling around our crowded house welcoming guests she was sweating like a pig and getting tired from having to tug them hem of the dress down to keep it at least mid thigh.
Those that knew her from high school did their best to try and explain to those that did not that the overweight socialite with the constantly jiggling ass was the one time cheerleading prom queen that every girl wanted to be more like and every guy wanted.
To Monica’s face people had compliments like, “You seem happy.” Or “This is a really nice house.” Behind her back I heard comments like, “Gosh, does she eat anything but pizza?” and “Watch when she sits down. She gets even wider.”
And she sat down a lot. With the other women accidentally stubbing her chubby pedicured toes with their pointy heels and her back aching from what had to be nearly twenty pounds of sagging boobs flopping around as she waddled around she needed plenty of breaks.
A few guys passed me cards with their wives gastric bypass surgeon on them and I smiled politely and flicked them into the trash. After the bash I peeled the damp dress of my sweetie and made sure our five year anniversary did not go by without a few hours of intimacy. Then of course I made sure chef Andy brought leftover party food within reach of Monica who even after a day of being snickered at and mocked (I’m sure she knew, the guests were not that discreet) mentioned nothing of her weight.
Now most guys I’m sure would consider a wife who is less concerned with dress sizes then with the number of X’s before the L on the tag of her sweatpants plenty overweight. For me that’s barely chubby. My increasingly bottom heavy wife, whose once long thighs and tapered calves were now globular thighs and thick cylindrical calves and ankles, had a long way to go. The way she ate, almost unconsciously all day, seemed to make one think she would get there pretty fast.
Monica was completely content with her ass planted on the couch all day having her maid and chef wait on her hand and foot. She openly lamented the few times I stuffed her into a dress and drug her out to some work gathering for a new restaurant or retirement party. She had good reason too. Once she passed the 300 mark it started to get harder and harder for her to wedge her wide ass into my BMW and then shift her weight from one sore knee to the other until her ankles swelled up to the size of life preservers while she stood by my side.
All that plus the fact that despite my early argument that a thin wife made no sense next to a man that worked in fattening food more then half of my colleagues wives were nipped and tucked and lypoed into living mannequins. To me she offered a much needed contrast to the norm, but I will admit she was not exactly accepted by the plastic mates of my co-workers. By that point though she was beyond trying to argue against the path she was destined to take and never mentioned how skeletal her counterparts looked.
And so there you have it. My once uncontrollable, self centered Monica’s transformation into a woman who considered a good day staying at home with her feet in the air and her boobs swinging free while she stuffed her face. I never worried about leaving for long road trips for fear of her cheating on me with some other guy. Not once. Just what size clothes I would have to buy when I returned for her.
I wish I could say that when our ten year anniversary or even high school reunion came around I was able to show her off and make all our old classmates jaws drop, but by then my little eating machine was a near 500 pound beauty with thighs that were just too cumbersome to walk around with for very long. 48EE-62-76, although that numerical measurement probably doesn’t do justice to a form that doesn’t offer much distinction between bust waist and hip. She’s more like just one free flowing blob of pale flesh. There are contrasts. The skin around her heavy, sagging breasts seems very thin, with long white stretch marks at the base and tiny blue veins at the bottoms of the flattened tear drops.
The skin on her ass however appears very thick. A sallow yellowish in color with red blotches here and there, she actually has rolls and pouches of fat on her thighs the size of which some ladies have around their stomachs.
Even with a before and after picture of my lovely Monica you have to look very close to even see the resemblance in the slender faced young woman with the sharp jaw line and gravity defying breasts to the flabby cheeked, matronly woman with gobs of flesh hanging from her upper arms that sag even lower then her long udders.
Now that I think of it I may actually have Monica sized for a supportive bra. After being awoken in the middle of the night all last week by the wet slapping of her boobs flopping against her sweaty skin as she waddled out to the kitchen for a midnight snack it may help me sleep. On second thought I’ll just have chef Andy leave a snack on the nightstand before he goes home for the night. An extra large deep dish with sausage and pepperoni should get her through until morning.
Author’s note: This story was inspired by another story within the Dimensions library called My Kind of Wife (found here - ed.). Those not familiar with it should be forewarned that while mine may not be as harsh as the work that inspired it, it will definitely not be to everyone’s tastes. In fact the first line alone should probably help clue you in as to whether you want to read any further.
From Tiny and Promiscuous
to Tubby Perfection
by ec
to Tubby Perfection
by ec
Barefoot, braless and barraged with food. That’s the secret to a long marriage. Soft and spoiled, the softer the better, I say. I should know. That mantra allowed me to tame the sluttiest woman I ever met. The woman that every man could have for an evening, but no man could tame became a woman who got more enjoyment out of a dozen doughnuts then having some random guy ogling her cleavage under my philosophy.
Back in the day Monica Peterson’s petite but well proportioned body, toned from hours doing high kicks in front the stands at football and basketball games had been fondled by every guy on both teams by her senior year. Plus she was drop dead gorgeous on top of that. Other girls hated her for either stealing their boyfriend or easily getting the attention of a guy that wouldn’t give them the time of day.
Yet because she was envied so by the girls and lusted after by the guys she was easily the most popular girl in school, on the surface. With her abs and belly button ring on display with almost every shirt she owned she openly flaunted her looks. Monica knew every guy she passed in the hall was thinking about her even if they were holding the hand of some other girl. She used her wealth of beauty to her advantage.
So much so that even I, as the captain of the football team and the son of a millionaire entrepreneur, could get no more of her attention then the rest of the guys she made out with at parties.
Not that I cared to at first. She had a good sized rack for her frame, but it was firm and perky to the point it barely even bounced when she cheered on the sidelines. Her waist was tiny and her legs marked with muscle definition. She was kind of hourglass shaped at 28C-22-24, but not exactly my cup of tea.
Yet when we graduated and my trust fund and access to a successful empire of vaguely Italian themed pizza restaurants kicked in, the girl who had no desire to go on to school or work started to look at me in a whole new light. It was obvious she was looking to have her looks and growing sex appeal land her a man who could support her not only not working but shopping until her credit cards started smoking.
Now in this sense we were looking for very similar things, although while I had a very definite goal in mind, young Monica was content to live in the moment. In this day and age a woman with that kind of stay-at-home-while-the-man-supports-her ideal is harder to find then it was say twenty years ago. So I looked past her taut physique and courted and eventually moved the tawdry little vixen into the home my dad bought for me.
Now while I did not openly say going from picking at salads and guzzling bottled water after cheerleading workouts to being pampered to by a guy who made his living in a business who's flagship product was a thick greasy pizza pie would be a jolt to even her hyperactive metabolism, I figured if Monica had any common sense she would come to that conclusion on her own.
Thank goodness for girls with no common sense.
I would have been fine starting slow, but my new live-in reveled in being lazy and pampered. Not that I was a beginner mind you. More then a few of Monica’s fellow cheerleaders had dated me for a while only to need a larger size cheer sweater afterward.
Monica did not spend entire days barefoot and braless, but she put away the pizza I would have the kitchen stocked with like a champ and it was not unusual for me to find her still in her robe if I stopped by at lunch. She would say on occasion, if I brought an especially large batch of pizza or breadsticks home, “It’s going to be your fault if I get fat, you...”
As much I would want to say, I know, I would answer, “Well as an executive in a franchise that specializes in pizza, it wouldn’t hurt my image to have a woman by my side that looks like she enjoys a slice or two here and there.”
The change was not drastic or anything (although I’m sure more then a few former classmates would have paid money to see the former envy of the school gobbling pizza three slices at a time with a slightly oily complexion), but after a year and a half the once toned little cheerleader with gravity defying grapefruits was a curvy stay at home girlfriend with soft heavy-looking boobs who was developing a set of what my grandma would call childbearing hips.
It was about then I saw the potential and proposed. She was equally as happy with my potential apparently because she accepted immediately. No one would call her fat at our extravagant wedding. In fact people fawned over how beautiful she looked. She was like a princess in her size ten gown that she had to pick because or her larger chest and have taken in at the waist. Of course she loved the attention on her day and being fawned over as a living Barbie doll made-up in make-up and hair treatments that cost a fortune. Just like high school the spotlight was on her. She bragged about her lifestyle and about the extended honeymoon we were about to go on.
I was happy too not just with the realization my petite little minx had become an overdeveloped hourglass with none of the muscle definition she had in school, but also because I knew with six weeks of honeymooning in Hawaii that size ten would never fit again after it the floor in our newlywed suite.
The honeymoon was amazing. A little taste of what was to come, or at least I hoped would come. Monica lounged around our suite in her sleep shirt eating rich high calorie foods while I asked her where she wanted to go for supper. She made a couple offhand comments about how she felt about to pop out of her bikini (which she was), but other then that she indulged and ordered people around.
Along with a suitcase full of shells and trinkets I would guess my Monica brought a good twenty pounds back with her from Hawaii. Borderline plump if you ask me.
Things were right on track when we got to back to normal at home. Monica was used to being waited on and pampered after six weeks of having it be an everyday occurrence. I gladly obliged her with a maid and chef. It stretched me a little thin since dad was a few years from retirement and I was only assistant vice president of operations, but totally worth it. Of course the first order I gave the maid was to weed out all the tennis shoes and flats from her expansive shoe collection and switch all of her 32D bras for 28C ones.
It was almost unnecessary given that she continued the theme of lounging around the house in her sleep shirt for weeks after we got back. She noticed only after wanting to go shopping to replace some of her shrinking pants.
The chef had a menu that would put weight on a long distance runner and given the habit Monica picked up of supplementing her high calorie meals with pizza and breadsticks that I left in the fridge needless to say plump came and went pretty quickly.
I was overjoyed. Not just because of her progress but because I noticed her examining her rounding figure in the mirror on a number of occasions, but yet she never said a thing. She would pull the start of a double chin tight with her hand and give her growing rear a poke as if she was unsure just what it was made of, but mentioned nothing to me. She cherished the lifestyle to the point she was willing to overlook a few bulges and jiggles. I wondered for how long.
We threw a big party at our place for our one year anniversary. I was overjoyed when I saw Monica kick off her four inch heels after all the guests arrived and walk around the party barefoot. The round face and exaggerated hourglass of my wife would have raised the eyebrows of anyone that knew her from high school regardless of what she wore, but I made sure to special order a form fitting dress that outlined the small rolls that formed when she sat down and exposed the slight dimpling on the backs of her thighs. 34D-30-34 was on display for all to see. The once top heavy cheerleader was starting to even out. Again no one called her fat, but I overheard a few say things like, “She better watch that waistline or it’ll get away from her.” And “Well maybe she’s pregnant.”
I had to smile when after a full day of eating finger foods and mingling my little porker who had not done anything more active then walk the mall in a year collapsed in exhaustion on the couch with her third piece of cheesecake that day.
Things continued better then I could have expected until the holidays. I got a little over exuberant and stuffed Monica like she was a turkey I was preparing for Thanksgiving dinner all November and December. I tried to reason it with separate parties and celebrations for work, my family, her family, and friends at Thanksgiving and then turn around and do it all again for Christmas and then New Years. She walked around all winter with her jeans unbuttoned rubbing a belly stuffed with decadent holiday treats.
“Are you trying to turn me into a whale, honey?” was her first comment about my feeding her since we got married. “I swear if I have to taste test one more of your pies I may have to have you to roll me to dinner tonight.”
“Oh baby, you look as gorgeous as the day I married you. More so even,” I started. “But as the wife of the vice president of a multimillion dollar pizza chain it probably was inevitable you were going to put on a little weight.”
“But, honey, sometimes I can almost feel my ass getting bigger just watching what chef Andy spoons onto my plate.” Both statements were true. The personal chef seemed to really get into overfeeding the willpower deprived Monica, and while her cup size had remained stagnant for a while her backside was thickening nicely.
“Now, Mon, what would people think if I had a stick figure wife?” I reasoned. “It would reflect poorly on the company.”
Probably true. I could get one of my marketing guys to create statistics saying as much. “And if I didn’t have the restaurants you would probably have to work, plus you would not even have the option to have a chef cook for and serve you. It’s almost a little rude to complain about such things.”
And with the mention of work and lack of a cushy lifestyle all worry of her expanding backside was pushed out of her mind and a fistful of the snack mix that was sitting on the coffee table was pushed into her mouth.
Even if her concern was not pushed out of her mind completely she did not say anything again the following year and she certainly did not act like it. She lay around all day snacking and watching daytime television and ordering around the maid (Whom I believe she resented for her size 2 frame) until I came home with more pizza. She was not completely stay at home, but she was shopping and socializing online more then she was going out.
When she did put on the impossibly high heels I let be in her closet her soft feet blistered even if she was only in them a few hours. The one bra I let her buy just to see what her size was getting up to stayed in the drawer most days. By the end of that year she was down to just one pair of stilettos she wore for New Years and the one bra that needed to be replaced some twenty pounds ago took more effort for her to do the clasp then she felt was worth it most days.
There was no question she was fat by then. Still the only thing she said during that third year was an offhanded comment when she pulled up a pair of panties that dug into her thick thighs like bread dough. “I know you said the vice president of a pizza chain doesn’t want a thin wife, but I just hope I’m not getting too fat.”
She said it in a joking matter, but with a pair of XL panties about to pop off her I knew she was getting concerned again.
It was too easy just to say, “Oh, Mon baby, I’d let you know,” and then change the subject.
That was it for a few months until she looked at the spread of pizza I brought home for her from work one night and said. “My sister came to visit today and told my I look very overweight and pale. She’s usually not one to say things like that. Maybe I should cut back a little?”
Then because she knew very well she did not have the dedication to do it on her own she added. “You could hire me a trainer.”
“Babe, I told you my wife has to look like she enjoys a lot of the food we sell to our customers. If that’s not something you want to do, maybe you should have married some insurance salesman or something,” I said, sounding as offended as I could.
She ate more of the pizza that night then she usually did. I knew that with no schooling and no real talent Monica would have a hard time finding a job and unless she found another millionaire that loved pasty overeaters as much as I did she’d have a hard time finding another sugar daddy. I knew she was too used to this lifestyle to do anything about it. So I pressed things.
By our five year anniversary chef Andy was feeding her enough for a family of five each day. And that was not including the snacking she did in between. There was no way to keep track of that. She was on a streak of six months of not leaving the house. She had a ghostly pale glow to her 42-48-52 figure. Her breasts, sagging and heavy looking from years of no support were most likely a DD.
The once 120 pound cheerleader was now a few good meals from the 300 pound mark. Her feet were so soft just going out on the concrete porch was uncomfortable. She hardly did that, so used to the air conditioned house just a taste of the humid air outside usually had her sweating up a storm. Monica had a sleep shirt she wore around. She had had it for so long it fit her like a glove, but if I was home I usually took it off her to admire the jiggles as she ate whatever I had brought home for her. She was addicted to food by that point. So bored sitting around shouting orders to the help she ate just to pass time.
She was certainly ready for me to show off. And at the party I threw to celebrate our fifth year of marriage I made sure to do just that. The sundress I bought for her to wear was custom made to fit her like a second skin, and after less then an hour of her waddling around our crowded house welcoming guests she was sweating like a pig and getting tired from having to tug them hem of the dress down to keep it at least mid thigh.
Those that knew her from high school did their best to try and explain to those that did not that the overweight socialite with the constantly jiggling ass was the one time cheerleading prom queen that every girl wanted to be more like and every guy wanted.
To Monica’s face people had compliments like, “You seem happy.” Or “This is a really nice house.” Behind her back I heard comments like, “Gosh, does she eat anything but pizza?” and “Watch when she sits down. She gets even wider.”
And she sat down a lot. With the other women accidentally stubbing her chubby pedicured toes with their pointy heels and her back aching from what had to be nearly twenty pounds of sagging boobs flopping around as she waddled around she needed plenty of breaks.
A few guys passed me cards with their wives gastric bypass surgeon on them and I smiled politely and flicked them into the trash. After the bash I peeled the damp dress of my sweetie and made sure our five year anniversary did not go by without a few hours of intimacy. Then of course I made sure chef Andy brought leftover party food within reach of Monica who even after a day of being snickered at and mocked (I’m sure she knew, the guests were not that discreet) mentioned nothing of her weight.
Now most guys I’m sure would consider a wife who is less concerned with dress sizes then with the number of X’s before the L on the tag of her sweatpants plenty overweight. For me that’s barely chubby. My increasingly bottom heavy wife, whose once long thighs and tapered calves were now globular thighs and thick cylindrical calves and ankles, had a long way to go. The way she ate, almost unconsciously all day, seemed to make one think she would get there pretty fast.
Monica was completely content with her ass planted on the couch all day having her maid and chef wait on her hand and foot. She openly lamented the few times I stuffed her into a dress and drug her out to some work gathering for a new restaurant or retirement party. She had good reason too. Once she passed the 300 mark it started to get harder and harder for her to wedge her wide ass into my BMW and then shift her weight from one sore knee to the other until her ankles swelled up to the size of life preservers while she stood by my side.
All that plus the fact that despite my early argument that a thin wife made no sense next to a man that worked in fattening food more then half of my colleagues wives were nipped and tucked and lypoed into living mannequins. To me she offered a much needed contrast to the norm, but I will admit she was not exactly accepted by the plastic mates of my co-workers. By that point though she was beyond trying to argue against the path she was destined to take and never mentioned how skeletal her counterparts looked.
And so there you have it. My once uncontrollable, self centered Monica’s transformation into a woman who considered a good day staying at home with her feet in the air and her boobs swinging free while she stuffed her face. I never worried about leaving for long road trips for fear of her cheating on me with some other guy. Not once. Just what size clothes I would have to buy when I returned for her.
I wish I could say that when our ten year anniversary or even high school reunion came around I was able to show her off and make all our old classmates jaws drop, but by then my little eating machine was a near 500 pound beauty with thighs that were just too cumbersome to walk around with for very long. 48EE-62-76, although that numerical measurement probably doesn’t do justice to a form that doesn’t offer much distinction between bust waist and hip. She’s more like just one free flowing blob of pale flesh. There are contrasts. The skin around her heavy, sagging breasts seems very thin, with long white stretch marks at the base and tiny blue veins at the bottoms of the flattened tear drops.
The skin on her ass however appears very thick. A sallow yellowish in color with red blotches here and there, she actually has rolls and pouches of fat on her thighs the size of which some ladies have around their stomachs.
Even with a before and after picture of my lovely Monica you have to look very close to even see the resemblance in the slender faced young woman with the sharp jaw line and gravity defying breasts to the flabby cheeked, matronly woman with gobs of flesh hanging from her upper arms that sag even lower then her long udders.
Now that I think of it I may actually have Monica sized for a supportive bra. After being awoken in the middle of the night all last week by the wet slapping of her boobs flopping against her sweaty skin as she waddled out to the kitchen for a midnight snack it may help me sleep. On second thought I’ll just have chef Andy leave a snack on the nightstand before he goes home for the night. An extra large deep dish with sausage and pepperoni should get her through until morning.
